#i pray he seeks therapy

[spacebitz]

BBH’s current mental/physical health (FEEL FREE TO ADD ON!! )

- hasn’t slept properly in 2 months except for after a psychotic breakdown where cucurucho was chasing him underground (and also started talking to scaffolding????) he ended up finding some cake laced with melatonin that dapper used to make for him each night and ate it, waking up afterwards with no memory and a gaping head wound ( the head wound might be from smth else tho ).

- soul vulture wounds that are so bad that they are slowly infecting him and bleeding constantly, staining his clothes blue.

- has started talking to things randomly that aren’t actually able to talk back, especially with skeppy and hatsune miku, a brown cow in his base. he also talks to pictures of the eggs often.

- has canonically gone colourblind due to the grief of losing his children as well as losing colour in his clothes and body

- the whole 4halo proposal shit where the man he cares for deeply tried to kill him and himself

- having his literal soulbound partner in cube form around the island that cannot escape his block prison canonically

- thought about ending his own life in order to save the eggs

He is on the brink of death and still strikes fear into the hearts of the server, a true demonic force of nature!

[winxanity-ii]

SACRILEGIOUS DEVOTION [1/3]

ship: father charlie x fem!nun!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 (oral sex/f. receiving; overstimulation; coercion/dub-con?; sacrilege, heavy religious imagery) word count: 3.6k a/n: So, Father Charlie is out here losing all his morals and sanity on Grotesquerie and my mind couldn't help but match it, so what's a better idea other than channeling all the religious trauma/journey into a spicy one-shot? i for one feel like it's a mini-therapy, but enough rambling, enjoy 😩🫶🏾 i'm in love with a holy man, mother 😔…. second part: 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 and final part: 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

★·.·´ɢʀᴏᴛᴇsǫᴜᴇʀɪᴇ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

Father Charlie Mayhew was a sick man.

Not in the manner of flesh, but of spirit. He could feel the sickness festering in the quiet corners of his heart, a sinful yearning that had taken root there, twisting itself around his thoughts like creeping ivy.

It was a sickness that, he believed, made him a grotesque parody of the holy man he was meant to be. For how could he call himself righteous, devoted, when every whisper of prayer felt stained by the way his eyes followed you, Sister ____?

You were a vision of purity, an embodiment of the kind of gentle devotion that Father Charlie envied and craved all at once.

He watched you from a distance, always careful not to draw your gaze, afraid of what you might see if you looked too deeply. How dutiful you were, sweeping the church aisle with a focus that made him forget the dust and see only the graceful motion of your hands.

The sun, filtered through stained glass, seemed to seek you out, casting colors on your habit as if to mark you as someone far beyond his grasp, almost holy in your mundane tasks.

It was in the mornings, when he heard the soft chime of your laughter in the courtyard as you fed the pigeons, that he felt the deepest sting of his wretchedness.

The world seemed simpler in those moments, your laughter echoing off the stone walls, the warmth of early sun painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. He wondered if you knew how your kindness drew even the animals to you, their heads dipping into your palms as if receiving communion.

There was a stillness to you, a gentleness in every gesture.

The worst of it was during your services. Father Charlie had seen you on your knees before, hands folded in earnest prayer, your lips moving softly as you whispered your devotion to God.

He would stand at the back of the chapel, watching with a mixture of awe and something far darker. He told himself it was admiration, but the truth festered beneath that facade.

It was longing, a hunger that ached at the edges of his soul.

A storm raged outside the convent one evening, winds battering the church walls with a fury that mirrored the tempest building in his chest. The clouds were bloated, dark as his thoughts, and thunder rolled across the sky with a violence that shook even the faith he held so dear.

You had come to his chambers in the dead of night, your knock barely audible over the howling wind. He had been preparing for bed, freshly out of the shower, wearing only his boxers when he heard you at the door.

The creak of the old wood seemed to echo forever as he opened it, and there you stood, eyes wide, looking so impossibly fragile in the dim candlelight of the corridor. Your modest night slip clung to your form, the thin fabric shifting in the draft that sneaked in from the hallway.

Charlie's breath had caught in his throat at the sight of you, innocence incarnate, seeking refuge with him.

He hesitated for only a moment before allowing you in, quickly wrapping himself in a silk robe that hung loosely on his shoulders, barely tied. He knew he should not let you enter, but there was something in the way you looked at him—so trusting, so devoted—that made him abandon every rational thought.

You had come asking to pray with him, your soft voice trembling as you spoke. The storm outside seemed like a reflection of the turmoil within him as he let you step past the threshold, closing the door behind you.

Now, you were here, kneeling before him, your eyes upturned and wide, waiting for his command, for his instruction like the obedient servant of God that you were.

Your soft voice brought him out of his thoughts, a gentle, "Father...?"

Charlie could only lament to himself how sinfully pure you looked. He hummed softly, his eyes dark as they trailed over you, lingering on the curve of your shoulders, the delicate line of your neck.

The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across your skin, highlighting the innocence that made his hunger all the more unbearable.

"Yes, forgive me, Sister. Let us now pray," he finally said, his voice low and rough, the words nearly swallowed by the sound of the wind outside. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your forehead, and you leaned into the touch without hesitation, your eyes closing as if his hand was a blessing.

He swallowed hard, his thoughts spiraling deeper into the forbidden desires he had tried so desperately to keep buried.

He began to pray, his voice low, raspy, each word a struggle against the chaos inside him. "Heavenly Father, we come before you tonight..." But the words felt hollow, their meaning slipping away as he watched you, kneeling so obediently at his feet.

His eyes darkened, wandering further down, tracing the lines of your form. The way your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, the soft rise and fall of your chest with each breath—it all seemed to pull him further from the sanctity of the moment.

He should have been thinking of God, of salvation, of the purity of the prayer—but instead, he was thinking of you, of the way the thin fabric clung to your skin, the soft curve of your breasts visible through the modest slip.

He licked his lips, his gaze fixed on the delicate line of your collarbone, the way it rose and fell with each breath you took.

The more he spoke, the less the words mattered. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, spreading through his body, his thoughts growing more erratic, each word of the prayer slipping further from its sacred meaning, twisting into something profane, something filthy. "Protect us from all evil..." he whispered as he traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, the words a bitter irony as he felt himself drawn further into the darkness of his desires.

His hand moved lower, fingers trailing down your neck, lingering at the hollow of your throat. His touch was gentle, but there was a weight behind it, a hunger that he could no longer deny.

He could almost see the curve of your bare skin beneath the thin fabric, the outline of your body that he should not be imagining. He tried to focus on the prayer, but every word felt like a lie. He let out a shaky breath, the prayer faltering on his lips. "Guide us... guide us in your light," he managed, his voice thick with the weight of his longing.

The storm outside raged on, the wind howling as if to warn him, but Father Charlie could no longer hear it. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, the rush of blood in his ears as he looked down at you, so trusting, so willing.

As the final words of the prayer fell from his lips—"Amen"—you echoed him, your voice soft and unwavering. You blinked open your eyes, looking up at him with such innocence and Charlie felt himself slip past the point of no return.

He knew that no amount of prayer could ever cleanse him of what he wanted, that he could no longer pretend, no longer fight against the pull that drew him to you—the sweet, precious nun who had unknowingly captured his very soul.

Father Charlie stood, his robe slipping slightly from his shoulders, exposing the toned muscle beneath. The wind howled outside, and thunder bellowed again, followed by a flash of lightning that lit the room in a brief, startling blaze of white.

You were still kneeling before him, your wide eyes following his every movement, the flickering light casting you in both shadow and radiance.

Charlie bent at the waist, his fingers reaching out to cup your jaw, thumb caressing your bottom lip as his half-lidded eyes trailed over your face. "Sister ____," he murmured, his voice dripping with a twisted kind of affection, his name for you almost reverent, as though you were something sacred, something he could worship in his own unholy way.

You blinked, shifting slightly beneath his touch, a soft stutter escaping your lips. "F-Father...?"

He grasped one of your hands, his fingers wrapping around yours, and as he stood, he gently urged you to rise with him. His gaze never left your face, his eyes dark and full of something raw. He began to speak, his voice barely more than a murmur, the words heavy with confession. "As a man of God, there are expectations placed upon me," he started, his tone wavering between remorse and something darker, something that made his grip on your hand tighten. "I am meant to guide, to protect, to remain steadfast in my faith."

His other hand moved, slowly pulling your trembling hand against his bare stomach, pressing your palm against the hard planes of his abdomen.

You gasped, your eyes wide as you looked up at him, your hand trembling beneath his. The heat of his skin burned into your palm, the muscles flexing beneath your touch.

Charlie continued, his voice lowering, growing more intense as he spoke. "But these days... these days, Sister, I find myself at war. At war with desires that threaten to consume me..." His words trailed off, and he let out a low hum as he rubbed your hand across his stomach, the movement slow, deliberate.

Your hand hesitated for a moment, the warmth of his skin making you tremble as you instinctively pulled back. But his grip was firm, guiding you back, and slowly, tentatively, your fingers splayed across his stomach, your touch feather-light.

You swallowed hard, your eyes flickering down before you took a timid step closer, as if drawn by some invisible force. Your gaze shifted to the side, your cheeks warming with embarrassment at the proximity, at the way you could feel his heart beating beneath your palm.

Father Charlie's eyes never left you, and he could see every ounce of hesitation, every flicker of uncertainty that danced across your face. He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing against your forehead as he spoke, his voice a low murmur, "There's no need to be afraid, Sister. You are safe here... with me."

You blinked, your lashes fluttering as you dared to look up at him, your eyes meeting his through the veil of uncertainty.

There was something in his gaze, something dark and magnetic that pulled at you, made your pulse race. His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw; the touch almost comforting, but there was an intensity behind it that made you shiver.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching yours.

You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice to speak, your fingers trembling slightly against his skin. He smiled, a slow, almost predatory curve of his lips, and he hummed again, satisfied with your silent answer.

His other hand moved to rest against the small of your back, pulling you just a little bit closer, his robe parting further, exposing more of his chest.

Your breath hitched as you felt the distance between you closing, the way his body seemed to envelop yours. You could barely think, your mind clouded with the storm of emotions and the strange, electric pull you felt toward him.

His thumb traced along your bottom lip, his eyes darkening as he watched you. You felt your pulse quicken, your knees weakening under the intensity of his gaze.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a mix of praise and something darker, something that made your heart pound even harder. His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your body react, leaning in just slightly, as if craving more of his warmth, his touch.

His fingers trailed lower, coaxing your hand along his body, and you felt the tension, the desire in every muscle. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a husky whisper, "Let me show you, Sister ____... let me show you what devotion truly means."

He kissed you then, his lips crashing against yours like a man starved. His mouth moved hungrily, tasting, devouring, and you felt his tongue lick into your mouth, coaxing a soft, surprised whimper from your throat. His groan vibrated against your lips, the sound raw and desperate.

Your head spun, your senses overwhelmed by the taste of him, the sheer need in his kiss.

You pulled back, gasping for air, your lips tingling from the force of his kiss. He didn't give you a moment to recover; his lips moved to your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin.

He nipped at your neck, his teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, to make your knees weaken beneath you. The heat of his mouth trailed down, his tongue flicking out to soothe each small bite, and you felt your body trembling, a warmth pooling low in your belly.

Charlie's hands were relentless, holding you steady as your body threatened to give out, your knees buckling as his mouth worked against your skin. He pulled back only long enough to whisper your name, his voice thick with something between reverence and hunger.

Before you knew it, he had scooped you up, his arms strong and sure as he carried you towards his bed. Your breath hitched, your fingers clinging to his robe as he moved, each step filled with purpose.

He set you down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. His eyes roamed over you, dark and filled with desire, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

Father Charlie moved quickly, his hands deft as he pushed your slip off your shoulders, the fabric sliding down your skin and pooling around your waist. His lips followed the path of the falling slip, pressing soft, lingering kisses along your shoulders, his warm breath fanning across your skin.

You shivered beneath his touch, the cool air of the room prickling at your exposed skin, your nipples pebbling in response.

His eyes darkened at the sight of you, and he let out a low groan, his hands running along your bare arms, feeling the way you trembled beneath him. "You're like a goddess," he murmured, his voice thick with reverence and lust. "Perfect. Untouched. A temptation I can't resist." His lips found your collarbone, kissing, nipping, his words vibrating against your skin.

You felt heat rise in your cheeks, your heart pounding as his lips moved lower, trailing down the center of your chest, his hands spreading across your back, urging you to arch into him. His kisses were relentless, each one making your breath catch, making your body react in ways that felt both unfamiliar and thrilling.

You couldn't stop the soft whimper that escaped your lips, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you, unsure of what to do, where to touch.

Charlie pulled back for a moment, his eyes locking onto yours, his gaze filled with hunger. He pushed you back against the bed, guiding you to lie down, his hands never leaving your body, his touch possessive, as if he couldn't bear to be without contact. He looked down at you, splayed out before him, your slip barely covering you, and he licked his lips, his eyes raking over every inch of your exposed skin.

"Look at you," he whispered, his voice dripping with a mix of adoration and hunger. "So innocent, so pure... and all mine." He leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a heated kiss, his hands working the slip further down your body, baring you completely to him.

The cool air made you shiver, your body exposed, vulnerable, and you couldn't help the way your legs shifted, instinctively trying to close.

Charlie's hands moved to your knees, gently but firmly pushing them apart, his eyes never leaving your face as he watched your reaction. His lips moved from your mouth, trailing down your jaw to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin as he groaned against you.

He pulled the slip away entirely, tossing it aside, his hands roaming over your bare skin, mapping every inch as though he were committing you to memory. "You are... perfection," he muttered, his voice strained, filled with a hunger that made your breath hitch.

His lips moved lower, trailing down your body, leaving a heated path across your chest, your stomach, and further down. His hands were strong, keeping your legs pinned open to the bed, his fingers pressing into your thighs with a possessive hold. He kissed along your inner thighs, his warm breath fanning over your skin, making you shiver, anticipation coiling in your belly.

You instinctively tried to scoot back, to move away as you felt his breath getting closer to your core, but Charlie's grip tightened, his hands holding you firmly in place. He looked up at you, his eyes dark, almost predatory, as he whispered, "Stay still, Sister... let me worship you."

He breathed you in, a deep, satisfied groan rumbling from his chest. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as if savoring the scent of you, and then he leaned in, his tongue licking a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit.

A squeal, half surprise and half pleasure, escaped your lips, your back arching slightly off the bed.

Father Charlie's tongue moved with a purpose, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking gently before flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. His hands kept your legs spread, his grip firm and unyielding as he worked his mouth against you, his groans vibrating against your core.

He was relentless, his mouth moving with a hunger that made your head spin, your fingers gripping the sheets beneath you, trying to ground yourself as waves of pleasure washed over you.

You could feel his smooth skin against your inner thighs, the sensation only adding to the overwhelming pleasure that built inside you. His tongue moved in slow, teasing circles, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against you, his eyes flicking up to watch your every reaction.

The sight of you—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your chest heaved with every ragged breath—only seemed to spur him on, his groans growing louder as he tasted you.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, your hips bucking against his mouth, a whimper slipping from your lips. Charlie's hands moved to hold your hips down, pinning you to the bed as he continued, his tongue delving into you, his nose brushing against your clit as he worked, utterly consumed by the taste of you.

He was lost in it, in you, his tongue moving faster, his mouth desperate as he devoured you.

You gasped, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, your body trembling beneath him. The heat built inside you, coiling tighter and tighter, until you felt like you might break apart. His name fell from your lips, a breathless plea, and he groaned in response, the vibrations sending a shockwave of pleasure through you.

Your back arched off the bed, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, your body ready to fall apart under his touch.

Your first orgasm washed over you without warning, a blinding wave of pleasure that left you feeling weightless, your entire body trembling as you came undone beneath him. You melted into the bed like butter, your limbs going limp as the intensity of it left you breathless.

Charlie's mouth moved against you with a fervent hunger, drinking in every bit of your release as if it were the most sacred offering.

A small whimper escaped your lips as the sensation grew overwhelming, your body growing sensitive to his touch. He didn't stop, his tongue moving lazily, drawing out every last bit of pleasure from you, his mouth still savoring you.

Your grip on his head shifted, your fingers now pushing at him, trying to get him to stop, but his hands only gripped your thighs tighter, keeping you in place. "W-Wait..." The heat in your stomach was already starting to build again, the slow, deliberate movements of his tongue igniting another fire deep within you.

Charlie groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core, his face buried even further between your legs, his tongue relentless.

Your breath came in quick, shallow gasps, your body trembling once more as the pleasure built. You could feel another orgasm approaching, your mind spinning as you tried to form words, but all that left your throat were broken, incoherent sounds—static that filled the room as you babbled.

You tried to scoot back, to move away from the overwhelming sensation, but Charlie's strong arms wrapped around your hips, yanking you back down, his grip unyielding. His own hips pressed into the bedding below, his desperation evident as he devoured you.

You teetered on the edge once more, the pleasure too much, too intense, until it finally broke over you again, your body arching, your mind going completely blank as you came undone a second time.

The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the sensation of his mouth on you, the heat, the pressure, the overwhelming ecstasy that left you gasping for air.

As you came down from your high, your body trembling, Father Charlie finally pulled back, his lips and chin glistening. He stared up at you with dark, lidded eyes, his expression filled with hunger, with desire that seemed insatiable.

There was no hesitation, no regret—only a raw need that made it clear he no longer cared about going against his vows, no longer cared about the priesthood or what was right.

All that mattered to him was you.

A/N: i'm sorry, i just watched Grotesquerie last night and i've become obssessed.... ugh, the tension between father charlie and sister megan is just *chefs kiss* it's clear that megan is obviously meant to be y/n and the screenplay was written in the intent of it being catered to the female gaze because wheeeeww 😩...

[sweetfushi]

hihihihi i hope ur having a very good day and that this request is even understandable and grammatically correct!!!!!! this thought has been plaguing my mind sososos much but i reallyreallylyly want just a short drabble or anything w jjk (any character u find that fits best idm) of them like drawing a bath n washing your hair after a long day or smth smth (nooooottttttt in a suggestive way plsplsplspls)

okay thats it >3< !!!! im praying this doesnt come off as pushy T_T

PAMPERING YOU AFTER A LONG DAY

fluff | satoru gojo, toji fushiguro, kento nanami x reader, stress, frustration, running you a bath, washing you, no suggestiveness just pure fluff and comfort <3 | word count. 1.7k ◦ notes. hihihihi nonnie!! don't worry your grammar is fine and you didn't come off as pushy at all, i hope you enjoy mwah

SATORU GOJO.

Satoru can tell something is up when you toss your decently-expensive blazer haphazardly on your desk, showing little care when it inevitably slips and falls on the ground. He doesn’t need you to tell him, he picks it up in an instant and throws it on the back of your office chair.

“I would ask how work went but you don’t look like you’re in the mood to answer questions,” he huffs, somewhat amused. “Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure today was a universally terrible day at work. Everyone on the street looked miserable as hell,” he assures you through the kiss he places to the top of your head.

“Oh I’m sure,” you mumble, recalling the frustration you experienced facing your arrogant supervisor. “Sorry, that tone wasn’t aimed at you.”

“I didn’t think it was, dove, but thank you for the reassurance,” he laughs softly, the breathy sound evidence of his own exhaustion.

Satoru starts to head out of your office to let you settle down, but pauses in the doorway. You barely pay him any mind other than a small smile as you pull your laptop out of your bag and place it on your desk, and mutter incoherently about how disgusting the five empty snack wrappers in your bag are. He continues to watch as you let down your hair from its bun toss your hair tie beside your laptop.

“Come to the bathroom in ten. Vanilla or floral?”

You squint. “What?”

“Scent. Pick.”

“Why are you talking in half-sentences? And vanilla.”

“Why aren’t you used to it? And alright,” he retorts with a long finger pointing at you, before narrowly dodging the pen you throw at him by rushing out the doorway and seeking refuge in the bathroom.

The bathroom that, ten minutes later, you find yourself being pampered in. Satoru is sat on a stool beside the bathtub as you soak in the water, stretching your legs and fluttering your lashes at the therapy the hot water provides to your aching muscles. Speaking of, you don’t have to strain a single one as Satoru doesn’t let you lift a finger. He’s massaging your shampoo into your hair, gently scratching your scalp and inhaling the sweet scent of vanilla.

The water reaches your chest and provides the perfect height for you to make shapes with the bubbles and bring them close to your face to inspect before blowing away. He watches as you repeat this process with multiple shapes, some more recognisable than others, and feels himself desiring to kiss you.

“Do you think–,” the moment you turn your head to ask, Satoru’s lips meet yours quickly yet so dreamily and so gently. You practically whine into the kiss, both because he cut you off and because you’re caught off guard by how intimate the moment suddenly becomes.

So much so that you’re left panting by the time he pulls away and flashes you a faux innocent smile, to which you glare at him and tense up like a cat when he starts rinsing the shampoo out your hair. After he applies a mask in your hair and clips it up, Satoru struggles to maintain a healthy heart rate when you rest your arms on his knees and your head on them, eyes lowering with the appearance of tiredness.

“I can’t wash you like this, baby.”

“Just for a bit.”

A minute goes by. “How long is a bit?” He finally asks.

“A lot.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO.

“I can finally show you what I’ve been workin’ on,” Toji smirks, taking your hand in his after you manage to shove your shoes off by the door. He’s been working on the spare room you had for a month now and would refuse to let you even peek any time you asked. You assumed that your husband had finally resorted to illegal money-making tactics to fund your lifestyle, but he was (suspiciously) quick to shut that idea down.

When he did need help continuing the project, he had called in a few men you weren’t familiar with to assist. You’d complain about the random men in your house, to which he’d pull you in for a kiss on your temple and insist that it’s worth it.

He unlocks the door to the room and rushes behind you to cover your eyes. “Is this necessary? You’ve already made me wait a month.”

“A few seconds more can’t hurt,” he retorts with a snicker at your enthusiasm. He uses his elbow to push the door open and only when he guides you to step into the room and close the door behind you does he lower his hands from your eyes. “Surprise.”

Surprise was an understatement. Toji had renovated the room to almost appear bigger and function as a spa, with extensive windows along the top of the walls that are big enough to let fresh air in but small enough to not actually show the interior of the room from the outside. A massage table stood in the middle of the room with two tables at either side of it, both neatly organised with numerous body oils, lotions and Vogue magazines.

“If you don’t say something in the next second I’m gonna assume you’re plotting to kill me.”

“I love it.”

“Thank God.”

You giggle at his exaggerated exhale and turn to tackle him in your embrace, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down to your height for your own comfort. Toji smiles into your neck, resting his hands on your lower back and letting himself inhale your scent and delightful aura.

“Now,” you start as you break away from the hug, “I believe I’m in need of a masseur.”

Toji - or your masseur - is quick to have you strip down and lay you on your stomach with a white towel over your backside. He laughs at your heavy sigh and the way your head flops down onto the table, simply letting him work one of the oils on your skin and tense muscles. Every so often, when he feels you drifting off to sleep, he’ll bend down and place a kiss on your hairline, sometimes hearing you mumble in response.

His fingers are calloused enough to draw you out of your slumber after a minute or so, but you don’t complain since they’re the same fingers that ward you into that sleep initially. You don’t talk at all aside from a few incoherent murmurs, ones that even when Toji responds with “hm?” to, you don’t repeat or say any clearer. He has to contain the soft, breathy laugh that threatens to escape at your dazed, drowsy state - he doesn’t want to disrupt your peace.

“You good, mama?” Toji asks breathily, slowing his movements momentarily.

You groan in response. “You better keep those hands moving, boy.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You can hear the grin in his voice but can’t find the strength to glare at him for it let alone lift your head to do so.

KENTO NANAMI.

The first thing you notice when you walk through the front door is the delivery bag by the bin. You wonder why it’s not in the bin, but also why it’s here in the first place. You’re certain you have leftovers that are enough to feed you two for the evening. However with closer inspection of the bag, you realise it to be of a bakery that is very much raved about, both at work and on social media.

I’ll be damned if I let this man finish these sweets without me.

“Kento! I’m home!” You call out, expecting a prompt response from the kitchen or living room. Instead, you hear some shifting and clanging upstairs, likely in the bathroom, and hang your jacket up before trotting up the stairs. “Are you okay? What was that sound?”

“Ah, I’m fine, sweetheart. I didn’t anticipate making this much noise, though,” he replies sheepishly just as you push the bathroom door open. Once you do, the aroma of something you can’t quite place your finger on caresses your senses, making you shut your eyes to fully indulge in it. Nanami chuckles at your rapidly relaxed demeanour and dries his hands off before coming over to embrace you.

“Hi,” you smile into the crook of his neck.

“Hi,” he reciprocates, sighing contently at the feeling of your hands roaming the expanse of his back. He shifts you in his arms so that his left is swung over your shoulders, while the other motions towards the relaxation project that is your bathroom. As you let yourself admire the filled bathtub, lit candles and rose petals decorating both the water and some of the floor, you’re reminded of the sweets.

“Do I also get a cake?” You stare up at him pointedly.

Nanami recalls the delivery he made and rubs your left shoulder. “Also isn’t the right word here, I swear I haven’t had any yet,” he laughs breathily, letting you strip while he positions the small tray table on the edges of the bathtub. When you’re finally relieved of your clothes, you practically squeal at the sight of numerous cakes, brownies and fruits decorating the wooden tray, barely giving Nanami enough time to stand before you’re crawling into the tub and snuggling under the warm water.

“Now I know you washed your hair yesterday,” he says as you start to feel his hands gather your hair and clip it up, “which is why I want this to be focused on easing your stress. Both physical and mental forms.”

You’re practically gaping at the rate at which he’s making your heart race from simply his words and gestures. Reluctantly you are to admit that perhaps Nanami deserves to have some of your sweets. Realistically, it would be days before you’d finish them all. “Come here and give me a kiss, you,” is all you respond with, to which Nanami complies eagerly and results in him groaning under the soft feeling of your hands rubbing the back of his neck.

Your hand trails up to scratch his scalp and he shivers in delight, allowing his hand to grasp your jaw gently but with enough grip to make you shiver and smile into the kiss. The kiss that inevitably ends because you need to breathe and let Nanami tend to you.

When he reaches for your body wash, you grab his arm and insist that you eat first. You need some sugar in your system before you crash from sheer relaxation under your husband’s attention.

“Feed me, husband.”

He smiles and shakes his head. “As you wish, my wife.”

sweetfushi © do not modify, repost, translate, copy or use my post. all that is included in this post, aside from the photos, fictional characters and universes, belong to sweetfushi (zee).

[laneywrld]

futile devices | Lewis Hamilton

request: you have a real talent for angst hehe. can i request one with lewis where he broke up with reader bcs he said he needed a break. but then not long after he was out with other women. the breakup broke reader she turned into a whole diff person. and she was like "i dont think any of that was real" when she talked abt her past with lewis? please tear my heart apart into pieces, im begging you

word count: 2.4k

warnings: ANGSTTT, dissociation, therapy, religious talks.

listen while you read for the full experience:

apple music, spotify

You read something once, it goes, did god create humans because he was lonely or humans God because they were lonely?

Now, you were never strongly religious, enough to go to church three times a week or remember to pray before each meal or bedtime, a part of you wants to believe that there is a God. A flicker of you does feel like, hey, there has to be someone out there pushing my hand like this, there has to be a reason for this.

And that's human nature, needing a reason.

When you don't have a reasonable explanation for things, your mind searches for that reasoning. History shows, that when man knows nothing man creates, look at mythology for an example.

In ancient cultures, the world was filled with mysteries—natural events, life and death, the changing seasons—that seemed inexplicable without invoking a higher power or supernatural beings.

So, what did humans do?

They have created gods and mythical figures to explain phenomena they didn't understand.

In a way it's a beautiful thing, what that has done is infuse our real world with a sense of order and meaning in a world that could often seem chaotic and purposeless.

That is what life is without reasoning, a big fucking question.

Humanity sought not only to explain the world around them but also to find their place within it, weaving their existence into the larger tapestry of the cosmos.

We have an enduring need to seek meaning in the face of the unfathomable, to transform the mysterious into the comprehensible, and to infuse our world with a sense of purpose and coherence.

The point is this, maybe you were blind to it all, maybe your brain forced you to believe it. Forced you to see things as they weren't.

Lewis Hamilton never loved you, he never even cared. You can see that now.

The point is this: maybe you were blind to it all, maybe your brain forced you to believe it, to see things as they weren't. For the longest time, you believed Lewis Hamilton loved you. His charming smile, the way he looked at you, the tender moments you shared—they all seemed so real, so genuine.

But in the end, it was all a façade.

It started to unravel one evening when Lewis sat you down, a serious look on his face. "I need a break," he said, his voice devoid of the warmth you were used to. "I need to find myself."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. You wanted to understand, to support him in his quest for self-discovery. But as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, the truth began to surface. The only thing Lewis found was himself under different women.

The news and rumors reached you like whispers in the wind, each one a dagger to your heart.

It boggled you, it really did. How could someone who seemed so loving, so dedicated, turn out to be so deceitful? You replayed your memories, searching for signs, for clues you might have missed. Maybe you were blind to it all, or maybe you wanted so desperately to believe in his love that you ignored the red flags.

There were moments that stood out now, in harsh clarity. The late nights he claimed were for training, the mysterious phone calls he brushed off, the growing distance in his eyes. You had chalked it up to stress, to the demands of his career. But now, it all made sense. It was never about finding himself; it was about finding excuses.

The realization hurt more than you could have imagined. You felt betrayed, not just by Lewis, but by your own heart for leading you astray. The love you thought was real had been a carefully constructed illusion, and you were left to pick up the pieces of your shattered trust.

Did god create humans because he was lonely or humans God because they were lonely?

You were lonely, and you filled that void with Lewis, even if it wasn't real, you allowed him to fill every crevice of your life with a warmth and excitement you had previously been lacking.

It became clear that it's a bad religion to love someone who could never love you back. Loving Lewis had been like worshiping a false god, investing your heart and soul into something that could never reciprocate your devotion.

You didn't know who you were without Lewis.

And that was the problem, yeah you realize now that true love, the kind that is worth believing in, is mutual and nurturing, not one-sided and destructive.

But he's fucking ruined you to the point of no return.

You always thought that those people who let their lives be flipped upside down over a breakup were dramatic. You used to believe that heartbreak was something you could just push through, that it was a part of life everyone had to endure and move past. Yet now, you understood fully. It's crazy how losing someone—or rather, being left by someone you thought loved you—could indeed flip your own life upside down and launch you back further than you knew you could go.

There was no point of return. The realization that Lewis never truly loved you was a blow that shattered your world. The man who once filled your days with laughter and your nights with tender whispers had left you with a void so profound it felt like you were lost in an endless abyss.

Lewis made you lack a belief in everything.

The trust you once held sacred, the love you thought was mutual, the future you had envisioned together—everything now seemed like a cruel illusion. His departure didn't just break your heart; it broke your spirit. You found yourself doubting your worth, your judgment, your ability to ever truly know someone.

You didn't know what was real or fake.

Nights were the hardest. Alone in the quiet of your room, memories would flood your mind—the way he used to hold you, the promises he made, the plans you both had. The betrayal felt like an echoing void, reminding you of the deception hidden behind charming smiles. You felt untethered, adrift in a sea of emotions with no solid ground in sight.

You began to see the world through a lens of skepticism. Where once you saw possibilities and hope, now you saw uncertainty and doubt. Lewis’ betrayal had sown seeds of mistrust in your heart, making it difficult to believe in anything or anyone. The optimism that once colored your outlook on life had been replaced by a grim resignation.

You didn't even know if you believed in God anymore, or purpose, or happiness. Lewis had taken every ounce of reasoning from you. Your brain couldn't decipher what was real or fake.

Was it real or was it fake?

Did Lewis love you or was this a sick game?

Did he love you or were you just lonely?

You didn't know what was real or fake, and it made you feel so fucking crazy.

The questions haunted you, relentlessly looping through your mind.

You replayed your relationship over and over, scrutinizing every moment, every gesture. What was real? What was fake? The uncertainty gnawed at your sanity, eroding the foundation of your life.

The world around you seemed distorted as if reality itself had become an unreliable narrator in the story of your life.

Your faith, which had once been a source of comfort and strength, now felt fragile and distant. You questioned everything you had once held dear, everything that had given your life meaning. Was there a higher power? A divine purpose? The betrayal had not only broken your heart but also shaken the very core of your beliefs.

Purpose felt like a cruel joke. The plans you had made, the dreams you had shared with Lewis, all seemed meaningless now. Happiness, once a tangible goal, now felt like an elusive mirage, always just out of reach. The void left by Lewis's departure was filled with a consuming darkness that threatened to swallow you whole.

You tried to find solace in the familiar, in the routine, but nothing felt the same. Your friends and family offered words of comfort, but their reassurances felt hollow, unable to penetrate the depths of your despair. You were trapped in a maze of confusion and pain, each turn leading you further into the unknown.

There were moments when you questioned your sanity. The line between reality and illusion had become so blurred that you wondered if you were losing your mind. You felt disconnected from yourself, from the person you used to be as if you were living in a surreal nightmare from which there was no escape.

You felt mindless, maybe he had taken your mind with him.

It felt as if your head could collapse at any given moment.

Your family wanted you to try therapy; you weren't yourself. Maybe, aside from taking your mind, Lewis also took the person you were with him. Therapy was hard, and though you've had session after session, you feel the same. Where was the progress everyone promised? Your therapist's voice drones on and on, and you feel like you're watching her from the hollowness like you've taken a backseat to your own life. Every single day felt like you were watching your life from another person's gaze, or like you were sitting inside your brain watching from your eyes, except it wasn't you.

Your therapist is still talking. Nothing she says helps; you want her to shut up as she spews the importance of finding yourself again. You want to scream at her as she preaches about purpose, but when you zero in, you're still quiet, eyes dead and hands folded. You're screaming inside your head, but she keeps talking.

You don't mean to cut her off, or maybe you do, but when the words tumble from your lips, she cocks her head in a way that tells you she's going to have fun studying this session later in the day.

"I feel like I'm not even here," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "I feel like I'm watching my life happen to someone else."

Your therapist pauses, her pen hovering over her notepad. "That's a significant observation," she says slowly, as if measuring each word. "It sounds like you're experiencing dissociation, a common response to trauma."

You want to roll your eyes at her clinical response, but you can't muster the energy.

"Why does it matter?" you ask, your tone flat. "Knowing what's wrong doesn't make it better. I'm still...gone."

She leans forward slightly, her eyes searching yours for a flicker of connection. "It's the first step," she says. "Understanding what you're experiencing can help us find a way to bring you back. It's not a quick process, but it's a start."

You feel a surge of frustration. "Everyone keeps saying that. 'It's a process,' 'It's a journey,' 'It takes time.' But what if I never get back to who I was? What if I'm stuck like this forever?"

Your therapist doesn't flinch. "It's a valid fear," she acknowledges. "But healing isn't about returning to who you were. It's about integrating your experiences and finding a new sense of self. It’s about moving forward, not backward."

Her words echo in your mind, but they don't penetrate the numbness you feel. "I don't even know who I am anymore," you admit, the confession feeling like a weight lifted and a burden simultaneously.

"That's why we're here," she says gently. "To help you rediscover yourself. To help you heal. It's okay to feel lost right now. What's important is that you're here, trying to find your way."

You sit in silence, her words hanging in the air. Despite your resistance, a small part of you wants to believe her, to hope that maybe, just maybe, you can find your way out of this darkness.

But for now, you're still watching from the hollow place, detached and distant. Therapy might be a lifeline, but it feels like you're grasping at straws. You hope that someday, the promises of progress will become more than empty words, that you’ll find a way to step back into your own life, whole and strong.

But for now, that hope feels unrealistic. All you want is to know what was real. Were you that lonely? You had never felt lonely before him, never felt like a piece of you was missing. Before Lewis, you felt content with life, fulfilled.

The question haunted you. How had you become so dependent on his presence, his validation? You had always prided yourself on your independence, your ability to find joy and meaning in your own life. Friends, family, your work—these had always been enough. So why, after Lewis, did everything feel so empty?

Your mind raced back to the beginning, to the thrill and excitement of new love. You remembered how he made you feel special like you were the center of his universe.

It was intoxicating, a heady rush that blurred the lines between reality and fantasy. You realized now that you had mistaken the intensity of those feelings for something deeper, something real.

In the quiet of your therapy sessions, you wrestled with these thoughts. Your therapist's words often felt like background noise, drowned out by the clamor of your own doubts and insecurities. Yet, there was a part of you that recognized the need to confront these feelings, to understand why you had allowed yourself to become so entwined with someone who ultimately proved unworthy of your adoration.

Were you lonely? Or was it that Lewis had awakened a vulnerability you didn't know existed?

His departure left a gaping wound, exposing the raw edges of your heart. The loneliness you felt now wasn't just the absence of his presence, but the loss of the illusion of love he had created. It was the shattering of a carefully constructed facade that had made you feel whole, if only for a fleeting moment.

As you sat in your therapist's office, the background noise of her voice suddenly halted. For the first time, you murmured a sentence that showed progress, even if it was wrapped in sadness.

"I don't think any of it was real."

the way I just wrote this in 38 minutes, in my dark ass room with the linked song on replay while it's raining. what a great day. I'm really convinced that I can only write angst!

to the anon who called me sad and smutty ilyyyyy 🫶🏽😭 I'm making it my bio

also, I don't have access to the form for the taglist right now, so if you would like to be added or if you already submitted your user, pls just send me an ask with your user pls <3

[darklordofthesimp]

i’m sad and hurting my own feelings here.

ghost is..well ghost, and tries to hide feelings right? okay so imagine this.

ghost falls for someone and feels himself getting attached. the other person is obviously attached too bc the feeling is mutual. he picks up on it and decides to start sleeping with other people to try and make his crush fizzle out. probably thinks it’s just purely physical desire and anyone could fix that. nothing as good as his person could possibly happen to him (YOURE WRONG SIMON GET THERAPY)

his crush finds out about the sexcapade and is distraught. like screaming, crying, and throwing up (quite literally) and soap is comforting them. ghost overheard the ordeal and is just like “what the fuck did i do”

Oh my God. But imagine that in the Anything verse???

Ghost and Sunshine acknowledging each other's feelings on their beloved rooftop. Despite all of their harsh edges, somewhere along the line they fell for each other.

Through thick and thin, despite their bickering and their tension, the stolen glances- the stolen touches- have reminded them exactly how they feel.

Except Simon Riley has fallen too hard. It was fine when it was a crush, it was fine when him and Sunshine had slept together in a drunken attempt to forget a bad mission. That had been seeking comfort in each other.

It wasn't fine when he couldn't stop thinking of them. It wasn't fine when anxiety crippled his breathing at the thought of them getting shot. It wasn't fine when he realised he wanted Sunshine all too himself- to call them his.

He needed to get over Sunshine before his stupidity got them both killed.

You can't form attachments in this job.

You can't love in this job.

So he finds Birdy. Birdy, poor and vulnerable Birdy. They hold Ghost on a pedestal, he helped them through so much, he was there for them during their darkest days and slowly put them back on his feet.

He trusted Birdy.

Simon felt frantic when he opened the door to their room. Although they weren't having nightmares anymore they still struggled to sleep, he'd often come to keep them company because he could never sleep either.

Birdy knew the energy was different the second he sat down on the bed with them.

Ghost said nothing, his fingers trembling as he reached for Birdy- praying that they'd let him touch them, begging whatever deity that Birdy would get him over Sunshine.

When Birdy shuddered a breath, and leaned into his touch, he knew that he had them.

One after the other, the layers of their clothing stripped, one after the other, their walls fell. Ghost never let them all down, only one person could have him vulnerable- and it wasn't Birdy.

The door creaked from behind them as Ghost moved against Birdy's body, their breaths painting the room with lewd images.

A glass shattered against the ground from behind them and Ghost turned over his shoulder.

Sunshine stood in the doorway.

Ghost had left the door slightly ajar in his rush to forget them.

"I just-" Sunshine shook, "just wanted to check on Birdy."

Birdy sucked in a breath.

Sunshines eyes hardened as they landed on Ghost. His eyes were wide and distantly he could feel Birdy pulling the covers over where they had split from each other.

"Sorry to interrupt," Sunshine said. Their voice was venomous. The hatred in their eyes shone bright and Ghost was suckerpunched by the sight.

Sunshine would solve their issue for them in their lifelong attempt to never get hurt.

Sunshine would never fucking speak to him again. That didn't mean mission talk, work talk was work talk- but Sunshine would never speak to Simon Riley again.

----

He could hear them sobbing.

The hushed soothing of a man that wasn't him.

He imagined König's fingers smoothing down their hair, his arms wrapped around their wracking body. He imagined the giant man kissing Sunshine's forehead and whispering sweet nothings against their skin from behind that door.

Simon knew he had no right to be there. No right to stand outside König's room listening to the person he loved hyperventilate.

He'd ruined it all.

His inability to love others, he'd fucked his chance to be truly loved.

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Olympics AU - "Comeback"

Read Olympics AU "Beginnings" if you're new here.

AU summary: Paris 2024 Olympics. Gale is on the U.S. equestrian eventing team, Bucky is a U.S. gymnast, they meet on the plane to Paris, and a love story ensues.

Author's Note: This is probably not what @avonne-writes had in mind when asking for a massage scene (at least not the beginning), but I think it worked out anyways. We take a deeper dive into Bucky's story and what it took to make it to Paris, and Gale is a good boyfriend (Wait are they dating? Neither of them know)

---

The world loves a comeback story. 

They love to watch a star rise from the depths of a sport. And they also love to watch them fall. Like pulling out a bucket of popcorn to witness a train wreck – it gives them something to talk about. Something to lament. Something to circulate in newspapers and on morning shows and around social media for weeks. Something to sell headlines.

“A shame,” they say. “So much potential. Lost just like that.”

“He’ll make it through,” some say. “He’s strong. If anyone can do it, it’s him.”

“Impossible,” others say. “There’s no way. He’s done.”

They shake their heads. They send their thoughts and prayers, empty words. They say they’re wishing you a speedy recovery. And all the while they’re talking about what the future of the sport will look like without you in it. They write you off. Done. Over. Forgotten to time. 

Nothing but a name that once was met with such veneration.

But then, you set out to prove them wrong. Even when there’s only a small handful of people still holding out hope, even when those people are just glad you’re alive and couldn’t care less about your name, you put one foot in front of the other. You grit your teeth and pull every ounce of strength from the depths of your soul and pretend the world doesn’t matter. Pretend you can’t hear what they’re saying about you, about how disappointing it all is, about how there’s no coming back from a catastrophe like that — pretend you can’t hear those cynical, whispered words, even when they’re needling at your skin, trying to break through. 

And slowly, slowly, slowly, pretending the pain isn’t there, pretending your heart is stronger than you believe it is, pretending you never had a single doubt — slowly, you rise again. 

Like a phoenix from the ashes, except the ashes keep trying to pull you back down. 

Bucky kind of wishes the reporters would just shut the fuck up about his amazing comeback story. 

“U.S. gymnast John Egan seeking another Olympic medal less than two years after terrifying high bar accident,” the headlines say. 

“Incredible.” “Inspirational.” “Insane.” “Invincible.”

Those are the words people use when they talk about him. After the accident, he was “done for.” He was “hopeless.” They whispered his name and grieved his legacy. But now he’s “strong” and “unstoppable” and “relentless.” He’s back. And that’s the stuff a good story is made of.

“It’s hard to believe he’s made it this far,” they say. “It’s incredible that he’s able to do any of this right now. I can’t imagine how he does it.”

And it’s flattering, really. But he’s well aware of the unbeatable odds that he overcame to make it to Paris this year. He’s well aware of the courage and the strength and the determination that it took. He was there. He went through it. He’s the one that screamed in pain when the world shattered around him and cried his way through grueling physical therapy day after terrible day. He’s the one that nearly tore his sports psychologist’s head off when he couldn’t get past the mental blocks, couldn’t push through the fear. He was there. He remembers all of it in more detail than he wishes were possible. He remembers every gasp, every drop of sweat, every skill that he had to relearn, every landing that he prayed he’d stick. 

It’s all in his head, and he’s fought hard to keep his head on straight in spite of it. He doesn’t need it thrown in his face, too. 

But he’s learned to deal with it. He’s learned to smile to the reporters and answer their questions and move on. Because it’s part of him now, and he has to accept that. That’s the price he has to pay for living and breathing this sport that he loves.

–

It’s only the day after opening ceremonies, but Bucky feels like he’s been here for weeks even though he has several days of competition left. A big meet is always a strange limbo for him — feeling like he’s going at full speed, unable to catch his breath, even as he feels like it’s dragging on, no end in sight. That feeling has been worse this season. 

His whole body is exhausted; he’s used to that. His left leg is sore, though, like it has been at every meet this year. He’s gotten used to that, too; he’s not sure it’ll ever be 100% again. But he keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. He feels too lucky, being here, regardless of how much of himself he poured into his comeback. It feels too fast, too easy, like he shouldn’t have gotten this far but instead should’ve been stopped at the gate, told ‘sorry, you don’t belong here anymore.’ He might as well have sold his soul to get himself here, and he keeps waiting for someone to tell him his time is up. 

He keeps waiting for his leg to give out. 

He checks his brace again, under his pants. It’s still secure, just like it was when he checked it two minutes ago, and two minutes before that. He shakes his head and curses the universe for assigning the high bar as his last event today. 

Bucky has had a phenomenal qualifying round, as have his teammates. John Egan, Curtis Biddick, Harry Crosby, John Brady, and Alex Jefferson: that’s the men’s gymnastics team that stands a chance of putting the U.S. back on the podium for the first time since 2008, and their qualifying round looks promising. Particularly between Bucky’s floor and rings, Curt’s vault and high bar, Croz’s pommel horse and parallel bars, and Brady and Alex’s ability to seamlessly fill in the gaps in any event, they look pretty unstoppable right about now. They just have to keep this going for the finals, and hope some of them qualify for individual events and all around.

Bucky and Curt cheer loudly as Croz completes his dismount on parallel bars. The team swarms him as he leaves the apparatus, patting him on the back and telling him he did an amazing job.

“Can’t believe you stole my dismount,” Bucky jokes. Croz had perfectly executed a parallel bars dismount that, in the code of points, was dubbed “the Egan” the year before Bucky’s accident.

Croz laughs and bumps his shoulder against Bucky’s. “You just wish you did it as good as I do.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and ruffles Croz’s hair, saluting his team as he follows their coach to the high bar. He’s the last athlete on their team to finish their final rotation. As he chalks up his hands, bounces from foot to foot and hypes himself up, his eyes skim over the crowd of spectators. It’s nothing compared to the crowd for women’s gymnastics, especially just for qualifications, but it’s something. It’s big enough that he shouldn’t be able to pick out a face unless he knows where to look. 

And yet his eyes are drawn like a magnet to Gale Cleven – and wait, what the hell is he doing here? Blonde hair and a cheerful smile, undoubtedly fresh from Versailles where Bucky knows he was riding dressage for the eventing team earlier today. He’s looking off somewhere in the distance, beyond where Bucky is prepping for his final event. But Marge and Benny are on either side of him, and when Marge sees Bucky looking up at the stands, she excitedly smacks Gale’s arm and shouts, pointing to the apparatus below. Gale’s eyes lock right onto Bucky’s, and he takes a deep breath before he waves and yells, “GO JOHN!” Benny and Marge even join in.

Bucky blows Gale a kiss, and he finds himself honest to god grinning before the high bar for the first time since before his accident. 

The world notices it, too. 

“John looks almost excited about this event for the first time since his comeback,” the commentators are saying on TV. The camera focuses on him as he steps onto the mat next to his coach. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but it looks like that’s… Gale Cleven? In the stands. Is that who he’s smiling at? The equestrian athlete.”

The other commentator says “I think you’re right. You know, they’ve been spotted together quite a lot in the last few days. Including at the opening ceremonies.”

The Paris opening ceremonies had been historical, as the first summer games opening ceremony to take place outside of a stadium. The night was straight out of a fairy tale, with colorful lights all along the Seine as athletes stood on boats that traveled down the river at sunset, spectators watching from the sides and from above. They sailed in a 6 kilometer parade that ended right in front of the Eiffel Tower. Some of the equestrian team had been spotted with the men’s gymnastics team on the U.S. boat, all of them orbiting around John and Gale, who were seen laughing and talking, always an arm slung around a shoulder or a hand on a waist. Social media, of course, has been going crazy over those photographs.

So if the media wasn’t interested in John Egan and Gale Cleven as a potential item before, well, they are certainly interested now. 

“John Egan has been very open about his sexuality in recent years,” the first commentator says. “So one definitely has to wonder if there’s something between those two.”

But Bucky doesn’t care about that at the moment.

He raises his arm in salute to the judges, and his coach helps lift him up to the bar. “You got this John,” he says, and then it’s just Bucky and the bar he’s determined not to fear.

He breathes deeply as he swings himself up and around, forcing his focus to narrow to nothing but this moment. No past. No future. Just now. He takes that with him into his first release, a simple straddle. Then he works himself up to a Kolman, a backflip with a full twist. Then a Cassina, the same thing in a laid-out position. The Cassina is the exact release that almost ruined his life. But today he completes it, and he’s on to the next skill, and the next and the next. He can feel his heart beating through his entire being every time his hands seek out the bar, every time he completes a skill and surges into the next.

Somewhere off to the side, he can hear Curt and Croz shouting encouragement at the top of their lungs, as they always do. He can feel the bar gripped beneath his fingertips, and the air rushing by with every swing, every release, every flip. He can feel the exertion in his face and in his arms with every handstand. He can feel the tension in his legs.

But then his body is flipping through the air, his feet are hitting the ground. He’s staring down at them, pressed into the mat with his arms out to the side. He’s done it. 

It’s only qualifying, so he’s far from done here. But he stuck his dismount perfectly, not even a step off balance, and his teammates are going wild because they know how much every little success means this year. Bucky salutes the judges before yelling “LET’S GO!” as he pumps a fist in the air and walks off the mat, where he’s greeted with slaps on the back and tight hugs from team USA. 

Curt and Croz practically lift him into the air in their excitement, and Bucky’s eyes catch Gale’s again. He’s right in the front of the grandstand with Marge and Benny, and they’re on their feet, waving their arms in the air as they celebrate this small victory right along with him. 

–

“Are you okay?” Gale asks later that night. Bucky has been quiet for several minutes now, rubbing absently at his left lower leg and knee as he stares off into space. It’s a couple of hours after qualifications ended, and they’re in Gale’s room, Benny having gone out with some of the other equestrian team members for the evening. Gale is sitting on the floor next to his bed, his back against the wall, so Bucky can sit comfortably on the bed. Damn cardboard.

Bucky nods at Gale and tries to give a reassuring smile that falters at the edges. “Yeah, my leg is just a little sore I guess.”

He doesn’t miss the way Gale freezes, just for half a second. The way his eyes flick to Bucky’s left leg, the way he nervously licks his lower lip in concern. Fuck.

“You watched the video didn’t you,” Bucky asks. He groans when Gale stays quiet, pointedly avoiding eye contact. “I should’ve told you not to look it up.”

He shouldn’t have let Gale search for that terrible video that has no business being anywhere online. That Bucky tries with every fiber of his being to forget exists because, if he doesn’t, he might be masochistically drawn to watching it himself. And that is the last thing he needs.

But they showed it on the news when it happened. The whole gymnastics world has seen it. Everyone who cares to watch it has seen it. The whole world witnessed his downfall in disgusting clarity. And with the Olympics now, it’s circulating yet again. 

It gives curious and sadistic spectators a front row seat to the moment that almost destroyed John Egan’s career. He was at the World Gymnastics Championships in the UK in November 2022. High bar was his last event; he was so close to a world medal. But then the unthinkable happened. His hands sought out the bar at the end of a Cassina, a skill he’s been doing for years now, and all of a sudden, the bar just snapped in half. Bucky vividly remembers the sensation of his heart plummeting in his chest, the air whipping past his face too fast too fast too fast, the stunned silence around him as if everything was happening in slow motion. And then an explosion of pain that made his vision go white before there was just nothing.

The video shows him hurtling through the air off of the broken bar, landing in an ugly heap with a crunch and a blood curdling scream that supposedly came out of his own mouth. His leg can be seen twisted at awful angles as he lay unconscious on the mat, crumpled like a rag doll, as if he were nothing more than a sack of potatoes that had been tossed to the ground. Everything was too still, everyone too shocked to move. 

Then suddenly the world remembered that it was supposed to keep turning. His coach, who would torment himself for months over whether there was any way he could’ve stopped this from happening, rushed to him, followed by Curt and Croz, who would rarely leave his side through his whole recovery. Medics pushed through them all, saying they needed space. They tried to wake him up, tried to find signs of life. They lifted his limp body onto the stretcher. The crowd murmured nervously as they watched, wondering if they’d just witnessed the end of a record-breaking career.

Bucky doesn’t remember any of that, though. He doesn’t remember anything between the excruciating pain immediately following his premature dismount and waking up, still in excruciating pain, in a white hospital room. He’d hit his head somehow during the fall, knocking him out for two straight days. It was a miracle, they said, that he didn’t have any brain damage. But the same could not be said about his leg. He’d fractured his tibia and destroyed just about everything in his knee that there was to destroy. 

The surgeon told him he may never do gymnastics again. 

He practically spat in the surgeon’s face.

Because Bucky doesn’t know who he’d be without gymnastics. He doesn’t want to know. 

“I would’ve looked it up either way,” Gale says quietly.

“Why? I knew it would only scare you.”

“I don’t know,” Gale admits. He looks back up at Bucky, his eyes worried. “Everyone keeps talking about your comeback. Back at the top again after a career-ending injury. They talk about how awful it was. I needed to know what they meant… I couldn’t stand not knowing.”

“You won’t be able to stand knowing, either,” Bucky insists, picking at the fabric of his tee shirt to keep his fingers from shaking.

Gale frowns. “I’m not the one that lived it.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and looks Gale in the eye. “I don’t talk about it much.”

“I understand.”

“It was… it was a long process. Getting here again.” 

And then Bucky does something he never does. He tells Gale about what it took, what it cost him. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s a need for Gale to know him, that same aching need that he’s felt the last several days. Or maybe it’s just a need for someone to hear this story that he only ever shoves down, down, down where it can’t hurt him anymore. 

He tells Gale about the pain – physical and emotional – of destroying your body and your career at the same time. He tells him about the physical therapy, the occupational therapy, the weeks and weeks he spent just trying to walk again. About the way Curt and Croz refused to let him push them away, how they stuck by his side and went through all of the physio with him no matter how insufferable he could be, no matter how angry at the world he got. He talks about the months spent with a sports psychologist trying to stop being afraid, and how he still talks to the guy sometimes to keep his head level when the anxiety picks up again. 

He tells Gale about how excruciating it was trying to train again, trying to get his body to listen to his brain again. Trying to push through the pain just enough to keep going, but not enough to break. And how utterly humiliating it was at times, being in his old gym with his Olympian teammates but being unable to perform and land skills that once were simple. He talks about how he felt so much gut-wrenching guilt at the thought of letting his late sister down, as absurd as he knows that was. And he tells Gale about how he bailed out in a panic his first several times back on a high bar, flipping into the foam pit that was mercifully below him. He explains the slow, aggravating process of trusting himself again, and accepting the fact that he can’t trust anything but himself and the people close to him in this crazy, unfair world. 

He doesn’t even remember how he got there, but by the time Bucky has run out of words, he’s on the floor with Gale. He’s letting himself hide away in Gale’s strong arms, which are wrapped tightly around him, one hand on his back and the other cupping the back of his head. He’s curled into Gale’s side with his head tucked against his shoulder, and he’s fighting to make sure he doesn’t start crying all over this man’s shirt.

After learning about how hard Bucky has pushed himself, how unrelenting he’s been in his recovery, a part of Gale wants to say please don’t hurt yourself. But he knows he has no right. He knows firsthand that those words are empty. When anyone says it to him, a quiet plea to be careful, slow down, he laughs and tells them that’s not how horseback riding works. He does what he can to be smart, be safe. But in the end, his control stops at a blurry horizon where Lady Luck begins. He loves his sport, and he knows John loves gymnastics in the same exact way. It’s who they are, simple as that. 

So instead he rubs Bucky’s back, whispers to him that it’s alright, holds him tight as if Gale alone can protect him from the world. He gently kisses Bucky’s temple, and when Bucky pulls away at last, Gale pats his knee. “Come here, let me try to do something about that leg.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at him, motioning questioningly to his bad leg. Gale nods and makes a shooing motion with his hand. “Yep. Scoot back, let me see.”

Bucky does as he’s told, leaning against the bed frame so that his leg is in Gale’s lap. Gale shoves up the leg of Bucky’s sweatpants, and then there’s surprisingly strong, warm hands on his skin, working at the sore muscles in his lower leg and around his knee. 

“Oh fuck,” Bucky groans, letting his weight collapse against the side of the bed.

Gale smirks at him. “What? Is it that surprising that I can give a massage?” he asks. Bucky shrugs, and Gale shakes his head at him. “I’m a horseback rider. My body’s been acting like it’s 45 since I was 20.”

“I didn’t know it was that hard on the body,” Bucky admits. 

Gale laughs mirthlessly as his palm presses up the side of Bucky’s leg, damn near making him moan again. “It is,” Gale explains. “People who don’t ride never really notice how hard the rider has to work. How much stress and strain it puts the body through. Not to mention the way horses can throw you around like you’re nothing.”

“Have you ever been hurt?” Bucky asks. “Badly?”

“I have,” Gale says easily. He looks at Bucky with a wan smile. “Not as bad as you. But I’ve broken my wrist, had my fair share of concussions. I took a hard fall when I was about 18, right after I started college. Fucked up my back real bad. It was one of those injuries where not even the doctors were sure what went wrong, you know? MRIs showed what looked like a stress fracture, but it was strange for that to happen from blunt force trauma like that. I’ve had chronic back pain ever since. Couldn’t even breathe without pain for weeks. I lived on borderline dangerous doses of Advil for months.”

Gale sighs, flexing his shoulders like he’s trying to stretch out his upper back. “It still bugs me sometimes. There’s a lot of simple things I can’t tolerate so well anymore, or that I have to be careful about.”

Bucky blinks at him, tensing like he’s about to move away. “Then why the fuck am I making you sit on the floor?”

Gale shushes him and pats his leg gently before he keeps working at it. “It’s fine. You deserve all of this after today. I can sit on the floor for a little while, I won’t break.” Bucky gives him a skeptical look and Gale rolls his eyes. “Stop that. I’m okay, Bucky. Really.”

So Bucky relents, if nothing else because he needs the magic in Gale’s hands not to give up on him now. He’s curling his fingers, seething through his teeth when those hands hit a particularly sore spot, gasping when Gale sets to work on a knot in the muscle. “That’s- that’s really good,” Bucky grits out. “Keep doing that.”

Gale is watching him carefully, no doubt amused by the actually obscene sounds coming out of his mouth right now, but Bucky doesn’t even care. He just focuses on those perfect hands, those long fingers, so sure and so deliberate and so soothing, as they work up and down his lower leg. He feels like those hands might be able to single-handedly take away every bit of pain he’s ever felt. And the way Gale’s attention is so wholly on him is intoxicating and endearing at the same time. Gale Cleven could slap him in the face and Bucky would say thank you, but here he is, taking care of Bucky without a second thought, like he actually means something to him. Bucky really doesn’t have the wherewithal right now to sort out why that’s such a turn on. 

“I’m sorry I missed your ride today,” he says instead.

Gale shrugs as his hands move up around Bucky’s knee, his touch turning gentle around the fragile joint. “It’s not a big deal.”

Except it is. “I’ll be there for cross country,” Bucky promises. “Maybe even part of jumping before I have to get back to the stadium for finals.”

“It’s fine, John,” Gale reiterates. “I don’t expect you to be there. And cross country is boring in person anyways. Spectators basically stay near a single jump for most of it, since the course is so long. You’d see a lot more of me if you just watched online.”

“Oh I’ll be there,” Bucky says resolutely, even though he’s admittedly terrified at the prospect of Gale hurtling down a cross country course, flying over jumps on the back of a strong-willed animal. “I would’ve been there today if it didn’t clash with my schedule.”

“Maybe I’ll give you an exhibition ride sometime.” Gale’s fingers stop working at Bucky’s knee, and he smooths one hand down Bucky’s muscular leg.

Bucky tracks the movement with hungry eyes, busy thinking about what else he knows those hands can do. “I know you’re joking,” he says. “But I’d like that.” 

When Gale glances up at him again, Bucky is biting at his lower lip, looking right at him with such earnestness that Gale can’t help but blush. “Okay, we can do that.”

“You know.” Bucky glances over his shoulder at the bed. “I’ve been hearing reports that these things are sturdier than we thought this time around. They supposedly hold up well to… extracurriculars.”

Gale tilts his head thoughtfully, his eyes flicking from Bucky to the bed and back. “Is that so?”

Bucky nods, biting his lower lip, teasing. So Gale lets Bucky’s pant leg fall back down to his ankle again, and Bucky crawls forward until he’s right in front of Gale. In one smooth motion, he practically scoops Gale into his arms and settles him on the bed, hovering over top of him. The bed frame holds. Gale grins up at him, his hand reaching up to stroke Bucky’s cheek, and Bucky’s hand settles underneath Gale’s shirt, finding its home on the side of his waist where it’s decided it belongs. 

“Maybe I can do this for you sometime,” Bucky offers. “You know, the massage.”

Gale nods, his cheeks flushed. “Yeah. The massage. Of course.” Then he pulls Bucky down into a desperate kiss.

---

---

Next part

Bucky's injury is in part based on Brody Malone, who is making his comeback this year after suffering a similar leg injury off high bar just over a year ago. I am heavily rooting for him going into gymnastics trials this weekend! If you're interested in what a high bar routine is like, watch his amazing US Championships routine here.

(Gale's back injury is loosely based off personal equestrian experience ✌)

[awfullybigwardrobe44]

this may in fact have been the worst day of my life.

I am trying a new approach to therapy that basically involves me accepting that I don’t know if I’m saved or not and just sitting in that uncertainty. Continuing on in my faith habits and seeking God while accepting that I don’t know. It’s terrifying, but it has worked for OCD sufferers before me and it especially worked for John Bunyan ( @laurelindorenan thanks for the encouragement).

It’s devastating and depressing, but it’s also really restful. I don’t have to agonize over whether or not I felt the right things, prayed correctly, believed correctly, or display symptoms of not being saved. I’m just accepting that I don’t know, and telling God that if He wants me to have assurance, He’ll have to provide it (and if He wants to save me and hasn’t yet, He’ll have to help me get there). I’m putting the ball fully in God’s court and not doing the excruciating work to figure out if I’m saved or not anymore.

But how does one go on living not knowing if they’re saved and if they have God? Stay tuned to find out! 🙃

[no-passaran]

Hi, it's Asexuality Awareness Week and I would like to share one of the reasons why it's important to raise awareness: including asexuality in legal protection.

One of the reasons why legal protections are necessary is the case of asylum seekers. Asexual asylum seekers, who are endangered in their home country, are routinely not accepted as asylum seekers because the legislation protects LGBT people but doesn't include asexuality in the acronym.

Let's see a couple of examples:

In 2018, an Algerian man applied for asylum in the Netherlands, explaining that he feared being persecuted in his country of origin for being asexual and for refusing to marry his niece.

The Netherlands, a country that accepts LGBTI asylum seekers, did not accept this man's asylum request because asexuality is not mentioned as being in the LGBTI. The court also said that asexuality is not punishable in Algeria. But not being legally called by its name and explicitly punished does not mean asexual people don't face discrimination, forced marriages, and threats of violence and rape. (Marriage itself, by the laws in most of the world, must include "consummation", whether the people involved want to or not).

This is the case of a 26-year-old woman living in Senegal, using the pseudonym Jade. Her family, across the border in Guinea, demanded that she find a man to marry. Her sister told her that if she didn’t, their parents would force her to wed a man who would rape her.

In Guinea and Senegal, forced marriages are common – the same sister who threatened Jade was in one herself. Divorce is also heavily stigmatised – when one of Jade’s cousins told her abusive husband she wanted a divorce, he said he would shoot her, her mother and himself.

Jade is a sex-repulsed asexual woman. She feared being married to someone she didn’t love and being subjected to so-called “corrective rape” until she bore children.

She considered suicide.

Her mother suggested sending her to therapy to fix her "aversion to marriage", when Jade refused, the mother said she'd "fix" her herself. She had Jade lay on the floor while she put her hand on her chest and prayed over her, asking afterwards whether she felt any different.

For a while, Jade’s last resort was escaping West Africa permanently. After she began studying in the US, it became her first choice. When researching what her options were, she found the case from the Netherlands that we've talked about before this one. She also found that legislations that aim to protect LGBTQI around the world don't include asexuality.

At present, the only piece of legislation which explicitly mentions asexuality is New York’s Sexual Orientation Non-Discrimination Act of 2003. However, that didn’t help Jade. A New York lawyer told Jade that there was no information as to whether asexuality was grounds for asylum in the US. After a long process of trying in the USA, she couldn't make it but after a year and a half she found an opportunity to do an internship in Ireland, where she lives now.

Since leaving West Africa, Jade has learned that her parents had chosen a husband for her without her knowledge, not long before she managed to escape. She says that, had she not been able to escape, she wouldn't be alive today.

This is what people mean when they say "asexuals aren't LGBTI!", "We can't have asexuals stealing our resources!". These are the kind of resources they mean: the ones that could save the life of a person being discriminated against for not being heterosexual heteroromantic and not conforming to the normative ideas of what their love and sex life should be like. An issue that is deeply shared with the rest of the LGBTQIA+ community.

[mgopinoon]

I think the fact that Kaia has been in New York these days and hasn't been seen with Austin says a lot. Let's break it all down for a moment. We know that Kaia is someone who constantly seeks for attention, and although she says she wants to keep her relationship private, we know exactly that this is not true because in reality she has ALWAYS proven the opposite, just look at the countless pap walks with Austin in which she looks straight into the camera to make sure the paparazzi are capturing the moment. Furthermore, after Gracie's concert and after she left for Los Angeles for a whole month, the situation regarding their alleged separation got worse instead of better, I think we are all well aware by now of the articles about the failed engagement, the proposed couple therapy, the blind items, etc...So in these few days in which she was in New York she would definitely have taken advantage of putting the rumors to rest again, so that's why I say that if she was still with Austin she would have taken advantage of this small space of time to let the whole world know. Maybe she even tried, but maybe Austin managed to resist and tell her that this time it's really over, leaving Kaia no choice but to immediately return to Los Angeles. We will now see what will happen in the next few days, between the Dune event in which Austin will perhaps participate and especially after the end of filming, although lately all the clues we have received seem to clearly go in favor of our theory on the breakup, so MAYBE this time it could all be true 🤞

She likes to be the center of attention even if she wants to pretend she doesn't, so the fact that she didn't take advantage of her second in NY to be photographed with Austin says a lot. I think Austin already did the dirty work at Gracie's concert which was useless, since the breakup rumors increased and I don't think he was willing to participate in the circus these 2 days that Kaia was in NY, but it's still revealing that they didn't do it because as you say it confirms that something is really wrong between them. The crisis articles between them, Cindy and Rande pressuring Austin to marry Kaia and her talking about being surprised by a breakup is too much content for us to think that the breakup actually happened at this point, even the shippers are scared and pray for a paparazzi parade where they look unhappy as always. All this could be defined at the end of this month when Austin finishes recording and returns home.

[cyjanometan]

and through blood we shall be cleansed: waiting upon eternal judgement

After witnessing the attempted killing of Abigail Hobbs, a young priest seeks out the help of a renowned psychiatrist to whom he was referred: Doctor Hannibal Lecter.

The young priest sat restlessly in the waiting room, petrified and somewhat considering running away before the door to the psychiatrist's office could open. One might consider it irrational behaviour - objectively the worst was already behind him, considering what he has experienced.

The story of a priest who not only witnessed an attempted killing, but also has taken a life on the crime scene, quickly gained traction with the media. And thus, William Graham was summoned before the archbishop, and then later sent to the Vatican. The pope has released an official statement regarding the event, as has the police, and Will, after many hours spent being interrogated, was finally left to his own devices. Mostly - he could return to his duties as a priest, but he was obliged to seek out psychiatric help from doctor Lecter.

And thus, despite having already survived more awful things than a therapy session, there he sat, terrified, waiting seemingly for eternity, about to face his own personal form of the final judgement.

He was never one of the people who could easily open up. It proved even more difficult for him when faced with the possibility of getting a diagnosis based on the information he could reveal to the doctor. At least, that's how William explained the paralysing fear to himself. He would not dare ruminate on the actual reason: the feelings that have been slowly growing within him for the past few weeks. He begged for forgiveness, spoke of his overwhelming guilt regarding the killing, and yet... He would prefer not to think of the eerie feeling that accompanied him in those moments. But unfortunately for him, analysing feelings was what therapy was all about. He thought once more about leaving, about how he could blame it on the flu or some other thing, but before his plan could spring into action, the "click" of the lock could be heard and the door was opened.

Graham stood up, unconsciously straightening the collar on his neck, and looked at the man before him. The doctor had an obviously fine-made and expensive suit on. His figure was lean, his face and hair were well-groomed, and he wore a pleasant expression on his handsome face.

After a polite greeting, Will was invited into the office. It was quite a big room, tidy and elegantly decorated. Sweaty, dishevelled Will felt he must have looked awfully miserable in comparison.

"My name is Hannibal Lecter" the doctor introduced himself. "Please, take a seat."

As he sat in the chair the doctor presented him, Will threw a gaze on the man's face. He averted his gaze quickly though, blinking, trying to shake off the association between the psychiatrist and the final judge that sprung out in his head involuntarily upon seeing his piercing eyes.

"Before we begin, how shall I address you? Father Graham?"

The use of his title made Will shudder. Despite having been ordained almost a year ago, he still couldn't get used to being called "father". It possessed authority he felt couldn't be found in him.

"Just mister Graham is fine" he responded plainly. "Thank you, doctor."

The psychiatrist simply nodded.

Will tried to focus on whatever had been coming out of doctor Lecter's mouth, tried to stop himself from squirming under the analytic gaze of the opposing man. He felt as though he was back again in the confessional. Will preferred to be the one wearing the stole - giving absolution was always easier than receiving it. It came with less dubiety regarding the sinner's ability to obtain it.

Will answered the psychiatrist's questions somewhat avoidantly, looking at the clock every seven minutes, praying to all that is holy for the time to pass quicker.

During the next session, the process began again. Will sat in the slightly-too-soft chair, self-consciously thinking about the pristine office and how much dirt he must be bringing in. He felt the the opposing man's piercing gaze. All his instincts were screaming at him to sink into the floor, and yet, to his surprise, he couldn't stop himself from looking back at Hannibal. He saw a slight twinkling in the older man's eyes for a moment, and then the questions begun again.

Will questioned whether every patient of mister Lecter felt as tought the doctor was trying to penetrate through the layers of their skin. Doctor Lecter sat most elegantly, calmly speaking, as charming and peaceful as a man can get. Despite that, Will looked at him and saw him wanting to open his cranium up and pull his brain out. Would it be truly that interesting to examine? He never spared another moment to the thoughts which Hannibal was desperate to get him to confess. They were sinful, unbecoming of a priest. He devoted his life to God. He was a man of God and it was his duty to uphold the Christian values, the ones of which he spoke during his communions.

Purity, serenity, patience. Bearing the duty of leadership, he stood before the congregation trying to embody the principles he proposed.

He felt like a fraud. The mask of a pious priest he so precisely crafted for himself was what kept him afloat. For a brief moment, he feared that the feeling of Hannibal peeking into his mind was rooted in reality - that the doctor looked at him and truly saw who he was. He would be terrified.

[bloodycyrano]

I am extremely mentally fucked right now, so let's see how team tadpole handles their depressive episodes! TW, this will probably be super depressing to read.

Astarion: He thinks he hides it really well, and for the most part, he does. But his motivation for easy, everyday tasks and self care goes absolutely down the drain. You've seen the inside of his tent, you know how it goes. He tries to keep up the image of doing well, keep the smile, keep the jokes coming. He's terrified of people finding out what's underneath, and in hiding it, he feels like he has the upper hand. He doesn't, and he needs therapy. I'd also put money on him hypersexualizing himself for the validation and to feel like he was worth something. After all, Cazador beat it into him that that was all he was good for. Luring in pray with his body. - We also know that Astarion has nightmares, but I'd like to add to this with the reminder that Elves don't sleep. They trance. In the trance, they go over the memories of their past. It's how they keep up with such long lives and how they stay close to past lives as children (For those who dont know, elves don't measure age in maturity, but rather by distance to their past lives- Once an elf can no longer recall memories from their past life, they are considered an adult. They pick their adult name in celebration of the new person and consciousness that they now are). The fact that Astarion can remember nothing of his life prior to being turned by Cazador, nothing of his family, etc., Means that he is so deeply affected by Cazador that those memories are the only things he can see when he goes to rest at night. Every night, in perfect detail, he has to remember all of his worst trauma.

Karlach: Karlach is the sunshine character. She's sweet, and loud and bright with the biggest smile, but you also have to remember that she was a soldier. She was sold off to a literal demon and used as a science experiment essentially for the hell of it. She's not going to open up about what she's feeling immediately, and she's not going to seek help, either. She thinks she has to deal with it quietly and on her own, because since her parents died; that's what she's always had to do. Chin up, no tears, keep fighting. It's going to stress her out to the point where she starts smoking again, but she'll try to hide it or brush it off. Most importantly, she's going to be more focussed on not burdening those around her and trying to take care of you guys and protect you at the expense of her own mental health and physical safety. But her sorrows are noticeable. She can try to hide it, but everyone in camp knows. Everyone in camp is worried. Everyone can see when her eyes stop glimmering, when she stops dancing around in her tent when she can't sleep, when her bright laughter stops, and when she gets quiet. So quiet. She zones out, like she's in another realm entirely. She probably also has post traumatic stress from her time as a soldier, and it's going to weigh on her heavily in battle. Maybe she'll freeze up, have flashbacks, even potentially have small hallucinations now and again. It's going to take a lot of care and reassurance to get her to talk to you about it, but when she finally does, she'll probably have a complete meltdown with all the feelings she's been keeping inside.

Wyll: Wyll self isolates. He gets much quieter, and he probably isn't going to be too open to talking about it unless he's really close to you. He gets a little cold when talking to people, but he's good at resolving things in his head and the most likely to rationalize his feelings to make himself feel better. He also probably writes poetry, or even paints his feelings as a form of expressing his sorrows because he understands he needs some outlet so he isn't bottling everything up. He has the heart of an artist, and this is a hill I am prepared to die on.

Gale: He has a hard time talking when he's sad, and probably has difficulty making eye contact as well. He'd probably be more inclined to seek out comfort and vent than the rest of team tadpole, but that doesn't take away from the complexity of his emotions. He's angry, and sad, and feels so so shitty just about being who he is in general. He's fallen so far from where he once was, and for what? He'll do is best to rationalize, but his anxiety is going to push into paranoia, and rationalizing is going to turn into self loathing. He's going to try his best to be more useful, and show off, and earn the validation he craves because without that, what is he? He was a prodigy child. He used to be so, so great. Even the goddess of magic herself thought so. Now he's rotting away in a camp full of strangers and trying to re-learn level one spells. It's taking a toll on him, and it's noticeable to anyone willing to look.

Shadowheart: She's trying to pray. The goddess she has been devoted to all her life is the lady of loss. There is a great amount of sorrow in the way she worships, and in her suffering, she finds faith. She tells herself it's her next step to becoming a dark justiciar. Delving further into her faith and trusting in the dark depths of her soul, and her pain. All it ever truly does is make her hurt, though.

Lae'zel: Lae’zel is truly a specimen built on stoicism. If you ask her what's wrong, she will tell you but it will also be in such a way that you wonder if she's really processing all of her pain. The thing is, she's thinking about it. She has the emotional intelligence to understand the way she's feeling and how to fix it, but for some reason unknown to her, she can't. And that's what's going to stress her out and hurt her the most. She knows what theoretically should fix the pain, but it's not working the way that it should. She's going to wonder if it's something wrong with her, or the way she's going about it. She might get angry with other people more often, and try to project blame onto someone so that maybe she can find a way to resolve the way that it hurts. But she can't. She'll keep throwing temporary solutions and misplaced anger into the void until she finds something to distract from it. And maybe, after a lot of contemplation and positive outside help from the rest of team tadpole, she may find peace.

[duicy91]

I want to say that I love how EW has stated he *wants* a Chenford reconciliation to go. Therapy, them growing, then coming back stronger and Tim being a better partner to Lucy. While I hate the breakup happened, I would want to see them reconcile this way since it did happen. However, I don't think it will play out this way because if it were to happen that way then EW would be giving away a huge spoiler just by saying this. So while many find his words comforting and it is great if you do, they are the opposite for me. I don't know if I believe they do ever reconcile. However, I strongly suspect if they do it will happen near or at the series end. I am hoping and praying I'm wrong. I also genuinely fear this storyline set up Tim leaving the LAPD, even if only temporarily. If he does seek therapy, what therapist would ever encourage him to continue living a lie? Idk y'all. I just really hate this storyline and wish it never happened. Breaking up over UC issues would've made more sense and causes less risk to Tim's career.

[christshands]

Hey! I’m a new follower of yours, and if this isn’t too much to ask, I’d love it if you could recommend me some Bible verses to read that are about mental health/depression/anxiety, grief, and feeling lonely. I’m going through a rough patch, but despite being confused about where I stand in regard to my beliefs/god, I could use the comfort. Thank you in advance! :’)

hello! so, truthfully, off the top of my head i do not know any, and it is difficult to reference verses with the bible im currently using, so ive decided to pull some verses from the internet for you! here are some that i found that i love

“Fear not, for I am with you; Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand” (Isaiah 41:10)

“I waited patiently for the LORD; he turned to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear the LORD and put their trust in him.” (Psalm 40: 1-3 1)

“It is God who arms me with strength and makes my way perfect” (Psalm 18:32)

“Now may the Lord of peace himself give you peace at all times and in every way. The Lord be with all of you.” (2 Thesselonians 3:16)

i would also like to offer my condolences for the struggle you are going through, and assure you that i will be praying for you, for what comfort that may provide. please, please know that you are loved so dearly, both by god, and by me. more importantly, however, i want you to know that we are not the only ones listening. its cliche, i know, but therapy is so incredibly important to many on their healing journies, and alongside seeking spiritual guidance, i always want to encourage people to seek professional mental health care.

please, friend, be safe, be well, and know that you are loved endlessly. peace!

[icharchivist]

Ngl if I were in Lucilius's shoes back then I might have lashed out as well

He was happy being dead. He was fine with it. His suffering was over and he got to die at the hands of his favorite person. Lucifer rebelling against his creator was the last thing he saw so he died with vindication on his mind and a smile on his lips

And then all that was taken away from him and he was thrust back into this world, in a body that wasn't his and then learned that he would never get to see Lucifer again because he was killed to bring him back, even though he never asked for that

So he lost his peace and he lost his dear friend. Maybe that's why he's touching the scar like that in Rising

Belial is definitely to blame for his own misery, not because it's his fault, but because he keeps digging his heels in

They're super compelling in many ways. They're tragic characters from a lot of angles and interesting and raw and I can even see how you'd like to ship them, there's so much emotion there, it's like a powder keg

I get the rage from Belial fans especially, but yeah, Lucilius didn't ask for any of this. Now he's been brought back he has no choice but to either go for a murder-suicide with the whole world or die trying, because he just wants to hang in the void and not be here

Perhaps what they all need is therapy

Honestly??? yeah. completely.

I think the thing that strikes me with Lucilius's apathy, the reason maybe i'm a little defensive when the conversation on his apathy turns into this moral failing on him and all is that....

Lucilius' apathy, for me, is deeply suicidal.

The whole point of the difference between Astrals and Skydwellers is the fact that Skydwellers can find their meaning in the fact their life is ultimately finite - but Astrals have to move on, immortal, eternally.

If we can understand Belial's suicidal angst about how the ages are going to continue and he'll always be alone as a primal, i think we can understand that the same angst should apply to the Astrals.

And Astrals are not supposed to die. Astrals are supposed to keep going and living. And Lucilius himself lived this life with agony, always feeling like the life he was living was a joke, plagued with visions reminding him that no matter how he anchored himself into this world, there were stuff outside of his control robbing him of his own autonomy and agency.

And i think it's why Zero, the song, is so much more about how he prays for everything to return to the void, for Rebirth, pure white splendor, to restart the cycle.

the idea is that when the Omnipotent broke into two, with the astrals like this, this freedom in death was fully taken away -- and Lucilius wants this freedom back.

Ultimately, Lucilius' plan is all the suicidal wish of a man who cannot die, and as such, is driven instead into finding another solution that could replace death in this equation, without specifically doing anything to help him want to be alive. And Lucilius, especially, therefore wants to bring this exact salvation he's seeking to everyone. Not to help them, but to properly restart the cycle and to spite God.

The Primals are created immortals, because that's the only things the Astrals know how to do. Also Lucilius was creating the first primals of their kind. It's easy to project the Frankeinstein logic of "you should love your own creation and your own son" on how he made the primals - and it's the one reason people will never forgive Lucilius and i cannot blame them, because this is too relatable of a thread to let go of. But the point is still that... when you create the First Creatures Of A Kind, you don't exactly get to planify how things will go. Lucilius wasn't a parent who knew he was putting a new life into the world and should be responsible for it, he was a mad scientist who was trying to find a loophole to his inability to die by testing around and see if he could reproduce what God had done and eventually find an answer to himself. He didn't create the primals because he wanted to be a parent, a caretaker, or anything. He was making experiments to answer the bigger questions of his life.

He made plans using those in order to take down God, ultimately, his ultimate plan was to destroy everything, including himself. And then his beloved creation killed him. And i don't think he planned for that, but it gave him peace. It gave him the death his apathy has been seeking for his whole life. It gave him peace of mind that his rebellion was worth something, that there is something such as free will in the skies, that God couldn't control everything that was going on in his life.

Lucifer killing Lucilius was the achievement of everything Lucilius had worked for, and finally something that brought him the peace he had been working for his entire life.

And Belial couldn't live without him so he ruined all of that instead, and thrusted Lucilius right back into his previous plans, the others desperate outdated plans Lucilius had started before Lucifer gave him what he wanted in the end.

And it's not like it's untrue Lucilius had an impact on why Belial did all of this. Regardless to his reasons, he was Belial's creator, and the emotional neglect and its effects are still something that are on his hands. But it's clear Lucilius was never in a position to give Belial what Belial wanted or needed, and at this point, Lucilius never would have.

Belial brought Lucilius back, hoping desperately that this time, Lucilius would give him the love he always wanted. But in doing so he stole Lucilius' agency one last time, and he stripped away Lucilius' accomplishments. He brought back to life a man who only ever wanted to die, and just so happened to want to take the whole world down with him to make it worthwhile.

and it's why it's.... complicated, to me, when we see the scenes where he's not too hot about being brought back to life, how he ignores Belial's attempt at a hug in gbvs for instance, focusing on Belial's neglect while... Lucilius himself is being brought back against his will to start with yaknow?

And like. Belial deserves to have his emotional needs met, but Lucilius will never be able to be the one to give those to him. Belial is the one to ignore Lucilius' clear signs about it and still desperately asking him for this need and affection. He sets himself up to fail on that regard.

And it's sympathetic, and yes, it's something that can be heavily relatable for people who have been into abusive relationship, especially family relationship - the desperate feeling of coming back to a parent who was SUPPOSED to love you, but never gave you the love and yet you come back every time hoping for it, and they won't give it for you. And i know that this is the major reason a lot of Belial's fans will hold Lucilius responsible for it, and cannot blame Belial for wanting it this much. But aside from the fact that while the thematics echo those, Lucilius isn't Belial's parent and shouldn't be held on the same standard as a parental figure due to the specific of the fantasy system they're a part of, ultimately the conclusion to this type of thematic should be "you need to move away from the person making you feel this way. you can't keep asking them to give you water when all they can produce is oil.".

And meanwhile Lucilius has his own thematics to be accounted for, which i also think are worth compassion to a certain degree. "extreme level of alienation bringing you to a level of apathy for the world that lead you to suicide, destroying also everything around you you've ever created" is also its own tragedy that is worth the room to feel bad for. And on that level, someone constantly answering to someone being suicidal with "but you can't die because i need you, and i will make sure you will never be able to die because it's what I want, no matter what YOU want" is just as damaging for someone's psyche as the elements mentioned in the previous paragraph.

(also while relating to some elements, especially like that, is an important part of connecting with characters and everything, i do think it's really important to compartimentalize and understand that just because the situation is relatable, doesn't mean it has to be exactly in line with the way the reader got to live it. A story will first need to serve itself and its own themes before being a mirror. Relating to a situation is important, but ignoring how different the situation actually is because of that can lead to misunderstand the actual story being told.)

idk i'm kinda rambling now, i 100% agree with all of your ask over here though.

Ultimately both of them are super toxic with themselves, with each other, with everyone around them. They're deeply fucked up invidivudals who have reached a level of self destruction where all they can do is take others people down with them around them.

and they both probably just majorly need therapy. And if either of them wants to recover (which they don't), they need to be apart from each other because they bring the worst out of each other and they hurt each other by the fact they need extremely different things.

They make each other worse, and i think they both have reasons to resent each other for that.

There will always be the argument that as the creator, Lucilius has a powerdynamic though - which will always tip the balance in this conversation. But it shouldn't actually remove the fact that Lucilius is also suffering from it. Just the fact there is an imbalance at play doesn't mean that the elements which are pilling up outside of the imbalance aren't important to take into account to start with.

so yeah, team therapy.

[mallows-marsh]

Callaghan Murphy Burke | 24 I 5'8 | September 20th

Personality:

Cal is a smart man. A very smart and very nervous man. Having suffered with anxiety since he was quite young, Cal has done everything he can to work on his mental health. Therapy. Medication. Self medication. There’s been a few different diagnoses thrown his way. Anxiety and depression for starters, OCD later on. He also suffers from an extensive stutter that he’s done everything he can to work on. You can tell when he is growing tired or anxious when it starts to affect him more and more.

He’s not just his mental illnesses, though. Of course he isn’t. He’s very interested in medicine, even going to college to study to become a surgeon the moment he graduated from high school. After some struggles during his classwork, Cal had decided to take a less upsetting route; law school. Okay, it’s upsetting in a different way, but at least he’s no longer dealing with the intrusive thoughts that come about with helping patients. 

Despite his nervous disposition, Cal has a dry wit and a subtle sense of humor that he shares with those he trusts. He enjoys debates and can be surprisingly strong when defending his viewpoints. His friends appreciate his loyalty and the thoughtful advice he often provides, even if his anxiety sometimes makes social interactions difficult.

Backstory:

Raised in a shut off community in Ireland, Cal has always had a very volatile relationship with his parents and his religion. Everything that wasn’t “normal” to his parents about his personality and habits was explained away by the influence of the devil. He was yelled at, treated poorly by, and frequently sent off to pray for hours at a time by his parents. The only thing that made living there worth it was his two sisters, Cirean and Larkin. 

He’s suffered with intrusive thoughts pretty much all his life, the usual compulsions to have the correct number of ice cubes in his drinks, to check and recheck and re-recheck the locks on his doors. The intrusive thoughts that haunt him most of all are the compulsions he gets to harm himself and others.

Cal's relationship with his parents and their strict religious views left him with a complicated view of faith. He often questions and struggles with the beliefs he was raised with, seeking a more personal and less judgmental spirituality. This inner conflict sometimes fuels his anxiety but also drives him to be more open-minded and accepting of others' differences.

Motivations and Goals:

Cal’s primary motivation is to find a balance between his mental health and his career aspirations. He hopes to become a successful lawyer, using his intelligence and empathy to help others navigate the complexities of the legal system. On a personal level, he aims to create a life where he feels safe and accepted, away from the oppressive environment of his childhood. Building strong, supportive relationships, especially with his sisters, is also a key goal for him.

Likes:

His sisters

Reading and studying

Quiet time

Cheesy medical dramas

Dislikes:

Extreme Christianity

Loud sounds

Unpredictable and spontaneous situations

Judgment

Appearance:

Cal is an average height black man with a dark brown afro, brown eyes, and a few moles scattered across his face. He dresses comfortably but stylishly, usually in earth tones. He wears glasses as he is nearsighted. He has a rectangular body shape.

SPECIAL SHOUT OUT TO MY BESTIE DORTIE 🧡🧡🧡 She's the most lovely artist ever and this amazing drawing of Cal is from her 🧡 I colored it a while ago, but she deserves all the credit for the art!!!

[patientlywaiting4u]

A feeling of emptiness settled over me last night. I went to a young adult group and there was a talk about Saint Ignatius of Antioch. About how he choose martyrdom over living in the world.

Earlier in the day I had been listening to The Poco A Poco Podcast "Contemplative Spaces". I didn't listen to the entire podcast, but what I did pay attention to hit my heart, because I had been wondering about that same topic. Why do I find so much time for social media, online browsing/shopping, television etc. but I can hardly spend an hour in silence with God. When I am praying, why do my thoughts race on a million things other than Him who loves me the most...beyond a love that I will ever be able to fully understand.

God I love you. I want to know You. I want my soul, my heart and my mind to be a place where You can dwell peacefully. I say these words to Him and I mean it...but then I do the opposite of what will help me to love and know Him.

Normally, when I feel this way I rely on 'retail therapy' and scrolling endlessly on social media or some other vice. Then the emptiness covers me fully, because there's no fulfilment in any of it. There's no peace. There's no real joy.

In the discussion section of the talk last night, one of the guys said: he realized that the things that he relies on from the world is an indication to him of what he needs in His relationship with God. He pursues relationships that he knows aren't for him...he needs more intimacy with God. He listens to music to fill a void and give him closure...He needs to spend more time with God and listening to what God is saying to Him.

I didn't say anything in the discussions, but I was talking to my friend after and I said, today and listening tonight made me realize that the world really doesn't have anything to offer me. Well at least the things that I seek fulfillment in. I have deleted all shopping apps and social medias off of my phone. I have cleared my browsing history and blocked those sites and apps.

I want to find fulfillment, happiness, peace and joy without these things. I want to experience life with Jesus as my only source. I want to be out in nature more. I went hiking this past Sunday...I haven't been in years...and that gave me so much peace.