#i think it's either wax or glue or something

[crumblingspine]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!! As a treat, here's art of the gang from The Fountain. (I drew this a while ago but whatever I'm posting it now)

[deafeningfanlight23]

"Are You Happy?"

ECLIPSE ONESHOT IN 2025 HELL YEAH! >:D This plays during the time when he got the star btw which was SO LONG AGO ACTUALLY DAMN I FEEL OLD :'D

Anyway, ENJOY! :D

----

„Are you happy?”

Such an interesting question with so many possibilities to use as answers. Some could be denial, such as assuring others that you’re fine although it feels as if your own insecurities and fears are feeding off your insides. However, if someone feels like being brave for a moment, they could express their true feelings. Either they’re doing ‘dandy’ and feel like they could lift stones, or they feel like a damn wrecking ball was crushed repeadetly against their mind until it crumbled into tiny pieces which couldn’t be repaired by a simple glue stick. And once someone exposes their true nature, there could be various responses given – For example, either trusted friends provide you support and make your emotions feel validated, or there could be some intellectually undeveloped people who think they are hilarious by throwing some things at your way, like “Who cares?” or ‘jokingly’ saying “Then kill yourself.” And those stupid statements may seem to the one delivering it as funny, but to the other person who receives it that genuinely struggle could only drain their energy and motivates them to keep their true emotions further in the dark.

And Eclipse is feeling like dying, rotting. Slowly and painfully, as if ants devoured him. Piece by piece. Second by second. Minutes passing, hours flying, and days turning into months where he is solely thinking about how to stop this unbearable torture of thoughts racing and swirling into chaos, looking for solutions that are ultimately swallowed by the depths of darkness whose claws only threaten to worm inside his mind. This feeling of misery doesn’t help either – It just gets piled up on the already overflowing stack of emotions. Once collecting the fragile amount of energy to stand up, this dreaded wrecking ball crashes over him like a turbulent wave of a merciless sea, suffocating him in this empty abyss where the light melts away like candle wax.

Why shouldn’t he feel happy?

He archived his goal. He has it literally in his palm. This stupid star.

He can do whatever he wishes now. He can make the world a... better place.

So why does he feel so bored, so empty? Why doesn't he FINALLY execute his plan?

He worked so hard to earn this goal and did so many reckless and villainous actions to archive it. And now, he has it.

But it didn’t bring him little to no happiness or fulfillment.

Although he forces himself to feel something, anything, besides…

… nothing.

Well, at the beginning, it felt as if he had achieved something meaningful, something which would change his life. But it did absolutely NOTHING.

And this just makes him feel… so ENDLESSLY stupid.

He crushed so many souls and lives, made his enemies suffer and inflicted such brutal trauma on everyone who crossed his path.

And what did it lead to?

Nothing.

An EMPTY version of an achievement - Which is such a paradox when you say it like this. Doesn't an achievement mean that someone gained something? But now he faces the contrast: It feels just meaningless.

But the process to get this goal was the best experience he had in his life. It was thrilling, exciting, gave him this happiness and fulfillment he craves. However, the most important thing is that it gave him a purpose. In his life that he deemed as worthless, he ultimately found a purpose, a purpose to live for – Namely his goal of getting this stupid weapon which Moon created. Planning, making deals with his biggest enemies, manipulating, and exploiting others and executing monstrous actions served to assist him nearing his goal step by step, taking his time and purposefully messing around with them more than he has to because it’s just amusing to provoke their reactions. It was such a fun to see his enemies Moon and Sun struggling, suffering, to inflict on Moon this pain he has experienced.

And now, he has this goal, and this sense of purpose has vanished. Now, he’s left as a body with nothing inside.

An empty shell.

Maybe he was an empty shell to begin with.

But at least he maybe had the illusion that he was not.

He feels so empty and stupid now.

A pathetic individual with a pathetic achievement in his hand.

Everything now is so pathetic.

So pointless.

So…

… nothing.

Does this mean he isn't happy now?

Or was he never happy to begin with?

[spikyspinachstreet]

I’ve realized I haven’t shown any doll people other than Medora, so take this guy. His name is Archibald and he unfortunately had been abandoned in a warehouse for about ten years. Also I decided to give doll people their eyelids back.

The first pic she tried to make a makeshift table borrower style but then half of it got knocked over :(

She js wanted to invite him over for some water……..

Another doll people fact: they can go dormant in certain environments; they’d appear completely frozen as if they were an actual doll and go into a sort of limbo between wakefulness and deep sleep. They can break out of dormancy when removed from the environment but it’d take a bit to fully wake up. Probably like a couple of days. My boy Archibald was very much inspired by the Norman animatronic from the Interpol music video “Evil.” I love puppet and animatronic restoration videos. They give me inspiration for the doll people so I get to merge some of my biggest interests. 💪

Now I yap about Archibald’s design. As you can see, the covering on his skin has been scratched up and discolored, making a dull yellowish look. The same goes for his eyes, the tint got yellowed. His eyelids are broken so now he just permanently looks like he’s about to fall asleep. The seams in his skin have that weird orangey sticky stuff that old dolls get. It’s probably mold now that I think about it. His leg fell off, he still has it somewhere though. For now he’s using small pieces of plastic haphazardly stuck together with a piece of cheese wax and old glue, along with a cane made out of a small wooden dowel. Which also has cheese wax on it.

As a character, he’s like one of those guys that try SO so hard to be polite since he doesn’t like sounding mean, but is a bit too judgmental for his own good. He really doesn’t like any sort of lying (or keeping quiet), so he sugarcoats stuff. It either comes off as condescending or goofy. Like if you did a bad job at drawing something he’d be like “wow, what a unique interpretation..” I like to think that sometimes Cove would do things poorly on purpose just to hear him try hard to sound nice and fail. It’s hilarious to him.

Also he likes butterflies and watching corny Halloween movies.

UHHHHH I wanna make a post about how doll people speak soon, since I’ve indicated him speaking yet Medora seldom speaks-

[bisexual-horror-fan]

"How It's Always Been." Ethan Landry History.

Ay, ayyyy! So uh. I am just so, so into Ethan Landry it is fucking stupid. So much that I am posting this thing, a history mock up for Ethan of what I think life is like, this is angsty, family drama heavy, character deep, dive-y and includes some murder too! Enjoy it! I am gonna do some smut of him soon but for now, remember this is just my thoughts and headcanons and opinions, so enjoy this!

—

Rating. Explicit. Length. 2.5K. NOT READER INSERT. This is just about Ethan baby. Warnings: SCREAM  6 SPOILERS. Family Drama. Angst. Neglect. Abuse. Coercion. Complex Emotions. Mixed Morality. Murder. Blood. Gore. Ethan Is A Fucked Up Guy. And I Love Him For It.

—

Life for Ethan has never, ever been easy, or if it ever was, it was before he was truly cognizant and able to remember properly. Something always felt off but it took him a long time to be able to pin it down, and when he did it was like a glass shattering moment. The pane fractures and splits, breaking apart with knowledge that once received cannot be unlearned. Unfixable, even if you were to shift through the broken shards and painstakingly glue it back together your hands would be left torn and bleeding and the cracks would still show clear as day through the smudges of crimson fingerprints.

The biggest injustice in Ethan’s life was the worst one a person can suffer, the cruelty of total indifference. 

Have you ever experienced that? Being so totally and thoroughly ignored by everyone who is supposed to matter most? The people who share what is supposed to be a home with? Who birthed you into this world? Forced you the same way we all are into this shared experience we all call life, meant to play with the cards we are dealt. The middle of three and painfully ignored in all things in favour of his siblings. He can’t even be that mad at Quinn, to start anyway, it’s all about Richie, it’s always all about Richie.

He remembered the only good times and memories he had with his brother, when he wasn’t being a total fucking asshole, was when his needs and interests were being catered to and even then, not all the time. Filming his Stab tribute film was a complete mixed bag of some shockingly awesome moments mixed in with Richie having all the unwarranted, misplaced rage and self confidence found in a typical film bro who has watched one too many movies and swept one too many things Quinten Tarantino did under the rug. He was going on about how some aspects weren’t right, redoing takes over and over while waxing poetic about his fucking vision and berating his amateur friends and family who have never made a film or acted in any serious capacity before. 

Ethan used to love his brother, used to fucking look up to the guy but as he aged, rose tinted glasses gave way to show the truth of the kind of person Richie really was as well as the realization that he was the reason that their parents didn’t give a fuck about him. 

At first he tried not to blame him, Richie didn’t ask for all the attention but he sure as shit didn’t stop it either, and why would he when he is being so heavily catered to? His feelings about all of it were complex to say the least, going from real family caring about family, to disillusionment, to annoyance to anger, and eventually, outright hatred. He tried to get over it, tried to fix it and heal the hurt before it reached that level and the damage was permanent but Richie didn’t make it easy at all. From the lack of interest in Ethan’s life, hobbies, general well being, to the outright bullying he subjected him to at points. Richie is only a quarter of an inch taller than him but you’d think he was a full foot taller from how he acted so superior about the whole thing. 

Ethan felt bad for a moment when he found out about Richie dying, because a small, sick part of him was fucking happy. Experiencing joy thinking that now with Richie gone he was the only son, that meant something, now his dad would pay attention, now he would care-

Except that isn’t the case at all. Even in death it’s still all about Richie. 

At first it made sense, grief, mourning, sure, he was feeling it too to a degree, it was natural of course. 

But then Gale Weathers fucking book came out. 

Wayne is not the most reasonable man on the best of days, which a cop? Unstable? Unheard of. Then when the whole story came out and he read it, he was livid. Ethan swears some nights when he is lying awake he can still hear his father screaming, breaking things, tearing pages out of that damn book, yelling on and on about how it was- “Slander! That bitch can’t say these things about our boy! It isn’t true! He-he would never-”

Ethan isn’t exactly surprised. Richie was always really, really into not just the movies but the reality of it, the actual cases that book and film drew from. Wayne indulging in his habit by providing him with some ill gotten possessions of real life murder and crime scene evidence didn’t help either. 

At one point, when he was still trying to fix this, trying to salvage what was left of their relationship as family, he used one of his few talents and escapes to entertain his brother. He has a love for art, drawing, and has filled sketchbooks over the years with his sketches and musings. Mostly on the nights he would be re-watching a movie he had already seen, picked apart and analysed for the fifth time at least, something to help divide his attention and occupy his hands the night gaming didn’t seem appealing.  

He did a series of sketches in secret, he researched a lot to make them happen, and one night he showed Richie pencil outlines, red ink for blood, showing off various people from the cases, either dead or dying or whatever struck him as right. He thinks it might have been the time Richie was happiest with him,recalling the praise and excited ramblings, even if Richie didn’t know art, he gave it up for Ethan’s attention to detail and the visceral and violent nature he depicted in his work. 

“The black and white with only the blood being coloured?! It’s so, what’s the right word-Striking! It’s so striking.” 

Ethan tried to be happy too but it still felt hollow because it was all about what his brother wanted, when he tried to show him any non-Woodsboro or Stab related sketches he didn’t give them a second glance and certainly no compliment. Richie started making requests of even more intense extreme and grotesque nature, and then it became somewhat of an obligation as opposed to a project he was doing on his own time and for his own strange curiosity and enjoyment. Portraying these horrifying acts with starting realism was challenging and he had to admit that when he nailed the milky dead eyed look of a victim in a crime scene or the cross hatching was just perfect, he felt a sick and odd sense of…What was it? Pride? Amusement? Longing? It was a hard to define, outright miasma of emotions. 

The drawings get less and less as time wears on and his brother stops asking as much.

His dad is fucking insane, so is his sister, they say grief makes people do crazy things, but plotting to frame someone for murder to clear your son’s name is up there as probably one of the most extreme reactions one can have. He didn’t even really want to be a part of it but his dad and sister just immediately started talking as if he would be down, not considering his feelings or that he might not want this but that was how it was in his family.

No one ever thought of what Ethan wanted, they just assumed he’d go with the flow, the conversation “convincing him” was short, like they expected him to give way with a stiff breeze. So he had no choice, he lied, he said, of course he wanted to help, that he felt everything that they did but he didn’t. 

What he did feel was a misguided sense of hope, the idea that he might be able to have a real place in this family once everyone feels that they have avenged Richie. They can be a family again and now that he is the only son his dad will have to pay attention to him, and have to love him. 

Everything they suggested he went along with, all the convoluted and complicated details he was here for it and ready to do whatever they asked.

Wrapping his head around the act of it took some doing. Some late nights sat up wondering if he could really do that, could take someone's life, and after much internal fighting he decided it was worth it. What else did he have outside of his family? He invested so much time, so much effort, he couldn’t give up now, if this works then they can be happy and he can have everything he ever wanted, have them care about and for him. 

He wanted to show them as well as himself he could, if Richie could do it, so could he. 

It was around this time he showed his dad the sketches he showed Richie before. It did what he hoped, showed him he was serious about this, it curried some favour, he felt good, a sense of pride as his dad complimented his work. When the sketches were framed and included in the collection he actually cried that night, when alone, that sense of hope grew.

The plan formed quickly, Wayne and Quinn were obsessed and entirely consumed with it. He learned fast that anything he had to contribute would be heavily scrutinised and most likely rejected, he was just expected to fill the role they wanted of him.

As the plan grew it became painfully apparent that there was a lot expected of him, not only did he have to fit into the plan, play his part in the killings, he had to insert himself into the friend group, be there to help lead them where they needed to be and throw off suspicion and more. Quinn slotted herself in as Sam and Terra’s roommate and all the while had been frothing up a subreddit and online community dedicated to proving Richie as innocent and Sam as the true villain. He watched a few times and was present when Quinn would be going on her posting sprees, VPNs, fake IP’s and dummy accounts where tons upon tons of things were posted to push the narrative in the direction she wanted. It was honestly kind of scary, the dedication, the meanness she displayed. Ethan was glad he wasn’t on Quinn’s shit list, having her being not just pissed but willing and ready to dedicate large swaths of her life and time to tearing your life apart is terrifying. 

The lead up was a nerve wracking, what if he couldn’t worm his way in? What would he do then? It would cement him as a failure to his family. There was a lot of pressure to succeed but luckily, he and Chad got along really well. 

Or at least that is what Chad and the group thought which is what was really important. 

When it came down to it, after he was settled into the routine and knew the core group, it was time for the real plan to get going. The killings kicked off, he’d been amping himself up for it, trying to really get himself in the headspace to do it but something unexpected happened. Wearing the outfit and the mask, he chased down the victim that was supposed to be for practice, to make sure he could really do it when the time came, a totally nobody of a person, he managed to catch them with relative ease. 

The knife slid into that first victim and when he stabbed them, he felt alive, more alive than he ever had and also he felt seen. 

Even with the mask on, even though the person couldn’t see his face, their eyes were locked on him, centred in this moment, focused totally on him, the blade in his hand, driven into their stomach, it was shockingly intimate. A nervous lick of his lips behind the decaying mask, heavy breathing, his own chest heaving, an urge strikes, he follows the instinct he twists the knife. The body below him, because that is what it is, no longer a human, not a person with a life, thoughts, hopes or dreams, it is a body, one that is quickly dying, is going weak in the knees. 

Shakey blood stained hands clutching weakly at him, trying to push him away but he had stolen all the breath from their lungs when he forced his way inside, had affected them. He had changed them, is in the process of destroying them, altering them irrevocably, for the worse. He feels powerful for the first time maybe ever. He pulls the knife out and the soon to be corpse gasps, mouth open, blood on their teeth they whimper pathetically, he drives the knife forward again and it becomes a blur after that. Stab, rip, tear, in and out, back and forth warm sprays of blood and sounds of pain and anguish, wetness soaks through his glove and the robe and nothing has felt better. Being inside someone, turns out, no matter the context of the penetration, is a sensation he had been craving down to the marrow in his bones and now he was woken up to it. Knew what he had been missing. He craves it again, he wants more.

The strength it takes to accomplish the goal, to leave the body on the wet pavement, totally slack, eyes dead, skin turning cold, leaves him panting, sweaty and satisfied, staring down at the mess of red and spilled intestines. It didn’t feel like enough. Thankfully this is only the first time, the first of many, there will be plenty more opportunities to play, to have fun, to practise and get better, to forge new memories. 

Robe and mask in his bag, coat slipped on and zipped up to cover the blood that had soaked through the costume to his shirt, he leaves the body behind after dumping it into the dumpster. A trembling hand ran through heavy sweat soaked curls, he felt totally high on what he just did. 

No one expects him, no one is aware of the brutality he is capable of because of all the sheer frustration he has bubbling underneath the surface. He is going to show everyone that he has worth, he can do this. 

A chew of his bottom lip as he thinks and relives what he just experienced, vivid images and sound dancing through his mind as he is walking to the subway, thoughts of how this can give him everything he wanted. 

It’s all so clear, no one can ignore him with a seven inch steel blade buried in their body. If this is all it took to get a little attention and recognition, then he would have started doing it sooner. Richie was a self centred idiot, but he was right about this at the very least, killing has undeniable appeal that he intended to fully lose himself in, and finally things will change for him.

[youwouldntlietopapa]

First Impressions - Chapter 3

Rating: 18+

Features: Secondo x OC (Ophelia)

Tags: developing relationship, crush at first sight, first date

(Also available on AO3)

____________________________________________________

He’d kept away. After Terzo had caught him in the library, Secondo decided that enough was enough. He was being ridiculous. It wasn’t like him, it wasn’t normal, and it was affecting his work. Whatever power this woman had over him, he needed to take back control. Get it out of his system and move on. Not keep mooning over her like a schoolboy. All he needed to do was to send an invitation. Take her to dinner. Work out some of that pent up energy. Wake up in the morning feeling refreshed and free. 

And if she says no? The nasty voice of his anxieties hissed in his ear. 

If she said no, then it really was done. He focused on the thought, trying to make it stick. If she said no, she wasn’t interested, and he could let lust turn bitter until the thought of being interested or hurt by the rejection were absurd notions that didn’t apply to him. He’d done it before. He could do it again. 

Although the pile of crumpled papers on his desk suggested otherwise. 

One invitation after another, all written in his own distinctive hand. Each unusable for their own reasons. His pen only tore through a handful, by some miracle, in his frustration before he’d thrown the damned thing across the room. Another move for him to regret. It was a very good pen, after all. Fortunately not too much worse for wear when he’d calmed down enough to retrieve it. 

Sorella,

He tried again. 

I would like to ask for the pleasure of your company at dinner this evening. 

Eight o’clock, if it suits you.

How in all the hells was he supposed to close such a message? He’d done it a hundred times before, but all the words sounded wrong. Sincerely? Yours faithfully? Kind regards? Secondo cringed at every one. Finally he gave up entirely and simply signed the note, as stupid and stilted as it sounded, even to himself. He couldn’t stand to think about it anymore. 

Be done and send it, he commanded himself. Folding the note with careful precision. Secured with a button of emerald wax and his personal seal. One way or another, it will be done.

……

It had been days since Ophelia had seen her Papa shaped shadow lurking in the library or walking the garden. Deep down she knew she didn’t have any grounds to be disappointed. It hadn’t been anything, not really. But still, she couldn’t help but  feel the weight of his absence. Wondering if he’d heard about Papa Terzo’s visit and if it had backfired. The Abbey walls had ears, she knew that as well as anyone, and gossip spread like wildfire. Terzo wasn’t exactly inconspicuous either.

Or he simply lost interest, she thought, not for the first time. Swallowing the bitter taste of it. 

Maybe the warning she’d gotten should have put her off as well. It had been something she’d spent a lot of time mulling over. Not that any of it was really news or a surprise. Ophelia had been watching him longer than he’d been watching her. He was Papa, after all. From the moment of his ascension to that office, all eyes had been on him. She wouldn’t insult anyone with such an obvious lie and say he’d somehow slipped her notice. Having his attention focused on her, however, felt entirely different. 

When he looked at her… 

Stop. 

Ophelia sighed and turned her attention back to the manuscript in front of her and the tedious task of undoing shoddy repairs someone had attempted some years before. Cursing the invention of glue sticks as she worked. 

A knock at the door pulled her attention away again and, when she looked up, a ghoul stood in the doorway. Not one of Terzo or Copia’s. They tended to be more obvious and personable. This one stood in silence, black robes drinking the light. His mask firmly in place, dark eyes glittering from behind it. He was, unmistakably, one of Papa Secondo’s.

He stepped closer to her desk and held out a hand, offering a cream coloured envelope, the dark green wax contrasting sharply with it. When she took it, she half expected him to vanish the way he’d come. Instead, he stood watching her in anticipation.

“... He’s waiting for a response?” Ophelia ventured. 

The ghoul nodded. And waited. 

Inside, she found a carefully folded note with a carefully worded message. Not complicated by any means but, still, she read it over three times before setting it down. It seemed such a simple thing to have so much tied to it. Two sentences carrying so much weight. 

His writing, she noted, was also much softer than she’d expected. 

……

The ghoul he’d sent took longer returning than Secondo had expected. Long enough to make him wonder if the response was so bad the ghoul fled rather than risking bringing it back to him. It was another five circuits, pacing around his office before he got his answer. 

The ghoul appeared, handed off the envelope, and vanished before he’d had time to comment. Secondo grumbling after him about the lack of discipline amongst the summoned lately. He blamed Terzo and Copia both for being so lenient with theirs. They were all picking up bad habits and getting overly familiar. His mind immediately leaping to Terzo’s favourite pet, Omega. Not that he was blind to the appeal, simply that it set a bad precedence and undercut authority. 

But he was procrastinating. 

The envelope felt, worryingly, unchanged. He turned it in his hand and, for half a heartbeat, thought the wax seal remained unbroken. That she had sent it back unopened as her answer. But, looking closer, his personal seal was missing. The wax had been remelted and poured again. In the absence of a seal, pressed into the pool of shimmering green, was her thumb print. Something in that detail felt like more of a message than whatever the envelope contained. Sending him back his own overly formal note, sealed the way he’d done himself. Still managing to be much more personal. 

It felt like teasing. 

But instead of anger, Secondo smirked. Breaking the seal and pulling out her note. It was a fresh piece of paper, not a response added to the end of his. The one he’d sent was gone which felt like a good sign. That, maybe, she’d kept it.

That she kept it? Really? Like some keepsake you hope she held onto to tuck away? And what? Running her fingers over the letters and gazing at it longingly? Feeble minded, weak old fool. Acting like a child. Get it together, man. It’s more than likely in the trash.

He huffed and sat down at his desk, flipping open the paper with all the dismissiveness he could muster. As if someone might be watching and judging. 

Papa,

The pleasure will be mine, I am certain. 

I’ll be waiting by the front doors at eight. 

-Ophelia

……

She was, as she promised, waiting by the front doors at exactly eight o’clock. 

Secondo was already there, trying to look casual. Or, at least, as close as he ever managed. He’d spent the minimum amount of time fussing over getting ready and what to wear. This wasn’t anything special, he’d reminded himself a dozen times. Another night out with another sibling. Tending to the flock, as was his duty. Nothing more. The way his chest tightened when he saw her walking down the hallway toward him was just the result of one too many espresso that afternoon, he was sure. The same thing that was making his mouth dry and his mind race. Too much caffeine. Definitely. 

It was not the way her black dress hugged her sides or the pendant that kept drawing his eyes to her cleavage. It couldn’t have been the way her hair was pulled up off her neck, leaving it open to all sorts of ideas about where a kiss might draw out a moan or how her buttery skin would feel under his hand. Excess coffee was far more likely the culprit than the way she smiled when she saw him standing there. 

“Ophelia, thank you for coming.”

She stopped a step back, looking up at him. It was rare to see him without his paints. Nice to see him without his paints. No matter how good they looked, she wanted to actually see him. “I have a rather… impertinent question before we go.”

“Si.” He nodded for her to go on. 

“I’m not sure how to address you this evening. Is it Papa who’s taking me out… or Secondo?”

When had anyone ever asked? Had anyone? In all the time he’d held his office and his title, Secondo couldn’t think of a single person who had asked. Non church members barely understood who he was and siblings always assumed it was Papa. No one ever thought to just ask. 

He blinked at her for a moment, trying to get his head around it. Quietly impressed at how quickly she’d caught him off guard. Finally, he offered his hand. When she took it, he bent to kiss her fingers.

“Secondo.”

Ophelia smiled calmly, not rushing to take her hand back. Giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. “Secondo.”

[malamai]

The outcome of the hospital appointment today was RIDICULOUS and not for the reason you would at all suspect.

Aura had her hospital appointment for her ear, when she was little she failed a hearing test, was diagnosed with glue ear in one ear, she was recently also diagnosed with a perforated eardrum in the same ear and she could barely hear anything where the problem ear was concerned. This has led to me worrying over her hearing for years and especially the last year and a half when she has been getting regular infections and we were told she needed her ear vacuumed to get all the wax and dirt out because for whatever reason it wasn't coming out on it's own, otherwise these infections were just gonna keep happening, but she also couldn't have it done if her ear became infected again because the appointment would be pushed back until it wasn't infected again.

So we have had 3 appointments cancelled, one of which I actually cancelled because Aura was one of the unlucky kids around the time of the appointment to catch Strep A. So when we finally made it to appointment day, I'd mananaged to keep her ear uninfected with all kinds of sprays and drops, we had no cancellation letters and we were actually going this time, I was absolutely overjoyed because these infections have been going on a year to two years and its awful when her ears got infected becsuse nobody likes to see their child in pain aswell as struggling to hear.

We get to the hospital on time, everything is going great, we check in and all of a sudden when we get to to audiology department and sit in the waiting room the nurse approaches me and says "oh this appointment was meant to be cancelled due to the strikes, did you get a letter?" And I said no because I had not and I think she saw my heart sink because honestly I was gutted in that moment for Aura and she then followed it with "We have had a chat and we have however decided to go ahead and vacuum her ear because you are here now, there will be a delay while we get set up." And I was so thankful I said "thank you so much" because honestly in that moment where I thought she wasn't gonna have it done today I actually could have cried. One of the infections was so bad we actually have like wax and blood come out of her ear, it was bad, it was super important that it was done.

So we go in and I explain she's had glue ear and a perforated ear drum and the doctor asks if she's got hearing issues and I said yes because she obviously does, everything has to be up full volume, she can't hear me shout of her sometimes ect... and he takes a look in her ear, he says he can't actually see any scarring in the ear so she can't have had a perforated eardrum and he can't see any evidence of glue ear either, so I am baffled and sat there like "HOW?!?!" And he says he will see what's causing the problem and it's probably just trapped wax, reassures me, then he then gets the tiny vacuum and starts getting all the nasty out of her ear and then he stops and asks me if aura has ever put anything in her ears and I tell him no, not to my knowledge and he explains he can see something in her ear stuck to her eardrum, caked in wax and says he's gonna try and get it. He has a couple of attempts and immediately gets it. It was a tiny pink, shiney almost skin pink coloured sequin, it immediately came out and she was like "I can hear". It explained everything, it would explain the glue ear diagnosis because the shine would have looked like water and it wouldn't of been stuck to her ear drum at the time and it explains the perforated ear drum diagnosis because it would have looked like a scar due to the little ridges and the shine. Myself , the nurse and the doctor all laughed when we realised all this bother had been caused by something so tiny, we also laughed because if the sequin was a green, purple, blue or any other colour it would have been picked up on right away and wouldn't of been in her ear for literally years causing havoc, it was completely ridiculous and so random.

So there is nothing wrong with Aura, she just somehow got a sequin in her ear when she was younger and did not tell anyone. 😂😂😂🙈🙈🙈

[fourseasonsfigs]

Concert Goldfish

These two cuties are re-enacting this wonderful scene from the Word of Honor concert:

I still am not entirely sure what they were doing - I feel like it must be a singer hydration thing that Zhang Laoshi taught Gong Jun. We absolutely already know Gong Jun will do whatever Zhehan says anyway (see Happy Camp for the most obvious example, but there's so much more!), but I imagine especially so when it comes to something like singing where Zhehan is so much more experienced.

Given that I'm a worse singer than even the old (younger!) Gong Jun, I wouldn't know about pro singing tips!

As you can already tell from the packaging, these bad good boys are resin, and not only that, they are SOLID resin, as in super heavy. Their heads weigh a ton, but their bodies are no lightweights either.

You can see Gong Jun's hairpin came in two pieces, which fit into either side of holes in his hair loop. I think it's a good idea they send this separately, as I wouldn't expect it to come through unbroken anyway if it was one piece. All the head would have to do is rotate slightly when traveling, and snap.

Ah these two cuties. These are fathead figures, meaning their heads are much larger than the standard fig size, for extra cute effect.

I am not sure what that thread or bubble or whatever is on the side of Gong Jun's hairline...it almost looks like wig tape has gotten unstuck! But of course, it's just a bubble in the paint. It's pretty glaring here in the pics but I didn't notice it at all when the fig was in my hand.

This fig maker always puts the moles on their ears for these two, it's very charming. Gong Jun looks a bit smaller than Zhehan here, but that's because Zhehan's ponytail is upping the ante! (I also think I had a slight bit of an angle here too)

You can tell the heights look a bit more normal here. And there's Zhehan's ear mole. The combo of Zhehan's half ponytail with the fathead style makes his hair take on a life of it's own!

As you can see here. That's alright, A-Xu's hairstyle can take center stage if it wants! You can see here too the hair pin affixed at a jaunty angle. I went back and scanned the pics from this segment and sure enough, Gong Jun's hairpin is at a bit of an angle. These fig makers don't miss a single detail, I swear.

The holes for his hairpin was nice and big, thank GOODNESS, I still am not over the Hanye with a Sword fig (which is coincidentally from this same fig maker). I don't like using glue where I don't have to, so I gathered up some of my trusty Museum Wax and put some at the ends of the hairpin, and it worked perfectly. The hairpin is nice and evenly straight, which made me happy. It's quite large, but makes sense for large headed figs like this one.

I love the detail on the boots. You can't see the boots at all when the figs are standing, so this is just a nice clean finish all the way around.

These figs stand just fine - very stable and solid, which is good because the weight of these heads are no joke.

Aww, Gong Jun's hands are so cute here. Zhehan is holding the water bottle in this clip, and Gong Jun's hand's were just like this indeed.

I love the detail on the boots. You can't see the boots at all when the figs are standing, so this is just a nice clean finish all the way around.

These figs stand just fine - very stable and solid, which is good because the weight of these heads are no joke.

Every time I post about concert figs I go back and watch parts of the concert, and it's just so, so good. It really is one of my favorite things ever.

Material: Resin

Fig Count: 217

Scene Count: 18

Rating: Cutest cheekies ever!

[link back to Master Fig Index for more posts]

[onegirlatelier]

1930s Qipao - a masterpost

Hey there!

I haven't posted on Tumblr (well, on this sideblog) in a long, long time. I have made plenty of things, just didn't have enough energy to write it all down in coherent sentences.

I think I'm going to make a new series though, since I don't have a blog elsewhere and I need a public space to organise my thoughts, on the making of a qipao in the 1930s style and tradition.

I have made two qipaos before (when I was still a baby to couture dressmaking) but whilst they were wearable, they were very messy with structural issues. Now that I'm a bit more experienced, I'm determined to a) make a proper toile/pattern, b) improve my pressing skills with a steam iron, and c) have nice and round fabric buttons and neat 'button legs'.

I won't have time to smooth out my notes, so I'm just going to reblog and add stuff in the thread or edit the post directly. I'm going to note down the methods I use as well as other methods I've learned about, since there are different ways to make things and each dressmaker develops their own techniques over time.

So for today I just want to share my choice of fabrics and notions.

Main fabric

'Pink sketchy retro garden rayon fabric' purchased at Guthrie & Ghani (a shop located in Birmingham, UK). The selvage reads 'AMSTERDAM by Anbo Textiles designed by Sholto Drumlanrig', so I guess that's the actual textile company and designer.

The website says the rayon is 'similar to viscose', but since rayon technically equals viscose, we don't actually know if the rayon used here is the old-fashioned stuff or a more eco-friendly version like Ecovero.

It feels very smooth with a good drape, a bit heavier than silk.

I got 2.5m which would be enough for a 120cm long qipao. A 1930s qipao has no shoulder seams so you cut the front and back in one piece, hence the length of fabric=2*(length of the garment). I only need 80cm in width for a short-sleeved qipao though. If you have a wide fabric width you can actually make two sleeveless/short-sleeved qipaos, or you can save the other half for something else!

Other fabric choices

The perfect choice would be silk. This is because silk drapes nicely and is very easy to stretch/shrink and be molded into 3D shapes. Of course you need a drapey silk, not too stiff and not too flowy.

Other natural fabrics, including cotton, linen, and wool, are all good. Cotton and linen will be harder to shape though.

Synthetic/semi-synthetic fabrics can be used too, just keep in mind that some are hard to shape, and some do not wash well. You want something that is very breathable, since it fits snugly around the neck, and drapey.

A medium, non-transparent fabric for a single-layered (or lined for colder weather) qipao. A transparent silk can be paired with a slip (which you would wear anyways if you follow the norm of the 30s).

If you plan to wash your finished garment you must choose a fabric that can be washed reasonably without fuss and pre-wash it.

Binding tape

Mine is a pre-made tape from Atelier Brunette. You can make your own with the fabric of your choice. It has to be on true bias (very important)!

I have eight metres in total, not sure how much I will end up using.

Stay tape

Super important. 99% of the resources I've read suggest fusible interfacing. A very thin but sturdy woven tape would work too. Sometimes I use strips of silk organza cut on straight grain (or leftover selvages), which is also what I plan to try for this project.

You need at least 4*(length of garment).

Sewing thread

I always use Fujix 100% cotton sewing thread. Also a thicker (maybe cheaper) thread for thread-marking and basting. If making surface decorations, silk threads would be nice. I don't feel the need to wax the Fujix threads but if using another brand/type I would certainly consider waxing.

Starch glue

Either buy some or make your own. Another soluble stabilizer would probably work too. This is used for the edges, especially at the neckline. If I didn't want to bother with a glue, I would leave the cutting until the last minute, baste with running stitches, and minimize the handling.

Interfacing

This is for button strips and the collar. I use a medium-soft cotton canvas. I know most people use a fusible interfacing, but I don't like it. Organza is not the most suitable, though if I needed a semi-transparent natural fabric for the style then it would be my best bet. You can also starch the fabric to stiffen it, but a starch glue washes out.

Also a lot of sharp pins and a trusted pair of scissors. Some people use spaghetti straps to make buttons, in which case you need a drawstring threader type of thing.

[skunkes]

sorry if this is a silly question but what kind of transfers are there for getting an image onto a linocut block! i really wanna up my linocutting stuff but all i know is how to draw on the block which isnt always efficient 🐟 thank you smunker!

so theres transfers in traditional ways, like, ye olde drawing something on a separate paper, covering the back with graphite/red iron oxide/what have you, and going back over the drawing on top of the block to do the transfer, but i like drawing digitally and have a printer so

Apparently its easier❓ to do printed transfers with laser printers..i do not have one...theres lots of info on that tho so its very easy to look for, i think acetone is involved

The two im experimenting with right now are wax paper transfer, where you print directly onto wax paper with an inkjet printer, and just put it face down on your block since the ink stays Wet as it has no where to set. It didnt go so good for me! But that may have just been due to the type of image im making (a lot of dark areas). Some ppl also use like label paper backing? Maybe it depends on the type of waxy paper

The method im trying right now involves inkjet printed image and mod podge (matte) or diluted wood glue...you prepare the block, coat it in a thin layer of either of the above listed materials, place the image printed side down on the block, and cover it with something heavy (books and such) overnight or until it dries...then yu take a damp cloth and rub the paper away, and the toner should stay! I hear dis one is also hit or miss but i am Trying it

[knightofhylia]

Ouija Board Guide

I am so tired of people shitting their pants over Ouija boards. I went from using them every day, to hating them, to seeing them as every other divination tool I use. I will take your hand and guide you through every step so that people can stop being so terrified of a terrific spiritual tool.

They are not inherently evil. Just like tarot or runes, it’s just a form of communication.

Not everything on the other side is an evil demon out to get you. It’s like going out at night. You could be standing next to a serial killer or just some stoner kid. Just have spiritual pepper spray.

Is this going to curse my bloodline and ruin my crops? Probably not.

Picking a Board

There are soooo many options for this. Boards don’t have to be fancy, they just have to be usable. Here’s what I take into consideration when picking my boards.

Shape. Boards usually come in rectangle or circle shape with some variations. I’ve mostly used rectangles but this is more of an aesthetic choice.

Material. I’ve made boards out of paper plates and dixie cups and it still worked. I also have a fancy laser cut $100 one. You can make these bitches out of anything. I like wood because it’s sturdy. Cardboard works too. As long as it holds as you move the planchette around and you don’t get stuck on bumps it’s all good.

!!HOT TIP!! If your board is wobbly or sliding, you can either put furniture floor pads on the corners or dab a little hot glue or wax on the underside to keep it still and steady.

Size. I think about where I’m going to be using the board. Am I looking for something that is going to be mostly at home? Or do I need something to take with me? Where the fuck am I going to put it? How much arm work is it going to be getting around? How many people do I intend to have with me?

Planchette. Get something that’s comfortable. Using the board is not the most physically pleasant experience especially with long sessions so get something you can hold onto for a while if you need to. If you intend on doing this with a lot of people, get a big one so everyone has a space.

!!HOT TIP!! Put felt on the underside of your planchette so it glides smooth and doesn’t scratch the surface!

Can I read it? Are the letters legible enough for me to see in weird lighting or positions? Are the replies positioned clear enough away from each other? If you are making your own, it’s better to have it more spaced out so you can tell clearly which letter it is.

The Spiritual Talk

Look kid. I’m going to sit in this backwards chair and give you some advice. I was really dumb about my ouija board use and boy howdy it was not fun. BUT. I didn't die and I didn't curse my bloodline. Everyone is always so afraid to even touch the planchette but it just has a bad reputation. It’s a powerful tool that can be used really well or REALLY NOT. Unfortunately, the board has gotten a bad rap over the years as most of the people using it changed from cocaine-for-your-cough mediums in the 1800s to kids and teens trying to scare each other. Even if you aren’t a witch or magic user and just want to fuck around with it there is one thing I can’t recommend enough. Salt! I did experiments as a kid where I would be using the board and have a friend put salt around it and note the change in energy. It slows down so much, so it’s good to have around if you need something gone fast. This can also be in the form of a saltwater spray so it can be made with moon water or sun water. If you do use magic, casting a circle is highly recommended. This will grant you a little safety bubble! An easy way to do this is to put down a circle of eggshells or crystals like smokey quartz, citrine, and tigers eye.

That being said, the chance of you attracting a 'demon' or some kind of negative entity is pretty low with the right prep work and knowledge. Most of the things that people see as 'demonic activity' is literally just the spirit trying to communicate. You are more likely to contact a spirit that doesn't want to be bothered or a land spirit that's still pretty pissed about the colonization stuff.

Prep

It is highly worth the time to sit down and make a plan for what you are going to do with the board. Think about who you are going to contact and what questions you might be asking. Having them prewritten helps things go smoothly and makes it easier to write down the letters when the time comes. If you are trying to contact a specific spirit such as an ancestor I would suggest coming up with some form of code or sign from them. This could be a code word on the board or a certain song or sound like a bell chime or dog bark. If you are comfortable with possibly being touched by a spirit, ask your spirit to tap on your shoulder twice or knock on a wall. A lot of this relies on intuition, so if you aren't particularly intuitive I would bring someone along. Power is in numbers when it comes to ouija board but if you don't have friends willing to use it you are not alone. I'm not going to tell you to call upon a deity or angel if you haven't worked with them before, but if you do have a rapport you can call upon them to help you connect. If you don't have anyone on spiritual speed dial, you can call upon ancestors or your personal guide to help. Generally if I want a spirit to help me I try to phrase things like 'I call a capable spirit of good intentions to aid me in connecting me with xyz' this way you get someone who can a.) do the job (capable) b.) not attract some random spirit (good intentions) and c.) you are asking for assistance not a favour, less likely to have magickal backlash.

I find it's essential to have a candle with a board session for multiple reasons. Candles are a great sources of quick and pure energy to help make the board session as smooth and as little draining on you as possible. If you can't have candles, battery powered ones work as well. You won't be getting as much reaction, but they still serve as a light/power source. Candles are also great in communication! I look to the flame for clues in it's movement (swaying, flickering, growing, shrinking) and if it pops and cracks. For instance, I had mixed two spirits up, confusing the incarnations for each other and was doing some more research so I lit a candle for guidance. I kept referring to her as Elias when in fact that was her reincarnation. When trying to find her name, I got the idea of 'Elisa' and started looking into different forms of the names and as soon as I clicked on 'Elisabetta' the candle crackled very loud! I mostly take the crackles into context, it's hard to say when it's a yes or no. Crystals are also really good for boosted energy when using the board. I have a Satin Spar tower than I call 'the spiritual wifi' that I hold onto when I do board sessions and it helps a LOT.

Keep your first session short, especially if you are doing it alone. My first sessions with a spirit I usually ask basics like what they want to be called, some indication of pronouns/gender, and honestly that's about as far as I get sometimes. If I'm lucky I might get an age or a few words. Although it might be tempting to do everything in one sessions, that is usually where the trouble starts to come in as you get tired and lose focus.

"Rules"

Everyone seems to have their own rules for the board. Personally, I think most of them are bullshit. I'll go over a couple of the more popular ones and give a little from my experience.

1. Never use the board alone!

Bullshit. I do it all the time. It's just very draining and the answers are unclear. I guess you're technically susceptible to malevolent spirits because of the drain, but you're always going to be vulnerable when you're tired.

2. If the planchette leaves the board, or your hand leaves the planchette, you are releasing the demon!

Bullshit. While I HIGHLY RECOMMEND keeping contact with the planchette on the board board at all time, I have moved my hands off multiple times and never had any spirit set loose in my house to curse my family or whatever. It's more a strain on the quality of the connection than anything. It's hard to understand what someone is saying on the phone if they hang up and call again after every word!

3. Do not use it in your home!

Bullshit. I highly recommend having a separate space you go to do any spirit workings, but you aren't going to curse your house for using an ouija board. Just remember to prep and cleanse your space.

4. Do not use it in a graveyard!

Not totally bullshit! Graveyards are very spiritually dense places, so it may be hard to get a clear message, like trying to do a phone call in a mall. But I also think it is a great way to contact ancestors who are buried there! I think it's rude to bother spirits that aren't part of your lineage at a graveyard (unless they reach out), so be mindful and keep with usual graveyard etiquette. Also, in most states, it's illegal to be in a graveyard after dark anyway.

5. Always end your session with goodbye!

Not bullshit! It's just polite.

6. If the planchette goes over the alphabet and numbers in order, it's a malevolent spirit trying to take over!

SO BULLSHIT. Trust me, they are just trying to get a hang of using the board! Remember, it's probably been a while since they've had to READ. Give them time to get acquainted with the English Alphabet.

7. If the planchette is going in a figure 8 form it's an evil spirit!

More bullshit. I've had spirits that just like to move the planchette around or spin it in circles. More likely they don't understand the question or need time to answer.

8. Don't ask the board about your death!

Not entirely bullshit! Not because it's going to make it come sooner, but honestly, most of them aren't going to give that information out for free, and chances are they don't know. Things change too much for one ouija board session to determine your death.

9. Never use the board if you have mental illnesses!

Not entirely bullshit! The better mental state you are in, the better your session will be. If you are depressed the energy is going to be off. Answers may get skewed. Negative energy will attract more negative energy. However, as someone with many mental illnesses, you aren't banned from ever using the board. Just don't use the board during a major episode!

10. Never burn the board!

I mean... I GUESS. If you are trying to get rid of a spirit, just burning the board isn't going to do shit. The board is a tool and MOST times one spirit doesn't possess the whole board (despite what scary movies say). Usually it's not the boards fault either :(. Don't break the phone because you don't like the text you got!

How it works?

My favourite argument about Ouija boards is that 'even if you aren't aware of it, your subconscious is moving your hand so it's fake'. Yeah, my guy, I know. I know I am moving the planchette. SOMEONE HAS TO.

People seem to assume that the ghost is supposed to move the planchette and you just hold on, but that's a serious waste of energy when there is a perfectly good flesh vessel RIGHT THERE. In my experience, there are a few different way spirits use the board:

1. They physically move your hand/arm. This is pretty typical of my clown dolls, especially Hal. I can usually feel their hand on mine, either directly on top or interlocking fingers. They also move my arm sometimes.

2. They channel through you. This is pretty typical of spirit guides and deities. I keep my arm loose and it just goes where it goes. I don't think about the direction, I just follow my instincts. Sometimes I will feel pressure or a pull on one side of my hand, so I move it over there. Sometimes it's just SUPER hard to move the planchette a certain way. It's kind of like those games where one of you is blindfolded and you have to guide the other person through a room with just directions.

If you want to practice the feeling with no spiritual attachment, literally just hold a heavy cup or bottle. See how your arm naturally moves!

My Method and Tips

I am very particular about my set up for a board session but this is how I get the best results.

1. Have the board UNDER YOU. Usually, I sit on the floor with the board in front of me. I lean slightly forward over the board and keep my arm loose. If you are doing this with multiple people, only ONE of you needs to be leaning over it. Everyone else is for support. If you are worried about other people influencing your results, instead of having them touch the planchette, have them touch your back, shoulder, or leg.

2. If you are worried about influencing answers with your thoughts, repeat the question in your head. If a word DOES pop into your head, don't dismiss it right away. A lot of times I will get the answer in my head before it is spelled out, this is a part of clairaudience/claircognizant. It's always good to confirm with the board.

3. Start off with some yes or no questions to warm up. "Do you want to talk" is a good starter!

4. Don't be afraid to customize the board! I used a label maker to add a spot for spirits to tell me when they are too tired to continue. Once you interact with a few spirits you see they use some of the same words. They also use symbols on the board as well. I have eyes on my board and a lot of time they will go over to the eyes instead of spelling "Look". Stickers can work as well!

5. Be lenient on spelling and phrases. Chances are they aren't from the same area as you, or speak the same language, so things might get a little confusing along the way. Ask for confirmation on names and dates after they are done spelling "Is Bob the name you spelled?"

How to know when things are going bad?

Most people seem to confuse 'aggressive' reactions to 'malevolent' intentions. Banging, knocking, doors slamming, and hearing voices are all just ways spirits communicate. Even if the door slams or something breaks, that isn't an immediate DEMON alarm.

Some warning signs:

Vibe change. The feeling when someone you don't like walks in a room. The feeling when you're teacher is about to yell at you. The feeling when someone has been behind you for a little TOO long on your walk home. Gut feelings will tell you a lot. You may get overwhelmed by feelings, but I'm talking about THIS IS BAD NEWS. Feelings of dread or intense fear. A little apprehension and fear is normal, some spirits just have that presence, but if you're too overwhelmed, pack it up. If your energy suddenly drops, then it's. a good idea to close up.

Candle goes out. You aren't going to die, but that's probably a good sign to close up. Whatever is done is done.

Animals start acting uncomfortable. Most animals are sensitive to spirits, but if they seem unusually tense or anxious, it might be a good idea to be careful. Whatever the energy is, it is probably intense or very foreign to this plane.

It violates a boundary. I have strict 'No breaking glass' rules with my spirits because the sound is very triggering to me. If something glass breaks during a session then I close it. If the spirit touches you and it makes you uncomfortable then it's time to be over. Think of boundaries you would have with a stranger. This can also manifest as spirits bringing up triggering emotions, flashbacks, or memories.

It keeps trying to leave the board with the planchette. Rude and not part of the deal. YOU drive the planchette here.

Ending a session for whatever reason:

Say goodbye. Thank the spirit for its time and energy. End the session by dragging the planchette across the goodbye.

Cleanse your space. Incense, salt spray, sound, or crystals work. Cleanse the board as well to clear the energy out. (Make sure the smoke goes out the window!)

Ground yourself. Eat something, drink something, move your body a little bit. Take a nap if you are drained.

Store the planchette and the board so they are not touching each other! Keeps the portal closed and also makes sure your board doesn't get scratched up.

Again, as always, let me know if you have any questions or comments! I would be very interested in hearing others' tips for using the ouija board!

[its-monster-mash]

Dating the Sinclair Brothers Imagines - Dark

GN!Reader

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, noncon/dubcon, death, Abusive Relationship

As much as I enjoy the feel-good slasher dating imagines, I wanted something a little darker. I apologize for Lester’s being on the short side, but I don’t think he’s quite as dark as the twins. I still love him though, and I doubt he’s above Killing for his brothers, so I included him anyway.

Bo

• You start off like any other tourist; but there’s something about you that Bo takes an interest in.

• Maybe you carry yourself just a little wrong, maybe you have a significant other who treats you bad when they think you’re not being watched—either way, he can see the abuse. He can relate.

• He’s hoping maybe you could relate to him—maybe some day.

• Whether you have a partner or not, he’s not the most subtle man in the world when he lays on that southern charm.

• You scream and fight like all the rest when he drags you down into his basement; but he expected that—he’s actually a little proud of you for leaving bloody teeth marks in the palm of his hand that he had used to silence you.

• Didn’t stop him from hitting you for it, but he did kiss your reddening face.

• “Shh, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

• You’re not okay.

• He doesn’t glue your lips together—you know better than to scream when you’re finally bound and at his mercy, and he wants you to answer him—though you offer only silence and the sounds he forces out of you, just to spite the bastard.

• He visits you multiple times a day, kissing your hair and whispering sweet nothings like you’re any normal couple.

• You hate the way it makes you feel truly wanted for the very first time. If you had an abusive partner with you, you can’t help wishing they had talked to you this way, even once.

• He wants so badly to be able to pretend that you want him—he doesn’t care if it’s make believe—he’s been pretending to be loved his whole life.

• Over time, you stop fighting him. You stop beating yourself up for enjoying the way Bo touches you, and you actually start to respond when he speaks to you.

• The first time you answer him, he smiles so wide, and it makes you sick. You both know he’s broken you.

• Even so, it’s weeks before he trusts you enough to bring you into his home to live out his little domestic fantasy.

• You soon learn that part of the reason Bo kept you in the garage basement for so long in the first place was that he needed time to convince Vincent not to kill you—he isn’t pleased with your presence at first, but he comes around to the upstairs being cleaner and home cooked leftovers being saved for him in the fridge for when he does leave his workshop.

• Being Bo’s lover means being integrated into the family—which means killing to prove your loyalty. Bo needs to feel like you’re no better than he is—he can’t stand when you look at him like a monster.

• Sometimes you think that Bo’s completely forgotten that you were ever his prisoner, the way he acts like you’ve been married for years, but when he’s having especially bad days where his trauma gets to him, you’re harshly reminded that he’ll never forget when he fucks you hard with his hand around your throat and rants about how you don’t really love him. He likes to say that he should just kill your lying ass right now—sometimes you wish he would.

•Sometimes, when he’s sleeping so soundly next to you, you think that you should kill him—maybe you could make it out of Ambrose and back to civilization before his brothers even knew he was dead—but you never do, because as sick as it is, the thought of going back to being unwanted is worse than anything Bo could ever do to you.

Vincent

• He caught a glimpse of you when you first came into town, and he knew you were going to be his Magnum Opus.

• You had come in on foot—alone—in search of the Ghost Town you’d heard rumors about.

• You could see the Wax Museum looming over the town like a dark shadow, and with a one track mind you missed all the animatronics meant to mimic life in the town, and allowed yourself into the old building.

• You hadn’t realized you were being watched—studied as closely as you studied the art.

• Vincent was used to tourists breaking in and disrespecting his work, sometimes going so far as to vandalize it, but you were different—you admired his work with a look of utter wonderment.

• That was the face he’d wanted to immortalize, until he saw you sit cross legged on the floor, pulling a sketchbook out of your backpack to create art based off of his own.

• The look of passionate focus on your face was nothing short of rapturous to him. It had been so long since anyone truly appreciated his work—and to garner the fervent attention of another artist? It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced before.

• He crept silently after you as you ventured into the kitchen. Instead of expressing terror at the melted and ruined face of the sculpted maid however, you’d only begun sketching again—a series of half-faced people in poses that made Vincent ache to return to his more conceptual works.

• He hadn’t meant to reveal himself to you—not yet—but he’d been leaning so intently against the doorframe as he’d watched you that he ended up forgetting that you could turn around at any moment.

• Instead of running, however, you’d begun to laugh with a sort of manic glee—delight at the aesthetic value of death in a place like this.

• But no, you were far too interesting to kill so quickly.

• He’d set his knife down on the counter—one of them, the other still sheathed on his belt in case you’d tried anything—and plucked the sketchbook from your hands. You gave it to him readily.

• His fingers hovered over the half-faced figures—finding reverence in the way you presented beauty in the grotesque. If you had known him, you may have understood the reason his hands trembled as he took in your work, unable to tear his eye away from it for what he felt must have been an eternity, but you only stood there, eyeing him with patient curiosity.

• He put the book back in your hands, and surprised himself by removing his mask to lay himself bare before you.

• Your mouth gaped, but your eyes held nothing short of reverence as you told him only that he was beautiful.

• There was already a body laying on the table when he’d taken you down into his workshop, but you only watched in awed silence as he demonstrated his process—scratching out quick sketches of the steps as he guided you through the horror of his art.

• You’d become his muse, of a sort.

• The pieces you inspired couldn’t be displayed in town—Bo had been genuinely afraid of them—and were banished to the rafters and the undercroft of the church—angels and demons of a sick and tormented imagination playing in the dark corners of a place God had abandoned long ago—if ever he resided there at all.

• It didn’t matter—Vincent was your God—and as the months went by, you found yourself desiring the truest blessing he could offer you.

• You wished to be immortalized by his own hand—to live forever within the wax.

• He’d granted your desires.

• He looks upon you every day, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the wax museum, pencil in hand as your face remains forever enshrined in an expression of passionate focus.

Lester

• Lester had been a wonderful partner.

• You’d met him at work—quite accidentally—as he caught you picking at the remains of a fawn that hadn’t quite lost its spots.

• “I wouldn’t eat that, s’little too old—can tell by the way the belly’s bloated.” He’d been so considerate.

• You hadn’t planned on eating it though—it had been in such good condition that you had hoped to taxidermize it, at least the skeleton if the pelt was beyond saving.

• It was like love at first sight.

• He helped you load the fawn into the plastic-lined back seat of your car—impressed by the collection of bones you’d already gathered along the road that day. He’d been so fascinated in fact, that he invited you back to his little cabin in the woods for dinner—he was fixing a stew.

• You’d hit it off instantly, laughing easily at his jokes, and admiring his knife collection as you helped him chop vegetables while he handled the meat.

• He invited you back the same time next week, and the week after that, and so on, until the two of you just decided you may as well move in.

• You’d noticed odd things here and there, like the bin of old cell-phones with the sim-cards destroyed. He hadn’t lied to you, admitting fairly freely that his brothers weren’t exactly law-abiding individuals; at the time, you’d been proud to hear how he helped them destroy the evidence—fuck cops.

• You hadn’t asked what kind of trouble it was exactly that they got up to.

• He loved watching you make your art, and he spoke fondly of one of his brothers—Wax was his medium. He suggested that maybe some day he’d introduce you to him; he figured another friendly face could do Vincent some good.

• Of course, the day you actually met Vincent made you feel like the entire world had come crashing down around you.

• Screaming and panicked footfalls as a stranger had broken into your home preceded your first glimpse of the masked man.

• She begged you for help, screaming and wailing before Lester came running into the room.

• You didn’t even have a chance to scream before he’d pulled the women off of you and put your favorite knife straight through her gut.

• “Oh Darlin’, I sure wish you hadn’t seen that.”

[circethegoblin]

STAYING ALIVE MASTERPOST, FROM A BROKE TEEN WITH ADHD

here you go. some down to earth tips on how to not die metally nor physically.

tired of those "drink three liters of water everyday uwu" and "wake up at 5 am" and "buy a bath bomb and a fec mask and some other things you don't have the money for" shit? i'm here for ya.

1. NOT DYING

eat at least three meals a day, one of which m u s t be warm and above 300 kcal (it can be istant ramen with an egg added if you have to)

you technically should shower everyday, but we know how it is. A change of clothes is sometimes enough.

DRY SHAMPOO AND BABY WIPES!!!

keep bottles with water everywhere. On your desk, near that spot on the floor you always end up sitting on, near your bed, basically whenever you know you spend a lot of time. No need to get up and go to the kitchen will help. Obviously change the water in the bottles as often as you can.

Get some form of physical activity. It doesn't have to be much, you can for example replace scrolling on tiktok by walking around your room and scrolling on tiktok! Brilliant, isn't it? Obviously, running or doing those 10 minutes workouts from youtube is better, but you are still getting like an hour of walking.

Buy blankets. Steal blankets. Summon blankets from other dimensions. Just make sure you have a lot of warm, soft blankets in your house. You will thank me when you won't have the anergy to wash your sheets (just take them off and throw some blankets on your bed), or when the power goes out.

If you have pets, ALWAYS keep spare food that'll last for a week for them.

things to always have in the kitchen: milk, eggs, flour, rice, pasta, yeast, cheese, oil, a leafy vegetable, onions, tomatoes, apples, patatoes, some flavourful sauce, sugar, salt, spices and an emergency chocolate bar. You can make a lot of food with those. Just make sure you won't eat the chocolate too fast.

Have a lot of spare batteries. A lot.

Get urself a flashlight, a lighter, and a pocket knife.

Remember the apples? eat one a day. if you don't like apples or you can't eat them for any other reason, you can take a kiwi, banana, orange, basically something that will give you vitamins and non processed sugar.

do the dishes before your sink starts developing it's own ecosystem

drugs from that one guy around the corner = very bad time

2. NOT DYING INSIDE

Open the damn window.

Don't watch so many commentary videos. You are probably not even checking the sources, so you can easily make unjust judgement, and like. did you even hear of half of those people before?

make a discord server just for yourself. get into the habit of writing little things that happened to you there. rant about the fanfics you read. or the movies. vent there if you don't have anyone you can vent to. write your ideas there, write e v e r y t h i n g. make a section for passwords, for quick ideas, for your to do lists. you won't lose it as you do with sticky notes or notebooks. there is no risk anyone will see it. oh, and when you'll have a strong impulse to tell emily that you hate her? write that message in your private server and list all ur arguments. look at tat the next day and decide if you really mean that.

life sucks. come to peace with it.

cuddle ur pets if you have them

1 hour a day without a lot of sensory input. if you have to, reduce to half an hour.

if you find yourself scrolling endlessly through social media, make sure it's pintrest (just don't compare urself to the people here; if you have issues with that, tumblr may be better)

delete. twitter. from. your. phone.

influencers are lying to you; maybe not even intentionally. remember when you were watching that cute-aesthetic-productive morning routine, and you were wondering why your life isn't that pretty? why your room is a mess? why you cannot for the life of god be aesthetic 24/7? its the filter. don't worry about it, their lifes arent that nice either.

realize there's actually nothing stopping you from screaming as loud as you can right now. like there is no physical barrier. think about it. realize there's no actual physical barierr to many other things.

your body is your body. you can decide how it looks like; just remember it's in your greatest interest to keep it healthy.

3. BEING A LITTLE BETTER THAN JUST ALIVE

If you wear make up, take it off before you go to sleep.

moisturize your body; everything is better when your skin doesn't feel dry

have a one brand of cosmetics that you love and buy things mainly from it. they often have sets of products that complete each other. i like ziaja. it's a polish brand, it's surprisingly cheap and has nice quality

cleanser, moisturizer, face mist

of you can, change your sheets once every two weeks

do the dishes before your sink starts developing it's own ecosystem

do a deep house clean once a month (don't beat yourself up when you don't tho)

keep your workspace organized (it doesn't have to look organized to other people, remember)

sunscreen

cook your own food

keep a calendar

no money for scented candles? got ya. make a simmer pot: throw some apple peel, a couple of cinnamon sticks and whatever spices that smell good you have into a pot, add some water and simmer. boom. your house smells good, and you haven't spend 20 dollars.

If you really like candles, buy scented wax melts. it's cheaper.

Buy urself scented mists. they're pretty cheap and will make you feel A LOT better.

keep your clothes clean. if you aren't sure if that shirt thats on your chair is dirty or not, throw it in the washing mashine anyway. better be sure.

if you can, make your bed right when you get up

wear clothes that make you feel good. put some effort into your outfits. really.

4. OTHER PEOPLE

be nice to essential workers.

if you have money, give tips.

remember, you do not owe anyone love; it is not something you can force. even if they saved your life. even when they helped you in your darkest time. if you don't love them, you don't.

you don't have to be in a romantic relationship to be happy.

if you want to, date! date everyone! date girls, date boys, date nonbinary people! date people completly different than you, date people from different countries, date them!!! just make sure they're kind and won't kill you. even if you don't end up in a relationship, you can learn a lot.

don't be afraid to piss off people that deserve it

smile to strangers :)

5. NOT FAILING SCHOOL

heard of dark academia? check it out

romanticize the heck out of studying

do not let your studying be just reading the same partagraph over and over again. it won't work. believe me.

seterra for geography, quizlet for everything else

try to make yourself intrestet in whatever you are studying (watch veritasium, listen to podcasts about weird history facts)

notes are for you and you only; don't worry about them looking pretty. doodle on margins, make weird metaphors, squeeze in as much info as you can.

when you're studying, listen to music without words/in a language you don't understand.

chew gum while you study

get the forest app, get attached to the trees, focus.

don't feel guilty for taking breaks

grades aren't everything, but they are important.

eat something in school

don't just use the cheapest pens. invest a couple dollars in something that will make writing enjoyable and smooth

those study with me videos? they're great

if you like to argue with the teachers, take care of your grades becouse. they may not like you afterwards.

be nice to your classmates and help them with homework. if you don't do your homework they'll help you

executive dysfunction won't let you study? been there. sometimes it's better to wake up ealier tommorow and do that homework then.

don't feel guilty for failing a test

go to the goddamn class

don't pull all nighters oh my god don't especially on weekdays

6. OTHER LIFEHACKS

don't get involved in the crime, and if you do always have a believable explanation why you were doing it

have different alarm sounds for every day of the week

set a daily limit of money that you spend

great hobbies that don't require a lot of money; urban exploration, writing, hiking and learning other languages

thrift stores

don't eat grapefruits while on meds

nail polish removers dissolve most strong glues.

if you have a cut on your skin, desinfect it. do it. please just do it.

always have pads with you. even if you don't get periods, at least one of your friends probably does

sign up in your local library. its free

[maggies-scribblings]

Yarning For Her

Adrien is smitten with the girl who's always been there, in the row behind him. But when his plans to ask Marinette out unravel, a secret throws him for a loop…

Written for the Miraculous Writer's Guild April Event 2021: Followers sent five emojis as prompts to the @mlwritersguild Tumblr for the writers to pick one to write for. I chose the emojis sent by @ladycat1: ✨ 😊 👀 👩🏻 🧵

Canon compliant up to Season 4, Episode 4: M. Pigeon 72.

👩🏻

It was finally happening. The event everyone was waiting for… well, everyone except the main protagonist of said event.

Marinette could feel it, though she could hardly believe it. She noticed Adrien looking at her with more intensity, when he thought she wasn’t looking. How he had trouble finding the right words when talking to her. All the tiny gestures of attention, like offering to help with a difficult subject or a complex art project, or praising her outfit every day, even if she’d worn it several times before.

Nino could tell, too: questions about Marinette and her favourite colour, food, flower, or whatever else were whispered in his right ear all day.

Actually, the whole class noticed Adrien’s marked change in behaviour. His cheerful hellos were now stuttered in Marinette’s general direction. His head hid on his shoulders whenever Marinette sighed or yawned, as if his neck couldn’t handle her fresh breaths. Even his athletic skills were now replaced with an unexplained jerkiness. The fact that the weather was warmer and the girls’ gym suits gave way to short shorts and strappy tops might have had something to do with it.

In short, Adrien fell in love with Marinette. Hard.

👀

When it started, Adrien couldn’t exactly tell. Ever since that first day of school, Marinette had held a special space in his heart (most of which had been stolen by Ladybug the previous day). She was one of his first and dearest friends.

But now… after getting to know Marinette, her loving and kind nature, after seeing her helping others without asking for anything back, after finally noticing how pretty she was… he wasn’t so sure.

That day at the pool was definitely a turning point.

First there was that unplanned double dive. During those milliseconds when they were falling, Adrien’s thought process went something like this:

Danger!—Why is Marinette here?—Protect!—Wow, she looks so cute in that swimsuit!

As they hit the water, their arms instinctively reached out to the other as they sank, swirling back up to the surface in a soft embrace — just like that night in New York, when they had danced floating in the air, under the full moon.

And when they were leaving the pool, Adrien was so happy and surprised to see she still had the umbrella he’d given her way back then! Sweet as always, she offered to give it back to him, even though it was raining and she had to walk home.

She was standing next to him (she linked her arm in his!) when that pesky umbrella decided to close on them, and they were pulled even closer for a few seconds. Very close. He could smell the chlorine in her hair mixed with the scent of sweets that always surrounded her. He thought he felt her heart beating faster and faster. Maybe it wasn’t. His heart certainly was. He could feel her warm breath through his shirt, and it drove him a little crazy.

When they said goodbye that day, he could hardly take his eyes off her. He even bumped his head on the car door frame. Ladies and gentlemen, here’s the charming, elegant model Adrien Agreste, unable to enter a car (come to think of it, he seemed to have a bit of a problem with doors whenever Marinette was around).

✨

The few weeks that went by did nothing to sort out Adrien’s feelings about the two black-haired girls in his life. His days were mortifying, his nights restless. On one such night, Adrien tossed and turned, but sleep wouldn’t come. The full moon and bright stars shining through the window frames painted his room with grid patterns, a constant reminder of his confined life.

Adding to that, his mind was racing with memories of his (now frequent) clumsiness and embarrassment at school. He recalled the fumble of the day: going into the classroom while trying to look cool, he managed to snag his bag strap on the door handle, causing him to jerk back and hit the ground on his butt in front of the whole class.

Adrien groaned and turned again. Worst thing was, he had no idea how she felt for him. She kept sending mixed signals. Her behaviour towards him wasn’t as weird as it had been, but that didn’t mean a lot. He’d even asked her a couple of times. He remembered the time they visited the wax museum, when she said she didn’t like him like that.

“What’s the matter, kid?” Plagg yawned from his side of the pillow, annoyed by his bearer’s restlessness. “Who is it this time? Spots or bakery girl?”

Adrien didn’t bite, going back into his musings instead.

His mind turned to Ladybug… These days, Spots occupied a much smaller part of his thoughts. He still got the occasional butterflies in his stomach when he saw her, or when she praised him and his humour. She would always be his first love, and not an easy girl to forget… but she was right, of course — she was always right — as long as they had enemies, they couldn’t reveal their identities, much less deepen their relationship. Back when Bunnyx first showed up, they found out that there would be a new Hawkmoth and countless akumas in the future, and who knew when that would end?

Plagg was still grumbling about sleep and cheese. Adrien playfully flicked his kwami’s ear.

“Shut up, Plagg! I’m trying to sleep!”

“Very unsuccessfully, I might say,” Plagg flew out of his reach. “You sighed four-hundred and fifty-eight times in the last hour.”

“Come on… can’t you see I’m in turmoil here?” Adrien turned his back to the kwami. It was no use arguing with a deity, no matter how minuscule.

“Four-hundred and fifty-ni—” Plagg’s teasing was interrupted by a pillow hitting him.

😊

This wouldn’t do. Adrien couldn’t stand his own indecisiveness any more. He decided to ask Marinette out, that very day. After a reviving shower, he got dressed and looked in the mirror. The dark circles around his eyes were evident, but he hated wearing concealer to school. He might as well add a couple of details to his usual get-up: a pair of Gabriel’s new collection sunglasses and his favourite blue scarf.

He arrived at school early, and while most of the class was either chatting in the courtyard or going into the classroom, Marinette was nowhere to be seen. Adrien went into the locker room, and lurked behind the last row of lockers while students got in, got their things and left.

Finally, the hurricane that was late-for-class-Marinette thundered in, scolding herself for oversleeping as she got her books for the morning. When she closed the door, there was Adrien, leaning against the cabinets with his best Chat Noir smirk as he looked over the rim of his sunglasses and greeted her.

“Good morn—”

He didn’t have time to finish his line, as a very startled Marinette squeaked and grabbed his free arm to spin him around and pin him to the lockers with an elbow to his throat.

It took a few moments for Adrien realise exactly what had happened, before she released her hold.

“I’m sorry, I… panicked,” Marinette said, as she stepped back and continued to gesticulate wildly and mumble more awkward apologies.

Still frozen in place, Adrien managed to adjusted his crooked sunglasses.

“Marin—” he had to clear his throat. “No, I— It’s o-ow!”

Adrien tried and failed to step forward, as he heard a ripping sound — his scarf was caught in Marinette’s locker, and the momentum slammed him back into the metal doors with a loud bang.

The proverbial stars that blurred his vision cleared up to show Marinette very close to him, fumbling with the lock to release the scarf.

“Sorry, so sorry, I’m such a klutz!”

“It’s okay, no harm do—”

Adrien stopped talking when he saw that the scarf had a large rip, disappointment obvious upon his face.

“Oh no!” Marinette covered her mouth as she saw the damage. “Your scarf! I ruined it!”

At this point, Adrien would usually smile and say something like ‘it’s okay’ or ‘no worries’, but he couldn’t lie: he really loved that scarf. It was his favourite colour, warm and cosy, yet light enough to wear on a spring day, and a rare thoughtful gift from his father. He pouted a little as his fingers traced the tear.

“I can fix it!”

He lifted his eyes to Marinette as she got on her tiptoes to unwind the scarf from his neck.

“I can make it look as good as new. I know you’re worried, after all it’s your dad’s birthday gift,” she rambled as she delicately folded it, “but I have leftover yarn— I mean, I think I have the same colour, and it’s a simple pattern.”

There was something odd about the way she worded that, but Adrien dismissed it. He must have made a weird face, because now she had a concerned expression.

“I mean, if you trust me with it… I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t after I destroyed it. ”

“No—I mean, don’t be silly, it was an accident… I shouldn’t have sneaked up on you like that!” He managed a relieved little smile. “Still, my father might be upset if he saw I ripped it. Are you sure you can fix it?”

Marinette’s eyes averted his for a moment, as she returned the folded up scarf.

“I’ll do my best! I’m not a pro like your father, but I’m sure I can make it as good as new in no time at all!”

They agreed to go to Marinette’s place after school so that she could start working on it right away, then ran off to class as the second bell rang.

Not exactly the way I planned it, Adrien thought as he scrambled onto his seat, but I guess it worked!

🧵

Adrien reclined in the chaise-longue and looked around Marinette’s bedroom. It was the total opposite of his, huge and aseptic and cold. On the contrary, these walls had warm colours and pictures everywhere, and it smelled amazing, fruity shampoo mixed with glue and ink from her many design projects, mixed with sweets from the bakery, and everything about it was so welcoming and cosy and so… Marinette.

“Yes!” Her delighted voice interrupted his reveries. “I knew I still had it!”

Adrien chuckled as he saw Marinette triumphantly holding a ball of light blue yarn, then get several needles from her yarn basket and sit at her sewing station to start working. He switched seats to her desk chair and rolled close to her.

“Can I help?”

“Sure! Let me just…”

Marinette picked up a long, thin knitting needle and started to thread it on the scarf, just above the tear. She was so concentrated and her movements so careful and precise, she might as well be defusing a bomb. Adrien noticed her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth and wondered what her kisses would taste like.

“There. I have the brakes on, now let’s get going.”

Marinette found the end stitch at the corner of the scarf and cut it. Giving Adrien the end of the yarn, she continued.

“Hold this. Make a ball while I unravel it.”

“Huh? Un-what?” Much as Adrien trusted her skills, he panicked. “Won’t you make it worse?”

“No, because I’m holding the knitting with this,” she pointed at the longer needle she had threaded through the scarf.

Marinette turned her chair, so they were sitting face to face, knees almost touching, and started to quickly unravel the bottom part of the scarf, while he rolled up the thread in a ball, both enjoying the comfortable silence. He noticed a small piece of fabric falling from one of the edges and bent down to pick it up.

“What’s this?” Adrien thought out loud while examining it.

As soon as Marinette lifted her eyes from her work and saw what he was holding, her eyes went wide and her cheeks red.

“Oh, it’s nothing—” she tried unsuccessfully to snatch the fabric from his hand. “Probably just the washing inst—”

It was not an ordinary washing instructions tag. It was tiny and had been woven into the knitting, so discreetly he’d never noticed it before. He turned the fabric over to see a recognisable signature.

Marinette

“Wait— you made this?” Adrien picked up the other end of the scarf from her lap and examined like he’d never seen it before. “Wha—? How? D-did my father buy it off your website?”

So that’s why she was so confident about fixing it. He searched Marinette’s face for an explanation, but she just shook her head and kept looking down, unravelling the loops one by one.

“No— of course not— your site wasn't set up back then, we only took those photos later…”

Adrien thought back to the time Nathalie handed him the present, neatly packed in a box with a ribbon. He’d never seen that kind of care in his father’s presents, just standard gift bags with expensive pens, straight from a corporate catalogue. His train of thought was broken by a couple of tears falling on his hands.

“Marinette…” he murmured, lifting her chin to look into her misty eyes. “Did you make this for me?”

She nodded with a tiny smile. He moved his hand from her chin to cup her cheek, wiping her tears with his thumb.

“Was this supposed to be your present for me?” Another nod. “How did this mess happen then?”

“I…” Marinette had to clear her throat and finally looked at him. Something in her eyes changed from avoidance to determination. “I wanted to give it to you personally, but I couldn’t gather the nerve… then one thing led to another, and I left it in your house, and I even signed it, but…” she shrugged.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just… couldn’t. You were so happy with the present from your dad. I couldn’t ruin it for you.”

Adrien made a mental note to find out exactly what had happened, then set all his negative feelings aside. His heart was too full of love to think about anything other than the girl in front of him.

“Oh, Marinette…” he softly chided as he hugged her. How could this girl be so selfless, on top of everything else? She cared for him, really cared for him, even back then. “I wish you’d told me.”

He released the hug and pulled her closer, into his lap. Marinette set the scarf on the sewing table and put her arms around his neck. Her tears were gone and a hint of a smile played on her lips.

“That way,” Adrien caressed her nose with his, “I would have thanked you properly.”

“Oh yeah?” Marinette breathed, her lips very close to his. “You can thank me now.”

They closed the distance between them, their lips melding into a sweet kiss, then another, and then a few more. Adrien’s heart was beating so fast he could hardly bear it. Then he remembered he should probably breathe at some point.

“Wow.”

“Wow.”

“If that’s the way you thank a person for a present, I’ll start giving them more often,” Marinette joked.

“Not anyone.” He pecked her lips. “Only you.”

They kissed again, this time more passionately. He kissed her eyes, the tip of her nose, her forehead, her neck, then back up to her lips…

The scarf was left forgotten on the sewing table. It could wait a few more hours before repairing.

Fin

Thanks to @hari-writes and @deinde-prandium for the beta read! ❤️

Constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated. English is not my first language and I tend to use UK English. If you catch any inconsistencies, please let me know.

My AO3. My Twitter. My Instagram.

[sing-a-sirensong]

Venomous

A Reed900 Venom AU I had rattling around in my brain, thanks to Discord.

Summary: Gavin’s strange new “roommate” has some questions about human behaviour. Rating: E Warnings: None

On AO3 here

———————

Some people have their entire lives planned out. Others have no plans at all, just letting life take them in any direction it happens to go. Either way, “expect the unexpected” is a commonly spoken phrase. Unexpected changes are a fact of life, all just a part of the human experience. However, there are some events that seem so far out of the realm of possibility that one might wonder about the existence of some giant cosmic joke. 

Gavin Reed is not the type of man to wax philosophical, or question some cosmic order, or think about his place in the universe beyond being a damn good detective. Right now, in fact, he’s pondering little more than what to eat for dinner as he stands idly waiting at a crosswalk. Music plays a little too loudly in his earbuds. 

Chinese again? Gavin wonders, scuffing his shoe against the pavement. Maybe pizza. Got one of those coupon books in the mail. 

He’s pulled from his musings by a touch against his shoulder, an accidental bump by another pedestrian crossing the opposite direction. Gavin turns his head as they walk away, allowing himself a brief up-and-down glance at the retreating figure. Tall, fitted slacks, legs a mile long. Fuck. Gavin thinks, I haven’t gotten laid in ages. 

Gavin.

He sighs tiredly, pausing his music. He’s gotten so used to the internal commentary by now that he doesn’t even feel surprised anymore when his new… roommate pipes up. 

“Yeah tar pit?” He answers, out loud. He fiddles absently with his earphones, grateful for the wonders of modern technology that keep him from looking like a complete lunatic talking to himself.

Having offspring now would be very inconvenient. 

“W-What?” Gavin stutters, taken off guard by the odd choice of topic. “Dude, what the fuck are you talking about.” A mild annoyance that was not his own filtered into his mind. 

That other human. You considered procreating with them.

He scrubbed a hand over his unshaven face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That isn’t- ok first of all, don’t call it that. And second of all, this isn’t a conversation to have in public. Just wait five minutes until we get home.” The feeling of annoyance settled slightly, and his head was quiet again. 

Less than five minutes later, in the elevator to his apartment, the peace was broken.

We should not have pizza for dinner again. It is not healthy for us to have such an unvaried diet.

Gavin sighs again, something he seemed to do a lot more frequently now. He steps off the elevator, walking down the hall. 

“Alright, how about the chicken alfredo from that place around the corner?” He suggests, unlocking the door and stepping in, shrugging off his jacket and shoes. “I’ll even get it with broccoli so we can eat one whole vegetable.”

Can we get the chocolate lava cake? 

Gavin snorts, warm fondness settling in his chest. “Yeah buddy, we can get the chocolate lava cake.”

Excellent. 

A cantankerous meow signals the presence of Princess Peanut; Gavin’s crotchety, cranky, three-legged very senior cat. She stares up at him with two murky orange eyes and lets out another raspy howl. How rude of him to set foot in his own home and not pay attention to her immediately upon arrival. 

Gavin feels the now-familiar sensation of Nines manifesting physical form, a feeling akin to peeling tape or glue off of your skin, except it feels more everywhere. The odd creature Gavin now shares his body with leans down, bracing their weight on one hand and gently petting the cat with the other. It’s adorable, in a heartwarming, eldritch horror sort of way.

Nines appears to be a young man, looking almost human enough. Dark brown hair that sometimes slips into curling tendrils, blue-grey eyes that almost seem to glow, black stained nails that might be a little too sharp, gleaming white teeth that are definitely too sharp, and pale skin that’s just a touch too grey, fading into the swirling black mass at his hips where he emerges from Gavin’s torso. 

But as odd as it is, Gavin thinks this appearance is for his benefit. He knows that isn’t what Nines looked like the first time he showed himself to Gavin. He remembers it being almost… mechanical looking. All sharp lines, and sleek inky blackness. Two glowing eyes. Of course Gavin had been completely losing his mind at the time, in the middle of a (very understandable) breakdown, so his memories may be slightly exaggerated. 

Another grouchy meow jolts Gavin into motion, Nines retreating back under his skin.

“Alright you fucking Nut, I’m getting to it.” Gavin grumbles, opening a fresh tin for the princess’s dinner. He gives her a quick scratch under the chin, and leaves the kitchen to flop on the couch. 

Gavin.

He hums in acknowledgment, idly considering a nap before dinner. 

We are home.

“Yeah tar pit, we are.” He mumbles. 

We can continue the conversation about procreation now. 

Gavin’s eyes snap open, wide awake now. “Uh, yeah, I guess you’re right. Fuck, um.” He sits up, scraping his fingers roughly through his hair. “First of all, don’t call it that. It’s just sex. It’s not really about making babies or whatever, it’s to relieve tension. Because it just uh, feels good. Really good.” 

Unintentionally, Gavin remembers being bent over various pieces of furniture and fucked silly by his previous trysts. He flushes slightly with embarrassment, Nines definitely saw that. He’s still getting used to sharing a brain, sue him. 

An unconvinced murmur brings Gavin back to the present, Nines was apparently finished rifling through his sexual encounter memory catalogue.

The process of pursuing a sexual partner seems time-consuming and difficult. Why bother if it is not necessary? Your failures outnumber your successes. 

“Way to kick a guy when he’s down.” Gavin grumbles, but he knows the question is genuine and Nines has no malicious intent behind his statement. Nines simply thinks in terms of numbers; success and failure, yes and no, black and white. Gavin sighs. 

“I guess you technically don’t really need a partner, it’s just sometimes better when you’ve got one.” He explains, allowing Nines a very short glimpse of Gavin’s moments in bed or in the shower with just his hand for company. He can feel Nines consider this new information. 

A much more logical approach with a significantly higher success rate.

Gavin huffs out a laugh at Nines’ rational analysis, scratching idly at his chin.

“You’re not wrong.” He says. 

Show me.

“What?! No!” Gavin splutters, instinctively alarmed at the thought.

Why not?

“Because it’s fucking private, not some part of fascinating human culture to observe through a microscope!” A ridiculous point to make to someone that lives in his head and can read all his thoughts.

Gavin can practically feel the unimpressed look Nines is giving him.

Hm. It sounds like you are being a little bitch. 

Gavin barks out a surprised laugh. He’s clearly been a bad influence on Nines’ vocabulary. That warm fondness bubbles up in his chest again and he runs a hand through his hair. You know what, why the fuck not? His life is already so fucking weird, this might as well happen. 

“Shit, alright, why not.” He stands. “But we’re not gonna stay out here for this.” He closes the door behind him once he’s in the bedroom. Gavin does not want an untimely cat-shaped interruption. He strips down, tossing his clothes on the floor haphazardly, and lays flat on the bed. This, at least, isn’t unfamiliar territory. Nines has to be with him in the shower, and he’s merged with all his cells or whatever, so it’s not like he doesn’t know what Gavin looks like naked. 

Gavin relaxes into the sheets, one arm folded behind his head and the other palm resting on his stomach. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply, and tries to pretend this is just like any other time he’s jerked off. 

This is not very interesting.

Gavin can’t hold back his amused snort at the obviously unimpressed tone, but he feigns irritation anyways. “Yeah I’m going, I’m going.” He grumbles. 

He skims a hand down his belly, palming between his legs. This isn’t going to take long, he thinks, the barest touch and he’s already filling out from the anticipation of finally getting off.

Gavin eases into it, stroking slowly over hardening flesh. Pleasure sparks low in his belly, but doesn’t want to overwhelm Nines with too much too fast. But the mental feedback Gavin is receiving seems to just be curiosity at the new sensations, and steadily increasing interest. 

I think I am beginning to understand why humans choose to do this.

Gavin’s dick twitches at the low voice echoing in his head, and he laughs weakly. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” He jokes. 

On the next upstroke he twists his wrist, fingers tracing a vein along the underside. He bites back a small noise, forcing his breathing to stay even and trying to quell the simmering heat in his belly.

Do that again.

Gavin’s breath stutters at the abrupt demand, but he complies, hand speeding up and thumb smearing a pearl of precome over the sensitive head. His hips jump and the fingernails of his opposite hand dig into his palm. 

“Nines I- ahh, uhm,” Gavin pauses to swallow hard, “I’m not gonna- ah- not gonna last long. S’been a while.” He manages to grit out. Fuck he’s gonna have a hard time keeping quiet. 

His cock is getting slick in his grip, leaking steadily now. Gavin would feel embarrassed, if he thought Nines cared even a slight bit about how long he lasted. A groan escapes him on the next swipe over the tip, and Gavin brings his hand down from under his head and bites his knuckle to muffle the noises. 

I want to try.

Gavin wheezes like he’s been punched, nearly sitting straight up in shock. 

“You what?” He chokes out. But after the initial surprise of the request, Gavin is slammed with a wave of arousal at the thought of Nines touching him. He squirms in place a little. 

I want to touch you.

Gavin’s cock throbs in his grip. He can feel the hungry curiosity from Nines filtering through his mind, and yeah, fuck, why not. He settles back into the blankets, cautiously laying his hand by his side.

“Oh-kay, yeah alright.” He breathes. “Just be careful alright? Us humans are fucking fragile.”

I would never hurt you.

Gavin feels a pinch of emotion at the sincerity in his statement, and relaxes further into the bed. He gives Nines the mental go-ahead. 

A familiar sensation starts up on his skin, and Gavin looks down to see rippling darkness emerge and pool across his hips, brushing against his cock. Against his overheated skin, it’s fucking cold.

Gavin instinctively jerks his hips back and yelps. 

“Shit that’s cold, Nines, fuck.” An apologetic hum echoes through his mind, and Nines pauses briefly. He resumes his path after a moment and covers Gavin’s cock entirely, deliciously hot this time and squeezes. Gavin curses. 

Better?

“Yeah, fuck, how’d you do that?” He gasps, fingers gripping the sheets. 

Temperature regulation is imperative for survival.

The reply is offhanded, most of Nines’ focus now on consuming Gavin’s responses to his touch. 

Gavin groans, his head tilting back in the pillow. Christ it feels so good, hot and tight and slick. He moans raggedly, praise falling from his lips. 

“Just like that, fuck that’s- that’s good, keep going.” Nines trills happily at the praise, spreading further up Gavin’s abdomen. Curious tendrils flick at Gavin’s nipples, and his hands fly up, gripping the pillow above his head. Nines continues to play with his chest, and Gavin arches into his touch. 

The grip around his cock is scorching, twisting sweetly over the tip with every squeeze. Gavin squirms with pleasure, futilely thrusting his hips up.

More of Nines’ inky form skates greedily across his skin, drinking in every one of Gavin’s reactions. He twines up Gavin’s arms, winding around his wrists and through his fingers, pinning his arms above his head. 

Black tendrils slide down the inside of his thighs, and Gavin spreads his legs without realizing, rocking his hips desperately. Nines smoothes over his body, pressing Gavin’s thighs wider. Gavin lets out a whine, feeling filthy and on display. He tugs against the hold on his arms, whining again when there’s no give.

Gavin always had a thing for being manhandled but fuck, this was- fuck. 

“Oh God, fuck- ohhh don’t stop- baby don’t stop-” Gavin pleads. Nines is purring in his mind, eagerly devouring his pleasure, experiencing it with him.

Gavin keens at the feeling of something prodding at his entrance, nodding frantically and gasping when it presses inside. 

It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, smooth and slick tendrils sliding into him and exploring, swelling inside him until he’s filled so perfectly. He shudders and clenches down, gasping at the fullness. 

Fuck, then Nines starts moving, not thrusting but pulsing, rubbing deliciously against his inner walls. Gavin moans with every movement, drooling onto the pillow as his throaty ah ah ah’s fill the room. 

Gavin’s drowning in pleasure, his eyes rolling back in his head. But then Nines presses up firmly, directly into his prostate, squeezing around Gavin’s cock at the same time. Gavin very nearly wails, babbling desperately. 

“Oh fuck, baby I’m so close- Nines, please sweetheart, I’m gonna come- don’t stop, baby please don’t stop-” He begs, writhing in Nines’ all-encompassing hold. 

“Gavin.”

His name is growled out loud, Gavin hears it right next to his ear, not in his mind, and the faint scrape of sharp teeth on his throat tips him over the edge. 

Gavin‘s voice cracks on a sob, mewling Nines’ name as he comes in long, aching pulses. His toes curl as pleasure rips through him so strongly it almost hurts. He clenches down hard on the tendrils inside him, thighs trembling from the force of his orgasm. 

Nines keeps moving, drawing it out until Gavin is whimpering from oversensitivity, finally relenting. 

Gavin melts into the mattress when Nines releases him, completely boneless. Instead of vanishing beneath his skin, Nines settles across his body like a soothing, form-fitted blanket, petting affectionately at Gavin’s arms and shoulders. 

Fuck, Gavin’s never come that hard in his life.

Was my performance satisfactory?

The smugness radiating through their mental bond was almost palpable. 

“You’re fucking insufferable.” Gavin slurs, tremors still running intermittently through his muscles. 

Perhaps more practice will be needed.

Gavin’s spent dick twitches pathetically at the thought. “If you want.” He mutters hoarsely. Gavin definitely wants. But his eyelids are drooping, and he nestles down into the pillow. A faint question tugs at the edge of Gavin’s mind. “Nap first, food after.” He mumbles, “And I’ll get your lava cake.” A moment’s pause. 

… Can we get two lava cakes?

Gavin smiles fondly into the pillow, chuckling quietly at the timid question. 

“Yeah baby, we can get two lava cakes.”

[lackingspace]

Incensed (Bo Sinclair x Reader)

Rated: Explicit 

Word Count: 2.5K

Summary: Bo is having a shit morning and you’re not making it any better. When some tourist wander in his irritation spikes exponentially. Why the fuck would you think flirting with one of them would be ok? 

Warnings: Bo being an irate ass, Possible offensive language, Punishment, Degradation, Spanking, Dirty talk

A/N: Ok, not my typical content, but its House of Wax day and I’m thirst af  I love those boys, so I wanted to celebrate. Angry Bo just came out, so that’s what y’all get (╯°□°）╯ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

AO3 Link: Incensed

You were goddamn doing it again. Bo was so fucking fed up. It’d been a shitty morning of waking up to a blaring hangover. Breakfast had Lester and you chattering like incessant little birds while Vincent's mute ass self was somehow still being too damn loud. 

He’d snapped when you laughed in the high twinkling pitch that usually hit him somewhere uncomfortable in his chest but now split his brain in two. “Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up!” Everyone stopped to stare over at him, even Vincent mid-bite, turned to stare him down. 

You had a disgusted and offended look on your face that almost made him want to feel bad, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t when his head was splitting and only getting worse. You spat at him in annoyance, “What the hell, Bo?” 

He grabbed his coffee cup and grunted, “Can a man drink his fucking coffee in peace? Y’all are being so fucking loud with your bullshit.” You crossed your arms and leaned forward against the table, “No, not when a ‘man’ is gonna be a dick before 9 am.” You’d said, ‘man’, so venomously he felt a tiny spark of pride because that surely was something you’d picked up from him. Regardless, he ignored it because his temper took precedence. White-knuckling his cup he took a sip before hissing at you, “The fuck did you say?” 

Vincent and Lester were both looking at you now. Vinny's gaze concerned, worried, while Lester put a hand on your shoulder saying your name. You looked away from the ass at the counter and back to your friend, “Just don’t, s’not worth it.” You looked at Vincent and he shook his head, so after pursing your lips you sighed out, “Nothing.” 

Bo took another sip as his anger simmered down, “S’what I fuckin thought.” He saw your jaw clench. And that felt fucking good. So when you’d followed him out to his truck after breakfast he was surprised. You walked to his passenger side and let yourself in before he could say anything. Getting in himself he turned to you, “Can I fuckin help you, princess?”

The look you gave him was like a mocking taunt, “Nah, but I could probably help you.” Bo wasn’t in the mood to play games, so he just cranked the engine and shifted gears with an eye roll, “Suit your fuckin self.”

You’d been so fucking annoying too. Following him around, commenting just enough to get under his skin, but not enough to make him want to glue your mouth shut. But God, was he contemplating it...be a waste of your pretty lips though. You’d started questioning him on mechanic things and fuck was it annoying, but they seemed like genuine questions and damn if it didn’t feel nice to have someone admire his skill for once. 

But when some jock ass pricks rolled up asking for some car help, well, the side-eye you’d given him, screamed trouble. The little asshats had thought you were the receptionist, that made Bo laugh as he thought to himself, ‘receptionist my ass’. But you’d been nice and accommodating to the boys. Leaning on the counter showing them some ample cleavage that made Bo ready to say fuck his brother's art and gouge out their eyes himself for looking. 

But you kept it up and he was about ready to strangle someone when you decided it was a good idea to start flirting with one of the fucks. He fucking hated when you got in a mood- you were stubborn as all get out and it never worked out in Bo’s favor when you got like this. He knew he’d been an ass earlier, but any small amount of guilt he’d had quickly evaporated. Not when he could tell you actually fucking thought one of em was cute. It wasn’t just a fake blush you were giving the twink.

Bo groaned in disgust when you laughed at something stupid that’d been said. He caught your gaze and gave you a glowering look that said ‘fuckin cut it out he wasn't in the mood.’ but the smug little smirk you returned said something different. 

His mood darkened quickly when the asshole actually put a hand on you. Fucking touching you wasn’t gonna fly. Not with the morning he’d had. The little prick was on the top of Bo's shit list in an instant with your name right under it. If the little twit moved his hand any lower on your back Bo would have reached over and broke it. Instead, he didn’t and just left it so you’d realize how absolutely fucked you were. 

Wiggling out from under the tourist's arm you giggled an excuse and walked back over to where Bo was. Inside you were sweating because he hadn’t stepped in like you’d thought and that spoke to how pissed he was. How fucked you were. It wasn't like you didn’t know he was mad. And, sure, you’d known what you were doing. Stopping way earlier was probably smarter, but you never claimed to be a genius, so when flirting presented itself, well, it had seemed perfect. 

You’d been annoyed at him this morning, and maybe had wanted some payback. Wanted to annoy him because he’d been such an ass not only this morning but all damn week. It wasn’t fair for Lester and Vinny to constantly have to walk on eggshells when Bo was just fucking ornery.

And ok, you'd admit that you’d pushed a little too far here though. Especially with how possessive Bo was. He’d even get pissed when you tried to drink some of his coffee. So some random guy, not his brother, putting their arm around you was like a death wish. And God, was he standing beside you deathly silent-- it had you fucking sweating for real. It wasn’t the guy you were worried about, he was dead either way, but you'd maybe just fucked yourself royally. Bo's punishments were unpredictable- very good or very bad. You’d consider yourself lucky if he just ignored you or bitched for a few weeks until you were finally privileged enough for a spanking. God, there was something sick in you though because you still wanted it even if he edged you for a month before forgiving you. 

He gave some excuse to the group through clenched teeth that he'd be able to work on their vehicle, but needed to take care of something downstairs first, and that they should go out and find something to do. They'd accepted his answer and left the shop none the wiser. 

You'd never felt his hand grip the back of your neck faster in your life. In a deep growl, “You little bitch.” He tightened his grip, “ You’re fucking coming with me and don't even think about making a fucking peep. If you wanna be a slut I'll show you what sluts get." he kept to a slow walk until the both of you were out of view, then he all but pushed you down the stairs leading to his playroom. 

He didn't even bother opening the door, just pushed you against the wall next to it-- your cheek smashed against it he invaded your space, "Think you're real slick trying to play with that little bitch in front of me?" you whined out an "I'm sorr-" but he cut you off, "What’d I fucking say?” 

You cut your whine instantly, “And see, you're not sorry. You'da stopped when I fucking told you to if you were." He leaned in closer and you could hear the growl- the anger in his voice directly in your ear, "You were too busy bein a filthy fucking attention whore. Good thing you didn’t let him grab that ass otherwise I don't give a fuck how sweet that pussy is, you'd be out too. Vincent can have a hissy fit later." 

Shit, you knew he was pissed, but damn this was pissed. You tried to actually apologize, "Bo, I'm s-" But his hand came up to lift your face off the wall to grip your cheeks tightly, "Nuh-uh, Don't you fucking Bo me. You're gonna shut the fuck up while I give you something to be sorry for." He pushed against your ass as he leaned over to open the door and God, he was half hard already.

Dragging your through, he made it to the edge of the bed “You're gonna sit that little ass over my lap and I'm gonna make it so Vinny’s gonna have to fucking ice it for a week." You groaned because fuck, you knew this was supposed to be a punishment and it was definitely going to hurt, but damned if you didn't need it. Him being actually pissed was hot as hell and even if you couldn’t sit for a week you really couldn’t find it in you to be mad about that. The man didn't know the power he had over you when he was pushing you around like this.  

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you roughly over his lap. His hand on the back of your neck slid up to grip a tight fist of your hair pushing your face into the mattress. His other ripped off your skirt and panties all in one go, "You’re gonna fuckin count them you cunt and thank me for each one." You tried to nod but the fist didn't allow any movement so you let out a muffled, "Ok, yes sir." His fist tightened in preparation as your breath hitched and delivered the first rough smack to your bare ass. Your muscles tightened at the sting, "One, Thank you, sir!" he grunted and gave another just as rough-- you winced and jolted up, "Two! Thank you, sir!" 

On it went until you were sobbing in his lap from the pain and how much your clit ached. “Twenty! Thank you, sir!” He hadn't gone easy, wasn’t about that. Not even a little. Taking all his aggression out on your ass and you really couldn't say you were mad about it. Sure it hurt and would probably leave some bruising, but damn it really was a good hurt. 

Even when he soothingly ran a hand over the area your ass stung, "Don't give me that crying, I can tell from your sloppy pussy how much you liked this." he slid a finger through your drenched folds, "It's like Niagara falls down here. You're a little slut for this, aren't ya?" You shook your head in denial, not wanting to give him that if he was gonna be an ass about it. He slid a finger back through your folds and your hips lifted off he lap in want, "Look at that. Can't even fucking help yourself."

A swift smack shocked your system back into pain, "Don't fuckin try to take what I'm not giving, whore." You rubbed your face into the mattress trying to get yourself under control as you squeezed your thighs together. With a deep breath, “I'm sorry, sir” He laughed, "You’re really fuckin not. But I'll let it slide because I'm feelin generous.” He slid a finger into your pussy and you instantly clenched around it, but tried to stay as still as possible, “This just want you wanted, huh? My fingers in this whore cunt of yours? Think I deserve a fuckin apology after all your shit today.” 

You could tell he was calmer now, but that meant dangerous. Too bad dangerous also meant sexy. And you’d give this asshole whatever he wanted as long as he’d keep sliding his fingers in and out of you, “I'm waiting, Princess.” and he slipped a second finger in scissoring them, you groaned, "I'm sorry! Ok, Bo?! I'm so fucking sorry! I shouldn't have! I knew what I was doing and that you weren't in a good mood, but I did it anyways. God, I'm sorry Daddy, please don't be mad!" you were shaking in his lap and fuck, wait...oh fuck you'd never let that slip before. Shit, you felt yourself tense up just as his cock twitched under you. Fist still in your hair pulled your face up, "What was that?!" You stayed silent and he gave a hard jerk, winching in pain, "I'm sorry....Daddy" he groaned, "Too fucking right, baby girl."

He’d started his fingers back up, roughly pushing them in and out of you, “Bein a bad girl pushing Daddy’s buttons like that. But you did so good taking that spanking.” with a twist of his hand you felt him brush up against that spongy area inside that had your hips jerk up into his hand and sobbing out a moan, “Daddy’s gonna be real sweet to you and fuck this cunt open.” you moaned again at the idea. He was so hard against you and damn did you want it inside you more than anything. You didn’t have to wait long because after another twist of his wrist he pulled his fingers out, swiped them through your folds, and gave a circle to your clit before pulling away completely. You whined, but felt him move the two of you, “Keep that fucking face in the mattress and ass up.”

Pulling your legs underneath to prop yourself up in the position he wanted, “That's right, baby. Now spread yourself open for me. Show me that pussy.” Your face burned, god he could be so nasty, but you loved it and did as he asked. Reaching both hands back to spread yourself open for him. 

You heard him shuffling before you felt a hand settle on your lower back. “Look at that red ass and wet little hole.” He smoothed a hand down a cheek before he gave it a much lighter smack. You groaned and felt yourself pulse around nothing, “Look at that slutty pussy clench.” He ran a finger from the start of your ass down through your folds, coming to a stop at your clit and gave a few circles to it. 

“Don't worry, sunshine, Daddy’s got somethin to fill it up with.” His hand moved away and then you felt the length of him slide up through your folds. You couldn’t stop the moan that fell from your lips as he smacked it against your pussy a few times, “Feel that? I’m gonna stretch you open real good, darlin��.” Sliding his cock back down to press the tip against your clit he brushed it back up to rest at your opening, “You gonna be a good girl and take it like a whore for me?” 

Drool had steadily been falling from your lips but you couldn’t find it in you to care. Your hair was a mess and face felt on fire, but the only thing your existence came down to at that moment was the way his cock was just breaching into you- just teasingly stretching you. Slowly his words filtered through your brain to which you rapidly nodded and whined out a “Please!” 

He slid in slowly before the last syllable left your mouth. 

[chroniccombustion]

Caught in The Grey (ch 6)

Genre: Trans!AU, hurt/comfort, romance, angst with a happy ending Rated: T Characters: Souji Seta (Yu Narukami), Yosuke Hanamura, Naoto Shirogane, Kanji Tatsumi, Investigation Team, Izanagi/Shadow!Souji Warnings: depression, dysphoria, disassociation, self-hatred, implied suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, mentions of homophobia, implied past child abuse and transphobia, canon-typical violence, mild sexual content Status: multi-chapter, incomplete

Playlist: Spotify | Youtube <- previous chapter | next chapter -> (unavailable)

Souji is talking to Kanji.

Souji is walking with Kanji.

Yosuke feels something inside of him twist sharply. He feels… sick.

Chapter 6: On the Outside, Waiting

“I was only in my mind, You were on the outside waiting. I could feel you all the time. Your voice could save me...”

- (“Echo”, Starset)

Thursday absolutely creeps into existence.

Yosuke wakes with a vicious headache. It doesn’t start off slowly, either; from his first moment of consciousness, even before opening his eyes, his head feels like something has been trying to claw its way out from inside his skull while he slept. It thrums just behind his eyeballs, leaving everything tinted ever-so-slightly yellow around the edges with each pulse. He digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets in an attempt to lesson the pressure, but all he gets for his troubles is a stinging, lingering starburst behind his lids – not even ten minutes into the day and Yosuke’s mood is already beyond all hope of saving. So, bleary and exhausted, he forces himself to ooze out of bed like melted wax. He gets up, frowning against the sickening dizziness, the weird sallow hue, and drags himself through the house to get ready for the day.

Going about his morning routine feels like he’s wading through wet concrete. The constant pain keeps his stomach just barely at the point right before nausea, and as he sidesteps around Teddie in their new “brotherly tradition” of communal teeth-brushing, Yosuke has to actively fight the urge to just go back to bed and stay there until Monday. Maybe if he hits a hard reset he can write off the Endless Week from Hell as just another nightmare; fuck knows he’s had enough weird dreams lately that one more wouldn’t mean much at this point.

He doesn’t though. He powers through the motions on pure muscle memory and diverts what little willpower he does manage to scrape together towards putting on a mask of normalcy. It sticks in place precariously, like dried, cracking glue that’s flaking off under too much heat and wear. He keeps the façade going as best he can, however, because despite wishing he could just evaporate into nothingness, Yosuke doesn’t want Teddie to think he’s pissed off at him. (Because he isn’t, not specifically, even if the bear’s enthusiasm for everything is a dozen kinds of irritating this morning.) So Yosuke does his best to try and keep his mental and physical discomfort as close to secret as possible.

More than being worried that Teddie will take it personally, though, Yosuke just doesn’t want his little brother to ask at all. The reserves of energy Yosuke normally has tucked away have not yet been replenished after days of continuous draining. Even the overflow of nervous, anxious energy that comes from his brain and not his body and makes it impossible for him to sit still half the time; he just… doesn’t have it. There’s simply nothing left that he can spare, not even for Teddie.

So Yosuke swallows down the pressure in the back of his throat that threatens to choke him and pretends that nothing is wrong, that his head isn’t pounding like it’s about to explode and he’s two steps away from giving up for the day. He speaks when Teddie prompts him to, answering questions or responding as needed and staying quiet with it’s not. He lets the chatty blond fill the silence for him, instead, and uses Teddie’s unnatural lack of a need for air to his advantage. For the most part, it seems to work in his favor.

Teddie doesn’t notice – or at least, Yosuke doesn’t think he notices – and by the time Yosuke has to leave for school he’s almost convinced that his act has been bought. It’s only at the last minute, when he glances up for no real reason while slipping on his shoes and spots Teddie in the entryway next to him, that he catches the odd sideways look his brother is pinning him with. Yosuke gives him an overly sunny smile as he opens the door, pretending to both his brother and himself that he doesn’t see the frown on Teddie’s face, and finally slumps out into the chilly morning air.

He tries not to think about it for long.

The sky outside is drearier than it has any right to be as he begins trudging along the path to school. He’s actually a little glad for it – the diluted sunlight is just low enough that it doesn’t hurt his eyes and make his still-present headache worse the way a brighter, bluer morning might. Sadly, with his proverbial battery as drained as it is he can’t take much comfort from the lack of extra pain, and it does nothing to lift his mood from the murky depths of his own self-pity. So, even though the sun doesn’t bother him directly, Yosuke keeps his eyes trained on the concrete beneath his shoes as he walks and distributes his weight onto the balls of his feet to keep his own footsteps from jostling his brain.

He makes his way carefully down the familiar first part of the trek. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t pay attention to anything except the quiet music from his headphones – cranked down today so as not to exacerbate what he’s starting to think might be a migraine. Nothing happens; he’s never been so glad for uneventful monotony. He counts the cracks in the sidewalk as he crosses them and lets himself get lost in the repetition.

He doesn’t want to think – not about Souji, not about the dreams, not about the squirmy, guilty feelings low in his gut leftover from last night’s shitty texts. None of it.

He doesn’t want to think at all.

(He feels his knees start to buckle mid-step and has to forcibly blank out his mind to stop himself from remembering everything that’s made him question his own reality over the past few days, lest he turn right the fuck around and lock himself in his bedroom for a year.)

Surprisingly it seems to work; the awful, mocking voice isn’t there this morning, chewing at his memories and bringing them all into sharp relief. There is no harsh whispering in his ears, telling him all the ways he’s fucked up or how worthless and forgettable he is, how much Souji must secretly hate him or how disgusting Yosuke really is down inside. Instead there’s an eerie quiet, only broken by Yosuke’s own mind when he slips and lets his caged thoughts out for a moment. He can’t tell if he’s glad or unnerved.

He tries not to think about that, either.

(The yellow hue hasn’t gone away – he doesn’t know what that means but he’s pretty sure it’s nothing good.)

The mental silence feels like a cool breeze against a scalding sunburn for the short amount of time it lasts. It follows Yosuke the first third or so of the journey, numbing him to the streets and background highway noise within the couple-block radius around his house. But as much as he wishes it could last the entire day, Yosuke has long-since learned that nothing good or decent lingers around him for very long before vanishing and leaving him desperate for steady ground. All too soon, in little visual bits and pieces, he starts to habitually recognize his surroundings once more.

Just past the point where the sounds from the highway he lives by start to fade entirely, Yosuke’s eyes catch on minor landmarks, reminding him of just where he is and where he’s heading. He slows his already-sluggish pace even further and lifts his head to properly align himself with the rest of reality. Up ahead, about a block away, lies the little stretch of road where he and Souji’s paths usually intersect; he’d avoided it yesterday, and looking at it now, even from a distance, Yosuke can feel his nerve endings beginning to spark and crackle, even as his mind stays unnaturally silent. His muscles tense slightly, like his body is getting ready to break into a sprint at any moment before his head can even fully catch up and register the bitter unease that’s steadily taking hold. He hates this. He hates the way his stomach drops out at the sight of he and Souji’s meeting place. There isn’t even anyone there that he can see – though he’s ashamed to admit the teensy flash of disappointment – because... well, because – and, even worse, how afraid he is to stick around and find out if that’s going to change any time soon.

(The whole world turns sickly bile-yellow for a second; the color disappears when Yosuke blinks and swallows with a dry throat, but for a single instant it’s there.)

I can’t do this.

Just like yesterday, just like the coward he is, all talk and no spine, Yosuke lets his feet turn away from his typical route and down a nearby side street. It’ll take him a little extra time to go around like this, to wind through a different part of town and come out at another spot along the river before heading practically a back way up to Yasogami. He’ll still have to take the path to the front gates – there isn’t really another way he can go – but if he can do enough meandering and time it right then he can (probably, hopefully) avoid Souji until he’s actually in the classroom. He’ll have to figure out the rest of the day as it comes.

He stalls and stalls and wanders and picks his way carefully along a zig-zagging line in the general direction of the high school. He’s familiar enough with where he’s going that the roundabout way itself doesn’t bother him; he’s already spent a lot of time mindlessly exploring the streets of Inaba.

When his family first moved from the city, out to this tiny little hole in the middle of nowhere, Yosuke had found himself with too much free time and too few distractions to keep his mind from dwelling on his own misery. Being new meant he had no friends, and being the person everyone seemed to blame for Junes’ existence meant he wasn’t really welcome anywhere either. When he wasn’t at school he was working, and when he wasn’t working he was home alone because his parents were working, and when he was home alone his options were either homework or unpacking boxes. Eventually he ran out of both.

Video games were only fun for a little while before they grew frustrating and boring without someone else to play with. Movies and tv were alright but sooner or later he’d already seen everything twice over. Books where never really his thing because his attention span was always just too short to let him enjoy them; manga was better, but had the same problem as movies. In the end, Yosuke’s only choice for something to do besides sit and stare at the wall had been to go walking – if only to try and familiarize himself with the place he was inevitably going to be stuck in for the rest of his natural life.

So he walked. From the school district down towards his house, looping and doubling back to kill time, or from Junes after an earlier shift and across to the other side of town just to see how far this tiny pocket of rural bullshit extended before he hit the wilderness. He might not have gotten the whole place memorized, but after those first couple of months in Inaba, when his entire experience with the town outside of school, work, or the pile of moving boxes at home had been made up of long walks and lonely hours, Yosuke’s mental map had soon become, at the very least, decent.

He calls on that mental map now as he rounds another corner, pulling at a few staler memories to see if he’s going the way he thinks he is. The house at the end of the street with the blue shutters, the rickety doghouse in the front yard across the road – yep, all still there. He’s probably going to be late again, or very, very close to it, but as long as he keeps moving, as long as he twists and winds and pretends he doesn’t eventually have to join the rest of the student population on the same road to the school entrance, he can keep himself from succumbing to his anxiety. Souji is punctual, Souji likes routine. If Yosuke takes his time getting to school and avoids the usual path, then he theoretically doesn’t have to worry about accidentally running into Souji on the way.

But even as the thought helps to keep the jitters at bay, there is just something so… inherently wrong about it that Yosuke has to bite down hard on the inside of his own cheek to keep himself from choking. This is a violation of his own routine, of everything that has made his world anything considering normal up to this point. Never in a million years would he have ever thought himself capable of outright hiding from his best friend, going out of his way to purposefully avoid him – it feels like a betrayal, like he’s adding just one more slight against Souji to his ever-growing pile of mistakes. A faint echo of loneliness washes over him and clings to his skin like a humid breeze – the morning feels far too much like the walks he used to take before he even knew that Souji existed, all those months ago.

He never wants to go back to that.

He thinks he may have forgotten how to breathe.

Digging his shoes a little more roughly into the sidewalk, Yosuke powers his way up the street – headache be damned – and past the house with the blue shutters, counting his footsteps in his head loud enough to eclipse the lyrics of the song in his headphones. He keeps his head down and his shoulders hunched, only letting his eyes lift from the sidewalk to keep himself from tripping over as he walks like the entire world is clawing at his heels.

He almost doesn’t notice when he’s reached the path that leads through the school district.

He almost doesn’t notice the achingly familiar sound of Souji’s voice further up along the road.

He almost doesn’t notice the figure striding along at his partner’s side.

But then he does.  

Yosuke looks up instinctively as his friend’s voice reaches his ears, startling violently for a moment when he sees just how close he got to Souji without even realizing it. His heart stutters, trembles like the wings of a frightened moth at the flash of silver not even twenty feet in front of where Yosuke has been disassociating as he walks. (And how funny is it that even when Yosuke forgets where he is, his feet always seem to lead him right back to the one thing that’s ever made his life make any sort of sense?) He nearly trips on the next footfall as he overrides his own autopilot and manually slows his pace, falling a little further back from the ethereal swath of black-and-moonlight ahead of him just enough to not be noticed. He makes sure to stay close enough that he can still hear his partner speaking, though – not even the words themselves, just the sound of Souji is all he really needs.

(Just how needy can he get?)

Souji’s voice carries on the slight breeze that blows through and ruffles his hair, moving it enough to catch the muted morning light and make it shine like sunbeams across the Samegawa. Souji's volume is as quiet as ever but unmistakable in its steady timbre, its velvet-softness, and even with his headphones still on Yosuke can hear it. He’s trained himself to pick up on Souji’s commands through his music while in battle. By now it’s almost second nature to him to react every time his friend speaks.

But Souji isn’t speaking to Yosuke. No, Yosuke is still a ways behind him and from the looks of it Souji hasn’t noticed Yosuke at all. Instead, walking side-by-side, so close that their arms nearly brush every time one of them gestures, Souji is talking to someone else. Someone tall, with broader shoulders and a louder voice, bleach-blond hair slicked back to show off the glint of several earrings, a uniform jacket worn like a cape instead of over the arms.

Souji is talking to Kanji.

Souji is walking with Kanji.

Something inside of Yosuke twists sharply. He feels… sick.

It sits like concrete in the pit of his stomach, growing rapidly in its weight until he can barely breathe, can barely see, the edges of his vision almost pulsing with that same ominous yellow. He can't think for a moment, can't focus on anything but the way his best friend – his best friend, goddamnit! - walks just a little too close to Kanji, smiles just a little too widely at Kanji. It's wrong, it's wrong, it's so wrong, and Yosuke can't even begin to peel back his own thoughts from the slow crescendo of screaming now building inside his mind to parse just why he's suddenly so angry. The yellow becomes tinged with something almost like an acidic green, the color of jealousy and vomit and everything Yosuke can feel at the back of his throat like a wad of wet paper. He feels shaky in a new way, no longer afraid but something closer to how he tenses before a strike in battle. Defensive. A snarl curls at his lips before he can stop himself, and it's only because he's still rooted to the spot in a kind of shock that doesn't even feel human anymore that he doesn't go launching himself across the way and yanking Souji back to himself by the arm.

Somewhere, deeper than the anger and the horrible heat trickling down his spine, Yosuke knows he's being unreasonable; after all, Kanji is Souji's friend, too, and it's not like Yosuke has exactly been available for Souji to interact with recently, so there's nothing in the world wrong with the other boy walking to school with another member of their team. He wishes he could pinpoint where this is even coming from, why he's suddenly flipped like a switch from wanting to avoid Souji at all costs to violently wanting to hoard him all to himself. It doesn't make any sense, and Yosuke's actually starting to get a little bit frightened of his own reaction.

It's just too bad he can't feel it properly below everything sinking into his heart, poisoning him from the inside out; maybe it would be enough to snap him out of whatever this is.

He stands stock still, only vaguely aware of the other people around him, some shooting looks at him no doubt, and watches as his Souji (his, something in him hisses,) passes through the gate with someone other than Yosuke. He watches, body frozen and eyes burning, refusing to blink as Souji, his friend, his leader, his partner approaches the school together with Kanji, the same way he used to (used to, should be,) with Yosuke.

It shouldn’t knock the wind from Yosuke’s lungs like he’s taken a Zio straight to the chest; it shouldn’t, because when all is said and done it's almost guaranteed all this is completely innocent – Souji is a friendly guy, and it's never been like him to say no to anyone asking for his time. (Except for when he did, Yosuke thinks bitterly, because wow, that wound is just not closing.)

But that's the thing, isn't it? Because no matter how much it is absolutely Yosuke's fault for putting this newest distance between him and his partner, even if Souji's refusal to talk to him had set everything in motion, no matter who or what is truly to blame for this, it does little to change the very real fact that Yosuke is not the one by Souji's side right now.

That Souji has picked someone else.

The scene is so similar that it’s almost as if Yosuke is looking at a displaced echo, a badly done juxtaposition of two different images made to look like one. Like someone stripped the negative of a photograph and pasted in a poor substitute. Like someone replaced the original and, and...

Told you, the voice inside his brain sneers. For the first time that morning, Yosuke feels that formless smirk stretching wider, curling into his fingers and toes like something settling into its frame after being wadded up, stuffed into a space it didn't fit. It feels simultaneously right and wrong – wrong because he doesn't think it's supposed to be there, hiding just behind his limbs, adhering to his bones and pricking at his nerve endings; right because the thing now wearing his skin alongside him disagrees.

It was only a matter of time before he got tired of your shit.

It was only a matter of time before he got tired of you.

He takes a few steps after them as they start to get just a little bit too far away, hyper -focusing on the way Souji acts, the sound of his voice and the way it lilts and flows, comfortable in a way Yosuke's rattling memories can't recall if he's ever been before. Yosuke zeros in on the lack of distance between the pair ahead of him, scanning them like Rise does in the TV and storing away all the minute details he can suddenly see, focus now sharp as his kunai. He sees the way Kaji's face reddens. He sees Souji looking over at Kanji with a bright expression, with a smile that shows teeth and pulls the corners of his mouth wider than Yosuke has ever seen when Souji is talking to him. He feels a growl rumbling deep in his throat.

Souji tilts his head in Kanji’s direction as the punk says something, swinging a large hand out in front of himself with obvious excitement and nearly smacking into Souji’s side with his elbow. He catches himself before the hit lands and sheepishly pulls his arm away, face going redder. Souji lightly, deliberately, bumps Kanji's elbow with the back of his own hand, no doubt reassuring the blond that his exuberance has caused no harm. Kanji rubs at the spot awkwardly. He says something. He blushes harder.

And Souji laughs.

It not a real laugh, it never really is with Souji, nothing louder than a very quiet chuckle or a huff or a breath, but Yosuke has heard it before, has been the one to bring it out before, so he would know that sound anywhere, will always recognize that silent shudder of his partner's shoulders as the other boy uses his body to communicate instead of his voice. Yosuke doesn't have to hear it – his mind supplies the sound.

That's mine! he snarls.

Not anymore, something mockingly singsongs in reply.

The yellow-green in his eyes grows darker and Yosuke can see the corners start to creep inward with solid color, until all he can see is the fondness on Souji's face that isn't meant for him.

He has to claw his way back to the forefront of his mind in order to get to class on time, just barely slinking into the room with the teacher coming up the hallway behind him. His eyes bore into the soft grey hair at the back of Souji's neck and – for the briefest of moments – he has to quell the urge to lean forward and sink his teeth into his partner's flesh, leave his imprint for all the world to see and claim what's his.

He doesn't even notice the way the thing inside him that before would have been copper and sick now seems to purr at the thought.

---

He doesn't remember the rest of the day.

Yosuke is aware that he somehow makes it through the school day, bounding out of the room at lunchtime to go and... well, he doesn't even know, really. He thinks he may have gone up to the roof but he isn't sure. He knows that he did eventually go back to the classroom – presumably after lunch – but beyond that there's nothing. The end-of-day bell sounds and he's immediately on his feet, out the door, down the hall, head foggy and vision tinted yellow; if anyone says anything to him then he doesn't even notice.

Something ugly is happening to him inside. He knows it, doesn't know how to fight it. Right now, after that morning, after everything swirling around in his chest and his head for most of the week now, Yosuke feels a disconnect between himself and reality. He's spent so much time trying not to think, then over-thinking, the repeating, and repeating, and repeating, that it's like something has finally snapped. He's so tired and wrung out that he can't tell how he even feels right now, whether he's mad at Souji or Kanji or himself. Or all three. Or just fucking everything. It's as if there's a block of ice holding him separate from the dark things twisting like vines behind his heart; he can't look at them, can't pull them apart with his hands and study them, he can only feel them coiling tighter and tighter until his body goes numb.

His phone goes off in his pocket as he stalks his way down the hill away from school, thighs burning despite months of combat toning his muscles inside the TV. He checks it on instinct, feels the vines in his ribs twist in another direction as he reads the “I miss you, Partner,” that Souji had texted him.

Guilt or anger or self-disgust or something climbs its way to the back of his throat and threatens to spill from his lips onto the sidewalk and it's such a mess, such a god-fucking-awful mess that the only thing Yosuke can do is type a quick, dismissive, “sorry @ work” and back out of the text before he chokes on molten, raw emotion. Without even looking he scrolls and clicks on a random chat log further down the list and pulls it up so he doesn't have to look at Souji's name anymore, doesn't have to try and figure out if he's upset or happy or just sick to his stomach. Chie's nickname screams at him from the phone screen, her words from last night still justifiably pissed.

Yosuke takes a second to think of the dirtiest pick-up line he can and sends it off, not even caring anymore. It doesn't feel like anything, he gets no satisfaction from it, doesn't even bother harboring the idea that maybe she'd find it funny like he used to do ages ago. It doesn't mean anything. Nothing means anything anymore. He's just hollow.

His phone 'ping!'s and he barely glances at the response. She's mad again. Whatever. Let her be. Yosuke deserves it – the frigid rush he gets from her anger coats his skin and, in a horrible, disgusting way, it makes him feel better. Good. At least someone feels something in his direction. He sends her another message, pretending it was all a joke, that he wasn't punching at the walls of his tiny world just to feel anything anymore. He's gone so far from the constant buzz of anxiety and fear that he's grown immune to it now. Everything is so loud and at the same time it's all too brutally quiet. It's like he's rigged for self-destruction, caught in a loop of feeling betrayed and wanting to betray in return out of spite, folding back around to hating himself for it, wishing everything was back to normal, that he and Souji were back to normal, and then wanting to rip his own skin off when he realizes they aren't and can't. It tilts him side to side and he can't balance. He can't regulate his emotions, can't sort out his feelings, has no outlet – all he can do is take a swipe at everything around him and hope he finds a handhold, something to pull him back to the surface. Maybe if he causes enough damage outside himself then it will make up for all the damage already caused inside.

He wants to scream.

Instead, Yosuke types out another dirty text and hits send with shaking, vindictive hands.

Nothing changes as the afternoon stretches on. Chie spits more fire at him through the phone, apparently borrowing Yukiko's element for a while as she tells Yosuke in loving detail just how many ways she intends to break his knees. He hates that it's almost comforting in its normalcy – albeit in a dark and over-exaggerated way. The ice block sits comfortably in his chest, hindering him from properly feeling the fallout of his actions as the vines dig their thorns in deeper; he knows that if he tries to look behind it then he'll be disgusted with himself all over again, (Chie really doesn't deserve this kind of treatment, for one thing) and so he just. Doesn't. He holds back the part of him still consciously rallying against everything he's doing, yelling at him to stop, throwing itself against the frozen wall to try and make him feel all the remorse and guilt he knows is there behind the ice. It's building, drop by drop, bucket by bucket, action by action, but Yosuke can't make himself stop.

You really are a worthless piece of shit, aren't you?

It's to the point where Yosuke can no longer tell the mocking, hissing, whispering voice inside his head from his own. He thinks there might not be a difference at all anymore.

He wanders through the streets and between the buildings in the same weaving, winding pattern he did that morning, letting the music in his ears and the faint ache in his legs from his ceaseless power walking distract him from all the things he wants to pretend aren't happening. Eventually he reaches the bottom of another hill and doubles back to kill more time before his shift at Junes – because, unlike the night before, he really does have one this time. He debates on calling in as he takes the long way around to the shopping district. Right now he barely feels human, let alone like he's capable of interacting with other people; donning the mask of artificial pep needed to deal with shoppers is draining even on the good days, despite the fact that he's used to being on autopilot while at work with too many years of involuntary customer service making it almost muscle memory by now. In the end, though, he decides against it. Calling in will mean having to make up a good excuse for his dad, which might lead to a far longer and more complicate conversation than Yosuke has any desire to have. There's no way he has the energy to play verbal minesweeper with his parents, whether it be now or later once they get home.

He checks his phone to see how much time he has left to fortify himself, to keep his brain and his heart blissfully, chaotically numb, and sees a trio of new texts from Chie that must have come through while he wasn't looking. He taps her name to bring the chat back up and expects to see more of the usual fair. He doesn't.

Meat-Fu: What's going on Hanamura? This isn't normal.

Meat-Fu: U know u can talk 2 me right?

Meat-Fu: Ur my friend & I'm worried.

Yosuke feels like he's been stabbed.

Nonononono,this isn't right! With all the shit he's pulled to get attention, validation, to force the world to prove he's a bastard, none of it was supposed to result in this. He's sick, he's worthless, why can't everyone just hate him as much as he hates himself?!

Yosuke nearly throws the phone away from him, his body suddenly shaking as the ice cracks and the vines squeeze and he comes dangerously close to feeling something. This wasn't – he doesn't' know how to deal with this. Everything is off-kilter; Souji has gone and replaced him with Kanji and Kanji is stealing his best friend and it's all Yosuke's fault because he's disgusting, of course Souji isn't going to want anything to do with you anymore – and Kanji probably has the same kind of dreams that Yosuke's been having because that's what gay people do, right? And now Chie, of all people is picking up on the stuff Yosuke is trying so hard to shove down because how does he even begin to deal with all of this and he can't let her know, he can't! Not after everything he's done and said and everything he's turning into, oh god.

Blinking through the sudden blur in his vision, (when did he start tearing up, what the hell?) Yosuke grips his phone in both hands and sucks in breath after breath of too-thick air. He's so tired of borderline breakdowns. Typing as best he can with his limited sight, he fumbles out a reply, just something, anything to grind the conversation to a screeching halt before it can even begin.

Yosuke: wth r u talking about? lol ur crazy Chie

He sends it. It's not enough, it's too casual, too easy to brush off, but he can't see the screen anymore and his fingers won't move right. So he sends it and he stands there in the middle of the sidewalk near the bus stop in the shopping district, staring unseeing down at his phone and forcing himself not to blink. The tears stay in his eyes, dry up, fade away. He takes a shaky breath in and lowers his phone.

“Yosuke-kun?”

Oh no.

It's like a nightmare. An actual nightmare. He looks up and sees Yukiko standing a few feet away from him, likely waiting for the stupid bus (why did he have to stop here? Why?) with what looks like a couple of Junes bags draped over the crook of her elbow. She must have just finished shopping and come straight to the bus stop, ready to head home.

Which means Yosuke would have been damned either way – if he'd gone straight to work he would have run into her there, and because he'd stalled for so long he'd run into her here. He shouldn't have answered Chie's text, should have kept moving, should have taken another route or hidden in the stock room at work. He should have--

Yukiko takes a step closer, concern sweeping over her delicate brows. “Are you alright, Yosuke-kun?” She takes another step. Her lips pull into a frown as she looks at him and Yosuke can't even begin to imagine what's she's seeing.

“H-huh?” he squeaks out. His knees don't want to hold him up.

Yukiko's frown deepens. “You look troubled, did something happen?”

Yosuke shakes his head. “No! No, I'm perfectly fine, I'm just uh...” He flounders for a second, staring at her like she's an approaching Shadow four times his size – even if she hasn't moved since that second step in his direction. He knows his eyes are wider than a cat's, he can feel it. Finally he manages to blurt out, “stalling? Cuz I really don't wanna go to work.” (Well it's not... exactly a lie.)

From the way Yukiko is looking at him, he knows she isn't convinced, can already tell she's thinking of saying something. She's quiet and polite most of the time, yes, but she's been getting better at speaking her mind, and that scares him right now. He can barely keep himself together over a text conversation; there's no way in hell Yosuke will be able to make it out of a face-to-face one alive.

So he defaults. He defaults and it leaves him feeling gross and slimy even before it's finished leaving his tongue; “You know, if you're worried about me, you could always come cheer me up.”

(Oh god does he wish he could put the words back in his mouth and swallow them down.)

Yukiko leans back slightly, her expression turning uncomfortable, and it just serves to make Yosuke feel even worse about what he's doing. She opens her mouth to speak. Yosuke cuts her off.

“You never did send me that picture.” He tries to wink. He doesn't like how it feels.

This time, Yukiko recoils as if something foul has been splashed at her. “That's--”

But Yosuke is already turning on his jelly-kneed legs and willing them to carry him just around the corner, just out of sight. “See you tomorrow!” he calls, trying to keep himself from retching as the words come out. Behind him, he hears the sound of the bus' breaks squealing and pushes his legs faster. Yukiko won't follow him, he knows (he hopes,) lest she miss her ride home and have to wait for the next one. Yosuke has been spared for now.

(Except he hasn't really, now has he?)

He's almost makes it up to the top of the shopping district, almost makes it to (possible) safety at Junes where he can hide between the aisles, go and find things to do and redo in the stock room, keep himself busy without actually doing anything. It'll be a welcome distraction at this point, despite how vehemently he doesn't actually feel like dealing with customers, coworkers, hell, he'd even probably dodge Teddie because Yosuke just genuinely can't today. (And on the chance he spots one of his friends walking into whatever area he happens to be in, well... then he'll just have to find something to hide behind and stay there until they go away.)

He's almost to his goal when the universe decides he's not done suffering quite yet. There, coming around the corner, Nanako perched happily on his shoulders, is Souji.

Yosuke stops dead in his track, so abruptly that it's only by some tiny speck of luck that he doesn't fall face-first onto the pavement and break his nose. Panic erupts in his blood like he's been doused in gasoline and set on fire and suddenly his lungs are collapsing in his chest. He doesn't know how he manages to do it, but he dives to the side into an alleyway and tears out the other end as if his life depends on it.

Souji can't see him, Souji can't know he's there, because Yukiko and Chie both talk to Souji and Yosuke hasn't even managed to deal with all the stuff that's already happened this week, hasn't dealt with this morning even! So if Yukiko and Chie talk to Souji and tell Souji about all the horrible shit that's Yosuke's been doing...

Yosuke is doomed. Yosuke will absolutely be doomed. He hasn't spoken to Souji in days and he can't let their next interaction be Souji looking at him with disappointment, with anger, with disgust.

Yosuke runs through back streets and down alleyways until his legs betray him and he collapses against a wall just outside the Shiroku Store. He wasn't even aware he'd managed to book it that far – no wonder his chest feels like it's about to explode. He waits until he can manage to catch his breath, leaning into the bricks so he doesn't sink to the ground. When he thinks he can move again, (ten minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour later, he has no idea how long he's there,) he pulls himself around the corner and looks first to the left, up towards Junes, and then to the right down the shopping district. No Souji. Good. Hopefully the other boy is still up shopping with his sister and will be for a good long while, (especially if Teddie has anything to say about it.) Tentatively confident that he's not about to be ambushed by his former partner, Yosuke slips shakily out onto the sidewalk.

First thing's first, he shoves his hand into his pocket and digs around until he finds every bit of loose change he's got and shoves it gracelessly into the receiver of the vending machine. He hits a random button, doesn't even care what he gets so long as it's liquid and cold. He chugs the can without even tasting anything and he stifles a wince as the drink hits his burning throat, before the raspy dry feeling finally goes away. He tosses the can away in the nearby trashcan and slinks back into the alley to hide while he calls his dad and tells him he can't make it in for his shift.

(Chie texts him again because of course she does. He doesn't even look at it this time; he just fires off a quick, “@ work can't talk” and puts his phone on airplane mode.)

---

Yosuke makes a quick stop inside Shiroku Store before chancing the trip back home. He grabs a couple of instant ramens for himself, knowing full well no one will be home for a while to make dinner and that his own appetite is questionable after his stomach has been tied up in knots for so long. It'll also give him an excuse not to have to sneak back downstairs later and risk running into his parents. Again, not a conversational minefield he's willing to navigate right now. (He also grabs a pack of mochi to placate his little brother when Teddie inevitably whines about Yosuke not coming in to work.) Once he's out he heads straight home – straight, because the sun has started going down and it's freezing outside, so he feels confident enough in the low temperature to take the gamble on none of his friends being out where he can stumble into them.

He makes it to his house without incident, makes it inside and up to his room, even manages to take a bath without a fuss since Teddie isn't home yet to knock insistently on the bathroom door. For now, he's safe. But even knowing he's at home, alone, with his phone far away from him in the other room, Yosuke finds that he still can't relax. He soaks in the warm water, (he'd washed as quickly as fucking possible because even days later the shower makes his stomach squirm,) and tries to will the anxiety to bleed out through his pores. It doesn't.

Something is keeping his shoulders tense, his nerves frayed and spiked. Even when he gets out of the bathtub after Teddie comes bounding into the house, loud even from downstairs, Yosuke feels like he could jog all the way back to school and have energy left over.

He gives Teddie the mochi, which effectively shuts up any line of questioning that might have been incoming, and Teddie babbles excitedly as he eats. He tells Yosuke all about how “Sensei and Nana-chan” had come by to do some grocery shopping, how he and Nanako had run off to find the groceries together while Souji had wandered off. How they'd found him later after they were all done, around the side of the building, crouched low to pet the stray cats. Yosuke listens to all of this with far more attentiveness than normal; he only breathes once Ted is finished and there has been no mention made of Yosuke whatsoever.

It's... weirdly easier to relax his body after that, though understandably not his mind. His little brother is a small sliver of something normal, oblivious and innocent and forever just happy to be there. It lets Yosuke pretend that nothing bad is waiting for him just outside the house's front door.

Normally he'd play a few rounds of a video game with his brother until one of them felt tired enough to go to bed; tonight, though, Yosuke can't keep his attention on the game, and so gives up after only two failed races. He moves to sit on the bed and picks half-heartedly at his cold instant ramen, only partially watching as Ted plays against the game's AI until the bear starts getting bored. Teddie decides that they're going to have a movie night together after that, and Yosuke lets the blond boy put in some brightly-colored Ghibli thing for them to watch. Yosuke inevitably zones out.

It isn't until the credits end and the dvd menu comes back with a loop of the movie's main theme that he finally looks up, blinking at the red numbers on his alarm clock that read far later into the night than he'd thought, and then down to find his brother passed out cold on the floor. Yosuke sighs and gets up, throwing his unfinished noodles away before awkwardly – albeit carefully – dragging Teddie's slumbering form over to the closet and plopping him onto his futon.

It's as Yosuke is getting ready to turn off the light that he sees Teddie's phone lying on the carpet.

He doesn't know why he thinks it, what makes him link the sight of his little brother's cell phone to the flicker of memory that bubbles up to the surface. He doesn't know where the idea comes from. But he has it.

Rise had taken pictures of everyone and everything at the pageant. Rise had taken pictures of Souji.

Teddie had been begging Rise to send the pictures to his phone.

Yosuke has no idea whether or not Rise had ever actually did, but with how proud of herself she'd been for taking them, he'd bet money on there now being a whole folder of pageant photos residing in the bear boy's phone.

I shouldn't, he thinks, and not just because it'd be incredibly invasive to go poking around in his brother's phone –  if he does, and he finds what he's looking for, then what? He knows neither the girls nor Naoto took any photos of the second pageant, but despite what he let Yukiko believe (and what he's been trying to convince himself of for days,) Yosuke doesn't need those; he'd snapped a few of his own when the event was happening. There aren't many - he'd been a bit preoccupied worrying over Souji's disappearance at the time, and he'd purposefully avoided taking any pictures of Naoto because they'd looked so miserable that it felt almost cruel, but he has some. (And thinking about it now, he realizes he hasn't so much as opened the photo gallery on his phone even once to look at any of them since he took them.)

So no, it's not photos of the beauty pageant he's looking for.

Slowly, as if terrified Teddie will somehow wake up and throw open the closet door to catch Yosuke in the act, he reaches down and picks his brother's phone up off the ground. He's just picking it up, he tells himself; he's just getting it off the floor so no one steps on it. He's doing Ted a favor. He's not going to look, he's not.

(Liar.)

It's not hard to get into Ted's phone – the bear doesn't have any sort of lock on the screen – and because it's a cheap Junes model, Yosuke already knows exactly how to work it. It takes him less than half a minute to find Rise's nickname in the text logs and pull up their last conversation.

There, staring up at him, is the bottom part of a photo, with what looks like the stage in the school auditorium.

Yosuke immediately feels his palms start to sweat. He crosses the room in two quick, silent strides over to the light switch, turning it off with fumbling fingers and plunging the room into darkness save for the faint glow of his alarm clock and the glare from the phone in his hand. He pads back over to the outline of his bed and throws the covers back, then climbs in, throws the blankets over his head like a child avoiding bedtime, and curls up into a ball on his side with his prize held tight in his nervous hands.

His stomach swoops as he holds his thumb over the up button, ready to scroll past Ted's enthusiastic words of thanks to Rise and see--- but hesitates.

He could stop right now, he thinks; it would be so easy just to shut the phone off, put it on the charger, go to sleep. He could roll over with his face in the pillow and pretend none of this happened. It would be so easy.

Okay, he thinks, momentarily closing the phone. Okay. Okay...

This isn't creepy, it's not; he's just... making sure. Right. Yes. That's all. The dreams started after Yosuke had seen Souji dressed up as a girl – after Yosuke had thought things about Souji dressed as a girl. That had to be the reason, right? He couldn't be gay if he was only attracted to his best friend when Souji was in a skirt, when he looked a little too convincing as a chick. That's where the wires had gotten crossed in Yosuke's head, when his teenage hormones had been confused at the sight of his already-pretty partner making an even-prettier lady. That's all it was, it had to be, and Yosuke was holding the proof, the means to his mental salvation, in his hands. All he had to do was look.

Yosuke closes his eyes and takes a second to brace himself, scared for reasons he doesn't particularly want to explore. He pulls in a deep, unsteady breath. Another. A third. On the final exhale, he opens his eyes and taps a key to wake the screen back up. He stares at the bottom of the photo for just a few moments more and then finally sucks in one more breath, pressing the 'up' as his lungs fill to the brim.

The first few pictures aren't what he needs: a crowded group shot, Teddie flouncing around the stage, Kanji looking ready to break an ankle in his ill-fitting heels, Yosuke hating everything while holding the mic. He keeps scrolling up, growing irritated and more anxious with every photo revealed not to be the one he wants. Eventually he just holds the button down and lets everything scroll by until all the images start to blur together; it's because of this that he very nearly misses a flash of grey and silver as the photo streaks by.

Yosuke immediately takes his thumb off the 'up' and jabs at the 'down' until the picture comes back into view. There, bathed in the harsh spotlight of center stage, stands Souji, expression tightly neutral and face pale. It sucks the breath from Yosuke's lungs.

This. This is what Yosuke has been trying so desperately to find, simultaneously to avoid. It feels wrong, somehow, like an invasion of more than just Teddie's privacy, but the whole school had seen Souji in a skirt so it's not like it's a secret that anyone's trying to keep. Still, as Yosuke stares at the familiar shape of his partner's face, his hips, his hands, Yosuke feels, not the wave of relief he'd been expecting, but sour. He can't even put his finger on it, why his face seems to curl up in frustration without him even consciously bidding it to; Souji's body is just as lean and graceful as he remembers it looking, with the long silver wig framing his face and softening his features and the line of the skirt hugging his waist to give him just the faintest of hourglass figures. It should be beautiful, in a way it is, but the more that Yosuke stares at the photo the less and less attracted he finds himself being.

This isn't right.

(Oh, but isn't it?)

Yosuke scrolls up to look for another photo, finding a better one, a closer one, on the very next try. This time the camera is zoomed in, giving Yosuke a much clearer view of Souji from the waist up. Whatever bra the girls had stuffed him into makes his chest look natural, a petite curve to his body that fits stunningly along with the slender way his figure normally seems to taper slightly at his waist. Objectively, Souji looks great, hot, even in the pageant clothes he'd been forced to wear; Yosuke had thought as much when seeing his partner in person on that nightmare of a day. He squints at the phone in his hands and tries to recall just what specifically he'd found attractive when he'd been staring at Souji backstage in the dim, shitty lighting. His hips, definitely – he remembers thinking how perfect they would be for him to rest his hands on. Souji's waist, his chest, yes, but also his hands. Yosuke remembers how ethereal Souji had looked, too, with his eyes and the wig (an uncannily perfect match for Souji's actual hair color,) shining dull silver in the dark. The curve of his jaw, the hint of skin just above his collar bones, the line of his thighs barely there below the straightness of the skirt.

Looking at the photo now, Yosuke can see all the the things that he found so alluring before – and feels, strangely, next to nothing.

He can't understand it, why is he not swooning over the image of his best friend making the most amazingly convincing girl Yosuke has ever had filthy dreams about? (Something turns over in his mind, and suddenly, sickeningly, Yosuke feels like he's on the highest peak of a roller coaster, staring down at the hundred-foot drop below him just as the cart begins to move.)

The sex dreams hadn't featured a skirt.

They hadn't featured long hair or perky boobs.

In his dreams, Souji had just been... Souji. A flat, smooth chest, all toned muscle and softly masculine edges. The silver had been shorter, the cheekbones sharper, all of it had been Souji as he always is – a guy. No matter how gorgeous Yosuke thinks (or thought) Souji looked in his pageant outfit, the blinding fact remains that the boy in his dreams had stayed a boy.

Slowly, stomach twisting into nausea, Yosuke reaches out from the safety of his blanket shield and picks his own phone up off the night stand beside the bed. Like some kind of gremlin, he snatches his hand – phone and all – back into the darkness beneath the covers, clutching it to him with fingers so clammy it threatens to hinder his grip. His heart flutters in his chest, hard enough that he can feel his own pulse; he swallows and his throat is dry. Trembling, Yosuke holds a phone in each hand, holds them up next to one another. He opens his, and fumbles his way to his photo gallery, clicking through until he comes to a picture of himself and Souji, standing close and smiling as Yosuke snaps the selfie.

Oh god.

It's all still there. The photo is, again, a waist-up shot, but even still Yosuke can see the gentle line of Souji's jaw, the hint of his collarbones just past the open top button of his shirt, the long, delicate fingers on strong and calloused hands. Souji's hair is shorter, of course, and doesn't frame his face the way the wig did, so his cheekbones are more visible, his chin slightly sharper, but his eyes. Souji's eyes are still that same summer-storm hue, round and kind, and full of far more life than any of the photos of him in pageant garb. Pageant Souji looks like a marionette; real Souji looks like rainclouds incarnate.

Yosuke's gaze travels down to the very bottom of the picture, where the image cuts off right below Souji's belt buckle, leaving the dip of his waist, the jut of the top of his hip, all still visible. He's wearing his uniform shirt and jacket, but even with the layers of straight-cut clothing Yosuke can see that same faint, curving line of his partner's body that almost looks like the start of an hourglass. Yosuke can't see the other boy's thighs in this one, but the line of Souji's hip fills outward slightly, instead of carving a path straight down like Yosuke is so used to seeing on most other guys – himself included.  Souji, for all that he's built like an athlete, is only sharp in certain places, soft in others; a graceful blade of curving steel, handle wrapped in velvety leather.

Yosuke tears his eyes away from the photo of him and Souji together and back over to the one of Souji at the pageant. The features are the same but different, radiant in one and hollow in the other – both have the same shape, the same color, the same lines and vivid angles. But even without the false femininity, Souji is still gorgeous. Souji is still ethereal. And Yosuke can feel that swooping in his stomach turn to something warm.

A terrible realization comes dawning over Yosuke's mind like a cold and wretched sun. The people in the photos – excluding Yosuke – though differing in dress, are the same. The things that Yosuke had noticed on the day of the pageant, when he'd stared and stared and stared at his friend like Souji was the most beautiful ghost he'd ever seen, every single one of them was still there. Even without the wig and the makeup and the clothing meant for women, every tiny detail that Yosuke had poured over was unmistakably present; they'd all been there the entire time, never not.  

Which means that Yosuke just hadn't noticed them until he'd stopped and stared. And stared. And stared.

Oh my fucking god.

---

There is a certain kind of quiet mania that comes from not having slept at all; a distant sort of grinding at the threads keeping a person from breaking down, from cracking like a gunshot. It's a mental time bomb, one that can lead to either exhaustion and collapse, or the utter shattering of all rational behavior and thought.

Yosuke sits on the living room couch, already fully dressed for school, watching the sun come up through the window as his body and mind are eerily calm. That internal timer is already running low.

He hasn't slept. After his brain-breaking revelation the night before, Yosuke had lain there, pulling out every memory he had of Souji and turning it over and over in his mind. Each interaction, each time he'd thrown his arm casually across the other boy's shoulders, the way it felt when they sat close enough that Souji's body heat warmed his side. So many times Yosuke had felt his breath hitch, his heart beat just a little bit quicker, but every time he just brushed it off. Adrenaline from talking over the murder case, the heat in the summer air, his now-absent crush on Rise kicking in when she did anything cute. (Because he'd noticed that, too; that his cheeks no longer flushed while thinking about her – not since she went from The Idol Risette to his friend Rise.)

Memory by memory, it felt like Yosuke's self-dug grave had gotten that much deeper, and as he pulled on that first thread of realization, more and more had come. Like untangling a spider web piece by fragile piece. It had left his brain in a jumble, keeping him awake for hours until he'd just given up on sleep altogether.

He hadn't been restless, per se, but there had been enough static in his head that it had eventually threatened to spill out into the dark of the bedroom, and, resigned to being awake forever, Yosuke had peeled back the covers and crawled silently out of bed. Grabbing his wrinkled uniform from the day before and slipping it on, he'd gone to grab his toothbrush and a comb out of the bathroom (fervently not looking at either the mirror or the shower,) and headed downstairs to use the bathroom there instead. Slowly, with all the time in the world, he finished getting ready for school on autopilot, even bothering to make – and eat – a bowl of cereal. From an outside perspective he might have looked relatively normal; internally, however, there was nothing but empty, dissociated quiet. Still waters, deceptive with their glassy surface, poised and ready to drop into the churning rapids below.

Yosuke checks the time on his phone, still on airplane mode.

He stands from the couch without a sound, collects his coat and school bag, and slips out the door into the frigid November morning.

(His reflection in the entryway mirror turns to watch him as he leaves.)

---

He cuts through the back way to school again, though this time he doesn't drag his feet; instead, he stalks down the side streets with his hands shoved in his coat pockets and his shoulders hunched. The lack of sleep and the cold feeling now lingering just at the base of his skull both serve to sharpen the knife's edge of emotional instability he's currently teetering on. He feels... nothing. And everything. All at once. He feels like he could run full-throttle straight at somebody and deck them square in the jaw; he also feels like he could break into hysterical laughter at any moment, or maybe tears. It's hard to regulate what's going on in his everything, because his head is both empty and far too full from all the thinking he'd done the night before, but it's also quiet, which is never a good sign. Normally his brain is too loud, but today...

Today is different.

Today is bad.

If he had to try and put words to it, Yosuke would have probably described his mood (if only to himself) as fragile. It's like the wall of ice that had been blocking him from his thoughts and emotions before has turned to tiny, thin splinters. Sharp and cold and so delicate that one wrong move will shatter them – but they'll also slice everything in their path to ribbons.

The slow, methodical trudge to Yasogami High actually takes far less time than he means for it to, leaving him ample time to loiter unseen around the side of the gate, just out of view of any students passing through it. Somehow, (and he's not sure just which god to thank for this,) he hasn't seen Souji yet, either in flashes on the way as Yosuke ducked away from the normal path, or up already near the entrance. It means that Souji is either already inside or he's still en route. (And Yosuke hopes it's the former, because he's not sure just how well that wafer-thin pane of frost is going to hold. Or, for how long.)

It's just his luck, then, that he catches a glimpse of starlight silver and bleached blond coming up the crest of the hill. Yosuke digs his teeth so hard into his cheeks he can taste the coppery tang of splitting skin – Souji and Kanji are walking together. Again.

So easily replaced.

Yosuke bites viciously into the flesh inside mouth and turns to stalk into the school before either of the other boys – so close together they almost touch – can see him.

---

“Hanamura!”

Yosuke twitches, jerked from the ominous quiet inside his own achingly-empty head. Turning, (slowly, stiffly, with the faintest spark of mania waiting to be fueled,) he turns to see the bearer of the voice that had shouted at him from the stairwell behind. Chie stands on the second floor landing with her hands on her hips, glaring up at him with a look so cold it could rival her Bufu. Yukiko appears just two steps below and finishes the climb to stop beside her, a stern expression locked on her face as if made of iron resolve. Neither one of them looks to be in a forgiving mood.

Yosuke wants to just turn back around and ignore them, wants to say 'fuck it,' and just throw away what's left of his friendships so he can go back to the blissful emptiness of rock-fucking-bottom. It'd be easier that way, and he has neither the time nor the energy to even begin to untangle the knot of mistakes he's made this week.

But the looks on his friends' faces (Chie, especially,) tell him they aren't going to let this go, even for now, so, begrudgingly, Yosuke stands and waits for one of them to speak. They don't disappoint.

Chie, upon seeing him pause, marches up to him with Yukiko hot on her heels and together the pair of them back him up until he's nearly hit the wall. “Alright, you dick, we need to talk.” From around her, Yukiko steps into position and stays at Chie's side, looking for all the world like a disappointed mother as she silently lets Chie do the talking.

Somehow, Yosuke finds his voice. Somehow, despite that momentary fight-or-flight-or freeze instinct when the girls had stormed towards him, Yosuke is calm. (It isn't the normal kind, either, it's the kind of calm that can only be found when someone has reached the threshold of just how much adrenaline their body can handle and they loop back around to apathy.) “Can it wait till we don't have class?” he asks, and the voice that leaves him is so devoid of life and emotion that it actually makes Chie balk. She and Yukiko share a disquieted look, like they aren't sure whether to be startled or mad and Yosuke takes their moment of distraction to try and slip to the side where there's still space to move away.

This snaps the pair out of their hesitation. Chie blocks his path with an outstretched arm, open palm smacking the wall hard enough – though not violently, to his mild surprise – to make a soft 'thwap.' Yukiko, still silent, moves to block Yosuke's remaining escape route on the other side.

“No,” Chie hisses, “it can't. Because the moment we let you out of our sight you're just going to run off into nowhere and go back to avoiding everyone, just like you've been doing for days. We're tired of it, Yosuke.”

Yukiko nods. “I know we're not as close as you and Souji-kun, but you're our friend, too, and this behavior needs to stop.” She strengthens her stance - and it is frightening.

Yosuke can't meet either of their eyes. “...I don't know what you're talking about.”

Chie makes a sound low in her throat. “Like hell you don't; you've been totally MIA with barely a word to anyone, you've been acting shady as hell whenever someone tries to talk to you, and on top of that you've been straight up avoiding Souji – which is insane, considering you two're normally joined at the freaking hip!”

Yosuke must be doing something with his face, because Chie squints at him and says, “Yeeaaaah, don't think we haven't noticed.”

Something sniggers inside Yosuke's head and it makes his vision pulse a faint, sickly yellow. His lip curls in a barely-there sneer. “Look,” he says, a little more life in his words this time. He smacks at Chie's arm with the back of his hand. “It's nothing, will you get off my back? I'm just having a bad week.”

“Bullshit,” Chie growls in response.

From the corner of his eye, Yosuke can see Yukiko take in a long, carefully-controlled breath, as if she's silently counting down from ten to keep herself collected. “This is more than just a 'bad week,' Yosuke-kun,” she says, and the evenness of her tone belies the fire he knows she can conjure during battle. “You've been rude, crass, evasive, and downright belligerent...”

(Yosuke isn't sure he knows what all those words mean but he's pretty sure she's right on every one.)

“Even on your worst days you've never been this bad.”

Yosuke is so, so tired. He's tired of feeling like he's being buffeted by the wind that's supposed to be on his side, unable to find his footing and ready to fall at any given moment. He's tired of the wildly swinging pendulum of his emotions sending him back and forth from feeling everything to feeling nothing. (And deeper, deeper down, he's tired of people leaving him behind, even more so of driving people away; it's a skill he's never asked for but has somehow mastered nonetheless.)

He doesn't answer Yukiko's spot-on accusations. He doesn't answer Chie's too-observant glower. He doesn't look at either of them, he instead stares off to the side, unseeing, just past the arm that blocks his escape.

Chie lets out another sound of frustration and leans further into his space, craning her neck to somehow stare him down despite their height difference. “Well?” she demands, “Anything you wanna say?”

Yosuke takes a long, deep breath through his nose, letting it out so slowly that the yellow creeping into the edges of his eyes dots with black. With the exhale, he feels the last of his energy – physical, emotional, mental – drain away. It hollows him out with each passing second, until he's nothing more than a husk resigned to his fate of forever being the King of Fucking Up; he's already pushed everything this far towards the edge, he might as well take that last step over.

“...Yeah, actually,” he says, and it's a lifeless drawl, almost entirely devoid of anything. (He sees Yukiko stiffen and Chie flinch in his peripherals.) Exhausted, he lolls his head forward and finally turns his eyes to Chie's face, fixing them just above her eyebrows because he can't focus them any lower. False eye contact, something he's picked up in his time working at Junes.

He takes another deep breath, feeling that disconnecting wall of ice closing over his heart, and says, “You should probably lay off the meat, Chie, cuz you're not doing your thick thighs any favors.”

Yukiko gasps.

Beside her, Chie looks stunned, jaw dropped and mouth open like it's trying to form words her head can't find.

(Yosuke tastes bile in the back of his throat.)

Disgusted with himself and just wanting to not be here, Yosuke tries to use the girls' frozen reactions to his advantage. He isn't sure he can move or duck under Chie's arm, so he makes a break for it the opposite direction and attempts to slide past Yukiko – only for her to snap back to attention just as he's almost free.

“Yo--!”

But Yosuke is too far gone. Instead of letting himself be forced back against the wall, he doubles down, gives in to the fatalistic inevitability that he's going to be losing more than just Souji at this point. (Good, he thinks sadly; I don't deserve any of them, anyway.)

Swerving, scraping the wall with his shoulder to try and get as much space between himself and Yukiko as he can, Yosuke reaches out a hand (desperately hoping he misses,) and makes a pinching gesture at her skirt, causing her to jerk back and away. “See? Here's a perfect set right he--”

His face erupts in red-hot pain.

Yosuke staggers backwards, hitting the back of his head against the cold concrete of the wall with an audible 'thump.' Thoroughly bewildered, he blinks over at the space he had just been and sees Yukiko, hand raised, stance wide, and completely, utterly livid.

Oh, he thinks, slowly reaching up to touch his scalded cheek. I've been slapped.

“You!” Chie snaps, just as Yukiko whispers, “How dare you,” in the most bone-chillingly quiet voice he's ever heard.

He... may have gone too far this time.

Chie stalks forward, so close he has to shallow his breathing to keep his chest from touching hers when he inhales. She turns her face up at him and for a moment, through the exhaustion and the resignation and the apathy, he truly believes her to be capable of tearing his throat out with her bare hands.

It's almost impressive.  

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she snarls, “You've been acting like a jackass all week!”

Yosuke focuses on Chie's cheekbones as best he can with her so close; he practically has to go crosseyed to do so, even without meeting her murderous glare. It's strange, how he's aware that his cheek is in pain, (and rightfully so, he deserved that slap,) just as he's aware that on any other day before this week he'd be terrified for his safety in a situation like this. He remembers just how hard Chie can kick, having felt it firsthand in delicate places. But his energy is spent at this point, and all the awareness in the world can't conjure up the ability to be anything other than drained.

So he doesn't react, just looks back at his (probably former) friend and huffs, “Chill out, Chie, it was just a joke.”

Both girls visibly tense, shoulders squared and backs straight. Yukiko brings her hand up like she's going to slap him again, rearing it back as she hisses, “It wasn't funny!”

Chie, simultaneously, bares her teeth in vicious rage. “Like hell it was!” she barks, her own voice layering over Yukiko's outburst.

Yosuke just lolls his head to the side slightly and focuses on empty air. “Yeah, well,” he drawls, unable to find the right emotion to put into his voice. “You're girls, of course you wouldn't get it; it's guy humor.”

Chie leans impossibly closer. “You think you're such hot shit,” she seethes, and her tone has gone icy, blisteringly cold. She jabs a finger into his chest hard enough for him to feel it bruise. “We put up with your nasty 'jokes' and your weird staring because you're our friend, but there's a limit, Hanamura!” Her lips curl, the finger digging into his sternum like a silent threat. “And you're freaking pushing it.”

Yukiko leans in as well, her hand still raised and ready, a bow string held taut. “Girls don't like it when you say things like that,” she says, so dark and even that it raises the hairs on the back of Yosuke's neck – but even though his body physically, instinctively reacts, the hollow pit in his chest where the ice now sits keeps his heart and mind numb. He doesn't look at her as she says, “If your brand of humor makes other people uncomfortable, then it isn't really humor at all, it's gross.”

There are people starting to collect around them; Yosuke can see them moving closer just past the haze of his unfocused vision. He can't tell if he cares of not, doesn't think he does anymore. Everything Chie and Yukiko are saying is too right, too justified for him to fight back or defend himself. I deserve this, he thinks, hears his own voice echoing like there's another nearly identical one layering beneath it.

A few other students, faces unrecognizable, gather just a bit too close to the direction he's been staring in. He doesn't feel like letting them think he's acknowledged them, so he rolls his head lazily back so he can pretend to face to the two girls in front of him. He's just going back to fixing his eyes on Yukiko's shoulder when a swath of silver catches in his vision – just barely, just enough to make him look up before he can consciously think about it. He refocuses, and feels his heart come to a painful halt inside his ribs.

Souji is standing there, looking at Yosuke as if he's never seen him before. His eyes are wide and confused, thin brows pulled so low that they're actually visible below his hair; his lips are slightly parted as if he's been caught mid-gasp.

Yosuke stares back at him for a long, panicked moment. A slow, frigid kind of adrenaline begins to seep into this veins, making his hands and knees shake even though he can't feel it. It kick-starts his heart back to life and suddenly it's pounding as he looks into Souji's eyes for the first time in he can't even remember how long, seeing no trace of recognition in the other boy's face. Only pain. Only confusion and betrayal. Souji looks at him like Yosuke is a stranger now, gaze boring into his own like he's looking for someone familiar but just can't find them, can't figure out who Yosuke is.

He saw, the voice that had layered his own whispers, hissing though laughing, jagged glee.

Souji saw.

The floor drops out from under Yosuke's feet and he switches to autopilot to keep from falling, somehow managing to stay upright through sheer force of unconscious will. Chie and Yukiko must notice the change, because he can peripherally see them pause, turning their heads to see what he's looking at. It's enough.

Moving feels like he's underwater, drowning, but Yosuke sees his chance and snatches at it with trembling fingers; as the girls are distracted by Souji, Yosuke pushes himself sideways along the wall until he's no longer pinned by Chie's proximity. Once there's space to do so, he shoves his way forward, sticking out an arm and breaking through the line that Yukiko and Chie's bodies have made. They part in their shock, and he's able to slip between them at last.

“Whatever,” he hears himself say. A verbal barrier, a wall to keep them all at bay while he books it to something resembling safety. He reaches up and palms the headphones resting around his neck. “You guys throw your hissy fit, I'm goin' to class.” He tugs the headphones up as he takes a couple long, quick strides out of their stationary reach, shoving them over his ears without actually turning on any music – using the comforting weight at the sides of his head as a shield. If they try and call out after him, he can just pretend he can't hear them and keep walking.

He makes it all the way to the classroom without being caught; he doesn't dare look at Yukiko, Chie, or Souji (especially not Souji,) as the three of them enter the room. Yukiko first, then the others, and Yosuke busies himself with his school bag until the sound of the door opening signals the arrival of the teacher and the start of class just moments later.

Yosuke keeps his head ducked down the entire morning, just in case of the the girls decides to risk a glance back in his direction. He can't tell with his eyes glued to his desk, but he thinks that none of them do.

(He doesn't know whether he should be relieved or not.)

---

Yosuke is up and moving almost before the lunch bell even rings. Like he's done for the past week, he grabs his stuff and hightails it out the back of the room, pointedly not looking and any of the friends he's managed to alienate in only a handful of days. Headphones snug over his ears and player in his hand, he takes the steps up to the third floor, then the roof, two at a time. It's only once he's up in the cold air and alone that he feels like he can breathe.

Picking a spot as far away from the door as possible, Yosuke drops to the ground and leans his back against the frigid metal links of the fence, barely even feeling the chill through his clothes. The breath he's finally caught starts to pick up – only for a moment – and he has to bring his knees up to the his chest, hands over his eyes and fingers twisting in his hair as he ducks his head and pulls in lungful after lungful of air. It passes just as quickly as it came.

What do I do now?

Despite the hollow feeling encompassing his heart, Yosuke still feels the twinge of anxiety that had brought about the thirty-second panic attack; it sticks to his blood cells, causing his palms to sweat and go clammy in the nippy November breeze. He brings them to his mouth and cups them over his lips, breathing into them to try and warm them back up. It doesn't work.

He sighs and drops his hands back into his lap, tucking them between the bend of his knees. He didn't bother bringing lunch with him again today, though between the rare breakfast that morning and the churning in his stomach he isn't so sure he'd be able to eat anything anyway. Still, even a snack would have provided him something to do with his hands, and so Yosuke is left with nothing but his music and his surroundings to occupy his time. He frowns – being alone with his thoughts recently has been anything but good, and today having gone the way that it has so far, he can feel the incoming uphill battle against his brain. He cranks the volume up on his player in hopes of drowning it all out before it begins, but turns the whole thing off and tugs the headphones from his ears a minute or so later, not wanting to associate any of his favorite songs with the maelstrom already brewing inside his mind.

It starts with a replay. Every single thing he'd said and done that morning in the hallway with Chie and Yukiko. It twists at his gut with each image, each remembered word he'd vomited out like a bio-weapon; he barely recognizes himself in his own memories, and honestly that is the part that scares him the most. No wonder Souji had looked at him that way.

And oh, if that hadn't been the worst part of it all. Yukiko and Chie he already hated himself for, already felt sick over how he'd treated them both since even before this all began, starting with the festival. He wishes he could go back in time and stop himself from ever putting their names down – all of them – because not only was it just a shitty, immature thing to do, but it also violated their trust. He sees that now, and it feels like a hammer to the head, because with everything that he's turned into in the days since, he knows it all started with that one first terrible decision. Most of the low points in his life have started with terrible decisions, he just hadn't been aware enough to put the pieces together until now. Had things been different, Yosuke wonders if Souji would have been proud of him.

That, however, is the thing that brings Yosuke's already-simmering self hatred to a rolling boil. Of all the people he's hurt so far, Souji is the one that makes Yosuke feel like he's beyond all hope of redemption. Souji had been his partner, his best friend, and Yosuke, stupid, stupid Yosuke had taken that bond and thrown it right in the garbage. They were supposed to be equals, but Yosuke had been too busy sinking into his own head, too mired in self pity and selfishly wanting things to go back to a normal that likely didn't even exist anymore. Not after all of this. For all the maturing Yosuke feels he may have done – the only silver lining in the storm that he himself created – focusing only on his own hurt and blaming Souji for it is by far the most childish thing he's done.

(Inside his skull, stretched out as though sliding into Yosuke's skin like a glove, he can almost feel something like a head being tilted, an eyebrow raised. There is a quiet, contemplative, 'hmmm,' as if his mind is thinking thoughts without him. He doesn't know how to interpret the sensation, so he tucks it away on the back burner for now.)

Somewhere past the door leading back into the school, Yosuke faintly hears the warning bell sounding, signaling the end of lunch and the resumption of classes for the day.

Yosuke doesn't move.

He sits there and leans his head back against the fence in utter exhaustion; he doesn't have the energy or will power to get up and go back inside. He doesn't want to feel the others' eyes on him when he walks in the door, or, equally painful, being entirely unacknowledged instead. Having done the same to Souji for days,Yosuke will admit his hypocrisy in that he doesn't know if he'd survive having his former partner do the same to him - even if Souji had scared the shit out of him, neglected to communicate with him, left him to wonder and worry and want after the pageant.

Then again, some part of Yosuke quietly relents, Souji... really isn't obligated to tell Yosuke anything. And while their leader should have at least been courteous enough to let someone know he was still alive, he'd eventually told Naoto. Which had hurt Yosuke – pretty badly, in fact – to not be the one Souji had talked to first, but at least he'd talked to someone. (Even though Yosuke is still adamantly sure the “food poisoning” excuse had been complete bullshit.) But... it wouldn't be fair to expect Souji to never have secrets; after all, Yosuke still has secrets of his own, even after confronting his shadow.

Some are just far, far more shameful than others.

Thoughts swirling, Yosuke can feel a headache beginning to build behind his eyes. He keeps going around and around; he's mad at Souji, he's not mad at Souji, he's mad at himself, he's not mad at himself for being hurt – on and on and on. It's a loop that doesn't seem to have an end, and it's making Yosuke dizzy.

He sighs again, and there's an echoing sigh inside his skull, albeit one that sounds far more frustrated than his own audible one. He's too tired to suss it out, though, and because all this thinking is starting to spiral, he digs his player back out and tries one more time to drown out the thoughts with music. He's relived when his attention stays on the lyrics and doesn't go careening off again; he closes his eyes and lets himself go blank for a little while, almost-but-not-quite dozing, tucked away in his little patch of rooftop in the brisk November air.

Sometime later – he doesn't know how long – Yosuke is pulled from his trance by the sound of a far-off school bell. His player apparently ran out of battery long ago, because the screen is dark and his headphones silent. Yosuke feels like shit.

He's chilly to the point where his skin doesn't really have much feeling anymore; his neck is stiff from the cold and the position it'd been kept in while he was out of it. His ears ache a little, too, and it's probably more from the headphones than the weather. Groaning, Yosuke sits up and peels the headphones off, setting them in his lap and rolling his neck to try and get his full range of motion back. He feels something pop. With another groan, he makes it slowly to his feet and stretches, every muscle in his body protesting as he does.

Fully aware that he hadn't gone back in after lunch, Yosuke has absolutely no idea what time it could possibly be; judging by the position of the sun over the treetops, however, and the sound of the bell from earlier, he can guess that it's probably well into the afternoon. “Fuck,” he mutters to the empty rooftop. He's more than likely missed most of the rest of the school day, though if that's the case then he can't bring himself to care. There was nothing waiting for him back in the classroom anymore, anyway.

Reluctant still to make his way inside lest someone catch him, Yosuke takes his time gathering his bag, tucking his player away, setting his headphones carefully on top because, well, they aren't any use to him right now, are they? It's only once he's run out of stuff to do that he finally fishes his pone out of his pocket to check the time.

Weirdly enough, there are no new messages – which, he isn't surprised at but also is? If no one had wanted to talk to him after that morning, he would have understood. However, with as rightfully angry as they both had been, he would have expected there to be something from Chie at the very least – even if not from today, then something else from last night, surely. Curious and a little uneasy, Yosuke stares at his phone until the screen goes dark. Oh, he realizes finally; he'd forgotten he'd put it on airplane mode the night before.

(He'd wondered why his phone had been so blissfully, ominously quiet all night.)

He taps the keys lightly to get the screen to wake back up and goes to take it off airplane at last – only to hesitate just before pressing the button, thumb hovering as Yosuke chews on his lip. His gut curdles. Whether there are a slew of missed texts or none at all, Yosuke knows that whatever is waiting for him once he hits confirm isn't going to be good. He has to brace himself; he just isn't sure what for.

With a deep breath in and a quick breath out, Yosuke takes the plunge and hits the button, not looking at the screen as his thumb presses down. He doesn't want to see just yet. At first there is nothing – no belated notification sound, no vibrations, nothing. He thinks maybe he's safe for the moment, simultaneously unsettled by the lack of any apparent messages...

...Until his phone vibrates, just once, in his hand.

Yosuke's breathing sticks in his throat for half a breath, head instinctively tilting to look down at the notification that just jostled his anxiety. It isn't from Chie, which is not what he expected, nor is it from Yukiko, which also would not have surprised him. It isn't even from Teddie, whining that Yosuke had left without partaking in their new morning ritual of communal teeth-brushing. No, the sender, devastatingly, is Souji.

Prtnr: I'm sorry. I won't bother you anymore.

Everything stops.