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stareiiez · 4 months ago

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𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑴𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 ------ five

simon ( ghost ) riley x female reader.

content : dark?? ghost. fingering. orgasming. voyeurism. modern settings. mentions of stalking. gore. death. gun violence. graphic descriptions of gore. torture. obsession. drinking. sex. female genitals. unhealthy attachments. violence. blood. implied death. blood. smut in later chapters. dark topics. this is just my version of haunting adeline but for ghost. adult cis female reader. MDNI. 4.2k words. proof read to the best of my tired eyes.

note: just got back from the movies! decided to finally finish this chapter, so the ending to this chapter doesn't really sit well with me. Just another ' encounter ' with Simon :), he's getting ballsy.

likes and reblogs are loved and appreciated!

Ice water runs through your entire body at the single line of text that glares up from your illuminated phone screen. A feeling that isn't associated with the pure comfort of knowing a deputy had your phone number and decided to text you something wildly inappropriate just to make sure you had his number as well. Your fingers hesitate, hovering over the small keyboard while you watch in tandem another text comes in from the unknown number. Three dots bubble in a smooth wave of ups and downs.

" My pretty girl, you look so scared, what's wrong?" reads the text.

Your throat constricts. Skin deciding to grow clammy at the ever-taunting three dots that dance along your screen; your thumbs hung in a perpetual freeze over the keyboard. Your brain can't get your neurons to fire quickly enough to come up with some reply or snarky response. You can't even force the muscles in your small thumb to block the unknown number as any good-minded person would. You're the person who pokes the baby bear and waits around for the momma bear to come over and rip your throat to pieces while you scream out and ask why this happened to you in the first place.

Stick in hand, you poke the bear with sharp jabs of pointed wood. Thumbs slowly tap against the finger-smudged screen.

' Who is this? You some kind of weirdo that scams innocent people for fun?'

The swoosh of your green-colored text message floats on the ample space of your new conversation with an unknown number.

Your teeth bite down on your bottom lip, watching your phone. Your fingers tap on the screen to keep the bright LED awake just in case you miss another notification as if that were possible. Seconds turn into one minute of you standing stock straight in your bedroom, ignoring the pretty cream-colored beams of the full moon that now beam into your open Victorian-styled window. The gossamer of your curtains flutters on the rain-flavored breeze that filters through the small crack in your window. It brings goosebumps up your bare legs, and the short skirt you still are wearing does nothing to warm the external and internal chill you feel wreaking havoc on your body. You shiver, your arms close around your chest to tame the chattering of your teeth.

' No. Don't worry your pretty little head trying to guess who I am. You'll hurt yourself.'

' Don't need my girl aching so early over me.'

You frown at your screen. Lines appear on your forehead at the patronizing tone that rings loud and clear through the digital letters. You want to scoff and roll your eyes. You want to turn your phone screen off and flop onto your bed, just to count the number of rotations your overhead fan does till the sun graces the sky and you regret every decision you've ever made for the past few days of living here.

' Tell me who this is before I go and tell the police some no life is texting me for fun.'

Three dots do their familiar dance on your screen. They dance on your nerves. They do the tango on your growing irritation at your phone, at yourself, at this entire night. Then they disappear like your unknown number decided he spooked at the half-empty threat of yours. That little threat worked half of the time whenever you used it, you're glad someone decided to take you seriously for once. You expected the texter to laugh in your face with another patronizing text and keep up the game until it drove you into throwing your phone into the hallway and leaving it there till tomorrow morning. You exhale out through your nose with a victorious smirk on your lips when another minute passes and your text remains unanswered.

" Serves them right, " you mutter, setting your phone back down onto your nightstand and striding to your bedroom closet for a comfy set of pajamas to stay in for the night. A loose pair of superhero sleep pants warm your legs and a short messily cropped shirt threatens to slip further down your shoulders with every swing of your arms when you pull it on over your head.

The rest of your night routine goes unbothered, your phone pitch black and silent on your nightstand under the soothing glow of a thrifted vintage bedside lamp. Your pajamas are ditched onto your mattress when you decide a hot shower is something you need to forget about the uncomfortable texts you got from a random number. The pressure and spray of the showerhead wash away the traces of Graves' cologne from your skin. Another pang of worry clouds your brain at the thought of him. You send another prayer to some god to watch over him or even make sure he got away from whatever crazy person/ stalker decided to attack him for no good reason. Hot perfumed-scented steam follows you into your bedroom after a much-needed shower, your skin is a bright cherry red under the tight wrapping of a bath towel. Your phone screen lights up on your nightstand while the moonlight illuminates sweet-scented water droplets that bead on your shoulders and race down the planes of your chest till they soak into fluffy cotton. You're the picture of innocent seduction when you pass in front of your still-open window and grab your phone to see if another text infested your messages from the unsaved number.

' Good luck. '

Some say it's stupid for criminals to return to the scene of a crime after it happened, but Simon isn't stupid like those knuckle-headed twits who are sloppy with their work. He knows what he's doing. He's never done this before, the whole stalking the practical love of his life ( is that a little too early to say? ) after just seeing her once and for a couple of seconds at a buddy's bar. He's never done the whole ' touch her and I'll kill you ' kind of thing for women before either. He's always the one to sleep around if he needs a good stress reducer. Always doggy style and fast-paced so he can clean his dick off and throw the condom out on his way out the front door while his one-night stand wonders if they can cuddle after. Such a classic pump-and-dump dickheaded bloke thing to do.

But for you? For those pretty eyes and the way, your lips wrapped snuggly on the rim of a cheap beer bottle. His world exploded into every stereotype under the sun and moon. He would kill for you. He would kill himself if you demanded it. He would crawl on his knees over broken glass if he ever broke your heart when you two got together. You have taught an old dog new tricks, and this old dog wants to show you how it can blow you sky-high if you let it happen.

The deputy sitting in his car was not even an obstacle Simon had to bypass or even waste his time killing if he wanted to overstay his welcome. The cop did himself in by passing out on duty while listening to the static noise of his stereo and the monotonous droning of police chatter on his radio. He has to thank Price for putting the weakest member of the police force on active watch duty without even giving it a second thought. Always looking out for his boys is like a subconscious tick for old war-torn veteran John Price.

Simon's bulky figure strolls through your front door like he owned the house. Picking apart the lock in the dead of night under the beam of the moon was a cakewalk, his fingers prodding and poking at the locks that never got an upgrade when you moved in. Your aunt had stripped off the original walls and flooring and gutted out the attic to create an artsy smaller environment for her dotting niece. How kind of her to never fix the faulty front door lock that never really fully slid into its place. Bless your aunt. His eyes adjust slowly to the shadows of inky midnight in your home while he moves like a dead spirit in your home. His thick-soled boots make little to no noise on the glossy cherry wood flooring. His gloved fingers slide over the smooth marble of your kitchen island when he passes by it. He can almost picture you standing there, standing in nothing but one of his t-shirts and making yourself a coffee in the morning.

His delusions of you in his twisted brain show your pretty neck marked with teeth indents that are akin to a ravenous dog. Red and so dark blues that are nearly black are scattered on your jawline and throat like galaxies. Thick finger-shaped gangrene green bruises are splattered on your upper thighs that get revealed when you reach up for the bag of ground coffee, and his shirt rides up a little too much just to show your perky ass and the teeth marks and still red handprints left behind. You're every man's morning-after dream, still smelling of his cologne and sex. Your blood stains of too deep bitten marks stain his shirt collar a rusty red. Simon's chest puffed up just a bit in pride of how good you'll look when he brings his daydreams into a reality; yet for now, he ignores the sticky heat that works from his mushy brain down to the cock in his jeans.

The stairs audibly creak under his combat boots, yet he pays them no mind when he takes them one at a time. Memorizing which ones to step on next time he decides to break into your home so he doesn't cause too much unnecessary noise to echo in the warm interior of your home. His palm slides up the smooth, same-colored wood as your flooring, banister of your stairs while he takes his time to cast flickering glances at the framed photos displayed on deep green colored walls. Photos you have hung up that display pieces of your childhood home and you on your tricycle with two front teeth missing in your glimmering smile. Other photos of you in graduation cap and gowns of high school and college with friends that wear similar attire. The small glimpses of moonlight gift Simon with the warmth of your pretty smile from every precious picture you deemed important enough to hang in your home. Small normal accomplishments of your normal life and childhood only make the male fall further and further into a deeper cesspool of admiration for your quaint domesticity he vyes for with you.

Your bedroom door swings open without a creak in its aging hinges. Your sleeping form is swaddled so angelically in deep red colored sheets. Your curves are framed ever so slightly in thin satin threads that are twisted between your legs and tugged up to your chin. Simon doesn't close the door behind him when he enters your bedroom, his large figure casting their own monumental shadow on your body. His deep brown eyes watch your eyes twitch behind your closed eyelids now and then, signaling to the man you're off somewhere in your dreamland and far away from his opposing figure that reaches out for you. One of his pointer fingers graces the apple of your cheek with the gentlest of touches. His blunt fingernail moves a few strands of hair away from your face so he can admire your sleeping expression without anything blocking his gaze.

His eyes sweep from the top of your head, and how the way your hair falls in waves of colors to then fan out over your pillow, to the bridge of your nose, to your cheeks once again, then finally to settle on parted lips that glisten with the smallest amount of drool. You're gorgeous. There's no doubt about it, he confirms to himself as his pointer finger lazily carves a path from your cheek down to follow the curve of your soft jawline.

His finger stills its ministrations of gentle stroking when he watches your brows furrow. Your nose scrunches so cutely in his eyes, your damp lips mumble in sleep-talk gibberish and you roll onto your other side. Your back faces him. Even in your sleep, you reject his touches, which is mildly disappointing. No matter, that'll change sooner than later.

On the spare pillow of your bed, Simon sets another crimson-colored peony in a slightly wrinkled condition onto its surface. The confines of his pockets had caused the color of the petals to grow darker. What looks like watery red dye stains the pillowcase from such disgruntled-looking flower petals.

It's his goodnight to you, even if he much rather would settle on pressing chapped lips to the curve of your temple. He wouldn't want to rouse you from sleep by hunkering over your bed and nearly squishing you down on the thick mattress of your bed for just one kiss. Seeing the fear in your eyes, the look of shock that pales your complexion at the sight of an unknown skull-masked man hovering over you in the dead of night with an indescribable look in his eyes would surely send you into cardiac arrest. Simon wouldn't be able to contain himself if he saw his pretty girl looking like a little mouse under his heavy weight and on the verge of screaming for help.

The comparison suits you. Little mouse. His little mouse.

" I can't believe you never called earlier about this! This is insane." Victoria's hands throw up over her head. Her frustrated expression is something you expected after shutting yourself in your house for four days after your encounter with the police.

You finally had the balls to call at least one of your friends to tell her everything and beg for some kind of company when the silence in your home got a little too loud, and the sounds of your house settling at night were affecting your sleep. You hadn't gotten a proper eight hours of rest in what felt like in while, a couple of thirty-minute power naps, and the occasional luck of being able to get more than two hours of sleep at night was your new sleep schedule. Sick-looking bags dragged down your eyes with exhaustion. Your undereyes were starting to get that deep blue hue along your waterline, really selling the fact you're losing your health over some potential serial stalker.

The both of you were curled up on your leather couch, the cushions squeaking under you as you moved into a tighter ball of shame when she didn't lift her irritated gaze off your frame. The throw blanket you had decided to cover yourself when you two sat was pulled up to your chin. Rounded eyes portraying vulnerability flick away from the woman to stare out the expansive floor to the ceiling window.

" __, you need a security system. Put cameras outside or even a fucking bodyguard that follows you around, you can't live like this." Victoria's hands gesture at your rumpled complexion. The smell of sickly sweet bodily odor wafts off the thick throw blanket. Your paranoia was putting your hygiene at risk. You couldn't handle showering.

You tried once, the night after deputy dipshit hauled his donut-loving ass off your front porch when he told you he was no longer needed here; and to call the police if there was another sign of your stalker outside bothering you. It was Price's call, after all, he withdrew your protection with a condescending pat on your head and a ' you'll be okay, sweetie. '

The hot water was a comforting sting to your skin when you stepped in. Your head tilted back to soak your hair and allow the feeling of pins and needles prodding at your scalp to try to distract you from your shit-stained predicament right now. Your eyes closed as you stepped back further into the harsh spray, yet you couldn't begin to relax fully when your mind began to play sick tricks on your decaying sanity. Your heart picked up in erratic beats. Your ears strained too hard at the faux footsteps you imagined stomping your hallway right to your bathroom.

Behind your eyelids, you swore you could see the dark visage of a stranger growing against your floral shower curtain. One of the stranger's hands outstretched to grab at one end of the curtain and pull back just to touch you in your most vulnerable st----- NO!. Your eyes flew open, blinking through the downpour of water just to stumble forward and end up falling onto your bare ass. You ignored the prickles of pain shooting up from your tailbone and yanked back the shower curtain to stare out at your bathroom. No threatening stranger standing there with a knife in one of his hands. No presence of another person invading your bathroom, going through your things before they got to you. You were alone. Alone and dripping cooling water onto your floors while you ran naked through your home just to triple-check with yourself that no one was here with you.

You shrank further into your blanket as if that was even possible. Tired tears announced themselves to your sagging waterline, Victoria was right. Even if her words hurt, you needed security. You needed more than contemplating begging her to spend the night just so you could feel safe and maybe get through an everything shower without going into hysterics. Your sinuses clogged, and those hot tears of every frustrated emotion you felt to yourself, to the police, to your fucking life, and to the asshole who decided you were worthy of driving over the edge of insanity, dripped down your oily face.

" I'll call Izzy, see if she can come over later with some takeout and we can stay in all day." Victoria sighs out, reaching across the chasm of space you had put between her and you. Deeply tanned skin, the comforting color that reminds you of herbal tea, brushes against one wet cheek. Her thumb and forefinger swiped away salty water with loving caresses. You wanted to weep harder from your friend's consoling efforts to ease your feelings.

Her thick brows turn upwards with concern when you blink another fresh trickle of tears down your chin, your nose ruby red and threatening to snot with every sniffle you let out. "I can spend the night too, you don't mind sharing a bed do you?"

She's saved you from the embarrassment that would send you catapulting over the edge of your home, hoping to god you land on your head so your neck can break clean in half. You'd hate to bother your friends with your new fucked situation, but your angel incarnate of a woman named Victoria saves you from suicide. You give her a watery smile and lean into her lavender-scented palm when she swipes more salty water off your skin. "I'd like that."

Your angel smiles so warmly, her concern melting just enough to soften around the edges like melted butter at your acceptance. Damp fingers of her's gently pat your cheek. "That's my girl, why don't you shower? I'll call Izzy, and we can google security systems that are available to install on such short notice. I think my brother knows a guy, I'll call him after Izzy gets here."

You nod. The weight in your heart and head lift just enough to get your legs out from under you without any help. A shower sounds so good, and with the comforting noise of Victoria piddling around your home; filling the chilling silence with a playlist of her's playing on the living room flatscreen. You can get through the tasks of scrubbing and rubbing your entire body red till you think every greasy pore is clean once again.

One hot steamy and long shower later, you emerge back into your living room swathed in a fluffy cotton robe. You feel like yourself again, or as close as you can be to your normal self. Izzy, now present in your kitchen, is pouring through Google reviews of security companies and tech cameras that are up to a decent standard. Victoria is on the phone, pacing back and forth in your kitchen. Her voice is thick with Portuguese spilling into the speaker at such a rapid rate that it makes your head spin. She must have gotten a hold of her brother, which is good to know. Your heart flutters in your chest at the sight of having such support and help from the only two people you know in the city.

You can't help your lips pulling into a smile when both girls notice you're out of the shower. They smile at you back, Izzy wiggles her skinny fingers at you before she turns back to the computer screen she brought over.

Your phone buzzes in the pocket of your robe. The once fuzzy feelings you have about adoring how wonderful your best friends are are ruined thanks to the automatic pang of fear that comes from the vibration. You decide to climb up the stairs to your bedroom, your hand retrieving your phone with shaky fingers. The screen illuminates with the movement of your hand and your face begins to pale when another unknown number pops up on the lock screen. A different set of numbers than the one that texted you the first time. Yet, you wouldn't doubt in your mind it was a different sicko that would message you out of the blue.

A couple of days of silence on the unknown number's end after your last conversation. It was agony, to say the least. Every buzz and ring of your phone had your heart racing and cold sweat beading on the palms of your hands in anticipation of getting another text from your newly claimed stalker. No matter what the police denied or said, you wouldn't change your mind about it.

Now, your stalker decides to text you. Just when you thought you could have a moment of solace. Just when you thought you could enjoy the company of your girls and maybe pretend like it was just another night with them, they decided to ruin it. It's like they were watching you through your windows, taking a moment to wipe that happy little smile off your face and replace it with trembling lips and wide eyes. Your thumb presses on the text when your phone unlocks with a small click noise.

' Having a party without me, little mouse?' reads the text.

Your stomach begins to swim in that all too familiar ocean of nausea, yet you hold down your nerves enough to quickly retort before you lose your small amount of breakfast at the thought of being watched.

' What party?' ' Are you watching me right now?' Your fingers fly over the screen and hit send in a matter of seconds.

You swear you could hear the scoff through the text that gets sent back, just as quickly as yours. They dodge the question like your questions were too fucking dumb to answer. It's obvious.

'The girls are pretty, but not as pretty as my girl.' They're watching you and like the dumb blonde in every single horror movie. You get a little too curious and finish darting up the rest of your stairs, the sash of your robe slips loose around your waist as you crash into your bedroom and press against the open window for a peek at your stalker.

Maybe it's paranoia finally catching up to you and letting you witness early-onset schizophrenia that's most likely not inherited through your family. Or maybe you want to will and believe in the murky black and browns of the forest's shadows just enough to pretend you can see the outline of a person standing in the treeline—your palm streaks against the glass of your window. Your nose threatens to crack and pop like rice cereal from how hard you strain your eyes to hyper-focus on the humanoid-looking blob near your home. You don't even realize that if this is your stalker? You're giving them a titty show with the way your robe has fallen open just enough to reveal the soft curves of your breasts and stomach.

The rest of your tidbits and intimate curves are still concealed by the robe. Thank god for your failing dignity.

' If you're watching me, then wave, you sick freak.'

The final text goes, another round with the sleeping bear and your sharp stick. You want to prove it not only to yourself but to the small light not only in the police force's eyes but your friends when you told them you thought you were being stalked by some crazy person who gave you flowers and possibly hurt your potential one night stand.

The proof comes in the form of your phone screen gaining one small crack in the glass when you drop it without thinking. You miss the way the screen's light is suffocated by the cool hardwood of the floor, the next text you get back is unseen. You're too busy letting out a scream to care anyway because your proof for all those deniers in your life comes the way you demanded. With the human-looking shadow, you were having a staring contest with tilting its head up and waving up at you in your bedroom window.

' Hello up there, little mouse.'

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #little mouse series #cod x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost x reader #call of duty x reader #call of duty modern warfare #dead dove fic #dead dove content #dead dove do not eat #simon riley x you #simon riley

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broke-on-books · 2 years ago

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I just ran out of tags... give me a second

I've been seeing posts about Scooby Doo popping up, so I thought I'd share this:

(Source: The Scots Magazine, Feb 2023) Full text below.

This actually happened. I am obsessed!

The passion! The energy!

Amazing!

Such signage!

(Images: Daily Record)

A brilliant effort all round! The children of Scotland saved a pop culture powerhouse the world would be poorer without. I can't believe this. I love this so much.

Text of the article:

FROM THE VAULT

Strange tales from the archives. This month – How furious fans of cancelled cartoon rose up in protest.

By CHRIS Ferguson, Jan 12, 2023 (The Scots Magazine)

THROUGHOUT the ages, principled protest has been a hallmark of youth – a rite of passage for many. Today it is Greta Thunberg and her army of teen climate activists, or Extinction Rebellion protesters, who make headlines.

In the 1960s it was the Vietnam War objectors and Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament believers who set out their political agendas.

In later decades young people swelled the ranks of those demanding an end to apartheid in South Africa.

They were at the barricades as then-pm Margaret Thatcher introduced the poll tax and back out again to try to stop the 2003 invasion of Iraq.

Another generation, too, had the courage of its convictions. In 1971, youngsters rose in anger at a threat to remove cowardly canine Scooby-doo from their television screens.

This was in February after the cartoon had been running for two years. Although the decision not to commission another series had been taken in the US, the BBC was the target of fans’ fury because it had to pass on the bad news to young viewers.

Within days of the announcement, an army of parka-wearing children sporting knitted jumpers and questionable hairstyles was formed.

Across Scotland children grouped together with placards, just like so many other worthy protesters before them. In Glasgow, the massed kids marched on the BBC Scotland headquarters and, in Dundee, they gathered in outrage in City Square.

Petitions were raised and demonstrations took place across the country and, by April, the BBC announced a further series had been commissioned in the US.

Legend has it these Scots Scooby fans had persuaded the American television executives to reconsider.

Hanna-barbera, the animation company behind Scooby-doo, never forgot the Scottish reaction.

A spokesman for the company said, “We’d never had a response like that before, it was very exciting.”

Beneath the main text of the article is an illustration of Scooby Doo and the gang accompanied by the pull quote: “An army of parka-wearing children was formed”

The title and byline of the article are also accompanied by a black and white photo of a boy in school uniform sitting with a little black dog in his lap, grinning and holding a sign reading "We've saved Scooby Doo" with an illustration of Scooby. The caption reads: Jimmy Brown fought to save the cartoon."]

#oh my god..... oh my god oh my god OH MY GOD #i am going down the line of every single person who reblogged this before me to bring it here and high five and a hug each one of you #scooby goes hollywood is my favorite scooby doo movie. its also tied for my favorite movie ever. there are two scenes in that movie that #really move me emotionally. during that scene i sometimes cry. this puts everything in a new light #i have multiple posts trying to learn more and get in the heads of scooby execs as they wrote and drew this movie.#the historical context and place of it in scooby history and history at large. it was released in december 1979. the end of a decade.#and people especially people at scooby were thinking about endings. scooby doo as a series was in danger yet again. theyd been doing the #same thing for years. bringing in guest stars bought them time but the fact was that their budget and quality were decreasing and interest #in new episodes was waning to the point that reruns of original WAY episodes were believed to do as well as new episodes coming out (so why #make more?) they didn't want to give up though. so they tried something new a last ditch attempt to save scooby and make it fresh again.#a new character but the name of scrappy doo. scrappy was introduced in september. this movie came out in december.#in the (admittedly light) research ive done online i havent been able to find when production for this movie started or when the first #storyboards were created. i dont know if that moment came before or after september 21st 1979. was it originally goodbye or a new hello?#i think like the end of a decade its going to be both. but after seeing this i believe its more of the latter. this movie is about saving #scooby doo. but its also a celebration of those who love scooby itself. also a parody of 70s pop culture but ill come back to that later #but its also a congratulations a message from the makers to scooby to the watchers of it. they say: you saved scooby in 1971 and we love #you for it. SCOOBY loves you for it. and youve done it again here in 1979. but here we've done it together. because WE love scooby too. we #need and love him just as much as you all do. we care. and that is a wonderful sweet and earnest message!#on its own that is the story of an amazing movie! and i would love goes hollywood to PIECES if that was all it was. but it goes DEEPER.#IT SAYS MORE. because the date is december 1979. it is the end of a decade and start of a new. people are asking themselves what will the #next ten years look like? what will i do? who will i become? but theres more to it. because scooby doo is just over ten years old.#the children who grew up loving and watching the original scooby doo---the children in those pictures above us---they're teenagers now.#theyre young adults who are having to go out into the world and answer those questions. and one of magical things about this movie is that #it follows scooby asking himself those same exact questions. who am i really? what do i want to become? what will happen next? and hanna #barbera answers those questions! they say its coming to the time for you to branch out and become your own person. this likely wont go as #you plan. you may find yourself trying to be cool and mature and only end up embarrassing yourself. you may find you have trouble becoming #the hero you dream. you may find someday that you are spinning in a beautiful field only for the ground to open up under your feet. but you #will be okay! because like scooby you cant forget you have people who love you for you to lean on. you have your mentors like cj and the #many people who you dont know yet but will admire you all the same. you also have your family. you need to lean on the shaggys in your life #the velmas the daphnes the freds. you will ALWAYS have your family to come back to. and scooby doo will always be here for you too. at the

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e-dubbc11 · 1 year ago

Note

sending in a prompt for rumlow to inspire you to get to our (writing) side, from the random dialogue prompts: “Is hating me your only personality trait?” or “Come and get your fix.”

My dear Selene, my brain is getting a workout writing for Rumlow and I am enjoying every single second of it.

I went with the prompt “Is hating me your only personality trait?”

Thank you for sending in as many prompts as you did, I know I still have a few left but this was a good one so thank you again, my friend 💙

Coming Clean

Photos are not mine. They are courtesy of Pinterest/Google.

Pairing: Brock Rumlow x F! Reader

Warnings: Little bit of angst, a couple of swear words, confession of feelings, fluff

Word Count: 1.4K-ish

Summary: The STRIKE team leader does his daily walk thru every day. Your daily exchanges are just a contest of getting under each others skin.

A/N: In this, Rumlow is an agent of SHIELD, not Hydra. It’s not really important to the story at all really but, maybe it’s pertinent info for some people

As always, thank you for reading! I appreciate it so much and comments, reblogs are welcome and encouraged. Don’t be shy to tell me your favorite part. 💕💕 💕

Working inside the main control room at SHIELD wasn’t a difficult job. What was difficult was watching him walk through every day.

As commander of the STRIKE team, Brock Rumlow was feared, strong, skilled, and fucking gorgeous. He had that angry sex appeal going for him.

And what bothered you the most about Brock was the massive crush you had on him.

But the rumor was he was dating a woman who works over in Statistics and although you’d never confirmed that, it made you jealous. It made you so jealous, you couldn’t see straight and made it that much harder to be around him when he would do his walk through because of how much he, sort of, flirted with you.

He’d hover a little too long at your work station at times. You could feel the heat radiating off of his body as he leaned over you and his breath warmed the back of your neck sending shivers down your spine.

Brock didn’t make you feel uncomfortable, you knew how to handle him but he’d try to make you feel like you were doing something wrong even though you weren’t.

You were very good at your job and in charge of a small team of people. Director Fury told you if Brock ever gave you a hard time, just to give it right back to him. He knew you could handle yourself just fine.

Every time the door to the control room opened, you hoped it was him doing his walk through but you never ever let him know that. Keeping your eyes on your screen, you were hopeful that he never saw you blush when he walked in but your face always remained stoic and unwavering. You weren’t going to let him get under your skin no matter how much you wanted him too.

Pausing behind you, Brock would lean forward so he could be as close as possible to you without touching.

“Did you need something, Rumlow?” You would ask with a tense but stern voice.

You felt his breath on the top of your ear as he whispered, “Just makin’ my rounds Ms. Y/l/n. You sure you wanna do that?” He asked with a sly smile on his face while your finger hovered over the control pad.

The blue light glasses you had on, slid down your nose slightly so you pushed them up before answering him. “I think I know my job a little better than you do…sir.”

“Your perfume wrecks my concentration, ya know.” He said.

You felt a slight tingle in your core and hopefully he didn’t notice as you tightly clenched your thighs together.

“Well I’ll remember that for tomorrow when I also won’t give a shit about what bothers YOU, Rumlow. You made your rounds, so how about you leave now because I have work to do.” You said with narrow eyes and your lips pressed together in a straight line.

He inhaled sharply as the scent of your perfume floated past his nose, then exhaled. “Ooh, do I get under your skin, doll? ‘Til tomorrow.” He said softly in your ear followed by a husky chuckle.

And then he was gone.

Variations of this exchange were a daily occurrence. He never dropped in at the same time every day. He showed up at all different times during the day to throw you off, to catch you off guard and he knew that it made you crazy which is what he enjoyed the most.

He thrived on, what he thought was, your disdain for him and Brock always walked out of the control room with a coy smile on his face.

You were convinced he couldn’t really figure you out so that’s why he messed with you so much. Everyone else was somewhat intimidated by him, they moved out of his way if they saw him coming, kept their eyes down, and their mouths shut. But not you and that was the one thing that made HIM crazy.

No one was going to make you feel uncomfortable, especially Brock Rumlow.

On your way back from lunch one day, you felt a hand grab your upper arm and pull you into a supply closet.

“Ow! Brock! What the fuck are you doing?!! Lemme go!” You said with a raised voice. “You’re not funny, lemme outta here NOW.”

He inched closer to you, closing the gap between your bodies so you were sharing the same space. He smelled like wintergreen gum and clean laundry, and his eyes were the color of whiskey in the sunlight.

You had never really noticed that before, you had never been this close to him and it was causing your heart to beat rapidly like it was going to explode from your chest.

He barely let you finish your sentence before snapping at you. “Is hating me your only personality trait?” Brock’s low gravelly voice sent flutters right to your core and your mind started to wander, thinking about him pulling sinful noises from you inside this closet.

“No Rumlow, it’s not. I can be a real bitch sometimes too.” The corners of your mouth turned up slightly to reveal a devilish smile as you gazed up into his eyes.

“WHY do you hate me so much, huh? I can feel it coming off of you, y/n.” He asked, backing you into a corner, up against the wall. “I wanna know, tell me!”

You turned your face away from him and folded your arms across your chest protectively. The smile that stretched across your lips only appeared to keep yourself from tearing up.

“How do you know its hate that I feel and not something else, huh?” You asked with a hitch in your voice.

His expression softened for the briefest of moments.

“You flirt with me, tease me, and try to get under my skin but you’re dating a woman upstairs in Statistics?!! Well it’s not hate, Brock. It’s not, its full blown jealousy.” You said confidently because you didn’t care anymore if he knew how you felt or not.

He gazed down at you with his amber colored eyes and a slight smirk on his face as you looked up at him through your long dark lashes.

“Wipe that smirk off your face, Rumlow! If you think you’re just gonna continue to come into the control room and—“

He cut you off.

Without warning, his lips collided with yours. That kiss was filled with so much passion, it was almost painful, sharp with desperation and with a hunger you could barely control.

Clinging to him tightly, you moved your fingers to twist and knot in his wild dark brown hair while his hands rested firmly on your hips and pulling you flush to his body.

His strong calloused hands traveled under your shirt to gently brush the soft skin on your stomach. You wondered for the longest time what this would be like, to have his hands all over you, for his lips to crush against yours, to have his stubble brush against your cheeks, and to taste the wintergreen gum on his tongue.

He pulled away after kissing up and down the hollow of your throat.

“So does this mean you’re NOT dating anyone from Statistics?” You asked sarcastically.

He placed a gentle kiss on your lips before answering. “I’m not dating anyone, doll. There is a person in the Control Room that I really like but she’s kinda mean to me. What she doesn’t know is that it just makes me like her even more.” He said with a sly smile.

You snaked your arms around his neck.

“Ya know, I can’t be sure but I THINK she may like you too.” You said. “Now lemme outta here before Fury fires you for holding me hostage in a supply closet.”

“Hey you’re late comin’ back from lunch too, ya know. He can fire you too.” Brock said with a chuckle.

“He likes me way more than he likes you, Rumlow.” You said.

He reached for the door handle. “You’re probably right, sweetheart. Now before I let you out, will you agree to have dinner with me?”

You leaned in close and gently pressed your lips to his.

“Dinner sounds great.”

Others that may enjoy: @munsonownsmyass @qu1etwolf @redstarsandnightmares @itwasthereaminuteago @gijos @nutmeg17 @randomlittleimp @k-marzolf

If I tagged you and you didn’t want to be, just let me know and I’ll never do it again. As always, thank you again for reading!

#brock rumlow x female reader #brock rumlow fanfiction #brock rumlow #brock rumlow x reader

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firethekitty · 10 months ago

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okay you reblog a lot of albums ive never heard of and am curious about but it’s hard to get myself to sit down and listen to a whole album so please please, Top Ten-ish Songs To Get To Know You kind of list? pretty please?

i literally daydream about people asking me stuff like this LOL. so this is hardly a comprehensive list of all my favorite songs ever but here are some songs that are really important to me!!! this got REALLY long so i put it under a read more

1. meet me in the woods by lord huron

my absolute favorite song Ever like of all time. means everything to me. i could listen to this every single day and never get tired of it. INSANELY fun, incredible vibes, makes me want to go outside and shoot a beam into somebody. lord huron is an Experience. all their albums are concept albums and there’s actually a fair amount of lore going on. on the physical CD for strange trails it actually has the characters’ names next to their respective songs

for meet me in the woods, it sounds very upbeat and happy, but listen closely and you’ll realize it’s not quite as it seems… in-universe, it’s narrated by a woman named francine lu, and the song has the same chords as the first track of the album (and another of her songs) “love like ghosts”. she also narrates “the night we met”, easily LH’s most famous song. francine lu is not having a normal one. what’s her problem? listen to find out…..

2. crystals by of monsters and men

this was my favorite song ever for about 6 years until meet me in the woods ranked just a tiny bit higher. sooo fucking fun, itches a part of my brain that’s only accessible via icelandic stomp & holler. makes me very happy and always cheers me up! of monsters and men was the first new (at the time) band i ever really discovered on my own without hearing about from my parents or other people, and i’ve been listening to them ever since (almost 13 years!!) they are incredibly important to me and i highly recommend all of their albums

3. sunblind by fleet foxes

relatively new but became a favorite as soon as i heard it. this is also one of the most Me songs i can think of on top of just being so fucking gorgeous and raw and heartfelt. this song is a tribute to deceased musicians who influenced robin pecknold (the lead singer and songwriter for fleet foxes) and how their music is pretty much the reason he’s even alive today. my favorite lines are “only way that i made it for a long time / but i’m loud and alive, singing you all night”. this entire album is sincerely a masterpiece and i highly recommend listening to it all. fleet foxes have really beautiful and unique lyrics, they remind me of mitski’s lyrics in that they’re very poetic and personal and emotional but still subjective enough that you can connect them to your own life

4. this must be the place by talking heads

specifically the stop making sense live recording, which i still half-refuse to believe is a live recording because it’s just THAT fucking good. whenever someone says david byrne can’t sing i direct them here, because he does sincerely have an incredible voice and he simply Chooses to sing weirdly bc he’s a quirked up white boy with autistic swag.

this is just a really sweet and romantic song from a band that otherwise stays far away from love songs and it works extremely well. this entire album is fucking incredible and easily the best live album of all time. half of them are BETTER than the studio recordings, and you can also watch david byrne leap straight up backwards like a full 4 feet

highly recommend watching stop making sense just the entire film

5. vein of stars by the flaming lips

back in 2014, i watched a very beloved streamer play a game called “space engine”, in which you explore as much of the universe as we’ve theorized to exist. this was a little before copyright laws got so fucking strict on youtube and twitch, so mr. vinny vinesauce could play any music he wanted while planet-hopping. one of those songs was vein of stars, and it’s been one of my absolute favorites ever since.

the flaming lips are definitely an acquired taste. wayne coyne does Not have a very good voice and it can get extremely grating, especially to someone who hasn't heard them before. but when it works, god it works. this song is so pretty and nostalgic to me, always calms me down whenever i’m In A Mood. it’s nihilistic but not in a depressing way, more like “yeah maybe we aren’t here for any particular reason, maybe there’s nothing after this life. there’s nothing we can do about that, so why worry?”. very peaceful. REQUIRED listening when stargazing

6. good old-fashioned lover boy by queen

one of the first songs i ever truly hyperfixated on. unfortunately i listened to it SO fucking much it kind of ruined it for me, but i still do really love it. i may not listen to it that often anymore but i felt obligated to put it here bc it had a Profound Effect on my developing brain

7. too much time by john vanderslice

the year is 2012 and you're halfway through the newest episode of the hit podcast welcome to nightvale. cecil announces the weather. little do you know that you will carry the next 3 and a half minutes with you for the rest of your life. this one is just absurdly nostalgic to me (and not to mention incredibly vash the stampede coded). beloved song!!!

8. waltz for zizi & the real folk blues by the seatbelts & mai yamane

well it’s no secret that i think cowboy bebop has the greatest anime soundtrack of all time and one of THE greatest soundtracks of all time Ever. this is just an objective fact actually.

i believe this is because the seatbelts and specifically the composer yoko kanno studied real jazz, blues, and bebop to make the ost. like it's not just "jazz-flavored", there is genuine, deep respect and you can hear it in every single track. waltz for zizi gives me physical goosebumps every single time i listen to it, it's absolutely perfect. i've made it a ritual to listen to every time i visit the shore at night and go stargazing. sincerely transcendent experience

9. cuckoo song by cosmo sheldrake

hhhhhrrr this entire fucking albummmm hhhhhhhrhhhhrhhhaauuuuUUUUOOOGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHH!!! AHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

back during my final semesters of college, i had to take a course for art degree seniors. we’d pick something we were passionate about, make art for it, and it would be hung up for a week in the exhibition room. i chose birds of course, but wake-up calls inspired me to shift that choice to something more important than just random funny bird drawings. i focused on bird species that have gone extinct within the last 60 years because wake-up calls is made almost entirely out of endangered bird songs.

i’ll be honest i can barely listen to this song or anything on the album because i WILL literally start sobbing like in real life. cuckoo song in particular just makes me start crying every single time i listen to it, it’s like a magic spell. it’s not even necessarily sad but just viscerally bittersweet. the art for the album is made by flora wallace. here’s the spotify canvas i made a gif just for you 👍

10. take you back by orville peck

and finally………….. the song that made me realize that i actually DO love real country music a lot, and that the derivative “bro country” sub-genre that developed in the early 2000s has absolutely destroyed any positive opinion of country music in society. we NEED to go back, and orville peck is more than doing his part. this is the first song i ever heard by him and it's just so goddamn fun. i am completely unable to not sing along to this when it comes on

not only do i highly recommend orville peck but also any country music from the 50s and 60s, especially marty robbins, charley pride, conway twitty, and of course mrs. dolly parton. and later country rock/folk rock bands like america and creedence clearwater revival. it’s SO good i’m so serious

orville peck is the only modern country singer i can think of who's not afraid to bring back the harmonicas and whistling and steel guitars and whip cracks and yeehaws. it's fantastic. he's also gay and an outspoken trans ally. i believe this gives him the power to revive country music from the dead 🙏

#ask #constellation-dreamer

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genderqueer-miharu · 1 year ago

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Remember that Harrow cover i reblogged a few days ago? Well i checked Kingsleigh channel to see if they had any other Milgram covers and, to my delight, not only did they have covers for every song in trial one but after listening to all of them i've come to the conclusion that they might just have the BEST Milgram covers i've heard. Not only do the lyrics flow SO SO well with the beat and rythm of the song but their choice of lyrics is absolutely AMAZING. The way they adapted all the songs fit so well with all the characters and their mentalities like they REALLY understand these characters these songs have fantastic lyrics. These ones in particular are my favorites:

Bring It On: I think because of the frantic nature of the song many covers are not able to make the lyrics flow that well with the song, but this one does that SO well. And again the lyrics they chose are absolute bangers and it fits with the tone of the original.

Throw Down: This one's great because the lyrics they chose REALLY made me question if they watched Triage while making it (they didn't this was uploaded last year) because seriously it's like they Knew. Like just look at these lyrics

"Ah tick tock tick tock tick tock you know, all my reasons stay but you don't. They'll keep holding on if stop"

""Throw down" the thread connecting you with me it's in your breath, the seconds while you're still living/"Throw down" the calling that i can't take back, for every lie i say, comes hope and can that be the same?"

(Thay "calling" line specifically really hits hard aftet Triage because of the cut phone line noises in the song)

"Hey, remember what it feels like? If what i want comes at a price, then i'll give through sacrifice"

And my personal favorite part

""Throw down" all ethics are a delusion. But my guilt is still the same when morning comes/"Throw down" emotions that are colorless. Should i be scared of death when i have nothing of me left?"

Just...ough. They're really really good

Half: I think because Kazui is such a hard character to grasp, a cover of his song in english that fits with his character can be really hard. But they did it they managed to make a cover that fits Kazui so well and it highlighted certain things from the original song that i never noticed. Such as these lyrics:

"And though one day your heart could change, i know it never will. So i will, to love you still. You ever heard a lie so sincere?"

"But if hiding this in every kiss is called unhappiness. Then i vow, I won't allow, A single word to ever reach you"

I love this one because it made realize oh he's not lamenting that a single word won't reach his wife he's making sure that's the case. Also the entire final bridge of the song is fantastic

"How did I think that we could always stay the same? We'd laugh hand in hand, making up dumb names And if I Could pick the coward's thing to I'd take the fiction over truth"

"What I gave up didn't matter anyhow So many years ago why's it coming back now? And if I Could pick the coward's thing to do I'd take the fiction over truth"

The fiction over truth, simply amazing. Also i love that in the description they jokingly called this song "Am i lamenting or am i resenting" like yeah that really sums up Kazui really well

Harrow: Ok so remember how i mentioned two days ago that i wanted Kotoko to get Undead Alice as her cover this trial? Well this cover was the main reason i came to that conlusion. It honestly gave a very different perspective on her character and it showed me a side of her i didn't even consider. It's because of this cover that i realized what many lyrics in the song actually meant, i'll compare them:

Cover

"Now that I'm prowling through the haze and Crawling through this maze I Can't go back to who i was

Feeling myself fading Burdens i've taken Weigh me down but drive my soul to go on

The evil out there I'm sickened to the core Pick a poison that i've done before"

Original

"Becoming light-headed again, it all becomes crazy

The normalcy sought for, Fading away, Everytime death comes The soul moves forward

I hate all the evils in this world, I feel like I’m about to break The surrounding net covered with poison"

Cover

"Now when a soul is too far gone you do what you got to Put it out of misery

"I'll never do it again" "I didn't mean to do it!" Even when I catch them I just can't win"

Original

"Shall we replace the poor soul, and the miserable delusion

“I didn’t mean to offend”, “I won’t do it again” How many wins in a row?"

Like comparing these lyrics i realized that "the normalcy sought for" and the "poor soul" Kotoko is talking about isn't refering to another person or the evils she's trying to get, they're refering to herself. She's lost herself and abandoned what the concept of justice meant for her in order to catch the people she's hunting, and the "pick a poison" line in the cover drives home the point of her using the bad things she's done before to complete her goal.

These lyrics really make the theme of her storyline being revenge even more clear. And the final bridge of the song as well

Cover

"When I was young HARROW HARROW Why can't I let it go? All of this weight, all of this hate If not for them what can hope for?

The moon is full HARROW HARROW I bare my fangs into a grin and I know how I can win"

Original

"Newly born “HARROW” “HARROW” It’s ok to dislike, right? Losing it, losing it, What should I hope for

Goodnight “HARROW” “HARROW” Laugh and I can get to like myself"

The lyrics here made me realize that throughout the song she expresses her doubts with what she's doing. She's using the things the people she deems as "evil" have done in her favor to get what she wants. She believes this is the only thing she can do but doesn't want to admit to herself that she's the same as those people if she uses the same methods they have, so she covers it under the excuse of this being "justice" and tells herself that this is for the better of everyone and that she's actually helping all those poor weak victims who can't protect themselves. She can't admit that she's doing this out of a sense of self-satisfaction and to make herself feel better, so she uses "justice", a concept that she considers corrupt and dead, and uses it in her favor, to disguise what she's doing as being the "right" thing to do, which is represented by the wolf's skin seen at the beggining of Harrow coming back to life once Kotoko looks at the audience.

Kinda similar to how Mahiru fogave Kotoko for what she did by thinking: "Kotoko was doing what she believed in and what she thought was right for her so if i admit that what she did was wrong it'll be like admitting that what i believe in and what i was doing was also wrong", Kotoko probably thinks: "If i admit that what i'm doing is for myself and my own satisfaction and not for justice and to protect other people then it'll be like admitting that i'm the same as those people who do evil". She's killed and buried any doubts she may have had with all her vigilante work because she doesn't want to deny herself, she won't allow to doubt herself anymore because if she does then everything she has dedicated a big part of her life will seem meaningless.

Which why i believe Undead Alice would fit her really well especially in this trial. Especially as a follow up to Anti Beat, which imo touched more on Kotoko's doubts and frustrations with what she was doing, and Undead Alice could showcase her slowly convincing herself more and more that she's in the right and that she shouldn't doubt so much.

"“Live by feeding on me, since you can’t die even if you want to” Everyone except us is crazy, even though your echo can be heard by everyone

Every time I ask for ideas to hurt myself, I breathe in happiness and breath out poison The ideal junkie, doesn’t it feel good that only the two of us are normal?"

She's using ideas and methods that she considers bad and corrupt under when other people use them but she's using them in her favor as well, and she can't admit that what she's doing is wrong, so these things are ok if she uses them against those who do evil. But even if she revives that dead wolf skin, it was still the same wolf to begin with.

"The disease that makes me want to hide wanting to see you, an overflow of a LOW mood because I can’t see you

They ended up becoming close, this is torture Starting to hate the butterflies, please die before I kill you"

"The instincts of being good, and the fat of being bad, They ended up becoming close, this is torture Superficial actions have become a habit, I’m dead before I kill myself"

These two lines could highlight her contradicting stances. Her need to deliver justice clashes with the methods she's using, so she kills all these doubts so that they don't weigh her down, which is also highlighted with the main bridge of the song

"It’s ok to live for yourself, It’s ok to cheat a little It’s ok to break it, it’s ok to be scared

Let’s bury this cowardly love here, Let’s stop and forget this

It’s easier to hate But it’s ok that you chain me down with your love"

It's ok if she uses underhanded methods to get what she wants, it's ok if she uses the same methods the people she's trying to hunt have used, she's doing it for a good cause after all right?

Right...but even with all of this and with how much i may dislike Kotoko, this next part of the song could especially highlight a part of her that she doesn't really show much

Undead Alice

"I thought we would be able to keep dreaming together, just like this But what did your smiling face look like again?

It’s an illusion to think that everything will go back to how it was after saying bye bye

This is pretty painful, slice open the chest and crush the heart"

Harrow (Kingsleigh cover)

"Now that I'm prowling through the haze and Crawling through this maze I Can't go back to who i was

Feeling myself fading Burdens i've taken Weigh me down but drive my soul to go on"

Harrow

"Becoming light-headed again, it all becomes crazy

The normalcy sought for, Fading away, Everytime death comes The soul moves forward"

She's dedicated so much of herself to this hunt and her justice that it seems she's lost herself. Thinking about this more i am reminded of the Clock Over Orquestra collab comics. Which i think is important because that's the only time we ever see Kotoko genuinely smiling. For once when she's not thinking about her ideas of justice or her plans for revenge she's having fun, she's doing something she likes: excersising, and she's genuinely having a good time, and it just makes me think that...maybe this the side of herself Kotoko lost. She's killed and buried all her doubts about what she was doing, and using them to fuel her hunt. Her "normalcy" has faded away the moment she decided to revive that wolf. Now she can't go back to who she was, even if she misses how she was, she's killed that part, she's buried that other her, she's done all of this for her goals, and if she doesn't achieve them then all the she's discarded, all the time, her morals, her regret, her self, all of that...would've been for nothing.

Anywayyyyys it's kinda weird how long this got but um. Yeah. Please go listen to Kingsleigh's covers

#i spent half a day writing this so uhhh please read it?#i swear if Kotoko doesn't get Undead Alice this trial i am guilting her every after her mv is released #also didn't plan on ising a read more but. that's what milgram does to me

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skepticalarrie · 2 years ago

Text

I posted 19,391 times in 2022

That's 7,013 more posts than 2021!

5,934 posts created (31%)

13,457 posts reblogged (69%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@hldailyupdate

@lovingstheantidote

@twopoppies

@dailytomlinson

@daisiesonafield-blog

I tagged 17,204 of my posts in 2022

Only 11% of my posts had no tags

#0 - 1,053 posts

#ask - 5,431 posts

#lt tour - 2,094 posts

#love on tour - 848 posts

#you are home - 228 posts

#coachella - 202 posts

#fitf promo - 199 posts

#lol - 184 posts

#faith in the future - 169 posts

#harry’s house - 149 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#is that he’s going to cause an absolute hysteria and i’m not sure if he’s going to be able to ignore that afterwards and go back to his pas

My Top Posts in 2022:

See the full post

911 notes - Posted May 5, 2022

Harry saying his house right now is just piles of things he's trying to sort through and clear the space. So the woman has the heart to ask him why and if he's a messy person and he just goes ☺️ No I don't think I am ☺️

I wonder who is messy and made Harry's life a living hell before going on tour for the most part of the year

950 notes - Posted April 1, 2022

"I've been really open about my sexuality to my friends" said no straight person ever.

1,039 notes - Posted April 26, 2022

Pleaaaaseee Harry’s face at the end 😭😭

LOL what I love about Liam is that he knows exactly how to get under Louis' skin, and that's using Harry to tease him. It works every single time ahahah I wonder if this still happens between them so many years later!

If I wasn't a larrie already I feel like these kinds of videos would be the ones that would make me really consider the entire thing, the way Louis reacts when Liam uses Harry to tease him is so obviously about jealousy, and there are SO MANY videos just like this one. You literally can't brush off his reaction as something else. But I suppose some people are just blind and refuse to see what is literally right in front of their eyes.

1,401 notes - Posted May 13, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

I originally didn’t pay that much attention to Satellite because int didn’t seem as lyrically complex as other songs, but after listening to it a few times, I keep thinking about the lines in Habit, “Took some time cause I ran out of energy/playing someone I heard I’m supposed to be” and “You gave me the time and the space/I was out of control and I'm sorry, I let you down.” I hear Satellite talking about someone who seems to have taken some space to figure themself out until they’re ready to talk things through, and Harry reassuring them that he’s always right there waiting for them to pull him back, that he’s never far and will be there to catch them. They shouldn’t worry, he’s stuck in their orbit (the habit that he can’t break?) and he’s not going anywhere. *cries in an uncool way*

oh my fUCKING GOD

See the full post

1,489 notes - Posted April 21, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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ourimpavidheroine · 1 year ago

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is there a reason why comments are moderated on your fic? it's ok i was just wondering.

Ah. Well, very long story short, I had an extremely devoted troll who spent about three years of their life off and on harassing me through my Asks here as well as in the comments section of my fic on AO3 and I had to put some protections in place.

That being said! My feeling on it is that my blog and my fic are places for me to express myself. They are not soundboards for anyone else to spew hatred or ignorance across. I am under no obligation to provide people that service, and therefore I do not.

I have gotten a fair amount of shitty, mean and defamatory Asks over the years, and at first I published them and rebutted them but then I realized, why the fuck am I doing that? Why am I turning my blog into someone else's free shitting ground? I don't need to do that. They can post on their own blog if they want somewhere to shit out their opinions. After all, Tumblr allows me to close down Asks entirely or limit them to non-anon or just delete the ones I don't like when they come in. I am the person who controls what is on my blog, not some stranger who has a really extended (and some might say slightly alarming, mental health-wise) beef with me because I didn't agree with their fan interpretation of Lin Beifong. You know? Not that all of my shitty Asks are down to that one troll - I get others, and that includes spam/scams or anon people trying to convince me that so-and-so that I have reblogged is a terrible person for vague and personal reasons* and even my favorites, the ones where people take me to task for something I've posted, saying how disappointed they are that I believe that kind of thing and that they are no longer going to follow me when a)it's pretty obvious by what they've said that they don't actually follow me and b)my follower count stays the same.

My comments on AO3 are the same. AO3 grants writers the power to shut down comments entirely, or moderate them before posting, or limit them to people who are logged into their AO3 account. I don't need to include negative comments, whether they are derogatory or not. Some have been very derogatory, especially when it comes to the sexuality and/or gender of characters. I'm not allowing that shit on my fic. You don't get to use my fic in order to promote your homophobic and TERF bullshit, the end. Nor am I giving you free rein to tell me why my fic is wrong. Don't like it? Don't read it, I'm not changing it for anybody, but especially not for some anon telling me I should. I've had a whole range of comments, from people telling me they aren't reading any longer because of Qi (ah, nothing says passive-aggressive like leaving a pissy little comment telling me my writing was good until I introduced a character and/or plot line you did not personally like, like this was a story you paid me a commission for to write a particular way) to people telling me I am a you-know-what for writing a scene depicting a 21 year old post-canon Ikki having sex because she was a child in the canon show. (Newsflash! Every adult having sex was also an 11 year old in the past! Including your own parents!) Nah. I'm not keeping that stuff. Not for me, and not for anyone else reading it.

So rest assured, if you are civil and considerate in your comments on my fic, I will gladly post them. There was a time there when due to my health issues I wasn't answering every single comment, but I do try to do that now because I feel it's a nice thing to do and because I enjoy engaging with my readers. (Not because I feel obligated. I've already written the fic, which took a lot more time and effort than writing a comment, so I feel we're more than even on that.) And if you don't leave a comment, that's okay too! It's not everybody's thing. (But a kudos would be very much appreciated. Even if you bookmark it.)

*To be clear, I am not talking about someone who says yikes that was a TERF you reblogged from check their blog and I am like NOOOOOO DELETE DELETE but rather someone who is like this person is terrible because I say so but I can't tell you why but just trust me even though I am Anon and won't tell you what is going on, which has happened to me a surprising amount of times actually.

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exlibrisfangirl · 2 years ago

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I posted 10,162 times in 2022

That's 271 more posts than 2021!

187 posts created (2%)

9,975 posts reblogged (98%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@seven-oomen

@angel-in-a-big-blue-box

@rosieposiepuddingnpie

@greyhavenisback

@clotpolesonly

I tagged 10,157 of my posts in 2022

#basically - 1,359 posts

#this is my design - 1,235 posts

#*snort* - 1,003 posts

#teen wolf - 842 posts

#hee! - 694 posts

#yea verily - 673 posts

#photography - 624 posts

#awesome art - 551 posts

#fictional characters - 538 posts

#cats - 517 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#where i can disconnect from real life for a while and be where nobody knows me (except for a few tumblr friends i've met in person) *waves*

My Top Posts in 2022:

When you hobble out to your car after the MRI, turn on the radio, and the very first words you hear are, "When your legs don't work like they used to before..." 😐

RUDE, ED SHEERAN. SO RUDE. 😅

220 notes - Posted September 19, 2022

How about we do that thing where you give me a TV show/movie/book/fandom and some numbers, and I’ll tell you:

What originally drew me to it

What I like most and least about it

A character I want to carry around in a little jar and study like a bug

A character I couldn't care less about

The character who gives me the greatest gender envy

A character I'd like to frame and hang on my wall and admire like a work of art

A character who feels like home

The character with the greatest wasted/unexplored potential

The character I'd most enjoy feeding to a pride of ravenous lions

A ship I would gladly go down with... and then become Davey Jones, so I can continue to captain said ship for eternity

A ship that makes me want to look into the camera like I'm on The Office

A ship I'd like to blow to smithereens with canon cannonballs

The non-canon pairing I find the most intriguing

The character/story arc I find the most compelling

A character/story arc that bores me to tears

A scene/moment that makes me really emotional every single time

The line of dialogue I quote most often

A plot hole that makes me want to tear my hair out

Crossovers/AUs that pique my interest

Fics/fanart I'd love to see

313 notes - Posted July 14, 2022

Chronic illness has to be one of the loneliest experiences in the world.

332 notes - Posted January 26, 2022

Y'know what's REALLY messed up? The fact that I am MORE afraid of going to the ER and not being taken seriously than I am of potentially DYING because I didn't go when I actually, really needed to? Like?

364 notes - Posted April 6, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Being chronically ill feels like being in a slowburn enemies-to-lovers relationship with Death.

582 notes - Posted February 28, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#my 2022 tumblr year in review #tumblr #tumblr friends #about mel

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whydoihave · 2 years ago

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I posted 178 times in 2022

That's 178 more posts than 2021!

59 posts created (33%)

119 posts reblogged (67%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@heretherebedork

@crypticzeros

@lori0018

@whydoihave

@lu-sn

I tagged 116 of my posts in 2022

Only 35% of my posts had no tags

#unforgotten night - 62 posts

#ao3 - 26 posts

#kinnporsche - 18 posts

#ff - 16 posts

#kamolkim - 15 posts

#fanfiction - 14 posts

#kinnporsche the series - 13 posts

#khom x baiboon - 10 posts

#fanfic - 9 posts

#kim/kamol - 8 posts

Longest Tag: 51 characters

#i tend to choose music carefully to go with the fic

My Top Posts in 2022:

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: บรรยากาศรัก เดอะซีรีส์ | Love in the Air (TV 2022) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Prapai/Sky (Love in the Air TV 2022), Phayu/Rain (Love in the Air TV 2022) Characters: Prapai (Love in the Air TV 2022), Sky (Love in the Air TV 2022), Rain (Love in the Air TV 2022), Phayu (Love in the Air TV 2022), Sig (Love in the Air TV 2022) Additional Tags: Sickfic, Sick Character, Fever, Fever Dreams, Caretaking, Love Confessions Summary:

Sky Cannot Focus…

He cannot draw a single line without having to look behind him to check the man currently sitting on the floor..

and for once it’s not because Prapai is loud… it's the exact opposite

10 notes - Posted November 9, 2022

NOW WAIT A SEC...

That minor family ring... is golden... right... ?

Let me tell you something first and then I tell you why that matters so much right now...

Why would Korn.. of all people.. hand Porsche power??

Because he is not scared of Porsche, he has enough cards in his hands to manipulate Porsche ..

Kinn, Chay, His mother...

Korn has all the cards actually... Porsche is Korn's only way to control Kinn... and to some extend ... to control Kim ... because I don't believe even for a second that he has no idea about Chay and Kim...

don't even try to tell me that they (all combined) have not been watched and monitored every step of the way... I don't believe THAT!!

and that scene in the end where Khun takes their pic and send it to Korn... God.... it's the sign... the game is afoot.... and let's not go down the rabbit hole that i don't believe for a second that Khun is harmless because I think this chess game of Korn has way way more people playing it...

now one last thing before I get back to the ring...

by taking that ring off Vegas's finger and letting Pete go.. Korn might have done his own undoing... because Vegas is not his father... he doesn't seek power, he doesn't trust power anymore.. and when Korn told him I will take care of you and your brother.. it sets the wheel in motion ..

I Personally thought and I understood that the frame of it meant... you are next now that your father is dead

but back to the point... and if pete is there.. he will not seek revenge for the man who tormented him... because revenge will drive pete away.. and we cannot have that...

Vegas will seek the truth... and the truth is that Korn is playing them... so he will shake hands with anyone for the truth...

we already saw this when he was helping Porsche in ep 13...

now back to the fact that the ring is gold while Kinn's ring is (silver/platinum..)

Let me tell you that in my culture... (I am Egyptian...) Gold wedding rings are mostly for women... and men's rings are rarely gold..

Farfetched... I don’t think so...

I remember that for days it felt odd for me so I keeping going back and checked which is which... and if you take that into consideration... you realize that the close up scene on the rings means more than it lets on...

you get where this is going...

it's so small but it's a declaration that they will never be on equal foot... it will be their own undoing.. it will strain them...

Notice the hands... not holding each other... not entwining.... Kinn's hand is above... Because he has the Upper hand... Literally

So when he says we will be one.... you cannot just believe that...

because Porsche knows... he knows kinn cannot stand in front of his father... he never did and never will... and it will be their undoing... because Porsche will not be played... he didn't come all this way only to come all this way...

and in his seek of the truth.. he will shake hand with vegas again.... because if Pete trusts vegas... Porsche trusts them both...

and as the time goes and the mysteries increase.. he will lose trust in Kinn..

and I think in the end it will all come down to whether Kinn is willing to take his blindfold off and see the things for what they are or not...

Oh & you know why because Kinn can & would die for Porsche -we have seen that already- .. but he cannot and would not - if not pressured enough - confront his father...

See the full post

12 notes - Posted September 4, 2022

Again, I should be working, But 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

I am 100% Sure, that Korn let Kinn be with Porsche because he knew who he was, and what would happen if push comes to shove and he discovers that Korn Killed Porsche's Father...

it was not just Korn who knew, I am sure that either Khun or Gun knew too

Which results in 2 cannons..

Kinn is 100% under Korn's control, Korn knows this, Khun knows too, that's why he was surprised when Kinn said that he really loves Porsche.. because it was showing weakness to his father for the first time after Tiwan.

Korn did kill Porsche's father... I have no doubt about it, and the state of Porsche's mom is not just a thing.. it's being induced..

I think that's why Korn gave Porsche the minor family, to make an enemy out of Vegas for him, because other than this, both people would get along just fine, and with Pete in the equation, they would get along really fine...

but with the current situation, it's going to be all mingled, and it would take time for Vegas to trust Porsche and for Porsche to realize he has no power at all, he is being played in order to just remain in the dark.

it's no longer a chess games, and if it is.. I don't know who is playing against Korn... because all of them are pieces now.

and there's a thing I noticed and fits with the whole thing I said before that the board usually resets

Loook at the board...... LOOOK AT THE BOARD... this is one of few scenes where Korn is setting before a board and the board has no games...

13 notes - Posted October 2, 2022

So..... let me spare you how this thought got into my head.....

But ever noticed how similar Vegas and Kinn are... in regards to their fathers...

Let me elaborate...

Both boys are seeking their father's approval. Despite the way but at the end of the day Kinn is a toy in Korn hands the same way Vegas was a toy in Gun hands... the method might be different but the fundamental similarities are there

Both have lovers that they should not have fallen for ... I don't think in a million year Gun would have let Vegas be with Pete... and i don't think Korn would have let Kinn be with Porchse if he wouldn't benefit from it on the long run... he had to go with the flow or else all things would have led to Porchse killing him without kinn protection.

Both boys cannot face their fathers.... aka ep 14.... you have Vegas who tells Porsche that what's next is up to his father but he wouldn't let anyone touch Pete. And you have Kinn who covers his father against Porsche.

Taking all of this into consideration I have 2 things to add here

Gun had to go because that was the only way Vegas can be freed... that's the only way he can be with Pete... that's the only way he can be a proper man on him own. And that was the only way things can move forward...

If Gun didn't die that day... Vegas would have lost Pete .... and Pete must have realized that Vegas can be salvaged now that Gun is dead

It would all come down to Korn being faced.. by any/all of his 3 boys... and trust me when I say this... I have a gut feeling that Khun is going to come into major play later on...

It's some sort of a cycle and I believe Korn is trying to Avoid a certain things from repeating which is making them repeat more violently nonetheless 🤔

14 notes - Posted September 27, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

sooooo, it's raining cats and dogs here and that got me thinking..

Ever wondered why Vegas, Porsche and Kinn has younger brothers ? in the spectrum of storyline/Series..

so you have Vegas - extremely bad - a very very proper older brother, and Porsche - Extremely good - a very very proper older brother

and then there's Kinn... who barely talks to his younger brother, the exact younger brother who went into lengths to know whether Porsche can protect his older brother or not..

that got me thinking... who is the ticking bomb here...

it kind of sets all the red alarms in my head, because Porchay and Macau didn't meet yet in the series.. but if they do.. they might be the card to bring Pete, Porsche and Vegas in one team.. because Macau and Porchay have been protected by their older brothers this entire time and nothing and no one will change that... which means that Vegas and Porsche would have something in common already, a middle ground if you may say..

they both wants to protect their brothers.. from Korn and from the family

but on the other hand you have Kinn.. who is both a younger and an older brother.. and let me just say he fails as an older one.. but then... he is a younger brother to Khun..

I know.. I am spinning in a circle.. but take the situation of Vegas and Porsche and try to (CTRL +V) on Khun.. it would make some sense..

Perhaps the fact that Khun is the way he is and the way he acts despite being super smart is that he is a buffer to protect his younger brother as well, the exact same task that Kinn fails horribly to understand and mimic..

I think... the edge here was not about protecting lovers mainly.. that has already been done..

I think it would be a battle to protect brothers.. to protect younger brothers in particular..

15 notes - Posted October 26, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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kob131 · 3 months ago

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I did say it to your face stupid fuck did you not see my reblog?

I hear there's this neat visual novel out on Steam right now called Fate/Stay Night and Saber is one of the main characters and even has a main story route you can play through. #can't believe i'd witness a female servant getting the 'you got an npc shut up and be grateful!' treatment#girl got less than what a fraction of male servants get XD

This is literally the entirety of what you said. You factually did not.

Also implying I'm "not courageous enough" to attack Nasu. Buddy I do nothing but wish death on Nasu for at least half the shit he does, acting like I'm Nasu's biggest defender is so laughable I've met astrology bitches who could cold-read me better than you. Lol, lmao, even.

Where I did say you were 'Nasu biggest defender'? I said you were going after the easy target. I guess I was wrong.

... I emphasized that the bad part was the 'attacking the creators' part and the cowardice made it worse so...

You're an asshole for coming after people who want to see a character with *less* than your fave, and specifically telling those people to shut up and be grateful for having *less than what a handful of male Servants even get*. When Meltrillys got a summer alt, BB got two*, and Passionlip got nothing, and now is just cameoing with an NPC sprite on the side.

Cool. Now tell me where that justifies calling for harm against a REAL PERSON?

Like I stated, I have issues with the big man himself. But I have never once wished he would die; call for him to die or any kind of harm. I have grumbled and moved on with my life. Because I am not going to obsess over a character to the point of wishing harm on a real person. Already did that before, wasn't good.

Also, like I said- I would trade all of those swimsuits (and most of the characters wearing them) for a single My Room line. That doesn't really work with me.

Also "PS Mordred's still not trans!" what did Mordred have to do with any of this? Again, trying and failing miserably to cold-read me cause you think every Fate fan with pronouns in their bio is a hivemind.

Maybe you should try keeping track of your stances. That or not assuming people can't look up the literal third result on your blog for 'Mordred'.

Also, like I said- Pretty sure you were the coward who shat himself when i said it last time.

Got me on the Oberon point in the tags though. Now if only you could see that 'I give death threats to creators for not doing what i want' is not as good a look as you think. ... Like at all.

Because uh....the part about Saber? That was a throwaway comment. A show of my frustrations yes but my issue was about the fucking calls for the harming of a guy over a fictional swimsuit.

Congrats on justifying the original post.

I used to want more Saber content but tbh I don't think they're going to give us anything at this point, FGO is so far off the rails we have a Summer Beast Servaverse Ereshkigal and a month-long Summer event doubling as a semi-canon Ordeal Call chapter.

FGO had its chance to give the original Saber her time to shine, back in Lostbelt 6, and that fell to the wayside when Nasu scrapped the original plot and retooled it. By now I would just hope for another Fate spinoff featuring her, one that isn't a shitty gacha game.

Meantime Passionlip has...the Fate/Extra games I guess and way less attention than Meltryllis, and it seems very unfair to bar her from a summer alt but give one to Chloe Einzebern (literally who besides that gross creep Takeuchi asked for that?). Big boobs are too much but we can put a 10-year-old in bondage gear? Seriously? Why do BB and Melt get summer alts but not Plip?

So we're getting this NPC sprite waved in front of our faces, the devs knowing we want it but taunting us with it. And someone is unironically saying we should be grateful to have the NPC non-playable sprite in lieu of a swimsuit alt? While whining about the girl with 23 clones of herself and a bunch of spinoff material?

Die, perhaps.

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izukuisbaby · 2 years ago

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⊹˚.⋆ OUR FAVOURITE DILFS WITH A FAMOUS S/O - JUJUTSU KAISEN

℘. flora's notes : I've had this idea forever but I couldn't manage to write it UNTIL NOW. my idea was that reader is a model so it's kind of based on that, though you are free to be famous for whatever reason u want 💀

℘. send me a request ! : i would love to write this for other jjk characters (especially TOJI) but please give me ideas cuz i can't find anything :((

℘. gn, male, female reader 💓

m.list | comment and reblog if you enjoyed ! i am not posting at peek hours i would rly appreciate it if u could reblog w related tags 🥰

★ 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎

℘. he 100% stalked you on your socials and knew everything about you

℘. it's also very likely that he slid into your DMs shamelessly

℘. something cringe like : " what a pretty human in a pretty restaurant, we should go there together sometime 😏"

℘. but we all know this mf, he didn't stop at ONE DM

℘. no, his name is elegantly followed by "9+ messages" all of them being cringe pick up lines to beg you to go on a date with him 😍

℘. and you eventually agreed but it was mostly for him to leave you in peace

℘. he was convinced you'd fall for his charms and unfortunately, he was right... can't blame you I would too

℘. and since your first kiss - which was an officialization of your relationship to him - he would not shut up about it

℘. everytime y'all are out in public he makes it clear he's your boyfriend for the paparazzis

℘. gojo loves attention... so he LOVES paparazzis

℘. he thinks y'all are the most goal couple to exist and brags about it

℘. "y/n, can you imagine what other people must think of us : "the strongest and the most famous (your job of choice), they were meant to be"

℘. you have 100% your own ship name and fanpages, you're labeled as the "hot couple" who is edited on tik tok 24/7

℘. I don't think I insisted enough on how he BOASTS about dating you to whoever shows a spark of interest in his life

℘. the poor nanami hears about it every second of the day and is FED UP with it, but his last straw was when gojo was talking about you to a curse they were suppose to eliminate...

℘. he has you and him on a fun fair date as a wallpaper and purposely leaves his phone on during meetings so everyone can see he's dating you... and also to get yet another occasion to brag

⊹

★ 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

℘. HE WOULD BE SO SUPPORTIVE

℘. he will attend all of your shows and interviews, always on the front row. sometimes walking for a show can be pretty stressful for you but seeing his angel face calms you down and gives you back your confidence in an instant <3

℘. ... he's very active on LinkedIn and he reposts your achievements/front pages with a professional yet sweet and admirative commentary

℘. he likes to go backstage before your shows so he can give you one last forehead kiss and compliment

℘. never hesitates to tell paparazzis to back off, he doesn't like his privacy invaded but he will gladly take pictures of you with a fan for them

℘. his favourite photo that he has everywhere is one a selfie you took before a show with a world renowned brand. you looked so stunning and confident, it never fails to make him smile when he looks at it

℘. i feel like he didn't really know you, just saw you from one or two front pages but it didn't click until you told him you were a (your job)

℘. i don't know why but i think you would have met on a dating app 😭 like nanami is tired of being single and he told gojo about it WHO OBVIOUSLY WAS KIN ON HELPING ! and he got to discover your personality first, which is the most precious part of you in his opinion

℘. because yes you ARE attractive but no one but him knows the part of you that is the most beautiful and he loves that

℘. i think he can't help but be a bit jealous that people simp over you so he would never refuse to take a cute picture for the world to see

℘. on your third date, he asked you to be his partner and gave you a ring as an officialization. since them, you've been wearing it as a lucky charm and you never take it off

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juletheghoul · 3 years ago

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Burning Hour (Part 3)

This series has completely taken over my life and I am so happy you are all enjoying it so much - thank you for all of the lovely messages and comments - I treasure them deeply.

So - you shouldn't be surprised that this particular moment on the red carpet absolutely inspired a scene in this story and I regret nothing. Hope you all enjoy this fantasy that's keeping me going lol.

Din Djarin x F!Reader (Virgin reader)

Pairing: Din x F!Reader

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: (18+ NO MINORS) Angst, pining, slow-burn, implied arranged marriage, language, age-gap (about 10-11 years, legal, reader is of age) Yearning, jealousy, fingering/touching / slight dirty talk (slightly possessive)

Let me know if I missed anything!

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist Series Masterlist Part 4

—

You floated through the morning.

Your dreams were full of kisses, of declarations of love and beskar glinting under the sun and it was hard to concentrate on anything.

You smiled to yourself as you broke your fast with warm bread and butter, feeling his eyes on you from his place behind your father.

“Your highness-” Your father’s advisor came through the door holding the usual paperwork, things for him to look over, letters to read. “-A letter has come for the Princess.” He turned to you then with a smile. He was an old man, grandfatherly and sweet. He handed it to you and you noticed from the corner of your eye Din’s helmet turn towards you.

It was a small letter and you noticed how beautiful the script was as you opened it.

Dearest Princess,

I would be honoured if you were to join me here at my home for dinner. My messenger awaits your response and if you agree, I will send my personal household guard to accompany you. I also imagine your knight will be in attendance, I welcome him and whoever else you choose to bring at my table. Ruby as well of course.

Hoping you’ll say yes.

Ever yours,

Poe. D.

“It’s from Poe, he asks that I join him this evening for dinner.” You were frowning at the letter, conflicted because you wanted to stay home, wanted to meet Din in the garden again. A tiny part of you however, the tiniest part wanted to say yes - wanted to see how Poe would behave. Part of you wanted him to do something unforgivable to wipe the smiles off your parents faces.

“Oh but you must go!” Your father’s voice boomed through the room and you imagined that you could almost hear Din’s jaw clenching.

“Yes my darling, you must go. What does the letter say?” Your mother held her hand out and you handed it to her. She smiled as she read it. “Din, you must accompany her.” She was smiling big, excited at the prospect of a match having been made. No one bothered to ask if you wanted to go.

“Yes of course, let his messenger know that the Princess will be in attendance. She will go, Din- I leave her safety in your hands. Take you who must.” It had been decided for you, and you had to accept it. You felt Mila’s hand grasp yours under the table in understanding.

“Which gown would you like to wear your highness?” She asked sadly as you put on your undergarments and you sighed.

Whichever one makes everyone leave me alone.

“Whichever you think would look best sweetling, I have no preference.” You said the words and they were honest. Yes - Poe was charming and sweet, handsome and in another life you would have been faint with excitement at his interest in you but you were in love with Din. He was the one you wanted to share a meal with. He was the one you wanted to kiss in the open - to have holding your hand as you sat together in front of the hearth. He was the one you wanted in your bed.

“How about this one?” She held out a lovely powder blue gown. You would have said no, something more plain but you had to be seen to be making an effort.

“Yes, that will do nicely.” You smiled but it didn’t reach your eyes. She didn’t comment on it.

“I will tie a blue ribbon around Ruby’s neck to match, and I think you have some sapphires as well.” She brought over a tray of jewelry for you to peruse while she laced up your gown.

Your mind drifted to an interesting place. You imagined you were preparing for dinner with Din and imagined your knight picking out jewels for you to wear.

Would he prefer diamonds? Would he like me better in opals or emeralds?

You had a feeling he wouldn’t mind either way, but it was lovely to pretend even for a moment. She placed a dark blue cloak about your shoulders and stood back.

“You look beautiful Princess, the blue looks lovely against your skin.” She held up a silvered looking glass and you saw the reflection of a happy woman, although why she was happy - no one could know.

“Thank you sweetling, let's get this night over with shall we?” You smiled at her as you both made your way outside.

---

Din, along with five of his best knights, waited for her to set out for Damerons home. Damerons own household guard waited as well, having been sent to accompany her and he surveyed them. They seemed competent enough, he gave them their space nonetheless.

It was getting more and more difficult to put the future out of his mind - he knew that the Princess would marry at some point, it was her duty as Queen. She might even marry Poe - he knew that objectively they were a good match but his mind simply couldn’t stay objective. Not when it came to her.

This whole thing was moving faster than he hoped and he didn’t know what he could do about it.

You have to face facts Djarin, you’ll never marry her. You are a knight, she is a Princess, there is no place for you. Maybe you should just let her go.

It was in him to do so, to ignore his feelings for her; to find Gisela and ask her to marry him - have a couple of little ones and pray for things to work out. The harsh words to get her to hate him on the tip of his tongue but they evaporated like dew on a sunny day when he saw her come out to meet him.

She was a gem- a bright, glittering thing that he wanted so desperately to hold onto.

“I am ready Sir, shall we?” She smiled shyly and he nodded.

“Of course Princess, allow me.” He guided her into the wheelhouse, dreading and cherishing every single second.

The ride was uneventful, the road was quiet thankfully with nothing to see but long swathes of trees and greenery in the gloaming of the evening.

Ruby was napping softly in your lap but woke quickly when you arrived, her little tail wagging happily at the prospect of exploring.

“Yes my little darling - we are here.” She was in Mila’s arms when you pet her, the two of you waiting for the wheelhouse to come to a stop.

Din opened the door for you, he was helping you climb down when you heard Poe’s voice sounding out.

“Princess, I am so pleased you agreed to come-” He was striding over, his squire on his heels. “-I am happy to see you all. Please - be welcome.” He was smiling big at everyone as his guards retreated, no doubt returning to their posts. He crouched quickly to pet Ruby before approaching you.

“Hello Poe, I thank you for your invitation.” You smiled as you took in your surroundings. His home was a beautiful sprawling estate. He must have been wealthier than you thought. “You must give me a tour of the grounds - I would love to see the gardens.” You smiled at him as he offered you his arm.

“Of course Princess, I will show you whatever you wish after our meal - unless you’d like to go now?” He paused for a moment.

“After dinner would be just fine.” You answered as he guided all of you inside.

You weren’t sure what to expect about his home when the letter had come in earlier but it was a pleasant surprise. There were fresh cut flowers everywhere, painstakingly detailed tapestries hung up on the walls as you made your way to the large dining room. Lush carpets and plush chairs, truly a man who enjoyed his comforts.

“You have a lovely home Poe.” You smiled as he led you to your seat.

“I thank you Princess -“ He turned to Din and the other Mandalorians waiting by the table. “-Please, sit with us. I meant what I said, you are all welcome at my table.” He gestured to them to sit.

“I do not wish to intrude, we would be happy to eat with the rest of your household guard.” Din replied, his voice was clipped however.

“Nonsense. I insist, I dare say the Princess would be more comfortable if you were to join us.” He said it with an easy smile and Din hesitated slightly before agreeing. They all sat, lining their helmets up before them.

Din barely spoke.

He had never been one for long speeches - you were unsure whether it was because of the helmet, or just his nature. The other Mandalorians were friendlier and Poe took it all in stride. You could see that he took nothing personal and treated them just as he treated you.

Aside from Din’s cool demeanor and Poe’s etiquette, the dinner went well. The food was wonderful and you didn’t fail to notice some of your favourites on the menu.

“I took the liberty of finding out what you like to eat.” He said it quietly, not wanting to draw attention and you favoured him with a smile. It was hard not to like him, he was very thoughtful.

Once the meal was done, he fulfilled his promise and escorted you outside. It was much more open than the gardens back home - everything illuminated by torches and lanterns. There were flowers and neatly pruned shrubbery surrounding the large building. You noticed a stable on one side, as well a modest greenhouse on the other.

“It’s nothing compared to what you’re used to but I enjoy it. The kennels are just behind the stables and there are flowers and different fruit trees just to the right there - that’s where they get the most sun. I’m afraid the night doesn’t do it justice, it’s much lovelier during the day.” He was walking you through the grounds, your arm tucked under his as your party followed.

“It’s lovely, truly.” You were sincere and you couldn’t help but look up, the sky awash in stars. “I would imagine you must spend a lot of time out here.” You let him guide the way.

“Not as often as I'd like to, but I try. Perhaps when we marry I’ll make more of an effort.” He said it with a wink and you scoffed loudly but without malice.

“Oh is that so? Well then I suppose I’ll have to change some things around since in your mind I’ll live here hm?” Your tone was playful but sarcastic and you were acutely aware of Din following the two of you.

“Oh yes Princess, I am quite sure. My home is yours and you may do with it what you will. I live only to make you happy.” He was just as playful and as annoyed as you were that he was so confident in your union, it was also aggravatingly refreshing to be able to speak to someone so honestly - better yet for them to respond in kind.

You ignored it, Poe was charming, that’s all.

Much to your annoyance, the night was enjoyable. Poe was an excellent host and it was later than you had originally planned when you set off for home. The woods were pitch black in some spots, it made you anxious to ride in the wheelhouse while the world outside seemed like it didn’t exist. The soft light of the moon doing nothing to pierce through the darkness of the road at times.

Reaching the palace had been a relief and you said as much when you stepped out.

“You should have told me Princess, I would have ridden in it with you - if it would have helped.” He spoke as he guided you inside. You had wanted to, but the temptation of having him so close would have been too much - and as much as Mila knew about your feelings towards him - you didn’t want her to see you kissing him.

You patted his arm in silent thanks and he said nothing else.

When you reached your room you hesitated at the door, wanting him to pull you away somewhere but he didn’t - instead he waited until Mila got in. He took his helmet off and you smiled at the state of his hair. Your fingers itched to ruffle through it.

“Princess, if it’s not too late, I would ask you to join me for a midnight ride.” He waited for your answer and your smile widened.

“Of course! Would you permit me to change quickly?” You didn’t want to ride in such a stuffy gown - as beautiful as it was.

“I will wait however long it takes.” He motioned for you to go and you did - urging Mila to help you once you reached your bedchamber.

“The soft linen dress I think - with the long shift and the heavy cloak. I want to be comfortable and warm.” You changed as fast as humanly possible - all but ripping the jewelry off and within a few minutes you were rushing out the door. The two of you making your way towards the stables as silently as possible.

You watched him work deftly, his skilled hands saddling his horse with ease. One horse, not two.

“Are we to ride together?” You looked at him confused.

“Is this a problem for you Princess? I thought it might be quicker to get us to safety should something happen if we were on the same horse. I could saddle you your own if you prefer - we just wouldn’t travel too far.” He hesitated momentarily and your heart leapt at the thought that he would be holding you so closely.

“I trust your judgment Sir, one horse it is.” You kept your voice neutral and he nodded, finishing his work quickly. Once he was done - he helped you up and pulled himself up behind you. The cool beskar pressed up against your back as his arms reached around you to grab the reins.

Your dress pooled up around your thighs slightly, but your legs were covered by your big cloak but it was exciting nonetheless. You felt exposed, with his proximity it excited you way more than it should have. It felt forbidden, taboo and thrilling to have it feel like he was holding you. You couldn’t stop yourself from leaning back into his body slightly but he didn’t complain.

The ride through the forest was quiet except for the sound of the night birds, the crickets and the creatures that prowled at this time. The sound of the horses' steps, the sound of its breathing mixing with yours as well as Din’s. He rode through trees, through the little paths only he seemed to know and after a while you were beside a lake. The soft sound of the water kissing the shore added to the nightsong and you were happy that he had brought you here. He had been silent the whole ride, but you felt him take his helmet off behind you and secure it somehow to the saddle.

“You should know that you looked exceptionally lovely today Princess, blue is your colour.” His breath tickled your neck and you shivered. You turned slightly to look back but you couldn’t fully face him, the angle awkward but he kissed you just under your ear to let you know it was okay.

“I thank you Sir, I hoped you would like it.” You leaned back into his arms to tuck your head under his chin.

“You wore that for me? I thought you wore it for Dameron.” His hands came up to hold onto your arms as he pressed little kisses to your neck.

“I always dress for you.” You left it at that, hoping he would understand that despite everything- he was the one you wanted.

“Can I confess something?” His hand came up to slowly undo the cloak tied at your throat.

“Yes, anything.” You answered almost breathlessly, watching his hands open up the cloak to expose your shoulders, the skin of your thighs poking out where the dress had bunched up even more.

“You might think me wicked but, I thought about what it would be like to kiss you.” His hand trailed down as he spoke, rubbing at your thighs over your dress and you watched them in the low light of the moon, mesmerized.

“You’ve kissed me before Sir, you could kiss me now.” You turned a little more but he stopped you.

“I wasn’t thinking about kissing your mouth lovely girl, I was thinking about kissing you somewhere else.” His hands slowly gathered the fabric of your dress, bunching it in his fist - lifting it inch by inch to bare your legs to him. “May I show you where I want to kiss you?” He stopped but you clung onto his arms around you.

“Yes - please show me.” You felt is other hand join the fray and soon he had exposed your lower half to the cool night air. Your undergarments were damp you knew it - the arousal pooling low in your belly at the thought that he might touch you where you most wanted him to. He didn’t disappoint.

His hand trailed up your inner thigh lightly, slowly, up until he skillfully slid it into your undergarments. He groaned deep in his chest when he touched your bare sex.

“Right here. I long to kiss you, taste you here.” His touch was feather light on the lips of your womanhood, slipping along the seam of you. You whimpered, no one had ever touched you here and you felt the slick dripping out of you as you let him explore. “Would you let me Princess? Would you let me bury my tongue right here?” He dipped his fingers low, parting you slightly to dip his fingers just at the entrance - collecting your arousal onto his fingers before slipping them out and bringing them to his mouth behind you. You moaned at the sound of him sucking you off of them and you nodded frantically.

“Yes Din, I would let you - I’m yours.” You moaned the words and his other hand held you in place.

“And I am yours.” He responded before bringing his hand back to where you craved it, this time he spread the lips of your cunt open wide, honing his middle finger on the pearl of your sex. He rubbed tight, slow circles around it and you moaned - trying desperately to open your legs wider. He chuckled darkly behind you.

“Does that feel good Princess?” He turned your face with his other hand, twisting his upper body enough to capture your mouth in a messy kiss, not quite aligned but it sent a shiver of arousal through you and you felt yourself climbing higher and higher- his finger relentless as he sped up a little.

“Yes - Gods yes - it feels so good Din, I thought about you too.” You moaned the words into his mouth. “I think about you touching me like this, when I do it to myself.” He groaned at your confession, his tongue thick in your mouth when he kissed you again.

His finger dipped low to collect more wetness and the glide of it was just right, just slippery enough to send you over the edge and you almost screamed. Your body seizing up with pleasure as your sex clenched around nothing. He cooed into your ear as you rode it out.

“You are intoxicating my lovely one.” He kissed your neck, as he lowered your skirts.

You watched him, blissed out and boneless as he licked his fingers before grabbing the reins again and slowly making his way back to the palace.

Mila was snoring softly when you slipped into the room and you were careful not to wake her and as tired as you were from travel it took you a long time to fall asleep. Your heart full of love for Din and a hunger you couldn’t satiate filled your belly. It was a craving for his body, for his kisses, for physical love a woman shared with her husband. You fell asleep hoping - though secretly knowing- that he craved you the same way.

—-

As happy as you were when you awoke the next morning, it was quickly dampened - your father informed you that Poe was to arrive at the Palace as his honoured guest. That he was to stay for a time as a gesture of good will.

You saw right through it.

Your parents had decided that Poe was the suitor they wanted for you and they weren’t being at all subtle.

They informed you with big smiles on their faces, no doubt in hopes of pushing you towards him. It was exhausting - this constant reminder that you would never be truly free to live the life you wanted with Din.

When Poe arrived, he was happy - taking this as a sign that he was winning you over.

“Greetings Princess, I cannot tell you how happy I am to be able to spend more time with you.” He was all smiles and you had no choice but to smile back.

“It will be interesting for sure.” With the way you felt about Din, the intense desire to be around him was at the forefront of your mind. As well as the way Din behaved around Poe, it would definitely be interesting to say the least.

—

Your father invited Poe to dine at your private table, and he engaged him in conversation almost the whole night. They spoke of the future, of how Poe would help rule if he were indeed to marry you. Your mother smiled silently, happy to let the conversation center around the two of you.

Din stood still behind your fathers chair and you wanted nothing more than to pull him to sit with you. To talk to him, kiss him and feed him from your own plate.

“I would want to help people to be quite honest, extend a hand to those that aren’t as fortunate as us. There are people out there starving and that doesn’t sit right with me.” He was honest, to a fault like he said but you admired that.

“That’s very noble of you my boy.” The king nodded.

“It’s very honourable isn’t it my darling?” Your mother smiled at you and you smiled back, nodding around a bite of your food.

“I’m sure the Princess and I could do much and more to help the people who need it the most, if she would let me that is.” He had a shy, genuine smile for you, tentatively reaching over and taking your hand in his. You couldn’t very well snatch it back but you felt Din’s eyes burning into the interaction.

This could get messy.

“Princess, I would humbly ask that you accompany me for a walk through the grounds - chaperoned by your knight of course.” He asked as the remnants of the meal were taken away.

“Oh I’m sure she’d love to join you wouldn’t you sweetling?” Your mother cooed, and you smiled and nodded.

“Yes of course.” You let him guide you, Din following closely behind.

—

“I hope I’m not intruding - I know that the King and Queen are very keen for this to work between us.” He held your hand as you walked arm in arm and you couldn’t help but sigh softly.

“Yes they are aren’t they.” Your tone came out a little more exasperated than you’d hoped but he was well aware that you were not to be swayed by him so easily, you knew he should expect some hesitancy from you.

“I understand that you aren’t impressed and that I am most likely not your first choice. For all I know you might already have your eye on someone else.” He laughed and you couldn’t help but look over your shoulder at Din. “Regardless of that Princess, I know this must be difficult for you but I beg of you to give me a chance to show you that there is potential here. I believe that in time you might come to love me.” He pulled your hand up to his mouth and kissed your fingers.

“You are selling yourself quite hard Poe, I appreciate that you understand that my feelings for you aren’t where you want them to be.” You looked up at him apologetically, expecting him to have a sad look on his face but he surprised you; he was smiling - content to listen to you speak.

“I know, it’s not in you right now but I believe you will see me in a different light. I have faith.” He left the conversation there.

——

It was hard to find time to meet with Din, Poe seemed to be everywhere and his determination seemingly had no bounds.

Your mother found you as you dressed for the day - she had a note from Poe. He was asking you to accompany him into town to hand out some supplies. You couldn’t refuse him, not when your mother had delivered it herself.

“Will Din accompany us?” You asked it offhand, your voice neutral - your face a mask of nonchalance.

“No your father is going on a hunt and Din will be protecting him, there will be other guards with you.” She said it with a shake of her hand as she searched your wardrobe for an appropriate dress. “This will do nicely.” She picked out an off the shoulder, deep berry coloured dress that was not at all practical for a day out in the city.

It would have to do.

He had taken you to an orphanage in the heart of the city. There were kids running around of all ages and the older ones ran towards Poe when you entered - recognizing him. He had a big smile on his face as they hugged him around the middle, all decorum forgotten.

“Poe did you bring us anything?” A boy of about twelve years was eager, looking around you to the entourage of guards waiting behind you.

“Of course, brought all of you some good stuff like I always do.” He ruffled the boys hair before he held his hand out to you, you smiled and stepped forward. “I have someone very special here with me today, this is the Princess. Come on over and say hello.” He called them over to you and you saw some of the little girls eyes light up. They flocked to you, asking you if you were indeed the Princess. Asked you if you had a crown, and most importantly why you were there. They were precious.

“She’s here to help just like I am.” Poe answered for you.

A little girl of about six pulled on your dress and you lowered yourself slightly to be at her level.

“Princess, I like your dress, you’re so pretty.” She was smiling at you, her hair was a tangle but her eyes were bright.

“Thank you sweetling, you are much prettier I must say.” You moved the hair out of her eyes and she smiled wide, her little hand clutching at a makeshift cloth doll.

You helped Poe hand out toys and new clothes and there was food for them to eat. You spent the day playing with them and learning about their lives. The women who ran the orphanage knew him and you saw that all of the talk of helping the less fortunate was real, he had already been doing much more than you had ever even imagined.

It was hard to deny the little spark of something that he held within you.

He was handsome, he was kind and smart- funny and generous and with the way his eyes found yours throughout the day; he felt something for you. His eyes were piercing, dark and mysterious and for the first time, he gave you butterflies.

One of the little ones was showing you his space within the building, his bed and his tiny toy horse. He was waxing poetic about how one day he would be a knight. You were smiling at him when Poe stood next to you, his gaze heavy and it sent a flush crawling up your neck to light up your ears.

The fabric at his neck was crumpled and you couldn’t help but reach up to fix it, your arm extended over to him and his gaze focused on it, reached up to hold it to his neck. He placed a delicate kiss to your bicep and pulled you closer. The act was small, but so intimate it did something to you. Melted a tiny piece of you that up until now was frozen to him and he saw it on your face. Felt it in the way you let him hold you close, your arm still around his neck, his hand moving down to hold onto your waist.

The little boy was in front of you now, asking Poe if he would ever give him a real horse and he laughed, not unkindly.

“One day my boy, one day I will give you a horse - only if you promise to behave and be on your best behaviour. Can you do that?” The little boy nodded sagely promising he would. You didn’t pull your arm away, and you couldn’t pinpoint why.

—-

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shingia · 4 years ago

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hopefullyy this inspires u to write,,, can i request hc's of the boys getting jealous seeing their s/o work well with another person on a team/club? like good chemistry with a dance partner for example! (u can choose who u write but can it include iwa!!) <33

✗ HQ BOYS GETTING JEALOUS SEEING YOU WORK WELL WITH ANOTHER PERSON ✗

a/n : kdjfkdjdkdj i love this request omg ty ! i did half hc/half scenarios bc i thought the request fitted this format <3

-> iwaizumi, osamu, kuroo, suna, tsukishima

-> warnings : kuroo’s a bit suggestive (tbh i don’t know about the rest. it’s just... kinda hot? (tsukki’s only fluff tho<3))

-> reblogs are >>>>

— IWAIZUMI

• iwa’s jealousy was practically non existent until he actually saw you interact with your partner

• don’t get me wrong, he absolutely loves your smile - but he especially loves to be the one who caused it

• he tends to get physically very protective of you, so expect his arm to stay wrapped around your shoulders most of the time. because to him it’s the easiest way to show the world (but especially your partner) that you’re his

• he also not-so-subtly offers you to wear his clothes on days when you have practice. and he secretly hopes that someone will ask you who they belong to...

« it’s cold outside. you should wear this ». iwa’s low and unannounced voice makes you turn around in surprise. leaned against the bathroom’s doorframe, he’s holding your favorite jacket in his hand - the one with his name written on the back, and you suspect that this might not be a coincidence... with a chuckle, you agree to put it on, noticing the proud spark in his eyes. « you know, i’m pretty sure everyone already knows i’m dating you » you tease him with a wink, all while also admiring the way his name takes up the whole width of your back. « oh yeah ? » he asks, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leans forward to rest his hands on the sink behind you. trapped between his outstretched arms, you watch his smirk grow just a little bit bigger as he lets out, very quietly, « well this is just a reminder... it better be the last ». his green eyes locked with yours could almost make you forget about his arm snaking around your waist at a painfully slow pace. almost.

— OSAMU

• look, he’s very happy for you. no doubt about it. but he’s so used to see people fawn over his brother that he can’t help but get a little protective from time to time

• since gifts are his #1 love language, he might buy you a workout-friendly piece of jewelry that you can wear during your practice

• he also insists on dropping you off and picking you up as often as his busy schedule allows it. especially since he learned that your partner was willing to give you a ride home...

• it’s not that he doesn’t trust you, obviously. he just doesn’t trust them yet

• and that’s why his kisses - and pda in general - are a bit more « intense » than usual

leg bouncing up and down, osamu is (very) anxiously for your conversation with your teammate to end. because after watching the entirety of your practice, he needs a little reminder that you two also have incredible chemistry together... a better one, even. so as soon as he sees you wave your teammate goodbye, he stands up straight, arms open just wide enough to welcome you against his chest. but instead of the chaste kiss you expected to get, you’re actually greeted by his left hand grabbing your sides while his right meets your lower back. disconcerted, you don’t even have time to say a word that his mouth crashes onto yours so eagerly that you have to lean back a few inches. « wh-what was that for ? » you pant as soon as his warm lips have left yours. « nothing. i love ya, that’s all » he smiles innocently, glad that you didn’t notice the cocky look he just gave your teammate who witnessed everything from afar... exactly as planned.

— KUROO

• passive agressive™️

• he would insist on properly meeting your partner but oh god they better brace themselves,,,

• because kuroo’s the kind of boyfriend that will shake their hand hard enough to make them yelp, all while having an angelic smile plastered on his face

• oh and you can forget being called by your name : he’s going to demonstrate the entire variety of nicknames he has for you. he might even come up with new ones just because he’s feeling « inspired »

• every single thing he says to your partner has to be a reminder that you two are dating. like « oh yeah they told me about this yesterday.. during our date ». just to make sure that there’s no misunderstanding.

« well... speak of the devil », kuroo hears you chuckle, your voice almost drowned out by his heavy breathing. he’s obviously planing on apologizing for being late... but not now. there’s something he wants to do first. still very aware of your partner’s presence right in front of you, he decides to securely yet eagerly wrap his arms around your waist before spinning you around proudly. « so... you guys were talking about me ? » he asks, glad to know that he’s the reason behind your giggles. « we were, actually » you answer a bit more seriously as he finally puts you down, still keeping both his hands on your waist. « well, i am your boyfriend after all... » he starts, interrupting himself to place a loud peck on your jawline. the only thing you can think is about is how awful this situation must be for your partner... kuroo, on the other hand, doesn’t seem bothered at all, as shown by the way one of his hands discreetly makes its way under the fabric of your t-shirt to rest directly on your skin. « hands off, kuroo » you order him with a slap on the back of his hand. an offended gasp leaves his lips, yet he complies reluctantly, thinking that your partner probably already knows everything that needs to be known about him.

— SUNA

• he doesn’t really mind it... as long as you’re willing to cuddle once you get back from practice. if you’re not, then he’s gonna start to worry

• because cuddling is probably his favorite ‘boyfriend privilege’ and he doesn’t want it to be taken away from him

• his schedule is pretty tight so he might not be able to attend any of your practices, but he asks you to record it as much as you possibly can so that he can watch the videos with you afterwards

• and seeing how smoothly you and your partner move together definitely doesn’t help with his worrying

it’s been thirty minutes now, and suna’s still not done watching the videos you took today. he loves to share these moments with you, snuggled up against each other the bed ; but most importantly, he has someone to keep his eye on... « babe- are you 100% sure that this was part of the choreography? » he suddenly speaks up, his eyes leaving the screen for the first time. you quirk a curious eyebrow, more surprised by his unusually suspicious tone rather than by the question itself. « oh, the hand on my waist ? yes, rin. it was ». at your words, his lips press into a thin line, he’s obviously far from being convinced. but you know your boyfriend well and you’re quick to reassure him : « you know, his hand might have been on my waist but you’re the one laying in my bed right now ». the frown on his face disappears almost immediately - much faster than you would’ve thought, replaced by a much more confident expression as his hands start to gently stroke your sides up and down. « mmh, i guess you’re right.... i mean, at the end of the day, only i get to have ‘all of this’ for myself » he smirks, playfully eyeing you up and down until he can’t resist the temptation of your slightly parted lips anymore.

— TSUKISHIMA

• tsukki’s not jealous, he’s just... well.. cautious. or at least that’s what he tells you

• but, deep down, he knows that simple cautiousness wouldn’t make spend his days and nights stressing about this new partner of yours...

• so, after a few weeks, his impassible facade starts to crumble a little bit. nothing too extreme, but just enough to let your partner know that you’re taken.

• and he knows he doesn’t need to do much : one of his signature scornful looks is more than enough. especially when he’s staring at your partner dead in the eyes while you’re greeting him with a hug and a kiss after your practice

« tsukishima kei, i’m waiting for an explanation ». with a sigh, your boyfriend drops his book on the table, turning his chair around to face you. « i don’t have one, i already told you. you told me to introduce myself, and i did. end of story ». you both know that tsukki did not just ‘introduce himself’ like any other human being would have done. and that’s precisely what you’re trying to make him admit - because your partner looked genuinely scared during practice today. « wha- no, i didn’t look down on him. it’s not my fault he’s so short... » he mumbles under his breath, trying his best to avoid any eye contact with you. but you know that only a slight tilt of his chin upwards is enough to make his eyes lock with yours - and that this is enough to have him admit anything. « you’re jealous, kei. and it’s painfully obvious by the way... » you smirk - but this smirk disappears in a split second as he slowly gets up from his chair, towering over you like he usually does. « ok, maybe i am. but i just wanted to make sure that he knew his place. and especially mine » he finally admits, his lips spreading in a scornful smirk that would be terrifying if his eyes weren’t filled with the infinite tenderness he has always felt for you.

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#i only have 2 requests left besties :o #so uh- ask away ig <3 #(reading the rules before would be : 😻😻 ngl)#haikyuu!!#haikyuu!! x reader #iwaizumi hajime x reader #miya osamu x reader #kuroo tetsurou x reader #suna rintarou x reader #tsukishima kei x reader #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu fluff

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jo-harrington · 2 years ago

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Bluey. I don't even know how to begin this reblog/review with anything other than "Wow."

Before I continue...having an OC with a 2nd Person POV...not a xReader fic...this is how I got into fanfiction. Way back in the quizilla days, this was what I was reading. And it's very interesting and almost welcoming to come back into it now, and I really do applaud you and the other authors that I've seen do it more recently because it isn't as popular. But as I've said many times, it's your fic, you do what you want. No need to replace names here, I want the Authentic Bluey Experience. With the hint of personal nostalgia.

Every time you introduce us to a new story...I think I said it at the end of TKYM, you open a door to another time and place that...we are only getting the special footprint of a moment in time (like any story right? haha) but it's when we open the door...that we are seeing and feeling everything in this universe for the first time. And you always do it so beautifully with your descriptive words. I don't just see things in my minds eye, all of my senses are there...I am thinking what our main character is thinking. I love it so much. You do it in such a way. UGH I am such a Bluey Stan.

There are so many good scenes, good things that I can obsess over. The religious references...the whole body image thing in the thrift shop/dressing room and the story and the imagery told there...

And I know there are many questions that need to be answered. It's honestly all so good. But I need to just...I've been, of course, reading our friends reviews of the first chapter too and yes that's influenced some of what I'm writing right now...there was just one thing that stood out to me while reading that I need to dig deeper into:

The food.

Obviously she's gonna be a waitress and you've already included the whole "diner's signature dish" in the synopsis but...the food. I love that the food is as much of a character if not more of a character in this story than some of the human beings. The way that Emmy describes it, the way she connects it to other people (the symbolism of Ma and Pa's favorite breakfast foods foreshadowing their personalities--I wonder what Paul's was), the way that it soothes her more than people do.

The way that it tells of her trauma--the "single midday meal?" Which I was immediately on alert like...yes she needs to spend money on accommodations and getting places and all of that, and yes it's easier to just stop once than multiple times...but then partnered with her body image issues, partnered with the imagery in the fitting room...they become excuses for one another. And then being so hungry to the point of dizziness...only to control herself in case someone is watching. Watching her eat her favorite meal of the day. I know we all do that, we all feel eyes on us that aren't there. But the phantom eyes. Those phantom voices. Saying such hurtful things...

I'm projecting.

Most importantly...the way the food can disappoint. The way it can leave her still wanting. That Pecan Pie that can just be the slice of home, the slice of her old life that she left behind. She knows that the trailer isn't her home either. She's been driving and driving. The clothes don't fit. Nothing is familiar. Nothing is comfortable. Everything that she's put her faith in God to get her to her new home...and here is a Pecan Pie!? And it just isn't good...it falls. short.

And the doubts begin to creep in as she notices that everything that looks fine but actually isn't. Nothing is as good as her memories of home will be, that feeling of home.

And then Eddie, which I don't even want to...oof. We get so little of him but...OOF. I don't have the willpower to go into it at 1:30 in the morning babe. But my synapses are firing and the thoughts are churning. I will dream of sassy flirty line cook!Eddie who is just faking his way through a post-Upside Down world. I love him your honor.

I know you mentioned how much of a mental and emotional toll is taking on you as you write. And I'm sure with all of the other fics too...but I can feel it. It's palpable. Because it's an emotional toll to read--at least personally--but it is such a fulfilling one. SO I hope you very much do know how much I enjoyed reading this and how it's already getting me thinking and blinking and rereading, just like all of your other fics do.

Bluey. You are well on your way to having done it again. Congratulations on the beginning of another whammy of a series.

new skin

The diner’s signature dish: Fresh-baked soft pretzel knots with sweet Georgia peach jam, topped with bitter trauma. Recipe includes a dash of pining, a sprinkle of faith, and a generous heap of healing love.

Linecook!Eddie x Waitress!Reader. 60s Diner. Slow Burn.

Follows canon, except Eddie lives, and Vecna is defeated after causing the 'earthquake'. This is written in second person 'x reader' format, but you've been given a name. The name and nicknames that appear throughout the story are listed below; use the InteractiveFics extension to replace them if you'd like!

full name: emmaline louise. nicknames: emma, emmy

18+ for mature themes. mentions of blood, numerous Christian religious references, disordered eating habits, anxiety, references to emotional abuse and manipulation, body image issues, internalized fatphobia

one: an empty room (10.3k) | next | masterlist | playlist | AO3

You surrounded me

and my windows are breaking

Something is rotten inside of me

I have to find it and

cut it out

House Song — Searows

It was a mortal man who drove you away but divine providence that guided you to Hawkins.

You’d been dropping off the key to your motel room when you saw it: a cockeyed paper pamphlet in the dusty wooden holder mounted beneath the counter. Stuffed beside “Indiana Caverns” and “The World’s Largest Ball of Paint,” it advertised a place where fissures had unfurled like the spindly legs of a spider, all radiating out from the center square. ‘Visit the town that hosts the gates of Hell,’ it read. You knew the town couldn’t really host the gate of Hell because Hell is a lake of fire and not a crack in the earth, though even the thought made a chill of foreboding shudder through you. Still, as you gazed at the name written in big red letters across the faded paper, you rolled it around in your mouth, seeing how it felt against your molars and exploring the way it tasted on your tongue.

Hawkins.

You’d expected bitterness. Ash and fire and brimstone, if the leaflet was to be believed. Instead, Hawkins tasted of pine, of sweet corn, and drugstore laundry powder. And that was odd, certainly. But maybe odd was what you needed— something wholly unfamiliar, nerve-wracking in its foreignness but peaceful in the knowledge that, if nothing else, you know he would never expect you to escape to somewhere like this.

You’d been cutting a path from your home in Georgia due north, aimless and wandering, restless like a frightened prey animal consumed with nothing but thoughts of flee, flee, flee. The instinct had brought you from parking lot to roadside fuel-pump to motel six day after day, bouncing as the stacks in the cashbox wedged beneath the passenger seat began to dwindle. A pawn shop helped resupply your reserves, and your ring finger was lighter for it, but the running is beginning to wear on you. And there's just something about the taste of Hawkins lingering in your mouth, yeasty like wheat and clean in a way you haven’t felt since the day after Christmas when the bleeding began.

Your fingertips twitch before you snatch up the folded paper from the holder, spilling out into the gray of early morning. You cut a path back to the crack of warm light leaking from your room, where you’d wedged a stone against the metal edge of the door to prop it open. You slip inside one last time before you depart.

There isn’t much to gather. Inside, there's just a musty floral bedspread and a side table with a bolted-down lamp. You flick the switch, leaving the room cold and dark in preparation for your departure. Your few personal belongings are already packed away in the car waiting outside, and it’s with a sense of familiar shame twanging at your heartstrings that you duck back into the tiny tiled room nestled in the corner of the bedroom. The pamphlet crinkles as you fold it and slip it into your coat pocket, freeing your hands to do what they will.

This place is just one in a long line of stark rooms, transient nests that shelter you briefly as you flee. It's what made you think you were aimless and wandering, but you weren’t. Not really.

During your flight from Georgia, you’d stopped in Lexington, Kentucky. And when you drove on, you could have, just as easily, chosen to go northeast, toward Columbus, perhaps curving over toward western Pennsylvania. But you decided to go northwest instead, dipping into the southern edge of Indiana, avoiding Cincinnati and its choked smog until you nestled into fields and farms again. It was divine providence that guided you that way, that bid you stop at this motel for the night, that helps you now discern the notes of flavor you hadn’t noticed back in the office as the leaflet crinkles in your coat pocket. Because beneath the unfamiliar— pine and corn and laundry powder— there is the familiar musk of fresh hay, mown on a sweet summer morning by your pa as soft whinnies huff from the stable. It warms you, though the January wind cuts through to the bone as you scurry back out of the motel room and let the door thump closed behind you. Your eyes dart for lookers-on, though the sting of self-consciousness isn’t quite as acute now as the first few times you’d waddled to the pastel blue Lincoln and fumbled the back door open with laden hands.

When you found that pamphlet and chose Hawkins, Indiana, as your final nesting place, God was calling you home. You will know that in the end, but you don’t know it now. Now, you’re just a scared girl carrying toilet paper, satchets of soap, and tiny bottles of mouthwash in your fists, pilfered from yet another temporary room. They tumble to join the pile of stolen treasures in the backseat, right beside the pillow from Tennessee and the scratchy blanket from Kentucky.

You've known since you were small that you aren’t a lamb— only Jesus is the lamb. Still, you'd hoped you are a sheep, pure and white, close to Him. Yet it turns out you’ve been wrong all this time. It turns out you're just a dirty, thieving crow, poking your beak in the dirt to search for shiny things to sustain you. As you stare at the pile of your baubles, the shame tugs again at your heartstrings, clawing up to settle heavily in the base of your throat. Thick like the beginnings of tears.

You slam the back door and climb into the driver’s seat, sitting motionlessly for a long moment as you speak with your Father. You've always talked to God as long as you can remember but never had your prayers been so consistent as they've been this past week. First the waiting. Then the bleeding. Then the forsaking. Then the stealing. In all, you ask the same.

Please, Father. Forgive me.

You pull the leaflet from your coat pocket, unfolding it carefully, avoiding the inflammatory language about gates and fissures as you search until you spot the tiny map and the star in its center that demarks the location of Hawkins. The instructions say that, from the south, you should take route four-thirty-one to route three north.

Your aimless crawling has suddenly gained a clear direction; with it, your prayers shift for the moment. A hymn comes to mind, and you close your eyes as its melody plays in your head: Lead me, guide me, along the way. For if you leave me, I will not stray. Lord, let me walk each day with thee.

“Lead me,” you sing, a breath of a whisper as your eyes open. “Oh Lord, lead me.”

Beside your Lincoln, a businessman is loading his trunk into the passenger seat of his station wagon.

You crank down your window hastily, resting your fingers against the doorframe as you peek out without making a sound; working yourself up to speak with this strange man takes some effort. He has just closed the door and is about to cross around the front bumper when your voice finally comes, timorous but sweet as Georgia peaches. “Excuse me, sir,” you say, brows tipping as he turns to you. “Do you happen to know the way to route four-thirty-one from here?”

The cloud cover never wanes as you meander along the highways that lead to Hawkins. Even as the hour deepens to late afternoon, there is no glow of warmth from the sun; only cold bright grayness follows you as your gas gauge edges toward a quarter-tank, and you pull off to find a gas station and something to fill your aching stomach. You shade your eyes as you stand beside the pump and squint across the street, gaze catching on a familiar mascot: a swirl of hair like a dollop of black whipped cream and the red suspenders of Frisch’s Big Boy. The sight promises cheap food which will almost certainly be filling enough for your single midday meal.

The place isn’t overwhelmingly busy inside, but you still need to wait by the empty hostess stand before you’re taken to your seat. Against the long smudged window, shiny stickers and little childish baubles crowd the twenty-five cent machines, but your interest lies in the considerably more drab newspaper dispenser beside those colorful globes. You aren’t quite at your destination yet, but you’re close enough that local ads will likely provide you with a taste of your chosen home before you reach it. You purchase one quickly, wedging the newspaper under your arm and jumping almost guiltily when the hostess returns and finally chirps a greeting at you. You feel as if you’ve done something wrong as you trail after her, though as she hands you a menu and leaves you with a pleasant smile, she implies nothing of the sort.

You don’t spend long perusing the menu before you make up your mind. You order with a soft voice as the waitress scratches across her pad, promising to bring your orange juice and coffee in a jiffy. “Thank y’ma’am,” you say, small with your hands folded one over the other in your lap.

You wait eagerly, stomach rumbling in earnest now that it knows your meal is well on the way. If you had to choose one type of food to eat for the rest of your life, breakfast would surely be it. A smile plays on your lips, and your mouth wells up with wanting as you picture it: crispy fried potatoes, eggs any which way, fluffy sweet milk waffles, cream of wheat with maple syrup and cinnamon. That one’s mama’s favorite. Pa’s is country fried steak, with a crunchy crust but tender and pink inside. Paul’s is—

You hedge from the thought, skipping quickly along to yours: dense, crumbly biscuits and thick, well-seasoned gravy, with little savory bits of sausage mixed in. They hadn’t had that here, so you ordered the pancakes and sausage links with a side of over-easy eggs, plus the coffee and orange juice. You’d gotten into the habit of eating once a day, mostly because it was easier to eat one big meal than try to stop for several smaller ones. That means that, as you sit there waiting, the scents of the kitchen and the clinking of silverware quickly become a dizzying reminder of your hunger, one that necessitates a distraction. So you spread the newspaper out against the table, turning each page slowly as you scan for the town that tastes of fresh laundry and hay.

You spot it once you reach the classifieds. It’s in an ad blazoned with one bold word across the top: vacancy. Forest Hills Trailer Park, the paper reads. Ready-to-move-in trailers, spacious for singles and small families. Just a five-minute drive from downtown Hawkins. In tiny font, tiny enough that you need to scrunch your nose and draw your face close to the paper to read it, the ad remarks, No background check or references required. First month’s rent plus deposit due at lease signing.

Forest Hills Trailer Park will clearly be a far cry from what you’ve left behind, but it checks all the necessary boxes, especially the most important ones.

You fold the newspaper, creasing it carefully with your fingernails before tearing bit by bit along that manufactured edge until the advertisement comes free. You’ve just carefully deposited the clipping into your pocket as the food comes, steaming and succulent, making your mouth instantly water.

“How’s it look?” Your waitress asks as if you aren’t itching to pounce on the plate the second she goes away, devouring your sustenance like a starved animal.

“Looks great,” you assure her, tiny and sweet and small and docile. “Thank you so much.”

But even once she leaves you to it, your manners forbid you from such a thing. You keep your elbows off the table and cut the pancakes with little even saws of your knife, spearing each square daintily with your fork before raising it to your lips. You eat your meal as if everyone around you is watching, even though no one is.

When your waitress returns with a refill for your coffee, you ask her for directions to Hawkins. For the first time, her eyes rove over you, taking in the winter coat you haven’t removed and the glinting silver cross at the base of your throat that peeks above the collar of your starchy dress. She squints at you and asks, “What, ya visitin’ family?”

When you don’t reply, she gestures with the coffee pot. “Take thirty-five west and keep drivin’ ‘til you reach the barn with the cow out front. Then turn left there. Y’can’t miss it.”

The ‘cow out front’ turns out to be a cow statue, bigger than any real cow you’ve ever seen and certainly not one you could miss, as she said. You slow and turn left, finally abandoning the highway for a scenic road lined with pine trees that stand like silent sentinels as you carefully guide your vehicle along the road to…

Home.

Your new home.

Now that it feels so imminent— this decision you’ve made to build your nest at the feet of the supposed ‘gate of hell’— doubt begins to creep in, freezing at the edges of your ribs and creeping toward your center. You’ve driven more than twelve hours from your origin-place, and America is vast— so vast— with more motels than stars you can count across the expanse of the sky on a clear summer’s night.

And you’ve set your mind on this place because you saw it in a pamphlet?

Your fingers tremble as you pass tree after tree, branch after branch, leaf after leaf, a sea of unending forest stretching to enclose you and the road you follow. Might as well’ve spun myself around at the treeline, pointed a finger, and started walking, you think to yourself, the leather of the wheel creaking under your wringing hands. It is one thing to run aimlessly; it is quite another to plop yourself down the same way.

'Trust in the LORD with all your heart; and lean not unto your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct your paths.'

“Proverbs,” you whisper, your trembling beginning to subside with each exhaled word that passes through your lips. “Chapter three, verses five and six.” The fingers of one hand unpeel from the steering wheel to clasp instead around the silver at your throat. And by the time your fingers have warmed the metal, your doubt has calmed, and a sign on the right interrupts the treeline, declaring you’ve arrived.

Hawkins, Indiana. The forest gives way to typical small-town life, though the evidence of what occurred here almost three years ago is still evident in the divots of scarred earth now frosted over with ice, like sharp gauze packing a wound. Some buildings are in permanent disrepair— collapsed, crumbled, roofs caved in, wood and brick sinking into the earth like sinew and bone, partially covered over by hairy weeds that expose the steady march of time. But as you drive slowly toward the center of town, where is rebuilt is teeming with small-town life, not unlike the place you’ve come from. As the sun begins to wane, warm lights slowly blink on inside cozy split-levels and ranches to take its place. Wives welcome husbands home from work before sitting down for supper; children are called in from the streets as mothers stand in breezeways, dropping bikes to be left abandoned in the frosty grass until tomorrow. Despite the present bleak midwinter and the past tragedy that befell them, life goes on for the people of Hawkins, Indiana. That fact conjures a sense of peace as you wander through, searching idly for Kerley— the road that leads to the trailer park. This is the place described as hosting the gate of hell? As you pass bare cornfields and sleepy suburban streets, Hawkins feels so far from it that your earlier fear seems suddenly silly.

You meander the town in your pastel blue Lincoln until you happen upon Kerley Street. By the time you finally reach the turnoff for Forest Hills Trailer Park, the black of night has fallen like a curtain over the vague rectangular structures that crowd beyond the gravel entrance. Your headlights swing and illuminate a slapdash sign that designates the land manager’s residence, and you’re relieved to see a vague glow seeping through the crack below the door and between the curtains, persistent despite the clear attempts to keep it concealed from the outside world. You park the car and hold onto the doorframe as you emerge onto gravel, which you waver over in your low heels until you reach the stairs at the base of the porch. There’s a cracked flowerpot on the bottom step, but instead of the husks of flowers you expect, it’s loaded with cigarette butts, decaying in layers of paper and used nicotine.

You stare at the door for a moment before announcing yourself. You’re nervous to be confronted with the unfamiliar person beyond; foreboding clenches in your chest, but it can’t be helped. A rap of your knuckles conjures the man who’d tried so valiantly to hide that he was home. His shirt is dirty, his pants sag, and his shave isn’t close to even; he eyes you wearily as you stand on his stoop. “Locked out?” he asks dully, and you flounder a moment before replying, swallowing to wet your throat and hope your voice stays steady.

“I don’t live here,” you say, “but… I’m lookin’ to. That is, I saw in the paper you had vacancies—” You shove your hand in your coat pocket and pull out the newspaper clipping, passing it over. The man surveys the ad perfunctorily, one bushy brow quirked. The toothpick between his teeth bobs as he plays with it, his eyes sliding to you as you ask hesitantly, “...Do you still have vacancies?”

His chuckle comes so fast it’s startling. The sound is raspy, like he needs to clear his throat. “‘Course I have vacancies.” He pulls the toothpick from between his lips, flicking it heedlessly away. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

When you shake your head, he jerks his toward the doorway spilling light across the porch. “Come on, then. Let’s get this done.”

You forget his name almost as soon as he tells you, but your land manager seems nice enough. Brusque, sure, but harmless as you sign the papers and pay for the first month’s rent. He waives the deposit— literally waves your words away like irritating wings are fluttering near his ear— and explains, “Place is mostly unfurnished, but you got a bed at least.”

You can’t do anything but stand there stock still as he tells you your house number— seven— and drops the key into your open palm. “Don’t bother callin’ me f’somethin’ breaks. I’m useless at plumbin’ and ‘lectrical. You’ll need to call someone in the profession.” You curl your fingers over cold metal, and the grooves of the key bite your palm as he wags a finger at you. “Y’lose your key, it’ll cost you a fiver to replace.” He waits until you’ve nodded enough to satisfy him, and then he sends you on your way, closing himself away again. The light leaking from the crevices is extinguished by the time you reach your car door.

You guide your car carefully along the gravel path, driving past darkened trailers, past a red dome made of bars and a picnic table, past a trailer with a caved-in roof you stare at as you pass. A great crack churned up the porch floorboards, and between them now sprout tall, dry, brittle grass made feeble by winter’s bite. There's a streetlight nearby, but it's broken; the moonlight that plays on the dilapidated structure makes you shiver. Still, there isn’t much time to react before you’re at your place. Your trailer is a carbon copy of the well-kept rectangular box beside it, except the other has a chain-link fenced-in yard at the front. A clothesline denotes the edge of your side yard from your neighbors’.

As you cut the engine, the world goes quiet. You sit in the stillness, and for a moment, there’s just you, your car, and your new home beyond a scraggly dirt yard.

You think of the other places you’d called home before your temporary motel rooms. You think first of your childhood home, and your mouth fills with peaches, with the hollowness of piano keys and the rich dirt from under the wraparound porch. You think of that tall white house, where your delighted shrieks echoed through warm wood hallways as you ran out the back door toward the stables beyond. Your clumsy fingers had carved your name over your bedroom door in elementary scrawl. Pa’d been so angry when you did that, but he relented and ruffled your hair in the end, shaking his head. He always was too fond of you.

Then you think of the home you could call your own— not your parents’, but yours. Yours and Paul’s. Stately, proud, with more of a brick landing than a porch leading up to the dark oak door. Inside are gauzy curtains and rich wallpaper; plump pillows line the couches just so, and the servers display decorative crystal. As you remember, your mouth fills with powdered sugar and water lilies, the gloss of fine china and the silk of ruffled bed skirts. But there’s metal on the back of your tongue, the copper acrid and biting as it overwhelms the rest. You shudder a breath, breaking from your recollections to finally emerge from the car and face your newest home.

In the moonlight, you can see that it also has a porch, but it’s sagging. You mount its stairs, and they’re rickety, creaking under your heels. Inside, when the screen door cracks back into place behind you, the interior of number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park feels like a void of stillness. The light switch flickers erratically before coming to life when you nudge it with your fingertip as if it hasn’t been called to do its job for quite some time. A long narrow hallway directly across from you leads into darkness, with a living room on your right and a kitchen on your left. All of what you can see is empty aside from a thick layer of dust coating the window frames, which are cracked with dried paint, the drips of sloppy workmanship forever preserved in lacquer. There’s mildew growing at the corner of the wall in the living room, and you hesitate to explore it further, opting to head left instead.

At the threshold of the front door, you’d landed on a filthy, matted-down rug. You clack forward with hesitant steps as if afraid to disturb anything, as if this is someone else’s place, not yours. When you edge into the kitchen, cautiously pulling open the refrigerator door, the cold air leaking from inside is reassuring. But when it suddenly kicks and rattles as if sick or angry, the sound makes you tense and jerk away quickly. It’s empty in this room, too— every drawer and cabinet is barren when you tug them open, aside from the dried corpses of flies mounded in a strange pile on the linoleum in front of the kitchen sink. At least the land manager said there’s a bed. Vague unease begins to well in your chest; you hurry down that dark, narrow hallway, flicking the switch as you pass, but nothing changes. The light does not come on. In the back room, the bed is nothing more than the vague lump of a mattress, lonely on the floor.

The screen door snaps closed behind you as you rush back down the rickety porch stairs. When faced with the choice, you elect to wrap yourself in your scratchy Kentucky blanket, your winter coat, and some extra socks to sleep in the Lincoln despite the bleak midwinter.

Because number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park trips off your tongue; it doesn’t taste like home.

The sun streams cheery light through the windshield, and you wake at just after six, mouth dry as cotton weeds. Your back and neck are sore, cricked from their position against the headrest all night, and the muscles spasm when you stir. You rub your bleary eyes clear, holding your palms against your lashes as if reluctant to remove them and see the state of your new home as it was last night. Eventually, you relent; in the light of day, you peek again at the worn trailer with its gray siding, faded and covered with moss at the concrete base, that rickety porch, and the dull brass knocker concealed behind the screen door…

You take a moment to consider but can’t decide if it’s any better in the light of day.

With a handful of your stolen toiletries, you venture back inside, and the screen door makes you jump as it snaps closed while you’re standing closeby. Your heart hammers, blood rushing in your ears, and you chastise yourself lightly once it calms. I have to remember to lower the door closed, otherwise people’re gonna get mad with me making such a racket in the morning.

A quick glance past that closed door you hadn’t explored yesterday reveals that the bathroom is in a bad state, so you avoid it aside from what’s necessary. You brush your teeth at the kitchen sink, setting the toiletries— tiny bottles and sachets of soap— in a carefully-laid line along the side, conscientiously avoiding the pile of flies near the toes of your kitten heels. With minty freshness on your breath, you feel finally awake, and it’s clear what your first order of business should be: getting this place spic and span. No use living in a pigsty, as mama would say.

You take a moment to survey the trailer more carefully, walking in circles around the living room, the kitchen, and the singular bedroom as you peek into nooks and crannies and compile a mental list of the supplies you’ll need. You move gingerly as if you still do not want to disturb this place, though it’s not quite as foreboding as it was last night.

It’s just an empty box, after all.

You don’t bother unloading the rest of your meager belongings before driving into town for your cleaning supplies and other essentials: bedding and bath towels and cooking utensils and furniture to provide you with somewhere to sit and eat. It hits you then, as the ranches and yards subside into businesses and parking lots, how little you truly have. How much you’d relied on others before, how much you’d taken for granted.

Downtown Hawkins in the daytime is a bustle of quaint activity. The streets aren’t overly crowded because the town is not overly populated, but you can take your time perusing the shops you drive past. And you do— your eyes scan them almost desperately as you try to stamp down on the feeling rising inside that writhes in the pit of your stomach. A video store. An arcade. A laundromat. None of use to you right now, though the laundromat has you thinking of the dress you’re wearing, the way it pinches your arms and pulls tight around your stomach as you drive. You’d managed to ignore the feeling during your flight, but now—gasping and huffing on the comedown as you stop running, and with the enormity of your situation looming before you— the writhing is spreading from your stomach to your chest, pressing outward as if you’ll burst, and the wardrobe you’ve been wearing for months now is finally beginning to suffocate you.

Seeing the thrift store feels like a gust of fresh air has been breathed directly into your lungs, and you don’t even need to ponder it before parking and throwing the car door open to access the backseat. After all, there is no reason to endure any longer; no one is stopping you now. So you dump the contents of your two trash bags onto the Lincoln’s backseat and the remnants of your old life spill over onto the floor. Almost detachedly, you sort the contents into ‘keep’ and ‘sell’ piles; you keep your undergarments and pantyhose and shoes, and you stuff all the dresses— all their linen and gauze and luxurious cotton, all their structured hems and nipped waists and darted busts— into the trash bags to be sold.

If the employee behind the counter is surprised to see the quality of the items you’re selling, more suited to a department than a thrift store, he doesn’t show it. Calmly, you pull out each dress, laying the fabric out carefully before you slide it over the counter towards him. As the garments emerge from your trash bags, their associated occasions flash in your mind. The yellow gingham you’d often wear when visiting family. The pink peony was often seen in your kitchen, protected by an apron covered in flour. The blue linen, one of your old favorites, makes you think of Sunday mass. All get passed to the man on the other side of the counter, all but one that sticks in your memory, left laid against the bedspread back in Georgia.

The man examines each dress and punches staccato numbers into a calculator with the eraser of his number two pencil until they’re all gone from you, and in their place is a wad of bills you can use to shop for a new wardrobe.

If the employee behind the counter finds it strange that you’ve sold your department store dresses to buy thrift store ones, he doesn’t show it.

Gathering your replacements doesn’t take long because you know exactly what you want. Your new wardrobe should be modest and comfortable, comprised of a practical assortment of casual dresses and cardigans, a couple of nicer frocks for your Sunday best, and some loungewear for the house, including a bathrobe that makes your cheeks burn when it slides across the counter toward that same employee from before. After making your purchases, you carry the plastic bag into the dressing room, slipping behind the velvet curtain and pulling one casual dress out at random.

You rip down the tiny zipper on the starchy dress you've been wearing since yesterday, and the release of pressure is bliss. Though the cotton of your new dress is a little scratchier than what you’d been wearing before, you don’t hesitate in kicking the old fabric aside before gazing at yourself in the mottled thrift store mirror.

The new dress buttons up past your decolletage. It’s almost long enough to skim your ankles, and it is at least one size too big, maybe two. It looks more fitting for a forty-year-old than your twenty-one years; some might even call it frumpy. But it’s what you want.

Because when you think about the clothes you’d been wearing— think about how, over the last year, your breasts and hips and thighs and stomach had gradually broadened, softened, begun to press uncomfortably against the fabric even after your mother had let out the seams as far as they could go— frumpy doesn’t compare with what you’d experienced.

You remember the sympathy in Paul’s tawny brow as he stared down at you. ‘No, Buttercup, I’m sorry. Think of it as an incentive,’ he’d said kindly when you’d asked for an allowance to purchase bigger clothes. ‘I’m just trying to help you.’ You remember how the ladies in town could see the way the beautifully tailored dresses, once so flattering, now bulged and bunched around the heft of your changing body, especially around your midsection. And you knew, though they were always too polite to say it, that when you gathered with them after church or ran into them at the grocery store, they couldn’t help but glance at your tummy and wonder if you were pregnant. But you weren’t pregnant. You were just…

Fat.

The reflection in the mirror suddenly doesn’t feel like you. That’s not your soft jaw; those aren’t your round cheeks. Your dress wouldn’t balloon so far outward over your breasts and stomach, and your thighs wouldn’t rub together because that isn’t you. But those are your eyes, and your hair, and your lips and fingers. And when you twist to look at your backside, so does she; when you smooth your palms over your ample hips, she does too. So she must be you.

You just wish she wasn’t.

You pull your attention from your body and focus instead on your dress, trying to detach from that knowledge again. The important part is that this dress doesn’t restrict or cling or reveal any unsavory lumps and bumps, and that’s what you want. You pull on some woolen stockings and a loose cardigan since it is still January, and after sliding on your low heels once again, you leave the thrift store behind.

You can run from that dressing room— can slip back into your car, load the new plastic bag into the backseat and coax the engine to life— but you cannot run from your feelings. And seeing yourself in the mirror has left you hollow and wanting, exposing the void inside that begs to be filled in that familiar way, the way you’ve grown used to over the last year. Your kitchen at home may be bare, but from beyond your windshield, you can see what will help you fill it. There’s a bright spot down the road and across the way in the lot beside the general store.

Miss Daisy’s Diner.

As you leave your purchases behind in the car, your eyes glaze over the help wanted sign written in beautiful script in the diner window; you’re more focused on filling that hollow place inside you. And inside Miss Daisy’s Diner is more than enough to satisfy the ache.

There isn’t just the promise of good food waiting for you at Miss Daisy’s. There’s the scent of grease and salt on the air, sure, but there’s something else there too. Something that beckons you forward, light and almost ticklish, like the heat of panting breath, the softness of a furry ear dragging under your chin to the tip until it flicks off. Before you know it, you’ve taken two steps forward, and a waitress in a swish of skirts and a flick of her manicured nails has plucked a single menu from the stand.

“One?” she asks, chipper as you nod. “Booth or table?”

“Table,” you answer, and she leads you to one.

She leaves you with the menu, but you don’t yet look at it, consumed by the crowded atmosphere around you. The restaurant seems almost suspended in time with its black and white tiled floor, the retro-patterned tabletops, the chrome, the beveled glass windows, the teal and white booths and chairs that squeak with vinyl when you adjust in your seat. The walls are loaded with pictures and posters, memorabilia of the 50s and 60s: Coca-Cola bottles, old cars, Elvis and Marilyn, novelty signs advertising products for cents on the dollar. The effect is charming, made even more so when you realize that each table, including yours, is decorated with a white daisy in a glass of water. Somehow, the interior of this restaurant feels jubilant and comforting, like the bright joy of Easter, even though it’s January. Maybe that has something to do with how full it is— though it’s around ten o’clock on a Thursday, the place is no less than three-quarters full.

“Hey there, dear. You decide what you want yet?”

The croak interrupts your reminiscing, and you startle upon seeing a different woman than the one who’d brought you here— older, with gray hair coiffed into a beehive and pink lipstick crackled on her lips. “Oh!” You are immediately repentant. “No, ma’am, I’m sorry. I haven’t looked yet.”

The woman snorts, but it’s all in good humor. “Ma’am,” she echoes you, though where yours was respectful, hers is slightly sardonic. “No need to go reminding me I’m old, dear.” You crackle with nerves, but she grins at you with slightly yellowed teeth. “I’ll come back when you’re ready. Just flag me down, all right?”

You manage a nod, nerves easing as she taps the table with her wrinkled hand and leaves you to it.

The menu is not overly vast, but it takes some time to decide what will fill that void you feel, what you’re really yearning for. In the end, you settle on a Reuben sandwich with french fries and a chocolate milkshake. Though all the waitresses are dressed the same here to fit the theme, you’re grateful for your waitress’s distinctive beehive as you catch her attention, peeking at the nametag she has pinned to the right of her collar when she arrives. ‘Sherry,’ it reads, and oddly, there’s a little doodle of a shamrock beside it which looks to be drawn on in permanent marker.

“Comin’ right up, sweetie,” she promises you.

“Thank you, m—” you swallow the ‘ma’am,’ and Sherry’s smile widens as she wags a finger at you.

“Watch it, you; I heard that,” she says, her voice a croaking tease. “Don’t you start.”

You giggle, and when she leaves you again, it isn’t just the promise of food that makes you feel better.

The sandwich comes quicker than you expected, considering how busy it is, and it's delicious: creamy Russian dressing, salty corned beef and mild Swiss sliced thin, piled together with tart sauerkraut. The outside of the bread is grilled crisp and not too greasy, and the fries are hot and crunchy, a perfect balance with the thick, sweet coldness of your milkshake. It’s perfect; you couldn’t have asked for more.

As you eat, you watch the waitresses flit about in their matching yellow dresses with white collars, aprons, and cuffs, gathering behind the bar counter when not visiting their tables or pushing through the swinging doors to the kitchen. You watch them laugh and chat with one another, and it pricks at something familiar inside you. It’s been years now, but you still remember what it feels like to flit from table to table, to smile and serve, to share in that camaraderie behind the bar, though the place where you’d done it was nothing like this.

Once you’ve thoroughly cleaned your plate, Sherry stops by again just as the jukebox kicks on to play Baby I’m Yours by Barbara Louis.

“How was it?” she asks, and you tell her it was very good. “Any room for more?” She follows up, eyeing your empty plate, and there’s a sudden hot flash of shame, a moment where you think she might turn wolfish. But her tone and expression remain nothing but sincere, so it wanes. Still, you hedge on an answer, deliberating whether to accept the offer.

She notices your hesitation and perks her brows, coaxing, “We’ve got a mean pecan pie.” A little encouraging smile plays on her crackled lips. “Sounds like that might be right up your alley, judging by your accent.”

It is true— you love pecan pie. And that void was lessened by your meal but not quite filled. So you accept, and Sherry brings you the slice.

And you think maybe this is what does it— this slice of pecan pie. The crust all golden brown, the pecans placed so carefully on top, the filling gooey but not falling into a gelatinous heap upon the plate. Your sandwich had been so good, and your milkshake, too, and this, now— this just looks so good.

You take a bite of the mean pecan pie, and it is not good.

You chew slowly, nose scrunched, brow furrowed just slightly. It’s not… horrible. But it’s not good. Certainly not as good as the pecan pie at home.

Miss Daisy’s Diner is so inviting inside, suspended in time, straight out of the glossy world of dreams. The chrome is shiny, the teal booths pleasant, and each table is adorned with a single daisy. The doo-wop of the jukebox mixes with the hum of conversation; the waitresses in their yellow dresses laugh with patrons as they fill up their coffee mugs and emerge from those swinging doors with plates loaded with delicious food. But the pie isn’t delicious, and you would hazard a guess, as you crane your neck to peek at the display of cakes and muffins beneath the far end of the bar, that the rest of their baked goods are the same way: good-looking under the lights, but nothing compared to what you’re used to.

Nothing compared to what you can do.

'Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God.'

When Sherry stops by the table to ask if she can get you anything else, your reply comes swift and easy. “I saw the sign in your window. Are y’all still hiring?”

It’s a quick affair, becoming a waitress at Miss Daisy’s Diner.

When you ask that question, Sherry’s brows flash, but she sits across from you right away, crossing her legs smartly as she asks you a series of quick questions. You used to work at the restaurant in a country club back home, and though it’s been a few years now, you know how to answer them all sufficiently. That kind of knowledge— the knowledge you gain from experience— never really leaves you. When you finish, she looks at you discerningly before shrugging. “Well, y’seem alright to me. Just wait here. I’ll get Willy.” She pauses half out of her chair as if a thought has just occurred to her. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Emma,” you tell her, and despite the croak of her lungs, your name flows like molasses off Sherry’s tongue when she repeats it back to you.

Willy is the owner of Miss Daisy’s Diner, and he looks nothing like the ‘Miss Daisy’ pictured on the menu. Where she appears crisp and plucky, Willy is doughy and lax. You learn that there is no real Miss Daisy, though Willy jokes, "All my chickadees here are Miss Daisy. That’s why they dress alike." He doesn’t even interview you after learning Sherry already talked to you; apparently, that’s good enough for him. Instead, he just rambles about scheduling, uniforms, and payroll, speaking in slow circles that loop back and around again until Sherry cuts him off.

“I’ll get her up to speed, Willy,” she says, and his face splits with a lazy smile.

“Sher’ll get you trained up,” he concludes as if it was his idea.

He begins to turn from the table, and you pipe up before he can leave. “When can I start?”

Willy shrugs lazily, looking towards his employee. “Tomorrow?” he offers, and Sherry concurs, and that is that.

When you leave Miss Daisy’s Diner, your Lincoln is parked down the street where you left it, the white plastic bag of your new clothes visible through the backseat window. When you get in, your pillow and blanket are beside you, reminding you of the lumpy mattress and the pile of dead flies that need to be tidied. Your original goal for the day still looms ahead.

But, God, you aren’t complaining. You swear it. Because Hawkins is a refuge, and you have a job, and the bleeding finally stopped this morning. And there’s security in the first chore you’ve decided to begin your new life with. You’re intimately acquainted with mopping, dusting, and scrubbing, having learned to clean well in the last three years. While you don’t particularly enjoy it, there’s comfort in making something dirty into something clean. By tomorrow, your trailer will no longer be a pigsty, and maybe you’ll sleep in your bed tonight. Tomorrow, you get to go back to Miss Daisy’s Diner, back to Sherry and the jukebox and the flowers on the tables, and maybe you’ll be laughing behind the bar this time.

‘For I know the thoughts that I think concerning you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you the end that you wait for.’

Thank you, Father.

In the few days following your first day in Hawkins, you learn many things. You learn that the daisies on the tables of Miss Daisy’s Diner are made of fabric and wire, and the water is dried glue. You learn that Willy— given name Wilbur— might own the place, but the girls run it. You learn that the coffee maker sometimes doesn’t spit out water unless you smack it hard and that you won’t get a shiny nametag to match the others until Willy orders one from a special shop, which may take a while. You learn that the yellow dresses and aprons might look cute, but they aren’t all that comfortable, though Sherry kindly accommodated your request for the largest size she could get. It's not quite as big as the dresses you'd picked for yourself, but she did her best.

Still, these cracks in the facade of Miss Daisy’s don’t make it any less charming to you. The pace is hectic, and though each restaurant has its own way of doing things, you fall back into that ebb and flow quickly with the help of all the girls, who don’t hesitate to welcome you into the herd. That’s another thing that helps— the waitresses are all kind and helpful, though more curious about you than you’d prefer, sniffing at your hair and shoes when you aren't looking. It becomes apparent very quickly that they’re all the same: goats who bleat at one another across the floor and nibble at the strings of one another’s aprons in friendly affection, yours included. You aren’t quite one of them, but they don’t seem to notice.

You can’t hide your accent, of course, so they know you're not from around here. There’s always that awareness in a small town— even your tables ask you about it. You remain vague about your past, reserved but polite with your coworkers and charming with your customers, treating them with hospitality just like mama raised you. The beatitudes guide your manner: meek and humble, righteous and merciful, pure of heart and generous. A peacemaker, bringing harmony to those around you.

It’s almost enough to make you think you might have white wool after all, though you can’t quite shake the raven feathers that shudder when you return home to your nest with its barren sticks and its piles of stolen trinkets you gathered on your flight to Hawkins. That’s why you spend as much time as you can at work, soothed by the dulcet tones of the jukebox as you flit from table to bar to kitchen and back again until all begins to feel familiar and comforting.

Safe.

By the end of your first week, you’ve also grown accustomed to the back of the house. Even the sight of Harry, the line cook, begins to comfort you. He is large, broad-shouldered and thick, but his movements are measured and gentle, set with a pace that speaks assurance that things will get done when they get done. In fact, his movements are so predictable that every time you shuffle through the swinging doors into the kitchen at the start of your shift, you anticipate the repetitive sound of his thick bull hands scraping the spatula slow and even as he works the cooktop.

So the sight that greets you now as you catch the door from Sherry is quite jarring.

Before the cooktop stands a man who is both shorter and thinner than Harry but somehow far more imposing. He’s angular and jagged, frenetic in his movements: booted foot tapping tile, elbow jutting sharp as he jerks the spatula, a wild mess of curls shaking as his head bobs exaggeratedly. And the sound of the kitchen isn’t at all soothing in his presence. There’s some kind of tinny howling coming from him, some unholy noise that nearly makes you halt at the threshold of the swinging doors before you realize it’s coming from underneath his hair and not from him, exactly. You quickly spot the thin cord running down to the tape player clipped to his tight dark pants, though the handkerchief swaying at his hip— old and spilling loose threads, black and white and emblemed with eerie skulls— has your nerves kicking up again just as quickly.

Sherry’s voice is hoarse from smoke and age but, to your surprise, not filled with even a hint of the same nerves as she greets the man. “Afternoon, Ed,” she says, sounding almost fond as she shouts to be heard above the music.

Almost instantly, the headphones are jerked down to hang around his neck, and when the man spins abruptly from the cooktop to face you both, your chest clenches again. His voice is brash and warm, mouth split wide to flash his eyeteeth as his gaze finds your coworker quickly. “Afternoon, Sher,” he says, mimicking her fond inflection, a teasing grin dimpling the corner of his plush pink lips. “How’s my best girl?”

Your eyes quickly dart from him to Sherry and then back, face frozen so as not to reveal your reaction: a mixture of wariness and confusion since he looks almost thirty years younger than her. Sherry just rolls her eyes and purses her lips, which are crackled with deep pink lipstick. “Yeah, yeah. We’re all your best girl, aren’t we, Eddie?” It’s said with long-suffering sarcasm like this exchange is akin to slipping on an old pair of shoes— worn in and comfortably molded to one’s foot.

The man, Eddie, doesn’t reply, though his smile does widen. Sherry nods your way but addresses him. “This is the new girl. Be nice,” she warns, wagging a gnarled finger.

“Whaddya mean, Sher? I’m always nice.” Eddie huffs through his nose, showily stretching his arms above his head and holding his clothed elbows as his eyes slide to you. Yours dip to the dark stains beneath his pits, the evidence of his toil and sweat that begs the question of why he’d be wearing long sleeves if he’s that hot. “Hello, new girl,” he says lightly, and his voice hums like there’s a secret joke he’s holding back from laughing at.

The cock of his hip, the sharpness of his limbs, the narrowness of his waist where the apron is tied hastily, the stretch of his ribcage against the dirty long-sleeved shirt, the tilt of his lips— it hits you suddenly what he is, just as suddenly as you’d realized that Sherry and the girls are bleating goats and Harry is a gentle bull.

This man is a coyote.

Suddenly, that feeling of safety is threatened. What else could explain that rush of tingling awareness pricking up your neck when he acknowledges your presence, if not the fear that a predator is near?

Instinct drives a prey animal when confronted in such a way. You’ve seen it yourself back at home: hens clucking and skittering in the dirt when they sense a fox, horses swaying uneasily in their stalls when a wolf prowls the woods beyond the paddock. And like a prey animal, your body can either freeze or flee. It chooses the latter.

You squeak out some semblance of a greeting— even fear can’t entirely overwhelm the graces you’ve been taught— and hurry around Sherry to duck into Willy’s office. You want to close the door, to wedge a physical barrier between yourself and those dark eyes and flashing white teeth, but you resist the urge knowing Sherry will be coming in right behind you, and the gesture is not only futile but potentially rude.

You’re tying your apron when she enters, and she catches your eyes immediately when you look up. Sherry purses her lips at the sight of your flushed cheeks and wide eyes; she chuckles, but there’s an edge of sympathy. “Oh, come on now, dear," she consoles you. “Eddie might look some type of way, but he doesn’t bite.” Her wrinkled eyes soften as she regards you, the tease in her voice gentling as she adds, “He’s a good boy.”

You force a smile, but her assurances can’t dispel the goosebumps prickling along your flesh. They don’t calm your trembling fingers as they slip your notepad into your white apron, smoothing along scratchy cotton afterward as if attempting to press out the bulge it makes against the front of your body. Your body whispers danger and your mind does, too. And if the spirit guides the flesh, then you know you feel this way for a reason.

Sherry’s platitudes are no match for instinct and belief.

After your initial spook, your shift progresses much the same as any other. You greet your tables, fetch them drinks, faithfully record their orders, deliver their plates, ask them if they need ketchup or hot sauce, chit-chat just a tad, drop the check, and bid them ‘have a good day now,’ parting with a smile. Your voice doesn’t even waver when you push open those double doors; your call of ‘corner’ is sweet and stable, less tremulous than how you began earlier this week. The only time fear squeezes your chest is when you must clip up your tickets. Because that means you’ll have to approach the coyote, draw near to his jagged elbows, those dark, angular legs, and the abundance of curls that cling damply to the edges of his pale jaw and conceal his expression from your view. At least facing Eddie’s back or side is considerably easier than his front; luckily, he’s so thoroughly occupied by the cooktop that he doesn’t acknowledge you before you scamper off. Your fear becomes a predictable wave: with each step toward him, your chest tightens, and with each step away, you feel the clench begin to ease.

You’ve just swung returned to the floor, loose and nearly chipper, when Samantha hurries over, holding a loaded plate, her ponytail and yellow skirts swishing as she skids to a stop before you. “Emma! There you are.” She beams brightly, and the words huff out of her as if just the sight of you is a relief. It makes you feel warm inside, and that warmth blooms in the smile you answer her with before asking,

“Is that mine?”

You look down at the plate as she nods, noting that the steak has just barely been cut on the corner, not even all the way through. “It’s from table four. She wants it cooked a little more. More like medium-well,” she explains, and you take the plate without a thought.

“Sure thing,” you say, and it isn’t until you’ve pushed back through those swinging doors into the kitchen that you realize what this task will require.

Your throat dries as you approach Eddie, eyes darting over the white of his shirt, how the fabric has gone somewhat translucent where it sticks to the planes of his back. His shoulders roll as he stretches to the side to reach a hoagie roll without moving his feet, which still tap along with the rhythm coming from the headphones slung around his neck. The sound of howling has since subsided to resonant thumping and the faint melody of some screeching instrument, which grows clearer as you edge closer with your plate.

Closer and closer still you draw until you can detect the faint scent of sour sweat, pungent smoke, and something earthy as the coyote turns his head back to the cooktop, still oblivious to your presence. You halt then, feet sticking as your clenched chest whispers that you’ve come close enough. Eddie continues to load chopped beef, peppers, and onions into the hoagie roll, and you hover some steps away until his chin happens to edge left, and he catches you in his peripheral.

His long eyelashes flick up as his gaze flashes to you, eyebrows jerking in mild acknowledgment, mouth soft and slack. The eye contact makes you hasty; you push out your voice and plate together, squeaking, “Can you cook this more? …Please?” You tack the pleasantry on, nudging your elbows forward as if urging him to take the plate as quickly as possible.

You want him to take the plate, but still, you must resist a flinch when his hand outstretches to receive it from you. His palm is broad, with callouses dotting along the meatiest sections, and his fingers are long and ruddy at the tips. Your breath hitches at the sight of his hand’s approach, but all Eddie does is grasp the plate. As soon as his fingers close around its edge, you snatch yours back toward the safety of your body. “Thank you,” you say, and you hazard a glance at his face.

A dimple forms on Eddie’s cheek as he grins, and his voice is warm and brash when he meets your eye and replies, “For you, sweetness? Anytime.”

And then he winks, a quick flash of those long lashes to conceal a sparkling brown iris.

Such a small thing, really, to say and to do. Thrown just as casually as a smile for a stranger who holds the door for you, just a brief moment of banter between coworkers as they cross paths in the diner kitchen.

But the swell of emotion Eddie’s words and wink conjures within you is not a small thing. You jerk away from him, a fierce spasm of your muscles to match the fist of fear that seizes you tightly and shakes you until you’re left trembling. The feeling is visible all over your body— in the tightening of your arms against your middle, the shrinking of your shoulders, the blanching of your face, the quiver of your lower lip, the widening of your wet eyes.

The sudden violence of your reaction clearly shocks him. Instantly, Eddie’s spine straightens, and his face falls. Those dark eyes go wide to match yours, confusion sinking into ruefulness as your back begins to bow— feet planted but spine arching, upper body inching back as if your only desire is to get away from him. All the warm brashness in his voice has deflated as he stutters, “Look, I– I was just— I’m—”

Had he gotten it out, would it have been an apology? An explanation? Would it have put you at ease, unclenched that feeling inside? Who’s to say. Because desperate to repair, to stop your backward flight, Eddie reaches out a hand toward you again. Soft, palm upturned, fingers slack. An entreaty to stay and let him fix things. Suddenly and acutely, your wrist aches at the approach of his palm; with that shock of pain, your freeze finally turns to flight.

In a burst of white and yellow, you skitter and spin toward the swinging doors, leaving your predator behind.

It’s a temporary balm, of course. You cannot avoid the coyote in the kitchen forever. After all, you have a steak to retrieve. This is your responsibility, and though the temptation to ask Samantha to fetch it for you is there, you know it would be wrong to give in to that impulse.

Out of the kitchen, in the front of the house, Miss Daisy’s Diner carries on as if nothing has happened. All is calm; all is bright. You hear the familiar clinking of utensils against ceramic, the swish of yellow skirts and the squeak of sneakers, the bleating of the girls mixed with the crackly doo-wop of the jukebox. Someone has put on Try Me by James Brown, and you whisper the words along with him as you shake off the tension like feathers ruffling to wick off water. ‘Try me,’ ‘hold me,’ ‘need you,’ you sing, the words repeating over and over like the lazy spin of a record on the turnstile. The slow beat eases you back into the rhythm of the floor as you steal precious minutes before you must return to the kitchen.

When you can delay it no longer, you edge back through those doors, breathing slowly to keep yourself from turning away as you anticipate the sight of his body, angular and jagged, coiled tight. But the slope of the coyote’s shoulders is low, and the frenetic swaying of his hips is still now. The howling has quieted, and the jerking of his spatula is slow, slow like Harry’s, which you’re used to. It helps to ease your cautious steps as you reach him, stopping a short distance away. You can see that the plate of your steak is prepared for you to retrieve it, resting on the counter just on the other side of him.

It doesn’t take as long for Eddie to notice you this time, and your chest threatens to clench when his chin turns your way. You try to push out a reminder of what you need. “C-can you—”

Eddie doesn’t make you ask. “Yeah,” he interrupts, “No problem.”

The three words do not sound angry or sad; they do not sound like much of anything, really. His mouth does not open wide to say them. Instead, his white teeth hide behind his pink lips as he passes you the plate with no other words exchanged between you. And as soon as you receive it, Eddie turns his face away.

Each successive visit to the kitchen that afternoon proves the truth of the matter. Since that first encounter, the coyote’s tail has since been tucked between his legs. The points of his teeth have been filed, and with them, over the course of those hours, your fear of his bite finally begins to ease.

So why, then, does your wrist still ache?

ask💌 | kofi🌼 | masterlist🌱

chapter two: I'll be seeing you is coming soon.

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c-is-for-circinate · 4 years ago

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As promised: let's talk Hades, and how acts of abuse can create toxic environments for everyone around them, and also how people react to those environments--and to them being disrupted.

(For reference, I have just kicked Theseus's ass for the first time, it was exactly as satisfying as it was intended to be, and then I got predictably slaughtered a couple of chambers into Styx. Spoilers for everything through that point, but please no spoilers in reblogs/comments for anything after that!) Also, TW for a whole lot of discussion of abuse, particularly verbal and emotional abuse, and abusive familyworkplace dynamics.

Okay, so. To start out with, Hades is an abusive parent. He engages in innumerable acts of verbal and emotional abuse towards his son, because yep, that's what you call it when a parent constantly berates and belittles their kid for every perceived failure, including the ones the parent themselves could have prevented. Sometimes especially the ones the parent could have prevented. Zagreus failed at his office clerk job because Hades refused to teach him how to do it and then blamed him for not already knowing how. Cerberus tore up the lounge because Hades, who was actually there, chose not to stop him. Hades created, possibly deliberately, and then took full advantage of every opportunity he saw to insult and demean his kid, and the clerk job flashback shows us that he was doing so even before the escape attempts started. I'm pretty sure we're all on the same page here, but: yep, that all constitutes abuse, even if they're gods. Even if Hades has reasons for Being Like That. Even if you think Zagreus seems okay and unharmed by it (which: repeatedly throwing yourself into a gauntlet of violence that inevitably ends in your own pain and death because you're so desperate to escape home, not actually an indicator of someone who's okay). We all good on that?

Cool. Because I'm not really here to talk about how Hades' abuse directly impacts Zagreus right now (although there's for sure an essay in that too). I'm thinking about how it impacts everybody else.

Hades isn't as obviously unreasonable with anybody else in his kingdom the way he is with his kid. When we see him lecture somebody else, it's usually for an actual failure to do their job: Hypnos for literally falling asleep on the job and not doing anything that was assigned to him, Megaera for letting us past her so many time, Orpheus for being a court bard who refuses to sing. His attitude is super confrontational and unpleasant, but on the surface it doesn't necessarily look as fucked-up. Thing is, though, whether any individual act of aggression towards an employee/family member is justified or not (I would generally argue 'not', because aggression towards employees/family members is, y'know, not justifiable)--it's not about the individual acts. It's about the entire cultivated atmosphere of toxicity and abuse.

One of the very first things Meg ever says to us is, "I'd rather be on your bad side than his." Up until that point, we've got no reason to believe Meg has any history whatsoever of fucking up at her job. In fact, we've got plenty of reason to believe she's good at it. She's fiercely proud of it, she's frequently Employee Of The [Time Period], and we've apparently never even met her sisters because she handles her shit herself. But she's still scared of Hades. Dusa, who is an anxious wreck at all times because oh god what if she gets fired what if she gets fired what if she gets fired, in spite of apparently being absolutely exemplary at her job, is scared of Hades. Every single shade in the Hall is clearly terrified of Hades, and it's not because of what he's done to each of them. It's what they've seen him do to other people.

Which is how toxic environments work, whether they're work environments or families. The Court of Hades is of course both, always, with the bonus hell layer of you can't quit even if you DIE. An abuser in authority doesn't have to target you in order to make you feel scared, cowed, and desperate to please them. Humans (and gods who are basically extra-powerful humans) are good at learning by example. The residents of the Court get the picture.

So this Court is a minefield--and everyone except Zagreus is very good at tiptoeing around mines. We see it in Meg, so desperate to do her job well. We see that Hypnos very clearly does not give a shit about anything, but he still makes sure to have a list of excuses ready if/when Hades ever confronts him about failure to do his job, just in case. We see it when Achilles tells us that my ability to help you is constrained by the authority your father gives me, or whatever the line was sixty runs ago when he couldn't let me into locked chambers. The system, such as it is, works, and if Nyx talks to Hades as little as possible, if Thanatos avoids the Court entirely, if Achilles treads very carefully and knows how to keep his head down--well that's just the system, right? That's just how things are.

Even Zagreus seems to have had a role in that system as the court fuckup. He's the kid who didn't have a real job or purpose. He could take the focus of Hades' generalized, day-to-day ire off of everyone else, without triggering some of the more direct and violent ire because the work he was doing didn't really matter (a LOT of Hades' rage-triggers seem to be related to job performance, which means that the people with real jobs are of course the most at risk). And he could do so "safely" (big emphasis on the quotation marks there) because he alone of the court is Hades' actual kid, who's Prince of the Underworld no matter how much he fucks up. If one of Nyx's other kids gets something really really wrong, she might be able to protect them from some consequences, but Hades doesn't have any layer of supposed parental affection holding him back from getting violently furious about it. Zagreus gets a nice bedroom and the abuse is limited to words rather than divine power, and Hades is a dick to everyone but he only occasionally condemns people to eternities of torture, and only for good reasons like refusing to sing when your job is to be court bard, so it's fine, everybody's fine, everything's totally fine, right?

Except it's not fine when everybody is so clearly worried about anything going wrong. And it's especially not fine for Zagreus, who's the person to finally say no. He's leaving, for his own sake, because he deserves better and he's finally convinced he can have it. And that turns the whole system into disarray.

I am endlessly fascinated by the ways this game portrays different characters reacting to this upheaval in their carefully-mapped minefield. It's different for authority figures and peers and servants, different based on how people are positioned in the house under Hades' rule, and it's so spot-on and I love it.

Nyx, for instance, is absolutely calm about the whole thing, because Nyx has power. Hades can't hurt her. Hades can't even really do much against her children, not when Hypnos and Thanatos are gods in their own right. Yes, Hades rules the kingdom, but Nyx owns the land, and she gives no shits about his rages. And it's interesting, too, to see the lines she doesn't draw. The deal seems to be that Hades doesn't fuck with her, and doesn't outright threaten her kids (because Hypnos is bad at his job, demonstrably so, and Hades hasn't ruined him yet), and she doesn't interfere with the way he treats the people around him. She gives Zagreus advice and support and the mirror, but she also doesn't take a direct stand against Hades. He can't hurt her, but he could make life...difficult. She's protected, her position in the minefield is more of a safe viewing platform than slogging through the middle of it, but the mines are still there.

And then we have Achilles, who is one of my favorite characters in the whole game because of how he reacts to this whole situation. Achilles, like Nyx, is so supportive. Every single time you see him he has something encouraging to say. He gives us his Codex, secretly finds us weapons, trained us for years, clearly wants us to succeed. And still he's limited, not necessarily out of fear for himself (though he has to be scared for himself, he knows what Hades does to people who anger him), but out of concern that if he gives Zagreus too much help in one way, he won't be able to provide help at all later. He's still so careful.

Achilles and Nyx are so fucking important to this story because they're the only authority figures Zagreus really has in his life except for his father, and they are so supportive. They're what keep this story from being a nightmare of psychological horror and depression. They can't stop the pressure from Hades and this life in his house being miserable for Zag, but they can give us hope, remind us that Zagreus is still loved. And they have such an incredibly important role when it comes to guilt, which is one of the biggest ways toxic systems maintain themselves.

If Zagreus leaves, what happens to everybody else? Who takes Hades' wrath then? Who becomes court scapegoat if he's not there, and also, who gets punished for his escape? These questions matter, and we see him worry about it! He asks Nyx and Achilles both, is it going to be okay that you're helping me, are you going to be alright, will my father hurt you for this? And they are both so firm about telling him no. No, I will be fine. See, here's the list of reasons about why I'm going to be fine, why my position in this minefield is secure. They make a point of telling us that it's fine, that we do not need to hold ourself back from getting out of this abusive situation for their sake. That is instrumental in Zagreus's ability to keep making these escape attempts without feeling too guilty and worried and selfish to go on. (Another thing that's actually really important in setting up that dynamic--we see that Hades cares about Cerberus, even if he's using him as a pawn against us, and Cerberus seems to be the one figure in court who Hades doesn't get mad at. The dog isn't at risk, and that is really essential in keeping the story from getting too grim.) These people who we care about refuse to let themselves be held hostage to secure our good behavior.

It's also really useful for raising the stakes later in the story--we see Hades arguing with Nyx once or twice, and we see Zagreus feeling guilty about it, but it's also a sign that we're making enough progress to piss him off. After I finally made it out of Elysium on my last run, I came home to find him furious with Achilles in a way that actually makes me nervous, because Achilles does not have nearly as much security in his position as he says he does. (Achilles is such a good teacher/authority figure, because he knows goddamn well what Hades could do to him, and still refuses to let fear for his own situation stop him from helping the abused kid under his care escape his. And no, not everybody has the capacity to do that, but it matters so much coming from the guy who helped raise us. It matters so much. I do not even have the words for how much.)

It's also no mistake that many of the people we find supporting us along our journey are either the people with the most power in their immediate environment, or the least. Sisyphus helps us because what more could they do to me than this? Orpheus is a little wild around the eyes and somewhat disconnected from reality, and he wishes us the best because someone should get what they want and also he no longer gives a single fuck what happens to him. Eurydice has her own cozy little corner of Asphodel, as safe from Hades' rage as anybody anywhere in his realm because she's tucked in such an out-of-the-way middle place she's outside his notice. Dusa is so scared of everything anyway that, crush aside, she isn't any more threatened by us escaping than she is just by her everyday life here. Charon is unfathomable and unstoppable; Skelly literally exists to be a punching bag, and yet he also seems basically immune to pain, no matter what we do to him. There's no threat from Hades there.

So the people most at risk when I flip the world on its ear are the ones who have so much standing that they have something to lose, but not enough to protect them from losing it. Which of course brings us to Than and Meg--who are, of course, the two people who also seem by far the most upset by my attempts to leave.

As authority figures, Nyx and Achilles are constantly reinforcing the message that it's Hades' fault, not ours, if they or anybody else get caught in the crossfire of his wrath. I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing, and it's not my guilt to bear. From Megaera and Thanatos, we get the opposite message--I am fucking with things, I am hurting people, and I need to stop. Zagreus isn't just abandoning them, as a friend or brother or lover or all of the above they're Greek gods who even knows. He's betraying them. They were in this together, as friends or lovers or whatever, but now Zagreus is sending earthquakes through the minefield they both still have to stand in. He is about to capsize this boat in the middle of a thunderstorm, he is fucking with the system, and they're the ones who are going to get most hurt.

I'm so curious how this is going to work for Than, who out of everyone we meet holds the closest role to Nyx's in terms of being sheltered from Hades' wrath. He's the guy who gets to leave, after all, even though he always has to come back. I've seen the least of him out of anybody so far because it took forever for me to get to Elysium, but two things really stand out and I'm so interested to see where they go. One, he really genuinely does care about Zagreus. He wants us safe, he wants us unhurt, the accessory he gives us only grants its bonus if we clear a room without taking injury, he keeps showing up to help. And two, he wants us to give up and go back and recognize how good we had it. Which is SO fucking interesting, considering how miserable Zagreus so clearly was, and how legitimate his reasons for being miserable were.

It makes me wonder so much about Than's standards for comparison. Does he know something we don't about what's waiting for us on the surface, something that might theoretically hurt Zagreus even more than staying down below? Has his life, which apparently allows him more freedom than anybody else in the Court, sucked horribly in ways we haven't seen, and that's why he spends so little time there in the first place? Either of those things is plausible, both of those things are plausible, and yet either one leads to this sense of patronizing, because he refuses to simply tell us. If something terrible is awaiting us, don't give us vague warnings, tell us what it is and let us decide for ourself! If you're fucking jealous because we might get out entirely and you're still stuck coming back here, say so. If you're worried about your mom--and he does bring her up, how could Zagreus turn his back on her like that, does seem to worry for her--then let's have an actual conversation about how many times she has insisted I do this and also how much I love her.

And, right, it's clear that a lot of Thanatos being upset is simply, you were going to leave me without even saying goodbye, you want to leave ME, which is understandable! But, like, he is demonstrably the one god who gets to visit the surface. He's the one person we actually COULD expect to see again. And he is absolutely also upset because there's an Order To Things, and we're fucking it up. We used to be his careless callow reckless friend who could talk back to Hades and get away with it, and now we're not, and everything is changing and we might leave him altogether, and we might leave him alone in that court without us, and he hates it.

Is it a short-sighted, selfish fear on his part? Yes, absolutely. Even if he's not scared of Hades on his own behalf, he is still frightened by what happens if we upset this system--and maybe it's the sanctity of a much bigger system than the Underworld that he's worried about! Maybe it's the whole divine and cosmic order. Whatever system he wants so badly to protect is enabling the abuse Zagreus has been dealing with for however-long he's been alive. Whatever system he wants so badly to protect OUGHT to be overturned, or at least shaken up. But this is what toxic systems DO. They convince the people within them that they have to be maintained, that a broken system that hurts the people within it is far better than no system at all, that changing the world is too scary and too dangerous. And Thanatos wants his whatever-Zagreus-is-to-him to be there, because he loves him and also because that's how the world works, and those things are all tangled up in one another, and that is how relationships are in a messed-up family like this so therefore I love it.

And Meg. Meg, the best for last, my dear, beautiful, furious, bitter, scared angry tired girl. I adore her. I am absolutely never going to date her, because the thing Zagreus needs most in his life hurts her, more directly than anybody else in the story, and that sucks, and it's not Zag's fault but they still shouldn't be together. Meg has taken more injury from this situation than anyone, quite literally as well as metaphorically, and it's not her fault any more than it's ours, but oh boy it has made her lash out and it's awful and it's perfect.

Meg's place in the Court of Hades is unique because she's not dead, not a mortal, not anything other than a god--but she's also not family. Nyx is not her mother. She's very much part of this system, she and her two sisters belong to Hades-the-realm and therefore also Hades-the-king, she can't leave, but she also doesn't have that protection of Nyx watching out for her in the same way. She's not royalty. She and her sisters (if you ask Hesiod instead of Virgil, which seems to be the interpretation the game's going with here) sprang from the blood of maimed Uranus at the same time as Aphrodite, but fuck knows Aphrodite isn't claiming them as siblings. And she can't be fired, exactly, but she sure can be demoted, and she sure can be made miserable in her job. Meg is vulnerable in a way very few people in Hades' employ are. She's a lot harder to do away with than any one random shade, but she's also a lot harder to miss blending in with a crowd.

What's more, she's the one person in this whole mess who is specifically tasked with stopping us from leaving. Hypnos isn't ordered to put us to sleep and keep us in our room. Thanatos can't be compelled or punished if he doesn't hunt us down. Achilles isn't told to lock us up and keep the keys. Meg is the one stationed at the doorway to Tartarus to keep us in. Meg is the one who gets in trouble when we leave. Meg (who Hades knows goddamn well Zagreus cares for, or cared for, who he absolutely knows we used to date) is the one who has to fight us again and again and again. And she's the one who keeps dying.

Again, it's this incredibly fucked-up guilt/hostage situation deliberately designed to keep people from fleeing abusive situations. Meg's insistence on fighting us now puts Zagreus in the position of having to hurt her himself again and again. Now suddenly we're the ones sticking a sword in our ex-girlfriend. Now suddenly someone can point to our desire to leave, to flee, to escape, and say, how selfish. How cruel. How terrible of us to want to go, when we're even willing to hurt the people we love to do it.

Except, right: Hades is the one who demands Meg stand there and stop us. Hades is the one who puts both of us in that position. Meg is also in an abusive situation, and she's willing to hurt us to protect herself. "I'd rather be on your bad side than your father's." It's easy to blame her at the start for being complicit, for being a tool of our father's abuse, for being on his side. It gets harder as the game goes on. I've killed her so many times. There's no way for her to beat me. She knows at this point that she can't beat me. She still fights, every single time, still throws herself upon that spike, not because she thinks she has any chance of stopping me but because she is so damn scared of what will happen if she doesn't try.

In fact, Meg's the one person we have actually seen face consequences for our actions so far, instead of just facing the threat of them. Her sisters are here. Her sisters, who she clearly does not want here, who are wild and violent and who she does not want in her life or anywhere near her, let alone near the job she takes so much pride in. She gets to deal with them now. (Hades doesn't have to deal with them. They're still not allowed in his court. But Meg does.) She gets stabbed, and bludgeoned, and shot, and lightning-struck, and poisoned, and every other thing we do to her. Thanatos doesn't. Nyx and Achilles and Hypnos don't. Bug Meg? Oh yes. Meg pays.

And yes, ok, she is complicit in this system. Everybody is complicit in this system. Zagreus who's trying to escape on his own behalf instead of overthrowing his father for the sake of everyone he'd otherwise be leaving behind is complicit in this system. Pointing fingers and pulling strings of who's more at fault? and who do we blame for this? is exactly how this sort of system perpetuates itself. Your sister always talked back at the dinner table and put everyone in an even worse and more violent mood. Your coworker refuses to work more than forty hours a week so now you have to take overtime to pick up their slack. You're enabling your dad by asking your sister to shut up, you're enabling your employer by working as hard as you do so you don't get fired, everyone's at fault, everyone's to blame, everyone is--

It's not everyone. It's Hades. It's Hades at the root of everything, and probably something big and institutional and fucked-up even beyond him. But even if everyone down in this Underworld does have to be trapped here forever, even if he's trapped here forever, Hades is neither challenging the system that put them here nor trying to make that fate better for anyone else stuck with him. He's just created an entire kingdom of backbiting and misery and people who can either go along with his whims or suffer the consequences.

At this point in the game, Meg is so fucking tired. Every time we run into her in the lounge, hunched over a table, the venom in her voice when she tells us "Do I look like I have anything to say to you?" is so bitter and so exhausted. There was a system, and she knew her place in the system, and it was a system divinely ordered by the gods themselves, and sure it was cruel but that's the literal will of the universe as far as she knows it. She had a role, and her role was vengeance and punishment and violence against those who'd committed the most egregious of sins in life, and there was a point to it, she was the divine deterrent to convince people not to do those things, and that was just, and that was right. The GODS THEMSELVES said so. How do you argue with that? You can't possibly argue with that!

And Zagreus is arguing with that. In trying to leave, he's questioning the unbreakable rule that nothing in the Underworld ever gets to leave it. In disobeying his father to do so, he's questioning the unbreakable rule that what the gods say is LAW. He's breaking everything.

And of course he's not trying to do any of that. He's not trying to destabilize the system at all. He's just trying to get himself out of it, to a place where he feels like he belongs and maybe a parent who's slightly nicer to him than this one. But toxic systems like this one break when the people within them have access to another option. When the kids find a way to actually leave, and not answer the phone, and not come home for holidays, and not deal with it any more. When the employees have the economic freedom to quit. When opportunities granted by education, money, social support, etc etc etc, show up and give people a choice. Even if the option is only ever for Zagreus--he's demonstrating that an option exists. Which is, of course, the one thing the system cannot ever allow.

I really like this game.

#hades game #hades spoilers #C plays stuff #driveby meta attack

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