#god I keep disassociating from reading my work

[hotslimybitch]

*grinding my teeth*

embracecringe embracecringe embracecringe

(rereading my hundreds of drafts to make one coherent story)

[serenefreakgeekao3]

Hey. Again. So I am in love with peeta mellark and would love if you could write about him having a partner at home in d12 and when him and katniss have to do the whole lovers act in the arena they get super jealous (pretend him and katniss never fell in love really) and when he comes home they're avoiding him and he confronts them about what's wrong. It end with them cuddling and talking about the games

Summary: “PEETA MELLARK!” Effie Trinket had read his name from the slip of paper in her hands, and you felt your knees give out. Katniss Everdeen had just made a spectacle of herself as the first volunteer of District 12. So where did that leave the love of your life? Apparently, inside an arena where he appears to fall in love with his district partner. Can things ever be the same when they both managed to make it back home as the ‘Star Crossed Lovers’? (No use of Y/N!)

Warnings: mentions of bad family behaviour, mentions of disassociation but not named as such, (almost) suicidal thoughts mentioned very briefly, jealousy from reader,

A/N: So this turned less from a jealous reader and more into a hurt/comfort scenario. I apologize if this isn’t exactly what you requested, I don’t normally write jealousy cause I don’t like how toxic it can turn sometimes. I tried my best! Hope you like it!

You were living through your worst nightmare. You would’ve amended that, at one point in your life, saying that perhaps living through the Hunger Games would be your worst nightmare, but you couldn’t imagine that even replacing yourself with Peeta and knowing you would die would be any worse than this. If this had been a week earlier, you would’ve said hearing Peeta’s name be called from Effie Trinket’s mouth was your worst nightmare. But surely, nothing could be worse than this.

Hearing Peeta’s name during the reaping had drained all life from you. However, seeing him before he left- for the very last time everyone kept telling you, but you managed to keep hope- had wrung an entire lifetime through you and faded away once more. You felt exhausted as you watched the train pull out of District 12. You refused to give up hope and told him so during your final goodbyes.

“Don’t you dare try to act like this is already over. Work with Katniss, I heard she’s good with a bow. Do whatever you need to, but don’t give up. Don’t ever give up because I am here and I’m waiting for you to come home-”

“Hey,” Peeta interrupted gently, taking your hands and pulling you into his arms, “My love for you is like the sun. Always shining, and always there.” He kissed the top of your head, mumbling against your hair, “I’m not giving up. I would never do that to you.”

Watching them dress him up had a morbid twist to it, knowing they were just trying to make him pretty enough to die. Nothing they do would be good enough, he was always the most handsome when smiling genuinely- and there was no way that anyone in the Capitol would be able to force him to smile genuinely. Even during his interview, when he joked around with Caesar and they leaned over to smell each other, a sadness pulsed through your heart at the fake, plastered smile he had. Even when asked about a ‘sweetheart back home,’ and Peeta had replied that he loved someone but refused to name them, he still hadn’t really smiled once. But you knew, once he looked into that camera he was looking directly at you. And that you were both mourning every second that you couldn’t spend together.

Once the countdown began, you watched Peeta’s harried face. How he had searched for Katniss, but she had run off without him. You were beside yourself when he was eventually left alone with the Careers- then felt blessed by any gods still living when they took him on as a temporary ally to find Katniss. You knew he was only doing so to save his own hide, and you couldn’t thank him enough for it. Of course, he wouldn’t actually hurt Katniss. But perhaps that could’ve also been a plus to this arrangement- he wouldn’t have to.

Every second that they showed on screen, your eyes were glued to it. Being gathered in the square to watch the beginnings of the Hunger Games, the countdown and the bloodbath. You were watching from home- one of the rare times they actually supplied electricity to everyone’s homes- way into the night, until he had fallen asleep on the television. Even then you were scared to close your own eyes, afraid of something happening to him during the night. But then the Capitol shut off the show and bid their own city citizens a good night. Only when there was nothing left to watch from the broadcast did you finally fall over on your couch and let your eyes fall closed.

You awoke to a sound blaring from the television, the jingle of Caesar’s show just before he went live. He began a recap of what had happened the night before, with colourful commentary of course. You kept an eye on the screen but didn’t see anything that should give you pause. You watched the death countdown at the end and finally breathed a sigh of relief.

So this was how your days went. You still needed to eat though, and drink and sleep. You worked your paltry job, and always stopped by the Mellarks on the way home. They knew you well, of course. This was hitting them hard, but they still had two other sons. The Mellark father always looked at you with pity though, as if you had no one else left. He wasn’t too far off. He gave you an entire loaf of bread every day that you had stopped by, and one time you finally heard the matriarch in the back of the shop.

“District twelve might finally have a winner.”

With the pitiful look Peeta’s father shot you, and the sour look of one of his brothers as he stormed out, this seemed to be a reoccurrence. And it seemed she wasn’t speaking of her own son.

You were especially fragile that day anyway, as that was the day that Peeta had been injured and camouflaged himself into the riverbed. He wasn’t dead, though. He wasn’t dead. You kept repeating that to yourself as you walked home, pinching small bites off of the whole loaf and force-feeding yourself. It still tasted like ash in your mouth.

And while all of that may have been a bad dream, this was the waking nightmare.

They had announced that two winners may be crowned so long as they were from the same district. You both loved and hated that announcement, really curious whether they would hold up their end of the bargain. Finally, someone to save Peeta! Katniss had immediately called out his name and started running, and you felt your own pulse spike as hers surely was.

Everything else had happened so quickly you couldn’t spare a thought for it. Until now. As Katniss straightened up from over Peeta, you bit your lip hard. No, there was no way that this was happening. There was no way that Peeta was looking up at the woman he’d never known his whole life as if she was his world. There was no way-

“Katniss, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything now, Peeta. I know you probably don’t return my feelings-”

“I do,” He interrupted quickly, and you bit your lip harder, tears coming to your eyes from more than just physical pain. “My love for you is like the sun.”

You had turned the tv off then. Its silence had been so staggering, so different from the way you had been living with constant noise assaulting your senses. You didn’t know how long you sat there before eventually letting yourself fall onto your side, closing your eyes and letting the day pass you by.

You continued your usual routine the next day, with an added look from Peeta’s father. It was like he was confused about something- probably why you bothered to keep on trying. Peeta had been rather convincing, after all. Even you believed it. He wouldn’t have said those words if he hadn’t actually meant them. Mr Mellark still gave you a loaf of bread, and the warmth from the food finally sunk into your hands. That’s when she walked out.

“Why are you still giving away precious food to this ingrate?” She had slapped the loaf from your hands, and the cold that seeped back into you felt familiar. “Obviously if she manages to save our son, he won’t be wasting time on this one anymore. Neither should we.”

You left without any fuss and finally turned the tv back on once you arrived home. It took a few hours to finally get a recap of what you had missed during your tantrum, but only a few minutes to realize, thankfully, that Peeta was still alive. No matter how shattered your heart was, he still needed to live. Because if he could live, and live happily with her, then that would be enough.

The games must’ve been going on too long, as the Capitol suddenly sped things up. The final showdown was beginning, and Peeta and Katniss were still both very much alive. You watched in a detached sort of happiness as your district finally won the Hunger Games. Then the announcement happened. Only one victor left standing.

“Kill her, Peeta.”

You would’ve been surprised at the words coming out of your mouth from any other instance. However, this was the Hunger Games. This was Peeta, and this was the woman he had said those words to. You kept mumbling to yourself, begging him to do something as he turned fearful eyes onto her. You knew that if it was yourself inside that arena, he would’ve already been doing whatever he could to make sure you survived. This means that he was likely thinking the same thing now, too. He was trying to find some way to kill himself so Katniss wouldn’t have to.

“Just trust me. If they won’t allow two victors, we won’t give them one.” Katniss had poured those damned berries into his hands, then locked eyes with him and began a countdown. You felt your heart sink with every number she spoke, finally letting your eyes fall closed. You didn’t want to watch his destruction at the hands of the one he loved. You couldn’t bear the thought.

“STOP! Stop!” You opened your eyes, watching both Peeta and Katniss raise their eyes to the sky. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present your victors of the 74th Hunger Games!”

While you knew this meant nothing for your own future, you had cried. You couldn’t find it in yourself to figure out whether the tears were of happiness for Peeta’s survival, or mourning a life that once was. You had finally cried, and let yourself feel all of those burdening emotions, too many of them to handle.

You continued on with your life from there. You worked your useless job, you stopped visiting Peeta’s family, and you came home just to eat bland foods and sleep. You weren’t sure what kind of life this was, whether existing just for the sake of it was worth all the trouble, but you knew that nothing could really get worse, so that meant it could only get better, right?

You hadn’t paid any attention to the days after he survived. You didn’t try to make it to the train station to meet him, you didn’t bother stopping by his old home to see if he visited his family, and you didn’t try to fight your way into Victor’s Square to see him finally. You didn’t even really know when he arrived back in twelve, just that he had at some point. You had even seen Katniss eventually, moving with determination through the district toward her family home. You had averted your gaze immediately, not ready to deal with that trauma.

It was a few days later, late in the evening after work, when you finally heard a knock on your door. It wasn’t common to get visitors, and any that were common didn’t tend to knock. You had frozen at your kitchen sink, in the process of drying your hands after washing what few meagre dishes you owned. Slowly, mechanically, you finished drying off your hands and tried to smooth the wrinkles out of your generic outfit. You took your time walking over to your door, then took a deep breath before opening it.

There he stood, Peeta Mellark. Winner of the 74th Hunger Games, and one-half of the Star-Crossed Lovers. No matter how often you tried to prepare yourself for this moment, nothing helped. Because he was there, in person, so close that you could reach out and touch him. Nothing could prepare you for seeing Peeta and not letting yourself bask in his warmth.

The smile that crossed his face, however, took your breath away. It may have also been the cause of the few tears that escaped your eyes, falling slowly down your cheek. He had been in the middle of saying your name when he noticed them, his smile slowly falling away to an expression of confusion.

“Why haven’t I seen you since I got back?” He asked this as if it was obvious, as if you should’ve been waiting for him. “My father says you stopped coming by sometime toward the end of the games? I was worried something had happened to you.” He says this as if he should care and it burns your chest hotter than any feeling of depression had up to this point.

“Why should I bother?” You had never heard your voice like this, so void of emotion. Peeta hadn’t either, clearly, for the gobsmacked look on his face. “I figured you’d be plenty happy with your new lover.”

“Lover?” His voice was incredulous, and he immediately shook his head before quickly looking over his shoulder. “Can we take this inside?”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea? Don’t you think they might see?” ‘Don’t you think she might see?’

“That’s why we should just-” He huffed, gently placing a hand on your hip and pushing you inside. His touch sent enough of a shock to your system that you obliged, pulling back before taking another few steps backwards. Breathing room, that’s what you needed. You watched him close the door behind him, lock it with your flimsy excuse of a lock, and pull the curtains closed on the front-facing window. “They can’t see the truth.”

“The truth?” You mumbled, crossing your arms and holding them against your chest. Everything felt off-kilter, being in the same room as Peeta and running from his touch. None of this felt right. “I saw the truth clear enough.”

“What are you even talking about?” Peeta took a step toward you finally, and you matched his step backwards. He looked more worried than you had ever seen him, even inside the arena when he should’ve been worrying about his own safety. “Please, just talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”

“Why bother fixing things with me?” You couldn’t meet his eyes any longer, not without wanting to throw yourself at the man. But he’s in love with someone else, you had to keep reminding yourself that. “She’s right there now, she lives right across from you. If you didn’t already move into the same house.” The thought, while not entering your head before now, suddenly lived in your brain. That’s all you could see in your mind’s eye, Peeta and Katniss being homely together. You felt physically ill, rubbing your face with your hands as if trying to brush the thought away.

“What?”

“Katniss!” You had finally raised your voice, finally included any sort of emotion in it. It really looks like you weren’t leaving this unscathed. “Go find your new lover, stop wasting your time on me!”

“No,” His voice was quiet, his head shaking ever so slightly back and forth. “I thought if anyone could see through it all, it would’ve been you.”

“See through it?”

“Yeah, see through the ruse.”

“I thought I could too!” You yelled, holding yourself back from a growl. Your arms were thrown on either side of you and you watched Peeta’s hands curl up into a ball. “I thought everything was a ruse- how long, Peeta? How long until it went from something you were acting at to something you were really feeling?”

“Never!”

“Don’t lie to me Peeta!” You choked back a sob, raising a hand to your mouth quickly. Peeta’s expression turned from one of confusion and anger to one of desperation at the sound, taking another step forward. You took another step back. “I heard what you said.”

“What?”

“I heard what you said!” You obligingly repeated what you had originally mumbled, though you didn’t believe for a second that he hadn’t heard you. “What you said to her.”

“Wait-”

“I heard it Peeta, don’t try to deny it.”

“I didn’t-”

“Stop trying to fight this! I heard what you said, I know you love her!”

“I was saying it to you!”

You had never heard Peeta raise his voice so loud. You felt frozen in your spot, breath coming in pants and yet the silence that followed could’ve put a funeral to shame. You watched the shame flow through Peeta, he had never wanted to raise his voice after his past with his family. But he quickly shook off the shock, taking a step forward towards you, and another when you finally didn’t back away. He repeated himself softer, “I was saying it to you.”

“No, you were looking at her.”

“I was looking through her.” Peeta shook his head, looking down. “I would’ve never said it if I knew it caused you such pain.”

“What are you talking about, Peeta?”

“I had to say it.” He took another step closer, shortening the distance between you in the small house surrounding you both. “Don’t you see? I had to say something, I had to play along with the ruse.”

“I can’t handle this,” You mumble, mostly to yourself. This was getting dangerously close to territory that you feared you’d never be able to step into again. If you were forced to leave him again after this small chance of having him back, it would ruin you.

“Please, please,” Peeta took another step closer and finally reached over to take your hand. You numbly let him. “I didn’t want to. They started it in the train on the way to the Capitol, so damned early. Haymitch said if we played the role of lovers we’d get more sponsors. I refused, Katniss refused. That had seemed like the end of it.”

“The role of…?”

“Then they brought it back up during the last interview before the games. Told me to spring it on the audience, and they asked Caesar to ask if I had anyone back home. Told me to say that I didn’t, that the one I loved followed me to the Capitol. I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t lie like that. I wouldn’t have been believable.” He reached forward to take your other hand, and you finally realized you were staring into his bright blue eyes.

“When they made the announcement, Katniss came to find me. I was in bad shape, but I was surviving. I was surviving for you because you told me not to give up. Because I couldn’t just leave you behind with nothing, with no one else.

“She took me to that cave, and when she leaned over to kiss my cheek she whispered to me. She said ‘This is your only chance,’ as if I didn’t have any choice. And honestly- she was right.”

You thought back to how the wound had looked, how it pulsed blood and how you felt like your own heart was pulsing out along with it. You didn’t remember anything after that until you had eventually turned the tv back on. Peeta had recovered, somehow.

“We played the lovers act to get sponsors. We played the lovers act to win. Please, you have to know,” Peeta took another step closer to you, bringing you two chest to chest. “I wasn’t going to eat the berries. I was scared when they announced there would be only one winner because I would have to fight her, and she was strong. She had already proven it. But when she concocted that stupid plan, I wasn’t going to do it. I wasn’t willing to die for whatever stupid point she wanted to prove to the Capitol. I was going to watch her swallow those berries, and then spit mine out. I was going to win, for you.”

“Peeta,” Your voice was breathless, but he had finally fallen quiet. He looked so pained, and you took your hand from one of his to raise it to his cheek, letting your thumb drag across his cheekbone. “Is this real? I can’t-” You choke back a sob, feeling the tears roll down your cheeks. “I can’t lose you again.”

“I said those words for you,” Peeta repeated softly, letting his head fall forward to rest against your forehead. “It was a message. I was trying to tell you I still loved you.”

“I heard it wrong,” You mumbled incredulously, huffing out a laugh, “This whole time, I heard it wrong.”

“My love for you is like the sun,” He repeats, closing his eyes, “Always shining, and always there.”

You tipped forward quickly and slotted your mouth with his, and he finally released your hand to place on your hips, pulling you flush against him. You were so scared to never get this again, and yet it felt so familiar to you regardless. Peeta moaned low in his throat, attempting to pull you closer, and you finally wrapped your arms around him. It was at this moment you knew, Peeta was finally home.

[writinandcrying]

TMNT ONE SHOT - Holiday Season - A Special gift

Christmas was not your favorite holiday, at least you had a mutant turtle to help out in this trying times (GN READER, Tw: dysfunctional family, arguments and bickering related to food, crying mentioned)

Fluff - makeout / first kiss with *insert turtle you like* after a shitty xmas (English isn’t my first language and I didn’t proof read this 😗✌️, pls don’t hesitante to correct me if you see something off putting, I hope you guys still like it!)

You climb up the last steps of the fire scape connecting the roof top of your building, dragging your feet as you groan one last time, it’s impressive you can hear your relatives arguing several stores bellow, you have lost count how many times people can pick on each other on their free will. You drag your hands along your face and sigh, you want nothing more but to distance yourself from that.

You didn’t get to feel much of The “Christmas spirit” everyone seem to love and cherish since you left your childhood years, and it seems that every year you learn to dislike December a little bit more. As much as The Grinch was deeply relatable for you lately, you didn’t want it to be, having a dysfunctional family in such a tender Holiday was kinda like receiving punch in the gut every day until 25th of December died out. After the first 10, the warm smiles and happy wishes over a great season seem to constantly mock your misery, leaving you bitter and resentful.

Leaning over the edge of your building, you check the many light up windows and different narratives playing along on your neighborhood, a family all gathered up taking a picture by their decorated tree on the left, you let a chuckle out by thrilled parents filming a rather young child by your right, to what it seems taking their first steps by their excitement.

it was nice seeing different kind of life’s playing along the fairy lights on the streets bellow, secretly wishing yours would be a little bit like theirs, reality seems distant as you accidentally disassociate, thinking how -your- family would be seen compared to those merry ones, your parents resentment growing against each other every minute, barking mean comments left and right to you messing apparently everything up. The perfect picture of a broken home. Awful to see, awful to be part of.

You sigh as you recall what drove you to the edge moments ago, a silly comment really, it was so small compared to the constant bickering around the whole month of December, but picking on you eating a single cookie? That you made? You spent the whole day cooking. The whole day trying to have a good Christmas, you can feel yourself fuming as you remember how much you have worked your ass off the whole month for their presents, for a good Christmas dinner, as they wouldnt even buy a single pair of sock for you. Give you a single “thank you” for all of your efforts, You tried, you really did, Despite all the odds against your favor, you still tried, when you finally decide you give yourself a taste of your hard work, your family dares to give you shit about your eating habits? No. Nuh uh.

That was the last drop. You marched to your room as you heard someone giving you shit one last time after harshly dropping the plate on the dining table. knew you would be screwed when they found out you were gone, no amount of locks would keep them at bay for longer than 2 to 3 hours. But god, you needed a time out. Yes, you would rather freeze your butt on a dirty and frozen roof top than to listen to another passive aggressive bullshit comment.

“you have been hiding here all this time?” A familiar voice fills out of the foggyness of your thoughts, your head turns around slightly, watching a well known silhouette marvelously shining through the moonlight “nobody’s seen you in days” his tone isn’t harsh or accusative, you can almost hear a incredulous chuckle out of him, he speaks lightly, curious to your whereabouts, you can also hear him landing near the regular rooftop entrance, you stare once again to the uncountable windows and buildings in front of you.

He waits for you to retaliate, reply with witty comeback, flash him an apologetic smile, anything, but silence wins you over. He knew something was up when you were this quiet, your family would be the main topic when you vanished like that, he also knew you needed space to deal with such matter, in due time, you would ask for comfort, you would seek for his presence, just like when he comes to you, yet this time it never came, you never came. The ninja turtle slowly leans over, trailing his eyes ahead as you do.

A sniff catches him off guard, he knows it shouldnt, but it does, he glances at you to finally see your glossy eyes staring ahead, a blush covering your cheeks and nose; You look adorable, sad, disappointed, frustrated, but still can’t help but to find you adorable, his hearts stings as you rapidly catch a sneaky tear roll down your cheek, turning your back at him before he can catch you in this arms.

“Didn’t want to bother.” your voice comes out more shaky than you would like, a bit hoarse due to the current season, you rub your hands together, if he questioned about your well being, you could just blame it on the cold weather,on the perfect snowflakes falling above you two.

“You could never bother” he trails along slowly, weary as if you were a scared cat, afraid that any hasty movement could make you dash “how about we go to the lair? Everyone misses you.” he gently places a hand on your back, “I miss you” he ponders, moving slowly to be by your side, your eyes don’t meet his, he wants to lean down, he wants your eyes locked on his, he wants you to trust him as much as he trusts you, he wants nothing more but to hold you close and kiss your sorrows and tears away.

he stays put instead, waiting on your call.

You instinctively turns towards him, his warmth drawing you in, you want to smile, to tell him over and over that eveything is fine, you were just busy, he doesn’t have to worry.

Instead your mouth is pressed in a tight line, you can feel your lips trembling when you try to speak, you know words will come out wobbly, and for the first time, you won’t be able to hold back tears in front of him. This is pathetic. You think, you want to be at the lair. You want to be near them, but how can you explain you can’t bare to see their love, brotherhood and companionship tonight? You can’t feel part of it? This night isn’t about you, it has never been and it will never will be, you just get used to it.

You look up; your thoughts swimming through your eyes, you open and close your mouth, how do you explain you crave affection, but can’t seem to bear it?

The turtle holds you in a swift movement, carrying you with ease, gently but still firmly holding you against his plastron in princess style, the familiar adrenaline rushes trough you as you can feel him jumping from roof top to roof top, you don’t have words to question him, astoundingly admiring him as you stare at his focused face facing the horizon ahead.

You close your eyes for a moment, learning your face over the valley of his neck and collarbone, in a blink of an eye, songs, chatter and laughter fills the air and you remember you are in New York , the most magical city to be this time of year. Yes, you had probably the crappiest month of your life, but for a moment, you let yourself drift away in bliss, focusing on sounds and passing colorful lights.

He settles both you on a empty office balcony, everything is dark inside accept for the faint lights on a very worn out tree looking back at you, you check your own reflection, your eyes are red and puffy, your hair is uneven, and there are millions of colors shining behind you.

The Rockefeller was the most iconic place all over New York during Christmas time, slowly turning around, the tree and it’s surroundings leaving you both speechless, you loved Christmas lights, it was impressive to say the least how the decorations were absolutely ethereal. ever so slowly, you both sit down and admire the virw quietly.

“You don’t have to deal with everything on your own” is the first line he graces you, you wanna laugh with that alone, look who’s talking you think over, but you can’t say it, you know he is right, he chuckles as if he could read your mind, he gently tilts your head upwards “next time, call me. Text me. Reach out, for goddess sake.” He smiles at you, you let out a huff, smiling shyly “you have so much on your plate already, I just, I didn’t-“

“You deserve so much better” he shakes his head, lips pressed in a thin line. Over many years of his life, he has thought he had too little and humans had absolutely everything on top side, it was unfair and left a sour taste over his mouth. you have shown him that kind of thought was childish, he had a family, he had people he could count on, that’s alone is a lot more than what many people have, He can’t take that fact for granted anymore.

He also knew your biggest wish was to be part of something like that, his biggest wish was to make you feel part of it, maybe even something more.

You shyly lace your pinky with one of his fingers, ducking away as you felt your face burning under his deep gaze, you were so appreciative of his family, of him, of his patience and dedication, to say you have a crush on the turtle was an understatement, everything the he did made your heart skip a beat, the way he would always seek out for you during hangouts, how he cared for your preferences and well being, you found yourself unable to look away when he was training, when he would laughs so care freely, when he gets lost on his interests and everything seems to slow down around the both of you. You rest your head gently over his shoulder, you know you can get lost in his eyes quickly, you bite your lip when you think of his, and how heavenly it would feel against yours.

“It’s alright..” that what you manage to come up with, it’s cheap and it’s empty, but you don’t know what else to say. “No it’s not.” He says it firmly, interlocking your fingers tightly to prove his point.

Sometimes, you swear he feels the same as you do, you swear you can catch a soft longing from him across the dinging table, across the dojo over self defense training, short glances that are filled with unspoken words, that the innocent touches are not so innocent anymore. but life has taught you not to hang on those wishes, not to have hope. It was hurtful to do so.

“why do you care?” you let a frustrated sigh out, you hate how you just asked that the moment the words left your mouth, you aren’t frustrated at him per say, more towards your feelings, at how clammy your hands feel around his, how fast your heart is beating, how you secretly hope he knows that you didn’t mean to let that question out, how much of a chicken you were, how you fought annoying daydreaming scenarios with him on daily basis and yet just wish he kissed you already.

“Because I do.” he makes you look at him again, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, and for the first time tonight, you look at him, you really look at him, how he is breathing fast, how dilated his pupils are when he looks at you, how his thumb drags temptingly over the bottom of your lips, letting out a shaky breath as he squeezes your hand one last time.

“because I just do.” His gaze is locked in yours, pleading, full of what you have denied yourself for years, telling eveything you have ever wanted without any words. He was yours, and you are his.

you finally tell yourself fuck it and kiss him.

It’s desperate, it’s passionate, it’s eveything you want and more, you drag your nails on the nape of his neck and draws him into your space, your chest hits is plastron as he grips your hips as he pins you down against the ground, the way you hook one of your leg on top of his shell drives out a moan out of him, making you arch your back, you nibble his bottom lip as you swear you gonna lose your mind.

You don’t know how long has passed, your grip on him is as strong as his as you lay beneath him, you makeout until you are both out of breath, until the anger and frustration has been worn out and you two slowly melt together, once fervent kisses turns into soft, gentle ones, until you are both looking at each other, smiling and giving pecks between giggles, translating eveything you have both been feeling towards each other

“Goddamn.” he draws a hearty laugh out of both you, the turtle rests is forehead against yours, sighing dreamily, giving you feather light kisses on your cheeks as you pull him closer.

“I care a lot about you too.” you drunkly smile to him, caressing his cheeks tenderly, “I sure hope so.” you hook your arms around his neck, laughing at his antics.

“I gotta tell you something tho.” you tilt your head curiously, he looks down at your lips, licking instinctively as you bite yours.

“you surprisingly taste like gingerbread cookies”

That makes you giggle once more.

——————————————————————————

It’s 3 am and Idk how to finish so hopefully the end it’s not too abrupt *confetti sounds* 🎉 let me know if you guys liked it!

[toomanythoughts2]

Dethklok Agere HCs: Skwisgaar Edition

🎸🐺🦅❄️💃👯‍♀️🌕🥇🎰🩲🎼⚖️🧴🚬⬜💋🍆💦🦴🍒🍑🍌

We're almost at the end, woohoo! The next one up is Skwisgaar 🎸! Him and Nathan will be my hardest challenge because I think they embody a type of regression that is very neutral but also very personalized. Anyway, this Skwisgaar 🎸! I hope to get Nathan's out soon to finish them all off.

Everything is below the Keep Reading tab.

(My blonde, tall guitar god, how I love you so. You did not deserve the shit you got.)

🎸 With Pickles being the oldest out of the bunch regression-wise, Skwisgaar's age range is most similar to Murderface's. He's definitely 5 to 9, usually hanging around the 7 mark. I like to think that a lot of his regression is around the same age from when we see him as a kid in "Fatherklok." which I think is either 7 or 8. Possibly older but still very young.

🎸 Skwisgaar's regression is voluntary, so it's Age Dreaming.

🎸 I like to think that a lot of his regression is about missing childhood experiences, much like Pickles, but less extreme. Instead of being antagonized or willfully ignored like Pickles, Skwisgaar was neglected and forgotten about. Pickles' regression is about redo-ing certain parts of his childhood that were ruined or never explored. Skwisgaar is about filling in those gaps in his childhood with those activities that he never got to do in the first place.

🎸 From a DVD Special, we know a few things about Skwisgaar's childhood. 1. He was so impoverished that he would eat snow for dinner. 2. He worked a regular job at one point in his life before he went into bands, most likely either as a legal working child or a teenager. (I'm saying before because Skwisgaar has a long history of being in other bands before Dethklok. Pickles is the oldest and had a career in Snakes' N' Barrels around the '80's - 90's starting at age 16. Brendon says that Nathan and Skwisgaar are the same age, youngest only to Pickles. That doesn't give us too much room to work with when discussing the time between Skwisgaar joins his first band and him having this regular job. So it makes sense that Skwisgaar would have this job as a minor.) With that understanding, I believe that Skwisgaar had to give up a lot of normal childhood activities that someone with more money and/or free time would experience. Along with his mothers promiscuity, I also believe that Skwisgaar had a very unhealthy living situation in terms of inappropriate sexual behavior and abuse. (I will argue that having sex in your living room with the knowledge that your son would be coming home soon and then not reacting or stopping the men when he walks in, is child abuse. Also, the things in Skwisgaar's in-character interviews scream neglect.) Skwisgaar had to grow up fast in order to survive and disassociated via his guitar.

🎸 The person to first figure out Skwisgaar's regression is Toki. Toki spends a lot of time with Skwisgaar, both regressed and not, and is very observant of his character. He notices the shift in Skwisgaar when Pickles is being particularly "motherly" around Toki. Almost like he's expecting Pickles to wipe his face at dinner or put his hair in a ponytail so it's out of the way.

🎸 Toki doesn't bring up his findings at first. He sits and watches for these shifts in his character to gather the evidence that he is regressing. After a while of watching and confirming his suspicions, he decides to put his last piece of his plan into motion. While not regressed, he copies some of Pickles' caregiver movements on Skwisgaar. They're really subtle but so is Skwisgaar's shift. Afterwards, Toki does confront Skwisgaar about it alone.

🎸 This is where Skwisgaar is different from Toki, Pickles, and Murderface. Skwisgaar did not start regressing until he started being around Toki, Murderface, and Pickles as regressors. Skwisgaar is making the conscious choice of regressing and letting himself relax under the ministrations of his bandmates. He is choosing to regress as a way to cope with his trauma and stress. Before this, he did not use regressing. He mostly used sex and playing guitar before, both coping mechanisms that he still utilizes even after he starts regressing. One could argue that Skwisgaar is experimenting with regressing and has found favor in the method.

🎸 I'm going to just say that I'm using the way these posts are published as the timeline for when each member comes out. So it would go Toki, Murderface, Pickles, Skwisgaar, Nathan. With these being said, when Skwisgaar does tell the band, they are all very supportive of him, and were already expecting it. This, of course, elicits a trip to Dr. Twinkletits by Charles since Skwisgaar decided on his own that he was going to use regression to cope. Charles has everyone's best interest in heart and wants Skwisgaar to utilize this approach the best way possible.

🎸 Skwisgaar's regression is weather based. Most of his regression happens when it's winter time, especially if it snows. I wouldn't say it's a trigger for him, but more so, a relaxer. It's easier for him to regress when it's cold and snowy and reminds him of his childhood.

🎸 Skwisgaar does not have tantrums like Pickles, Toki, or Murderface. He learned from a young age that tantrums never got him anywhere, in fact, it took the few things he had away. So he is very quiet. When he's upset with something, he goes almost completely mute. He tries to focus on his guitar playing ("Dethmas" "Dethfam") instead of the thing that made him upset. Pickles and Nathan try to work Skwisgaar through those emotions and get him to talk about what made him so upset. The point of regressing is to convey emotions that otherwise wouldn't come out. They want to know what's wrong, or at least convince him that it's ok to tell them what has made him upset. He is allowed to be upset by things and show that emotion. Skwisgaar is still very unsure about this and hasn't opened too much.

🎸 Recognizing when Skwisgaar is regressed is very hard because of his vast age range and the personalities of these ages. He emulates the type of person he was at the age when he regresses because he doesn't know exactly how else to regress to those ages "normally" (I say that in the context that he grew up very fast, thus skewing his perception of childhood.) The only one that can clock it is Toki. He's spends most of his time watching Skwisgaar and copying him that he's able to notice when something changes, like his demeanor or his stance or even his playing.

🎸 When Skwisgaar regresses, so does his guitar playing. His fingers know the cords, but they become looser, freer. Like someone who hasn't disciplined themselves on correct finger placements yet or someone who is still struggling with sweeping. Skwisgaar doesn't notice the change, and if he does, he doesn't change it. The music and the way he plays helps him regress, if he wants to willfully regress.

🎸 Skwisgaar has some thoughts on what he missed out on as a child but most of it is very vague. Unlike Pickles who wanted re-dos of birthdays, Skwisgaar wants not-so memorable activities. The band has been able to find a few of these activities, like playing in the snow, having a movie night, or having a family dinner. But there are looser activities like someone brushing his hair after a shower, someone reading his original works and giving him feedback, or someone holding him when he's sick. In regards, Skwisgaar's regression is very similar to Toki in terms of wanting "normal" activities. The band works hard to fulfil these requests as often as they can.

🎸 Sometimes Skwisgaar regresses in hopes of doing one of these activities and other times he regresses while he's already doing the activity. For example, sometimes he will regress before going outside in the cold in hopes that someone will force him into warmer clothes and help him put on his jacket and hat and gloves. However, sometimes he's not regressed and wants to go outside when it's cold but is forced into warmer clothes, causing him to regress.

🎸 Do not bring up his mother when he is regressed. It's banned.

🎸 Skwisgaar is very conflicted about caregivers. When he regresses, a lot of it is about wanting to be cared for by someone, particularly a parental figure. He does want a parental-role caregiver however, he is scared of parental role figures. He is also very angry at caregivers. His own experiences with parents and would-be parents have made him apprehensive and dismissive of them. But the want to please, to be seen, to be acknowledge is all still there. He fights it all the time.

Sometimes the want for a caregiver wins and other times the apprehensive side wins. The band tries to give him the space to make that decision on his own. They consider the apprehensive side as another portion of his regression, one that calls for how Skwisgaar wanted to act toward his parental figures and would-be parental figures as a child. It's like being able to finally get back at your parents for when they hurt you. So sometimes, the band acts like caregivers to give Skwisgaar the freedom to "tell them off" like how he wanted to as a kid. His regression is complex in that way that the band as caregivers are acting as their own, individualized caregivers and "roleplaying" as past parental figures. They conceptualize different type of adults in Skwisgaar's life, ones that he wants approval from and ones he wants to completely ignore.

🎸 Skwisgaar was an only child growing up but always longed for a sibling. Regression grants him that wish. He loves to regress when the others are regressed, and loves having them act as his siblings, as either older or younger siblings. He likes being around Pickles when they're regressed because it feels like he has a cool older brother that he look up to and hang out with. He likes being around Murderface because he always has the coolest toys that he never got growing up, and (surprisingly) Murderface shares very well with his toys. Skwisgaar likes being around Toki because Toki still looks up to Skwisgaar and likes to ask him questions about his guitar, and Skwisgaar loves talking about his passion. He loves having siblings to be a child around.

🎸 Skwisgaar doesn't want discipline initially because his regression is so controlled and experimental. However, the longer he does it for and the less conscious it becomes, he does warm up to the idea of discipline. Granted, it's usually just a verbal warning but he did get popped on the back of the head once by Pickles for being a little mean to Toki when he was really small. Skwisgaar decided he probably deserved it because he was being a bit meaner than normal. They are not allowed, otherwise, to do anything else. There are no timeouts or physical punishments, just verbal warnings and scolding's.

🎸 Skwisgaar is open to utilizing regression supplies, he's just very hesitant. A part of him still feels a little silly for being a grown man acting like a child, but the others try to encourage his curiosity. Toki is always willing to talk to him about his supplies and tools, and how they make him feel or how he uses them. He tests out different clothing too to help get him in the right headspace. So far, he's alright using child-friendly cutlery meant for children not toddlers. They make him feel special because nothing in his own house was dedicated or bought specifically with a child in mind. He used all grown up stuff, not the child friendly versions. So things that are made with a child-friendly version, he likes, such as CF! Toothbrushes and toothpaste, CF! Tablets, and CF! guitars. He likes sippy cups with the lids or straws, especially bendy straws (His mom never let him get bendy straws). He likes the graphic tees with his special interest on it, which becomes his biggest signal that he wants to regress. He doesn't like bottles or things meant for toddlers, like Toki. But he will play with a few of his toys simply out of curiosity, like wooden matching puzzles or rings. He won't use a pacifier but has been found sucking his thumb when he's deep in his regression.

🎸 Skwisgaar parallel plays the most out of the band. Sometimes he just likes doing his own thing while the others are doing their own thing. The problem is that Toki always wants to do what Skwisgaar is doing, especially if he's regressed. Skwisgaar has learned to call over Pickles, Nathan, or Charles to get Toki when he wants to be alone. Toki has learned to sneak better. They can come to a truce if Toki gives Skwisgaar two feet of space and is quietly observing Skwisgaar.

🎸 There is no sex allowed in Mordhaus when Skwisgaar is regressed. This goes for all of them but it's especially true for Skwisgaar. Because Skwisgaar grew up in a house that was so sexually inappropriate, those sounds or visuals are serious triggers for him. The band made this a rule when Toki started regressing involuntarily. But when Skwisgaar started regressing, they realized that even the mention of sex would trigger him or it would take him out of his regression. The only time where the rule was broken (accidental) Skwisgaar freaked out so bad and hid in a closet with his guitar. He would have completely ran out of the house if the door to outside was closer. He doesn't want to be back inside that house as a child, he wants to be in HIS house as a child.

🎸 Skwisgaar has found comfort in cartoons from his childhood and will watch them when regressed. He loves Moomins, Tintin, and Babar! Toki will often join in and watch with him. Pickles thinks that maybe Tintin is a little too advance for Toki but Skwisgaar tells him that Toki isn't even really paying attention. He just likes to snuggle up with Skwisgaar and watch the TV with him, regressed or not. Nathan gifts him a Moomins plush as a surprise one day to help him regress. Nathan gifted Toki Snufkin as his companion piece.

🎸 Skwisgaar is experimenting with how much help he wants with his regression. For example, he doesn't know if he wants Pickles to cut up his food for him, feed it to him, wipe his hands, clean his face, ect. Or if he wants more independence where he gets his plate and eats by himself and cleans himself off but Pickles comes by to do "touch ups" or reminders. It's like direct help vs. indirect help. He likes to do things independently but enjoys being dotting one from time to time. But he doesn't like everything being taken over for him, he likes do things independently. But he likes encouragement and observation to things he cares about. He also likes "advice" where someone will tweak something he's already doing to be more effective, like helping him with finger placement on his guitar or showing him to brush at the bottom of his hair, not the middle. He likes the idea of someone checking up on him and making sure he's alright when he's playing by himself. He's not too sure about bathing help. Murderface did bathe him once before ("Fatherklok") and it wasn't a bad feeling, but he wasn't in the right mindset to really dissect his feelings about it. He's working all of these out in real time so the band is constantly succeeding and failing at it.

🎸 Nathan has had both guitarists regressed before one either side of him, cuddling up watching a movie. Toki is a quiet babbler and was talking to himself through most of it. Skwisgaar was quiet through most of it because he was busy sucking his thumb. Nathan just wanted to eat his chips but if he tried to move his hands off either of their backs, it would cause a chorus of negative noises. They ended up falling asleep like that. Pickles has a photo on this on his phone and refuses to delete it.

🎸 Skwisgaar loves playing Rock Band guitar. He makes Toki sing and Murderface play drums. Skwisgaar will not let either of them play bass guitar. He is the only guitarist.

🎸 Skwisgaar has accidently regressed after a concert before. He as busy taking off his corpse paint when Pickles came over and helped him remove some of it that got in his hair line. It sent him reeling with how good it felt to be cared for like that and spent the rest of the night glued to Pickles.

🎸 Speaking of Pickles, because Pickles is the "mother" of the band, Skwisgaar has an affinity toward him. He's got a really shitty relationship with his mom and he's aware of it. He does not like his mom, not one bit. He wants another person to be his mom or be motherly to him. So, it's only logical that Pickles would take that role. Skwisgaar does not use different names for people when he's small, but he has, from time to time, called Pickles "Mom" and, on rarer occasions, Nathan "Dad".

🎸 When it snows, Skwisgaar loves to play outside. He gets everyone out there to build snowmen and have snow ball fights and make snow angels. Pickles, being from the midwest, and Toki, being from Norway, handle the snow very well and can play the longest. Nathan and Murderface, both southern American boys, don't. They can handle it for a little while but need to go back inside when things get too cold for them. Skwisgaar also has a nasty habit of sneaking snow down people's shirts. But it's ok, Pickles is known for grabbing his sides with his cold hands as punishment. By the end of it, Skwisgaar is very regressed, happily, and will be for the rest of the day. It usually ends with a warm shower, soup, and a good movie.

🎸 Skwisgaar is insanely jealous that Toki gets read to at night because he wants to be read to. Murderface has more or less the same feeling, not because he wants anyone to put him to bed and read to him, but because he wasn't offered it. Skwisgaar used to see other kids on TV get read to by their parents and wanted that for himself. His mom hardly ever knew where he was at "bed time" let alone put him there. But Pickles is observant and so now they have group bed time story time for everyone. Murderface comes and goes when he wants, but Skwisgaar likes it because it matches up to the idealized version of childhood from his mind. Toki is ok with it but likes it better when it's just him and Nathan.

🎸 Skwisgaar and Toki have gotten into a yelling fight over Pickles before being their "Mom". It's just a regressed version of "Stops Copies Me" but about who had Pickles as his mom first. Skwisgaar said it was him first because he joined the band first, so Pickles was his mom first, but Toki says that Pickles is his mom first because Toki is the first person Pickles acted "motherly" too and the person Pickles is a legit caregiver too. Pickles had to separate them and give the "I love you both equally and are both of your moms" talk. Toki and Skwisgaar don't buy it.

🎸 Skwisgaar finds school supplies and busy work to be soothing. He likes the idea of sitting down and doing homework as a part of his regression. He remembers the calmness of doing homework at his kitchen table or sitting in class, and he misses it. Charles has a desk in his office just for Skwisgaar to do elementary level assignments. Sometimes it's math problems, sometimes it's history "fill-in" work sheets, sometimes it's science. He likes the repetitiveness of it. Charles even found some basic-level music class worksheets for him to do about tempo and the scales. Charles always grades them as well and gives them back to Skwisgaar. He's a steady A/B student.

🎸 The further Skwisgaar gets with his regression, the more likely he will let himself slip without noticing it. Which is usually fine, until he realizes that he's slipping when others slip, especially Toki. And since Toki is a involuntary regressor, that means that sometimes he finds himself slipping in public. In these cases, Skwisgaar has been recorded by the public doing non-typical adult-minded Skwisgaar things. Though, a lot of it revolves around being a "big brother" to Toki, or sometimes Murderface.

🎸 Skwisgaar and Murderface will sneak off to watch scary movies and eat junk food when they're regressed and then cry to Pickles when they get scared or have tummy aches. Nathan finds this hilarious that they both do that both regressed and not. Pickles finds it incredibly annoying but also endearing that they find him a safe space.

🎸 Skwisgaar gets scared easily when regressed. He's flung multiple things out of his hands and jumped more time then he can count. This isn't a trauma thing, he just gets easily spooked.

🎸 Murderface and him will read comic books together in silence or while listening to music. Skwisgaar has a preference for The Crow, Sandman, Thor, Tintin, and Asterix. He also likes the Smurfs but feels silly reading them so he'll only read them in private.

🎸 A memorable time while regressed was when he got really sick with the flu. He thought he would just lay in bed for a few days, take some medicine, eat, and sleep until he got better. However, Pickles wasn't having it. Skwisgaar was looked over and pampered by his band mates so much that he doesn't ever remembered consciously regressing, he just let it happen. They all took turns looked out for him. Pickles would rub his head while laying down to help him sleep and measure out his medicine for him. Toki made sure to bring bendy straws for his drinks and help him eat his soup. Nathan helped him get clean sheets on his bed so they wouldn't smell "sick" and religiously checked his temperature. Murderface would help clean him up and wash his face and hair. He was so regressed during this time that he hardly spoke and only requested his bandmates to take care of him, not the klokateers. Pickles held his hand when he went back to the doctor to do a check up.

🎸 He practices doing hair on Toki and Nathan. Sometimes it's good. Most of the time, it's not. But he does like to brush hair so it's at least brushed really well when he plays.

🎸 Because he is experimenting with regressing, he's also experimenting with ages. He has tried regressing as low at Toki, so there have been days where he tried being bottle fed or used a pacifier or act like a toddler. But those never felt right to him. The opposite is also true. He's tried being like Pickles, a bit more "grown up" but that doesn't work either. He doesn't want to be in that age range because it reminds him too much of having to grow up fast.

🎸 He needs help restringing his guitar when he's regressed. He always manages to snap his fingers.

🎸 He doesn't like having his hair down when he's small, he needs it up. So he usually puts it in a pony tail or Nathan puts it up in a claw clip or a bun. Claw clip isn't the favorite method though because Skwisgaar has fallen backwards and hurt himself on the clip.

🎸 Skwisgaar and Pickles have sleep overs in Skwisgaar's room. Both of them are usually regressed with Skwisgaar looking at Pickles like he's the coolest dude in the world. They also practice guitars a lot when they're regressed, so it feels like he's able to connect with someone.

🎸 Skwisgaar always wants fish or soup when he's small. Something about it just reminds him of home. Jean Pierre has become an expert on Swedish dishes, and even Toki has said that some of his dishes are better than the Norwegian version.

🎸 The guitarcicles in the freezer are for Skwisgaar only and he will throw a fit if one of them are gone. (They are never gone, no one likes them but him.)

🎸 He gets shy if you compliment his guitar playing. He doesn't know why persay but it makes him get butterflys.

🎸 He has used his height for evil and will hold things above Toki, Murderface, Pickles reach when he doesn't want them to have it. Nathan usually comes by and takes it from him.

🎸🐺🦅❄️💃👯‍♀️🌕🥇🎰🩲🎼⚖️🧴🚬⬜💋🍆💦🦴🍒🍑🍌

🎸 Toki and Skwisgaar will take outside naps together when they are small. If it's winter time, they will snuggle in one sleeping bag to conserve heat.

🎸 Car rides put Skwisgaar to sleep. The movement reminds him of moving all the time with his mom and the calmness before the shit storm.

Here we are once again! I hoped you enjoyed, Skwisgaar was a challenge. I do love him though :) If you have any other HCs, don't hesitate to tell me!

[unlikelyjapan]

s2e6 rewatch notes - part 1

I'm breaking this up over two days (for length, clarity, and my own mental health) - I pause and scribble my way through scenes as I go, so there may be a few repeats here and there.

Natalie's bereft face in the opening, attempting to disassociate but failing miserably because that's not her coping style. She obviously doesn't even smoke by the way she's holding the cigarette, she just does it because - much like working inside a commercial kitchen - it's the only legitimate excuse for a break from the chaos. Both she and Mikey act like they've just exited the fog of war (because they have) and - unlike Carmy - they've never had the emotional or material means to escape it.

Sugar's "No one can make anyone else act a certain way" comment to Mikey - it's very clear that they perceive mental illness from very different angles. Mikey admonishes Natalie for her check-ins as an attempt to blunt/control Donna's outbursts, and Sugar's skepticism of Mikey's strategy of just riding the lightning/ignoring the outburst (while acknowledging that he and Carmy have more success, but she attributes most of that to being the female middle child of a grievously ill female narcissist).

Carmy coming out = a hot mess of family dynamics. He asks Mikey (innocently enough) to come in and handle the crowd by being "fun cool guy" and Mikey assures him that he will, but with a vacant look in his eye (no wonder this man was on drugs, what other choices was he afforded?). Fak is literally yelling indistinctly inside, upping the chaos, as Richie bursts outdoors amidst the three siblings to ask if "there's any family shit going on that he should know about".

Along with just trying to be ok themselves, these three adult Berzattos are a magnet for every other wayward adult-child who needs a home to reckon with their own trauma, and their inclusion becomes their problem as well and only ups the frequency of the despair. Mikey literally makes space for the three of them by dismissing Richie "for a minute", and you can tell that's not normal protocol.

"Would it kill you to pick up the phone?" - Carmy is already wounded by Mikey more than 4 years before his death. You can immediately tell by Mikey's earnest response (along with his previous discussion with Sugar) that he was just keeping Carmy at arms length to ensure he never returned, to spare just one of them from a life of hardship. In spite of everything else we see about Mikey and how poorly he manages his trauma in this episode, he is an inherently good brother who started early in inciting loathing in the person he loves above all others just to save him.

I wanted to peek behind the "Our Mother of Victory, Pray for Us" bit, as you know damn well it wasn't selected by Storer by accident. The whole idea is that Mary, the Mother of Victory "pleads our cause with a mother’s heart and concern with whatever we bring her. Confident that Our Lady’s prayers are always heard we pray"

I may be reading too much into this, but that's a whole fuckton of power projected onto Donna. Even though it's said in jest, its maternal compassion and mercy that was never extended to the Berzatto kids. It could also be seen as "only Donna's prayers are heard and answered" (through the placating and emotional gymnastics performed by her children) so they utter this little prayer to her as much as they do to God - for control, for relative calm, for the day to simply be ok. They know better than to expect much more than that.

What is the actual point of Fak and Ted? I mean this narratively. I know that the Ricky actor who plays Ted originally worked on the set of The Bear in S1. Did the producers think they had an awesome "boys club" vibe and just plop them in as chauvinistic comic relief? Or is this part of a long-con? Do Fak and Teddy embezzle all of The Bear's money and retreat to Hawaii or something? Right now it's giving "Matty Matheson needs to sell more cookware" and I need a reason for this set-up, as the rest of the players offer more than enough relevant chaos to the episode.

Also, when they ask "Mrs. B, are our skateboards in here? Can we sleep over?" as Donna is cycling in the kitchen - Matty Matheson is in his 40's, so he time-traveled back to a rough-looking 35 to freeload off of his fake-besties Mom and aid in her spiral? I don't get the age timelines/ideas on what arrested development in this show are anymore....

"Say the fucking words" - ooof. I feel like a lot of ink has already been spilled on what the word "love" means in the Berzatto realm, but no wonder Carmy can't comprehend it even when it's right in front of him. Love to him is sacrifice and struggle, panic attacks, pacifying meltdowns, idealization and inevitable betrayal (hello other shoe!), and just saying the word because it diffuses an argument - not unlike rubbing one's chest.

So....what's the likelihood that the abusive chef at EMP is just a projection of Donna living rent-free in Carmy's head at this point? The way she lobs the ball at Carmy with all of the elements that need to be swapped when the timer goes off, the practical matters of running a high-pressure kitchen trailed with jests and insults and total emasculation. Yeah...I think it's pretty high up there.

The second Richie and Carmy trade off the homemade Sprite (before Carmy can grab the prosciutto and mortadella that his mom asked for 2 seconds ago) is just enough silence for Donna to feel abandoned and start unravelling again/start screaming about moving the pot. I can't quite place my finger on the weird amalgam of mental illnesses they gave this woman (hit me up, psych majors) but if its not over-scripted/acted, its a lot.....

Richie and Mikeys "Just take a break from being a mopey little fuck" - phew, these dudes really think that a high-school chick will be Carmy's salvation.

"I don't have a love of my life?" Carmy doesn't even flinch or show recognition of who they're talking about at first, and then it dawns on him that they've probably embarrassed him and he wants to crawl in a hole and die (which is the most honest feeling expressed this episode to date).

And wow. Donna intercepts the whole thing by throwing a spoon at Stevie and screaming "Richard, bring her the fucking pop!" - a.k.a the title of the previous episode with the house party. Those words ended the gang's harassment re: Claire, but then future Carmy willingly waded right back into the abyss of thoughtless conversations, bullying, projections, others' expectations, and the terrible Christmas.

Ok, that's it for now - I'll be back on my bullshit tomorrow.

[teecupangel]

i have no idea what's going on i just saw an au idea about dc and assassin's creed n suddenly all my senses are alerted hello hi please do let me know more about it hi

Join the club. I don’t know what’s usually going on, I’m just writing what my mind comes up with when I’m given all these absolutely fantastic fic prompts XD

For those wondering:

The “Desmond gets adopted by Batman” idea that started this.

The “Desmond gets punted into the DC ‘verse and follows Constantine because he has no other plans” idea that spawned from that.

Slightly connected: the "Desmond becomes BFF with the Devil" (the Netflix show) idea where I remind everyone that Edward Kenway’s mocap and voice actor is John Constantine which has this little addition.

(Since we can go anywhere with where the hell in DC lore Desmond gets punted to, we’ll focus this AU after John leaves the Arrowverse but we’ll be keeping everything vague-ish so you guys can decide which DC ‘verse you’d prefer this to be in)

More unorganized Desmond in DC ‘verse with special focus on John Constantine’s ‘sphere of influence’

John’s leading theory is Desmond is possessed by various demons, maybe even a legion, and he’s letting Desmond tag along because it’s obvious that Desmond is still in control (most of the time) so John’s curious about this ‘anomaly’.

Also, the fact that his name is Desmond and he used to be a bartender makes John believes this is some kind of sick joke orchestrated by a high-ranking demon or one of his many enemies.

He still believes Desmond is an innocent who got wrapped up in all of these so he’s trying to help… in his own John Constatine-ish way.

Which includes (from @escapism-and-disassociation) muttering Latin exorcism chants like it’s a normal conversation and Desmond (using the knowledge he got from his Bleeds) just stares at him tiredly and continues their conversation before John started doing his exorcism in Latin just to screw with John.

John also tried making Desmond read the actual exorcism chants and Desmond just reads them in a tone of a Renaissance noble so bored with learning Latin and just wanting to go outside and play.

Many of John’s allies also think Desmond is possessed and it doesn’t help when Desmond likes screwing with them by changing his language midsentence on purpose and getting them to believe he’s ‘speaking tongues’.

Desmond treats all these theories of him being possessed with a shrug and a “yeah, sounds about right” because, in a sense, that is what the Bleeding Effect feels like at times.

Desmond and Chas like to hang out whenever John does his thing and they have nothing to do. Chas’ wife thinks Desmond is a good influence on Chas. Desmond is absolutely not since he’s been teaching him Ratonhnhaké:ton’s takedowns.

Speaking of Chas, Desmond and Chas do wonder if Desmond’s laser beam would work on him. John had to forbid the two from trying it out “for science”.

Zed has been having premonitions of Desmond even before Desmond got thrown into their world. One of them includes her painting of the exact moment that Desmond died in his original world. Another is a painting of Desmond that she insists was the painting of a god.

John has a lot of theories about it ranging from the main demon possessing Desmond used to be an old god or a demon who once pretended to be an old god to maybe Desmond is destined to be a god and the demons inside him are stopping that.

Desmond believes the god thing is a reference to how he would have been seen as a god back in his world if he had let the world burn.

Either way, Zed doesn’t like to come into contact with Desmond because she always gets this intense burning sensation before her psychic abilities kick in and she sees visions of Desmond’s life back in his world.

John likes to use Desmond as bait. Desmond doesn’t mind. His Bleeds does though.

John thinks Desmond’s Bleed of Edward is making fun of him, having the same accent and tone as him but drunker.

John can’t stand Desmond’s Bleed of Altaïr because he mainly asks so many questions and still finds a logical ‘scientific’ explanation to every mythical thing they encounter.

On the other hand, Desmond’s Bleed of Ezio tires John because that man likes to ask about God and how heaven works and…

In a nutshell, John prefers it when Desmond takes control.

To be fair, John is okay with Desmond’s Bleed of Ratonhnhaké:ton because Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn’t bother with small talk and focuses on the task at hand.

John likes Desmond’s Bleed of Haytham the most though because Haytham is polite but with a sharp tongue.

[incarnateirony]

Shealyn, stop gaslighting yourself.

Nobody said gods are mad at you for working with other pantheons.

That's not the argument.

The argument is your blasphemy, your raping my face, you mixing me up with a god. I Am Not A Pantheon. I can tell you to stop raping my face and mixing me up. Not sure how you're managing to get this fucked up, because I am literally trying to terminate a cult you have erected in my image. I Am Not A Pantheon. I Am Aaron, You Are Not. Even if you change the name, pasting my face on your delusions you groom your cult to is what it is, you got us all fucked up, you got people listening to your literal anime jibberish you trolled yourself on, and you have literally been grooming people to rape my face because you can't get over the divorce.

That's not the same fucking thing, stop trying to pretend to be confused.

I can also, however, steal those pantheons you're running to, and make Loki tell you to Do The Work Read A Book, yeah. Cuz again, you're schizophrenic and half your head is tribute to me. So it backfeeds.

It's not "gods will get mad at you for working with other pantheons", it's "no matter what pantheon you run to, the gods are mad at you for being a rapey blasphemous douchecanoe, and people can hear it, but you can't hear them, because for magical reasons, you can only hear your ex telling you to do the work."

Don't fucking get them mixed up you cheap skank.

They're not mad at you for changing pantheons. They're just ignoring you, it's not an accident that no one hears your cries. But me. Telling you to do the fucking work. And your guardian you imagined that rocks you back and forth and tells you it's okay. Hey, you talked to your Bloody Mary lately, how she acting?

They're mad at you for being contrary, teaching against their ways, for violating basic principles, for running from responsibility, and from generally being a disproportionate dumbass, even in the scale of humans being dumbasses. They don't OWE your princess ass ANYTHING. Especially when most of them are the same dudes on other names and like, now you're just being flagrantly two faced AND retarded IN FRONT OF THEIR SALADS. Like you are literally running from a trap you made for yourself, trying to bother every timeline and pantheon, and still being told or flat-assed forcefully rewired to do the work. They're not gonna intervene to protect you from choices you made and refuse to stop making. That's not how this works.

Don't get it twisted.

Let's put this simply: The gods aren't angry at you for changing pantheons

Your ex husband, who you have confused with a god, is over you grooming a cult to him, raping his face, and stalking him for three years, and isn't going to stop doing what it takes to make sure he doesnt have to suffer you again even if it takes three years of his own back, no matter how you try to whine and spin shit like this into the internet to rewrite the narrative.

The gods are, generally, ignoring you. One is dancing with shrimp as a mockery. The other is uh, just me, not actually a god, but you thought I was Loki instead of Hermes that time, so there's that.

Like we can keep going, but it ain't about changing pantheons. I do not care if you are getting me fucked up as a trickster god in Greek or Nordic, you've somehow fucking managed both, while still refusing to see how flawed you are, and still refusing to see how you built this fucked up temple to fucking my face. I do not fucking care, it is not about what language you're retarded in. It's about your refusal to change behavior, and instead using gods like fictional crutches to blame for them, and they ain't having that shit girl. One time you almost shot another ex husband between the eyes, claimed it was channeling, and disassociatively blamed Athena, and it's all been downhill from there. Lmfao nobody wants to deal with your pathological ass anymore, which is how you've become lemonbuttershrimpgirl, and like. Mmf. Is it the attention? Are you enjoying actually having his attention again? Even if he's pointing out you're a morbidly obese moron that thinks her cat is channeling freyja, and even if he's openly making fun of your stolen octopus jibberish branding too while squidward bodies mister krabs in all of this, like--you just really need his attention that bad, huh.

Like girl, GIRL. Everyone saw us arguing while you said you didn't have to read anything, or do any work, to be his priestess. They saw me bang on WORK, BOOK, WORK, BOOK. They saw me say we were going in and playing dark magician. Then they saw you post about a shitton of shadows in your house and a mysterious old man in Ancient greece talking about a lifetime of hard work, and you being clueless and picking your nose, then me joking about subsuming your fake ice raven shadow, then they saw you say Loki showed up and Gave You A Work Book, because you couldn't stand to have to do work or read another book, so everyone literally watched you willfully misinterpret me and yet again fuck me up for another god to make yet another version you could bullshit all the rules up from inside your own head and call it mysticism to teach the cult you have raping my face, now possibly in two pantheons. Like, literally, everybody fucking saw it. It's bisexual, not bilingual, Shea, get off our dick in every language. A slavic dub of me is still me.

Literally people watched that shit happen and you're still going "uwu gods won't care if I change pantheons" not when it's the god of your ex husband you've obsessively deified in your head screaming at you to get off his dick and read a book in any fucking language. Dead ASS woman you are like "NUH UH I DIDNT MIX UP AARON AND HERMES" then IMMEDIATELY PROCEDED TO MIX ME UP WITH LOKI TOO. IN FRONT OF THE CLASS!! AND YOU JUST KEEP!!! MOVING ON LIKE NOBODY SAW IT!

The gods are not here to be tools for your roleplay fetishes and your refusal to process grief. I don't know WHAT fuckin pantheon you think will tell you THAT.

I know you're smarter than this Shealyn, stop giving yourself intentional brain damage to run from the truth.

I repeat, I do not care if you are getting me fucked up as a trickster god in Greek or Nordic, you've somehow fucking managed both, BUT THIS IS GOING TO STOP, NO MATTER HOW MANY CIRCLES YOU SPIN TO TRY TO FIND A NARRATIVE YOU MIGHT BELIEF* YOU'RE NOT FUNDAMENTALLY ASSFUCKED IN. Belief your spider back, Belief away the above posts you proved yourself a clown in, Belief away the timeline you got yourself stuck in this octopus jibberish comedy mess. Oh, it's not working? Weird. So anyway, keep doing the work and coincidentally replacing your humor with ours in ways that play into comedic punchlines we re-re-re-roll our old jokes on, that shouldn't be alarming you or anything.

Update: Or you know, you catching Flight Fursuit Friday into Tartarus and reading the vibes of me looking over at work in the morning realizing I forgot to feed my cat as the great god Anubis remembering to tell you to feed fuzzy, your precious. Hashtag Release Coyote Versus Acme. Yeah, you're. You're doing fine over there, Shealyn.

Yeah Shea, it's been an interesting few years you lost the plot on reality with on your end, while on my end, at least my insanity is general awareness of the insanity of reality, and that's why you're here, in Octopus Fetish Land, getting beaten through time with your own jokes, but also very immediately. Apotheosis is a biiiiiiitch. How've you been? Oh you went totally nuts? Yeah man, tried to stop that, but now it's just really funny hitting the buttons.

[mcfanely]

I've had this post sitting in my drafts from around the middle of December, since it had gotten to the point where I'd basically done no substantial art for a good few weeks; and now staring at this post again at the end of December with an unfinished commission on my iPad that I'd hoped I'd have done by the end of November - I thought it would be a good idea to logically think about how to deal with things in the near future, and subsequently make a decision which is painful but also the right one for me right now.

Things aren't really going well currently, alongside a few medical issues in the family, and work and not sleeping well being the sorta base problems I've been dealing with for a few months, I've not exactly been feeling much of anything recently and it's just getting worse. Anxiety and depression is a general thing that I've lived with for years, but right now it's just kicking my ass in a way I haven't experienced before and I'm floundering so much, I'm just floating through days and barely remembering them, and I'm aware I'm disassociating a lot of the time and I feel like I'm drowning-

So I need to step back from art, to take at least one thing off my plate so I'm not extremely stressed over something I thoroughly enjoy.

FYI There are event prizes that I will 100% honour, those aren't going to be put aside. And the two commissions I have going right now will be continued till completion.

Yet as for general commissions and my own art overall, there's no motivation there. I hope to hell there will be a love for it soon (and dammit I'm sure there will be) but right now I'm not exactly enjoying much at all, art is just a thing that I usually love so much - it's what I use to relax, I used to do it for hours in a day and love every second and now, I think I've done maybe two hours of it over the past month overall?

Know that I am so, so damn sorry, god I just hoped that I'd be better by this time but I've never felt worse - I'm so sorry that I'm having to step back from commissions that people would have been excited for, I'm sorry that you've trusted me with your lovely ideas and I'm just not able to provide them anymore

If you do have a commission slot with me, and are willing to wait until I eventually decide to open my commissions again, then do message me and I'll put you on a list for the first slots I have available when I reopen them

This will definitely not be forever, I promise it won't because I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have art in my life. But consistently telling people that I'm unable to honour their commission slot as a new month rolls around is in no way fair, not when there are many artists that have their commissions open and can provide a service that I'm currently unable to give

I'm going to spend an hour or so getting in touch with those who have commissions with me and giving some big apologies, but this is just an umbrella post to keep people looped in as to why I'm probably not going to be active much with posting art or the like, I'll be back, I will, but I need time away from things and I'm very sorry

This was very long winded, whether you read it or not, thank you so much for just enjoying what I do! It always means the world to see the support I have for my art and I'm sorry I have to let you down like this

I'll still be here, active over socials, just a lot quieter, and hopefully getting better

I hope you all understand 💙 love you all, and again, I'm extremely sorry for this situation 💙💙

[roanniom]

i would be super interested in hearing about what your writing process is like! e.g. do you write large amounts in a few sittings, or sporadic bits across lots of sessions? do you edit as you go, or do you go back at the end for a once over? do you reread your work after it’s been posted? how do you get yourself to write when you may not be in the mood? how do you combat writers block? how do new ideas come to you? what’s your biggest motivation to write? etc. etc. etc. (that’s a lot of questions oops—don’t feel pressured to answer them all!!)

Hi anon! I love talking about my writing on here, so happy to answer.

I usually write large amounts. Generally speaking I will have a draft going and then I'll keep coming back to it, but most of a fic will be written in like three big spurts. It really depends on the piece. What often happens is I will work on it in bits and then finish the entire second half all in one sitting because I get impatient and I just want it done. I do not edit at all really. I do my best to catch typos, and after it's posted if I notice typos I will go back and try to adjust, but I don't sit and read through to edit. I also post it the SECOND it is finished. It's the reason I don't use any fun art or fancy formatting. I swear to god, it's like if I don't post something the MILLISECOND it is out of my brain I will jump out of my skin so I just yeet it into the void of tumblr and take a deep breath.

I reread my work all the time. The day I've posted something I'll usually read it because I kinda blackout when I write, so it is super fun for me to read and go "wow, that's cool, I like that" because I sort of disassociate. It feels like someone else wrote it because I don't remember writing it usually lol. And then I'll reread an old fic if someone reblogs it or engages with it and I realize I don't remember it well.

First and foremost I write for me. I write what I am entertained by, I write what turns me on, I write what I fantasize about. That's why, despite my definitive intention to write inclusive reader characters, I predominantly write fem!reader - this is wish fulfillment for me and I do it to benefit me lol. So I enjoy rereading my own fics because they are tailormade to my taste, my kinks, my preferences. Not saying I do it constantly, but yep! I read them.

Inspiration is easy. Everyone on here is just as feral as I am and I am lucky enough that people send me in really juicy requests and thots and would you rathers and those are amaaaaazing jumping off points. My problem is that people send me way more good ideas than I have the time to write so my inbox and drafts are FULL.

As for writing and getting in the mood - I do not make myself write if I'm not in the mood. This is not my job. Nobody is paying me to do this. I only do it because I feel like it, so if I don't feel like it, I do not force myself to do anything.

With writer's block, that only happens on part 2s and 3s. It's the reason I am mainly a one shot bitch. The pressure builds and gets to me and it makes it easier to put writing off. I'm trying to become better about it, but also be kind to myself because, again, I am doing this for fun.

What's lucky is that I often AM in the mood, so that's not an issue. Inspiration comes from reading other people's fics to be honest. I LOVE reading fic, even more than writing it, so I consume a lot. What often happens is I'll read a fic and expect it to go a certain way and if it doesn't I'll go "hmmm...well now I will write that." Or if I realize I like a tone or something, I mentally begin riffing on it and decide to write it my own way. I read a lot of romance novels, too (many of which are a LOT shittier than some of the amazing fanfics I've read) and that keeps me well versed in tropes and conventions and I like to try my hand at different ones.

Last but not least....I'm very horny and very repressed and very bored lol.

I've said it before and will say it again - I write this stuff because I don't have it my life and this is my kind of manifestation. <3

[mizuta]

god im tired (longer winded ramble under the cut about disability?)

the thing they dont tell you. about being the son of two disabled parents, two people who hate themselves more than they could hate you, a woman who swears up and down that her becoming disabled enough to need a wheelchair full time is the worst thing thats ever happened to her, thats Ruined her life.

the thing they dont tell you is their constant insistance that you can do better and are just lazy warps your fucking perspective to yourself until its unrecognizeable. they push themselves until theyre now falling apart at the seams with worse and worse damages that couldve maybe been avoided somewhat and refuse to allow you to be 'weak' and 'need help'.

they dont tell you that when youre navigating constant persistant wrist pain at 22, when your cognitive functions have always been bad but not bad enough, that youre never gonna feel like you deserve help or accommodations. that you cant do math or numbers and thats a larger symptom of something, of when words blur together and you read chunks of writing as nonsensical regularly, when you hear one thing but someone said something completely different and you have to just bashfully laugh it off.

when your language function breaks down and youre speaking in fragmented sentences. no proper grammar. the words are hard and dont make sense and youre just desperately screaming in your own wy trying to be heard. you get told that one might be a symptom of your psychosis but fuck nobody ever told you that wasnt normal to begin with other than making fun of you when your guards down.

when you can barely tell time between two days from each other and your disassociative disorder makes you all lose so many gaps in time, and youre not mad at each other for that, but you just kind of wonder because between that and how much time doesnt exist to you all and how much you forget from adhd to the point that entire days are forgotten after youve lived them, when youre so exhausted and your head feels like fog 80% of the time, when your mood tracker never puts you above a 5 on the mental health scale on your best days.

when you know damn fucking well youre not abled enough, but nobody tells you that youll constantly be told youre not disabled enough, either. not abled or disabled. some fucking other thing, something thats useless, something thats just fucking pointless.

its like, i know im mentally ill. severe clinical depression. adhd. probably cptsd that im still coming to terms with. likely ocd. possibly autistic as well its hard to tell. psychosis. but im also in pain pretty regularly, but its 'only' wrist pain, so does it matter? i cant think straight most days of the week and its a genuine struggle full of spoons to keep my speech coherent and just tonight alone i keep hallucinating my bathroom lights on and getting up and discovering when i come to turn them off theyre already off.

ive been sick for a week and a half and i could barely manage to get out of bed and shower twice. or get a sports drink so i didnt just... faint. i need constant access to electrolyte water/sports drinks or my near-constant dizziness and lightheadedness and sometimes physical pain gets way worse, rather than 'manageable and liveable'. i feel like im going fucking insane.

all signs point to me having asthma. my parents literally think im insane at the idea. i have so much breathing trouble and this last week i couldnt breathe for multiple 10 minute chunks because i went to work sick because i need the money.

christ almighty. not abled. not disabled enough. cant quantify my cognitive problems because itll never be 'enough'. god.

im so fucking tired, dude. i just want to sleep for a really, really long time

[skinni-girls-eat-books]

Wednesday, April 24th, 2024!

Day 9 :) 🥳

6:23am: God I feel amazing right now I'm so proud of myself :') I love my life. Did a little grocery shopping last night, new litter box, gonna get my brakes done today. Life is good! Amen!! Everyday is a new day and I get to live it however I choose to. ❤️

11:40pm: Day 9 complete! It feels like 9 months. I'm not even joking. Once you start dating other people it's just like who? My focus is elsewhere. Texting a guy for two nights straight and don't know what to think?? Kinda odd, seems kinda nervous as hell but I don't know why exactly. Definitely a little neuro spicy but I can't specify. I think he thinks we're exclusive but we haven't met in person yet?? Don't really want to burst his bubble but that's not exactly how I work rn. Unadded me from tinder after having a semi serious conversation with him but again..... I haven't seen you in person yet so it's not really giving exclusive to me homie. Plus he literally declined my date offer for Tuesday night after I asked him yesterday if weeknights were ok to hang. It's giving weeknights are ok to bang but not hang? 🚩🚩 It's giving 1,2,3 strikes you're out but I'm not one to call it quits so fast 😂 not gonna slow my roll for someone who doesn't like nerd nite 🤓 lame-o.

On the bright side, I did have a hella stressful day and talking to him was a really good distraction from me spiraling about money, so I'll give him that ❤️ I just don't know if I can do another neuro spicy guy that I can't read very well. $300 car stuff turned into $700 unexpectedly but it is what it is. Cheaper than a car accident!!! 🙏🙌 Glad they caught it because I didn't know anything was wrong. SEE this is why I hate my tire light. Yesterday it was 60* today it was 85* and keeps doing that aka that's why I thought the light was on. No I literally had a bent rim that was disassociating from my tire 🤦‍♀️ Could've been a damn nightmare on the highway. They should have two tire lights, one for BS and one for serious 😂

Tomorrow is the final grind and then we'll really kick this shit off Friday I suppose. Could kick off tomorrow but it just wouldn't feel right to me. I know I'm good but it's not the same until you walk out of that exam review.

Still need to continue to work on myself, find friends, Meetup groups and hobbies, gym classes, things that make me an interesting person. You're getting there, I love you.

[touyasdoll]

Early Established Relationship Shouta & Reader, but they haven’t talked about having kids yet and Reader just found out she’s pregnant. She’s worked herself up in anxiety over how Shouta will take it. This is not helped by him coming home from teaching, having had a hellish day and grumbling about “problem children” and thankful that he only has to deal with kids for a few hours.

Hearing that, Reader just… hides everything. There’s ice in her chest as she tidies up the bathroom, takes out the trash, washes up to start on dinner just. Mind blank, but her usual smile on her face (well honed practice from years of mistreatment due to having an ‘unacceptable’ quirk) as she tells him to go clean up. She’ll make a fast dinner so he can sleep and then wake him later for patrol. He’s too tired to notice anything off, thanks her with a loving smile, the soft ones only she gets, as he goes and showers, changes for a meal and a nap with his favourite girl.

And that’s how it goes. Day in, day out, feeling sick is just a bug, just extreme reaction to allergies, just bad food, etc. She kind of disassociates a lot, mind unable to process as somewhere in there she’s coming up with a plan. Obviously he won’t want to be with her, right? She should cherish these days before she starts to show. So she does.

For about two days, no matter what he says about kids he’s run into or his class — though a small voice tries to remind her that Shouta is excellent with kids, even the ones that act out and he doesn’t hate them no matter what he acts like, she knows this, but it’s drowned out by the words she’s heard him say while tired and grumpy — she cherishes the fuck out of spending more time with him. A little needy, maybe a lot, but she loves him with everything she has to give. Everything but what she keeps held back for their her child.

And then one morning Reader wakes up, showers and notices a slight bump that she knows won’t be going down. There’s ice in her chest again, but she can’t have the same reaction as last time. It won’t be good for the baby, especially if she disassociates. So she plans out her week carefully; makes a grocery list so she can make all of his favourites, makes a list of what she needs to stock up on for herself, what she can pack quickly and sensibly, looks up apartment listings so Shouta won’t feel caged or that he has to leave because it’s his apartment after all, budgets her upcoming checks and what she has in her accounts.

But she gets careless, tires out far too early, doesn’t even make it to lunch, and leaves an apartment listing ad and pregnancy clinic check-up assessment on the table as she unintentionally drifts off on the couch. (Her iron levels are a little on the low side.) On the school’s half-day, where Shouta only needed to go in for meetings and would be back by lunch. Her stealthy as fuck boyfriend, who she never hears come in, but certainly sees her wearing one of his shirts and having fallen asleep in the middle of…..something. It doesn’t look like one of the analysis notebooks she uses for her freelance job as an analyst. Huh.

He’s curious, nosy maybe, but that’s a hero trait. You would’ve made good hero, if everyone hadn’t made it nigh impossible for you before you broke away from your past and headfirst into analysis. You aren’t bitter, but he can be so enough for both of you. You deserve the best, in his eyes, but he’s selfish so he’s going to keep you for himself. Now if he just steps closer to get a look at what’s on the table…..

  

  

Hey so I made myself go full on fucking ugly crying and decided to share for anyone’s thoughts or added writing contributions. :D

All I can think of to add is that:

Shouta is not letting Reader get away from him, from this misunderstanding no matter how he has to do it. (He’ll probably start by shredding that apartment add with his bare hands, though.)

Shouta feels like the biggest fucking idiot for missing all the signs and not taking better care of you like you deserved, kid or no kid behind it all. (TBH you’ve been carrying their family — not that either of you have said it but that’s what you have — since you moved in. If it was left up to him the entire building would’ve somehow collapsed.)

He’s gonna add some more bitterness to the “my girlfriend could’ve been a heroine but people are assholes” fund because she managed to hide a whole ass pregnancy from him completely for who knows how long while other Pros can’t even hide their favourite colours. (Most can’t even hide their lack of genuine civilian safety oriented tactical knowledge, which is just sad, in his opinion. Then again, he is very judgmental of other heroes abilities.)

He may or may not quickly realize why Reader hid the news. And may or may not feel even worse. Because having a kid with you? That’s a dream he didn’t want to let himself have, not yet. Not until after he proposed and settled into his teaching job more, at least. (Better find a ring soon. Even if it’s a Studio Ghibli’s Catbus themed one — it’ll do.)

💜

Oh God. Oh God, wait. Option 2 though, right? My brain wants more angst, go figure.

Ahahah this gets a little sad, sorry. But my contribution is under the cut ❤️‍🩹

Warnings: panic attack, mental breakdown, pregnancy, medical

What if his initial reaction is to be angry? Like he’s reading it just as you’re waking up and you gasp, trying to explain, but he’s already raising his voice, demanding to know how you could have kept something like this from him for so long?

He’s not even upset with you. He’s really just upset that he didn’t even notice. Like you said, he feels like a fucking idiot. He wanted to be there for you through all of this. He wanted all the cute cheesy pregnancy bliss that other couple go through. The first appointment. First sonogram. Telling your friends and family together.

And you’re looking for another apartment? For all of you? No, the place is already plenty big enough. Were you going to leave? He’s beating himself bloody inside, cursing himself for not being more attentive to you. You could have slipped right through his fingers. You and that little miracle inside of you that he already feels so attached to.

And he’s just so disappointed with himself that he misplaces those intense emotions and lashes out at you. He’s never once raised his voice to you, but he can’t control himself in his state and he does. He starts barking about why you never told him, demanding to know why you didn’t come to him, pressing you about how long and why and where you were going to go and he just gets so worked up that he doesn’t even know what he’s saying, he’s just screaming and there’s hot tears and he can’t breathe anymore. He’s having a panic attack for the first time in who knows how many years and he just keeps kicking himself, because now after all that, you’re looking at him with concern and tending to his needs once again, instead of him having the strength to be there for you in what is obviously your time of need. He feels selfish and stupid and starts wondering if maybe why you didn’t say anything is because you were really going to leave, because you know that he can’t even properly take care of you, let alone a child.

[jabbagabba]

La La Land

WARNING ⚠️

Do not read if you haven’t watched WandaVison, while this isn’t fully cannon story based, it still has potential spoilers and just general references. Read at own risk!

Heavy angst, the loss of a parent, Tony Stark died ya’ll, alcoholism mentioned briefly, also disassociation is talked about and happens to reader so be warned, if you are struggling with mental illness and feel like this may trigger you then please do not read. Grief is a hard thing and this is going to be very heavy, I’ll try to make sure to include all warnings and triggers but please let me know if I forgot anything.

———

Prologue

The pain of losing a parent is one you were familiar with.

That ache of realising you’d never meet your mother was something that had slowly chipped away at you from the moment the first breath of life entered your lungs. Her name was Loren; a twenty something journalist Tony had met at one of his many parties. You had heard the same four or so stories growing up, Tony’s words slightly slurred as he giggled along to the same old jokes she told the night they met.

“I wasn’t looking to settle down, ya know?” He’d say, taking a final swig as the mood shifted. “But, my God. She made me wanna propose that night.”

You usually cut him off at that point, patting him on the back while trying to pry his hands off the coffee mug filled with scotch. It was hard to fully remember those days; each year making the memory foggy as he stayed sober. You didn’t miss the drinking but rather the stories they spilled from inside him.

Loren was his first love, Pepper was his second.

Loren was you mother, but Pepper was the closest thing to one you could get. She made sure to keep you fed during his long hours of work, tucked you in at night and told JARVIS to keep the star lights above you well lit. Pepper was a great mother, but she wasn’t yours.

Sometimes when you couldn’t fall asleep at night you’d imagine what Loren use to look like. Did she have your eyes? Did she like to read Nancy Drew before bedtime like you did? Did she have dreams of becoming some big star that knew everyone there was to know? Did she have stories tucked away of your father that only coffee mug scotch could reveal?

All these questions would swirl in your head before you were to too tired to keep asking them, the start of a new day washing them away from you completely. Death always had a way of avoiding sleepless questions. You only knew one thing for sure about your mother though.

You loved her, and my god, missed her.

But nothing could have prepared you for today.

The way your heart pulled and squeezed inside of your now hollow chest as your eyes stared below at a lake that had the last piece of Tony Stark floating on it. Nothing prepared you for the feeling of poisonous sadness that flowed through your veins as you held tightly onto a little girl’s hand that was now part of your family, already old enough to feel the full force of your father’s loss. It had been three days and you already felt strength drain from you.

It was all too much. Too unbearable. You didn’t move from standing on the dock, eyes glued to the slow moving water. It wasn’t until a tiny tug on your hand that you even realised you were still breathing.

“C’mon, Happy wants to see you.” Morgan’s small voice fills the silence.

‘That’s right,’ Your think as your eyes come back to focus. ‘I’m real. I’m not just staring at water, I’m at my father’s funeral. I wasn’t snapped out of existence again, I’m alive.’

You heard her say your name and are forced to float back to your body.

‘I can move... I should move.’ You pull from her grasp and turned toward her with a shaky smile.

“You go ahead.” You’re surprised when no tears drip down your cheeks. “I’ll be up in a minute.” Your eyes follow her up the stairs, vision glossy as Happy sits next to her on the porch swing. This cabin was not part of your story, the way Morgan floated around it with familiarity was something you simply would never relate to.

Pepper was Tony’s anchor, Morgan was hers and now yours was floating down a river.

———

Wanda watched in silence as the last of the guests fanned out from the lawn. She felt the familiar tug of pain in her chest as she took small steps toward the two girls on the dock. That look on your face was one she saw in the mirror more times then she would like to admit. As she watched the youngest Stark fall onto the porch swing with a small giggle, her mind snapped back into focus.

This was her only chance.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Wanda’s voice was steady, a stark contrast from the tears that fell onto her cheeks. You bite back a bitter scoff and choose to simply nod. It wasn’t her fault, it wasn’t anyone’s and yet that was the hardest part. Your father chose to die, chose it. How was that ever going to not hurt? “I know what it’s like to lose someone and even though your father and I had... a strange past.” She put a gentle hand on your forearm. “I know in my heart he loved you.”

Your eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that day filled with tears as you finally looked into hers. Wanda gave a smile as she wrapped her arms around your shaking body and squeezed.

You finally broke.

Wanda was someone you had only spoken to in passing; watching as she tried to crash your father in cars once during the airport fight. You never blamed her for it though, knowing that it was never an intention to truely hurt him. She was barley less then a stranger and yet here she was, letting you sob in her arms as she whispered comforting words in a language you didn’t understand. In that briefest of moments, she was the closest thing to a anchor you had.

For a moment the wave of grief had settled in your body. For a moment, you felt like you could live without him.

“Thank you.” Your voice was muffled by her cardigan, tears finally drying on puffy cheeks as you sniffled. “Thank you.” She moved back and let her hands rest on your shoulders.

“That feeling.” She said with a comforting smile. “That feeling of relief is something that needs to be treasured in times like these.” You tried not to let your confusion show as she moved her hands up to your cheeks. “I can help you.”

“How?” Your eyes widened as you felt a low pulsing float from your neck up to above your ears as she smiled once more.

“But first-“ You were forced to watch in silent horror as her eyes glowed a a deep red. “You need to help me.”

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Real? Not Real?

Prompt: Uh hello, I just wanna day that I really really love your work. I came across it this morning and I’ve been binging it all day, and you are a REALLY good writer :) if it’s not too much to ask (and feel free to ignore this), could I request one of the Sides (preferably Janus) having a bad day and derealizing and another one (preferably Patton or Remus, but really any work) comforting them and helping them get grounded? Maybe something that is after the wedding, with everyone at odds with each other so no one notices at first?

Thanks for the prompt, babe!

Read on Ao3

Warnings: disassociation, derealizing, some things that could be interpreted as self-destruction

Pairings: none, other than platonic moceit and dukeceit

Word Count: 2287

The wall is yellow.

 The wall isn’t yellow. 

The wall is yellow. 

Janus pushes his door closed and sighs, leaning against the wood and taking his hat off. He scruffs a hand through his hair and lets his head thunk against the door.

 “Well,” he mutters, “that wasn’t exhausting.”

 The conversation had dragged on for hours; from picking apart every little idiosyncrasy and explaining every other word, it’s a wonder he had any energy left to even sink to his room.

 Well, he didn’t. That’s the point.

 He heaves himself up off the floor, stumbling a little when his body decides that no, actually, we’re going to remain on the floor because we dislike you personally.

 “Thank you,” he grits out as he fights the urge to collapse back to the floor, “no, really, I wanted to be able to fall over as soon as I tried to move.”

 When the floor looks like it stops spinning for a few seconds at a time, he reaches for his cane and shuffles over to the desk. The chair creaks a little in protest as he all but collapses into it. He tosses his hat toward the coat rack, missing terribly, and rips his gloves off.

 “Ah!”

Janus cups his hand around his wrist, biting back a curse as the glove catches on the underside of an older scale. He glances around. The first-aid kit is on the other shelf.

 “Damn.”

 He could just…stretch out and get it? Probably? He swallows and reaches. And reaches. And reaches.

 Why—why can’t he touch the shelf?

 Controlling limbs gets exponentially easier the longer and more disembodied they get. All the time.

 Janus grits his teeth and concentrates, closing his eyes until his fingers bump against the shelf.

 “Thank you,” he mutters as he brings the first aid kit back to his side. “That was certainly the picture of compliance.”

 The first aid kit, because it is an inanimate object—or rather, a collection of inanimate objects—says nothing.

 Trying to apply first aid one-handed is such fun. He ends up holding back the sleeve with his teeth as he rubs the ointment onto the patch left by the scale. The wrapper sticks to his fingers with the determination of a static-filled leech, refusing to budge even as he pries it off with one hand only for it to attach viciously to the other.

 “Get off!”

 It flutters down to lay infuriatingly close to the trash can.

 Or is it in the trash can?

 He reaches down to pick it up and put it inside. He can’t feel it through his gloves. So he takes them off. Maybe then it won’t get stuck. It lands in the trashcan noiselessly.

 Muttering to himself, he gets his gloves on their spot on his desk and goes about getting the rest of this stuff off. Snakes aren’t supposed to run warm, so why can’t he feel anything?

 He goes to undo the clasp on his cape only for his fingers to meet the soft fabric of his shirt. Oh. He must’ve taken it off already. Wait, did he even put it on when he left?

 He glances over to see it hanging on the hook by the door. Exactly where it was when he woke up this morning. Or was it? Wasn’t it draped over his chair? No, that was when he was about to leave.

 No, he put it on his doorknob, didn’t he? To make sure he didn’t forget it?

 But he never forgets his cape.

 Janus shakes his head, immediately regretting it when the action sends him into a dizzy spell. God, why is he so tired?

 It doesn’t matter, he decides, because he was going to take his cape off but now he doesn’t have to because it’s already off. So he can take his shirt off now.

 But first, he should take his gloves off. Trying to undo shirt buttons with gloves on is a tedious process.

 His fingers scratch the bandage over a spot on his hand. That’s funny. He doesn’t feel any pain coming from it. Maybe it’s healed already?

 No, no, he just put that bandage on.

 “Get yourself together,” he scolds himself, going to undo the buttons, “you’re being ridiculous.”

 Is he, though?

 He spent so long observing and mirroring the others today, just to get in the habit of it when he needs to, that is it really a surprise that he can’t really remember what his own limbs are doing?

 Yes. Yes, it is.

 His shirt lies in the corner. He doesn’t remember putting it there. He’s still wearing it, he hasn’t gotten all the buttons off yet. His fingers touch his bare scales. Oh. Maybe he has.

 Why does it look like it’s the wrong color?

 Janus squints hard at the offending pile of fabric lurking in the corner. As he stares, the fabric moirés into a dizzying display. He blinks. That shirt isn’t patterned. It’s just a plain white shirt. Why is it doing that? Is it doing that? Are Janus’s eyes doing that?

 He crosses the room, stumbling a little as he gets up—since when has that table been there?—and grabs the shirt. It folds and bends and warps around his fingers. It should be cool to the touch. The fabric is soft, normally.

 He can only tell he’s supposedly squeezing it from the wrinkles that appear around his fists.

 “This doesn’t belong here,” he mutters, going to put it in the laundry basket.

 The laundry basket is not where it’s supposed to be.

 “Fuck.”

 Did he leave it downstairs? That’s always a risky move; Remus will capitalize on any opportunity to completely and utterly destroy any abandoned object. He turns to go rescue his laundry basket only for it to appear out of the corner of his eye.

 Oh.

 Has it been there the whole time?

 Janus frowns. He looks at the laundry basket, he looks at the shirt, he looks at his cape, he looks at his gloves.

 The bandage on his wrist should be itching.

 It isn’t.

 Why not?

 Oh.

  Oh.

 He smiles to himself and lets the shirt fall to the ground.

 Right, how could he forget?

 This isn’t real.

 None of this is real. He doesn’t exist. He is a figment of Thomas’s imagination, created as part of an elaborate plan to explore personality facets for entertainment purposes. He is not real. He cannot exist in any way that matters.

 That is why the first aid kit won’t speak to him. That is why his shirt creates patterns that are impossible. That is why the laundry basket keeps appearing and disappearing. They’re not real. None of it is real.

 He is not real.

 The walks flicker a pale white as he sinks slowly to the ground, staring up at the fake ceiling. The floor is not solid under him. His legs do not groan and scream in protest as he lies his nonexistent weight across them. His eyes do not fog up. His head does not throb. The door does not feel like a cage, trapping him in a spiral of down, down, down.

 Nothing is real.

 Least of all time.

 …

 …quiet.

 “—nus!”

 “Janus, are you in there?”

 “Snake-Face, if you don’t open up right this instant, I swear—“

 “Kiddo, you never came down for dinner, we’re worried, are you alright?”

 “I’m gonna break this fucking door down.”

 “Remus, no—!”

 A loud thud does not startle him awake. His eyes do not fly open. His body does not refuse to respond as chunks of wood fly all over his room. The walls do not look like they’re transparent as someone peers at him. They are not real.

 “Janus? Oh my goodness, Janus!”

 Patton. Patton is also not real. That is okay.

 Patton does not rush across the floor to him and fall to his knees. His eyes aren’t welled up with tears that he bravely tries to fight back, smiling down at him. Patton’s hands do not cup his face tenderly. He doesn’t say anything.

 “Kiddo?”

 He cannot speak. Real things cannot speak.

 “Kiddo, can you hear me?” Patton does not stroke his thumb gently over his cheek. “Can you breathe?”

 Real things do not breathe.

 “Fuck,” Remus does not swear, “he’s derealizing again.”

 “He’s what?”

 “Derealizing.” Remus does not run to crouch beside them. Remus does not gently tuck his hands under his legs to lift them into a more comfortable position. “Gets stuck in his own head, caught up in his own lies.”

 Patton does not help Remus. He does not cradle his head and lift it up. The pillow suddenly under his head is not real, not soft, not pleasantly cool. His hand does not stay in his hair, stroking gently.

 “He’s overcorrecting,” Remus does not murmur, “convincing himself that nothing is real.”

 “Oh, kiddo,” Patton doesn’t sigh, doesn’t ruffle his hair gently, “you’re real, kiddo, stay with us.”

 “He’s not gonna believe you, Daddio.”

 “Then what do we do?”

 “You’re not gonna like it,” Remus doesn’t say.

 He doesn’t get up and leave. Patton doesn’t stay, still stroking his hand through his hair soothingly. Is it soothing? Does it feel soft? Caring?

 Patton—Patton is caring, right?

 “It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart,” Patton doesn’t—does?—murmur, “you’ll get through this, okay? You’ll get through this, I know you will.”

 “Here.”

 Oh, Remus is back. Is? Isn’t? Is Remus real?

 “Just hold this, okay?”

 “It’s really warm, are you sure—?”

 “That’s what the towel’s for.”

 Remus doesn’t crouch back down next to him. Patton isn’t gripping whatever Remus just gave him in his fist. He doesn’t look worried.

 Wait, why is he worried?

 “Ah!”

 He cries out in surprise when something freezing presses to his stomach. Cold. Cold, cold—

 “Shh, easy, Snakey,” Remus soothes—wait, doesn’t soothe? Is Remus real?—immediately replacing the cold with something warm, warm, warm, “it’s okay, it’s gone now, you did great, just stay here, okay?”

 “Re-Remus?”

 “Yeah, Jan-Jan, it’s me, I’m right here, can you grab onto me?”

 He can’t, he’s not real, Remus isn’t real, but Remus is right there—

 “There you go,” Remus encourages when his fingers hook through the ends of his sleeves, “you got me, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

 “Why—what happened? Why are you here?”

 “You never came down to dinner, kiddo,” Patton says, stroking his solidwarmreal hand through his hair again, “we got worried. No one could call you and the room wasn’t letting us sink.”

 Well of course it wasn’t, it isn’t real.

 Wait.

 “How did—“ he gasps— “how did you know I was here?”

 Patton frowns, tilting his head. “Because we care about you, kiddo, you’re important to us.”

 How can he be important when he isn’t real?

 “Hey,” Remus says sharply, giving his wrist a little tug, “no drifting off again, Snakey, stay here.”

 “H-here?”

 “Yeah.” Remus presses the hot pad into his stomach and oh, it’s so warm, it has to be real. “Right here, Jan-Jan. You feel this?”

 “Yes.”

 “This is real. This is real. I’m really here, I’m really holding this to your real stomach. You’re real. The floor is real. Patton’s real.”

 Patton’s real?

 “I’m real, sweetheart,” Patton says softly, still rubbing his hand through his hair, “and so are you.”

 He opens his mouth to try and breathe. If he’s real, he should be able to breathe…right?

 “That’s it, kiddo, good.” The hand in his hair moves again. “Just lie there and breathe for a moment, okay?”

 He looks over at Remus. Remus starts to rub little circles into his stomach with the warm towel.

 “Stay here, stay real, Snakey,” he encourages, “just focus on this.”

 The floor becomes solid under him again. Patton’s hand, his voice, he can hear them. Feel them. He blinks at Remus, real Remus, still working patiently.

 He must make some noise because Remus pauses, looking up at him. Then he takes the towel and reaches up to slowly, slowly brush it over his cheek.

 The tears that spring to his eyes at the tenderness of the gesture certainly feel real.

 “Oh, kiddo,” Patton whispers, pulling him into a solidwarmreal chest, “it’s okay, shh, you’re safe, you’re real, everything’s okay.”

 He gasps again, trapped in the warmth of Patton’s embrace. Remus scoots in behind them, wrapping his arms tightly through the limbs that still don’t want to work.

 “Why can’t I move,” he chokes out, “why can’t I move?”

 “You’re exhausted, sweetheart,” comes Patton’s soft reply, “you overworked yourself today.”

 “But I can’t feel them!”

 “Here,” he whispers, gently squeezing one of his arms, “can you feel that?”

 “O-only a little.”

 “How about here…and here…there.”

 Patton’s hands are so warm and solid and real.

 “P-Patton?”

 “Yeah, kiddo, I’m right here.”

 “Remus?”

 “I’m here too, Snakey, we gotcha.”

 “Am I—is this—“ he swallows unsteadily— “is this…real?”

 “Yeah, kiddo,” Patton murmurs as Remus strokes firmly up and down his back, “this is real.”

 Patton is real, solid and warm against him. Remus is real, solid and warm behind him.

 Janus opens his eyes and stares at the yellow wall.

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[incarnateirony]

Are you Hermes

Yes and no, I've explained this a thousand times. Anyone can be Hermes, but you gotta be Not Dumb As Fuck About It. You can, however, structurally mash the hermetics of deep psychology with quantum physics and other adjacent studies like chemistry and make one FUCK of a remix.

The phrase is literally "io pan io pan, I am a Man, Do What Thou Wilt, as A Great God Can."

This is not, however, the same as someone who disappears into roleplay, won't learn a single goddamn thing, and disassociates their every thought as someone else's responsibility until they think anubis is telling them to feed the cat.

Spot the difference.

I am trying to disband a literal cult to me that someone put together cuz they got it all fucked up, no matter how many fucking times I explained this.

Also it's kinda wrong to say "anyone can", it's more like, a fuckton of people can, other people have their own shit that's separate, but I truly do not have the fucking patience to explain metempsychosis to a bunch of people that won't fucking listen anyway.

The crazy bitch got me so mad in so many fucking goddamn timelines by stalking me, whether "this life" or literally people stuck on this same fucking giant clowncell she's done her same driving in reverse, refuse-to-do-the-work bullshit on, like. She never tore down tokyopop or led riots or infested warner brothers or made great work jars, she didn't make gulf connections that landed my fucking glyph at the superbowl. LETS PLAY 8BALL SWEETHEART. So anyway now she gets rent free transmissions from randos dropping in, her extant psychosis demons are no longer hers, and her shadow is on the brink.

The works and actions we take in life change the world, whether or not you take 25 years to understand how to break out of your own brainbox to break into others.

It's about Works. Which is why I have like 20 psych creds, while morons keep stumbling into my inbox because they won't fucking read what I'm saying and trying to argue because they learned how to make a vinegar volcano in middle school. At my daily job I am constantly pulling people from real ledges using this skill while she pisses on pendants charging for shit in my name. But this shit is so loud I'm suddenly attracting all the schizos and they are literally saying shit reflecting my timeline. I am once again having to save her relatives from herself just because I put up the great acme trap house of mirrors to end her BULLSHIT.

If yall are gonna keep blowing by that I Am A Man shit, then at least keep straight that I have a unique identity that is not the same as the great god himself, even if we're all soulstuff and I'm from his grid, okay? So I'm Little Beetle Bro. Little Mazda Bro. My god treats me like a big boy where I get to be myself and drive my own car, doesn't jack the wheel at every opportunity she wants to pretend to be someone else. And he WARNED her about this. I warned her? I don't know. I'm yelling so loud that shit she "heard from him" or whatever is making sense to me now that I'm here, so fuck all whatever, I'm literally cussing this bitch out so loud she's hearing it fifteen years ago under hundreds of millions of eyes.

She kept treating it like a game, I made it one. Little Beetle Bro, creator of the Xorvintaal, Taaldarax, I don't care, make up some fucking name but stop confusing me with him, himself, which is why there is, again, a cult I am trying to disband. Lord Dragon Gamer Glitchtrap says Get Bent, bitch.

I used to blow this bitch's mind with sixth degree work, I was blowing my own mind hitting seventh degree wheel of force by the breakup, and then she threw me, it, and everything out the door, literally everything, and it finished, and this bitch can't even compute what "WELCOME TO THE NINTH DEGREE, BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH" means.

and I just moved on to live, but she couldn't let me. Three years of relentless harassment, including from her cult, because the bitch can't accept why she's literally fucking addicted to me and literally groomed her pals into slobbering my knob because she won't process her own fucking grief or choices. Six months trying to hunt down my business investor while we all watched and alerted each other. And eventually, she got so out of pocket, I essentially started alerting myself. So she gave me infinite rent free space in her head with her trying to Persona as me off my shadow, and her fucking resulting schizophrenia is not going to go well from here.

We choose our own path, and who we are, and we choose when we let go or not, for the most part. I walked my road, and she knows she can never do that, and never replicate why that has always been me, and why i am who i am. I am that I am, and that is me, and I'd like her to acknowledge my fucking face, because otherwise, it's going to bury her. Hashtag slenderman real, bitches.

Again, the irony of the trap is, she just has to tell the truth--not just on her blog or whatever, but to herself. The challenge is literally, look at yourself. We're ALL over your beep beep back the fuck uptruck shit, literally across generations, and she KNOWS what I mean when I say that. She backed up all the way into a literal acme trap, and is just spinning now trying to find some way to roleplay or ignore or back up out of it, instead of take the only answer.

Cuz she has this shit too, but she's not me, and not him, and neither of us for fuckin sure are her, and I PROMISE it's actually more scientifically possible for me to drop the collective conscious of fursuit friday on her schizoid mind she tied to me, for her to hear anubis whispering to feed the pets when I realized at like 5 am saturday i forgot to feed the cat before work.

Or you know sure the god of judgment and the dead wanders in like, did u fucking feed precious. Choose your fucking fighter.

Like. This bitch is sooooooooo fucked but she's really only fucking herself, even if she's using the memory of me like a giant vibrator. But she built a castle of lies so deep, she lied to herself until she forgot, and even her versions and retellings are warped from what she knows she knew, but it's like someone that only saw a cat once from behind trying to draw one.

So "Are you hermes" like read above but, the short version is, at least in any kind of record I know of, there's maybe a dozen people or less modernly that have a similar attainment degree, okay? Like technically nobody is this degree, because everybody agrees only He can give the degree, and you do to some extent Become him, but you are still yourself unless you failed in the Babe of the Abyss stage, and then you're just a Black Brother, which is why she's fucking up my balance so bad, she keeps dragging my literal ghost out of the fucking abyss to jack off on top of

Here you guys like Supernatural. She is literally Pissing Off Ghosts In The Empty And Won't Catch A Clue. Literally like durrr y u so mad about your face because it's my fucking identity. It's me, not her, and she won't fucking get off it. And it's one of the few ways you can stay sane while walking the path she REFUSED to learn about before trying to claim to be his preacher. "But he's a shapeshifter" yeah why, bitch. Take a look at the phantom (e)x all over twitter, do the math, and get off my dick. Misha's facial recognition got real weird. Look at the big hole he dug over about four years. It's much deeper now. Taylor Swift is involved again.

Inside joke to the woke, why are we called zebras? Because doctors spend their entire life looking for horses when they're hearing hoofbeats and there was a zebra there the entire time.

[entitynumber5]

omg Hannah!! if you feel so inclined, maybe "things you said when you were crying" for jonmartin? no pressure tho ily

aaaahhh thank you so much for this prompt, friend!!!!! i’m sorry it’s been a while!!! i really hope you like this!!!! ily <3

Content warnings: illness (they both have the flu), depressive episode (mentioned), Martin’s mother (mentioned), the Lonely, disassociation, swearing, compulsive behaviour, self-depreciation. 

things you said when you were crying

Perhaps it’s testament to how wonderfully mundane their lives have become, that Jon’s first thought when he wakes is: Martin’s doing the god damn laundry. 

It’s not an unreasonable assumption. Martin had spent the annual leave he’d taken to align with Jon’s reading week nursing Jon through a nasty bout of flu. During the three worst days, when Jon was barely conscious, he hadn’t seen Martin sleep or eat or leave their bedroom except to linger by the landline—a sign perhaps that Martin had caught what Jon had earlier than he’d let on, since they rarely used the relic—and debate calling the out of hours service. Jon had just about weathered the worst of it when Martin was properly struck down, requiring another week and a half and counting off work. Of course, that didn’t stop Martin’s restlessness even as the flu drained everything from him. He would lie on their bed, pale and panting, barely awake, bordering delirious—and still mumble to Jon that he’d do the laundry in a minute, don’t worry, I’ll get it done soon, I’m sorry it’s such a mess, I’m sorry. 

So Jon doesn’t mean to be angry, when he wakes up to an empty bed after an evening of Martin’s temperature finally staying below 38. It’s not even Martin he’s angry at, not truly.

Perhaps their lives aren’t mundane after all. Is it mundane not to be able to leave an overflowing laundry basket eleven days into the flu? Jon doesn’t know, or Know, but he has two theories: 1) Martin’s mother, the spectre to his half-formed anger. And 2) the state he recalls finding Martin’s flat in after leaving the Lonely, but before they’d set off for Scotland, and how neither of them had said it but Jon recognised well enough what a depressive episode looked like.

Jon reaches for his cane, folded and ready against the bedside table, and gently leverages himself up so he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. The change in elevation makes him dizzy, and he lets the cane ground him, digging into the carpet between his feet, as he breathes. It’s been nearly a week since he’s had a fever, but the flu has caused a flare-up of his pain and fatigue. His department are letting him teach remotely through the rest of November. Martin’s boss had been sympathetic too, when Jon phoned in for him, although there’s not much a paramedic can do from afar and Martin is insistent he’ll be back by the end of the week. In four days. Jon rolls his eyes pre-emptively at the conversations he knows he will have with Martin about who had it “worse”, as if it matters. 

After the static has cleared from his vision—always an uncomfortable comparison, and he shoves down the panic that bubbles inside of him at the thought, because Martin needs him—Jon stands. He goes through the same process, leaning on his cane, breathing, waiting, until he feels steady enough to make his way into the kitchen. 

“What are you doing?” Jon asks from the kitchen doorway, unable to keep the disapproval from his voice, when he finds Martin crouched in front of the washing machine.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Martin shoots back. The sarcasm of his reply is lessened significantly by how out of breath he sounds, and the way he’s clinging to the countertop above the washing machine with one hand while the other is splayed against the tiled floor like a shaky tripod—a pose that hints at an attempt to stand, aborted halfway through.

Jon sighs, biting back an unkind retort: exactly the opposite of what you should be doing. He allows himself to think it without trying to push it away in sudden, desperate shame, like he’s been practicing with his therapist, until it no longer sits so bitterly on his tongue. 

“Come back to bed, Martin,” Jon murmurs, “Please.” 

Martin sighs too. It sounds stuffy, almost crackling with the way the flu still clings to his lungs and throat. “I—I’m not sure that I... can.”

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but Martin interrupts: “I know, I know, I shouldn’t be—and my fever’s probably up again and—and I—”

“Martin,” Jon cuts in, as gently as he can. 

“Fine. Fine. This can wait to go out on the—” Still breathless, still barrelling through his justifications, Martin uses the hand on the countertop to pull himself upwards.

It goes terribly. Jon isn’t sure what forces are at work—gravity, exhaustion, pure bad luck, all of the above—but Martin is barely up for a moment before his legs fold, and he’s down again. Jon can’t move fast enough to stop Martin corkscrewing in an odd, 180-degree motion so that he all but ducks beneath his own arm, twisting it in his socket in an attempt to continue clinging to the counter, and knocks his spine against the harsh, circular face of the washing machine with a resounding thud.

“Fuck. Ow,” Martin groans, his voice slurring slightly, “Tha’s embarrassing.”

Jon tries to follow Martin, to kneel beside him on the tiles, but Martin snaps: “No! No, Jon, p-please don’t. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Jon hovers, one hand fluttering uselessly near Martin’s hair while he clings to his cane with the other. Martin breathes, and breathes, and breathes—the sound heavy and laboured in a way that breaks Jon’s heart. It takes some time for him to steady himself, and then lean almost imperceptibly towards Jon. Jon lets his fingers brush through Martin’s hair, not caring, in the moment, that neither of them had showered for what feels like weeks. When the knuckle of his forefinger brushes across Martin’s temple, down his cheek, Jon feels the heat sitting on his skin again, the climbing fever.

“Oh, Martin,” Jon murmurs. 

“I hate this,” Martin says, his voice quiet and sharp and bitter.

“I know,” Jon soothes, brushing his knuckle once again over Martin’s flushed cheek. “I know.”

Martin closes his eyes and leans his head again Jon’s knee. It’s the sort of exhausted display of love and trust that Martin rarely allows himself, unless he’s feeling truly unwell. Jon places his hand on the crown of Martin’s head and leans on his cane and waits for Martin to be ready once again to talk or rest. 

Until very quietly, Martin begins to cry. 

“Oh,” Jon murmurs, almost to himself. 

Martin’s breath trembles, in what Jon knows is an attempt to hold back the tears, to pretend it’s nothing. He hides his face from Jon when he cries, even now, after all this time. A long-learned shame that always finds its way back into their house, no matter how many times they’ve turned it out and barricaded the doors. 

“Martin,” Jon says, quiet but firm, “Please come back to bed.”

There is a long, breath-held moment when Jon thinks Martin is going to refuse, to insist. So painfully stubborn, his husband. Jon braces himself for it. But Martin just nods ever so slightly against the soft plaid fabric of Jon’s pyjama bottoms.

It takes some time, and a great deal of false starts, to get Martin back on his feet. He’s wearing fluffy socks—Jon remembers putting them on for him, when he’d been shivering even in his sleep���that slide on the kitchen tiles, and Jon’s fighting against his own dizziness, which comes and goes in waves when he changes position, to lend Martin purchase. At last, they’re both standing. And although it likely doesn’t help much, Martin lets Jon slide his arm around Martin’s back as he guides them towards the bedroom. 

The bedside lamp is on its dullest setting on account of Martin’s persistent illness, and there are blankets and tissues and medicines thrown at random intervals around the room. Jon leads Martin towards the bed, not letting him stop to correct the mess, to try and restore some order to it. If this is how their lives have to be for the next few days—or weeks—so be it. Jon won’t sacrifice Martin’s recovery for this.

“Sit down,” Jon tells Martin, right before Martin gracelessly throws himself onto the edge of the mattress, listing towards the—thankfully padded—headrest.

Martin is still crying, but in that slow, distant way that makes something deep in Jon ache. It’s almost like the tears don’t belong to Martin. Like he is crying them on behalf of someone else. He stares across the room, half sprawled on the bed with his socked feet languid against the carpet, as the tears fall uninhibited down his face.

Carefully, Jon leans down just enough to pick up Martin’s legs, one at a time, and lift them onto the bed. He’s out of breath by the time he’s managed to get Martin lying down fully, still leaning against the headboard and staring vaguely at the wall opposite the bed. There is a picture hanging there, of them both outside the courthouse where they’d gotten married, but Martin seems to be staring through it.

“I’ll be right back,” Jon promises. He doesn’t know if he’s reassured or terrified that Martin simply lets him leave, barely reacting beyond the briefest twitch of an expression.

In the bathroom, Jon fills up a pint glass of water and wets a soft green flannel beneath the tap. He takes a moment to breathe, to drink some water as well, to swallow some ibuprofen for his aching joints, before he carries his small gifts back into the bedroom.

Martin is exactly where Jon left him. Jon sits next to him on the bed, and when Jon hands him the large glass of water, Matin takes it instinctively. But he doesn’t drink from it, holding it in his hands as if it is yet another thing that doesn’t belong to him, that he will carry unflinchingly for the time being—like the tears. Like the pain.

“Please drink the water, love,” Jon says. He touches one of his hands to Martin’s, where he’s holding the glass, and Martin’s eyes flicker briefly to his. Jon nods in encouragement.

With trembling hands, both closed around the large glass, Martin lifts the water to his lips and drinks. He doesn’t manage much—a few sips before his mouth tightens with nausea, and he has to lower the glass and breathe. But it’s a start.

“That’s good, Martin,” Jon soothes, as he takes the glass from Martin’s hands and places it on their bedside table. “Do you want to lie down?”

“Jon,” Martin tries to say.

“Shh. It’s alright. Lie down, just like that, that’s it.”

Martin reclines against the pillow, restlessness warring against exhaustion, until he looks almost settled. Jon tugs the blanket from the end of the bed and covers Martin with it, smoothing down the edges with extra care. Martin watches him, turned slightly on his side so he can look up at where Jon is still half-sitting against the headboard.

“I hate this,” Martin chokes, and blinks fresh tears down his cheeks. “I feel like—like everything is wrong.”

“In what way?” Jon asks gently, keeping his eyes on Martin as he reaches for the wet flannel sitting on the bedside table next to the three-quarters full glass of water.

Martin closes his eyes. “I’m so—I’m so tired, Jon.”

Jon lowers the flannel to Martin’s face, wiping first beneath his eyes, where some of the tears have collected and soaked into the begging of his laughter lines. “I know.”

Martin’s face crumples with something like grief. “That’s just it, though. This is—it’s nothing. Nothing compared to—to what you... And I’m just—making more of it than it needs.”

“Martin.”

“This isn’t—before, with Mum, I’d just—I’d keep going because—”

Martin frowns, sentence finishing abruptly. Jon pushes down the urge to correct, to intervene, and instead, with every ounce of patience and love he feels for Martin in this moment, continues to draw the flannel over the planes of his warm, weary face.

“I can’t stop,” Martin whispers at last, opening his eyes. “If I stop, then I’ll—I won’t ever start again. Like with the—the Lonely. Every time you reached out, I knew if I just stopped even for a moment, I wouldn’t be able to go back, and it would all fall apart. I’m not meant to stop. I can’t. I’m not resilient or, or the kind of person who can get knocked down and get back up again. It’s just—it’s keep going or...”

Jon drags the flannel along Martin’s jaw, down his throat, wiping away the remaining tears where they mingle with fever sweat. He focuses entirely on his task, a perfect excuse to carefully consider his next words. A separate part of his mind is processing that his theories had been right, in some way, and how he aches for Martin—the predictability of it doesn’t ease the pain. But Martin needs something other than that right now.

“Martin.” Jon starts, of course, at the beginning of all things. With love. With a reason. “There are moments in life when sometimes we need to stop. Think about it like... like an orchestra. In an orchestra, there are times where an instrument, or even an entire segment, will be given a break within the music or by the conductor—because it’s needed and it’s necessary. The performance is better for it. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Martin blinks up at Jon, slow and exhausted but comprehending. Jon continues his task, wiping the cloth across Martin’s forehead now.

“You are the most resilient person I know, Martin. I would be lying to you—and I think you know that—if I said I’d never seen you get knocked down. But I have watched you get back up again and again and again,” Jon continues. “If this time, it takes a little longer—if this time, you’re not sure when you can begin again—that’s alright. You deserve rest. You have nothing to prove, except perhaps that you can stop—or pause, if it’s easier to think of it that way—and the world won’t collapse around you.” Jon removes the flannel from Martin’s forehead and replaces it with a gentle kiss. “I won’t let it.” 

Jon lets his lips linger before he lowers his head onto the pillows to face Martin. Martin is still crying, eyes bright with tears and fever both, but there’s something less dejected in his expression. Something less lost.

“I’m sorry,” Martin whispers, “For the crying, and—”

“There’s nothing to apologise for.”

“Not even the laundry?” Martin’s voice is so small, still trembling with tears. But there’s the briefest glimpse of a smile at the corner of his chapped lips.

“Not even the laundry,” Jon agrees, although he puts on a begrudging front.

Martin closes his eyes and leans forward, so that his and Jon’s foreheads are touching in the small gap between their two pillows. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“And I—I want to believe you.”

Jon feels himself smile, and he hopes Martin knows it is all for him. “Thank you.”

Jon knows they will talk about this again. He knows this will be something understood and folded into the fabric of their lives slowly, piece by painful piece. But for now, as he watches Martin’s tears slowly ease, replaced eventually by sleep, and as Jon himself begins to follow, he thinks at the threshold of his dreams that next time might be just a little bit easier. A little bit kinder. And that is always enough.