#godlessly

[mwebber]

I’ll let Him (Jesus Christ) know that He needs to check His messages and text back when I apologize for how much I am spamming Him with ‘FIX!!! FERRARI!!!!’ messages. mb 🙏

oh god.. maybe that’s it… we’ve been overwhelming him…….

[binch-i-might-be]

ah lads . I feel like I'm gonna fall asleep with my eyes open

[talentforlying]

listen constantine is starved of love and affection and all but my god does he need someone to take a piece out of him for his own sanity. or at least to save the world from being crushed by his ego.

[ars3n1ck]

almost fainted skewering shrimp n im being told its cuz im not eating enough food but tbh?? doubt it

[sevenop]

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: There's nothing you could do or say

A/n: I just want to shove a revolver down my throat and pull the trigger with some indescribable pleasure of primacy. It would break my heart to see you die slowly, fade away and become a ghost of the past.

Inspired by 'i love you,' Billie's point of view. The person this is meant for, I hope you especially like this text. Let me know, dude!

Caution: mention of illness. I apologize if this offends you in any way.

There are only three hours left before the night flight to Berlin, and I still haven't seen you all day: waking up in the same bed together doesn't really count, because I'm always so short of you, you know that. I overslept godlessly, jumped out of bed in one merged impulse, like a Hellhound, and you just smiled, reminding with your calmness the mistress of the underworld - Persephone. You helped me get ready as quickly as possible, reducing my small gap in the schedule to almost zero, even though you just got up.: with slightly swollen and reddened eyes, battered, so homely in my clothes, which I always throw under your palms on purpose. In my clothes, you look so ethereal, protected, so... mine.

For you, I am a hasty whirlwind of branded clothes with a fabulous price tag and my own defenseless nakedness, demolishing everything in my path except you. I hurriedly screw up an awkward, such an unequal to your care "thank you", while my head is quickly filled to the brim with lines-schedules with the time of events for today. The usual madness.

"'Merci', we're still in France," you correct jokingly, perched on the edge of the bed and smile, with the very corners of your lips. Your pale cheek is imprinted with the silhouette of a pillow after sleep, and that smile on your lips is pure fissure.

Your hands twitch a little as you daintily dig your aristocratically skinny fingers into the fabric and take turns holding out the clothes you'd prepared for me while I was in the bathroom. You chalk it up to your over-indulgence in coffee these days, and give me the traditional neat kiss goodbye while I'm so reluctant to let you out of the protection of my palms, which look so good on your waist. You smile again, and again your smile is an immaculate fracture, your eyes a deafening abyss for the first time, unreadable to me.

"How are you feeling, my heart?" - I run my hand over your cheek. You're still too pale even by my standards, and you're also unusually cold. My own heart falls down a little, like a balloon under a weight.

"It's okay, Eilish." - You croak softly in my ear, and it feels so good, it gives me goosebumps. I bite playfully on your lobe, unable to contain myself, and close my fingers around your waist a little tighter. - I'll pack our bags, run or you'll be really late."

Something is really wrong, and I don't have time to ask: the phone in the pocket of my shorts is literally bursting with the trill of a dozen calls, and I'm really far behind schedule. So this "something" is sluggishly drowned out in the noise of my mind as I listen to the manager's plans, drive with my mom and brother from place to place, sit through several consecutive interviews, answering semi-automatically, albeit diligently sincere. Thoughts about you are silenced, resembling furniture still untouched by the hungry tongues of flame, on which the burning roof of the house immediately collapses: it is only necessary to "dive" me back into the car, bypassing the noisy and curious crowd, to not meet the usually extremely warm, understanding and peaceful lakes in mom's eyes - this lingering "something" clicks loudly, again burdening not only the head, but also the whole heart. Blinding sparks of worry gleam in her gaze, like lake pebbles catching the light of the sun through the thickness of the waters. Are there secrets again?

"Mom, is something wrong?" - the sliding door slams shut with a bang as soon as several managers and Finn deftly run into the salon, who is almost dragging the setting sun behind him, like a gel ball on a string: his shaggy red hair playfully winking golden lights in the light. The stocky guard taps the side of the van several times with a massive fist, announcing readiness, and And mom is twitching, as if someone fired a cannon - "Mom?"

"I... I don't think I'm at liberty to tell you just yet, dear." - She self-effacing, wanting to look away, but she doesn't let herself, just catches Finneas's gaze for a second, turning back to me.

"What do you mean?" - I frown, leisurely glancing over her: a little hunched over in her unnaturally, stiff, confused. Not at all like her. His heart began to rattle, climbing up his ribs and all the way to his throat, to lodge there in a lump of excitement and foreboding. Finneas coughs awkwardly, drawing attention to himself, as ungainly as our mother, except that his eyes are cold icebergs of concentration and utter seriousness, and his hands are resting on his knees in a tight grip, as if he's on the scariest attraction of his life. The blood in my arteries boils from the pressurization, from mine own blunt ignorance. - "Tell me, I want to know."

"Y/n hasn't told you yet?" - his voice sounds disproportionately ingratiating in the noise of people's shouts of adoration and the soft rustle of wheels gradually gaining momentum. The van moves smoothly back toward the hotel and It's not long before we'll be leave, all that's left is to pick you up, the rest of the faithful crew and a couple of our suitcases. Except to cut that anger-inducing Gordian knot of misunderstandings that has been wagging since I woke up.

"What the hell are you talking about?!" - the words come out like bright, rustling confetti from a naughty firecracker. I still couldn't help myself.

They look at each other in silence, almost shouting a heartfelt epitaph in the harmony of their voices. Finneas touches my shoulder gently with his palm, and mother takes my hands in her warm palms, and I feel a slight tremor creep through her. I feel that now I find myself along with them on this unknown attraction, that twists nerves and veins on its mechanism, being driven by fear.

"About her leukemia, Bils."

And the world immediately collapses to the size of an atom, ceasing to exist and sound at all. Boom! A shot from a shotgun at point-blank range, what smearing my bloody remains, the remnants of my mind on the darkened glass and the entire cabin. From the floor to the roof.

"What?..." - Like the four pearls clicked quietly on the stone tiles of the floor, as my the letters bounced lightly off the silence of the salon, echoing them. Even the small bunch of managers shut up instantly, looking in our direction with a kind of pity, as soon as this harbinger of doom reaches their ears. Leukemia.

"We don't know if it's really true, because the first symptoms could be conjugated by their similarity to simple severe overexertion, and the resulting diagnosis is a likely paperwork error," - Mom closes her gently fingers on my palms tighter, but my blood is already cold and I can't feel anything, as if I've ducked under the thickest of ice, - "We all just hoping that the new test show it's really true, but..."

"But she asked to be ready." - Finn's voice trembles, but he heroically finishes. - "Just in case."

"What?..." - like a wind-up puppet I scatter these long-suffering four letters again, and I don't have enough for more. In an elusive mind, a puzzle flimsily develops, answering a question that has been stuck into my head since the morning, and I see that smile of yours before my eyes - a delicate pink stroke protecting me from the catastrophe of Vesuvius: "It's okay, Eilish...". And immediately so wants seeing the world blurred, drowning in stinging salt from tears.

And I remember jumping out of the van, remember flying into the elevator, hitting the floor button a hundred thousand times in a few seconds just to get to the top faster, remember how kicking the door to our hotelroom with my whole body, catching you off guard. All of this is completely unimportant, a merged sequence that is so treacherously imprinted on my brain while being completely insignificant. You're sitting near the entrance, perched upright on your large suitcase: your sharp shoulders are outlined by my ridiculously colored T-shirt, and your long legs in baggy jeans are stretched out while you tap your converses socks against each other. You jumping up with a startle, like the devil out of a snuffbox under the force of a steel spring, when the door meets the wall with a distinctive slam. The unreadable morning abysses in your eyes are fathomlessly sad now, while I am devoid of words, all the letters of the alphabet, every possible sound. And you understand just so, without any of those empty air vibrations stealing up the already precious now time. You understand what they told me.

"It's not true," - I kneel down, not even closing the door behind me, I don't care. Wrap both palms around your face, but you just stare at me with a look of worldwide sorrow, cuddling up to me like a beaten kitten. - "Tell me I've been lied to..."

"I'm sorry, Eilish," - your soft whisper that hits me exactly in the solar plexus, - "It's true."

It's true. It feels like my guts have been left somewhere in an elevator office, a bloody trail leading right here to you. I was completely blown away.

"Billie, I-"

"Okey, listen, I'll help! I'll pay whatever it takes, I'll give them everything!" - My ligaments were tearing with excitement, turning my own measured whisper into a pathetic whimper.

"There's nothing you could do or say." - You raking me up into your arms, and without a second thought, I burst into tears: the world in front of me was starting to blur and my eyes stinging. Why? Why you? All you do is stroke my head like a whiny little baby while I crumple the fabric of your t-shirt with my hands, choking on my own despair. - "All we have to do for now is wait. We'll find out in Berlin."

"W-why didn't you tell me this morning?"

"I knew you wouldn't go anywhere after that, I didn't want to cause trouble." - You chuckle softly, and I just press myself into you tighter, my wet nose against your neck, my arms wrapped around you. Suddenly, if I let go now, you're gone forever? - "I'm sorry, I know I should have told you sooner. I just..."

"Please don't leave!" - The tears and nerves are starting to make me shake. The feeling of coldness behind my back mixes with a small flame of hope as your hands stroke my shoulder blades. - "Please, please, please..."

"I won't leave, Eilish," - your hand touches my chin, lifting my head to touch my lips with yours, and I gasp, memorizing absolutely every crack on them as if for the last time. - "I won't leave."

I don't remember how much I was hysterical, but the life-giving warmth of your hands lingered in my memory, which spread down my back, giving me like demonic wings, behind which I so want to hide you from everyone and everything. I remember how I collected your tears with my lips, resembling transparent snakes, as two worried heads appeared in the doorway - a copper-red and a light sandy one, it's mom with Finn. We leave the hotel, and I don't let go of your hand for a second: not when you're carrying a heavy suitcase that I'm trying so hard to take away, not when you jump into the car with me, not when we're sitting in line for a flight. Mom tries to defuse the situation, from time to time timidly and tenderly asking about how you feels, Finneas and dad offer all kinds of help here and there, and you just laugh it off, hiding behind this cunning, and even now beautiful in its falsity fracture playing on your lips. You squeeze my hand tighter, stoically swallowing your own excitement, devouring from the inside.

After a while, we are already climbing the airplane ramp, surrounded by the dense darkness of the night, and you are smiling again, when I look at you anxiously again: the smile that you gave me, even when you felt like dying. An old line, personally composed and now my personal nightmare in an instant, become much stronger than before. What else can I do but wait endlessly? Up all night on another red-eye I stared at you just as endlessly, when fatigue took over and you dozed off, trustingly resting your head on my shoulder. I silently memorizing absolutely every feature of your face to plug the abyss in my head. It's all infinity multiplied by infinity.

The porthole is gradually being colored in light blue tones. We have arrived in Berlin.

×××

A ragged breath bounces off the tiled walls, mixing with a loud splash: I emerge from under the thickness of the already almost cooled water, just to hang limply in the wide bathtub. There is an absolute emptiness in my head, shackle me with it's coolness, like this water around my body. So perfectly. I hear a light knock on the bathroom door, so sonorous, as if you are touching the wood with your very knuckles: they are slightly reddish, beautiful. Yes, I think I was too loud. When you don't hear an answer, you press down on the door handle and walk softly through to carefully sit on the side of the bathad. Excitement spreads in your eyes, like rainbow spots of gasoline on the surface of a puddle.

"Billie, are you okay?"

No, are you? It's so ironic that it's being asked by the person who is now in pathological danger more than anyone else. I'm supposed to be strong for you, but somehow I've suddenly broken down on my own, staring so blankly at that spotless white-washed ceiling for half an hour. Worthlessness. The water splashes again, makeshift waves rising slightly over the tub's rims, leaking onto the tile floor as I assume a sitting position and stare at you after all, eye to eye. Naked and insignificant. I can't do nothing with everything I have, I just want to shove a revolver down my throat and pull the trigger with some indescribable pleasure of primacy. It would break my heart if I see how you die slowly, fade away and become a ghost of the past.

"Yes." - My own hoarse echo, covering weakness.

"Your water's cold, a klutz," - you touch your fingertips to the cold surface and shiver. - "and you're also lying."

We stare at each other in silence, and then I break again like a branch of a flowering tree: rustling and crunching. You and the bathroom start to shake, so I cover my eyes to hold back the hailstones of tears.

"I'm sorry."

"Crying isn't like you," your hot palms touch my cheeks with indescribable care, brushing away the droplets of tears and wiping away the clear paths of sadness. - "Never been the type to let someone see right through."

You speak in my own lines, either from the fact that your thoughts are so close to my soul lyrics, or just to cheer me up. You know how much I enjoy it, how much it amuses me. But right now it's not funny, it hurts. You catch my gaze and your lips quickly fold into a sincere "sorry" before kissing my water-damp forehead.

"What will I do without you if this turns out to be true?" - I grab your wrists, pulling you closer, and you smile for the thousandth time in these two days, while the irises of your beautiful eyes reflect my praying glaciers, which melt in despondency, creating new salty rivers that flow between your slender fingers. You never let go of my face. - "What should I do, Y/n?"

"First off, get out of the cold bath so you don't get sick." - you coo, hiding mutual shards of sharp pain in a gaze that's as variable in its spectrum of light as a gothic stained glass window. - "And we'll decide the rest in a warm bed, okay?"

I climb out of the tub, stepping barefoot onto the bare tile, and you deftly throw a huge, soft towel over me and hold out another, smaller one for my hair.

"I'll be waiting, Eilish." - You kiss my lips, and I don't want to pull away, just hang on to your neck with both arms. The soft towel immediately falls to the floor, once again exposing the pale curves of my body, which you look at fleetingly, shyly.

"Stay with me, don't go, please."

And you stay, leaning patiently on the sink built into the nightstand, waiting for me to run a soft towel over the alabaster skin, collecting all the moisture, waiting for me to put on clean clothes. Silently staring, so attentive, as if memorizing.

"You're so beautiful, O'Connell." - You catch me off guard with your words just as I bend over to open the stopper in the tub. The water immediately swirls into a small spiral vortex, dancing over the drain, and your words make it an order of magnitude harder to breathe. - "My insanity.

We go back to the bedroom: I pull you with me, accompanying you confidently between the coffee table and other furnishings in the dark, and you follow obediently, understanding without any words. We lie down on the bed, and I immediately cling to you in a hug like a baby koala and you cover us with a heavy blanket and I exhale for the first time in two days as if nothing had happened. It would be so nice if it were true.

"You need to rest, Bils." - you gently pull me closer to you, though it feels like it's getting no closer, as I lavish light kisses on your face, -"You're tired."

"You still haven't answered my question."

You sigh heavily, as if your lungs are in a vise and your thoughts are trapped in a snare of fears and your own fear of choosing the wrong words. You look away, but I immediately stroke your face, bringing you back to me. I try to look warmly, even though I'm as scared as you are.

"Let's hope? And if it still don't, then... forget me, please."

I covered my eyes to collect my thoughts, but the same picture was in front of them: tourniquet, needles, thick syringe. I watch from the couch as your dark scarlet blood first spreads moderately along the transparent walls of the cylinder, and then quickly runs upwards, following the piston of the pressurized syringe. I fold my hands in front of me between my apart knees, and I can see them trembling with excitement. You told me not to go, and I just couldn't do it, I'm too worried about you. It's only when the thin needle catches a glimmer in the light, darting out of your vein, that I exhale, diligently watching the shiver. My head wants to twitch in a tic, but I don't let it. For your sake I coped then, I need to cope with the words now.

"Do you want to leave?" - The voice twitches so stupidly, echoing the heart that's throbbing behind my sternum. - "What about your promise?"

"I don't want to, but I love you," - and you don't smile anymore, just pull the corners of your lips down, exposing your own weariness. - "And I don't want you to get hurt even when just looking at me."

"Maybe won't you take it back? Say you were tryingna make me laugh." - I bump my nose against your collarbone, sending goosebumps through your body with my hot breath. - "It'll hurt me even more when I know you'll be alone, that I won't be able to be there for you when I can help in any way, Y/n."

"But now you feel weak and insignificant, I can see that, Eilish! And it's all my fault!" - You furies on, and I deftly catch your lips with mine for a soothing kiss. You exhale stunned, but immediately calm down, becoming so soft and supple in my arms. Only now do I realize how much you've broken yourself under the strain of waiting, realize I can't let go.

"I can't escape the way I love you..." - softly humming just one line, and the embers of hope are already kindling in your eyes.

"I can't escape the way I love you." - you whisper repeat confidently, quieting my restless seas in response.

And we touch each other's lips an infinite number of times, without any words or oppressive thoughts, because they are not necessary now. The excited exhalations, looks, and sensations mean so much more now. You drift off to sleep unnoticed by exhaustion, not breaking the safe warmth of the embrace, sniffle amusedly into my shoulder, and I finally smile with more than a serene smile before I drift off into the realm of Morpheus after you, gulping down a thousand hopes.

It's just over ten hours to the rubicon crossing.

×××

Finneas awkwardly grips the long fingerboard of the bass guitar, touching the thick strings with his fingers, not so much testing as seeking reassurance in the sound. He looks at me, and I shudder as I lean on the microphone stand. The stage lights flared up in one loud click, blinding me, making me frown.

"Are you ready?" - From afar, somewhere in the darkness, the cameraman's cheerful voice is heard.

"One second!" - Mom shrieks from backstage as I almost nod. Synchronously, my brother and I turn our heads in the direction of the shout, and this action also recurs by the rest of the studio staff. Mom is glowing brighter than any spotlight, Dad is almost dancing with a mixture of emotions, and you're standing backstage with them, clutching a folded sheet of paper in your hands. And you smile. At last, without a fracture, so sincerely.

Finn jumps up from his seat like a rocket, and I keep up: flying into your arms with the microphone in hand, making you stagger, but with light laugh.

"Negative." - you whisper gently in my ear, and I'm ready to burst into millions of brightest fireworks. - "The hospital really just mixed up the paperwork back then."

And when the rest of the family joins the hug with joyful hooting, and we all jump together like a football team that won a world match, the heart finally finds peace, getting into the precisely designed groove between the ribs.

You're all right.

[alicerosejensen]

Can we see a headcanon of Leon’s girlfriend getting hit in by a guy(could be her guy friend) and they make her uncomfortable, then out of nowhere they just slap her on the butt. How would Leon react?

Minus one debt. Well, I'm glad I can write a little.

So, it's not even headcanons or text, but something in between. Like my thoughts.

There is a small smut, but not critical; Aggressive Leon; the reader shamelessly groped; Mention of physical violence (does not apply to the reader); Reader is a college girl (because I can, uh-huh); References to sexual violence.

I made the question a little worse, but the meaning would still be the same: Leon would fucking kill. Anyway.

- It could have happened at a party where you were hanging out with your friends.

- You have warned Leon that you will arrive late, but be sure to call him if there are any difficulties.

- You didn't really think you'd be late until 2am, but the booze and music convinced you to stay with your friends until early morning.

- No drugs! But you can't tell your college friend not to take them. In fact, you only drink and dance a lot, without even hearing that your phone is bursting with calls.

- Someday Leon will kill you for constantly playing on his nerves like a musical instrument (I'm not serious) but he's really worried that you're not answering texts or your calls, so it's time for things to track your phone.

- Leon can't stand some of your friends, considering he knows some of them are real junkies. He probably doesn't like that when they're high, they don't hesitate to make obscene compliments about how they would fuck you.

- When Leon first heard about it, you told him to just ignore it.

- But it was hard for Leon to control himself, if he heard it a second time, he would break this asshole's nose.

- Therefore, he is VERY concerned about your long absence and silence. Because he doesn't trust your friends.

- You realize that you have drunk more than your norm, because your feet no longer keep you on the ground. The whole world is spinning, but this does not mean that you could cheat on your boyfriend while drunk. Your brain knows who it is devoted to and who it loves.

- However, in this mess you absolutely can't find your phone to call him.

- I needed to at least get myself cleaned up. You started to feel sick, so you wandered to the toilet, then to catch a taxi and go home.

- With a swinging gait, you somehow reached your cherished goal when your friend's hand grabbed your wrist and pressed you against the wall with a brisk movement.

- The club is full of drunken kissing couples, so no one pays attention to you.

- Your brain didn't even immediately understand what was going on when someone godlessly started groping your ass.

- The back of your head hit the wall painfully, causing your brains to shake and turn into mush.

- And then someone's lips brazenly began to kiss your neck, despite the resistance.

- Someone's tongue is trying to get into your mouth with a disgusting kiss that tastes like cheap liquor.

- But weak attempts at resistance are perceived as flirting and teasing, despite the fact that you demand in a whimpering voice to stop.

- The only thing you know is that it's not Leon.

- "sh, hush, Sweetie, or are you just so submissive with your old man?" - Your friend's voice made you freeze in place in fear. - Like this! Be a pretty girl and let me touch you.

- Your (already former) friend allowed himself unforgivably much. You found the strength to push him in the chest and he staggered back a few steps away from you, mocking maliciously.

- "What? Do you only like old assholes, whore?"

- You try to pass by, ignoring his narcotic fumes mixed with alcohol, but again they grab you by the arm, dragging you somewhere to a secluded place.

- Your legs fail you and you stumble all the time trying to wrest your hands from a strong grip.

- Now you're not just uncomfortable. You are afraid.

- You scream to be let go otherwise there will be serious problems, hoping that this will somehow help you.

- But in return, you hear only disgusting insults.

- "Dumb slut! Your old man can even lift his ass off the couch to fuck you well! Tell me, Y/N, what did he do to you? money? Do you really want to live with a rich sugar daddy? You let him fuck you so he buys you all those tight skirts and blouses?"

- You are truly scared. Your friend is out of his mind and drags you into some back room, practically dragging you along. Even when you cry and fall trying to run back, he grabs your hair and continues on his way.

- It's not real! you try to convince yourself that this is a cruel joke of your friends, but it's all for real.

- You get pawed again trying to take away your tight dress, and even some of the self-defense techniques that Leon taught you do not work on him. You cry, begging not to do anything to you, that you will just leave and not tell anyone anything.

- Mascara dripped down your cheeks as you cried loudly, trying to somehow cover the bare parts of your body.

- Obscenities were whispered in your ear, and if it was Leon, some part of them could make you tremble, but now you just want to close your eyes and die.

- Salvation is nowhere to be found. However, you do not want to submit to your fate and bite your friend (I remind you of the former) painfully on the fingers when he put them in your mouth.

- Another attempt to escape in one inch. And it didn't succeed when they knocked you to the floor, preventing you from escaping.

- You may have time to shout "Help" several times before you are gagged and all you hear is the sound of jeans being unzipped.

- You had already closed your eyes, preparing for the worst, when you heard the sound of the door being thrown open.

- And then the relief when no one else presses you down with their body to the icy floor.

- Not understanding the madness around, part of your brain tells you to run while you can, but you understand your eyes only see an angry Leon beating up your rapist.

- How much chance does an ordinary civilian asshole have against a specially trained agent? Leon slams the bastard's head on the floor and you crawl back into the corner in horror, watching his bloodstained face stare at you.

- Maybe it seemed to you... But the beating to never end. In this chaos, you couldn't make out Leon's words, except for the expressions "Son of a bitch" and "Fucking scum" it seems there was something about your untouchability. However, you could no longer endure this spectacle of endless beatings. Is it possible that Leon tried to kill him like that?

- No gunshots, no squelching sounds like a knife stabbing in the throat. You just screamed in horror mixed with fear when you saw what this asshole had turned into. Although he could still speak, it made sure that he was still alive.

- Leon lost control of himself. He looked at him like a vile worm and headed towards you, immediately softening in his eyes.

- Without saying anything, he just wrapped you in his jacket before quickly making sure that what was planned was not done and picked you up like a feather in his arms, taking you away from this place.

- Lastly, "I'm not done with you, son of a bitch"

- Leon put you gently in the car and fastened your seat belt, and you spent the whole way home in silence and tears, afraid to look at him. He didn't say or do anything either.

- You returned home the same in his arms. Leon sat you down on the couch, tossed keys on the coffee table, and then kicked the chair that caught his eye first.

- The situation was heating up.

- Leon took a deep breath, licking his lips, clearly wanting to say something as he looked in your direction. You sat in the same place without moving.

- His aggression was overflowing and he had to make a huge effort not to yell at you, instead ordering you to take off your jacket (he was really trying to say it calmly)

- You obediently complied with his request, putting the leather jacket aside, hugging your shoulders.

- Still sobbing.

- Leon came back to you with a first aid kit to make sure there weren't any major injuries or scratches.

- But he couldn't contain his anger.

- "Why am I always pulling your ass out of all the shit?!"- Perhaps the sight of someone else's hickey on your neck made him scream. - "Is it so difficult not to look for problems? Why the hell should I look for you in a fucking drug club where your drug addict friend almost raped you?! Why the hell didn't you get home on time? How much of your fucking quirks do I have to put up with? until they kill you?"

- The hysteria grew, but there were absolutely no words. Leon threw something fragile at the wall, and it shattered into pieces, making you cry even more in fright.

- You prayed for only one thing: for this to end.

- Leon took a deep breath trying to control his anger. Without saying anything, he went into the bath where you heard the sound of running water.

- After 10 minutes, everything was quiet and Leon went into the kitchen pouring some whiskey into a glass, but instead of drinking it himself, he sat down in front of you, forcing you to drink it yourself.

- "Come on, let's get you cleaned up and then you can go to bed."

- Leon helped take off your torn dress and underwear and soaked your shaking body in warm water, turning away to find your facial sponge to wash off the smudged make-up.

- You were trembling despite the surrounding heat and apparently drunk alcohol makes itself felt.

- Leon tidied you up carefully, looking at your bruises. Didn't bother for a long time. Wrapped it up in a towel and took it to the bedroom where he pulled out your underwear from the drawer, which he put on you and his shirt.

- You knew he wouldn't hurt you, so maybe that's why you were still looking for protection from him? Leon laid pillows on you, covering you with a thick blanket, preparing himself for a sleepless night.

- In the morning you will feel bad. Both physically and mentally, of course, he will take care of you and he does not believe that you are to blame for what happened. It's just that if you really want to be with him, you'll have to cut your circle of fucking friends and not get on his nerves.

- He loves you to death, so you love him.

[grokebaby]

This is your notebook. Yours, nobody else's. Remember that even if you grant pages of it to someone else

This is your notebook.

Destroy every page as you please. Some, you leave out cold, unfinished, frozen in a single moment forever. Forever, or maybe for as long as you, all powerful one, give it the mercy of continuation. Some, you fill with so much grime it drips out from the gaps and warps the paper to the full limits of what it can take.

Consume and ravage the entire thing. Fill it to it's aching, gurgling brim, or pluck it absolutely godlessly dry. Pour out your tears and mucus on it. Bleed on the paper. Drink it back up to rejuvenate your soul. Like an animal eating the placenta post-birth. You crack your skull on it then pick at the brain scatters like a bird on the sidewalk.

Rip off the bad ones. Or don't. Popped pimples bleed anyway.

This is your notebook. It loves you. You love it too. Except when you hate it. But you love it still, because it holds a fraction of your soul regardless.

[madphantom]

I've been writing so godlessly much horny poetry lately and I can't post any of it because jfc I'm not about to let everyone who knows me and my boyfriend read poems where I compare cigarette burns to nipples and claim sex has the colour of monarch butterflies

[wcrriorhearts]

It is hard enough to constantly witness my mother @quccninchains godlessly shagging Cole on the dash but now also grandpa @inheritsnothing ?? Y’all better pay for Helaena’s therapy

[authorityissues]

bizarrely enough the only thing I'm satisfied with right now is my appearance. I'm godlessly unhappy in all other areas of my life but for the first time since I was maybe 16 I actually like how I look

[gauntletqueen]

why is your blog so GODLESSLY white

flashbangs you haha :)

[irvingcoded]

to stop it or to touch it... (redone as all text instead 🙏)

this makes their "first & last" scenes together direct inverses to each other bc ON-SCREEN their 1st scene together is jirv walking in on hickey&gibson, & chronologically obviously the murder is their "last" moment (making the flashback we get afterward both their 1st "moment" together AND also chronologically their last scene).

but w/ this in mind it's also an inverse bc we're seeing irving finally face his fears: hickey, literally; & temptation / gay desire, subtextually. the script identifies the moment jirv confronts hickey abt "abusing" gibson as "probably the bravest thing he's ever done" (!) which we will translate here as: morally he wants to do the right thing, bc 1) well he's not a BAD person, but also 2) he sees it as his moral xtian spiritual duty now to follow it through since gibson's come to him abt it directly, VS he does not LITERALLY want to address "what happened" or have to actually confront the situation head-on at all bc hickey scawes him 🥺 & not just as self-recognition thru the other (derogatory) anymore, where hickey stands for someone who can / will unapologetically act on his desires, & basically go thru life happily and godlessly comfortable w/ who he is (we love irony <3) etc etc that whole xtian thing abt pride being one of the worst sins; but now also jirv better understands the SEVERITY!! of hickey's wickedness too, in that not ONLY does he seem kinda lazy & (vaguely) manipulative / cunning & etc etc but now jirv's ALSO just been given reason to believe hickey's abusive & predatory sexually as well as morally, gibson was DEVIOUSLY SEDUCED (honest mistake! it could happen to anyone!!) and has now allegedly been threatened / blackmailed into it ever since

( aka i don't think it's rly a stretch to say jirv is projecting his own fears onto gibson: the obvious worst case scenario of what COULD happen (even to him!!!!!) were he ever to act on Those Temptations™ + in addition to gibson's testimony of abuse extortion etc basically just a situation where he is innocent PLUS also he seems repentant 🥺🥺 so yes ofc jirv will empathize w/ that narrative... yes sodomy is always wrong BUT since it's MORE hickey's fault for seducing & taking advantage of him can gibson truly be blamed or held accountable here for any of it... plus he's sorry... so it's still not ok, but. it's ok. like it's not but yes it is... )

BUT I DIGRESS back to the bravest thing jirv's ever done: so defined here as telling hickey to cut that out and go get a real hobby (whew, done!) but NOT actually intervening (even tho he interrupted) at the time of discovery; vs "RUNNING UP BOTH TO STOP IT AND TO TOUCH IT" which ...... ok HEAR ME OUT (& if it pleases the court your honor) SHOULD also be translated as both him facing his fear of hickey et al (perhaps emboldened by the ALMOST hero moment situation of it all) AND metaphorically, he's facing his fear of... ahem, just finally taking the risk and going for it (nonsexual) (but also absolutely sexual)

which does actually sort of bring things full circle for them on both levels (textual vs unspoken / subtextual) bc if we take the "site of what is potentially fucking" of it all to its logical conclusion, "stopping it" is gonna be his default, regular brain level reaction, it's the This Seems Kinda Bad I'm Gonna Be So Brave And Actually Get Involved This Time, so then "touching it" becomes...... well it's sort of a tactic acknowledgement, right? of this whole unspoken half of the dynamic, aka if we DO interpret the murder-by-stabbing as a metaphor for penetration / fucking (which i mean... ‘tis) then we must consider and accept the implications of what ELSE irving is finally acknowledging to himself more than even hickey here, however still unspoken and probably mostly unintentional; it's not actually a yes, because well. a murder metaphor doesn't rly track for "yes," but at this moment (probably) more like "maybe" or at least "not a no." with hickey's answer seeming to be... on one hand: i do see you, and i'm even going to do you a final kindness by giving you what you want :) (on the text level meaning kind of a quick, "heroic" death at least) but he’s giving threat and malice too w/ the covered mouth, the distorted, corrupted singing, the degradation (via post-mortem mutilation) with literal emasculation... etc etc i mean this part is pretty straightforward. 

& i think there's for sure a deliberate lack of closure here, because hickey wants irving to die confused, he's choosing chaos by murdering him w/out answering any of the questions irving (or anyone) might have abt the endgame here, about WHY, hello??? & in doing so refusing to clearly answer the unspoken "what are we" (altho ofc his actions are answer enough!)

anyway, in conclusion... we’ve known 💖 and why did he act it this way 💖💖

[artemx746]

The idea for the Percethan fan fiction, — waking up at three twenty in the morning for a glass of water, Paul Blofis definitely did not expect to see a Japanese teenage boy coming out of his future stepson's bedroom in unbuttoned trousers and a hastily thrown shirt.

In fact, he even fantasized about it — the first boyfriend of his child, confused and scared before father, Paul and he is all so harsh and authoritarian, demanding to cherish and protect his child.

But this boy looked like he was about to slit his throat.

An hour later, Paul Blofis was ready to get drunk to a piggy state.

It was an action—packed novel with a strong bias towards romance, but not real life, - Ethan Nakamura, Percy's beloved boy, was on the other side of their war, — Ethan was Kronos' right-hand man, Percy, - the hero of Olympus, - and they certainly should have been sworn enemies, but instead they were up to insanity is in love.

And secretly from everyone, like Romeo and Juliet, they met...

now Ethan was sobbing godlessly on Paul's chest, saying how much he loved Percy and how much he wanted to be with him, But it can't...

in another hour, Ethan sniffed, took a promise from the Floor to take care of Percy and left, hunching his shoulders from a weight that he shouldn't even know about.

Well I need to put this in my back pocket

I always love toying around with the idea of Sally adopting Ethan and giving him a real mother figure for once but I’ve never added Paul to the equation

paul would 100 percent be like: You are 16 years old how tf are you a lieutenant

Ethan: child labour

[idontliketomatoesleavemealone]

oh my stars i am so godlessly exhausted

[ars3n1ck]

I like the drawings of your ocs you posted yesterday!!! If you wanna share I would love to know more about those ocs!

how much more? cuz i could write an essay.

to be like- not boring abt it tho-

uhhhh cyril is my oc, i talk abt him a lot, he eats people, is a monster who looks human 99.9% of the time. he's gay. thats actually lore relevant (his dad trying to kill him for being gay is why he looks Like That). despite being depicted as emotionless, he's actually VERY emotional, just incapable of physically showing it, huge crybaby. he's very knowledgeable abt general medical practices and has great survivalist skills. he also loves ducks, raises em, obsessed with em

elijah is my gf's oc, actually. he's a total sleazeball. womanizer, drunkard, complete slut overall, but at least he'll wear a dress. he was raised catholic, which is to say he is absolutely not one, but keeps the necklace of a nun who raised him and died trying to help him escape his father (yippee trauma reveal!) he's also a godlessly impressive sniper and a proxy

OH YEAH DID I MENTION THESE TWO ARE CREEPYPASTA OCS??? CUZ THEY ARE

cy's actually specifically a lil zalgo corrupted thang but shshshshsh, elijah's a pwetty willing proxy but he hates being tied down so its like,,, a slight conflict of interests. but its fiiine, at least he gets to kill things lmaooo

they are absolutely dating, unlikely couple, i know, but theyre silly so its fine

[mz-elysium]

rambling on shadowheart's direction (or lack thereof)

idk if I'm big-brained or just weird

I've been thinking more of Shadowheart's story and how it falls flat a bit on theme in places.

Like. It's a story about leaving a cult. That specific trauma, her reactions, etc., are brilliant. Beautiful.

But I distinctly do not like her just up and becoming a Selunite. Maybe it's because religion in D&D is different (gods are literally real and have massive interactions), but it feels like a worse coping mechanism than dying her hair. She should get room to breathe and be without the gods, without doctrine (good or ill), for a little while. Or forever.

Honestly, I really would've loved her story to be one more about faith than cults. As a cleric, she parrots doctrine but it's more brainwashing than genuine heartfelt belief.

I think she should've had four main endings:

Shar-Shar. Kills the Nightsong, embraces Shar's teachings blindly as the brainwashed cultist she is and never questions it. Kills her parents. Ascends as Shar's right hand.

Shadowheart-Shar. Kills the Nightsong but comes to question Shar and her faith. Saves her parents. Redefines Sharran doctrine in ways that make sense for her, reframing the eternal doom of The Void and the inevitable crushing darkness as something hopeful, honouring Shar in a way that other evil gods are appeased in wariness of something mighty. In D&D, gods are very real and very jealous, so this might be less realistic for Shar to allow but would be a more satisfying story about faith and contesting the gods. Shar might chuckle wryly, not accepting her as her right hand, but even gods don't get to decide who worships them and how.

Selunite. Saves the Nightsong, saves her parents. Dame Aylin helps guide her onto Selune's teachings. What started as a desperate way to come becomes something spiritually fulfilling and genuine. She finds peace as a cleric or paladin of Selune. It reinforces the black/white thinking of Shar/Selune (which is classic D&D but less to my taste).

*Losing My Religion*. Saves the Nightsong, kills her parents. Lost and alone, she realises she's been used and dominated by cruel and uncaring gods all her life (like certain other tadfools). Leaves them behind, but finds new purpose. Changes classes.

now. what class?

oh im so glad you didn't ask!

rogue? trickery domain clerics are stealthy. her dex is a lil low, but her and astarion have a great rapport by act 3. i can see an apprenticeship going.

paladin? charged by a powerful oath instead of divine magic... but her cha is very low and her other stats aren't great. besides, shart isn't a woman of great conviction. esp after losing her faith.

bard? no cha. monk? no chill. warlock? over wyll's dead body. wizard? our girl dumbo. fighter? barbarian? not...really.

i think a druid and i actually think it really works

at the end of act 2, we have two druid companions -- nay, mentors who would be glad to take an apprentice.

while both these druids worship the elven nature god silvanus, a god is def not a requirement for druids.

after flailing godlessly, would embrace the natural world's steadiness.

the circle of the moon is selunite-tinged and our girl is an animal-lover.

the circle of the land is heavy casting and she's a wisdom char.

the circle of spore's focus on decay/rebirth would probably be very soothing to an ex-sharran who used to only look at the Void.

she mentions in her epilogue wanting to go live in a farm, with chickens and animals. imagine druid!shadowheart magicking the garden and speaking with scratch.

also, it's the only class (other than cleric) that her natural stats work with, which is a bonus.

i honestly think it would bring her a lot of peace, purpose, and happiness.