#i feel like a switch flipped in my brain some time last/this year and now I can blorbify my sims

[rockethorse]

Thanks to a cute post on one of the Sims 2 subreddits (I don't remember which is the one which went crazy and I'm too afraid to ask), I've become obsessed with the Sorority household from LFT, and remade the girls from it in my test hood to play around with, because I love the WLW cliche potential of two women who (thought they...?) were in love with the same guy getting with each other instead of fighting over him.

They have dogshit chemistry since one is Romance and the other is Family but they made friends pretty quickly...

and this is how I found out that throwing food is accidentally(?) coded as a romantic behaviour lmao so now Sarah Love has caught feelings. Because of course she has

Also I made all of them bi for convenience's sake and my GOD. ALL of them want a slice of Monica. They cannot keep their hands OFF her. SHE'S NOT EVEN FAMILY OR ROMANCE SHE'S KNOWLEDGE. of course the house full of wlw is desperate to get to the chubby booksmart redhead with the "against animal testing" tote bag could you girls be a LITTLE less predictable

[whimsimille]

Our Bond Reaper

Minsung x Fem!Reader

Soulmate AU

Words: ~8000

contains mentions of 18+ content, sex, drug use, abuse of substances, nsfw undertone, established relationship (jisung x minho), oral (f and m receiving), piv, mxm, threesome, overstimulation, handjob, dry humping,

a/n: should i continue?

Chapter 1: Jack Daniels

Hook. Straight to the jaw. Side dodge. Low kick. Uppercut.

Boxing isn't easy. Sweat trickles down the temple, runs down the neck and soaks the tank top, clouding the mind. Raw skin protests every time an impact occurs, and knuckles burn beneath the bandages. Purple bruises appear along his arms, and his muscles shake from the strain of maintaining his vigilance. Nonetheless, if Minho didn't have this outlet for all the accumulated pressure of idol life—the endless travels, exhausting recordings for the new comeback, and the imminent move from the dorm he shares with Jisung—he probably would have imploded or smoked until his lungs turned to coal. Boxing is his purification ritual, his way of breathing when the world gets too heavy.

Yet, not everything can be that simple.

Light switches are predictable—flip them up, darkness dies. Simple physics, no philosophy required. But soulmate bonds? They're like someone took his brain's wiring and twisted it into art. Every time Jisung's thoughts leak through their connection, it's electricity dancing across Minho's synapses. Right now, his soulmate has colonized the space beside the punching bag, sprawled out like some blue-haired cat claiming its territory, completely oblivious to the fact that this is supposed to be Minho's escape room, not his personal reading nook.

Crumbs from Minho's protein bars (the ones he specifically labels "DO NOT TOUCH HAN JISUNG" in angry red Sharpie) dot his oversized hoodie as he devours yet another dusty tome.

Sweet fucking Psyche, Minho thinks, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It's not that he isn't grateful for his soulmate—for Jisung's heart-shaped smile, the manhwa labyrinths across their bedroom floor, even those 3 AM trot concerts that drive the neighbors mad. Yet, just like you know hitting a switch will flood a room with light, Minho knows that every time he steps into this gym, Jisung's thoughts will flood his mind. His complaints about chalky protein bars, his excited rambling about dusty tomes, and his constant mental chatter—it's all there, derailing Minho's focus from the punching bag that's practically begging to be hit, unstoppable even if he slams the switch.

"Min," Jisung pipes up, his tongue darting out to catch the crumbs while his fingers tap a rhythm on the book's spine. "You ever wonder if maybe... maybe they haven't told us everything about soulmates? Like, what if there's more to it?"

Minho's fist freezes mid-trajectory, his heart stumbling over its next beat. "Han..."

"No, shut up for a second," Jisung sits up straighter. "I had this dream last night—we were somewhere old, like ancient-ancient, and there was this feeling in my gut. Like... you know when you're doing a puzzle and you're missing the centre piece? That kind of incomplete."

"For fuck's sake, we're not starting with this story again."

Here's what everyone knows about soulmates: they're as rare as winning the cosmic lottery, as unpredictable as Seoul's summer storms, and about as controllable as a sugar-high toddler. Whether you are cleaning your cat's litter box or running for coffee in the morning, the bond can strike at any age. Some couples are so emotionally invested in one another that they can tell when their partner is having a rough day from across the globe. Finding your soul mate, though? And three souls? That's fairytale territory, kind of bedtime story parents tell wide-eyed kids before tucking them in—right up there with dragons and honest politicians.

What Minho didn't tell anyone—not even Jisung, especially not Jisung—was how that whole soulmate business terrified him. In his 25 years of life, he had witnessed enough to understand that love was a force.

When the news leaked—three blurry photos of him and Jisung sharing that characteristic glow of soulmates during a rehearsal—it was as if a bomb had exploded in the middle of K-pop. The hashtags #MinSung and #SoulmateDuo dominated social media for weeks. Fansites shut down in protest. Other groups began canceling appearances at the same events as Stray Kids. JYP almost dissolved the group, citing "public image concerns.".

It was Chan who saved everything, planting himself in front of the CEO like a human wall and swearing he would resign from his position if anyone was forced to leave.

And now Jisung comes with this story about medieval dreams and a third person? As if the chaos of two men discovering they were soulmates in an industry that sold the illusion of eternally single and available idols wasn't enough. As if Minho didn't already spend sleepless nights trying to decipher why fate had chosen precisely him—pragmatic, cynical, broken—to complete someone as brilliant as Han Jisung.

"The dream was different this time," Jisung insisted, sitting up and letting the book fall to the floor with a dull thud. "We were wearing heavy clothes, like robes and cloaks. The river was freezing—I could feel the water on my feet, Min. And we were shouting for someone... a woman. I couldn't hear the name, but the feeling..."

Minho closed his eyes, his hands falling heavily at his sides. The problem wasn't not believing Jisung—it was believing too much. Because if there really was a third person, if those dreams were more than just his partner's hyperactive imagination... well, history had proven time and time again that love rarely came without its dark twin: destruction.

"I..."

"No, wait. Come see this." Han patted the space beside him with that infectious enthusiasm that made his eyes sparkle like city lights reflecting off the Han River at midnight. “Please? I swear it's important this time."

The older one gave in—because that's what he always did when Jisung deployed that specific tone, pitched somewhere between a whine and urgency. Similar to a fishhook stuck deep in his stomach, their soul bond yanked, and Minho found himself sliding down next to him.

Their knees brushed—just the lightest touch of skin against denim—and Jisung shuddered visibly. Minho was still drenched in sweat from training, the gray tank top clinging to his body.

"Holy shit, you smell like a CrossFit demon had a baby with a sauna," Han teased, his nose scrunching up in that way that made his cheeks bunch up adorably, but Minho noticed how he actually leaned closer.

"Fuck off. You're the one who invaded my training session like some kind of blue-haired gremlin."

"Technically," Jisung drawled, gesturing expansively with his free hand. "This gym belongs to the dorm. So it's ours. Collective. Communist. Like our hearts, you emotionally constipated fool."

"For the love of—" Minho fought back a smile. "Just show me the damn thing before I change my mind and go back to beating the shit out of that punching bag."

Laughing, Jisung folded back a page of the tome. For a heartbeat, Minho's breath caught in his throat—there was something hauntingly familiar about the illustrations sprawling across the yellowed pages, like déjà vu in ink and parchment.

"Look at this."

The illustration seemed to pulse with its own life—the kind of arcane artwork you'd expect to find in some medieval witch's forgotten grimoire, tucked away in a basement. The page edges were singed, as if someone had tried to burn away its secrets. Two soulmate marks intertwined—waves in a tempest, the other dancing like flames. In his abdomen, where his own mark rested just below his ribs, Minho felt an answering tingle. His fingers itched to trace the familiar patterns—identical to his and Jisung's marks, the latter's etched onto the soft skin of his side like a divine signature.

Minho's nose wrinkled as his eyes tracked over the strange characters crowning the page, his brain struggling to make sense of the alien script. "This title is wrong. It doesn't match what I'm seeing here. It looks like... like Latin got drunk and hooked up with something even older."

"Min..." Jisung’s hand crept up Minho's thigh like a curious spider. "You've always been absolute shit at dead languages. Remember that time you tried to help me with Ancient Greek and somehow translated 'divine wisdom' as 'cosmic chicken'?"

"Go to hell." Minho swatted away the wandering fingers, ignoring how his skin tingled. "Fine, they're our marks. Now unfold the rest before I lose what's left of my patience." He crossed his ankles, right foot bouncing in the air.

A third mark appeared from the yellowed folds of the page as Jisung unfolded it. It was a spiral of leaves and flowers entwined with the other two, so complex that it hurt your eyes to try to follow its pattern.

"What the hell is this?" Minho backed away as if the book were a snake about to strike, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. "Where did you dig up this crap? No, wait, don't answer. I don't want to know."

"At the national library," Jisung answered anyway. "Had to bribe three employees and promise a private show to the librarian. Even autographed her planner, can you believe it?" His eyes shone with that familiar intensity, like a child who discovered where the candy was hidden. He leaned forward, closing the space between them until Minho could count every microscopic freckle on his nose. "Min, aren't you connecting the dots? It's exactly like the dreams! The same curves, the same patterns we see every night!"

"Don't start."

Minho stood up as he returned to the punching bag. Lactic acid burned in his muscles like tiny fires, protesting the abrupt movement.

Sweat trickled from the tip of his nose and clouded his vision, and the punches had become unpredictable and uncontrollable.

"Damn it, Jisung." Punch. "Can't we just accept that it's the two of us and that's it?" Hook. "Do you have to keep digging up old stuff?" Uppercut. "You're like my grandma rummaging through family albums. Always looking for stories where there aren't any."

"You become such a fucking coward when you're scared, Lee.”

Goosebumps ran up his arms as the air conditioner hummed against his hot skin. "If I could have a straight talk with Psyche right now, you know what I'd say? Go fuck yourself. Because tying me to this hard-headed lunatic wasn't enough torture, right? Had to make up more drama. Had to keep pushing and pushing until everything breaks."

Jisung launched forward. Through their bond, he could feel exactly where Minho's defenses were weakest. His hands found the older one's shoulders, spinning him around with enough force to send Minho stumbling back, his spine hitting the punching bag.

"Look at me, you stubborn piece of shit."

"Get off me, Jisung."

"Lee Minho."

"Han Ji-fucking-sung."

Their mouths crashed together like waves breaking against cliffs. It was not kind; Minho dragged his teeth along his tongue in retaliation as Han's tongue pushed past his lips, causing their teeth to clank.

"I'm not just some fucking complication you can file away in that brain of yours. I'm your damn soulmate. Your other half. The flame to your tide." Jisung’s thumb brushed over Minho's swollen bottom lip, pressing just hard enough to sting where he'd bitten earlier. "And if there's someone else out there… Well, you'll have to swallow that truth too, darling. Because I'm not going to stop looking.”

Deflated, Minho lowered his forehead to Han's shoulder. Sweat mixed with that Dior perfume that Jisung insisted on wearing—Sauvage, he always corrected, saying it with a French accent just to irritate—in a sickening way. Moving to Minho's nape, Jisung's fingers played with the wet hair there.

"I just wanted some peace, damn it," Minho mumbled against the fabric of his soulmate’s shirt. "Is that too much to ask? I'm starting to feel like a Mexican soap opera protagonist. Any minute now, La Usurpadora's theme song will start playing in the background."

With his nails lightly scratching Minho's scalp, Jisung laughed. "Peace? With us? Make me laugh, darling. As if you don't know me after all these years of sharing a dorm. Peace is for the weak. And you," he gently pulled Minho's hair, forcing him to look into his eyes, "have never been weak a day in your life."

"I want to be fucking weak right now. Just... just for a moment."

Jisung's humming vibrated against Minho's throat as he pressed open-mouthed kisses there. With his fingers tightening on Han's hips, the older man's breath caught. This kiss was different—slower, deeper, Jisung controlling the pace while Minho made these desperate little sounds that he'd deny later. Hands mapped familiar territory, one sliding down to press against the small of Minho's back while the other traced the line of his jaw.

"Look at you," Han murmured against his mouth, teeth catching Minho's lower lip. "Already trembling. Your skin's so hot I could burn myself."

"I swear to god, Han Jisung, I will end you." But Minho's head fell back against the punching bag, exposing the long line of his throat.

"You're wound so tight, hyung. Let me help you forget for a while."

"Han—"

"Shh," Han breathed against his skin, "just let me take care of you."

And Minho surrendered, because that's what always happened with Han. He felt like that antique music box from his grandmother's shelf that haunted his childhood memories—a delicate ballerina spinning on worn gears, twirling gracefully until the mechanism wound down. The melody promised "eternal dance," but the dancer always ended up frozen mid-pirouette, her mechanical grace failing until someone wound her up again. Staring at the ceiling, feeling Han's heartbeat against his chest, Minho couldn't help wondering if this mysterious third person from Jisung's dreams would be the missing piece that could make him function properly, or if they'd be the force that would finally make his gears crack and splinter.

-----------------------------------------------------------

2 weeks later

"Unnie, holy fucking shit!" Bora bursts through the door. Doc Martens squeak against the freshly waxed linoleum, leaving zigzagging scuff marks that'll make the cleaning lady curse tomorrow. She doubles over, gasping, her hand shaking. "I need the special ink. The one in the red bottle. The heavy-duty stuff."

"Define your emergency," you murmur without looking up, wiping away crimson droplets from your client's hip.

Bora always gets like this—dramatic, overflowing with empathy she can barely contain. Unlike Mina, Bora explodes. She paces, she curses, she stress-eats entire packages of banana milk cookies. Even so, both of them try to shoulder burdens they weren't meant to carry, attempting to ease suffering through temporary tattoos when neither has the cursed gift of truly breaking bonds.

On the table, Jiyeon lies face-down, her designer crop top pushed up to expose pale skin. Mascara-stained tears drip onto the leather cushioning while her fingers trace the edges of the fresh tribal design—thick black lines and sharp angles now covering what was once a vine pattern, her soulmate mark. The same mark that tied her to Seo-yeon. After Jiyeon discovered that Seo-yeon was organising a spring wedding with her ex—the jerk who left her arms with bruises resembling cigarette burns—she stopped responding to her texts.

You don't comment on the crying. Several years of breaking bonds, and you've witnessed enough shattered connections to understand Psyche's judgment weighs heavier than any earthly pain. That ancient, otherworldly voice that scrapes against your skull like broken glass, whispering condemnations that echo through time itself. Every fucking day you hear it too.

Destroyer. Defiler. Burner of destinies. How dare you sever what the goddess has joined with her own hands?

"Stop touching it," you say, your voice softer than usual as you gently bat away Jiyeon's exploring fingers. Placing your palm over the fresh tattoo, you feel it.

Rainbow-colored boba pearls explode between teenage teeth. Clumsy fingers weave friendship bracelets during marathon study sessions. Graduation caps soar toward summer sky while joined hands squeeze promises of forever. Then reality shatters—screenshots of late-night texts between Seo-yeon and Eunkwang flood Jiyeon's phone. "He's changed," Seo-yeon insists while Jiyeon traces finger-shaped bruises blooming across old photographs. A wedding invitation arrives in a rose-gold envelope.

Under your touch, the soul bond flickers like a dying lightbulb. An once-vibrant pink glow that represented Jiyeon's side of the connection has faded to a sickly rose, the golden cosmic threads unraveling.

"Two days," you whisper, more to the universe than to anyone in the room. "Maybe less."

"Fuck me sideways," Bora hisses through clenched teeth, her lip piercing clicking against her canine. She paces the room. "The guy out front, Y/N... it's bad. Like, soap opera bad. Caught his mom fucking his soulmate in their family vacation house. He tried to burn the mark off with fucking bleach. Chemical burns everywhere. And my machine picked today of all days to shit itself, and you know I can't—"

"Out of ink," you cut her off, dragging your forearm across your eyes. It leaves another streak of black around them but it doesn't compare to how they're burning from three sleepless nights of the same recurring dream—a viscous sensation of seaweed wrapped around your ankles, invisible chains pulling you to the bottom of the river, voices distorted by water calling your name with a familiarity that makes you nauseous.

Punishment from your ancestors, who must be turning in their underwater graves.

"Damn, the guy's really messed up, Unnie!"

With a sigh, you pick up a bottle of lukewarm water from the table. Cleaning gel sticks to the plastic. "Tell him to come back tomorrow. I'm going to the supplier tonight, after the last client." The bottle is empty in four gulps. "If he's really struggling, there's Jack Daniel's in the bottom drawer. New bottle. Offer him a double shot; he'll need it."

As Bora leaves your room muttering a litany of creative curses at deities you didn't even know existed, Jiyeon finally gets up from the table. The movement is slow—like someone testing a broken bone. Her high-waisted jean shorts barely cover the bandage.

"You're kind of bitter, aren't you?" she murmurs. "Cold. Full of... walls. The true Bond Reaper. That's what they call you out there, you know? In the Telegram groups, on the forums..."

You shrug, already starting to dismantle your machine. "And what else do they say in those little groups?"

"That you charge in dollars. That you only take... complicated cases. That you almost died when you burned your mark. They say your heart stopped for seven minutes."

Shit...

Every Sunday morning, you still recall your father kneading dough while humming old Beatles songs, the flour sprinkling his dark hair like early snow. How your mother's sewing machine would provide percussion to his off-key rendition of "Hey Jude," guiding fabric through the needle. The way three-year-old Hyewon would toddle around the kitchen in her yellow polka dot dress, stealing bits of cookie dough when Dad wasn't looking. Despite Mom's objections, you were fifteen at the time, sitting on the counter and assisting Dad in measuring ingredients while daydreaming about your soulmate mark.

Then came that Tuesday in March. The sound of your father's belt when your mother used it to hang herself, three days after he ran away with his "true" soulmate, a yoga instructor. Following the dull thud of the body striking the bathroom tiles, there was the creaking of leather against the rusty metal railing. Hyewon's screams from her bedroom, where you'd locked her in with her stuffed rabbit when Mom started acting strange.

Then came your aunt Soo-jin, who was dying in her flat because her soulmate had wrapped his Mercedes around a lamppost in Manchester. Then came your high school friend Min-ji, who swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills after finding her soulmate in bed with her twin sister. When her mark turned ash-gray, indicating her husband's death in a fishing accident, your neighbour Mrs. Kim just stopped eating.

To keep Hyewon in school, you worked double shifts at convenience stores for three years, cleaned office buildings at night, and slept on newspaper-wrapped park benches when you could not afford rent. Somewhere between cleaning toilets at two in the morning and paying for Hyewon's school uniforms with your mother's cherished sewing machine, your sunny personality died.

Since then, you prefer your days fueled by weed from Park in 302 and bottom-shelf vodka from Mrs. Lee's corner store. Your nights are filled with casual sex with people who don't ask about the elaborate tattoo between your breasts.

Form, structure, and physical boundaries were desperately needed in the world to contain the primordial chaos that this soulmate nonsense threatened to unleash at any moment.

Much as a jellyfish was forced to develop an exoskeleton to survive on solid ground, you transformed your curse into art, your pain into livelihood. Just as precisely as they create beauty, your hands can break divine bonds. It was inevitable to succumb to the need for containment, to the visceral dread of remaining undefined, so you chose your own chains and forged your own prison with ink and needles. And if Psyche wanted to curse you with the gift of destruction, well... you would make this curse your masterpiece.

"Bitter? Die? Me? No way! They're just stories, dear. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to prepare the room for the next client. Mina handles payment at reception—cards, transfers, divine favors... hell, she'd probably accept your firstborn if Psyche deemed it worthy."

Jiyeon's fingers twist the strap of her designer purse. "Thanks... and thanks for listening too. Not many people understand the whole..." She swallows hard. "Best friends who were soulmates thing. And then with her marrying my ex..."

"Honey, I've seen bonds between twins shatter. Marks appearing on corpses.” You grab a fresh needle, testing its weight. "Your story? It's Tuesday afternoon in my world."

"The aftercare..."

"Right. Lukewarm water, mild soap, three days." You demonstrate the cleaning motion in the air. "No direct water contact. Healing ointment—the expensive kind, not the corner store garbage."

"And no swimming or gym," she mumbles, shoulders hunched forward like she's trying to make herself smaller.

"For two weeks minimum." The machine whirs to life in your hands, its familiar buzz drowning out the voices for a blessed moment. "If it gets infected or your friend starts fighting the severance—and trust me, she will—come straight back here. Don't play doctor with drugstore remedies."

Jiyeon shifts her weight from one foot to another, her expensive heels clicking against the floor tiles. "One more thing? How... how do you do it? Day after day, hearing these stories? The goddess's gift... is it real? The voices everyone talks about... do they..." She gestures at her head.

In the pocket of your apron, your fingers locate the pack of cigarettes. "Psyche's not some benevolent matchmaker—she's a cosmic chaos agent with a sick sense of humor. Some get marks, some don't. It's a divine lottery where everyone's ticket is already rigged. And some of us?" Your free hand unconsciously moves to your chest. "Some of us are born marked but spend every day wishing we weren't. As for the voices and that whole near-death drama? Just stories people tell to make sense of their broken hearts."

Words die before they reach Jiyeon's lips as her mouth opens and closes like a landed fish.

"Save your breath.” Once, twice—the metal wheel scrapes against your calloused thumb. Third time's the charm, and the flame dances to life. Destroyer. Defiler. Burner of destinies. Smoke billows out of your nostrils and you fancy yourself some ancient dragon, not hoarding gold but guarding a collection of bonds. “Just take care of that tattoo. And when you need another cover-up..." Before it falls and scatters on the floor, the ash column grows dangerously long. "You know where to find me. I'll be right here, giving the middle finger to destiny."

The door clicks shut behind her.

As soon as you feel safe and lonely enough, you trace the outline of the mark through your shirt. That cursed patch of skin that refuses to forget. Trembling between your fingers, the cigarette hovers closer to your chest. Closer. The heat seeps through the cotton, a promise of pain, of release. Just one quick press and maybe... Your breath hitches. Maybe this time...

When something—or someone—slams against the front door with enough force to make the ink bottles on their shelves dance akin to inebriated soldiers, the studio erupts in chaos. The cigarette slips from your startled fingers, landing on your thigh. "Son of a fucking—" Pain explodes across your leg as the ember burns through denim and finds flesh. Your fingers scramble to brush it away, skin blistering against hot ash.

Through the thin walls, Bora's voice rises like a war cry: "Oi, shitstain! Try that again and I'll rearrange your face so badly your own mother won't recognize you at Chuseok! Some of us weren't raised in a goddamn circus!"

"Christ on a cracker," you mutter, picking gray ash from your jeans.

It didn't work. Again. It never does. You’re too coward to burn the skin only to see it intact a few weeks later.

"Well, well, if it isn't my favorite agent of chaos." Mina materializes in your doorway like an urban legend, all dramatic timing and knowing smirks. From the recent burn on your trousers to the spot where your hand is still hovering over your chest, just above that cursed mark, her dark eyes dart. She clicks her tongue against her teeth. "That murder-suicide energy you're radiating could power half of Gangnam, and Bora's about to commit a felony in the waiting room. You know how she gets when entitled assholes treat this place like their personal fight club. The vibes in here?" She wrinkles her nose. "More fucked than that time Park Jin-young tried to cover up his ex's name with a portrait of his cat. Want me to tell your next client to fuck off? Park-ssi's been around long enough to know the drill. Wouldn't be the first time you've needed space to..." She waves her hand vaguely, "Process your shit."

Lavender incense—the kind she religiously buys from that ancient grandmother with milky eyes at Gwangjang Market every Thursday—weaves through the air. It combines with the sting of ink and your personal scent to create a mood that veers between a crime scene and a temple.

She moves through your space like water finding its level, the hem of her thrifted black dress whispering secrets against legs covered in Korean mythology. Dragons chase tigers across her calves, while dokkebi dance around her ankles.

There's always been something otherworldly about Mina, but today it pulses stronger, like a radio picking up signals from another dimension. Every word of your conversation with Jiyeon must have reached her ears through the paper-thin walls of this dilapidated building. And Mina, sweet, cursed Mina, has never learned how to shut off that cosmic antenna of hers, picking up pain frequencies that should stay buried in the static.

It's her fucking birthright after all—this ability to absorb others' emotional garbage like some metaphysical recycling bin. Psyche's golden child. The unofficial therapist of Seoul's walking wounded.

"I said I'm fucking fine," you snap, but your hands betray you, trembling worse than that time you tried to quit smoking cold turkey—another souvenir from that night in the burned-out palace gardens, when Psyche decided to make you her cosmic janitor. " Just... drained. This week's been absolute shit wrapped in more shit. Five bond severances back-to-back, and that perpetual disaster Park Jin-young showing up again wanting to tattoo what's-her-face's name over his chest. For the fifth fucking time! Fifth! I swear to god, that man's skin is more crossed-out names than actual skin at this point."

"And those dreams are back, aren't they? About the voices underwater?" Mina twirls one of her purple-dyed dreadlocks around her finger, a habit she's had since that rainy night four years ago when she crashed into your life—quite literally—by falling through your apartment's window while chasing what she swore was Psyche's spirit animal. 

You remember how she sat there, surrounded by broken glass and your sister's scattered Barbie dolls, blood trickling down her temple, looking at you with those huge doe eyes and announcing, "The goddess sent me to find you."

She takes another step forward now, her collection of silver anklets jingling softly. "I heard you last night. Screaming about chains and seaweed and something about a book." She pauses exactly two steps away—close enough that you can smell her bubble tea, far enough that you won't feel cornered. "Listen, my cousin Seo-yeon—you remember her? The one who caught her ex trying to burn down her apartment? She's a therapist now. Specializes in post-severance trauma cases. Got her master's in Soul Psychology from that university in Bangkok—"

"No." You stand up abruptly, your thighs hitting the metal table hard enough to knock some needles that clatter against the floor. "I don't need therapy, honey. I don't need anyone else trying to get inside my head. I just need..."

"Just need what, unnie?" Mina's hand lands on your shoulder.

"I need you to stop trying to save me like I'm another one of your divine charity projects. I'm not a lost soul for you to rescue, dammit."

"What if I don't want to stop?" Mina challenges, lifting her chin stubbornly. "What if this is my purpose? My destiny? To heal what you break?"

Prior to your protest, she leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, right where your third eye would be—according to her endless spiritual babble. It's quick, almost chaste, almost sacred, a profane blessing. The kind of gesture she started making when she first noticed how the souls' voices wouldn't quiet in your head, how they screamed louder with each bond you severed.

"Psyche brought us together to be soul sisters, remember?" She murmurs against your skin. "Light and shadow. Healing and destruction. Yin and yang."

In some ways, kindness has always hurt more than cruelty, so you pull away as though her touch burns. 

Your knees protest as you bend down to pick up the needles from the floor. "I just need to work, okay? The busier I stay, the less time I have to think about..."

"About how you still feel the bond even after burning it? About how Psyche cursed you in that garden, giving you the gift you feared most? Or about how you secretly like this gift because it gives you a perfect excuse to keep everyone at a safe distance?"

As if your own body were betraying you, you keep picking up needles from the floor, ignoring the fact that your hands are shaking more and more and that your fingers do not seem to be able to grasp the metal.

"Here's what I'm gonna do," Mina says, fishing her phone from the pocket of her dress. Her nails tap against the cracked screen. "I'm getting us coffee. That fancy shit from the place near Hongdae, not the vending machine piss you've been choking down."

"Don't waste your time, Min."

"See, that's your problem right there," she cuts in, already backing toward the door. Her fingers find the obsidian amulet she hung above your door last full moon—"for the dark energy," she'd said, while Bora rolled her eyes and muttered about superstitious girlfriends. "You think every kind gesture is a waste, every connection is a trap waiting to spring." One boot is already in the hallway when she stops. "News flash, unnie— Some people stick around because they want to, not because they have to. Some bonds heal instead of hurt. But your thick skull is too busy building fortresses to notice the difference."

Some bonds heal instead of hurt, you repeat mentally, but how can you know which ones are safe when even your own soul can betray you?

---------------------------------------------------------------

"When will I see you again, love?"

"When I run out of ink, Junho." You slide off his lap, adjusting your lace. "And that might take a while; I just got a new shipment."

"Are you kicking me out?" He laughs, that deep, husky laugh that makes your stomach do a treacherous flip. His fingers fish out a cigarette from the crumpled pack on the nightstand. On his bare shoulders, the old lamp's yellowish light dances. "I thought we had something special. You know, after that thing you did with your tongue..."

You roll your eyes while searching the bedroom floor for your shirt. Finally, you find the fabric under a stack of old sheet music, still damp with sweat, sticking uncomfortably. 

"The only special thing here is your ability to not take a hint." A bottle of soju is half-empty when your fingers find it. The liquid burns down your throat, already hoarse from earlier moans. "Don't complicate what's simple, guitarist."

"Simple?" Junho exhales smoke slowly as he forms perfect circles in the stale air. "You call this simple? Three months of late-night meetings, coded messages, and nail marks on my back? The way you tremble when I touch—"

Bile rises in your throat, acidic and familiar. You know this tone, have heard it from others before him—that possessive edge that creeps in like poison ivy. It would be easier if this was just about dramatic choices, lightsabres, and villains to defeat. Real life, however, is not a film with definite heroes and villains. Small decisions like accepting a second date, letting someone stay until morning, or acknowledging that the warmth in your chest is not just the soju talking are what can ruin you. These mundane decisions are the ones that can shatter your walls, and unlike a seatbelt click or a dramatic battle scene, there's no manual for protecting your heart from the slow poison of attachment.

"You don't even feel anything," you mutter, more to yourself than to him, as your fingers finally locate your combat boots under his vintage armchair—that hideous moss-green velvet monstrosity he swears came from some artist's estate sale in Hongdae. Still wrapped in its brown paper, your knuckles brush against a new bundle of inks and needles as you touch the top of it.

"What did you say?" Junho's voice carries that puppy-like eagerness that makes your stomach turn. He's too invested, too hungry for validation, for connection.

"Nothing. Just thinking about my next appointment with Lee Jiwoo. That cover-up piece won't ink itself."

"Come back to bed," he purrs, patting the twisted sheet. "I could reschedule my morning practice with the band. We could order that spicy tteokbokki you like!"

"What you're doing is pathetically obvious," you cut him off, yanking on your left boot. "The constant questions about my clients. The 'accidental' glimpses at my phone when you think I'm sleeping. Those calls you take in the bathroom." Your laugh is a broken thing. "What's the going rate for information about the bond reaper these days? Or did Detective Park promise to clear your assault record from that bar fight in Itaewon instead?"

Junho's face drains of color faster than soju spilling on concrete, his fingers clutching the bedsheet like a shield. "Jagi, I don't—you're not making any—"

"Spare me the stuttering act." You stand, ignoring how your knees crack from kneeling too long on his cheap laminate flooring. "You're not the first to try gathering intel between the sheets, and hell, you won't be the last. But here's some free advice: next time you're playing undercover cop's lapdog, don't keep your burner phone in the same jacket pocket as your guitar picks. Amateur move."

That carefully constructed puppy-dog sweetness melts away as his expression contorts. Something darker emerges, something that was always there, lurking beneath his gentle musician facade. "You went through my fucking things?" His voice cracks on the last word. "You paranoid psycho—"

"Oh, baby," you drawl, watching his jaw clench at the pet name he once begged you to use. Your lips curl into something that might look like a smile but feels like a wound. "I've been going through your things since that first night at the jazz bar. The police reports stuffed in your guitar case? Sloppy. Those surveillance photos under your mattress? Embarrassing. But those encrypted messages to Detective Park about my 'suspicious late-night clients' and 'possible illegal modifications of soul bonds'?" You trace a finger along your bottom lip. "Now that was some riveting bedtime reading."

With the coordination of a drunken toddler, he lunges forward, but you are already subconsciously affected by six years of street survival. Your elbow finds his solar plexus—right where that hideous compass tattoo points perpetually north—and he crumples. A puddle of regret and cheap tobacco forms as the Chamisul smashes against the floor and mixes with his dropped cigarette.

"Fucking—" he wheezes between gasps, one hand pressed against his stomach where tomorrow's bruise is already blooming, "—crazy cunt."

"See?" You retrieve your ink bundle from the chair, careful not to step in the growing puddle of soju. "That honesty suits you better than all that 'jagiya' bullshit." At the door, you pause, not bothering to look back at him sprawled among the wreckage of his failed operation. "Oh, and Junho? Next time Detective Park wants to investigate suspected bond modifications, tell him to send someone who can at least fake sincerity. This?" You wave vaguely at the rumpled sheets where you'd wasted three months letting him think he was getting close to proof. "This was just embarrassing. Even that rookie he sent last spring—Kim Minseok, wasn't it?—at least knew how to forge a convincing backstory."

As you descend the stairs of his shithole apartment building, past the perpetually broken vending machine that dispenses warm Sprite and the wall where someone spray-painted 'dreams die here' in neon pink, you don't feel anything. Not betrayal, not anger, not even disappointment. Sex had been decent, and his connections for rare inks had been useful. That's all it ever was. All it could ever be in a world where burning soulmate marks is whispered about in dark alleys, where even the suggestion of being the infamous "bond reaper" could get you disappeared into some government black site.

-------------------------------------------

When you get home, the low sound of some Korean drama—seems to be True Beauty from the theme song playing—leaks through the door. Mina and Bora are on the couch, a tangle of limbs and soft sighs. Bora, with her hair spread like a fan across Mina's thigh, has a thread of drool running onto her girlfriend's silk shorts. The caramel popcorn bag is tipped over on the Persian rug.

"Unnie!" Mina's voice is thick with sleep as you drape the blanket over them. Her fingers fumble with the remote, pressing random buttons. "Tell me everything about guitar boy. Did he do the thing with his tongue and the cigarette smoke again? We closed early just for your date, you know."

"Your concealer's smudged all over your chin," Bora interrupts, face still buried in Mina's thigh. "And you've got that look again—the one where you just crushed someone's soul into dust and maybe enjoyed it a little too much." She snorts, finally cracking one eye open. "Poor Junho-oppa. Bet he thought he was being so smooth with his undercover act."

"Both of you, sleep," you whisper, pressing a kiss to Mina's forehead. Her skin is warm, slightly sticky from the face mask she never properly washed off. When you kiss Bora's temple, she swats at you with the precision of a drunk cat, nearly knocking over the soju bottle. "We can dissect the train wreck that is my love life tomorrow, after I've had at least three shots of espresso and maybe some soju."

Bora mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "You're just scared of feelings," but her words dissolve into soft snores before you can argue.

When you first arrive at the flat, you are met with its familiar chaos, which is the inevitable outcome of living with two artists who view organization as a suggestion and an eight-year-old whose life's work is to collect every piece of Stray Kids item ever made. You hang the jean jacket in the hallway closet, wincing as the floorboard under your left foot lets out a betraying creak. The living room floor has transformed into an obstacle course of your sister’s scattered toys—plushies, abandoned coloring books, and what looks suspiciously like Felix photocards arranged in a perfect circle ("It's for summoning him!").

In the kitchen, yesterday's ramyeon bowls still crowd the sink like ceramic mushrooms, and a stack of bills—mostly from Mina's black card adventures at Gucci and her newfound obsession with some obscure Japanese streetwear brand—threatens to avalanche off the dining table.

Your eyes catch on the newest masterpiece stuck to the fridge—Hyewon's latest attempt at capturing Felix's essence. Despite the wobbly lines and questionable proportions, there's something endearing about how she captured his signature heart smile. The messy hangul beneath reads "The prettiest boy in the world!!!" with at least seven exclamation points. Next to it, held by that ridiculous rabbit magnet Bora won at some arcade in Hongdae, Mrs. Jung's neat handwriting reports, "Hyewonnie cleaned her plate today! Even asked for extra kimchi (progress!). Oh, parent-teacher meeting tomorrow at 2PM—talent show preparations.”

Gently, you fold the note and slide it into the pocket of your torn jeans.

In her room, the bedside lamp is still on. Hyewon sleeps hugging the official SKZOO pillow, and her long black hair, identical to yours, is spread across the pillow.

"Mom?" Hyewon's voice cracks with sleep, her small fingers rubbing at her eyes. She started calling you that when she was three, after your mother died. Back then, she'd cry herself hoarse asking for "mommy," and somehow, between midnight feedings and endless diaper changes, the word stuck to you like honey. "Is that... wait, ugh, why do you smell like an ashtray?" Her nose scrunches up. She pushes herself up on her elbows. "And that's definitely Uncle Junho's cologne."

You sink onto the edge of her bed and your fingers find their way to her hair, working through a stubborn knot near her temple. "Hey, detective squirrel, enough with the interrogation." You try to keep your voice light, but something must slip through because she tilts her head, studying you with that perception that makes her seem older than eight. "Tell me about your day instead. That dance routine you were working on..."

"Wait, no, this is way more important!" Sleep vanishes from her face like magic. She jolts upright, her knee catching the edge of her water glass. It wobbles dangerously before you steady it. "Mrs. Jung told me I could finally tell you! She made me do the super special pinky promise with the thumb press and everything!"

She scrambles out of bed, her feet barely touching the floor as she moves. There's a moment where she trips over her giant Wolfchan plushie, arms windmilling, but she catches herself with that natural grace you never inherited from your mother's side.

"Look, look, look!" She slides across the hardwood floor, coming to a stop at her desk. Under the soft glow of her star-shaped night light, four VIP tickets gleam. "Mrs. Jung got them as an early birthday present! They're not just regular tickets—they're VIP! Front row! We could actually see Felix's freckles!" Her words tumble out faster than her breath can keep up. "Can we go? Please? I'll do all my math homework first try! I'll even eat the green parts of the kimchi!"

The paper feels expensive under your fingertips—thick, textured, with a hologram that catches the light just so. These tickets probably cost more than what you make in a week covering soulmate marks for trainees and politicians with secrets darker than their coffee. Your thumb traces the embossed date, mind already calculating risks and escape routes.

"Hyewonnie..." you start, watching her bounce on her toes. Her small fingers twist the hem of her oversized sleep shirt. She's practically vibrating with hope, and something in your chest aches. "Baby, you're only eight. These concerts... they get pretty wild. People push and shove, and sometimes—"

"NINE!" she corrects indignantly, her voice rising an octave as she straightens her spine and cheeks puff out. "I'm turning nine in exactly—" she counts on her fingers, lips moving silently, "—forty-three days! And Mrs. Jung confirmed she's going with us! She even said we can bring Mina unnie too! They're the ones who made me become a Stay! They showed me the 'God's Menu' video seventeen times in one day!" Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "Please, Mom? Pretty please?”

You sigh, watching as she squeezes her pillow so tightly that poor Wolfchan's ears stick out at odd angles. The truth hits you like a brick—your baby sister, this tiny human who still can't reach the top kitchen shelf even on tiptoes, has been completely and utterly converted into a Stay by your chaotic roommates. She learned the names of eight boys before she could properly write her own name in Hangul.

"Mrs. Jung really thought of everything, didn't she?" You smile despite yourself, sliding the tickets into the desk drawer. They disappear beneath a scattered constellation of photocard. "We'll have a proper talk about this tomorrow, okay? Right now it's way past little Stays' bedtime."

"But you'll think about it? Like, really think about it?" She burrows under her blankets. "Chan oppa would be so disappointed if I didn't go... and his dimples get all sad when he's disappointed... and then I'd feel terrible forever and ever..." Her voice trails off into a yawn that she tries to hide behind her hand.

"Unnie will think about it. Promise. Sleep well, my little Stay." You press a kiss to her forehead.

Through heavy eyelids, she mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like 'I love you.'. Her small fingers—still sticky from the candy she definitely wasn't supposed to have before bed—curl around the hem of your shirt. It's the same instinctive gesture she's had since she was a baby, as if making sure you won't disappear while she dreams.

She was so small, impossibly small, like a sparrow that had fallen from its nest too soon. You remember how her fingers, no bigger than guitar picks, had latched onto your old Nirvana shirt with surprising strength, as if she already knew you were all she would have.

In the hallway, you trace the marks on the wall—each line a complete story, each number a small revolution. "Look, unnie, I grew two centimeters!" Her voice echoes in your memory, bouncing on her tiptoes to appear even taller. The last mark, made just two weeks ago during a lazy Sunday morning, shows she's already past your elbow. Soon she'll be your height, maybe even taller.

"For fuck's sake," you mutter when your phone vibrates again. The blue-tinted screen illuminates the dark hallway. The photo—you and Junho at Namsan Tower—feels like a lifetime ago.

His voice message arrives, that infuriating little 'ping' that makes your jaw clench: "Listen, jagiya,” . The ice cubes in his whiskey glass (probably his third) clink against each other. The familiar jazz from Sol Music Bar—where he first tried to impress you with his terrible English pickup lines—bleeds through his words. "I know you hate when I do this shit, but we need to talk about what went down today. You can't just—"

Delete. Block. Your thumb hovers over the screen for a moment before choosing both options.

"Unnie?" Bora's leaning against the doorframe like a ghost from a Joseon painting, platinum blonde hair creating a halo around her face. "Got any soju left? That fucking dream again... the one with the blood and the—".

"Bora-yah," you whisper, gathering the fallen blanket from the floor. "You have work tomorrow. The exhibition at Seoul Arts Center, remember? The one you've been preparing for months?"

"But, unnie..." She rubs her eyes with her knuckles, smearing what's left of her eyeliner across pale skin. Her bottom lip trembles—just slightly, but you catch it. "I saw Mina again. In the dream. She was wearing that stupid hanbok, the one from the palace, and her hands were covered in—"

"We'll talk about your not-so-prophetic dreams tomorrow, okay?" You guide her back to the couch, where Mina's sleeping form creates a perfect curve.

"They're not prophetic," she mumbles, voice muffled against Mina's shoulder. Her words slur together. "They're memories. From before. When we were—when you were—" She doesn't finish, already half-asleep.

You watch as they gravitate toward each other, even in sleep. Mina's fingers find Bora's wrist instinctively, tracing the outline of their matching marks—twin sunflowers, eternally blooming, stems intertwined in an endless dance.

Your phone buzzes again—once, twice, three times. The vibrations travel through your pocket and into your bones. You switch it off completely, watching the screen fade to black.

In your room, where half-finished tattoo designs and anatomical sketches create a wallpaper of controlled chaos, you sink into the desk chair. Old wood protests under your weight, a familiar creak that sounds like an old friend's greeting.

Lifting the sketchbook—that lovely, awful thing with its tattered black cover and sin-thick pages—from the drawer, your hands tremble. Another of Mina's gifts because she always seems to know exactly what you need before the thought fully forms in your mind. The pencil moves across the paper with a will of its own, like a Ouija board planchette guided by unseen hands.

An ancient castle rises from the depths of memory. Its towers pierce a clouded sky, stone walls holding centuries of secrets. In your mind's eye, you can hear the echo of footsteps—your footsteps—bouncing off corridors. Air fills with the musty sweetness of black mold and the sharp tang of melting wax, so real you can almost taste it on your tongue.

"Quick, quick!" you whisper to yourself, your words ricocheting off the damp walls. A rebellious strand of hair escapes from the linen scarf that holds your locks. Your fingers press the breadbasket against your chest as you descend the spiral stairs of the royal kitchen. The thick apron brushes against your ankles.

In the street, under a sky that begins to lighten at the edges like a burned parchment, the line is already forming—dozens of thin, pale faces, sunken eyes shining with a hunger that goes beyond the physical. The cold dawn wind makes tattered clothes dance around bodies too fragile, too worn by the Lunaris kingdom's misery.

It pains your heart, knowing that even when Chrysalis delivers their crops after the marriage ceremony in two moons, the distribution will be anything but fair. As a Solaris baker, you are left with few choices in a castle where people mock the loss of your kingdom. You were saved by the kindness of two soldiers whom the captain trusted when the others had been too eager to kill you and your infant sister. Still, you persist in your small acts of rebellion. Mina and Bora, bless their souls, run interference when the head chef notices your absence, their quick tongues spinning tales of errands and duties that never existed.

"By the old gods, look who's here!" Mrs. Jung's weathered hands reach out. The finest weaver in the Lunaris Kingdom, now reduced to threadbare clothes and hollow cheeks. "Our Solaris angel, bringing warmth to our cold mornings."

"Careful with those words, Mrs. Jung," you murmur, pressing the still-warm loaf into her hands. Your fingers linger on hers, trying to share what little warmth you possess. "The castle has ears, even at this hour."

More children emerge from the shadows like spirits. Against the cold cobblestones, their feet, encased in strands of fabric ripped from old clothing, produce an eerie cadence. You recognize the makeshift bandages as pieces of the royal banners that once flew proudly over the gates.

"Unnie!" Soo-yeon's teeth chatter as she tugs at your apron. "Jin-ho's here today. His first time." She points with her chin toward a boy who's pressed himself so far into the shadows that only the gleam of his eyes gives him away. The military coat he wears—his father's, you'd bet your last copper on it—hangs off his frame like a tent, the sleeves rolled up six times just so his hands can peek through. "His mama caught the winter fever."

"Come here, little soldier," you beckon to Jin-ho, watching how his fingers drum an anxious rhythm against his thighs. You extract an extra portion wrapped in cloth. "This one just came from the ovens. The crust might burn your tongue if you're not careful, mind you. Small bites, like a proper nobleman."

You catch Min-ah trying to inhale an entire roll like a snake swallowing its prey. Her cheeks bulge impossibly wide, crumbs dusting her chin. "Saints above, sunshine! Did the orphanage run out of plates?" Your hand shoots out to pat her back as she makes a sound between a laugh and a choke. "Remember what happened with Bora last week? Poor thing went whiter than the palace sheets when you started turning blue."

Your attention splits as Soo-yeon shuffles closer against you, drawn by the warmth radiating from your body. Your fingers find her hair, working through knots that would make a sailor weep. "And what's this mess, my little star? These braids look like they've been through a war." Your thumb brushes away a smudge of dirt from her temple. "Where's that pretty ribbon I gave you? The blue one?"

"Lost it," she mumbles, eyes downcast. Her lower lip quivers. "During the guards' raid. They—they tore through everything looking for—"

"Shh," you cut her off gently, cupping her chin. "Visit my compound later, after the morning bell. We'll fix these braids properly." You lean in close enough that your breath stirs the wisps of hair around her face, voice dropping to that special whisper that never fails to make her eyes sparkle like dewdrops in sunlight. "And if you can sneak past that grumpy old Master Lee without making a sound, we might just find some honey cakes that survived the night. Enough to share with Hyewon too, if you’re feeling generous."

Between the frost-covered windows of the castle, your eyes dart. Usually, the guards sleep until the sun rises high enough to break their stupor, their bellies full of wine and meat from the feast last night celebrating the impending union of Lunaris and Chrysalis. But Commander Jung, that snake in armor, has grown suspicious. Just last week, his eyes followed your movements through the corridors. His thin lips curved into that knowing smirk that made your blood run cold, the same expression he wore when he ordered the burning of the Sun Temple.

Suddenly, there’s smoke curling around your feet and you no longer see their faces.

The ornate room feels like a gilded cage, suffocating in its opulence. The Venetian mirror reflects three souls caught in an impossible web—one small figure and two tall ones.

"Your Grace, please try to steady your breathing." Your hands adjust the formal attire. The familiar scent of mint leaves, coffee beans, and something uniquely him—like summer rain on hot stones—wraps around you.

"Does it pinch here?" Your fingers trace the embroidered seam along his shoulder blade, feeling the way his muscles twitch beneath the fabric. When he shakes his head—a movement so slight you almost miss it—you catch sight of his eyes in the mirror. They're swimming with unshed tears, and something in your chest splinters. Those eyes, god, those eyes. You can't remember his name or the exact shape of his face, but those eyes are burned into your memory—the same ones that danced with mischief as you three raided the kitchen's sweetmeats at midnight, the same ones that grew soft and liquid while reading poetry by candlelight in the library's hidden alcove. "My l—"

"Don't." His fingers spasm toward yours but retreat. "Please. Not—not today. I'll shatter if I hear that word from your lips."

Across the room, he—the other he, your morning star to this one's evening moon—paces like a caged beast. His teeth worry at his bottom lip until you see a bead of blood well up.

As you hold him, servants flit about with ribbons and flowers as the wedding preparations whirl around you like some hideous funfair.

"Your Grace," a maid's voice pipes up, "the bride is ready."

Time crystallizes like honey in winter when she enters. Her wedding dress ripples like liquid moonlight against marble floors that reflect her silhouette in fractured pieces. Red roses tumble from her hands; you watch a single petal break free, spiraling down in lazy circles until it kisses the marble floor like a drop of blood. The sight makes your stomach lurch.

A shudder runs through him, his breath hitching against the curve of your neck, warm and damp and desperate. "Can't—can't breathe. Why does it feel like we're conducting a funeral instead of a wedding?"

Without a word, you simply draw him farther into the shadows where the tapestries provide cover. The guards won't see their war captain like this, won't witness how his knees almost buckle when another wave of perfumed air carries the scent of roses. For God’s sake, in mere minutes, he'll have to represent the military! Kneeling before their next queen and king with a face carved from stone. 

And there, at the altar draped in Lunaris silk, the crown prince stands like a man facing his executioner.

However, there's happiness too, isn't there? Memories as sweet as honey wine: lazy afternoons in secret clearings where the grass grew tall enough to hide three bodies. His head in your lap—dark hair spread like ink on your skirts, cat-like eyes half-closed in contentment—while the other's fingers trail patterns on your arm. Wildflower branches woven through dark hair while the summer sun painted everything gold.

"That crown suits you better than any other, my sunny queen." A playful tug on a flower stem sends petals cascading around your shoulders.

"Shut up and pass me another daisy," you mutter, but your voice trembles slightly. Your hands fidget with the stem, weaving it into the growing crown.

"He's right, you know?" The other one shifts closer, his knee brushing against yours. "You were born to wear crowns. Even if they're made of wildflowers." His thumb brushes your bottom lip, the calluses from years of swordplay creating a delicious friction. "Though I prefer you in the morning, wearing nothing but sunlight. Solaris blood really runs in your veins—you practically glow."

By the riverside, where the air smells of herbs and magic, ceramic pots bubble with mysterious concoctions. Steam rises in spirals, carrying the scent of crushed moonflowers and dragon's breath herbs. Your hair curls in the humidity, becoming wild and untamed.

"Be careful with that one, kitten; it might explode!" He lunges forward, muscles tensing beneath his thin shirt. His hand reaches for the pot, but you swat it away.

"For the love of the old gods," you hiss through clenched teeth, your fingers still tingling from the contact. "I know what I'm doing. I've been brewing potions since before you learned to hold a sword properly. My kingdom actually specializes in that, if you've forgotten."

"Of course you do, our little sun." The other one laughs. His feet dangle in the river, creating ripples that distort his reflection into fragments. He leans back on his elbows, dark hair falling across his forehead in a way that makes your heart stutter. "Remember when she turned your hair green for a week? You looked like a walking garden." His shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

"That was an accident!" you protest, but your lips twitch traitorously. "Besides, the color brought out your eyes."

"It brought out something alright," the first one grumbles, running his fingers through his hair as if checking it's still the right color. "The castle guards couldn't look at me without laughing for months."

"Oh please," you roll your eyes, adding a pinch of crushed starflower to the mixture. The potion turns a deep violet, exactly as it should. "You loved the attention. You practically strutted around like a peacock."

"Speaking of attention," the second one's voice drops lower, more intimate. He catches your wrist gently, thumb pressing against your pulse point. "That merchant's son couldn't take his eyes off you at the market yesterday. Should we be concerned?"

"Jealous?" You arch an eyebrow, trying to ignore how your skin burns under his touch. "Of a boy who still trips over his own feet?"

"Never," they say in unison, and the synchronicity makes something warm unfurl in your chest. The first one moves behind you, his chest pressed against your back, while the other tugs you forward by your captured wrist. You're caught between them, like always, like destiny.

One pair of honey-golden hands, calloused from wielding swords and scaling castle walls to get to your window, always gentle when wiping tears from your face, are the hands you remember like a prayer. The other pair, pale as ivory, stained with ink from writing poetry and royal decrees, skilled at braiding your hair in the traditional style of his homeland.

Remember sleeping squeezed in the middle of a too-large bed, even though you hated being in the center (you always preferred the edges, or even the floor, much to their amusement). One would whisper poetry in your left ear while the other sang softly in your right, old lullabies from the Lunaris provinces."

"I hate you both," you'd lie, voice muffled by silk pillows, trying to hide your smile.

"No, you don't." They'd say in unison, making you laugh despite yourself. Then one would start tickling your feet while the other stole your pillow, and the serious moment would dissolve into childish wrestling.

Suddenly, there's fire—so much fire it steals the air from your lungs. You try to burn an ancient book, its yellowed pages curling and blackening as flames lick at your own clothes. The smoke stings your eyes, or maybe those are tears. The leather binding crackles and pops.

"I can't let them find out!" Your voice breaks on the words. "They'll hurt you both. They'll—" A cough interrupts you, smoke filling your lungs. "I have to protect you. Even from yourselves."

Then you're drowning, being pulled into the depths of dark and icy waters. The cold bites through your clothes, into your bones. Hands—those same hands you know better than your own—extend desperately, trying to reach you. Their faces blur above the surface as you sink deeper.

"Don't let her sink!"

"Hold my hand, love, please!"

When you finally blink, returning to reality in your Seoul apartment, you realize you've covered twenty pages with the same intertwined marks: turbulent waves like a stormy sea swallowing whole ships, dancing flames shaped like fire serpents, and an intricate spiral of black roses and sharp thorns connecting the two in an infinite pattern.

"Shit," you whisper to the empty room, letting the pencil roll across the desk with a metallic tinkle. "Shit, shit, shit."

The pain is sudden and overwhelming. Like lightning cutting through your chest, the sensation burns between your breasts with an intensity that makes you drop the notebook and slip from the chair. The impact with the cold floor makes your teeth clash. Your fingers tremble as they tear at your shirt buttons, desperate to understand what's happening, your nails leaving red marks on your skin.

Love, is there any pie left? I woke up hungry. That apple one you make, with extra cinnamon.

Where is he? Did he go to war? He promised he'd return before the solstice!

I have a duty before love. You knew this from the beginning! The crown weighs more than my heart.

Please, don't make me choose between you. It's like tearing pieces from my own soul.

The roses are dying in the garden without you here.

And there it is—beneath the covering, beneath the old burn that marked the breaking of the bond, your soulmate mark pulses with a life of its own. The pink scar tissue glows with its own light, as if something were trying to emerge from within your skin. You close your eyes, fingers brushing the sensitive area, and see: lines green as springtime vines, pink as the dawn sky, and purple as amethysts intertwining, restitching something that should be permanently broken.

"No, no, no." Hot tears stream down your face as you plead into the void, knees hitting against the wooden floor: "Psyche, my lady, please, stop. Why are you doing this to me?"

The goddess cursed you, didn't she? Condemned you to keep breaking bonds while dealing with the voices of ancestors and the loss of your soulmates. The echo of her laughter haunts your nightmares and you can still see her furious face, beautiful and terrible, when you tried to burn the mark without divine permission. Why now? Why rebuild the bond? Could this be your true punishment—making you remember everything you lost?

The pain is so intense that you barely register the moment Mina bursts through the door, her own eyes wide with panic, hair still messy from sleep. The air seems to vibrate with static energy around her. Of course—she would feel it too. Your soul sister, designated by Psyche herself to keep you in check, to heal the souls you leave behind like breadcrumbs on a dark path.

"Unnie!" She kneels beside you, cold hands against your feverish face. The lavender scent of her night cream is almost sickening. Her fingers tremble when they touch the pulsing mark, and you see the exact moment she understands—her eyes widen even more, color draining from her face. "What did you do? The bonds... they're..."

"I didn't..." Your entire body convulses, muscles spasming as if trying to reject your own skin. Sweat makes your clothes cling uncomfortably, and you taste copper on your tongue where you've bitten the inside of your cheek. "I didn't do anything, I swear by the old gods and new. It's... it's coming back on its own. They're coming back, Min. All of them."

The last thing you saw before consciousness slipped through your fingers like water was Mina's face, contorted in a silent scream, and Bora's figure sprinting down the corridor, her gold hair streaming behind her like a comet's tail.

"Hey! Y/N!" Their voices seem to come from underwater, distorted and far away.

And then, your mind plunged into a darkness so complete it felt solid, the deep resonating toll of ancient temple bells echoing in your skull like a funeral dirge.

[ahsokahearteyes]

On some Jedi/Clone relationships:

So I’m going through all my bookmarks ahead of starting True Colors and I ran into this fun one in Hard Contact:

It was just so jarring at this point to know where they end up and see this “shared trauma” description because, well, absolutely.

Sure they had a meet-cute, to a degree,

and I found Darman’s faith in her as a driving force for her success and his interest to be sweet. But the trauma of their critical mission on Qiilura and first kills in action is also the basis of this bond. Not that Darman would probably notice given *gestures vaguely at the state of clone childhood*

I felt a little guilty about reading the book with my ship-brain turned on after reading those lines about the irrevocable bond of shared trauma. But it makes for an interesting dynamic, so much that I realized I have seen it before and been powerless not to ship…

I watched TCW S7 and Rebels in rapid succession (last year maybe?) and was devastated about how long Ahsoka and Rex had been apart and was definitely filling those gaps in time in with ship-brain before that.

I didn’t ever think about it that way until the season finale when they only had each other at the end of all the Order 66 devastation (while I think they held equal power and footing before then between Rex’s experience and bio age vs Ahsoka’s force powers and hierarchical military position over him, she was still baby, so no). Not saying that’s why anyone else chooses to ship but damn, the siege of Mandalore, Order 66, and the potential joint healing in the rebellion era really flipped that switch for me. There is so much love there, that is undeniable in canon, but it feels like the exceptional horror of the shared experience they had with Rex fighting Order 66 and them losing everyone else to it made me more inclined to view a potential for romance too.

So yeah. I’m a little unsettled now that I think about both ships together and rexsoka foundations, but who am I to deny fictional characters some comfort? Trauma-bond ships, am I right?

[xanderisbraindead]

Im gonna try to switch to a flip phone

Ive wanted to do this, or at least unplug a little from my smart phone for a while, but I always cave and reinstall my apps and start using my phone again. My screen time was 10 hours a day average last week and that is absolutely embarrassing to me. To keep myself accountable, I'm gonna list my reasons why I wanna do this.

Mental health: High smartphone usage is being linked to higher rates of mental health especially among teens. Social media and the constant bombardment of information is very stimulating on the mind and thats turning out to not be very good for you.

Attention Span: My attention span is kinda dogshit... I catch myself opening my phone to scroll social media while my sims game is loading WHILE I'm watching youtube...

Dumb shit: I see a lot of dumb shit (mainly on twt and insta) and it makes me so angry but then I catch myself wanting more and more of that. I know I have anger issues and for myself, I shouldn't be purposefully doing that. Internet discourse takes up too much of my brain space to where I'll talk about it in real life...

General dependence: It's just a piece of metal, why does it feel like a limb I need to have on me at all times? I don't need to fall asleep and wake up with this thing in my hands.

Oversharing: I overshare a lot to the point I get embarassed about it. It's a little harder to do this when you're using your computer because you have to be intentional about your internet use. You have to sit down and some features are limited on web (ie insta stories) so you can't just say anything.

I want to appreciate other things: As I said, I spend an average of 10 hours a day on my phone and I feel like I'm wasting my time. I don't feel like im doing enough in my days because most of it is going into staring into a screen. I want to read more and remember to flip my compost and do more things in a day than sit hunched into a screen.

Physical health: I have bad eyesight and a bad back. Staring into a screen is not helping either of those.

Compulsive shopping: I have got some cool stuff, but again, I want to be more intentional in my actions, including shopping. I've found myself spending money a little too loosely lately, and I'd like to think my purchases through more.

There's probably more, but thats all I can think of right now. I'm gonna make a big shift tonight and sleep without my phone in my bed. That sounds silly to make a big deal of, but ive done it for maybe 4 years now, even when I was on vacation last month.

So yeah, thats my new adventure: Beating the addiction to my phone.

[madaqueue]

Practice Makes Perfect | Chapter 3

synopsis: you and yuji have been best friends basically as long as you can remember, and you made a promise to each other to stay friends and help each other be the best versions of yourselves for your future partners. but will things change when yuji finally starts looking for a relationship?

pairing: yuji itadori (18+) x f!reader

themes/content: modern college au (characters aged up to 18+). language, fluff, smut. kissing, grinding, a hint of jealousy. 18+, MDNI

word count: 1.8k

a/n: i told y'all we're getting there >:)

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The words echo in your head as you process the situation unfolding around you. “Like we used to,” a sentence you had uttered only minutes earlier, yet this was notably very different from the way you and Yuji used to hang out when you were together over the past few years.

For starters, his lips were on your neck as you moaned softly in his ear.

Just moments prior, Yuji heard your affirmation that you would be staying the night. In your mind, you anticipated watching a movie, eating dinner together, and maybe playing some stupid video game until you fell asleep. However, Yuji has other ideas. As soon as he sees you smile at him with an arm around his shoulders, it’s like a switch flipped in his brain.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers. There is no hint of the normal jokiness in his voice.

“What, you need more practice?” you chuckle, trying to lighten the suddenly tense mood.

But Yuji doesn’t waiver, his eyes still staring into yours. He slowly glances down to your lips and back up to your eyes. “I don’t know, isn’t that what people do on dates?” continuing with a serious tone.

“Um, I-I guess, if-” you start.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he notes, now just staring at your lips.

You swallow. “W-what question?” You don’t know what’s come over you that’s gotten you so nervous you stutter.

“Can I kiss you? Or have you forgotten already, sweets?” he hums with a smirk. Again with that nickname - you feel butterflies and, suddenly, that familiar pulsing between your legs.

What the hell is going on? Why is Yuji acting like this? And why does it make you want him so badly?

You nod. “Yes, you can kiss me,” you say, nearly a whisper.

Yuji’s smirk turns into a full smile as he moves one of his hands from the bed onto your waist, keeping his eyes on your lips as he slowly moves his head towards yours. His mouth meets yours softly, just like last time. Yuji suddenly plunges his tongue against yours, surprising you compared to the gentleness of your last kiss. The act forces you to gasp as you try to fight back an involuntary moan, only opening your mouth further. He uses his hand on your waist to push you down onto your back as he rolls on top of you, his other hand moving up to the side of your ribs. The movement sends shivers down your spine. You place one hand on his, guiding it from your waist to under your shirt and beneath your bra until his rough palm covers the sides of your breast. His fingers brush over your firm nipple and you can’t hold back a moan.

Yuji pulls away from the kiss for a moment to look down at you and smile before brushing your hair to the side and moving to kiss your neck. He places gentle pecks along your jawline as he moves down to your collarbone. At the same, he moves his knee up between your legs, with only his sweat pants and your suddenly soaked panties separating you.

Shit, you hope he can’t feel how wet you are right now. All this just from a little making out?

He pulls you out of your thoughts by biting gently at the space right above your collarbone, forcing another moan out of your throat as you instinctively thrust your hips up against his leg, trying to get any friction on your throbbing cunt.

The action must have surprised Yuji because he suddenly moves his head away from your neck to look over you again, this time with a worried look on his face. “Are you okay?” he questions, genuine concern in his voice.

“Y-yeah, why? Why’d you stop?” you try to respond, your voice wavering so much it almost comes out a whine.

“You just moved and I-I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t hurting you,” he explains, his face starting to flush. “This is still kind of new to me, so I don’t really know what feels good or not…” he trails off.

You feel the strong urge to comfort him, letting him know how good he was making you feel, but all you’re able to get out is a simple “No, it didn’t hurt.” He moves his eyes back up to yours, so you continue, “It was actually really, really good, Yu.” A weak smile forms on your face as you try to pull yourself out of the intense moment you were just experiencing.

Yuji takes the praise in stride. “Really?” he beams. “What did you think of the flirting before we started, was that good? Or was it too much?”

Things suddenly start to click into place - that’s why Yuji was acting so weird before kissing you, that’s where all the confidence came from, and that’s definitely why you were so into it. He was playing a character, and you were attracted to that character, not to him, right?

“I’m going to take your silence as a ‘Yes Yuji you were perfect, don’t change a thing,’” he laughs, breaking you out of your thoughts. He rolls off to the side so he’s no longer on top of you and looks up at the ceiling. “That thing you did, guiding my hand, that was also super good, I would definitely do that again,” he thinks aloud to himself.

So this really is just practice to him. “Thanks,” you chuckle, trying not to get too in your head about it. “So, are we gonna eat or what? I was promised dinner, remember?” you try to change the subject as you slow your breathing. Yuji practically leaps off the bed at your question to grab the bag of food before tossing it onto the bed next to you, grinning incessantly the whole time.

He turns on the TV on the other side of the room to an old episode of some cartoon you used to watch together as kids and the two of you eat in silence on his bed. When the episode finishes, you both yawn in unison and move to lay down under the covers. He wraps an arm around you as you rest your head on his chest. He places a gentle kiss on your forehead before you both ease into sleep.

—

You wake up to the sounds of Yuji gently snoring as sunlight illuminates the room through the closed blinds. For a moment, you relish the peace, until it’s rudely broken by a familiar buzzing. You search around for your phone until you glance at the bedside table and see it’s Yuji’s phone lighting up.

Incoming call: “Nobara - Econ 301”

You blink as you process the words on the screen and Yuji groans next to you. “What time is it?” he asks, still groggy. He glances over at his phone to check and sees the incoming call, immediately grabbing the phone off the table and answering. “Hey Nobara!” he says into the phone, his voice slightly deeper than normal but as cheery as ever. “Yep, still on for tonight, I can’t wait! See you then!” he lowers the phone and hangs up.

You feel a pit in your stomach - why was she calling him so early? Why did he have to answer? Why couldn’t she have just texted him? Why doesn’t he ever sound that happy when he talks to you?

No, you aren’t doing this. You are not getting jealous over Yuji. You have known each other for years and you’ve never run into this before. No, this is just the cold tacos from last night sitting poorly, you’re sure of it.

Yuji pokes your shoulder, pulling you out of your inner spiral. “Hey, do you wanna go get breakfast? The dining hall is doing an omelette bar today and if you say ‘pretty please’ they’ll give you enough cheese it comes out sitting in grease, it’s awesome,” he reminisces.

“Thanks, but I have to pass. Unfortunately, I have actual classes I have to attend,” you tease as you sit up and move towards the edge of the bed. “By the way, can I borrow a pair of your sweats? I don’t really feel like walking across campus in that dress from last night, it kind of feels like a lot for 9:00 in the morning.”

“Of course!” he responds, pointing toward one of the drawers in his closet. As he does so, he realizes you could have asked him last night so you could go back to your room - hell, he wouldn’t have blamed you after he spilled what was definitely an over-full cup of wine on a dress he secretly hoped you’d wear again everyday for the rest of your life because you looked so stunning in it. And yet, you stayed. Why?

This time, you were the one to pull him out of his thoughts as you walk back over to him. His heart nearly leaps out of his chest as he sees you in his oversized t-shirt and grey sweatpants, matching the ones he still had on from last night. They somehow fit you perfectly even though they hang loosely off your body. You feel his eyes scanning your body. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” you joke and his eyes immediately meet yours. He lifts his fingers up to his face forming a fake camera and pretends to take a picture of you, causing both of you to laugh.

“Oh this is a good one,” he giggles, looking intently at the nonexistent picture in his empty palms.

You play along, “Well now you’ve gotta show me!” You jump forward onto the bed, practically tackling him as you both laugh at the stupid joke you’re making.

Letting your laughter die down, a sense of peace settles upon both of you. You look Yuji in the eyes and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for last night, it was really special,” you hum. “Oh, and um, good luck on your date tonight.” You try to force a smile and hope he doesn’t notice as you hop off the bed and walk towards the door. “You’re gonna do great.”

“Only thanks to the amazing practice I got last night,” he flashes you a grin, still sitting on his bed. “Text me when you get back to your dorm, okay?”

“Will do,” you say, turning the handle and walking out of his room, trying to ignore the butterflies still in your stomach.

—

After heading back to your dorm and changing, you walk into what is thankfully your only class on Fridays: biology. You push through the heavy doors into the giant lecture hall and scan for an open seat, when you suddenly recognize someone you certainly didn’t expect to see.

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[fayamn-moonlit]

mid-20s tgirl here, all my life i was never “in shape” but always skinny. other than brief flirtations with stuffing when i was fresh out of high school, i have also always been a feeder, i never thought the feedee life would be for me… until i put on 25 pounds this year without even meaning to. i didn’t think it was such a big deal, but once i realized i was formally “overweight”, it was like a switch flipped…

i’ve spent the last 5 days in a row recklessly stuffing myself with thousands of excess calories a day, feeling my poor overfed gut form new stretch marks, overflowing my clothes just a bit more every day, unable to hide my arousal when i feel my belly wobble from basic movements. i look chubby when i haven’t eaten and borderline pregnant when i have, since every meal is a challenge to add another thousand calories. in just a few days i went from thinking i was perfectly average, even if maybe i thought i could stand to drop some weight, to suddenly being desperate to be fed and teased for what i’m doing to myself.

i still am nervous about getting too far into this lifestyle, i think about how so many things about my life and interactions with others will change if i keep going… but a part of my brain says it’s already too late and it’s time to embrace what i was supposed to be all along... what do you think?

Nice one. You absolutely know what you wanna hear and want more excuses to give in. I'm not gonna deny you that, give in. You're already rolling down the hill of depravity, and you're only making yourself more orb-like to roll down faster. You're explaining to a teasy feeder just how shameful your year has been as if you're expecting anything except what you truly crave for: hot berating that turns you on and make you want to grow more into the fatass you're destined to be.

It's always been too late sweetie, you had it in you, congrats. Why do you think you gained in the first place? The mind is truly a fascinating thing, you won't admit to yourself you were already on your way to feedeehood.

Now, cutie, you're gonna be a big adorable feedee~ Put on some nice curves and then some more ;3

[wandagcre]

SAM & HER GF & COREFOUR IN CHRISTMAS HEADCANONS PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!

christmas with the core four as sam's girlfriend 🎄

Note: this had become a christmas special writing hhh i hope you like it nonetheless <3

whether you have a tradition or not during christmas time, you'll certainly have a lively extension of a family now that you're sam's girlfriend!

you ask sam what you should prepare and she simply says "your presence is much needed of course, then some clothes and finally, hope for the best for the sake of your sanity"

you chuckle at sam's words. it was between a lighthearted joke and reality. the 3/4 of the gang is full of expressive and loud personalities but you already met them and hung out, so you know you're in for a (good) ride 🫶🏼

but thankfully, you're already welcomed so you thought your previous worries were silly. chad goes for a special handshake, then mindy and tara for a warm hug and how are you's <3 it was genuine too

sam is already smiling at the sight of you as she puts your bags away, how you're getting along with them in christmas style. she has known the twins for so long and was ecstatic to finally continue celebrating it with her sister, and now with someone special — you.

after settling in, you're surprised that they actually cooked? not because of their skills but them combined is a hazard and their brain cells cancelling out each other. sam chimed in soon as she caught the conversation, "hey what does that say about me then! >:( i instructed them carefully when they started cooking,"

rest of the gang laughed, took no offense to your assumption. they said that you were absolutely right. in fact, tara reveals she almost did the classic switch up - salt over sugar - all because she got immersed at their in between conversations to which you join laughing at.

it's so diverse! full of everyone's favorite dishes at christmas time instead of the traditionally expected dishes. you told them that this was such a good idea and made things even more heartwarming to celebrate. they smile and chad rubs your back, "of course. we're our own little family. we do it according to our favorite picks and sharing it... in a way feels like you're sharing love, too. it makes it even more special." mindy butts in, "not bad, brother."

tara agrees and says chad definitely has his moments.

then! from your back, apparently sam sneaked in and smoothly glides another dish - your own favorite! she looks anywhere else except your eyes, "you didn't know the theme and you deserve a slot in this tradition," she murmured and tara adds, "so that's what you've been burning your hands for?" your eyes well up in affection. you press a chaste kiss to which the gang gagged at 😭

"no mistletoe for you two!" - they reprimanded you

trying eggnogs in discreet - perpetuated by the twins, specifically by chad (unknowingly made them after mindy said "go wild, surprise me") and immediately regretted her words. after things cooled down (re: woodsboro and new york mess) they decided to bring it up, the carpenter sisters weren't safe and so were you!

sam looking at the sidelines, suspiciously smiling and seemingly anticipating. you took more than a sip unknowingly, then soon as it hit your tastebuds, your face was contorted in disgust. the women started laughing. chad says "don't hate the brits!"

sam says in your defense, "you know they eat baked beans with dry sausages and bread right?" tara agrees with ease, saying that's a fair point and flips off the twins for the same surprise they did last year. adding to the chaos, you firmly say, "yeah! it offended my tastebuds. i thought this was a christmas tradition not a frat initiation!"

the core four loved your response 😭 sam included, was laughing hard and gasping for air. it was witty and the twins playfully retort that it was extreme of you to accuse!

sam couldn't stop smiling and laughing oh my god somebody help her facial muscles! it's permanently stitched to her at this point

mindy loves the banter. she nudges you and says that sam is partially getting her lick back. but mainly it was in your honor, to which she gags at because you guys are subtly so sweet already 🥹

they introduce you to some clichés, but with a twist! gingerbread house making but five of you will pick names, not revealing them and within an hour u should dedicate it to them. they're all wonky creations but decent. sam can't do much to control it anyway as they try to sabotage everyone, including yours 😭 the clean up will be tedious for sure!

you're surprised that tara decorated yours in your favorite color and how she noticed since it wasn't that obvious and yet she noticed a pattern apparently, it shows with your stuff and clothing! i think hers are perfected, standard-like creation and you see her stickman drawing attempt of two persons - apparently it's you and sam

sam points at it, "is that us? why am i smaller?" and tara grumbles. "this is for your girlfriend can you leave my masterpiece alone?"

you agree with tara who grinned widely at your approval, "be nice. i think it's an adorable touch to this homey gingerbread house!"

mindy adds knowingly, "also, sam, i hate to break it to you but you're an absolute puddle of baby around your girlfriend, that's why you're smaller - duh. your real height is not equivalent to your height there." and tara spreads her arms, exclaiming 'exactly!'

chad looks back and forth, trying to grasp the context. "oh! oh! i get it," he clasps his hands rather loudly. "you're so right for that. and you let her call you sammy?"

you giggle at sam's petulant pout at the teasing but she doesn't deny anything. "whatever," she grumbles and when you wanted to appease it with a kiss as you lean in to sam, the 3/4 are already making gagging and vomiting sounds 😭✋🏼

watching movies based on your favorite christmas themed movies! (insert an obscure movie u randomly hyperfixated or a popular one from your country) usually it was a matter of rock paper and scissors for fairness, but since you're new they gave you a special pass and played your choice of movie <3

your pick was new to them. therefore they were entranced at the plot and you enjoy the commentary and how they analyzed it, like little kids during the movie time in class. you look to your side and see that sam's eyebrows were bunched and she ate in sloth-like manner 😭

baby was so focused! it was funny how she looked like that while her arm is hooked around yours and leaned to you comfortably. sam says i can see why this is appealing to you... it's so you and unique and it matched your energy and she happily rambles - much to 3/4's surprise

not because sam is silently attentive but it's their first time to see her so open and carefree with her partner and so they have this faint, knowing smiles on their faces. they're happy that sam finally have found her person that she feels comfortable and honest with🥺

as you go to your respective rooms (obviously you're rooming with sam) mindy shouts from the hall, "please be respectful and let's keep the jolly, wholesome spirit alive! we do not need anymore virgo babies,"

tara visibly wanted to vomit and covered her ears. chad looks at his twin confused, "since when do you have beef with virgos?"

meanwhile you and sam were stuck in chuckling and was flustered. "i didn't even think of that!" you shout back to mindy who replies with sure, jan. as you and sam settle in her room, you take her hand and swung them gently, your gaze intent on sam's brown ones. "thank you for having me. i felt so loved." both of your hearts felt so full. your silly smile is unerasable and so is sam's, you find it endearing how the two of you probably look like fools together.

and sam pouts cutely at your words. "no, thank you baby for being here. it's only a first of many more to come." she retrieved something - a mistletoe - on her pocket. sam placed it above you two, and you smirk at her sly action. "let's seal it with a kiss then?" you say to which sam eagerly responds to and met your lips with no hesitation.

[awhalesrider]

Where Did You Sleep Last Night

A translation to my old fanfic on AO3. Apologies in advance for some clumsy wording and bugs in timeline.

Pairing: Johnny Silverhand/Female V (Valerie)

Chapter Summary: V had a bad birthday, and Johnny offered some sleep aid.

Additional tags: During canon, Pre Pistis-sophia, Soft Johnny

Getting a room is usually for a wild night.

That's true.

They rarely slept outside because it wasn't worth it - he spent too little time understanding a merc's lifestyle in the 70s. V was kicking around like a puppy. With those few eddies earned, she could barely afford a full meal and throw a few chromes on her body. It's kinda dumb for a merc worrying about the next meal and the next day to pay for someone else's bed. According to V, she’d rather get a good fuck. The only reason why they spent money on this shabby hotel for the first time was because of the thunderstorm, heavy as shit.

Johnny Silverhand stepped on V's wet footprints and stood behind her. He looked inside. The birthday suite was just as bad as he imagined. A sour smell mixed with the moisture of rain rolled out as soon as the door was opened. The air rushed straight to their head. There are generally only two possibilities for this situation - either time has rotted inside like a corpse, or there really was a corpse. Either way, it's all fucked up.

V stood at the door for a long time. "'kay..." She grabbed her half-wet hair, trying not to show her disgust too obviously. But Johnny could easily sense the resistance from the instinctive reaction of her throat and nose. She took a long breath: "Not that bad, right?"

Not that bad, you serious? Johnny had to admit that V got talents in self-persuasion. But they would have to continue to fight against her senses. Preem for both of them.

Unfortunately he's not the one in charge.

"C'mon, Johnny." She said, more like trying to convince herself than trying to convince him. The high frequency of self-talking always seemed to make her feel better.

"Let's see what we have here."

The door slid shut behind her. V found the switch with a few coughs. The light, however, only made the abstract badness a little more realistic. Prolly this is the characteristic of a roadside love hotel - kinda arrogant frugality: tattered curtains, dirty carpets, old toys, and super dream equipment on the table as if the cleaners quit after washing the sheets without taking those leftover gifts (mainly used syringes and condoms) in the corner for the next guests.

"Gonk's gettin five-star service. " Johnny decided to remind her of another option at the right time, "Another lesson for our merc."

V sighed, "Know what? Whatever you gotta say – say it."

"Never heard the old saying? East or west, home is the best."

"No, no...Johnny. It's raining like shit outside. And didn't I tell you cops are locking down Watson? Maxtac is prolly having a party there too." V gave a bunch of good reasons, though she was obviously frustrated about it, and she should be,'cause no one would get themselves in a stinky room on a night like this - well, maybe he would fifty years back. But she's not him, and she didn't want to be him.

"Well, then, got two lucky misters spending the night with ya." He pointed to the two dildos on the table that were performing a fencing match.

"Haha, very funny." V laughed dryly and took them away. She flipped him a finger and Johnny returned it back. She ignored him and opened the window.It was raining just right. V threw the two outside onto the awning to shower.

Johnny smiled. She was always very creative when it came to little revenge on nobody. The rain soaked into their palms. V turned around, taking a moment to wash away those flowers of blood, and she began kicking the garbage into a corner where she couldn't see it.

Poor girl, being angry for only two seconds, was now busy cleaning up the mess without getting paid. Should've spent the time roasting some brains of NCPD who blocked her way.

Johnny leaned against the wall.

Never thought brain-dead made mercs rush for biz at a loss.

Johnny came up with some jokes at this moment, like "somebody deserved a wanted poster hanging on her neck with what she's done, and now she's trying to be a law-abiding citizen". But V was a little too quiet as she walked around the room, not even commenting on the endless complaints in her head and yelling "Johnny you are not helping".

He got a bad feeling.

V kept the window open, making the smell in the room less unpleasant, but the strong wind, thunder, and wetness made them feel as if they had just moved to a different place to get caught in the rain. V tried to pretend that she did this on purpose, but their sensory pathways were exposing the truth: She had a loss of sensation in her lower limbs for a while, and she could not manage to stand up on her own.

This is no good. Johnny thought. The biochip was taking advantage of her injury, forcing her to retreat. But he could do nothing about it except watch the effect of the combat stimulant fade in her body.

V took off her jacket, and then the coat with blood spots. She put them on the bed sheet, and then the smell of blood temporarily covered the smell of old bedding. She sniffed, put her gun next to the pillow, and slowly lay down. Merc fumbled in her waist bag for a bottle, impatiently letting the alcohol pour rudely into her torn wound. Johnny saw the dark sweat marks on her close-fitting vest blurred into large patches, and the pain was vividly soaking her again. And V just lay there quietly, holding her arms tightly, waiting for this torture.

She was too tired to sustain any confrontational behavior, which was not good in any sense. Johnny dropped his previous attitude.

"V." He sat in the chair next to her, staring at her tense shoulders, "Can't sleep like this."

"Shut the fuck up, old man." She turned towards him. The words from her mouth seemed damp, wearily sticking in the air. Johnny noticed that the bullet pendant was sliding down her wet chest. V didn't look at him, as if she couldn't lift her eyelids at all. She was just clenching her teeth, insisting on digesting the painful groan. She shrank to the corner of the bed, with her shoulders trembling in the cold air, avoiding the radiation of the "flash bomb" that enveloped the entire city.

"Just… Stop talkin' for now, okay?" She tried to steady herself by holding the pendant, with her voice barely audible in the rain. "Need to meet the VDBs in Pacifica tomorrow... and I'm really tired."

Alright. Johnny stood up and walked away a little, hoping that she was not tired of living.

The windowpanes were clanging in the wind, and he watched V close her eyes in the noise and pray to get accepted in dreams. Fate is not such a cruel bitch if V could get what she wanted. Unfortunately, life is always hard, and most people in this city can't afford the ticket to a sweet dream. Only death has a kind heart not to turn people away.

Her eyelids twitched. The intense pain began to peel away from her body, getting replaced by waves of neuralgia, which was not life-threatening but still a continuous torture. The disrupted cognitive system made her fall into a trance similar to a hangover. Merc was still far from her dreams, but she was already having nightmares. Some noise was running wild in her blood. The strong wind blew into her brain, blowing into a mess of thoughts, some of which came from his memory fragments, but more of them were the bloody parts of her own story.

Fuck. The sting in his chest grew stronger, but he wasn't sure if it was her feeling it.

V suddenly opened her eyes, with her forehead covered with sweat. Her wet red hair was stuck to her temples.

"... Johnny." She spoke in a low voice.

 See? Here's who shut his mouth just now.

"Johnny?" But she called him again, as if she hadn't heard his thoughts, or felt in need of more response. Kinda disturbing, that, like a string of trills hanging alone on a music sheet.

"What? Need a napkin to draw unicorns, Matilda?"

"Kiss my ass." Said V, searching him with her eyes. Preem, at least she had regained the energy to curse. He met her gaze and felt a little ease of the dull and heavy pain in her chest.

"By the way, I'm Leon when it comes to professionalism."

Johnny raised an eyebrow with a little surprise. The film was half a century older than she was, but she knew what he was talking about. Maybe she was good at appreciating antiques.

"What now?" He asked, as a reward, "Our cold-blooded killer needs a bedtime story?"

He expected V to say something more, but she didn't.

"…Yeah, I guess." She just nodded and turned over, as if she's tapped out after trying to maneuver on the tattered sheets.

"Let's talk." She looked at him and continued to persuade him, "Do me a favor. Today's my birthday. It's now or never."

They both sadly realized that the joke was likely to become a reality, but she was still like any girl in 2020 who's a little off her rocker, except not that empty and fanatical, but still treating him as a confession window in the church. People would fill the desperate indifference with burning fuel.

Maybe she should really join the Animals if they would still like a rain-soaked puppy after seeing her sober self.

"Fine." Johnny compromised too quickly, and as he sat close to her, he began to strongly suspect that this was some scam created by the mental link between them. "'bout what?"

He felt strange after a second. Dumb questions. They were inseparable for 24 hours every day, and their brains were so small that their souls would collide with each other at any time, just like when he knocked her to the ground when they first met, she pointed at his nose and called him a dickwipe the next day. People always have noise in their heads. They should have talked a long time ago. In fact, they did: about Arasaka, Mikoshi, Soulkiller, and how to save her life.

"Anything. Just...don't be quiet." V narrowed her eyes. The lightning left a bleak white mark on her face, and she spoke again amid the chaotic thunder.

"...I...dunno, Johnny. I'm scared… for a little. " She smiled. The curve of her lips turned into a heavy expression. But it's unlike the kind she was good at expressing or he was used to dealing with. The smile was almost unattractive, but he suddenly felt that he had encountered a huge problem.

Johnny fell into a rare moment of silence.

"Of what?" He sat down and asked in a low voice, "Thunder?"

"Ugh, fuck off."

The joke was inappropriate, but it worked, obviously making her a little happier. "Think I'm a baby girl crying for her mother?"

Johnny snorted, "Whatever you say."

How old was she? Not even thirty. Many people in Night City didn't live to that age. He didn't deny that if anyone told his story, thirty might be considered his "old age". But she was still a girl, a stupid little thief who hadn't seen much of the world. Not old enough to die anyway.

"Okay." V ended the topic resignedly with a strange expression on her face, as if not knowing whether to cry or laugh with the fact in their head.

The rain made a series of sounds on the iron sheet outside the window, and she immediately wanted to break away from the silence in the room.

"…Wanna guess why I can't sleep?"

Johnny looked up at V's pale face, still unsure whether he should be her doctor.

"Too busy in your head?"

"Didn't even think about it seriously, did you?" she questioned like she was complaining, but her voice seemed to have reached the edge of blurred consciousness, with sleep or death on the other side.

"Same at first." She took a breath and finished her sentence. "Y'know, seeing your past all the time... Not the 'fuckin' something up' part. I mean, sex, gigs, radio-hacking..."

"Havin' fun, huh?"

"Hah, it's a mess. Bright light, loud music...gets me all dizzy, and... When I opened my eyes, cops were chasing me for blocks. My brains were 'bout to be shaken out." She released the hand that was tucked in front of her chest from the pendant and stretched it towards the direction where he was sitting. "But it's not bad... It's crazy but... alive. So... not exactly what kills my sleep."

Johnny sat near her without a word, waiting for her to explain.

"Don't wanna fall asleep," she said slowly, "cuz I'm afraid that...I won't wake up again."

"…"

V raised her eyelids and stared at his chair in a daze, then looked at him again. The scene of rain and fog outside the window appeared in her eyes.

Okay, merc's really going to give him a hard time. Her face and her thoughts got him amused but worried. Johnny found that V always confused him, even though he knew her thoughts better than anyone else. What? You are worried about your life every day, and you have been busy for a long time just to get rid of this fucking chip in your head. And now you are treating the time bomb as your guardian angel?

"Feel like dyin' when I fall asleep, Johnny." Her fingertips drew helpless swirls on the bed sheet, obviously not sober enough to answer his question, "A few days ago... I mean when I could still get some sleep, I thought I wasn't afraid of this... and anything. When Dex DeShawn asked me if I wanted to die at the age of thirty or get old in bed, I thought it was only about where to close my eyes. But I ..."

V closed his eyes again.

Building. Thunderstorm. Fall. Delamain. Smell of blood. Sad eyes. Bullet in the skull.

The dream screamed past his eyes. Johnny heard her spirit trembling as if she would collapse at any time due to info overload, which was a hundred times more painful than lying on the operating table without anesthesia.

"...Always dream about that day in the car... Every time I thought Jackie's just... falling asleep... Dunno how he felt at that time. Is it the same as I am... or you were...?" Her whole body was tense, and her breathing became disordered. "Pain, cold, nausea, like a nightmare, right?"

"So I was wondering... I was wondering why can't I just go flatline?"

The thunder almost shattered her words.

Johnny looked down to the floor, wondering if V noticed that she sounded like sobbing, though she wasn't. That's so not V, 'cause she was the kind of tough, sharp, brave, and capable person who was liked by everyone - of course they liked her. And she was the kind of fool that fixers favored, the kind of friend that edge runners loved, a kind of brave coward who forgot how seriously she took death. She's willing to eat the blood on the tip of a knife as long as she is given enough eddies or a true heart.

"…It's not that simple." He had no choice but to say this first, but he still didn't have much of a clue.

"Huh?"

"Been dead for fifty years, 'course I know more."

"But now I'm the one with only a few days left。" She pointed out.

The pain then hit him, much more severe than he expected. It was spreading to her limbs and organs and almost everywhere. Johnny couldn't even tell which part he was responsible for. He didn't like it, and he didn't like her saying so, because it reminded him that it was him killing her for all times, even today.

Johnny walked to the window, lit a cigarette, and heard the countdown ticking in her mind. Prolly this was why she didn't want him quiet. It was rare that they didn't break out into an argument, but still, they fell into silence with confrontation.

V had every reason to want an end. After all, she had come this far.

But she has survived until now. He always thought she was the type who liked to risk her life, taking jobs without careful consideration, and going through fire and water for everyone who regarded her as a friend. And now she wanted to dig a grave for herself in advance? This is not V.

Or maybe this is her?

Johnny let out a long exhale. The smoke and rain slowly mixed together, and he tried to calm himself down.

"…Emptiness." He told her.

"What?"

"Feeling of death." He turned around, putting the sentences together in the severe pain flowing through him, "Thought it was a stupid BD playin' for 24 hours? That's too fucking silly. You'll understand when you've been dead for a while... No sound, no perception, nowhere to rest for your consciousness. Last bit of existence's been taken away, like a fuckin broken plastic bag flying everywhere, and no one will give a fuck to ya."

V's eyes rested on him quietly: "…What are you tryin' to tell me?"

"I'm telling you getting some fuckin' sleep is never the same as dying."

The chair legs made a sharp sound on the floor, and he sat down in front of her again.

"... and stop thinkin' 'bout putting that bullet back in your brain. It's not any better than you are now."

Johnny leaned back in his chair and realized what he just said was a pure mistake, as if he was comforting a frightened child from a nightmare. Sounded like something that would be filmed in an animation half a century ago, the kind of unrealistic fairytale. But he was completely involved in her feelings and emotions. Nicotine was not enough to relieve his anxiety. Johnny continued to be annoyed that he had no right to accuse her of a bunch of depressing words, and he couldn't help wanting to finish what he said.

"Listen, V." He pinched her chin with his hand, forcing her to look at him more closely, but it seemed more like he was trying to pull her out of the suffocating fear. "Havin' your nightmares means you are still alive. We have a chance to think about how to be buried in the future. You hear me?"

V also stared at him, holding his wrist tightly and breathing rapidly. Her lips tightly pursed: "Sounds more like telling me not to be afraid of dying?"

"I'm telling you not to be afraid to live, V." Johnny let go of his hand and stood up, feeling his thumb brushed by warm rain.

"…and then get some ideas of makin' your days less fucked up next year."

He threw the cigarette on the ground and extinguished it, and the spark jumped into her eyes. V looked at him, and her cheeks finally turned red again because of her attempt to disengage herself. After a long silence, she finally smiled, but also really shed tears.

The sound of rain outside the window gradually weakened. It took a long time for V to speak this time.

"…Without you." She said with her voice hoarse.

It seemed that she finally remembered the solution they had agreed on at the beginning. Johnny was not sure whether he heard more certainty or more regret, but weaving a dead person into the story was a good sign for a dream anyway. This was exactly her current symptom.

Her breath was no longer so heavy, and Johnny could feel that the tingling in her nerves was gradually leaving. The dark water stains on her chest had not yet dried up, and were illuminated by the dazzling white light into a shining river, flowing slowly with her breathing.

Are you asleep, V?  He asked, never needing to speak but intending to reach out anyway.

Thunder exploded again not far from them, but this time V was not awakened. She lay quietly, holding the bullet in her chest with her fingers, and seemed to fall into an eternal sleep.

He had to admit that he was a little scared now.

As if by magic, his fingers reached behind her ear.

Her pulse beat beneath her warm skin. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"…G' night, Johnny." V said, exhausted, but alive. She smiled for the first time today. Her red hair fell down in a relaxed manner, like a cluster of flames pouring down on him in the whistling wind, and his chrome hand that had felt the heat of countless explosions was withdrawn as if it was burned. Johnny heard her sigh softly, like blowing out a candle.

The electronic projection of him dissipated, like a light smoke.

[sigynpenniman]

I have this weird problem with like, completeism and permanence where I basically need to feel like I have the most complete version of something and also that it’s safe and mine forever in order to even feel interested in it at all. which is absolutely driven by my OCD and also absolutely the driving force behind my archivism. Anything I care about I want to preserve for eternity in its most complete form. But this makes video gaming extremely interesting to me because I have a kind of subconscious switch that is completely out of my control that literally just turns off any interest I have if something is not possible to obtain in a permanent and complete format even down to totally unimportant things like cosmetic DLCs. And before anyone tells me that this is extremely stupid and unhealthy, yes, I know 💗 it’s what having a mental illness does to ya. Anyway my point is that being this sort of person has me in a semi-permanent state of rage that basically the entire landscape of gaming is currently dominated by gatchas and battle passes. Any game which has like, items and characters locked in gatchas and lootboxes, real-world time limited battle pass type things like Fortnite seasons or Dreamlight Valley star paths, etc etc I just become immediately involuntarily uninterested in. It’s not even a deliberate statement or boycott or like I have to choose not to play things because I don’t agree with it it’s literally like the ADHD brain rat flips off the interest switch and I have basically no desire to play it at all. Which is unfortunate in some ways because yes there are a lot of games I would probably really enjoy that I haven’t played/gotten to play because of this but also I am just. So fucking pissed off about the way games work. Remember when you used to buy a video game cartridge for your DS and it was the whole game and there were no other things to buy and everything that was in the game could be accessed by playing the game skillfully and spending no more money. And it’s not even the money thing. I’m not even that mad about DLCs *existing* or paid cosmetics or whatever the fuck it’s when everything is locked behind literal gambling or events with real-world time limits. Dreamlight Valley star paths are the best example like. Oh you want this particular furniture set? Okay so you have to play the game multiple hours a day every day for the next two real world weeks. You want something that was in the star path last month? Fuck you it’s just gone now soz. I HATE this it’s so stupid! Why are all games like this now? How did “you bought the game and it’s the whole game and you can access everything in the game by playing the game at any pace or time” become a dying concept? And then half the time they’re live service connected which means even if you do spend a ton of money on the gambling guess what when the servers go offline in 5 years all of that stuff is just going to be gone!!! I may have spent an embarrassing amount of money on Stellaris DLCs but at least those are gonna keep working for as long as Windows 10 continues to be functional in a VM. Please can we stop making video games into horrible nickel and dime blind box gambling real world time pressure hells and start making games that it’s possible to 100% again

[iamthecomet]

What was it like for you when you started writing ghost fics? What made you start/what type of fic did you start with?

Hope your day is well! If not, use this as a vent post. 😊

(Here’s me paying the Per tax)

hnnnggg oh GOD that picture of Per. FUCK. My day was a good one so far, no venting necessary! So, I love this question, and I have a whole ass story about it. I have a feeling I'm going to write an entire essay about this--I'm sorry in advance.

I'm throwing that part under a cut for scrolling ease.

So Flip of a Switch was the first Ghost fic I ever wrote. It's also the first smut I've ever written and let people other than my best friend read. I was struck by HORRIBLE Ghost brain rot last summer. I was going through some BULLSHIT and Ghost turned up for me in a big way. It was like they fell back into my lap when I needed them the most. And I was devouring fan fiction like crazy. And the thing about me with any fixation is that eventually--inevitably. I will need to write about it. And With Ghost I desperately didn't want to. I had convinced myself that fan fiction was a "waste of my time" because I wanted to be a "real writer"** and all that other toxic bullshit society brainwashed me into think. But I was powerless and I couldn't resist. So, I wrote that fic in the beginning of September last year and I buried it. I threw all of my effort into the novel I was trying to finish. And then into the new story idea I had (which is laughably Ghost adjacent I just needed to write about it and couldn't give myself permission). And I pretended to forget about it, and read fan fic and looked longingly at tumblr. And then, almost two months later, I gave up. I was watching this community happen from outside and I wanted in. Kinktober looked so fucking fun and I'd missed it and I just...wanted to be a part of this. And truly, whether they know it or not, @st-danger and @kroas-adtam were two of the biggest reasons why I finally just gave in and posted my fic. Theirs were the fics I went back to over and over again. And theirs were tumblrs I looked at over and over and went "I want to know these people so bad" (And now I do!! ♥♥). I wanted to talk to people about ghouls. I wanted Ghost friends. I wanted to WRITE about ghouls and scream about them with people who wanted to scream back. And it was slow at first. Some moments I wondered why I even bothered because clearly no one cared. And then I wrote more, and I persisted, and I forced myself into conversations on tumblr and uh.... Hi. here we are. I cannot put into words the parts of me this community has healed. I am a different (better, happier) person because of it. I've changed my view on what I actually want to do with my life because of it. Fuck man, I'm so happy I gave into my fixation almost a year ago and went "fuck it I'm doing it." **Fan fiction is real writing. Fic writers are real writers. I knew that all along. I just had convinced myself that because I was trying to write professionally I couldn't also write fan fic. It was a reflection on how I thought of myself--not other people who wrote fic too. Everyone who wrote fic was/is a real writer to me, but I couldn't figure out how to include myself in that.

[thanksitsatraumaresponse]

I hate the holidays. And I’m pretty sure they hate me back.

Growing up in the house I did, the holidays were a time for “family”. We had Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and Easter as our big 4 we would have people over for.

Do not get me wrong, as far as presents go, I was always well cared for. Always fed. Had clothes on my back.

But there was never peace. I was either the pun of a joke or a target for being lashed out at. And the words were never pretty.

C-PTSD does not allow me to ignore the fact that those things happened during the holidays. I feel like a deer in fucking headlights at the thought of attending an actual family function. Because family functions were the equivalent of having splinters shoved under my nails as a teenager.

My brain won’t let my body forget these things because it needs to protect me at all costs. It associates holidays with torture. In conclusion- my brain feels “happiness” from the holidays and signals my body to feel like I’m being hunted for sport because it’s the holidays… this happiness and joy won’t last long. Fear lives where happiness does in my brain.

I have no contact with my father & stepmother. I recently saw a picture of my father and he looked so much older than when I saw him last. I have been crying everyday since.

I see my boyfriend with his family, his dad, and I so desperately wish I knew this feeling. I wish my dad would hug me and get to know me as the person I’m becoming.

And as I wish for these things, I’m hit with the memories of the verbal beatings I took from my stepmother. How I was called fat and lazy and ugly and worthless. Told I was a mistake. And how he sat in his recliner, and never lifted a finger or made a peep to defend me because he didn’t want the beating turned on him. And then I’m angry and sad and confused and ashamed. Now I’m overstimulated. When my bf says something that’s too similar to a memory I flip my switch, making a big deal of nothing and starting a fight because I can’t control the fact that I am terrified.

And although my rational brain knows there is NO DANGER my CNS don’t give 2 fucks. It says we are NOT doing this again. There’s no explaining anything to me. In that moment, there is danger and I refuse to let anyone tell me otherwise because I know how the story ends… or at least that’s what my CNS says.

Now I’m in the car apologizing and crying because I’m scared my boyfriend hates me. He’s going to find someone who isn’t broken and want them and not me— please note, my boyfriend is a great man and would never do those things and has never had any transgressions against him— but my CNS doesn’t want to hear it. *Cue in daddy issues with a steaming pile of relationship trauma on the side*

If you have C-PTSD, please please PLEASE give yourself some grace to feel your emotions, but also be aware of when you do something unkind because of your triggers. We are not perfect nor do we strive to be, but always hold yourself accountable.

For those who love someone with C-PTSD please be patient with us. The holiday season has been a source of trauma for most of us, so we are not necessarily going to be the jolliest. Please make every effort to include us. Please make every effort to listen to us and let us let it out. Make us feel safe because we are only doing this because we feel scared that the happiness we are experiencing will be snatched out from under us.

For me happiness is the soft hands I feel right before fear starts to choke me.

[mental-mona]

10 things not to say to someone with bipolar disorder

These are the 10 most unfortunate comments that I and other friends with bipolar disorder have gotten over the years, with an explanation of why they're so wrongheaded.

"So you'll take that and be fine in the morning, right?" Yes. No. Maybe. See, once my mood's gone off the rails, anything can happen. It's possible that I'll temporarily raise the dose of something or add something in and wake up in the morning feeling perfectly fine, but it's also possible that recovery will take weeks, especially if my meds weren't adjusted optimally to begin with. Alternatively, I might wake up the next morning in a normal mood but feel like a zombie because of the medication's side effects.

"Have you tried antidepressants?" No I haven't, at least not by themselves. If I have taken them by themselves, most likely bad things happened. See, when you give people with bipolar disorder SSRIs without mood stabilizers, they go manic. Imagine that in your brain there's a switch. In depressed people it has 2 settings, depressed and normal. In people with bipolar disorder it has 3 settings, depressed, normal, and manic. Antidepressants flip that switch from the lowest to the highest setting, regardless of what you intended "highest" to be.

"Have you tried [alternative/additional therapy]?" Just to clarify: the prevailing psychiatric theory is that bipolar disorder is a chronic biochemical imbalance in the brain. If what you're pushing makes some kind of sense, I might consider it, but the best it will do is make me feel slightly better or give me a coping mechanism. It won't make the problem actually go away; only medicine and psychotherapy combined with lifestyle changes can do that. Yes, there are some amazing herbs out there, but many of them conflict with various prescription drugs and can't be taken by people with certain medical conditions. Yes, prayer is wonderful and G-d is a great listener, but doctors are His healing hands.

"This is happening to you because you [insert vice(s)]. If you'd just [insert virtuous thing(s)], you'd be fine." If you're lecturing me about getting enough sleep or cutting back on substance use, you are likely correct. If you're lecturing me about almost anything else, then yes, I might feel better overall, but it won't stop me from having random biochemical blips that make my mood go nuts. Also, you sound obnoxiously self-righteous when you lecture me like that; if you still feel the need to suggest whatever it is, please phrase it better.

"I have no idea what to do with you." If you mean that you have no idea how to treat me overall, ask me! Hopefully I'll be able to outline my basic emotional support needs. If I can't or won't, Google guidelines for supporting someone mentally ill and go from there. In fact, you should probably research that regardless. If what you mean is more like "I want to do you a favor but don't know what you need," know that I probably won't be able to answer a generalized "what do you need?" Instead, ask about something specific you can help me with, e.g. a meal. If I can't give you a straight answer on the specific thing, it's now my problem, not yours. If what you mean is more along the lines of "You need more help than I can give you" or "I don't have the energy to deal with you all the time," then you should have said so, albeit gently.

"When's the last time you took your meds?" or "Are you going into an episode?" in response to a strong emotional reaction. I am a human being with the same basic emotional responses as everyone else. Please do not pathologize my feelings and/or brush off an outburst as the product of a diseased mind until you have talked to me and tried to understand what I'm reacting to and why. If you're still concerned, watch for other signs of an altered mood, and tell me if you see them.

"Are you sure the meds aren't making you sicker?" If by "sicker" you mean more mentally unstable, then no, they're most likely not. It might appear that way because episodes often keep getting worse without treatment and whatever meds my doctor's prescribed either haven't had a chance to take effect yet or just aren't right for me, but I should stabilize within a few weeks once we get a handle on what works. It does occasionally happen that a psych med will make things worse, but it's unlikely. If by "sicker" you mean something physical, then indeed they might be, but sometimes that's a price I must pay for emotional stability. Hopefully it's only a temporary adjustment period. That said, if the medications' side effects are unbearable I can always ask my doctor if we can try something else or change the way I'm taking the meds in question.

"You're crazy." "Crazy" is a very loaded word when applied to the mentally ill, and some of us are more sensitive to it than others. Even if I'm ok with the word in one context, I might not be in another. If I choose to use the word to describe myself and I seem genuinely comfortable with that description, it might be ok to jokingly call me "crazy" in conversation with me. However, if I'm desperately asking you to reassure me that I'm not crazy or I shy away from the word altogether, definitely avoid it. Oh, and even if I'm cool with using the word in conversation with you, I'm almost certainly NOT ok with you telling other people that I'm "crazy." As a rule of thumb, if you're unsure whether the word is acceptable, assume that it's not.

"OMG I feel so bad I didn't know what life is like for you I'm so sorry that I reacted like that!" or "I feel so useless that I can't help you!" Odds are that you said this in reaction to my explaining how bipolar disorder can make my life hell and/or how it changes things even when I'm not actively cycling. Odds are that when I explained this to you, I was looking for support. You have just turned the tables and made it about you and how you're a bad friend, thereby forcing me to expend energy that I may not have had in order to reassure you that it's ok. Fail.

"Do it! I dare you!" in response to a description of manic urges. If I'm fully manic, I have very little judgment or impulse control. If I have an insane urge to streak down all of Main Street, your egging me on might be all the impetus I need to actually do it. It'll stop being funny when I get arrested for indecent exposure, and I don't think you really want to be the reason it came to that.

[afterdarkprincess]

Aftershocks Part 10

So tumblr kind of buried Part 9, its not showing up in any of the tags it should be under, but I'm not deterred.

Things are really heating up now, reminder that this fic is Explicit and my blog is not intended for minors. This did get a little kinkier than I intended, some of that came up in the last part but this section does include: oral sex, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, and non-negotiated kink. If thats not your jam, please do not read this. All that being said, lets jump back in here :)

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.

Part 4. Part 5. Part 6.

Part 7. Part 8. Part 9.

Tags for @feelschicken, @jeyuwuso and @southerngirl41

---

Sami’s hands move down Jey’s body, fingers wrapping around the waistband of his briefs teasingly.

Jey’s brain is about to short circuit from the way things have escalated. He’s by no means inexperienced, but it’s never been like this before. All of his exes have been women, and the few men he’s slept with over the years haven’t really been interested in much beyond quickies in bar bathrooms.

That’s all he really thought he’d ever get. He certainly never imagined these feelings he has for Sami, never thought it would go beyond business and brotherhood.

He’s definitely never been called pretty before, never thought he would enjoy something like that. Some switch in his brain had flipped as soon as Sami started calling him baby, and all he wants is to prove to the ginger how good he can be.

But he can’t examine that now, not when Sami is effortlessly lifting his hips, dragging the briefs off his body, letting his dick spring free.

Sami makes an appreciative noise in his throat and Jey preens, arching his back in a stretch to show off the long lines of his body.

Sami’s mouth comes back to his body like a magnet, exploring the planes of his stomach, the divots between his muscles, teasing him with that wicked tongue of his.

It’s hard to concentrate with the pleasure running through his body, but he whines to get his point across, and Sami takes the hint to go lower to where Jey desperately needs him.

Jey’s fairly certain he’s never been this aroused before, strained and leaking, the head of his dick a dark purple. Sami is still torturing him, busy licking and sucking at the skin around his poor neglected cock, as he settles down between Jey’s thighs.

Jey reaches to grab ahold of the ginger’s wild hair but his hands are intercepted, wrists wrapped together in one of Sami’s big hands and pinned to his stomach.

“No baby, be patient for me,” Sami says, and as much as Jey wants to whine again, its overridden but the desire to be good and do whatever the other man asked.

He stills and rests his hands, takes a deep breath and allows the exhale to relax his muscles that have tensed in anticipation. He softens his hips, legs opening further in a display of trust.

Jey can do this, he can be good. He can give up control here.

“Good, just relax,” Sami’s beaming, slowly dragging his thumb in circles on Jey’s thigh. “Gonna give you what you need, you’ve been so good.”

Sami presses one more kiss to the open expanse of thigh before finally, finally, licking a warm stripe up the underside of his dick. He continues dragging his tongue around, like Jey’s cock is a popsicle melting in the summer heat. Jey can only watch in fascination, eyes glued to the sight, trying to burn this into his memory.

Without preamble, Sami wraps his lips around the leaking tip, digging his tongue into the head and lapping up the precum that’s gathered there and sending shocks up Jey’s spine.

Sami sucks his cock like he was born to do it, like there was nothing else on earth he’d rather be doing. He’s moaning, sending vibrations through Jey’s body and making him see stars.

The gingers fingers slowly spider from where they’ve been resting on his thighs, coming to gently cup Jey’s balls, rolling them one at a time while Sami’s head bobs up and down, taking more and more of Jey’s cock in his throat at each pass.

It’s too much and not enough at the same time. It’s the best blowjob he’s ever received in his life by a long shot but he feels empty and aching inside.

His first instinct is to bring his own fingers to his hole, the way he’s done whenever he gets a rare evening to himself without his brothers in the same room. But his hands are still pinned, and Sami did promise to give him whatever he needs.

As if he’d read his mind, Sami pulls off his dick, taking a few lungfuls of breath. “S’this good, baby? You wanna come in my mouth?”

Jey’s mouth is dry when he tries to speak, so he shakes his head no. “Wan’ you to fuck me,” It comes out mumbled and low, probably not loud enough for the other man to hear.

Sami pulls himself forward, capturing Jey’s lips in another kiss. Jey can taste himself and it shouldn’t even be possible to turn himself on anymore but he’s apparently breaking all kinds of records tonight.

“What did you say? Couldn’t hear that,” There’s a teasing tone in Sami’s voice, but Jey can’t be mad when Sami’s biting at his neck again.

“Fuck me,” Jey turns his head, burying his nose in Sami’s hair and breathing in the smell of his shampoo, “Please, wan’ you inside me.”

Sami raises up to look at him, wonder in his eyes. “I would love that, baby, especially since you asked so nicely.” His eyes shut a few times, as if he was trying to focus. “I don’t know though, I don’t think I have any lube with me, and I really don’t wanna hurt you.”

Sami rolls over to his side of the bed anyway, grabbing a bottle of water he’d brought in earlier and handing it over to Jey.

The water is cool in his mouth and feels amazing after how dry it had been from panting and whining. Jey swallows a few mouthfuls, and clears his throat. “Thanks, you should check the, uh left pocket of my bag though.”

Sami’s head turns abruptly to look at him. “Really?”

Jey nodded, setting the water bottle down on the bedside table and rolling to his side to watch the other man walk over to Jey’s side of the bed and rummage through the bag.

It only takes a moment for Sami to find what he’s looking for, a smallish bottle of lube thats about half full.

He looks up at Jey from where he’s kneeling, looking like the cat that got the cream. “What do we have here? Why would you have this in your bag?”

Jey feels a blush creeping up his face again. There’s no reason he should be embarrassed over having lube as a grown adult man, in fact he’s overjoyed he has it so he can get what he wants. But something about that tone from Sami gets into his head and makes him bashful and so so horny.

“I dunno,” He ducks his head, looking at Sami through his lashes as the other man stands.

Sami tuts, “You don’t know? It looks half empty Jey, I think you know what this is for.” He climbs onto the bed and settles back into the open space between Jey’s legs. Sami wraps a hand around each of Jey’s thighs and gives a quick tug before propping his ankles onto Sami’s shoulders.

Right where the tag belts would go, Jey thinks idly, but the thought is forgotten as he hears the cap open and watches Sami pour lube onto his fingers messily.

“Have you been using this to finger yourself, baby?” Sami’s hand disappears from Jey’s field of vision, the anticipation building when he doesn’t immediately get what he wants.

Jey’s hips buck and wiggle, but instead of Sami’s fingers in his hole there’s a loud smack against his left asscheek.

The whine that leaves his mouth barely sounds human, and he feels his cock dripping precum onto his stomach to the point where for a moment he’s concerned that he came untouched.

But his dick is still diamond hard, and Sami’s hand is rubbing the spot where his ass is now stinging.

“You didn’t answer the question- have you been fingering yourself with this?”

Jey nods, trying to regain his composure.

Sami smiles again. “Good boy,” and finally he feels a finger circling his hole, just gentle pressure but it feels incredible. “You’ve been so needy, huh? Needed someone to take care of you. I got you now, Jey.”

It’s hard to describe the feeling that washes over him at those words, Jey feels so safe and cared for and loved in ways he didn’t even think were possible. Like he’s been taken apart and lovingly put back together.

“Are you ready, baby?” Sami’s voice brings him back to reality, and the pressure against his hole grows a little, finger still passing over it in slick movements.

“Yeah, Sami. M’ready.”

---- WOO BUDDY- Next time they'll definitely be fucking :)

Marked this one as mature, because it definitely is, hoping tumblr doesn't bury it this time, but if it does, rest assured that this will go on AO3 in its entirety once it's finished.

This is definitely how I'm dealing with the bloodline's absence on smackdown this week. If you wanna yell about these two being horny mf'ers my DMs are open.

BYEEEEE

[swampndn]

CW: suicide ideation, domestic violence

So, the past 12 MONTHS STRAIGHT, I've been dealing with big trauma things. Specifically, two big trauma things. With the first one (intimate partner violence and nearly 5 years of being in a physically, sexually, and verbally abusive relationship followed by extreme threats of violence when I ended it and MONTHS of legal proceedings and being at high risk of lethal outcomes) was the first time I've really experienced suicide ideation. Since then, it's been on and off. With the second, very recent trauma (which still not ready to put on the Internet, but can objectively say is far worse than the first one - which didn't know could be possible), I've also been struggling with it off and on. Semi-recently, more on.

I am happy to report that I no longer feel like suicide ideation is going to be a problem!

When I talked to my only friend who has experienced what I did, they helped me see very clearly what I want, and how I 100% absolutely want to be around for it. I can't fathom doing anything to myself that would inhibit that life I want. Something my friend said immediately flipped some switch in my brain that was like, "Bitch, you will absolutely not crash your car into this mountain. You got shit to DO that you desperately WANT TO DO! So you're going to be fucking SAFE, stop being RECKLESS, and not walk around like you've accepted your own death anymore. NO!"

Now, I do understand that I'm still gonna have to be diligent and mindful. I'm not naive to think that suddenly it's not a problem anymore. But I am incredibly optimistic, and when I had a real difficult moment today, that would have sent me spiraling just last week, the thought didn't cross my mind. I couldn't even imagine that thought crossing my mind.

Fuck. The people are right when they say that you need to talk to people because, wow. I got this much progress from ONE conversation. Imagine how much more efficient healing can be if I just talk about it.

[suugrbunz]

you’re developing feelings for someone?? Tell more, tell more (if you’re okay posting some about it)!! I’m so interested in attraction psychology.. 😁

oh boy am I a case to study when it comes to attraction, this might be long.

Tw: Short mention of SA (not in depth, just the word itself)

ah where do I start— I'm practically anti-falling in love. The last two times I did, I was ghosted. So I don't want to fall in love out of that fear.

I think one trait that's been present everytime i have developed feelings for someone is whenever they text me I panic and turn my phone off until I think of a response. I do have some social anxiety that can become controling of these situations. One time, a guy called me and I had just deleted his number from my phone. Believing he wouldn't text or call me. I watched my phone ring, yelling at my friend that he was calling. She then sent me an excuse to text him and then call back... That's one of my funniest stories. oh he ghosted me.

I'm about to just start purging my brain's every though here we go.

He's not Jewish. No one would mind in my family. However, he is pagan which I think is where my parents may begin to mind. I don't, he's so lovely. Plus, my parents told me not to let them control me. I'm really lucky to have parents like them... Oh, I expressed my lack of judgement towards people immediately as he's experienced lots of unnecessary hate for his religious beliefs. Someone told him he should be killed for his pagan beliefs. Which... What the fuck?

I propose to the court; Why would I, a Jewish individual, express the same oppressive words that's been used against my people for centuries? I wouldn't. I think he groups Christianity and Judaism as being quite similar but the two religions are very different. If it was similar then an eight year old girl wouldn't have said I'll be in hell for not believing in Jesus. Big ew on the clear indoctrination of a child.

Frankly, I don't care what you are in terms of religion. As plainly stated to him, I believe religion is personal and it shouldn't matter what you are. As long as you are a good person, why would I care?Plus, I am not that religious. I used to be but, again, as stated to him, I felt alienated after a controversy within the community. Which connects to my experience of attraction. I was sa'd when I was eleven. People shamed victims/survivors of the crime for opening about their stories. Now you may ask, why? Rabbis were committing these crimes and people can't stand the thought of someone we paint as a saint actually being a terrible person that isn't free of sin. Idiots.

I did explain the community's controversy in full to him because he asked why I felt alienated.

He's complimented me a few times on my appearance but I cannot reciprocate the feeling. I had to explain that I don't feel physical attraction to anyone. I will compliment a personality rather than appearance if I am romantically interested. Which that ... Second sentence was not expressed.

I noticed when I am falling in love I begin to act more positively. My friend commented on the fact I am acting sweet & affectionate. Which as someone else who studies some attraction psychology, made me realise what was happening. I have a habit of not realising I'm actually developing feelings until some says something that flips the switch.

A strange flaw I have noticed of myself and I think it's out of trying to protect myself is that I fall in and out of love with the same person a few times. I'll convince myself they won't...love me. Then they show interest and I'm suddenly red in the face, remembering their actions and words are a better representative of their emotions than my thoughts. I remember when I liked this one guy, prior to this one, I had a moment of knowing it wouldn't work out. I remember crying to myself as I realised I don't speak nearly enough for people to actually love me. Was listening to mitski as well, great artist to play whilst crying.

My low self-esteem really strains my ability to connect to people. Oftentimes, I convince myself no one even likes me. Which happens off and on with this current guy and all my friends. Sometimes, I find people that are understanding of the issue (and don't baby me due to it).

Oh, he he's formed the habit of texting me good morning when he wakes up. This morning as I woke up, I was thinking about that. I turned my phone on and saw the notification from him and ... It causes such warm feeling inside... He and I talked about birds, nature, and other things. I have three birds that I adore. And here's my weird thing, I collect their feathers. I have a bag of feathers. Which I told him. He responded that he's been wanting to collect feathers as well but from wild birds lmao

Oh, I have the habit thinking of the person I have a crush on at random moments and becoming really smiley. This is a repetitive habit. Has happened with others.

[jeremy-ken-anderson]

Boredom Week

It's not only about being bored. But it is, partly, about being bored.

Plenty of fun and engaging activities are still permitted.

The thing is, they aren't constant.

Also, most of them are social. Like, actually social, not merely "on social media web sites."

The main things being cut out of my activities:

Youtube, outside of the specific tutorials I'm looking up for work or schooling.

Steam, entirely

PS5 solo play. Playing MH Wilds or FFXIV is fine, if I'm playing with friends.

Phone games, including at work

Porn or porn-adjacent sites or apps

Tumblr's "For you" page

The Plex server, Netflix, etc.

Those last three aren't currently regular habits, but having had previous self-denials where I simply shifted gears, I do want to get ahead of the urge to replace bad habits with other, equally bad, habits.

Part of the reason I came here to write it down and make a public statement about it was to reaffirm it at myself, because I'd thought about doing it last night, and thought "yeah, I'm gonna do it" this morning, and then the instant I sat down in my office chair I opened up Steam. The habit is that mindless.

Part of the idea here - the reason it actually is partly about "being bored" - is that I feel like...you know when you're trying to keep something from burning when you're frying it, so you take a wooden spoon and you just kind of push it around, flip bits of it over, and generally keep it moving? I feel like that's how I've been treating my brain. For a decade.

So for this week we mostly want to just let the brain sit and be, unless it's moving on its own or interacting with other people.

Reading a book? Still allowed.

Taking online classes? Obviously still allowed. If I get addicted to online classes and that somehow becomes a problem I'll take a break from it in a couple years, but I'm not betting on that outcome.

Visiting with friends via games? No problem. Back when WoW was first getting going someone said, "These motherfuckers have figured out how to rent my own friends to me for fifteen bucks a month" and there's an angle of that which is true, but also almost all my friends are out of state so the games just provide a nice platform and shared excuse to get together.

Writing a book? Naturally, I can do this as much as I want.

Designing a board game, card game, or video game? These are all fine. And not just because of some capitalistic drive to define my worth by how much I make that can be sold. The creation of board games, card games, or video games that I don't think I can sell is also an accepted activity.

Listening to music? This one's...on oddly thin ice? I feel like it's how I did this "keeping my brain moving" habit twenty years ago, so it may be that to the degree that I think it's okay I'm just looking at my behavior back then with nostalgia. I think we allow it, but reassess in a couple days.

Social media is fine, as I currently use it. I've had times when I went down a Tumblr rabbit-hole, so I know there's a not-okay way to engage, but for now Tumblr's basically the yin to Youtube's yang. It's got a carve-out of specific ways NOT to engage, whereas Youtube has an exception where I'm saying it can be used under these very specific circumstances.

Ring Fit Adventure on the Switch is fine. That's just a gym disguised as a video game.

"Doing Nothing" is also fine! Just sittin'! Going for a walk! Zoning out! Taking a nap! Looking out the window!

The timing on this is to go until the morning of the 12th.