#he is going to have to unlearn those habits

[ssreeder]

happy april friend!! hope you're well. not gonna lie i live for the drama so this chapter was sooo great ah! as soon as general how showed up..... i knew shit was gonna go down. so good, man

'for the very first time in their life, she was afraid of him' holy MOLY my jaw was dropped for like 90% of that final interaction between sokka and katara. generally speaking, if one's reaction to being caught in a lie is to double down on their stance of not lying....not great. not a good look sokka. im glad katara got out of there to clear her head and go back to aang, but now i'm worried sokka's going to lose his mind and temper even more (is it possible?!?) once left and the realization of how he's treating everyone comes crashing down on him. because he doesn't want his sister or anyone to hate him or especially be scared of him. this one may hurt :(

and zuko being so certain that iroh wasn't real was so heartbreaking....i feel like being in and out of consciousness doesn't help wounds of the mental/emotional variety because memories are all weird so it's hard to make progress. hopefully katara works her healing magic so zuko can have actual conversations for a meaningful amount of time.

very excited for the next one obviously, but this was some good food!!!!! hope your upcoming week is swell. take care of yourself!!😠do a facemask or something. buy a tasty treat. you deserve it <3

General How: first decent military figure in LIAB.

*every time he shows up chaos ensues*

Sokka is such a mess right now its like pulling pet hair off a black shirt without a magic-fix-all lint roller. So he will probably do what he always does and blame himself and sink a little lower into his depression unfortunately. He did realize his mistake the moment the word left his lips but it was too late, the damage had been done.

Katara instigated the fight, but we are talking 14 & 16 year old trauma filled siblings who are used to bickering and probably didn’t expect it to escalade to this…. Sokka wasn’t going to budge the way he would normally when katara got upset and after she pushed a little too hard he snapped.

UGH Zuko haha…. Poor guy. Don’t worry Katara is going to do her best next chapter to help him & fingers crossed!

Thanks for the ask anon you’re amazing!

[scoutofmymind]

Saw that someone said Luigi’s Reddit had a post where he eluded to a pretty heavy drinking habit in college, which then makes me think about drunk ex!luigi. I’m sorry, but you write angst too well

Unlearn Me — { Luigi x Reader}

Content: SFW, angst, yearning, slight pining, mentions of canon back pain, ex’s reminiscing, heartbreak all over again.

Wc: 4,336 (holy shit)

Notes; Two semesters of carefully crafted distance crumbles at 3AM in the computer lab when your final project implodes hours before the deadline, leaving you with no choice but to seek help from the one person you've been avoiding since the breakup.

Before we continue, I cannot ignore that wildfires continue to ravage Los Angeles, countless families have lost their homes and livelihoods. I urge you to consider supporting those affected through any of these donation links, additionally, Roadogs on Instagram is looking for fosters for mass evacuations of shelter dogs in California.

Foster or donate if you can. xo.

Now, let’s go.

"Mother fucker," you curse, attacking your keyboard with increasingly desperate keystrokes.

Each combination might be the one to salvage this disaster, but deep down you know it's hopeless — your software has corrupted itself into oblivion, taking six months of work with it.

"You can ask for an extension," Emma suggests, her voice carrying the weight of exhaustion that matches your own. Your roommate had burst into the media center still wearing her pink silk pajamas, immediately launching into a nervous tirade about after-hours permissions and potential expulsion risks.

Her constant hovering and worrying grates on your last nerve, and you tell her to leave.

Predictably, she refuses.

"Listen, I'm not just gonna leave you here on your own." She leans across your workspace, her body pressing against your laptop screen until it tilts halfway closed. You freeze, fingers suspended above the keys, terrified of losing what little progress you've made in this digital archaeology expedition. "There's - like - a murderer on campus."

"One girl said she was followed home," you gently remind. Under normal circumstances, Emma's mother-hen routine would be endearing — charming, even. But right now, with your project in shambles and deadline looming, her protective hovering feels suffocating. "Not murdered, Em."

"May as well have been." Emma fixes you with that look — the one that screams why am I the only rational person here? While her nails tap nervously against your desk. "Probably hasn't left her room since. And you know what? Smart girl.��

You scrub your hands over your face, your eyes fixed on the projector's word vomit — an endless stream of error messages and unintelligible code painting the drywall from a tired projector like some twisted modern art piece.

Not exactly what you were going for.

Emma stands mesmerized, "How did you even do this?" She watches the cryptic display crawl across the wall, her eyes tracking each line as if she could decode it. "This reminds me of-" she catches herself, the name hanging unspoken between you. She's learned that lesson the hard way. "This is wild.”

You can't help but notice.

Notice how she almost speaks his name, how these meaningless strings of letters and numbers somehow bridge the gap to memories you've tried so hard to bury — promises whispered under star-sprinkled skies, fingers intertwined beneath the cosmic glow.

Moments that felt eternal then, ephemeral now.

Your gaze drifts to your phone, lying face-down like a surrender.

You blink several times, trying to clear the ghosts from your vision before speaking, your voice emerging barely above a whisper, as if the words themselves might shatter something in the air, "Should I text him?" You ask, offering the idea as if it was something too controversial to be spoken aloud.

Emma shifts her weight, both from exhaustion and the sudden weight of responsibility.

Your night's trajectory now rests in her hands — she who has witnessed every shade of you, from triumph to devastation. Her own memories of him surface: the way he'd raid her ice cream stash only to replace it with a premium pint the next day, how he'd tackle the dish mountain without prompting, those small gestures that made him feel like family.

"He was my favorite boyfriend of yours," she'd told you once, in a moment of wine-honest conversation. "He was a good boy."

A good boy who made a couple mistakes.

But those mistakes had compounded like interest on a debt you never agreed to pay, until the rift between you and Luigi widened into an ocean.

Everything good had been pulled out with the tide — your trust, your shared future — swept away to depths where no light could reach.

"I-" Emma's hand finds the back of her neck, her expression cycling through a slideshow of conflicted emotions. You can see her internal struggle; the desire to crawl into her bed warring with her loyalty to you. And she knows you well enough to realize you'd stay here until sunrise if necessary. "I mean — babe, I love you, but you can't fix this." The admission seems to pain her, as if acknowledging your limitations feels like betrayal. "We aren't techies."

You stare helplessly at your gutted gallery, stripped bare by your own accidental digital vandalism. Your artwork, your portfolio, your future — all reduced to incomprehensible strings of code projected onto an indifferent wall.

"Do you think he'd come?" The question escapes before you can stop it, your eyes magnetized to your phone as if your stare alone could resurrect that old text thread, buried beneath months of careful silence.

"Of course he would."

A soft, defeated whine escapes you as you turn back to glare at your corrupted work, as if you could intimidate it into fixing itself through sheer force of will.

Emma's voice softens, "Hey, he's mature enough to understand you've exhausted your options."

A violent shudder runs through you at the thought of Luigi being your last resort.

You'd managed to exile the visceral memories — the heated arguments that left you gasping for air, the promises that turned to vapor in the morning light.

"Which are?"

Emma looks down at her Pokemon-clad self, then back at you. "Me." She gestures vaguely in your direction, "and you."

The campus sleeps around you, everyone else lost to their dreams or late-night calls home. Just the two of you remain, trapped in this dimly-lit purgatory on a Wednesday night, while error messages mock your existence with their endless scroll.

"Slim pickin's," you mutter as your fingers betray you, finding Luigi's contact with muscle memory that refuses to die.

How many times had you pressed these same digits before?

But this is different.

Different because you haven't spoken since that night in your kitchen, when you stood with your back to him, voice steady despite the trembling in your hands, "So, we aren't going to try to figure this out?" You asked, and he’d responded with some pretentious comparison about your relationship being like corrupted code, fundamentally flawed, destined to fail its own quality test.

The irony isn't lost on you — the very metaphor he used to end things is now the thread that might pull you back into his orbit. Your only connection besides the elaborate dance of avoidance across campus, treating each other's paths like holy ground neither dares to tread.

Opening the thread, you're greeted by your last exchange — your final words to him blazing across the screen in angry blue bubbles: "I want my fucking shit back or I'll make your life a living hell." Such poetry. Your new message hovers in the text box, simpler, desperate in its brevity.

Hey need help with somethin. U up??

You thrust your phone at Emma like it's burning your fingers, watching her eyes widen as they catch on those months-old texts — digital artifacts of your rage that should have been scrubbed before tonight's desperate plea. "Jesus," she whispers, amusement dancing in her expression. "I'd still be licking my wounds if I were hi-"

The familiar buzz cuts through the air, a notification chime that once made your heart leap but now makes it sink.

"What'd he say?" You mumble, gaze fixed on the mocking projection that bathes the room in its sickly digital glow, code continuing its relentless march across the wall.

Emma settles into a chair, hunching over your laptop's makeshift altar. "Said he's at Ruddy's." She squints at a fresh message. "He said 'what do you want?'" She deepens her voice into a cartoonish baritone, making him sound like a caveman discovering text messaging for the first time.

You can't blame him for the cold response — you’d scorched that earth thoroughly.

But a selfish part of you wants to delete the whole exchange, pretend this moment of weakness never happened, go back to the careful choreography of avoiding each other's existence.

But you can't.

The corrupted gallery looming on the wall is a stark reminder that pride is a luxury you can't afford right now.

His icy reception is the natural consequence of your scorched-earth campaign, those venom-laced messages sent in the throes of heartbreak and confusion.

You'd played the role of the woman scorned perfectly, even though you'd written your own tragic script.

"Just send him a picture." You wave listlessly at the wall, where your work continues its digital decomposition, folding in on itself like a dying star. The error messages stretch into an endless serpent of nonsense, each iteration making less sense than the last.

The artificial shutter sound of Emma's photo breaks the silence, followed by the soft swoosh of sending. The wait feels eternal until-

Ding

Emma's attention snaps to your phone resting on her thigh, her eyes widening. "He's typing like he-"

Sorry;m,, I’m fucked uo

Up

I am

fucked up

Emma clicks her tongue and rises, crossing the room to lob your phone into your lap, screen up. "Guess some things don't change." You manage a weak half-grin, memories flooding back unbidden — Luigi stumbling into your dorm in the small hours, wrapped in whiskeys warmth, all soft edges and desperate hands.

"Well, make up your mind." Emma's yawn threatens to unhinge her jaw, arms wrapping around herself like armor. "Are we done here, or are you gonna have him come take a look?"

I’n be there son

I’ll be rherw soo

I’ll be there soon

You stand to wrap your arms around Emma’s shoulders who reluctantly curves her arms upward to squeeze your shoulders. “Go home.” She seems reluctant to listen, staring at your phone screen as if it would take her home itself. “I promise, I’ll be just fine.”

The space between you pulses with that unique warmth reserved for someone who shares your roof, your darkest secrets, and the monthly struggle with Con Edison. "Just don't make any brash decisions."

"Oh, Em." You press a kiss to her forehead. "You think I'm so much cooler than I am."

Emma's laugh follows her as she spins toward the door, collecting pieces of herself like breadcrumbs — the scarf draped over a chair, the coat hung forgotten, the backpack abandoned when the day still held promise.

Each item a marker of how long this digital nightmare has stretched, from sunshine to moonlight.

And as if summoned by cosmic irony, the lab door swings open to reveal Luigi. "Oh - hey, E." The surprise flickers across his face before he schools his features back to neutral.

"Hey, Lu." Her greeting carries the easy familiarity of their old routine, like NPCs in a cozy game exchanging preset dialogue, their paths crossing exactly as programmed.

"You g'na help me with this?"

Emma shakes her head, patting his shoulder as she passes — a gentle handoff. "I did my time." You want to protest, but words fail as you absorb the sight of him, eight months of careful avoidance crumbling in an instant.

"Ahh-" Luigi waves, feigning disappointment through the druken haze. "Need a walk back home?"

Ever the shepherd, guardian of late-night wanderers.

It didn't matter who you were — friend, stranger, ex-lover’s best friend and roommate — his self-appointed mission to ensure everyone's safe return never wavered.

You'd once wondered if it stemmed from some deeper anxiety, his mind unable to rest until every sheep was accounted for in its fold.

Tonight though, the alcohol has mercifully dulled that protective instinct. Emma's potential disappearance into the night ranks lower on his list of concerns than usual, although Emma herself had been the one earlier to warn you of the murderer on campus.

"You still got my location," Emma reminds him — a callback to conversations past, to the day she'd granted Luigi permanent access to her whereabouts, a level of trust you'd wisely withheld.

"Right."

She presses a kiss to her fingers, flashing you a peace sign with the same hand before it briefly lands on Luigi's shoulder. Then she's gone, disappearing into the snow-globe world he'd just stumbled in from. He stands before you now, arms hanging like dead weight, his eyes somehow both wide and narrow.

"Hey," you whisper.

"Hey."

You gesture weakly at the wall where your work writhes in digital agony. "So, uh — remember that time you salvaged Professor Wren’s entire thesis when her drive crashed?"

Luigi's eyes follow your hand, professional interest temporarily overriding the awkwardness. He steps closer, squinting at the corrupted display, "Jesus," he mutters, "what did you do to it?"

"Would you believe me if I said nothing?" The laugh that escapes is more nervous than you'd like. "It just. - it started disintegrating during final checks."

He's already pulling out his laptop, muscle memory from countless late-night tech rescues. The familiarity of it hits you in the chest — how many times had you watched him do this same thing, hunched over his keyboard, bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration?

"I can try," he says finally, not quite meeting your eyes. "But no promises. When's this due?"

"Tomorrow at nine."

"Of course it is." He drops into the chair beside you, close enough that your elbows almost touch, but enough of a distance to still feel far away. “Okay, walk me through what it's supposed to look like when it's not — uh - whatever this is."

For a moment, Luigi stares at the corrupted display where red pixels bleed and stutter across the wall. His fingers hover over his keyboard, then pause. "Wait. This is your circulatory modeling project? The one you were-“ He cuts himself off, remembering this was before the eight months of silence.

"Yeah." You swallow. "It was working perfectly until an hour ago. Real-time hemodynamics, pressure differentials, vessel elasticity. Everything." Your voice cracks slightly on the last word, feeling more helpless when you verbalize it.

He nods, already typing with uncanny precision despite the slight sway in his posture. "Show me the base code. Did you save any backups?"

"Three. All corrupted." You lean forward, careful not to crowd him as you pull up the mangled files. "It's like something got into the core simulation and just - I dunno - started rewriting them."

"Hm." His eyes scan the screen with that laser focus he somehow maintains no matter how much he drinks, that familiar furrow appearing between his brows. "These values are cascading. One corrupted variable triggering a chain reaction through the whole system." He glances at you, slightly overshooting before correcting. "When's the last time it ran correctly?"

You check your phone. "6:43 PM. I have a screen recording from then."

"Good. That's good." He pulls up a second window, his typing still flawless even as he reaches with his free hand to steady himself against the desk. "We can compare the execution logs, maybe isolate where it started going wrong." His fingers fly across the keys with a precision that seems to mock his clearly inebriated state, and for a moment, it feels like those eight months never happened. "I'm going to need coffee for this." He looks up at you from where he sat, “Or more booze.”

You land on coffee, your feet carrying you down the familiar path to the kitchenette.

The fluorescent lights flicker dimly at this hour, casting strange shadows across the linoleum, the lab's overpriced espresso machine hums to life under your touch, its gentle whirring a counterpoint to the distant sound of Luigi's typing.

Suddenly you're back in that first year, both of you hunched over at 3 AM, him teaching you the proper way to pull a shot: “You're murdering it, stop torturing the beans”, your quiet laughter echoing through empty halls.

"Got it.” His voice carries down the corridor, slurred but triumphant, snapping you back to present.

You return to find him illuminated by screen-glow, his tie loosened and dark hair disheveled. The paper cup lands in front of him — double shot, one packet of raw sugar.

He doesn't stir it, never has.

Instead, he tips the cup back, and you hear that familiar crunch of sugar crystals between his teeth, a sound that used to drive you crazy, until somewhere along the way it became endearing.

Still, the jumbled code taunts you from the screen, though its chaos seems less threatening now. Under Luigi's touch — steady despite the alcohol — your final project is slowly remembering its original shape.

"You should have texted sooner," Luigi murmurs, tilting his head back to collect the last sugar crystals from his cup. The movement exposes his throat, his collar wrinkled where he's been tugging at it all night.

"Well," you say, watching the way his fingers dance across the keys, each stroke precise despite his obvious intoxication, "takes a minute to swallow something as big as my pride."

The corners of his mouth twitch upward, eyes never leaving the screen where broken code is knitting itself back together under his attention.

"Oh," he huffs out a laugh, the sound low and dangerous in the quiet lab, "I've seen you swallow far bigger things before."

It strikes like summer lightning — quick, bright, and leaving the air charged in its wake. The innuendo lands with no real bite, yet you find your jaw slack, a startled laugh shaking loose from your chest.

"Kidding," Luigi says, his eyes flicking from screen to you and back again. There’s a ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, softened by the alcohol but still sharp enough to cut. You wave him back to his work, grateful for the blue glow of monitors that hides your flush. "You kinda set that up perfectly, though."

He squints up at the projection where your broken code still bleeds across the wall, letting out a soft grunt of frustration at some digital roadblock. "Just mean — ya know, you could have caught me two beers deep instead of seven."

You shrug a shoulder, watching as the projection slowly crystallizes into something recognizable. "Seems you work better under such conditions."

The lie tastes metallic.

You both know the truth.

Luigi would have come if he was sober as sunrise or drowning in bourbon. Would have come with broken ribs or pneumonia or his heart barely beating. Would have traced these familiar hallways blind, deaf, or dying — because that's what the two of you do.

Have always done.

You've seen him at rock bottom, curled into himself on cold bathroom tiles at midnight, trembling hands pressed against his mouth as if he could physically hold back the pain that wracked his body. Watched him try to explain to puzzled doctors how someone so young could hurt so constantly, the frustration in his voice when they suggested it was all in his head.

You were there through the trials of medications, the nights when existence itself seemed too heavy to bear.

And you've seen him soar; standing tall in that charcoal suit that made him look older, more polished, shaking hands with tech giants who saw in him what you'd always known was there, his future spreading out before him like a golden road, brilliant and boundless.

Now he sits here, seven drinks deep but coding like he's never been clearer, and you realize that maybe both versions are equally true.

Maybe that's what makes him Luigi — the ability to contain multitudes, to be simultaneously broken and brilliant, wounded and wonderful.

He catches you watching him and raises an eyebrow, the gesture slightly delayed, which means you must have been a bit too obvious. "What?"

"Nothing.”

His fingers pause on the keys, and even through the alcoholic haze, his gaze pins you like a butterfly to cork. "No, really. What?" The words have a slight blur around their edges, but his focus is knife-sharp.

You could deflect again, but there's something about 4 AM and code that glows like dying stars that makes honesty feel less dangerous, perhaps you’re finding comfort in the fact that Luigi is drunk, although you’re stone cold sober.

"Just thinking about that time in the Thompson building bathroom." Your voice comes out softer than intended. "When you couldn't stand up, and I had to convince the janitor you had food poisoning."

He doesn't flinch from the memory like he used to.

Instead, his mouth curves into something caught between a smile and a grimace. "You told him it was from the cafeteria." His fingers resume their dance across the keyboard, but slower now. "Got the whole place investigated by health services."

"Yeah, but got us three days off while they checked fucking everything.” you remind him.

"Got me through that week," he corrects quietly, and for a moment, the mask of that brilliant-drunk-techie slips, showing the man underneath who still remembers what it feels like to be held together by nothing but someone else's faith in you.

Then he blinks, and the vulnerability is gone, replaced by that familiar crooked grin. "Though I maintain the cafeteria deserved the inspection anyway."

The projection flickers, another section of code healing itself under his touch, and you wonder if he knows you'd do it all again.

Every bathroom floor, every late-night crisis, every moment of putting him back together - you'd choose it every time.

"Speaking of which," you venture carefully, watching his hands move across the keyboard. "How's the new treatment working?"

His right shoulder shifts in what might be a shrug, but there's a shadow of a real smile playing at his mouth.

Not the sharp, defensive one he wears like armor, but something softer, more genuine. "Six months post-op and I actually slept through the night last week. First time in -“ he pauses, considering, "Fuck, I don't even remember how long."

The admission hangs in the air between you, weighted with the two years of 2 AM phone calls, of nights spent pacing, of pain medications that never quite touched the core of the problem.

Watching him try to code through hands that wouldn't stop shaking.

"Still hurts sometimes," he adds, almost absently. "But it's different now. More like background noise than a scream." His fingers still on the keyboard, and for a moment he looks almost surprised by his own words. "Guess that's what normal people feel like all the time, huh?"

The question carries an edge of wonder, like someone who's lived in darkness suddenly discovering dawn.

You watch him roll his shoulder — a gesture that used to be followed by a wince but now flows smooth and unconscious — and think about how strange it must be, learning to live without constant pain after it's become part of your identity.

"Though I kind of miss having an excuse to drunk-code at 4 AM" he adds, but you both know it's a lie.

The code blurs on the projection as silence settles between you, charged with something that's been building for ages — through bathroom floors and hospital visits, through triumphs and failures, through pain and healing.

The alcohol has stripped away Luigi’s careful boundaries, leaving raw honesty in their place.

"You know," Luigi says slowly, finally turning from the screen to face you fully, "I never thanked you properly. For all of it."

"You don't need to-"

Your diagram pulses back to life, the holographic heart rotating lazily against the wall.

Its red glow bathes the room in a surreal warmth, catching on the sharp angles of Luigi's face, softening them into something almost dreamlike.

The light flickers across his cheekbones, turns his eyes to amber, makes the whole moment feel suspended between reality and imagination.

"I do." His voice is quiet but firm, steadier than someone seven drinks deep should manage. "Because I've been thinking — now that I can actually think clearly without-“he gestures vaguely at his back, at all the years of pain, "I've been thinking about how you're the only constant. The only person who never-“ He trails off.

You lean a little closer, drawn by the vulnerability in his voice. "Never what?"

"Never saw me as broken." He turns himself toward you, and there's something desperate in his eyes, something the alcohol has finally given him the courage to show. "Never treated me like I needed fixing. Just stayed. Through everything."

Your lips part, but the words catch in your throat. He takes your silence as a sign, turning back to the screen with a sharp exhale that might be resignation or relief — you're not sure which would be worse.

"Lu,” you say softly, and something in your voice makes his fingers still on the keyboard. "Look at me."

He does, slowly, like he's afraid of what he might find.

The neon bathes half his face in crimson, leaving the other half in shadow, and you see the moment his carefully constructed walls start to crumble.

"Time hasn’t changed that much about me.” you say, each word deliberate, heavy with meaning.

His breath catches audibly. You watch the impact of your words ripple across his face — surprise, understanding, and something else, something that makes your heart race against your ribs.

"Hasn’t it?” Luigi is focusing on you now, the reason he really came here now practically completed but pushed aside until further notice. “Eight months is a long time to hold onto -“ he gestures vaguely between you, as if he can’t quite say what it was. Hopeless devotion, the right person, wrong time.

“Not long enough to forget.”

“Forget what?”

“You.”

His breath catches again, a sharp inhale that seems to pull all the oxygen from the room. When he speaks, his voice is rough and ragged, “Maybe that’s the problem.” His gaze drifts down to watch as you lick your lips, and back up again. “Maybe you should have.”

[leclercsbunny]

maybe if you loved me ♡ c. sainz

part one ♡ masterlist

f1chai amid the silly season, carlos sainz and long time girlfriend y/n y/l/n have confirmed their break up in separate instagram posts claiming the split to be amicable and a mutual decision. although the reason for their breakup was never mentioned, it was alleged that the couple had issues involving a nameless third party in two separate ocassions.

more than the heavy weight of your luggage, there was an unsettling feeling of dread and restlessness slowly easing it's way into your chest. shoulders sagging, you passed the bag to the driver; mentally preparing yourself to face him. you felt shaky, emotional and the makings of a headache were making itself known— perhaps due to dehydration or the sweltering heat in mallorca that you've usually loved.

not in this very day though. today, it stung your skin. made your eyes squint, increasingly sensitive, what with the waterworks you've unleashed the night prior.

"uh.. i'm leaving." your voice was timid, while carlos shifted on his feet, stiff as a board. a day old stubble and his underbags were prominent. you both looked worse for wear, yet you couldn't find within yourself some comfort with that.

"i'm sorry, y/n..." he repeated the same phrase, as if a mantra now; but you refused to acknowledge his apologies, as you did the night before. if he was truly sorry, he wouldn't have wronged you. not once, not even twice. "i'm really sorry. i love you, i promise you that. i really do—"

"please carlos... i'm done. we're done. no amount of apologies could ever make up for what you did." you wipe your tears with trembling hands. you'd wanted to scream at his lying and cheating face, ask him why you weren't enough; why was he insisting that he loves you when he clearly, can't hold onto it?

you spent half a decade with this man. you love him beyond reason, without a doubt. and it was against every single will in your body, but your heart was aching for him.

yet you... had to leave some respect for yourself. you were going to walk out of his life with your dignity intact.

it was not easy to strip away every reminder of carlos in your life— you grew together, experienced and enjoyed the different things life had to offer.

there were certain quirks you learnt from him.

things you'd borrow off of eachother which had slowly transformed to this surprisingly tasteful blend of your styles.

it was not easy to unlearn those habits, and contain the urge to wear something of his favorite.

but it was more than difficult to face the one and only person in both of your lives that mattered the most.

the last thing you'd expected when you'd opened the door was reyes, clutching onto a tearful matteo. without thinking, you've opened your arms to the boy and he'd jumped into your arms unbashedly, whining out a wet cry.

you'd pursed your lips, looking towards the elder woman who's motherly gaze made your resolve weaken. you could also faintly see the tears in her eyes, and you could only muster a small smile.

you assumed his father had explained why you weren't around any longer; it had been six weeks since you've broken things off with carlos.

you rubbed matteo's back in hopes of comforting the boy, he'd been evidently upset, "he keeps saying he misses you." reyes explains softly.

your eyes closed briefly, attempting to stop the tears, "i missed you too, sweet boy." you whisper words of comfort to him, trying to ease his crying. his sobs eventually calmed down, but his hold on you never faltered.

"will you still be my mama?" came the weak and small voice. it made your chest tighten, and you tamper down a sob.

"only if you want me to be, matteo." you whisper back, pressing a kiss on his temple.

f1chai carlos sainz launches his new relationship with a steamy liplocking in public with mystery woman

[fixyourwritinghabits]

Listen, I know we all have stuff to do and summer is coming up and aaaaaaaargh, but in the name of Optimus Prime I'm begging y'all to shed the habit of using descriptors like 'the shorter one' or 'the blond one' instead of using proper names.

This is a very common trope in fanfiction, and I get it, it gets so boring to write the character names over and over again. I also know it will be so hard to unlearn, don't ask me about the pain and suffering I have endured. But you have to break yourself out of this habit, because all it's doing is making your stories harder to follow and losing your readers.

Let's say you're writing an Avengers fanfic, and you've got Captain America, Iron Man, and Thor in the room together. The following scene might go a little something like this:

"We must stop Unicron," the blond one said, flexing his muscles.

"Indeed," the dark-haired one replied. "If only he weren't so handsome for a metal monster."

"Thou is speaking nonsense," the bearded man said, subtly flexing his biceps harder. "Also, who is speaking right now?"

(Yes, I did write Unicron instead of Ultron like I'm pretending not to be a nerd, shut up.)

The actual dialogue tag indicators above are nonsense, pure gibberish, and those exaggerated for effect, wouldn't it just be easier to follow if you just used names? Also, sometimes Tony's goatee is more beard-like so it's even less helpful in figuring out who's talking. Depends on what era of comics you're reading.

ANYWAY, Who is doing what is one of the most important things you need to convey. In a busy dialogue scene, in a high action scene, especially in a romance scene between two people of the same gender, clarity is key. It feels boring to write, I know. It will be a better scene in the end.

So when should you use character descriptors in your writing?

When you need to reiterate an important character feature that is either relevant to how the main character views them or how they view themselves. Example: Her brother, the soldier, the Hobbit, etc.

When you need to reiterate an important character feature to the plot. Example: The god of thunder, the stowaway, the white witch, etc.

When you have a minor character who is better defined by their job or role than there name. Example: The second mate, the boatswain, the cook, etc.

When appropriate to the scene. This one is harder to define, but if you have a quiet moment where the main character reflects on the scoundrel he has a crush on, long paragraphs of just using the name Alex might be better peppered descriptors of his personality or notable features, or - depending on your character - 'that cocky asshole.'

When shouldn't you use character descriptors? When they are boring, unhelpful, and not distinctive. Referring constantly to someone as "the taller man" or "the blonde" will come back to haunt your ass years down the road, believe me. Break free from this prison before you snap awake at 3am, haunted by the one stupid scene you can never unwrite.

[glacierclear]

Having some mad fuckboy!Leon thoughts rn

After he's unlearned all the stuff he taught himself and is basically done with the whole fuckboy thing oh man he would be SO soft. Holding your hand? Check. Cuddling at his dorm? Check. Being more gentle and loving during sex? Also check.

Also, stealing his hoodies. He'd melt for sure

oh, for sure. healed fuckboy!leon would be a SIGHT TO BEHOLD.

he wouldn't be perfect...

progress isn't linear. he'd stumble a lot. make a lot of mistakes and backward steps. you would need to be patient. you would need to be careful. especially in the early stages. because damn, he's trying. he's trying so hard. and you need to acknowledge the effort, even if it's hard to see, because any praise towards this will mean so much to him.

it'd come out especially on his bad days. he's more impatient. short-tempered. lashes out over seemingly mundane things. you'll need to be firm but not demeaning. catch his tells, his habits, and figure out the real reason he's behaving the way he is.

you'll need to slowly teach him the true depth of his words. that they hurt you just as much as they hurt him. he's unfamiliar with the idea of accountability, so you need to teach him about consequences. let him know you're upset and angry at him. but just because you're upset doesn't mean he's irredeemable. he'll assume any pushback is you ending things permanently. he needs the space to fuck up and forgive himself.

and damn it all, he's the jealous type. possessive. protective as all hell. it's toxic, and you need to teach him boundaries. it'll be tough. he worked so fucking hard to get you, doesn't he deserve to have you the way he needs? but no. you need freedom. he'll learn eventually, but be prepared to send a lot of "im safe and i miss u" texts to him when you're out with friends.

speaking of toxic. the toxic masculinity will be hell to unpack. sometimes it's nice! he insists on you being passenger princess. he insists on picking up the bill (well, once you're actually dating). he doesn't mind taking care of spiders (and fine, just because you asked nicely, he won't kill them). but...the bads get real bad.

displaying any kind of vulnerable emotion is like pulling teeth. when he's nervous, scared, anxious...he'll take it out on others. or himself. early progress will be made when he's blackout drunk and spilling everything to you. he reveals the deepest, most fragile parts of himself on these nights. it's like he's an entirely different person. and the next morning he'll do his best to sweep it all under the rug, but you have to fight for it. accept him and love him despite how "totally fucking lame" he acted (his words, not yours).

that being said. the good parts? oh yeah. Boyfriend Material 100%.

he'd do anything for you. anything. don't even say shit as a joke because he'll do it. at a certain point he doesn't even care if his friends think he's being stupid. you're his whole world. he'd wear stupid t-shirts for you. go to that concert you're dying to see even if he thinks the music sucks. he'll bash his head into a wall and learn to bake french pastries if it'll get you to smile. through hell and high water, he'll follow.

and yeah, he weans himself off social media. stops posting thirst trap photos and cuts ties with his sneaky links. but the lack of external validation is felt, and it kind of falls on you to fill the void. clingy won't even begin to describe what he is. he'll resort to begging. he will. late to work in the morning? that's not his problem. you're staying in that damn bed and you are cuddling him. you think him wearing tank tops in the middle of December is just a dumb mistake, but you catch on quick when he starts to shiver and needs to huddle you for warmth. "you want me to die of hypothermia? c'mon, babe. get closer." and yeah. those ice cold hands are going straight on your stomach. have fun.

part of the excitement will come from truly learning who he is as a person. most of his herculean facade is a persona. he doesn't actually like beer. he likes dry whiskey and refined clear liquors. he doesn't actually enjoy parties. the crowds make him nauseous, and he can always blame it on the alcohol. he's not actually all that into sports. you figure out he has a well-loved public library card and he knows the mystery section like the back of his hand. he's vibrant. shockingly intelligent. gets that light in his eyes when you nudge him about his interests. it'll be hard to get him to admit it, but his favorite part of the week is huddling on the couch watching nature documentaries with you.

and it's a two-way street. he remembers everything about you. early on in your relationship you casually assume he'll never keep track of the important dates. that's the stereotype, right? you couldn't be more wrong. birthdays. anniversaries. doctor's appointments. your fucking dog's yearly vaccine. he won't necessarily go all-out, not until you're more of a long-term thing, but what he does is meaningful. sincere. you won't get $500 of flowers and chocolate for valentine's day, but he'll abduct you from work, drive you out far, far into the countryside. lay out a patchwork blanket and stare at the night sky. he brought your favorite brand of pita chips and sneakily worms a gift box in your hand. it's that stupid $15 thing that's been sitting in your online shopping cart for weeks that you could never justify buying. and yeah, he'd appreciate a blowjob under the stars, but seeing you happy is enough.

and you could never begin to imagine how loving and passionate he can get during sex. it's totally different than his usual flavor. casual hook-ups and one-night stands are merely a fraction of his power. he tends to avoid intimate gestures on those nights. no eye-contact. hardly any kissing. he likes it rough and he likes it fast. but with you? he takes his time. commits your body to muscle memory. his gaze is intense, and he watches every reaction, trying to map out your flesh like a cartographer. he'll happily make out with you for upwards of a couple hours before you even begin the real foreplay. and you always cum first. always.

oh, but if you're not a fan of PDA...he might be a problem. he's proud of you. you're the hottest thing on two legs as far as he's concerned. he'll have no issue grabbing your ass, wrapping a hand around your waist, kissing along your neck, whispering the most obscene things in your ear. it's not even to make a point. there's no rhyme or reason. he just wants to. and you're right there. and what right does the world have to tell him to stop? does it make people uncomfortable? who cares. he'll lay off if it really bugs you that much...but if he catches anyone staring at you too long he'll ramp it up. it's almost aggressive. you turn to scold him, noticing how his eyes aren't even on you. he's staring at someone else. someone who's looking at what's his.

he's a yes man, too. if you need restraint and careful guidance in your life...he's not the one. he'll support any weird, out of the blue hobby you want to pursue. if you even joke about quitting your job he'll egg you on. "i'll drive right up there and tell your boss i'll fuck his wife!" and you have to talk him down. he'll punch the sun for you. he'll be behind every impulsive purchase. every 4am trip to walmart. every instinct to feed your id. any "little treat" you want to have he'll get it. because you deserve the best. if you ever want to have a stable bank account you need the be the voice of reason. because it's not gonna be him.

yeah. he'll have a lot of problems. don't worry about that. but, at least with fuckboy!leon, you'll almost never have any doubts that he loves you. once you manage to pin his heart on his sleeve, it's there for life and it'll always be yours.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Omg hey I woul like to request something ! Ken x Reader (male, if possible) where the reader teaches Ken about the real world and they're also very in love. Thank you very much !

When Ken returned to the Real World again, he had a vision similar to Barbie's--realizing his owner was nearby.

Instead of a child....it's you, an adult who (like Gloria) inadvertently projected your own insecurities onto him while looking at an unboxed Beach Ken doll in your attic.

When you were younger, you really wanted to play with it unlike other boys who had action figures and nerf guns...but you were sorta shamed into keeping it boxed, as your parents said it would be more "valuable" one day.

Similarly..Ken had been stuck in a box all his life, trapped in the role of Barbie's accessory until recently.

So there's an instant connection when you two meet.

To make a long story short, you're like "ohhh hey I guess I kinda fucked up your mental stability, bro...you wanna come over and we can talk about it, man-to-man?"

He was very eager to go with you and learn more about your world beyond all the patriarchy and toxic masculinity.

You tell him about using your "male privilege" for good, and one defining example was when a random woman taps him on the shoulder, looking terrified and almost in tears.

"H-Hi, um..this is gonna sound really awkward but can you two pretend to be my friends for a second? This guy has been following me-"

"Of course." You reassure her, before looking to the confused Ken and telling him to go along with it.

The creepy guy comes along and backs off when he sees you two standing there protecting this lady, and once he's gone, she thanks you with hugs before leaving.

"I think I did a good job." Ken turns to you for validation, eyes shimmering. "Was that good, [y/n]? I mean playing pretend is all I've ever done so-"

"Yep. You did great." You chuckle, patting his shoulder. "I'm glad she thought you were a safe person to approach."

He nods and is giddy the whole way back home, especially when you get into your car and show him the different mechanisms, with him clinging to every detail.

These life lessons you're teaching him, however, made him think back to the "Kendom"...and he admits to trying to reinvent patriarchy there and feels ashamed of how he treated the Barbies.

He didn't think he'd open up this quickly to you, considering he never had any "manly" talks with other Kens (besides beach-offs).

But besides you being his owner, there's something about you that just made him feel...secure enough to do so. Like he could tell you anything.

You listen and reassure him that acknowledging his mistakes was a great first step to unlearning those toxic mindsets.

With all of that finally hashed out, you decide to show him the simple pleasures of the real world. Like cooking, watching TV, playing video games, etc.

Just mundane things you regularly do, with Ken picking up on some of your habits/routines as well as having some independence of his own.

You two grow closer as a result over the next few weeks, and you began falling for him and his humor and his charming smiles-

Yeah, you're 100% smitten for this doll who crossed worlds to meet you.

But you're not sure if he felt (or even could feel) the same way, since he was made to love Barbie and was...clearly still getting over his "breakup" with her. So you left it be.

That changes when you show him some emotional movie where the lead male characters showed vulnerability (ie Good Will Hunting or Brokeback Mountain) and he unconsciously holds your hand as he stares at the screen, tears staining his cheeks.

While the credits roll, your heart melts as he looks at you with those pretty blue eyes, his watery smile persistent.

"Th-Thanks for showing me this, [y/n].."

"Of course, Ken. Now you know that us guys don't always have to pretend to be tough. We're allowed to have feelings." You rub your thumb across his knuckles, a sweet gesture which makes him blush.

On the subject of feelings, he realizes that the ones he has for you are...leaning more into romance than "bromance" (yeah you taught him that term and it's part of his vocabulary now).

He becomes uncharacteristically quiet when you ask him what's on his mind, before he leans in to kiss you on the cheek. Purely on impulse.

You're both flustered at what happened, yet he panics internally when you don't say anything, trying to get up to leave so you didn't see him cry over the stupid decision he made-

"Ken, it's okay." You take his hands, convincing him to sit back down. "I had no idea you swung that way, but I'm...actually glad."

"Glad? Y-You're not...mad or anything?" He sniffles.

"Of course not. I....was planning to come out of the closet sooner or later. I just didn't know when or how to bring it up, but....I guess I don't have to worry about that anymore, thank god."

"So...does this makes us boyfriend and g....boyfriend?"

"If you want it to be, sure. I wouldn't mind a handsome doll being the love of my life." You wink.

Ken mirrors your smile, relieved to know you reciprocated his feelings.

Then he gets stumped on something and his eyebrows furrow.

"Wait...what closet were you talking about?"

Oh boy.

You just chuckle and give him a kiss on the lips.

Falling in love with a Ken doll from Barbieland certainly wasn't on your bucket list....

But you're perfectly content with that.

[frvnkcastles]

May I have something where it dort of explores past sh? Where the reader is cutting mango or avocado I the palm of her hand and cuts through the shin into her hand and she just stands there for ages just staring as she's bleeding weighing up how much she can get away with on accident without frank bringing in Matt the Human Lie Detector, and she goes in for a second swipe when frank comes back from the shower and she tries playing it off like she just cut her hand and hea right up in there wanting to help but he notices the partal deeper in the top end so its been done over again? Right over the crease over her palm fluff and comfort please?

THE WAY I HELD YOUR HAND ➵ F. CASTLE

Summary: You give in to the urges and Frank helps you with the aftermath.

Warnings: SELF-HARM, hurt/comfort, feminine nicknames, language

Word count: 1.2k

Author’s note: This is a heavy one, so read with caution (or skip entirely if you feel like it might be too much!) I’m sending you so much love anon, I know from experience what a struggle it can be to stay sober but I believe in you! Stay strong, you deserve to heal <3

With Frank’s support, you had managed to abstain from harming yourself for a while now. He gave all the credit to you — he was just along for the ride, and you were the one who did all the work. Nevertheless, he had been a massive comfort, always distracting you when you felt the urge and encouraging you to try again if you fell back into the cycle. You wanted to get rid of the habit of hurting yourself, anyway, but he gave you extra motivation to do it, as you really wanted to prove to him that you could do it and make him proud in the process. Of course, he was proud of you no matter what, but whatever it took to give you the boost you needed, he was okay with.

So, with him constantly by your side, you started to unlearn the knee-jerk reaction of hurting yourself and grow out of it. It had been a long while since you had succumbed to the compulsion, and you didn’t think you would lose yourself to it anytime soon.

That was why you were surprised yourself with how quickly you changed your mind. It had been a long, tiring day and maybe that explained your struggle to slice through the mango you had grabbed in the need of a snack — either way, the knife slipped and in the blink of an eye, you had cut your palm open. Blood began seeping out and you froze on the spot, unable to move or react in any way.

You stood there, staring at the wound that painted your skin redder by the second. You dropped the mango on the kitchen counter and swallowed hard, your thoughts laser-focused on what had been an accident but suddenly felt so fateful. Instead of trying to stifle the bleeding, your first instinct was to watch it dribble down your wrist and wonder how long you could drag this out. You were thrown right back into that old state of mind where you let the pain linger, where it felt like you were punishing yourself, and deservedly so.

You knew Frank would worry. And you also knew that he wouldn’t buy any flimsy stories about it being an accident — which it was, at first, but before you fully even processed what you were doing, you were swiping the knife across your skin once more. All those old feelings came rushing back, causing you to lose track of your surroundings. You couldn’t focus on anything else except the mixture of relief and regret pounding at your head and heart, and you let the moment go on for longer than you should have.

”Sweetheart, what happened?” Frank’s worried voice broke through your trance, his large hand coming to cradle yours with his eyes wide and alert. You hadn’t noticed him getting out of the shower, and immediately, you felt embarrassed about being caught, but you couldn’t get a single word out. ”Darlin’, you’re bleedin’. Shit”, he went on, his usually calm voice trembling with panic. You didn’t blame him, there was a lot of blood dripping onto the counters, after all.

”It—it was an accident”, you stammered out, shaking off your daze as you watched Frank grab the kitchen towel and wrap it around your hand to apply pressure and stop the bleeding.

”Gotta be more careful, sweetheart. This ain’t just a small cut”, he acknowledged with a heavy heart, his protectiveness kicking in as he kept squeezing the towel against your palm. The burning pain made you grimace, the gravity of the situation finally sinking in, and you felt horrible guilt blossom in your chest as you realized you had undone all your progress within moments.

You fell into silence, fearing how Frank would react if you admitted you had deliberately hurt yourself, but he figured it out even without your admission. He gently removed the towel after a couple of minutes of pressure, and above the bigger cut, he could see the second one you had made on impulse. He frowned, inspecting your hand before looking up at you, only to instantly pick up on your troubled expression.

”Baby, I don’t think this was an accident”, he probed gently, not wanting to make you any more uncomfortable than you already were, but he also couldn’t leave it unmentioned. His heart raced in his chest, concern for you coursing through his veins as he watched you look away from him. ”Hey, hey, hey. Talk to me, sweet girl, what’s goin’ on? You haven’t been’ doin’ this for a while now. Did somethin’ happen?” he went on, tilting his head to catch your stare but you were too ashamed to face him.

”It really was an accident at first. But then I… I just got reminded of what it was like and I couldn’t control the urge and—and I just…”, you rambled, not even entirely sure what had come over you, what would be good enough justification. A tear slipped from your eye and you sniffled, wishing you could undo what you had done, but at the same time feeling like you deserved further pain for your mistake.

Nodding in understanding, Frank reached with one hand to wipe your cheeks while supporting your palm in the other. ”Alright, sweetheart. I’m real sorry I wasn’t here to help you through it. But I’m here now and I’mma make sure we get this all cleaned up and we can keep talkin’ about it, yeah?” he promised, not a hint of judgment in his voice as he calmly reassured you.

”I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did it. I was doing so well”, you spoke shakily, so upset that you would have to start all over again. But Frank didn’t see it that way.

”Oh, baby, you’re still doin’ well. It’s a setback, but it ain’t the end of everything you worked so hard for. Givin’ in once doesn’t mean you’re a lost cause. You can always stop again. You’re incredibly strong, hear me?” he insisted, having complete faith in you, and it soothed your thumping heart a little to hear it from him.

”I feel like I let you down”, you confessed quietly, finally looking him in the eye, and his heart ached at your words. He understood that he played a big part in your recovery, but he hadn’t realized just how much you valued his opinion and support.

”You could never. Never, got that? I’m always in awe of you, sweet darlin’, and nothin’ will ever change that. I can’t even imagine how tough it gotta be to fight the urge but you do it, anyway. That’s fuckin’ amazing”, Frank swore, meaning every word. He cupped your face with his free hand and leaned in to kiss your forehead, staying connected to you for a moment before pulling back and locking eyes with you.

”I love you, yeah? I know you can do this”, he added, and with a careful nod, you promised to at least try. He gave you the smallest of smiles, almost impossible to even notice, but you knew just how much care and affection it contained for you.

”Thanks, Frankie”, you returned the smile, warming his heart.

”There’s my girl”, he praised before turning back to your hand. ”Think we gotta pay a visit to the emergency room, sweetheart. Might need stitches”, he declared, and sighing, you supposed he was right.

But with him by your side, it would be okay, and you would bravely fight the urge next time it would dawn on you.

[aayakashii]

32 🔪 and 25🔪 for Jiro? I can't really see him calling someone pet names but I can see him mistaking obsessive feelings for scholar curiosity and maybe borderline stalking.

25🔪 “I know everything about you.”

32 🔪 “I’ve always been watching you, beloved”

Warning: yandere behavior, nsfw, masturbation

Jiro could see you with his eyes closed. Much like when you ask someone to picture an apple, in order to diagnose their level of aphantasia, if anyone asked him to close his eyes and picture anything to a level of near-perfection, he would picture you.

He knew every single detail of you. He kept notes on it, in fact. Notebooks upon notebooks of information about you. A stack of paper way thicker than your official patient file, because he included information that definitely did not need to be used when going through an anamnesis.

Sure, he duly noted the usual data. He knew about your health history, your family’s health history, your past medical records, your personal information and every symptom you may have ever had during his care. But hey, that’s to be expected - he was making daily check-ups on you after all.

However, he also knew which drinks you’d buy on a daily basis, your favorite little snacks and how often you’d bite your nails.

He knew how much caffeine you ingested everyday, the way you sighed loudly when you were tired and how you flipped your hair when you were annoyed.

He knew you hummed when you showered, he knew you mumbled when you slept and he knew the placement of every little mole and scar on your body.

Jiro knew everything about you. And a forgotten, mostly silent part of himself felt a bubbling pride over being the only one who could claim that.

He didn’t know who he was before his coma. He lost most memories and unlearned how to feel. Others would call him a mere husk of a human being, something incomplete, and Yuri seemed to find this greatly insulting; Jiro, however, would only blink. He didn’t know what it was to be or not to be human. What made anyone more human than the others, after all? Philosophy became much more of a hassle to understand after he woke up after all those months being half-dead.

But he knew that, amidst the muddled haze of emotions and thoughts, he had one purpose in that new life of his, besides being a doctor’s assistant - and that was to watch you. Something deep in his gut pushed him towards you.

His eyes would follow you everywhere and his feet would take him to your room. He rummaged through your things, analyzed your habits, and read your notes and diaries. He knew he should feel shame over invading your privacy, but there was none (or so he murmured to himself as he rubbed his own face, wiping off a smirk from his lips).

Jiro read all about your fear of mutating into something unknown and that, actually, he could understand. He wouldn’t be able to observe you if you became an anomaly, after all. He needed to find a way to keep you as you are.

He would also go through that one hidden basket, filled with your dirty clothes. He’d always grab one of your shorts and smell it like an addict and something inside him would stir. It was very interesting, he thought, how a rush of blood could feel so pleasant. His hurried hands would push his pants down until his cock was freed, and he would smell you again, wrapping his hand around his length, throwing his head back until breathy moans slipped from his lips. It was good, it felt so good to thrust against his own hand as he suffocated himself with the scent of you. It felt so good, so so good to drench your floorboards with his cum, to mark his presence in your room with stains you’d never see. It felt so good to know you’d sleep with him, in a way.

Gasping for breath, he would watch through the window as you walked in the distance, tired and crestfallen, towards your dorm.

It was always the same thing, everyday. Everyday at 5PM, he’d put everything back in place and slip away, unnoticed, with more of you in his mind - more to write down on his notes.

And the next day, it would be the same thing, all over again. And the next, and the next, and the next.

Yuri and him needed to work harder, he mused. He needed to keep up with his routine.

He has been and would always be watching you, after all, in spite of death.

Full masterlist

[otomes-and-tears]

i am so glad there is another shiloh enjoyer and even more happier that you are an analyst of this silly little creature. do you believe shiloh has the capability of a redemption arc?

We're all Shiloh scholars! Majoring in Shilohnalysis and minoring in ophiology!

I like to believe that everyone is capable of growing, they just need to be willing to put in the effort to do it.

Habits are hard to break, and changing can be a terribly cruel thing for a normal person, and I'd likely be a million times harder for Shiloh. To be redeemed he'd need to confront not only the things he did, but the core of who he has been for literally this entire life.

During the prom date, Shiloh says that he doesn't know if a "real him" really exists. And I'm inclined to agree with him. Regardless of whether he feels any remorse or shame underneath his adorable soulless smile, manipulating and flattering is all that Shiloh knows. By the time we meet him in Our Life, he doesn't have his whole shtick polished and perfected, but that literal child is already at a point in his life where he thinks that being himself isn't worth it and that he's only ever worth anything as long as he's a sidekick, always ready to please the protagonist! It's fucked up!

He's literally seven at that point.

It's roughly the age when kids start really going to school and socialising in a space that isn't home, and this is what he resorts to do fit in. And it's not something he grows out of either!

He might be more manipulative and in more "control" when we see him in XOD. However, it's still the guy who would deliberately fall over and hurt himself if JB asked him to. Shiloh's relationships being replaceable, and him always being the one to end them doesn't erase all the humiliating things he willingly does to be able to have them in the first place. It doesn't change the fact that this all started when he was still early in his development and that all those absolutely crucial socialization milestones happened with this, with purely transactional relationships as a foundational block.

It would require so much work to unpack and unlearn all of it. And it would take being vulnerable and honest with himself, which Shiloh might not even be able to do easily. Mending his relationships will also be harder-- because for Shiloh, at the same time he likely did mislead and hurt a lot of people, for many others he just... Gave them exactly what they craved. A yes man, someone to shower them with praise and flattery. It's what he knows what to do. He just doesn't want to be lonely.

But then again, he's a difficult character to read and understand, and I think it's part of the reason why so many people hate him with a fiery passion, but I've always seen him as this deeply tragic figure-- which would likely make me a prime source of his manipulation, were he real.

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

If Jungkook really could cum 8(!) times, how do you switch it up between orgasms? Do you pick a different position each time? And what do you do during refractory periods?

Sex is a collaboration. All parties are to contribute. If not, well, that's just masturbation with somebody there. I'm not one for plans, as I believe that takes the fun out of sex, but more importantly this type of question implies that I lack consideration and perception of what he would want, which isn't true. I don't know Jungkook personally but I do respect him as a person with his own desires.

No, it would not matter if I was the dom. No, it would not matter if he gave consent to me having full control of his entire body. People are not tools for my own pleasure. People are people. Even gagged, tied-up, and unable to hear me. It doesn't matter. It is my responsibility to listen. The body talks. I will know he can do it even if he says he can't. I will not pressure him to do something he doesn't want to do even if I think he physically can. Those are two different things and it is important to be able to discern so before engaging in power play.

Also, want to make it clear that I don't expect him to have multiple orgasms just because I like it. I actually don't have any expectations. He could tell me he's a virgin and I would enjoy teaching him from the ground up. (Honestly, that would be much easier than unlearning any bad habits.) Sex is like any other activity - you need to practice to excel at specifics. People have ceilings, too. I could practice basketball every day for 10 years and I would still be ass at it. Likewise, if JK asked me to help him nut as many times as he possibly could, I would absolutely get him there over repeated instances. But I'm not gonna whip out every trick in the book and push him to his limit the first time we intend to fuck because 1) that's intimidating, 2) his dick couldn't handle it, 3) he couldn't handle it, and 4) I wanna enjoy too, lol.

There's no "do xyz, it works every time" because it won't. The realistic answer is, depends. The positions? Depends on how we're feeling. Variety is the most reasonable answer. But what if we want to test how many times I can make him cum with my mouth? Or what if he wants as much pussy as his dick can handle? What to do during refractory periods also depends on how things worked out that day. Sometimes you spend the time in between cleaning up a bit. Sometimes you don't care and stick to each other like sticky rice. Sometimes there's no stop and you keep going. If he wants to do it and can do it, I will make it happen. The individual actions matter little as they are completely circumstantial. I won't outline a step-by-step process because there isn't one. You just do what is right in the moment. We all have preferences but I think it's equally important to be adaptable. Read body language and respond to it. Not only for another, but also yourself. Attune to the moment, not just what you know or what you aspire to be.

There's no formula. When I first started having sex, I too had a idea of standard procedure. Maybe some can be satisfied with that but I quickly found it intrusive. I abandoned such a concept. Passion cannot be contained in a plan. People change on the day, in years, over their lifetime. The best sex happens when you're in the moment. I already know what they want before they know they want it because I'm listening to their body. Not just sound, but also reaction to touch, mood, tension. I honed intuition by paying attention to what is in front of me rather than getting lost in my own ambitions.

I never say, "I'm going to make you orgasm eight times." I simply ask afterward, "How many times did you orgasm?" And he wheezes out, "Eight," before collapsing while I think BTS is seven though, maybe he squeezed out the last one for me?

[chemzee]

Hand headcanons

Yeah you heard right, basically the headcanons I have for how kiddos' hands look. Posted them a while back on Twitter, I suppose it would hurt posting it here too. Added a lil more info than original Twitter thread + other characters I didn't include.

Daniel: I like imagining him having long, slender but calloused fingers, his hands big and veiny as an adult. The tips and knuckles are a little rosy and he has some small healed scars from small cuts he made while cutting ingredients for potions and small burns from popping bubbles.

I also headcanon that Daniel has a bit of a habit of biting his nails and the skin around them when nervous, so his fingers look accordingly. Sometimes forgets to heal them, not until they get inflected (I do think he eventually unlearns that behavior as an adult though). Because of that, his nails never grow out long, but he prefers it that way for convenience reasons. Doesn't paint his nails himself, but never declines when one of his friends suggest to paint them (usually Lottie, Cassandra or Ivy).

Ivy: has soft (if not the softest) big warm hands, but shorter fingers. Her knuckles and tips of her fingers are rosy, she keeps her nails short but likes painting them in pastel colors, although the polish wears off pretty fast, it's rare to spot her with perfectly painted nails. Not because she doesn't care, but because she often forgets to apply the nail polish again and only remembers at most inconvenient moments.

Winifred's hands are similar to Ivy's, but her knuckles and fingertips are a little less rosy and she keeps her nails a little longer. Although unlike Ivy, her hands are often cold. Usually wears a light blue nail polish, I like to think that Cassandra likes to do her nails. :3

Cassandra: keeps her nails short for convenience, to be able to wear gloves, peeling her nails into an oval shape. Bc of that, she usually uses transparent (?) nail polish (although there are days when she paints them black or emerald green), but still takes really good care of her nails, as expected. Her hands aren't particularly big, but her fingers are slim and long. Her hands surprisingly warm and soft under her gloves, but she does have little almost unnoticeable scars from the cuts she got when tending to her plants.

Lottie: probably keeps her nails the longest out of all girls, but they're still not really long. Always paints them in different colors each time, usually every few weeks, sometimes with patterns. Often has rests of paint under her nails, but she does clean under her nails before lunch. Her hands are pretty small and a little calloused, she also has an "artist bump" on one of her fingers.

Robyn: her hands are pretty big and calloused, mostly on the palms (bc of her constantly holding the broom or a bat). Her fingers are neither long or short, somewhere in the middle I'd say and her knuckles are the sharpest there are around. Keeps her nails short for convenience, doesn't use nail polish mostly bc she's not particularly interested in wearing one. Has a bunch of scars from cuts and bruises related to quidditch accidents.

After being hit by a lightning in one of Y2 side quests, her whole body got covered in Lichtenberg scars, including the back of her hands.

Kevin: has probably the biggest among all kiddos, his fingers long. Has a tendency to bite his nails when nervous, although he doesn't go out of his way to obliterate his fingers into the bloody mess the way Daniel does. Tries to unlearn this habit and regularly cuts his nails short. I feel like he's the kind of guy who's skin often gets dry, so he often uses one of those hand creams (potions? There's gotta be something like that in the wizarding world). Has small, almost unnoticeable healed cuts on his fingers (from papercuts).

Abigail: her hands are pretty small but she has long fingers. Her hands, especially her knuckles, are full of scars and bruises. Keeps her fingernails short, but they're hard to cut bc her nails are thicker due to her lycanthropy, not to mention that they grow out a lot faster, so they're cut/peeled pretty irregularly. Still, does her best to keep them good looking.

The Freys: both brothers have big but slim hands with long fingers. They both have a few scratches anc bruises on their knuckles, left by whatever antics they did, but Colby a little less. Their nails are trimmed irregularly and they're really dirty. Like, black line underneath dirty. There's always dirt underneath their fingernails which they don't bother cleaning, much to dismay of Cassandra who has a misfortune of having to see their hands on daily basis.

Wenshi: big hands with long, slender fingers and sharp knuckles. Takes good care of his nails, keeps them the longest out of all the boys, but still regularly cuts them. Similarly to Lottie has a calloused bump on one of his fingers, a "writer's dump".

[lesbianelphie]

thinking abt marty mcfly. Who grew up in an unhappy family with a nonconfontational insecure doormat of a father, and ends up developing a reactive response to being called "chicken". The most prominent threats to his physical safety and happiness come from biff/the tannens, an archetype of the toxic masculine macho bully. He gets into fights when challenged or to defend other people - it would be safer to just walk away and reject the toxic masculine norms inflicted on him, but he's convinced he has something to prove - and wrecks his entire life after accepting a dare to street race.

he spends the entire trilogy working a car up to highway+ speeds to save himself and fight for his present/future (speeding the car out the mall parking lot and accidentally sending himself to the 50s in the process; half the plot of pt III is just them figuring out how to get the car to go fast enough) but in the end his saving grace and pivotal character development moment is his refusal to race even when challenged as "chicken".

Something about how our maladaptive habits which hurt us stemmed from adaptive things we used to have to do to survive, but healing and growth come from unlearning those things. The 88 miles per hour that saved marty in 1885 and at the twin pines mall would have ruined him if he'd continued to give in to peer pressure. By refusing to race his new truck at the speeds that were needed to power the now-destroyed delorean, he makes the measured choice that prioritizes his future, instead of the reactive habitual one that would have left him stuck in the past.

Tl;dr Marty getting repeatedly stuck in the literal past, defending his ego to the point of unnecessary self-endangerment, and having to speed in the delorean vs. Choosing not to street race in the end represents him growing past his past learned attitudes/behaviors guided by the insecurities and toxic masculinity inflicted by the men in his life, allowing him to focus on his future and break the pattern established by men like George, the tannens, needles, etc.

[hotluncheddie]

t4t chubby autistic steddie GO

i have been thinking about this (nsfw from twitter!!) art lately so i am here with u <3

even tho i get nervous to write trans characters, idk why, i just don't wanna mess it up i think

but im doing my best!! bc autistic and gender exploration are very lovely wonderful cozy subjects so i'm gonna focus on that

this is such a string of ideas but - 4 u <3 :3c

Stevie leaves with Eddie and Robin, taking their trust fund and leaving their parents to it - too the rest of their lives - without her. Like the Harringtons always hoped, really.

Stevie doesn't need them, the money is useful but they offer nothing more to her.

She's able to buy an apartment. In Chicago. With her loves. They learn how to live. How to live together. How to be at peace.

There's big bright widows in the main space, with light and air and the sunset. The two bedrooms are cozy and warm and it's a place for them all to grow.

'There's chips here.' Eddie says. They have a matching day off and she's trying to practice what it is to do nothing, to truly rest. Eddie helps, by being there, keeping her still with his hands and his love.

But Stevie tenses up, she was snacking, has been snacking, trying to learn her hunger signals better - what they feel like to her. It was always a rule not to east in her room, not to eat between meals. But she was hungry, she had a snack.

'I'm not judging, I'm saying so we remember to take it out next time one of us goes to the kitchen.' Eddie says, coming back from changing the tape, kissing her. Kissing her and kissing her.

Stevie relaxes.

'You've gained a little weight.' Robin says, laying on Stevies thighs on the couch, crocheting while Stevie watches sports and rubs her knuckles agains her teeth, twirling a strand of Robins hair in her fingers.

She looks down at her best friend. Robin looks back at her.

Robin smiles.

'It's good. You look more like you than you ever have before.'

Stevie smiles back. Tries not to cry.

Stevie letting herself change, relax. Unlearn those eating habits that helped her feel in control. Instead allowing herself to enjoy, and eat the things she wants to, the things she likes.

Eats pasta every night for a month and doesn’t feel bad about it. Doesn’t force herself to eat kale because she hates it, spinach is good enough. She is good enough.

Eddie gets little chubbier, in this new life. After recovering from nearly dying. Explains to Stevie in his long lilting way that he likes it, feels more protected, like his skin isn’t so fragile now.

He’s never liked his body but now he truly knows how short life is, and, maybe he can learn to like this new one. In this new place, in the love that surrounds him.

Plus, the bats destroyed his chest. So without that in the way, no longer lurking and potentially ruining his day. He realises he can shed that background fixation he always seemed to have with thinness. The idea that it would make him look more masculine or more androgynous. Curves were for girls and Eddie was not. That.

But now, now, who fucking cares. He’s alive. He needs to eat.

Steve feels a finger trailing over her hip, dipping into the band of her underwear, skimming over her crack and the the ridges of stretch marks that lead up to her waist.

'So so pretty' Eddie whispers, and it's filled with so much awe, so much grace, so much reverence and love.

Stevie shivers, feeling endless and grounded and like her body is here and hers and everything she ever dreamed of because it exists now.

She puts her hand under her loose shirt, cupping her belly. Skin still sleep warm and the energy of her palm seems to cover her whole body in warmth, in light and softness. Tinging and bright. Still being traced lightly by the love of her life. But being loves by her own hands, now, too.

She exists. And finally, everything is beautiful.

[shenglingyuan]

title: looking on tempests, never shaken (ao3) pairing: togame jo/sakura haruka summary: All his life, people he was supposed to rely on have abandoned him. He’s been left behind so many times that he started to learn how to leave before anybody else got the chance to do the same to him. But… But Togame is nothing like them. Am I…going to be abandoned again?

"I can't deal with you right now, Sakura."

Sakura was no stranger to conflict. For years he had faced countless confrontations, settling matters with his own fists. Just recently, he had been learning to resolve issues in his class with the minimal use of physical force. But no matter how many thugs he had beaten up, or how many discourse Nirei and Suo helped him mediate, nobody could have prepared him for this specific argument with his own boyfriend.

Sure, they've had small disagreements before, but Togame's always been the first one to give way. Ever since knowing Togame, Sakura discovered just how one's patience could be so magnanimous. He must have thought it would stretch out until the ends of eternity, but as Togame closes the apartment's door with the barest of thuds — he never slams things, not even when he's angry — Sakura thinks it's at the brink of breaking.

Still, the sharp snap of the latch itches at a long-buried memory, and Sakura's clenched fist loosens, his fingers trembling. Pride keeps him frozen in place, though, even when half of him is just about ready to run after Togame's retreating footsteps. Only when he couldn’t hear a trace of those wooden geta that Sakura releases the breath he didn’t realize he has been holding.

When it comes to them, there’s very little that gets on Togame’s nerves. He had adapted to Sakura’s habits and settled into Sakura’s life, as naturally as the gentle laps of the morning sea roll onto the shore. Whenever an issue comes up, Togame would let him say his piece, calmly explain his own perspective, and not let the night pass without the two of them meeting at a compromise. Whenever possible, it’s Togame who yields, assuring Sakura that it doesn’t matter that much to be argued upon.

But there’s one thing Togame feels very strongly about: Sakura undervaluing himself.

Yes, he’s confident in his own abilities, he has a clear goal he wants to achieve, but most times he still does not feel worthy of everything good that is surrounding him. Especially Togame. It’s something Sakura has been trying to unlearn for a while now, and in all his patience, Togame’s helping him with it, too.

But a recent gathering put him back in that tight spot, where it felt like he was drowning again, being pulled away from Togame. He should’ve learned his lesson by now, but the scars—both old and new—still lingered. Togame has been nothing but faithful, and he never gave Sakura any reason to be jealous of anybody. But there are periods of Togame’s life where Sakura hasn’t made a mark, yet other people had. Not that he’s trying to claim Togame all for his own, but when he sees those people (one, in fact) connecting with Togame in a way he himself can’t, sharing a laugh over a memory where Sakura had not existed yet, knowing each other’s thoughts without words, Sakura’s brain starts making him think of the worst.

Togame doesn’t need me at all.

Togame’s better off with him.

Maybe someone else deserves you better, Togame, not me.

That last bit he had said out loud just tonight, which resulted to this situation.

Togame’s been pissed before, but he had never said he couldn’t deal with Sakura anymore.

What should I do? What should I do? What should I—

His hands frantically fished out the phone in his pocket, thumbs swiftly opening his group chat with Nirei and Suo and typing out a call for help. If there’s anyone else who could know how to solve his problems, it should be his closest friends, right? They said I can always lean on them. Friends ask for advice, right? His thumb hovered over the send button.

But doubt crept in. It’s my fault. Why should I drag them into this? This wasn’t a town crisis. This was his relationship, his mess.

I can’t deal with you right now. The words echoed in his head, hauntingly clear, but this time, it wasn’t only Togame’s voice but a cacophony of people he’d rather not recall — people who never cared in the first place, who judged him without even knowing him, who spoke his name like it was a curse. They can all scram to hell.

This shouldn’t be new. All his life, people he was supposed to rely on have abandoned him. He’s been left behind so many times that he started to learn how to leave before anybody else got the chance to do the same to him. But…

But Togame is nothing like them.

Am I…going to be abandoned again?

Togame’s not just anybody. Sakura doesn’t want to lose him, and he does not want Togame to leave him behind. Even if Togame does deserve better, he wants to keep this man by his side and find a way to deserve him.

Not so long ago, Togame told him with a wry smile, You’re really selfish, you know that?

Damn right, he’s selfish.

So, what the hell is he giving up his man to others for? What is he still doing here? With a sudden bout of clarity, Sakura sprints outside and chases after Togame.

Sakura finally finds Togame at the park not far from the apartment, sitting hunched under one of the handful of streetlamps surrounding the area, an empty ramune bottle in his hand.

He hasn’t left yet. Relief floods Sakura, I can still fix this.

Togame raises his head then, seemingly sensing his presence, and their gazes meet in the cold evening air. With a deep breath, Sakura takes the first step to close the distance between them.

Not so long ago, he had said that even if facing someone whom he owes his life to, he will never bend his will. But at that time, he knew he was in the right. Should he still think the same when he’s the one who was in the wrong this time?

Just as Togame always does, he stands up from his spot — the clink of the dropped ramune bottle rolling away fills the silence in the air along with their footsteps — and meets Sakura halfway,

“Sakura—”

“Wait, let me talk first.”

Sakura avoids his gaze, keeping his eyes on the ground at the space between Togame’s feet. He’d been rehearsing the words in his mind since he left the apartment, he should be able to spit it out. It’s just that, he didn’t account for the edges of his eyes feeling hot. Out of habit, his hand reaches out and grabs the hem of Togame’s samue.

“I’m sorry. I’m stubborn…I’m hard-headed…And even when everybody tells me…even when you tell me that I’m more than enough, I can’t help but think that…that you will be better off without me.” Sakura feels his voice faltering at this point. He clutches the hem of Togame’s samue even tighter, as if anchoring himself. “I…I don’t know if I can promise that it won’t happen again… but I swear, I’m learning. With you, I’m learning. So, Togame,…can you not leave?”

He finally finds it in him to look up and meet Togame’s astonished green eyes, remaining to be a pool of depth and calmness for his troubled mind. For some reason, Sakura already knows how the night would end. Still, he needs to hear it from Togame’s own lips.

“Even if I say something stupid again, just punch some sense to me. But don’t leave me. Please.”

“Sakura, I’m not—”

Togame doesn’t finish the sentence, because he’s already gathering Sakura in his arms, knocking the wind out of Sakura’s lungs, holding tight as if the other boy would float away otherwise. Returning the hug comes automatically, and Sakura is just about to fall on his knees if it isn’t for Togame’s arms holding him up.

“I’m sorry, Sakura. I just needed to cool my head off, but I said the wrong words back there, haven’t I?”

Sakura shakes his head against Togame’s chest, not trusting himself to speak anymore. His throat felt choked up, he might actually let out a sob if he says even just one word. Togame keeps holding him, rubbing circles on his back. He must have known that Sakura’s at the brink of crying, too.

“No, I really was wrong. We’re supposed to deal with things together. I shouldn’t have left like that, Sakura. I guess I just…felt frustrated over my shortcomings. If I was also doing enough, you wouldn’t have had to feel that way. Hah...both of us, we still have lots to work on together, don’t we?”

Togame’s familiar scent and warmth calms Sakura down, and finally, the tension in his body subsides. Sakura allows himself to look up at Togame from this distance. He is greeted with Togame’s gentle eyes and warm smile, as if to say, You can fuck up so many times, I’ll always be here waiting.

“You know you’ve saved me since our first fight, yeah? And you’ve been saving me every day since.” Togame’s hand comes up to brush away strands of hair that got plastered on Sakura’s forehead. “If anything, I’m the one who should be asking if I’m deserving of someone like you, Sakura.”

“Don’t say that,” Sakura mutters, heat rising up from his neck to his cheeks. Leave it to Togame to say something so romantic that it turns Sakura’s just-anxious brain completely haywire.

“It’s true. So, there’s no way I’m leaving you, Sakura. I can promise that. Not even if you make me.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Next time you leave in a middle of an argument, I’m beating your ass.”

“Sounds fair enough.”

“And when I say something stupid again like what I said tonight, you can beat me up.”

Togame laughs softly, weaving their fingers together. With such a firm grip, no words are needed to assure Sakura that he will not be left behind. Not when it’s Togame. A smile grows on his own lips as he meets Togame’s gaze.

“Right, I’ll deal with you properly then, Sakura.”

[josephquinnswhore]

Watchful Eyes

Pairing: Joel Miller! Stalker boyfriend! x female reader

Summary: Joel hates when you go drinking.

Content Warning: shit writing, I’m drunk soooooo, stalker boyfriend Joel, reader is female and drinks alcohol, not seeing red flags.

Note: I’m drunk and this is trash.

Joel hated this—your one day of the two of you not working; and yet you’d insisted on seeing your friend, your best friend. You insisted. Pleaded, tried to make him see reason, that this was worth it, for you.. it was something that you’d hardly ever got to do. The stress of work and trying to keep a healthy relationship was diffficult, and Joel knew the struggle too.

He had to unlearn how to check your location, eyes lingering on the text chat where you’d messaged fifteen minutes ago stating you loved him. But did you really, if you’d not replied to his message. Could he really change his habits? Probably not.

12am rolls around and still no sign of you.

“Call me baby. Where are you?” You were drinking with your friend, of course a few others, all female, which he was thankful for. But that wasn’t enough to stop his mind from wondering. Maybe you’d explore something about yourself if only surrounded by women.

“Got some people coming over. Talk soon!” You texted back as normally as you could, thanks to auto correct.

He growls at the text, why in the world would you message him something so vague, who was coming over, when, were you going somewhere? When would you be home? Were there going to be men? He dreaded it, the anxiety and insecurity he faced as being with someone as beautiful as you.

“Fuckin Jesus Christ!” He cursed to himself, as his fists slammed onto the recliner he sat on. He trusted you, of course he did. You were a sweet woman, a loyal and wonderful women who had never given him a reason to ever doubt him. So why did he?

He didn’t trust a single soul to care for his girl. Especially while she was under the influence.. vulnerable.

As he started his car, he thought of every reason to excuse his irrational behaviour. He wanted to make sure you were safe, cared for, that no one were trying to grab onto you with their venomous hands. “Need to make sure you’re okay.” He murmured as his truck roared to life. Like all of his actions would be excused somehow if he said it aloud.

It’s almost humourous, how close you lived to your friend. Less than two minutes drive, a few streets away.. but he knew they would recognise his car, it was blantanly obvious, a white pickup with all of his construction gear on the back. So he turns the truck off and the lights, letting it roll down the hill until he can see you, standing on the balcony with a drink in your hand.

Only then does he pull the hand break as quietly as he can. He readjusts his blue cap so that he can tuck his stray curls under them, they’re unruly, and blocking whatever vision he has of you… finally.

You’re laughing. Of course you are, you’re a social creature when you drink, a few friends surround you as you make them all laugh. God he’s jealous—no, envious. Why couldn’t it be him? Hearing your sweet laugh and seeing those wonderful eyes staring into his own as he hears whatever you’ve said is so funny.

He texts you again, he can see your friends frown, and complain about how clingy he is, how you have no freedom where Joel is concerned. “Oh shut it you guys he loves me!” You excuse his behaviour and frown as you read the text.

“Oh.. Joel’s sick. I need to get him to the hospital. It could be his heart.” Your friends all give each other a look. You’re frantically packing your belongings before they could protest and Joel drives the short way home, getting into bed before you even start your car to drive home.

“Joel?” You call out wearily. He coughs and murmurs distantly.. “baby?”

Mad, you see him, your heart drops, his cheeks are stained with tears and his hand is clutching his chest. “Oh baby you look like you’re really struggling.” He can only nod at her shoulder as you come closer.

“It’s better now that you’re here. Thank you for coming. I really thought I was a goner..”

Fingers caress his outgrowing stubble.. “I’m here baby. Let’s get to bed.”

The alcohol still flowed through you—your veins, but you were holding him, and he’d never let you know that he smiled as you lie behind him, tucking him under the fleece blanket.

Joel was a bad man, and he loved it. For as long as you were his, he would do anything it took to keep you safe.

[foxwitchaine]

What red flags do you think Adrien has?

First and foremost, Adrien hasn't changed during the series. Like, at all. If this had been any other series with a "Status Quo is God" mentality, I wouldn't be so nitpicky. The problem is we were promised plot all the way back in Season 2. And plot typically involves characters changing, growing, and developing along the way. I know I'm gonna sound like a broken record, but Avatar: The Last Airbender is pretty much the gold standard of what kid's shows nowadays should aspire to be like. The old "it's for kids" excuse is only gonna go so far when we've had gems such as ATLA, the Batman Animated Series, the OG Justice League, the OG Teen Titans, heck even anime like Sailor Moon and Dragon Ball Z on air. I'm personally not a fan of Dragon Ball Z, but even I can acknowledge what Akira Toriyama accomplished.

Those works also weren't afraid to get dark and scary while still being age-appropriate. Something modern kid's cartoons can all learn from, be it Disney, Cartoon Network, or even Nickelodeon. And something they all have in common? A strong and well-structured plot. Emphasis on "well-structured". I can't claim to know what goes on in the writing room of Miraculous Ladybug, but it's painfully clear hardly anyone knows what they're doing. And it's resulted in the "plot" of the show turning into a tangled tumbleweed drifting across the desert of discarded but better-written ideas.

Whatever the metaphor is, anyway.

Let's continue.

Adrien's second biggest red flag is his continuous defense of characters like Chloe and more recently Lila. I'm admittedly ignoring Season 4 onward because I cannot fathom disrespecting your characters (and audience) so much you turn a kid's show into your own vanity project just to stroke your ego. But that's beside the point.

Adrien has the unfortunate habit of defending problematic people like pre-"redemption" Chloe (I use that word loosely as I'm doing my own Chloe redemption in my fic with Rafe) and Lila. You could argue that it's because of the way his father raised him. But it defeats the whole purpose of Adrien getting to go to school.

School is a place where you learn and grow. And figure out how to deal with unpleasant stuff, such as bullying, incompetent teachers, and apathetic faculty (I'm telling on myself, I just know). The problem is that Adrien, despite all his chances to figure out how to unlearn the behaviors Gabriel instilled in him, has not once made any active attempts to improve himself. Yeah. I know. I may be a little too harsh on him, but that's because I saw potential in Adrien to be much better than he is now. Disregarding the Sentimonster theory being confirmed (again, I'm also ignoring that), Adrien's stagnation is very telling of both the character and the writers. No matter what happens in the show, the universe bends itself backwards to acknowledge his existence. Do you know what that's called in writing?

A Mary Sue. Or, in Adrien's case, a Marty Stu. You could argue that Marinette is a Mary Sue, but she gets torn down so much in the show the argument is pretty much moot.

Do note that this is not aimed to tear down anyone who's written Mary Sues or Marty Stus. I've created several of my own in my early days as a writer. Who hasn't. The thing is, though, as I grew up, so did my characters and my writing.

Adrien hasn't grown up since the start of the show. And that's very telling.

Then there's the third biggest red flag of Adrien: his behavior as Chat Noir. I know it feels unfair to use that against him, but it's been stated multiple times that Chat Noir is, in essence, Adrien's true self without his everyday mask.

If that is who he is without any limits, then I want him as far away from me as possible.

Preferably, with a restraining order.

I have yet to figure out why this keeps happening when Hollywood and other big-name studios write romance — even by female authors and writers — but it has to stop. Men, most sane women prefer it if you accept the first "no" as an answer. That goes for you too, ladies. No, I don't care if this pisses anyone off. I'm an equal-opportunity realist. And I'm gonna say something that will likely have people calling for my head on a pike:

Relationships in general are built on mutual trust and communication. It's hard work maintaining a healthy relationship, it really is. But more often than not, it's one of the most fulfilling things anyone can possibly dream of. No, this doesn't mean everyone is obligated to say yes to romance. There are those who choose to avoid romance altogether.

And that's perfectly fine. I just happen to be a romantic who enjoys romance. That's my personal preference (no, this doesn't mean I like red flags).

The writers of Miraculous Ladybug seem to be under the impression that teenagers should hook up with the first hot person they meet. And that's a very dangerous message to spread. Because what if the first hot person they meet is a domestic abuser? Or worse: a criminal who has no issue using whatever they can to control and dominate their partner.

Adrien — and by proxy, Chat Noir — has displayed behavior that's alarmingly similar to domestic abusers despite his sunshine persona. He's destroyed property because Ladybug told him "no" (Sentibubbler). He set up a date even though Ladybug told him she had plans, then had the audacity to get huffy and upset about it (Glaciator). He's lied to someone about his relationship with her, then blamed her for the resulting akuma.

Note that the last example was from Copycat, a Season 1 episode. Which bears the disturbing implication that this is an ongoing issue, not a one-time problem.

Adrien Agreste had potential to be a great character.

It's too bad the writers have stressed he's too perfect to change.