#i was so hurt by her like. open vitriol about how i was wrong and just being a sore loser

[palladium-poisoned]

in fourth grade we had a school wide spelling bee, but we did prelims individually by grade in the classrooms. we got to the word "cupid", and i, in my greek mythology phase every autist legally has to to through at some point, confidently said "capital C, u, p, i, d. Cupid." and was told i was wrong, and eliminated. there were no buts allowed, no interrupting allowed, she was already on to the next person

i tried to talk with her after the fact, and she told me i was wrong. and i said cupid is a proper name, why wouldn't it be capitalized? why is that wrong? and she told me cupids were "the winged babies on valentines cards", and thus are not a proper noun.

i told her no, cupid is an alternative name for Eros, son of aphrodite. the winged babies on valentine's cards are cherubs.

she told me i was wrong, and just being sore because i'd been eliminated. i went home upset, and mom had me bring in my greek myths book to prove it to her that cupid was a proper name

i vaguely remember her very very haughtily pulling out her personal dictionary, but i don't remember the outcome of that maneuver, i just remember her being really upset and annoyed with me

what i do remember is that the school made an exception, and allowed me in because i had been wrongfully eliminated. everyone really really hated that, and i was the one that got bullied about it and blamed for how unfair it was

the next year i studied my ass off to make sure i knew everything about spelling bees and could get to the second round on my own merit. and i did. even though i didn't do anything wrong the first time

when i was a kid i got a 90% on my kindergarten "what are your favorite things?" test because for the question "what is your favorite animal?" i wrote down "puma" and it got marked wrong because my teacher said a puma isnt even an animal its a kind of shoe

[lostsyren]

࿐ angelic

{summary: rafe muses on sofia and her duality}

{a/n: idek what this is, i just think it’s so them}

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Angel.

That’s what he thought of Sofia as sometimes. (A lot of the time.)

It was in the way her eyes had a heavenly quality to them– they existed in multitudes. Sometimes they looked green, like two drops of absinthe he’d do anything to swallow. Sometimes they looked brown– warm and alluring, gazing up at him with such trust. And occasionally, bathed in the honeyed glow of the lamp, her body sprawled languidly underneath his, her eyes flashed gold, as if her irises bled divinity.

“What are you looking at,” she’d tease, poking his cheek playfully.

Rafe would shake his head. (Shake away his thoughts too.)

He was corrupting her. Sullying her. Rafe Cameron was an evil, ruinous force. That’s what everyone thought, right? He’d break her. Her dainty, porcelain bones. Her neat, little wrists. Her slender, stalk-like shoulder blades.

“Nothing,” he’d mumble, quick to pull himself off of her.

But she’d resist, hooking her arms around his neck and anchoring him in place.

“Let’s just stay like this for a while,” she’d whisper, in that raspy drawl of hers that sent flutters down his abdomen.

“You sure? I’m not hurting you, am I?”

She’d laugh melodiously, not saying anything– just pulling him into an ardent kiss and slipping her tongue in between his lips.

But she wasn’t angelic all the time. There was a mean streak to her that she kept hidden. He was surprised the first time she yelled at him. (He couldn’t imagine those lips of hers do anything but smile at him coyly.) So when she bit back with a scalding retort, mouth curled in disdain, Rafe was caught off guard.

“You think that’s funny Rafe? You’re being a jerk– cut it out.”

He made an off hand comment about pogues– it was meant to be a joke. But Sofia clearly was opposed to it.

Rafe quickly learned of her righteousness. Her red, hot virtue.

When club goers wronged her colleagues she’d defend them with a spitting tongue. When he’d accidentally misplace his rage on to her, she’d reflect it right back at him, mirroring his vitriol.

Sofia saw the balance in things and their innate goodness. So when the scales shifted, weighed down by injustice, she acted. Awash in a bright, white halo.

Angels are not good creatures. They’re not spurred by kindness or gentleness. They instead act decisively– impelled by a blazing, blinding morality. And if that moral obligation meant carnage, be it for Sofia or for Rafe, well then, destruction was imminent.

This is what Rafe thought when he realised Sofia cheated him out of 400k. Was stealing not a sin? How would she balance the scales when it was she who tipped them over?

Despite all this, Rafe couldn’t help but feel he did something wrong. (He was the evil one after all.)

Though her betrayal was like a freshly opened wound, he still couldn’t scrub the image of her in his mind: angelic and good, gleaming and divine. Her golden body like marble, carved from devotion. Her aureate eyes like two discs plucked from a scale. (Everytime he thought about how he spoke to her on the phone he recoiled.)

She wouldn’t do this for no reason. Something pushed her to deceive him, like Judas pressing a kiss across his cheek.

But who was the betrayer?

What had Rafe done to deserve her righteous fury? Beacause if there was one thing Rafe knew about Sofia, his beautiful, heavenly girl, was that her wrath was never undue.

She was an angel– not a monster. (Unlike him.)

Rafe sat by himself on the searing Moroccan sands, gazing out to the vast, empty sky. (God, he missed her.)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

[hand-picked-star]

I am writing this highly controversial thoughts only because @featheredclover had recommended me a fanfic about khushi feeling left out during the basket ball game and then my thoughts went wayward. 😁 I haven't watched the last 33 episodes of ipkknd in a very long time, only some snippets of cute married arshi. But I did watch them 2 days ago just to validate the fact that whatever I think about them was what shown on the screen.All of my thoughts don't just exist in my mind.They also match the narrative too.

And I was right with my previous decision to not watch ipkknd past Arnav's birthday,those are horrible episodes.

Anyways, it's my thoughts on the suicide tract and sheetal tract and how khushi ignored the absolute truths that she knew by heart whenever she was hurt and tried to sheild herself from the pain.These tracks are khushi-centric, I just wished they were well written. My poor baby!!!

Suicide track

Khushi knew with absolute certainity that Arnav doesn't believe in God, she even said so.

So, why she came up with that excuse to justify committing suicide? It's this scene.

Arnav was talking to lavanya, there was no romantic vibes,but but but, he was talking to her very nicely . I am not trying to blame La or Arnav here, La deserved every bit of decency from Arnav because of the way he treated her.And just because he talked with her politely doesn't mean that he is developing feelings for her.Arnav had always shown as a character who was sure about his feelings. He was unsure about khushi not because he didn't know how he felt, it was more about him losing control and later their compatibility and his ego.But when khushi saw and hear him talking to her like that it's bound to hurt her. He didn't even talk to her anymore and when he did it was always mixed with vitriol & bitterness. Here her insecurities raised it's head, a doubt settled in. She was seeing a man talking to his ex-girlfriend nicely,who he was going to marry willingly and somehow broke up suddenly for a reason unknown to her.And here she had hoped based on their holi conversation that there was something between them and it would be alright with time when he would forget his pain that she knew nothing about and the six month timeline would never come,coz he had feeling for her right? But she was realizing that probably she assumed wrong, probably he didn't love her,probably he loved someone else and the marriage would end because why would he be with her if he loved someone else. And she didn't tell it but khushi couldn't live without Arnav too. And Arnav loving someone else was equivalent to death for her.

Thus her mind found out the bizarre idea to cope with the pain.I always thought why the showrunners spent so much time in showing how khushi hallucinating Arnav killing her in different method instead of spending time in significant moment? Like Arnav had softened down a little bit toward her, he was concerned about her, kept asking her family what's wrong with her, he brought a glass of milk to her because she didn't eat enough at dinner,wanted her to see a doctor. In a very long time the rajkumar was winning in battle against the rakhsak. The Love of a lover was overshadowing the love of a brother and son.

Sheetal track

Before going into the sheetal track I was just curious about the easy acceptance of Aarav in the raizada family and even to Arnav.That family was preparing to welcome a child in their house that never came. Subconsciously, they might all saw the unborn,lost child in Aarav.Because even mami was so open with the idea of spoiling Aarav. At this vulnerable time they even Arnav formed a bond with Arnav unknowningly.

And also in regards of Arnav, since he knew Anjali was pregnant, he was preparing himself to be the father-figure of that child. Normally, maternal uncles didn't think like that, but he thought right? He planned to throw Shyam out of shantivan after the child would safely be born.After that he would be taking care of the child.He was preparing himself mentally for that duty. He would have been anything the child needed him to be. So, he was already softened with the idea of being a guardian to a child.

And he also could relate to Aarav,as Arnav also missed his father in his childhood. And all of these khushi misunderstood as bond between a father and a son.

Then let's discuss khushi, just like suicide track, in sheetal track, she also know with absolute certainty that Arnav loved her, she herself said that 'he loved me more than himself' and she also knew that Arnav couldn't live without her.

Then why all through the sheetal track she was so afraid of Arnav leaving her? It wasn't Arnav she was afraid of, she was afraid of her own ideology that if this child came out as Arnav's, she had to leave him so that Arnav provide his parental duty toward the child and it's not just name or financial support, it also include a family, a complete family,consists of both parents and she didn't see herself in that family. And that's why she was almost irrational in her pursuit to find out if Aarav was Arnav's child.

And also that's why she was feeling so left out during that basketball game.Till that day,Arnav didn't talk to Sheetal at all,not really.And it was clear Arnav was passionate about basketball in his college days.And for someone who had a bad childhood, college life certainly was a safe heaven for him. College life was a time when he didn't fully adopted his ASR sheild and had a chance to be his most truest self without any past trauma and responsibilities. And being in a foreign land the 3 indian students clearly formed a good bond. And it was cleared by Arnav that he dated sheetal for a very brief time,so brief to form any physical relationship with her and even broke up with her immediately after graduation, clearly she wasn't important enough to try having a relationship post college. But they were friends before they started dating. Basketball was something they played as friends not as couple.During that basketball game that friendship came out and Arnav wasn't completely ignorant about khushi. He inquired about her after coming inside and asked her where did she disappeared after the game and why she made jalebies. He was teasing her to make her relax but khushi never shared anything with Arnav. And that friendship didn't mean anything to Arnav actually, it was just falling in rhymes with an old friend. And when Arnav realized khushi was upset,he even stop interacting with sheetal beyond polite conversation after that.The marriage and relationship stuff was new for both of them.He was not a mind-reader and khushi rarely expressed what was bothering her.On the other hand,khushi didn't know what to do with the overwhelming possessiveness and insecurities that were brewing inside her.

And I think khushi was not really worried about Arnav having a bonding during the game thinking that he might be developing feelings for her or already had feelings for her. When she started to be bothered with sheetal, it started with the doubt with Aarav's paternity and intensified with the knowledge of their past dating history. She just wanted some solid proof that something romantic between them would be impossible in the future so that even if Aarav was indeed Arnav's child, Aarav's mother won't come in between khushi and Arnav. Thus the banter in basketball game made her worried. She was worried about the fact that if Aarav was proved to be Arnav's son, the family she wanted Arnav to give Aarav would be possible, because clearly Arnav and sheetal could have a relationship again for Aarav's sake.

And that's exactly she end up doing. After finding out Aarav was Arnav's, she attempted to leave Arnav so that he could give Aarav a complete family but she was in a way selfish herself too, she left the person she knew couldn't live without her because she couldn't bear the pain of seeing him with anyone else. She forgot all her promises, even promises she made mere few hours ago, just to escape the pain.She left before Arnav had a chance to leave her or tell her to leave. That's why when Arnav got hold of her insecurities he told her 'Arnav aur khushi hamesha saath rehenge' to assure her.

And khushi learnt a special lesson that night.What did loving really mean? Being there when all is fine? or being there no matter what? especially when nothing is fine. After realizing that khushi stood beside Arnav keeping aside her fear.She also learnt what did loving Arnav really mean, that tough guy needed someone to love him as he was and not to abandon him again like his mother did.

And the thing about knowing all the stuff about Arnav that sheetal knew but Khushi didn't. Doesn't that knowledge come with time,with living with the person,one learn new things about their partners everyday, but end of the day,these are all general knowledge, khushi knew the real Arnav,what he valued,what he feared.She helped him brought out the Arnav that he buried under the ASR mask.It wasn't sheetal that brought out the Arnav that played basketball and played drums.No it was khushi, khushi gave him the confidence to be his true self in the middle of his past trauma and responsibilities not in isolation.

I have watched that game very carefully without any bias.The moment that khushi was watching so carefully when Arnav and sheetal was about to collide, sheetal was so aggressive, Arnav was looking at her with a WTF face, I don't know about anyone,but I found it funny. If Khushi actually focused on participating in the game instead of being so worried, she would had noticed how easily Arnav gave the ball up to khushi or the smile he gave her when she was up against him. 😊

I was thinking about the formation of sheetal track similar with the contact marriage track, where in sheetal track khushi did the same thing that Arnav did to khushi during contract marriage track. Here I came to a horrifying theory how the sheetal track could have gone terribly wrong if not the show ended when it ended. We might see a forced marriage or almost a forced marriage again but between Arnav and sheetal, on khushi's request as Arnav was doing everything khushi requested him to do.I am thankful that we didn't have to see that kind of plot and it ended where it ended.

And that also tied around the question of redemption on khushi's side in sheetal track and on Arnav's side in contact marriage track.Khushi forgave Arnav instantly for every hurt he done and similarly Arnav also forgave khushi instantly as they both understand and love each other beyond anything else,a bond beyond anything else, stronger than anything else. A bond stronger & powerful than any bond Arnav could have made by playing basketball and playing drums.

My Scattered thoughts (13/?)

[niallerspayno]

Faking It - Chapter Ten

Masterlist

The morning after the awards show, your phone buzzes relentlessly on the bedside table, dragging you from a restless sleep. At first, you think it’s just the usual whirlwind of post-event press coverage. But when you groggily open one eye and see the flood of notifications lighting up the screen, your stomach sinks.

Headlines like “Trouble in Paradise? Harry Styles Caught in Cozy Moment with Liam Payne’s Girlfriend” and “Love Triangle Rumors Shake One Direction” glare back at you. The photos accompanying the articles show you and Harry standing close during your chat last night, your hand brushing his arm at one point. Taken out of context, they look far too intimate.

Your heart pounds as you scroll through the comments, filled with accusations, speculation, and outright vitriol. You feel sick.

By the time you arrive at the rehearsal studio later that morning, the tension is suffocating. Management has already called an emergency meeting, and the atmosphere is electric with frustration. Liam is pacing near the table, his jaw tight, avoiding eye contact with you. Harry sits in a chair off to the side, his head in his hands, looking equal parts exasperated and guilty.

“Alright,” one of the managers says sharply, slapping a stack of papers on the table. “What in hell happened last night?”

You stand frozen near the door, every eye in the room turning to you.

“It’s nothing,” you blurt out, desperate to stop this before it spirals further. “Harry and I were just talking—”

“It didn’t look like nothing,” the manager interrupts, jabbing a finger toward the photos splayed out on the table. “The press is calling this a love triangle. Do you have any idea how damaging that is to the band’s image?”

Harry finally looks up, his voice calm but firm. “We weren’t doing anything wrong. This is just another case of the media twisting things.”

Liam lets out a sharp laugh, bitter and short. “Twisting things? Harry, the pictures don’t exactly scream casual conversation.”

His words hit you like a slap, and you feel your chest tighten. “Liam, you don’t really think—”

“I don’t know what to think,” he snaps, finally looking at you. His eyes are filled with a mix of anger and hurt. “First the kiss, now this? It’s like I’m being blindsided every other day.”

“Nothing happened!” you insist, your voice cracking. “Harry and I were just talking about—”

“About what?” Liam demands, his tone sharp. “What could you two possibly need to talk about so urgently?”

“About you!” Harry cuts in, standing abruptly. His voice is raised now, frustration bubbling to the surface. “She was worried about you, Liam. About how all of this was affecting you.”

Liam’s expression falters for a moment, but he doesn’t respond.

“You’re upset, I get it,” you continue, your voice trembling. “But this is all being blown out of proportion. You know I wouldn’t do something like that.”

The manager clears his throat, cutting through the rising tension. “Regardless of what did or didn’t happen, the media storm is real, and we need to get ahead of it. You two”—he points between you and Liam—“need to double down on the relationship narrative. Show a united front. No more scandals.”

“And what about me?” Harry asks, his voice low but steady.

“Lay low,” the manager snaps. “No more private conversations with her, no cozy photos, nothing. We can’t risk another headline.”

The room falls into a heavy silence. Liam avoids your gaze again, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Harry sinks back into his chair, his jaw clenched.

You feel a wave of helplessness wash over you. No matter what you say, it feels like no one truly believes you.

When the meeting ends, you linger behind, desperate to say something—anything—that might fix this. But when you approach Liam, he shakes his head.

“I need some time,” he mutters, his voice quiet but resolute. “I just… I don’t know how to deal with all of this right now.”

He walks away before you can respond, leaving you standing there alone, the weight of the situation pressing down on you.

…

Later that day, after the tense meeting and Liam’s sharp exit, you find Harry sitting on a couch in the corner of the studio lounge. His head is tilted back against the cushions, eyes closed, but the tension in his shoulders gives away that he’s anything but relaxed.

You hesitate for a moment before walking over. When he hears your footsteps, he looks up, his expression softening slightly as he sees you.

“Hey,” you say quietly, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch.

Harry sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Hey.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air is heavy with unspoken words, but finally, you break the silence.

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” you say, your voice trembling. “This isn’t fair to you. You shouldn’t have to deal with all this just because we talked for five minutes.”

Harry shakes his head quickly, sitting forward. “No, don’t. You don’t need to apologize. If anything, I should be the one saying sorry. I should’ve been more careful—should’ve known the press would twist things.”

“It’s not your fault,” you insist, your eyes meeting his. “We didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just… it’s such a mess. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

Harry watches you for a moment, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by something more serious. “I hate that this is happening to you. To both of you. You care about him, don’t you?”

The question catches you off guard, but you don’t hesitate before nodding. “Yeah,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I do. And I’m scared, Harry. I’m scared I’m going to lose him over something that isn’t even real.”

Harry’s gaze softens further, and he reaches out, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’re not going to lose him. Liam’s just… a bit of a headcase when it comes to stuff like this. He overthinks everything.” He smirks faintly, but it fades quickly. “I’ll talk to him. He needs to hear this from me too.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, though a small part of you feels a flicker of hope at his words.

“I do,” Harry says firmly. “He’s my mate, and so are you. I’m not going to let this stupid headline tear everything apart. Just… give him some time to cool down.”

You nod, feeling a little lighter after the conversation. “Thanks, Harry. For everything.”

Harry smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “What are friends for, right?”

…

That evening, Harry finds Liam in the empty rehearsal room, sitting on the edge of the stage with his phone in his hands. He doesn’t look up as Harry walks in, but the slight tension in his shoulders says he knows he’s there.

“You’ve been hiding out in here all day,” Harry says casually, hopping up onto the stage beside him.

“Not hiding,” Liam mutters, still scrolling through his phone. “Thinking.”

“About the press? Or about her?”

Liam stiffens at the question, finally looking up. “What do you want, Harry?”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “To talk. Because this whole thing? It’s stupid. And it’s not fair to her—or to you.”

Liam frowns but doesn’t interrupt as Harry continues.

“Look, I know what it looked like last night,” Harry says. “But it wasn’t like that. She was just worried about you, mate. That’s it. And now she thinks she’s going to lose you because of some ridiculous photo.”

Liam exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said that?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, his tone softening. “She cares about you, Liam. And I know you care about her too. So stop letting this stupid media circus get in the way of what you both want.”

Liam doesn’t respond right away, his jaw tight as he stares down at his phone. Finally, he sets it aside, his voice quiet but heavy. “It’s not just the press. It’s everything. This fake relationship… it’s starting to feel too real. And I don’t know if I can handle it.”

Harry leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Maybe that’s because it is real. Or at least, it could be if you stop letting fear get in the way.”

Liam looks at him, his expression conflicted. “What if I screw it up? What if I hurt her?”

Harry shrugs lightly, though his tone is serious. “Then you do what you always do—you apologize, you fix it, and you move forward. That’s what you do when you care about someone.”

Liam is quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the floor. Finally, he nods, a small but determined motion.

“I’ll talk to her,” he says. “I’ll fix it.”

Harry claps him on the back with a smile. “Good. Now go sort yourself out before I have to step in and be the voice of reason again. It’s exhausting.”

Liam chuckles faintly, and for the first time all day, some of the tension in his shoulders seems to ease.

Next chapter

[ectobabble]

Washing Dishes

This is the first drabble of a few I wanted to post to see if people were interested. Please read Disclaimer. Fictional, based slightly on personal experiences. <3

Rated: T

Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Neutral Ending

Characters: Kyle(mid), Mama Day(protector)

TW: Gaslighting, Broken Dishes

Summary: Kyle reflects on doing the chores and whether it really does help or not.

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There was seemingly no rhyme or reason to his mother being angry, but Kyle was always determined to find one, even if it meant internalizing her every little word. He knew he wasn’t perfect by any means, but he always tried. If he could just be better then maybe she could relax and the yelling would stop.

He always tried to do chores whenever he could and did his best to anticipate them. Being told to do the laundry or dishes was already a failure. Everything had to be done before it was noticed. Even then, even after weeks of doing the dishes, she still claimed she was the only one who did any work around the house. He had to do more. The schoolwork always got done somehow; he never remembered it, but he knew it was getting done. So there was no reason to worry, he had enough time to keep working.

However, if he did too much, he would be guilted for not acting his age and ‘being inside too much’. He had to be mature for his age but also the child that she wanted to coddle. At least that was what she said, his mother often listed times when he was ‘loved’ but there were far and few between and he had no memories of them. Dishes. There was only cooking, dishes, laundry, and sweeping that filled his head.

Be mature for your age, but not too mature or I’ll feel bad about it! A mocking voice would spit the words out. Bitter. She never acknowledges the dishes or laundry anyway. Why do them? The voice wasn’t mad at him, Kyle could feel that somehow. He could feel the vitriol it had towards his life, full of the experiences and memories Kyle was barred from.

Because they have to be done… It makes her happy. I know it does… She smiles sometimes.

It made him scared though that a part of him was resentful towards his mother. She often listed every little thing he’d done wrong, and the list was always growing; he was clearly the one in the wrong. If I could just be better then maybe she could relax and the pressure will go away.

Sometimes Kyle talked back to her, or rather that voice inside him would bubble out. It’d rise to the surface and blot out the control he had over his body, his words, his thoughts, and it’d stand up for him in ways Kyle couldn’t. He’d lose consciousness only to awaken hours, days, or months later with all his efforts ruined. Kyle didn’t know why it happened, but he always passively accepted the punishments he received after, much to the voice’s dismay.

It seemed to make his mother even more angry, how easily he accepted being reprimanded. She’d cite how he’d lost his spine and how he deserved what he was getting. Kyle understood but the other in his head did not.

For a while, he didn’t understand that time was being lost, he figured he was forgetful. One day it felt like the stars aligned and he could finally feel his meat and bones again. There was a pain in his chest; he was holding his breath. As he gasped for air, he took in his new surroundings, scared at how different his room had become and that the weather outside had changed. Maybe he had forgotten the last few months like he had forgotten to breathe.

Kyle looked down, seeing his schoolwork, pleased that he had proof he actually did it despite not recalling any of it. His stomach growled. Opening up the bottom drawer of his desk for his snack stash, something he kept to avoid going to the kitchen, he found it empty.

Kyle frowned. Maybe he had just forgotten again, but he thought he had filled it just that morning. No, the time and weather had changed… who knew the last time it was filled.

Another spat between his parents was happening downstairs, but he decided to risk it for some snacks.

Wait… Did I… Did I forget to do the dishes?! It had to be his fault. Is that why they’re arguing? Did I not do enough?!

No, it’s not. It’s about finances. Another voice argued.

He stood in his bedroom doorway, contemplating.

I cost money… Kyle countered back.

Solemnly making his way into the kitchen, where his mother was throwing dishes into the dishwasher, Kyle took in the sight. His mother spouted off one of her lists at his father and, upon seeing him, redirected the yelling to him. Another list of everything he’d done wrong.

A snack could wait.

A plate was smashed into the sink and broke, and his focus narrowed down to the task at hand. He could focus on the dishes, not the people.

If he just focused on the chores, then he could earn his keep. If he cleaned the dishes fast enough, then maybe she could go rest and stop yelling. If only his father would do something other than nothing, but Kyle was too small to argue like his parents.

“GET. OUT. I’M ALREADY DOING IT!” His mother screamed at him as he tried to pick up the broken dish.

Kyle jolted in place, terrified, but the feeling and memory were immediately wiped away. He’d wake up in another time and place where he could clean and once again try to make things right.

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

If you got this far, thanks for reading. This is a vent-drabble, fictional and not to be taken as 100% accurate. None of these stories are alters of mine, they are OC so I can write freely. It does not describe what everyone's experiences are. If it does resonate though, then I am very glad. ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Have a great day and be well ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

[drivinmeinsane]

Don't Go Breaking My Heart

※Chapter Two ※ Holland March x Jackson Healy ※

{ masterlist } ※ { ao3 } ※ { previous chapter }

※ Summary: Even during the most wonderful time of the year, Holland March can't help but be clumsy. A stressful hospital trip to set the detective's re-fractured arm leads an unfortunate revelation about his relationship with Jackson Healy.

Part of the Butterfly Effect collection. Can be read as a standalone.

※ Rating: 18+ for mature content.

※ Content/Tags: Fluff and Angst, Smut, Established Relationship, Period-Typical Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Injury, Canon-Typical Alchohol Consumption, reference to religion, Typical Idiot Holland March, Insecure Jackson Healy, Collaboration, first time anal sex, lotion as lube,(Seriously do not use lotion as a personal lubricant), Holly just wants her dads to get their shit together, mention of Christmas

※ Word count: 3,474

※ Status: Complete/Multichapter, Chapter 2 of 2.

※ Author's Notes: Second chapter of the collaboration I did with @danime25. It's always a pleasure to cook with someone else. &lt;3

It’s the harsh beam of sunlight boring through his eyelids that wakes Holland up. Without opening his eyes, he rolls over in the bed and reaches out for his partner. His hand makes contact with nothing but slightly cool air. It’s so jarring that he’s instantly awake, staring at the space Jackson Healy that has been occupying every single night without fail for the past few months.

Scenes from the night before flash in his mind and he can’t quite suppress a groan. He can only hope that the other man is still in the house and not in his crappy apartment above the comedy club that had turned into an office space rather than a place to live. Surely they can fix whatever the hell went wrong between them.

The detective awkwardly scrambles out of bed, all too aware of his injured arm. He goes through his minimal morning routine feeling as though he’d been run over and left for dead in the street. He hasn’t felt this battered since the Amelia case that had brought Jack into his life to start with. Roughly wiping his damp face off with a towel, he finally steps foot into the living room.

His knees want to buckle in relief when he spots the other man standing in front of the coffee machine. Holland has to rein himself in to keep from rushing over and wrapping his arms around him, seeking reassurance that everything is all right between the two of them. Instead, he takes a seat at the breakfast bar. His cast makes a heavy thudding noise against the counter-top. Healy doesn’t so much as twitch at the sound.

Pulling a cigarette out of the pack resting on the counter, Holland observes the shorter man. He puts it between his lips and lights it. While he contemplatively takes a drag, he watches Jack take two mugs out of the cupboard and pour them both coffee. Despite last night, the other man is careful to leave Holland’s black, doctoring his own with a heaping spoon of sugar and way too much creamer. Healy picks up both mugs and places the PI’s down in front of him before taking a seat at his side.

“Holly left a note. She’s at Jessica’s. Wants us to figure our shit out,” the other man says as a greeting. Holland just nods, tired.

“So, my head is a little hazy from last night,” he says around the dangling cigarette, “but did we break up or something?”

His partner’s hold noticeably tightens on his coffee cup, almost enough to shatter the ceramic, before he relaxes his hand. When he speaks, his tone is bitter. “What was there to break up? Two men can’t be in a relationship, March. Last night at the hospital sure proved that.”

“C’mon Healy, you don’t mean that,” his voice catches in the back of his throat.

If Jackson says another hurtful thing like he just did, Holland is going to have to show him the door. He knows how he feels about the other man. Society be damned, if loving Healy is wrong, he sure as hell didn’t want to be right. He knows they’re doing to face vitriol over their relationship, but he knows there are other people like them. Hell, there is that politician in San Francisco… what was it…? Narancia? It was some kind of drink. Thinking out loud, Holland mumbles, “Juice?”

“It doesn’t matter what I mean. I can feel however I wanna about you, and it still doesn’t change things,” the other man responds while Holland thinks. After a lengthy pause he looks at him, confused. “What the hell does juice have to do with this?”

“Huh? Oh, there’s this politician. His name is some kind of drink…”

Healy puts his face in his hands and lets out a hopeless little chuckle. “Jesus, March… What do you want from me?”

That is enough to snap him back onto the topic at hand. “I just want us to go back to what we had… even twelve hours ago. When I could kiss you and you wouldn’t flinch away like I was trying to kill you. Shit, I just want us to be together without all of this .” He waves a hand in the air, his cigarette tucked between his fingers.

“I don’t want you to wake up down the line and realize you wasted your time on someone who doesn't legally matter. I can’t be there for you and Holly like a woman could. I’m the worst possible option for you.”

“And how many times do I have to tell you? That doesn’t fucking matter. I love you regardless,” he snaps back, hackles up. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t realize he said the thing that he’s been struggling to say for weeks. It dawns on him and he winces. It’s too late to suck the words back into his mouth.

Healy is deadly still. So still that Holland would even take a slap across the face if it meant that the other man had heard him. His cigarette burns to the end of the filter and he snubs it out in the nearby ashtray. He doesn’t look at his partner

Finally, the silence is broken by the bruiser's audible swallow. “You don’t mean that, March. You can’t waste that on me.”

“No, I do mean it!” He shouts, getting up from his seat to pace. Holland gets more worked up with every step he takes. “Damn it, Jack, I love you.”

Much to his trepidation, his partner also gets to his feet and approaches him. Jack stops short and clenches his hands, self-soothing. The grizzled man looks unsure, very much unlike the image of himself that he presents to the world. “I want what’s best for you and your daughter.”

“You’re what’s best for us. Look at everything positive that has come out of this. Holly thinks of you as another parent. I think of you as a partner. What I want is you .”

Jesus, he could use a little liquid courage. Even without, he still bridges the gap between the both of them and kisses the shorter man, arms firmly around his neck to keep him close. Holland meant every single word of his outburst. He breaks the kiss, anxious. “I love you so much, Jackson Healy.”

His words are finally enough to get Healy to turn the affection. Holland can’t help but sag with relief as the other man’s arms wrap around his waist and hold him tightly. They’re forehead to forehead, breath intermingling. “I… I love you too, March.”

“You better,” he quips before ducking in for another kiss. This time it’s eagerly returned. He smiles into it, nipping lightly at his partner’s mouth. He pulls away, trailing his fingers from the nape of Healy’s neck to his stomach. He toys with the hem of the other man’s shirt. “You know… there was something we were going to do last night.”

“Right, and then you went and broke your arm,” Jackson says, carefully deadpan.

“Well, yeah… But we can make up for that now.”

He’s pleased when he receives a low sound of agreement and a squeeze on the hip from his partner before the man sets off in the direction of the bedroom. He might be hopelessly needy for Jackson Healy, but at least the other man was equally as infatuated with him when he wasn’t having a crisis. If anyone was going to be panicking, it should be March. It’s his role in this ragtag little family.

On the way to the bedroom, Holland starts working to strip himself of his clothing. With his daughter out of the house, he doesn’t have to be nearly as modest. He lets his pants fall the moment the door is closed behind him. Healy is immediately crowding him against the wood. The other man’s hands with their scarred knuckles slide underneath his shirt and pull it off his head to reveal his soft body. The detective feels something tender well up in him at the careful way his partner extracts his re-fractured arm from the sleeve. Soon, he’s left in just his underwear and socks.

Healy is panting in his ear, sloppy kisses laid in the crook of his neck. He groans at the feeling of the other man’s facial hair scraping along his sensitive skin. The knee that the shorter man just wedged between his thighs is going to speed things up more than Holland would like He feels like a live wire, ready to spark at any moment. Reluctantly, he pushes at his partner’s chest with his good arm, shoving him backwards until he nearly falls on top of him when the backs of Jack’s knees make contact with the bed and he goes down onto the mattress.

With a clumsy hand, Holland strips the prone man of his sweater and his undershirt. His dick twitches with an almost painful throb in his underwear the minute the other man’s upper body is exposed. Holland desperately wants to grab hold of his shoulder and rut against his partner’s stomach until his cum is matted in the dense trail of hair adorning it, but there’s something he wants more. He clamors up onto Jack’s jean-clad thighs, legs spread wide to accommodate the girth. He presses his forehead against the man’s broad shoulder so they don’t have to make eye contact while they discuss what he wants.

“Uhh…” he starts, not very eloquently.

“Yeah, March?” Healy's newly placed hand is a soothing weight on his back.

“I know we usually give each other handies or blowjobs…” he trails off, scouring his mind for the words he needs. He fails. “Maybe we can do something more?”

“… Like using my chest?” He questions, referencing one of Holland’s earlier requests. The first one he’d ever made.

“Actually… more inside than that,” he clears his throat, thankful that the other man cannot see his flushing face. Holland has seen enough porno content while on cases. They both have holes, surely his partner can pick what he’s implying here.

“March…” Healy trails off, sounding strangled, “you want me to take it up the ass?”

“ No! I want you to stick it in me. Have me take you up the ass.”

“Oh… Yeah, yeah, we can try that, but… I haven’t y’know.”

“Well, neither have I.” Holland shrugs a little bit, not too concerned. He trusts his partner enough to not hurt him.

Finally, he peels himself off of the other man. He scrambles to find a comfortable spot on his back beside him before stripping off his boxers and throwing them onto the floor. Jesus, what he’d give for a drink right now, but Healy doesn’t fuck around with him unless they’re on equal footing when it comes to being sober.

With less confidence than he’d like, he mimics the position he’d seen once playing on a television screen at one of the more questionable places he’d questioned someone at. His legs are spread, inviting Healy to kneel between them. The other man does. Through half-lidded eyes, Holland watches him swallow and run a nervous tongue over his lips. He leaves his arms at his side, wanting him to take the lead. He’s willing to be moved around like a Ken doll by Jackson’s hands

Holland is not disappointed by the other man’s initiative. He can’t contain a moan at the feeling at the warm hand wrapping itself around his soft cock, stroking it into hardness. His pleased noises get swallowed up by Healy leaning over him to press his mouth to his. Both men are wedged together with hardly enough space for the bruiser’s hand to work at him. Holland is the one who has to break it off to draw in heaving breaths, he’s already leaking copious amounts of precum over Healy’s knuckles.

Without pausing the steady movements of his wrist, his partner checks in with him. “You doin’ alright? You’re never this quiet.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Holland responds, staring up at him. He feels his face flush again. Healy looks better than he has any right to after a night of presumably sleeping on the couch, but this was his guy. His partner. Of course he’s going to look good to the PI.

“Let’s do this already. We need lube…” He glances around the room for something to use before spotting a bottle of lotion on their bedside table. “The lotion is probably the best we’re gonna get.”

Without preamble, the other man leans over just enough to pick it up. Holland’s teeth end up worrying at his bottom lip as he watches Jack slick the fingers of his right hand until they’re pale and streaked. They two of them are as ready as they’re ever going to be for this.

His hole easily accepts the intrusion of Healy’s finger. He moans, throwing his head back into the pillow and arching his body. “Yeah, that feels good. Feels really good. Fuck .”

That finger feels even better when the other man pumps it in and out of him. He can’t keep himself still. The second only heightens the sensations he’s feeling, finally giving him enough of a stretch that foreshadows what’s to come. The detective nearly leaps off the bed when Healy’s otherwise unoccupied hand reclaims it’s place around his dick. That touch is all the warning he gets before the other man leans down and takes the head of it into the wet plushness of his mouth.

“Jesus!” He yelps. His hands are gripping the sheets, clinging onto the fabric like it’s a lifeline.

In response, his partner takes his cock further, almost deep enough to gag on it. Holland swears he’s seeing stars as he feels the bruiser’s tongue trace along the underside of his shaft. He’s still fucking into him with his fingers, daring to add a third. The lotion is just barely doing its job. The detective feels almost full.

“I’m not going to last long,” he admits, panting. It’s taking everything in him to not sink into the arms of his building orgasm.

At his warning, Healy pulls off. He stills his hands and looks up at his face. “Do you want me to stop? I can finish getting you off like this. Don’t have to go all the way.”

“No, I'm fine. Just hurry.” Holland's voice catches in the back of his throat, giving his words a whimpering quality. Something hungry flickers over his partner’s face.

“Okay, let me just…” Healy trails off, sliding his fingers free of the tight heat of Holland’s body. He unbuttons his jeans and unzips them. His dick looks engorged and flushed, twitching and tapping against his ample stomach. He slicks it down with copious amounts of lotion and takes himself in hand. He pauses with the tip of his cock just slightly pressing into Holland. “You ready?”

“Yes .”

Slowly, with a series of pauses, Healy eases his thick cock into him. Despite opening Holland up with three of his large fingers, it’s still a tight fit. The other man bottoms out, snugly seated inside of him. The sensation of his stomach brushing against his still very interested dick has him smothering a whine. He feels full, pleasantly so.

“Are you doing okay?” His partner asks, concern lacing his voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he responds, “Jesus, I never realized how big you were until now.” The sentence slips out of him without his permission. He tenses up as he realizes what a weird thing it was for him to say. He could slap himself right now.

Healy doesn’t look upset, though, merely flustered. The other man clears his throat and offers him an unusual compliment in return. “You feel really good, March.”

Holland relaxes when his partner rubs a soothing circle over his hip. Perhaps sensing that he’s starting to get impatient, Healy starts to move, a slow drag of his cock nearly all the way out and bottoming out back in. He settles in to a relaxed pace. Instinctively, the detective’s back arches ever so slightly, angling so that the other man’s thrusts plunge deeper. He’s still hanging onto the sheets.

Lightning strikes him when he feels the head of the Jackson’s dick graze over his prostate. Before he’s fully aware, he’s cumming in messy spurts over the bruiser’s stomach. The resulting clench of his hole around his partner serves to drag him over the edge right along with him. Both men are shaking and muttering broken words as they empty themselves.

Shuddering from the stimulation as Healy pulls his softening cock free with a wet sound and extracts himself from their tangled position, Holland can’t help but fumble for the bedside table. His hand manages to hand on a loose, half smoked cigarette still sitting in the ashtray. Good enough. He lights it and gets it between his lips the moment he finds the lighter he keeps next to the table lamp.

“Fuck, March,” the other man groans.

The detective just nods in agreement, stricken silent for once. He had liked that, liked that way more than he probably should. He wonders if his partner would be willing to let him ride him next time.

“Didn’t hurt you did I?”

“No, it felt fantastic actually,” he says. Despite feeling fucked out and limp, he leans over and kisses the other man’s stubbled cheek.

His reassurance must sooth the other man because Healy hauls himself off the bed with a groan, back popping. He heads into the en-suite bathroom to clean himself up before returning to the bed with a damp cloth. He carefully wipes Holland down much to his appreciation. It saves him the hassle of moving his cast-bound arm more than strictly necessary.

“Thanks,” he says softly and snubs out the cigarette.

He sits up enough to pull the other man into the bed beside him once they’re both clean. It’s the most natural thing in the world to tuck himself against the broad man, to feel him wrap an arm around his back and hold him close. Holland is on the cusp of telling him that he loves him again when his partner speaks.

“So… I wanna apologize,” the other half of the Nice Guys Detective Agency starts.

“What do you mean?” He asks. He thought they were squared up, that they were good again. Sure, he wasn’t upset at getting an apology, but it felt worrisome. Healy won’t meet his eyes, instead choosing to focus his gaze on the ceiling tiles.

“I was an ass after the hospital. I was a pansy and didn’t handle it like I should’ve.”

“Yeah, you were… I know you said some of the things that were bothering you when we were fighting, but what got you so worried about us?” Holland follows his line of sight up to the ceiling.

“The nurse reminded me about how I can’t be there for you when it matters, y’know? You broke your fuckin’ arm and I just had to sit in the waiting room. ‘Sides, I don’t know how to be a good partner. I did so badly with my wife she left me for my old man.”

Oh , Holland thinks. His partner had felt helpless. That would explain a lot actually.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, patting the other man’s shoulder. “I’m not very good at it either. Hell, I still don’t know how I managed to get Holly’s mom in the first place.”

“She must’ve been a very patient woman,” Healy jokes dryly..

“Like a saint.” Holland responds in kind, mildly miffed at the implication that he’s a difficult person to be with. He hovers his hand over Healy’s hair before combing through it.

The other man lets out a groan and shifts enough to sling a thick arm over his stomach, settling against him more comfortably. “It’s a good thing you didn’t get the catholic school treatment too. We’d be even more cataclysmic.”

“You’re excused?” Holland makes a face as he tries to decipher what fucking word just came out of Healy’s mouth. This feels like their ‘eunuch’ schtick all over again. He tries to quietly mouth the word ‘cataclysmic’ and make sense of the word before his partner starts to talk. Again.

“It’s like ruination,” he supplies, not bothering to open his eyes. He’s dozing off.

“Maybe Holly can buy me a dictionary next year, and I’ll be able to understand you for once.” Holland grumbles. Jackson fucking Healy everyone. He shakes his head. “We’re getting off track… you were apologizing?”

The only response he gets is a loud snore from Healy. He’s actually asleep. Out like a damn light.

“Love you too, pal,” he grumbles, feeling more fond of the man using him as a pillow than he’d ought to be.

{ previous chapter }

[heylittleriotact]

It’s Wednesday. Have a WIP. The chapter that this snippet belongs to is as done as it’s going to be and will be going up tonight.

He’d been bottling it up. Sitting in this ruin for hours just as Echo had said, hoping no one would notice his absence so he could waste away the night alone, staring at the skyline and fantasizing in detail about every single torturous, painful thing he could subject his old master to…

He had to.

Because if he didn’t sit up here and immerse himself in quiet rage and loathing… well… then he’d have to acknowledge how fucking scared he was: what sort of idiot deliberately runs towards this sort of danger?

An idiot who desperately wants to live…

Isolating himself away from the others and getting progressively more pissed off helped take the edge off, but now that she was here and asking about it, it hit him just how pissed off he really was.

He could keep it to himself, he supposed. Tamp it down. Dwell on it privately once more when he could find himself alone again…

“The Gate is close…” He heard himself say. “As is Cazador.”

“Too right.” Inebriated but understanding, Echo nodded once and with that motion granted him the accepting, nonverbal permission he for some reason felt like he needed.

“Cazador and his Rite of Profane Ascension.” He said bitterly, speaking aloud the vitriol that had been building in the pit of his stomach all night, leaning into the sensation of the words leaving him as they poured passionately and unapologetically from his mouth. “An imperious soiree, attended by devils and spawn alike: a grand ceremony to honor one exalted vampiric master…” He imitated Cazador’s irritating, nasally voice, taking acerbic joy in the decidedly childish act: had he done such a thing within earshot of his master when he still held his reins, Astarion knew it would have earned him at least a tenday in the kennels where he would be relentlessly subjected to Godey’s ‘discipline’ for his impudence.

Not now though.

Now he could say whatever he wanted to say, and think whatever he wanted to think and that vile piece of shit and his ever-complicit pile of sadistic bones couldn’t stop him.

Oh how he would like to see them try…

“... and elevate him to an unfathomable station. To place him in a position of such esteem the world will yearn to kneel and offer their necks…”

He was focused on his hands: open, palms up, and trembling slightly. There was a gentle sloshing sound of liquid on glass as Echo took another drink beside him.

“It sounds almost as if you envy him.” She observed in her uneven, liquor infused tone.

“Of course I envy him.” Astarion laughed darkly. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re just so broody is all…” She slurred.

Gods isn’t she the cheeky one when she’s pickled…

“You would feel the same, were you in my shoes, sweet Echo.” He insisted. “The problem with what Cazador has done is that he did it to me.”

His eyes snapped to her when at his words she emitted a clipped laugh.

“What?” He snapped, indignation raising his hackles immediately.

“Nothing. It’s just that… you’re right. After everything with the Baron - once I was free - I felt the same way. I just… really, really…” She growled the last word through gritted teeth. “... took it all personally, you know? Once I finally had a fucking minute to sit down, catch my breath, and start thinking about how fucking badly he treated me because I wasn’t busy trying to just fucking survive anymore. There were entire weeks at a time where I could do nothing but fixate on how deeply he had wronged me. Never mind ‘moving on’ and ‘healing’ - all I wanted was to grind his face into the dirt under my boot and feel what it was like to hurt him - even if no pain I could ever dole out would equal what I suffered by his hands.” That mad, unnerving wildness sparked in her eyes again and was replaced by drunken glass as quickly as it had appeared. She relaxed a little and said, “I get it. I get it.” She drank again. “It’s strange sometimes… how alike we are in some respects…” She trailed off again, frowning for a moment before straightening. “Anyhow… you were talking and I definitely need to shut up now before I say something truly stupid. Sorry, handsome.”

[miqojak]

What is your favorite thing about your OC?

WEIRDLY SPECIFIC BUT HELPFUL CHARACTER BUILDING QUESTIONS I've answered other versions of this here and here - and I always feel weird trying to answer questions like this... I've never been good at answering what I like most about myself, either. People aren't just one thing - much like asking what part of a painting is your favorite...how do you pick? If you pick that single brushstroke, all the rest is discounted...and it takes every color, and every brush-stroke, to make the whole of the image at hand. So picking just one part of a whole person feels equally wrong to me? There's no one favorite thing about her - much like when you love a real person and are asked what quality is your favorite...again, how do you pick? The whole person is what counts. I like that she's brutally honest - I am too. I like her determination to overcome her hurts - that similarly resonates with me; and she inspires me even, at times, to try harder and push a little more.

I love that, under all the pain, she's just an immigrant in a place that doesn't seem to want her, and she's absolutely unwilling to accept that. I love that, hovering on the cusp of becoming someone truly unforgiveable... she's still able to take a step back, and think about the confusion of emotions she can't understand, but is trying to. I appreciate that she's abnormal, and pretty okay with being abnormal (except when she's not, and feels painfully excluded from any and all aspects of society - but thinks that's what's best for others, so she doesn't hurt them). I love that she's deeply flawed, but powerfully confident. I love that she's never once had to consider things like 'gender', and can wear whatever she wants, because she's just that confident. I love that powerfully confident people can still feel doubt. I love that Jak surprises me - I never expected that she and Ketsuchi would end up being good for one another. I thought they'd end up being toxic, and pushing each other to worse and worse extremes... but when it came down to it, I love that Jak saw someone so like her - so hurt in so many similar ways - and chose kindness, in her own fashion. She chose to weather his own vitriolic episodes, because she knew exactly where that kind of venom comes from...and even if she only cared in the beginning because his pain looked like hers? She cared. That propped the door open, and she was able to change. She was there for someone else, even when she wasn't very good at it - and like reciprocates like. That started in 2019, and here in 2023, she's so much more...socialized? More understanding of things than she used to be because she understands more things than she used to, and much of it wouldn't have come about without the healthy dynamic she has with someone that I fully never saw coming. After all the unhealthily weird things I've endured from people who want shipping/ERP, Jak was effectively sex-repulsed and non-shippable! (And at this point, Kets helped her overcome/become more comfortable around many triggering situations! Who saw the once-scariest-man-she-knew also being the most patient and dutiful with her hang-ups? ...once they stopped trying to bite each other's heads off.)

I think I love her adaptability, and the confidence that underlies it. I guess that's what is at the core of Jak, and has affected everything about her - she's willing to become who she must, when the situation demands it... but not for the sake of anyone but herself, these days. She survives, no matter what it asks of her, and comes out the other side asking how she can be better - how she can be strong enough to not have to compromise - next time life asks it of her. And at the end of it all? She's absolutely willing to admit when she's wrong - and when the real, modern world is so full of villains who lie through their teeth, even when facts are presented? It feels kinda good to have a character who, despite all the darkness around herself... is honest, and owns up to mistakes, and works to never make those same mistakes again, rather than just insisting you never saw the mistake, or being too upset by it. Everyone makes mistakes, so there's no point in wasting too much time on the spilled milk - but in her mind? If you keep spilling the milk, then it's a problem. You take action to make yourself better, and to not make that mistake again, or else. And there's something about this steely resolve of hers that she holds even herself to, that just...hits right. She doesn't ask anything of others that she's not willing to do/hasn't already done herself, in that regard.

[lex-play]

Be Not Moved pt 2

Katsuki sneered up at the omega who was clearly confused about her place in his life. He really didn’t like being wrong. Izuku had been trying for months to convince Katsuki that Intelli or her family hadn’t tried to proposition him was because she didn’t know he was courting Izuku already.

Apparently the damn nerd was right. Katsuki had thought (hoped) that the omega had found someone else or that she’d lost interest in him. They hadn’t really spoken in years except for the polite small talk they had to do at corporate events.

“I told you, Kacchan.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Ahem!”

Katsuki turned to the annoying wench with a sigh.

“What does it look like? This,” Katsuki gestured somewhat aggressively at himself and Izuku. “-is very obviously my omega and I enjoying a fucking party. Or at least we were enjoying it until you interrupted.”

“Your-!” Intelli took a deep breath and smoothed her hair down before leveling Katsuki with an unamused look.

“Alright Katsuki-kun, this isn’t funny anymore. You don’t have to try to make me jealous, that’s beneath you.”

Izuku snorted but Katsuki was too dumbfounded to react for a moment. How could someone be so delusional?

Intelli glared at Izuku and opened her mouth with a sneer, but Katsuki interrupted before she could unleash whatever vitriol she’d had planned.

“You’re right, it is beneath me to try and make someone I don’t fucking care about jealous.”

She had the nerve to actually look hurt.

‘What the actual fuck?’

“How can you say that? We practically grew up together!” She cried. Katsuki saw someone with a phone pointed at her and would have winced on her behalf if she wasn’t, ya know, bothering him and Izuku.

“Our parents do business together, so we’ve known each other for a long ass time, but when was the last time we had an actual fucking conversation? I don’t know what’s going on in that fucking head of yours but I’m courting Izuku. So fuck off.”

“I’m pretty sure your last conversation was in high school,” Izuku said, his hand cupped under his chin, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “Sophomore year to be exact.”

Katsuki’s heart warmed as he grinned up at Izuku and squeezed his thigh. He opened his mouth to tease his nerd for being a stalker, but Intelli snapped at him viciously.

“Nobody asked you, you destitute little guttersnipe!”

From behind the sofa they were on, Katsuki heard Mina mutter, “What did she call him?”

Immediately after and much louder, Denki said, “That’s a big word for Elmo.”

The entire room erupted into raucous laughter, Izuku turning to cackle into Katsuki’s shoulder.

Katsuki grinned cruelly at Intelli as her face reddened in embarrassment.

“I’m not joking or playing hard to get. Izuku is my omega and I have no fucking desire or intention to court another. Continue to leave me alone like you’ve been doing.”

She scowled and turned on her heel to storm out of the party entirely.

“You know this probably won't be the last we see of her, Kacchan,” Izuku said to him between giggles.

Katsuki sighed.

“You’re probably right.”

Izuku kissed his cheek. “I usually am.”

Katsuki grinned and brought his hands to Izuku’s ticklish sides, making his omega freeze.

“Cheeky brat,” Katsuki said as he started tickling. Izuku shrieked with laughter, and they let the interruption fall to the back of their minds.

Maybe they shouldn’t have.

[edelorion]

can't sleep. here's some venting. it's about trauma. abuse. the works. you probably shouldn't read this unless you're, like, a mutual.

...i really, really hate having trauma. it's too much to handle. i keep thinking about it day and night. it's in my dreams. it affects my actions. it's a defining trait of mine.

i don't want it to be one. i wish i could just get over it. all of it.

i want to be able to drink water normally. i want to be able to only be mildly annoyed whenever my throat has some slime in it instead of feeling this... inexplicable hostility from the time that it felt like blood was pooling in my throat as a result of being bear-hugged into the hard side of a couch by one of my predecessors. i hate it. i hate it so much. why can't i hate him as much? he's the one that did this to me.

i want to be able to throw things away that i actually don't care about. i want to be able to give other things of mine away to people who would appreciate them more. i want to be able to lend things to friends, CLOSE friends, without needing to watch them like a hawk to make sure they don't destroy my things, like a certain other predecessor kept doing. destroying and throwing things away i care about. things that i still miss to this day. my old box of lego and other toys. i had a friend in that box, a lego robot with a cool spear, if i recall. i'll never get them back. all because of her.

i want to be able to talk to people about things. have them listen. not need to explain myself at every turn. not need to be able to sanitize everything that i say so they won't ask the wrong questions. i want the things i say to people i trust to not be abused by those who were never supposed to hear it, grandma.

i want to not worry about being judged. interrogated. i want to be able to be open. i don't want to be ashamed of everything that i do to the point that i get insanely paranoid to the point that i can't have anyone in my room. to the point that i have a password lock on everything that i can have one on.

because they took things away from me when i confided in you. when you told them what i said.

...i know you ment well.

because i've seen their messages. the pictures they took of things that were supposed to be secret. the confrontations. the mocking. because they don't understand. because they don't want to understand.

i've seen how it made me act. that defensiveness. the venom. the vitriol. i wasn't a person back then - i was an animal that thought everywhere was a corner and everyone else was a predator. i hated others for having a better life than me. i hated myself for not being like them. i was like a rosebush, without the roses, and coated in whatever makes poison ivy sting like that.

i hated being like that. i stopped being like that to others. i'm glad i did. i'm... trying to be nice now. i always wanted to be nice. i couldn't even pick a hurtful dialogue option in a game if i tried.

i'm happy that i am nice. to most.

all except my predecessors. well, one in particular. and i don't mind still being like this to her because she deserves it after all she's done and is still doing to me.

but it's tiring, that hatred. that vitriol. i don't want anger to define me. i don't want hatred to define me. i don't want my trauma to define me.

but it still does.

i don't want to dream about getting hurt and choking on my own blood. i don't want to dream about losing things close to me that i cherish beyond anything else. i don't want to dream about people finding out things about me that ridicule me. i don't want to dream about people using what they know about me against me.

i want to be able to swallow without fear. i want to be able to be lend things out to friends. i want to be able to talk to friends and be open with them. i want to be able to cry. to be honest. open. emotional. not guarded. not ready to strike back at a moment's notice.

i just want to be able to sleep at night and dream of electric sheep, for once.

[lshark-cs]

Iron God Chapter 36 [Qila]

Qila nudged the half-open door and let herself into Xigon's study. "I did what you asked. Gave them their assignments. They should all be on their way soon enough."

No response. Xigon was asleep at his desk. The faint light of his dying lantern flickered on the lenses of his goggles. He was perfectly still and quiet, like some finely-carved doll dropped and forgotten.

Qila shook her head. It almost seemed like she found him asleep more often than not these days. She came closer and noticed his hand lay shoved between the front cover and the first page of his favorite book. Carefully, she pulled the book from him. Its worn pages had gathered dust in the days they had spent untouched. She opened the tome to its first page, where the long-dead author's graceful handwriting spelled out an epigraph.

"If two demons whisper to Kaosaan, their names are neither Ignorance nor Despair. To her left is Wisdom. To her right is Hope." 

The word Despair was underlined several times. Probably by Xigon himself, if Qila had to hazard a guess.

A tingling sensation wormed its way down the back of her neck. She didn't have to look to know Xigon was awake. His arm moved to push her away. Qila seized his hand tight enough to crack his knuckles, then restated what she'd said earlier. "It's done. They'll be out soon."

Xigon stared at her hand gripping his, then gave a slow nod.

"That's only a temporary solution, though. They all want to know what's wrong, and I can hardly blame them." She rubbed her thumb along the back of his palm. "You have to tell me."

He shook his head.

"I'm not asking," she pressed. "I'm commanding you. Tell me the truth. No one can help you if you don't let them."

Xigon took a deep snarling breath.

Qila softened her tone but tightened her hold. "How can I convince you?"

"First, a truth from you." His voice came out horribly strained. "Or you'll hear nothing from me."

"Out with it, then." Qila set the book down. "What do you want to know?"

Xigon's eyes darted up to meet hers with frightful intensity. "Why do you act like you care about me?"

The old woman flinched. "I'm not acting, Xigon."

He pursed his lips, seeming unsatisfied with her answer.

"Though, I will admit to something." Qila averted her gaze. "At first, I cared about you for the wrong reasons. I went about it all the wrong way."

Xigon took a sharp breath in.

"I wanted you to be my perfect weapon," she confessed. "A means to achieve my dream. Now I understand you're..."

"More than a weapon?" he scoffed. "You know what I think, Qila?"

"What?" She braced herself for vitriol.

"You're an obsessed little child who saw a pretty insect and decided it had to be yours." He blinked. His head twitched. "Then, when that insect stung you, you cried treason and tried to crush it."

"Is that really how you see yourself?" she asked. "An insect?"

"Better to be an insect than your possession." His fingers clenched in her grip. "Why me, anyway? You've always said..." Xigon hesitated, then raised his other hand to his chest, wincing. "Am I really that much like him? Vraelen?"

"Yes, and that's why I wanted to love you from the moment we collided." She let out a miserable chuckle. "But it didn't take me long to realize you're not a miracle. You're not a gift, and you're certainly not a child of the Iron God, whether his blood runs through you or not."

Xigon made a harsh, breathy noise that almost sounded like a laugh. "You might be right. What am I to you, then?"

"I don't know," Qila admitted. "But whatever you are, you terrify me. You always have." She leaned into him so their foreheads touched. His breaths grew shakier. She closed her eyes and fought back tears. "But I can't look away. You breathe, but you were never a creature of life."

"I think you might be onto something," said Xigon. His hand clenched tighter against his chest.

Qila opened her eyes and glanced down. "Something wrong with your chest?"

"It's been hurting for weeks," he told her. "The medicine hasn't been helping at all."

"Maybe Kolo hit you there," she suggested. "She really stepped out of line."

He shook his head. "I would have known."

"Did Haode hit you there, then?" She pulled her head back. "You might not have noticed in the heat of the moment, but..."

"Qila." He said her name loud and firm. "No one hit me here."

An awkward lull of silence hung in the air between them.

After a moment, Qila shrugged. "That's odd, then."

"It is. My brand isn't healing either." Xigon shook his hand free of hers and backed his chair up. With a huff, he pulled his glove off to reveal the freshest brand on the back of his wrist. The wound was bright and angry. Qila almost thought it looked like it was glowing.

"I've also been seeing strange things." Xigon held his hand up and curled his bony fingers. "I keep seeing vital force, but not quite right. Like the blotchy afterimages you might see after looking at the sun. Even when no one else is in the room."

"But you don't know what that's about?" she asked.

"I've never experienced anything quite like this," said Xigon. "I can only hope beyond all that's reasonable that it's temporary." He gave a faint half-smile. "Isn't it funny that I've never wanted more for something to all be in my imagination?"

Qila gave a slow, stiff nod. "I suppose imagination's a powerful thing."

"Imagination cures and poisons all." Xigon pulled the book to the edge of his desk and opened back to the epigraph. "Kiiri once told me it was what gave us life. She wanted to finish her story collection before her second ascension, almost like she knew this book was all she'd leave us with." His fingers brushed a rough spot on the page. An old tear stain, perhaps. "Quite a mind she had."

"And your mind's wandering down dark tunnels." Not wanting to think about the dead author for even a moment, she closed the gap between them and took him by the wrists. "Stand up, Xigon."

He sat up straighter and glared at her, baring his teeth slightly.

"Stand up," she repeated. "If you fall, I'll catch you."

Xigon let out a low, animal-sounding growl. Then he grabbed her arms, planted his feet on the floor, and stood. His legs bent and trembled with intense strain. He braced himself heavily against Qila, seething like water thrown into flames.

She took a step back, pulling him forward. His foot landed heavily, more of a fall than a step. His boot scuffed the floor. Another step and Xigon folded to his knees. Qila tried to pull him back up. With a yelp of pain, he forced himself back to his feet. The sound startled Qila so badly that she nearly fell. It was so rare to hear so much as a whimper from Xigon that she'd almost forgotten what his pain sounded like.

Out of earshot was out of mind. Out of mind meant harmless.

If only that were true.

She made him stand a moment longer before letting him down gently. Even as she lowered him, he clung to her as if he were dangling from a cliff. His fingers dug painfully into her arms. "Whatever's happening to me now," he grunted, "it's pathetic."

"You're not pathetic," Qila insisted. "We will find a way to fix this."

Xigon looked at her, confused, his head trembling slightly. "How can you be so sure?"

"The young ones are staging an intervention whether you want them to or not." She chuckled. "I heard it straight from their mouths."

He scowled. "They shouldn't get involved."

"Oh, I fully agree," she laughed. "But we're fools if we think we can stop them."

As if on cue, footsteps thundered down the hall, then Rizval yelled. "Hey! Ice cleats go on outside!" Then a groan. "Master Qila's going to have our heads when she sees all the scratches you're leaving."

"You're forgiven," Qila called. "Just this once."

Rizval yelped and something crashed. Azvalath swore. Kolo laughed.

The old woman giggled, then shook her head. "Remind me why we ever thought it would be a good idea to start our own faction?"

"Because we love them." Xigon's lips quirked. "Please, it's the one thing we can consistently agree on."

"For sure." Qila turned to the door. "But you know we can't keep them ignorant forever."

"When they're ready, they'll know," Xigon assured her. "I can only hope they'll still be able to smile afterwards."

[campbluelake]

Liability | Trial 3.4 | Eri | Re: Umwe

As Eri watches the scenes play out before her, she can’t help but wonder…

When did she become a good person?

If you had asked Eri Enomoto six months ago what kind of person she thought herself to be, she would’ve shrugged and said something along the lines of, “Well, probably not a good one, huh?” After all, she had long ago resigned herself to her past sins and present transgressions. She was far from a saint, with her penchant for fistfights and causing problems.

But now, after seeing the true nature of so many others, she can’t help but feel she was wrong about herself. Maybe she really is a good person, in spite of everything.

Though by that logic, shouldn’t Johanna be capable of being a good person too? Everyone makes mistakes; the important thing is that you learn from them. To overcome that weakness and become stronger… Isn’t Johanna able to do that too?

Eri rubs her temples, head throbbing in pain, and realizes maybe such musings are beyond her.

The reality is even if Jo is able to be a good person, right now she’s chosen not to. Instead, her desperation has bested her. She’s gone from sobbing to scathing remarks in a matter of minutes— which in Eri’s opinion, make the jabs Hibiki directed at her seem like a walk in the park.

Still, she spares a moment to glare icily at the old man for remarking about how they could accuse Audie instead, before she closes her eyes entirely for a few seconds. Her head hurts, her heart hurts, and she’s beyond tired.

Which is perhaps for the best, since she would’ve normally sprang to defend her friends from the cruel remarks Jo’s making. But instead, when Eri opens her eyes, all she can do is regard Jo with at look of pity.

“Weak…”

There’s no vitriol behind this singular word she says, no fire or bite. Instead it’s soaked with exhaustion, disappointment, and betrayal. Emotions she elaborates on as she continues:

“Not being better… No offense, but you’re real pathetic, aren’t ya? I thought we were friends, but… Well, thinkin’ about it, were you just using me and the others to prove to yourself you were a good person? I wanted to be real friends, not a way to boost your ego. But you were just using friendship to hide from your weaknesses, y’know? Which ain’t friendship at all.”

It’s impossible to mask the hurt in her voice, so Eri doesn’t bother trying. She instead turns her attention away from the woman she never really knew to the blazing campfire, and prepares to make her vote.

[misfits-of-zaun]

“You’re so welcome! I’m sure you would have done the same for me.”

At her sarcastic taunt, Ekko's jaw clenched, and his nostrils flared; he averted his gaze, wrestling the sudden surge of vitriolic bitterness back into its box before it could swallow him.

"...'Boy Saviour', right?" He parroted the nickname in an acrimonious undertone, by way of answer.

Jinx didn't keep throwing that nickname in his face because he was good at saving people; it was just a cruel reminder of all the times he'd failed. And Jinx represented one of those biggest failures.

Still, Ekko didn't actually know what he would have done, if their positions had been reversed. He'd thought he'd known what Jinx would do, but she'd just completely proven him wrong on that account. It was a disconcerting discovery.

“That one. If you want it.”

It was a dubious enough decision to even still be here; it was downright stupid to drink anything Jinx had made for him. Maybe it was the shimmer in his system making him more impulsive, less able to ignore the opportunity to soothe his raw, parched throat. Maybe it was a cynical recognition that if Jinx had wanted him dead or drugged for further infliction of sadistic harm, she'd had ample opportunity to follow through when he was still tied down to the dining room table.

Maybe this was the first civil conversation they'd had in years, and he didn't know if there would ever be another one.

Just as he was taking an experimental sip of (thankfully normal) tea, Jinx spoke up again.

“No. The people I cut open don’t get tea. They just die, and since it normally takes longer than when I shoot them they end up rather scared.”

Disgust and revulsion flashed across Ekko's face. Yeah, it wasn't exactly a surprise, but to hear her so openly admit to multiple occurrence of extreme sadism as though it was just another hobby was... deeply unpleasant.

"Delightful," he muttered, and promptly set the mug back down, feeling sick to his stomach. How many of those people had died right here, on the very table he'd woken up on?

She's a monster. A mad dog. You've known that for a while now. You should put her down before she kills anyone else.

Kill one person to save others. It wasn't like he'd never had to do that before, in a fight. But it felt intrinsically wrong, to kill someone who'd just saved his life. Like something a mad dog would do.

I'm not like you. I'm not.

Seeming blithely unaware of his internal conflict, Jinx had kept talking. Rambling about... third degree burns?

“...So you’d think it’d upset people less when you pour the right type of metal powder into a wound, and light it on fire. It’s just going to cauterize it and make it stop. Probably be some pain afterwards but it’d be on the outskirts of the burn, and not that bad. However I can tell you it really does not upset them less.”

Oh, fucking hell. Ekko wanted to bleach his brain of this information. He wanted to be physically sick. He wanted to strangle her.

"First of all," Why was he even dignifying this insanity with a response?

"That's some fucked up shit, even for you. Secondly, yeah, I'd say most people are gonna get pretty upset about getting permanently mutilated under torture. Thirdly - what's the fucking point?"

Contrary to what was commonly assumed, torture generally was not an effective way of getting reliable information. People who'd already resolved to refuse to cooperate would double down out of resentment-fuelled spite, while more cowardly individuals would simply say whatever they thought their torturer wanted to hear in order to make the pain stop. Great for securing false confessions - utterly garbage for gaining verifiably accurate intel.

Third degree burns also weren't even a clever way of hurting someone, just for hurting's sake. The permanent nerve damage gave you less of a canvas to inflict pain on, and the burns wouldn't heal without prompt medical attention - not to mention, the complete destruction of the skin layers carried a very high infection risk. The cauterization would kill off the healthy tissues on top of the existing burn damage, leaving them to rot in the wound bed as an all-you-can-eat buffet for bacteria. If going into shock didn't cause the victim's organs to pack it in, the sepsis definitely would.

(Not that any of these victims had probably survived long enough to develop sepsis before Jinx grew bored and killed them some other way.)

Fuck, this was painting a vivid mental image thay he could not unsee. Ekko hated it. Why was he even thinking about this shit, anyway? Much less discussing it?

What the hell did you expect? A normal conversation? Some actual closure? Hah.

He should just be thankful he hadn't been added to the body count, by some absurdly fortunate twist of fate, and be getting the hell out of here.

“So I guess you going to stick around here until the shimmer wears off? Be awkward answering questions about your eyes, and what happened and all from your people right? Ohhhh, Ekko’s gonna have a secret.”

It annoyed him that she was right; he didn't want to have to explain this to anyone. Then, something occurred to him; Ekko's eyes narrowed.

...Was. Was Jinx making tea supposed to be some bizarre attempt at asking him to stick around? Was she actually trying to play nice, while blithely telling him nightmare-inducing little stories about all the grisly shit she'd have done to other people in his stead? Was that supposed to make him feel lucky?

This was so fucking weird. He wanted the thrumming in his head go away. He wanted to flop down in his bed at home and never, ever think about this evening again.

"What are you doing, Jinx?" He asked abruptly, at last.

"Seems pretty counterproductive to save someone you've been trying to kill. And we both know you didn't have to pinky promise me shit. So why do it? Hell, why do any of this?"

@independentzaun

“Down the hallway. Second door on the left. There shouldn’t be anyone else here.”

Surprisingly, there were no barbed remarks or incendiary comments from Jinx; she simply gave the directions he'd requested. Wasting no time, Ekko ducked through the second door on the left. In his urgency, he closed the door harder than he intended to, and the slamming sound made him flinch. Shit. Right. Augmented strength.

Thankfully, the door had a lock. Being behind a locked door technically meant very little when the other person in the building had the shimmer-infused strength to break it down with ease, but the distance granted by that additional little barrier made Ekko feel a little calmer.

Finding a fresh cloth under the sink, he set about the awkward process of trying to clean himself up. The cold water on his flushed, sweaty skin was grounding. It soothed some of the dreadful thrumming in his head. He wiped at his face, his neck, his arm. Delicately dabbed around his wounded shoulder. Wrung out rusty brown water and watched it go down the drain, again and again.

....Fuck it.

With shaking hands, Ekko yanked off his scarf and dumped it in the sink, followed by his shirt. Scrubbed at them both, trying to get the bloodstains out. Having something non-violent and repetitive to do with his hands right now felt like a good idea, and he was weirdly overhot anyway.

The hallway outside was eerily quiet. Ekko half-expected the handle to rattle, or for a knock to sound, but it seemed like he was being left alone for now. A tactfully diplomatic choice, for Jinx.

After wringing them out as thoroughly as he dared, Ekko pulled his clothes back on. The cool dampness wasn't actually unpleasant when he felt almost feverishly warm. He'd attract significantly less attention on his way home in wet clothes than he would in bloodstained clothes, anyway.

But in order to head home, he'd have to stop hiding in the bathroom and face what was waiting for him outside.

The mere thought of Jinx right now sparked a contradictory storm of emotions in his head. Ekko didn't understand why she'd done any of this. She'd hit him and pointed a gun at him - then she'd promised to save his life. She'd tied him down and forced him to endure the torture of surgery without any painkillers or anaesthetic - and enjoyed the fear and pain she was inflicting - but he was, bizarrely, still breathing in spite of (because of?) her terrifyingly direct intervention.

...So long as his wound didn't get infected, anyway.

Ekko took a moment to examine his shoulder once again, running a finger over the neat line of sutures, not quite touching. It would leave a nasty scar. He could already tell that much. A physical reminder of what had happened tonight - as if he'd ever forget.

Ekko closed his eyes, gripping the edge of the sink. Took a deep, fortifying breath. Exhaled.

Get your shit together. You still need to get home.

The sound of the door unlocking felt far, far too loud in the silence - like an announcement throughout the entire house. Warily, Ekko ventured out, running a damp hand through his locs, awkward and on edge. There was no sign of Jinx, but he could hear what sounded like... a kettle boiling?

Steadfastly averting his eyes from the bloodstained table ahead of him, Ekko padded down the hall until he found the source of the sound - a kitchenette. Jinx was perched on the counter, looking oddly reticent. Almost tired. Muttering away to herself, as if she hadn't yet noticed him.

The sight of her always triggered a strong gut reaction, but in his current shimmer-augmented state, the emotions felt sharper - a violent swooping sensation in his stomach, not unlike missing a step on the way down the stairs. There was the familiar jolt of antipathy and unease, of course, but also a bitter ache of grief, and oddly enough, a rush of bewildered longing mixed in. The volatile concoction of conflicting feelings did not help his efforts to clear his head in the slightest.

“Tea...tea, tea, tea… wonder if there’s any sweetener...heh… Save Ekko’s life, and than brew tea. What’s next?”

There were two cups on the countertop next to her. The sight of such a small detail made his heart lurch. Was... was one of those supposed to be for him?

Or is she expecting to turn you over alive to someone else, shortly? Whispered a paranoid little voice in his head.

Maybe this just her attempt at stalling for time until they get here.

That didn't feel right - hell, Jinx had a far higher price on her head than he did currently - but then nothing felt right about this situation.

He shouldn't stay - hell, he should already be gone. Ekko knew this.

Still, he found himself loitering in the doorway, tense and hard-eyed, watching her with sharp appraisal.

"...Guess I should be saying thank you," Ekko spoke up quietly at last; his acerbic tone of voice very clearly conveyed that this grudgingly civil acknowledgement was already at the extent of gratitude he was willing to give.

Why did you do this?

What do you want from me?

Where do we go from here?

Does this even change anything?

The questions lingered on his tongue, heavy and confronting.

"Which cup's mine?" Was what came out of his mouth instead. Because some questions were easier to ask than others.

"D'you make tea for all the boys you bring home and cut open?" Ekko's follow-up query had a brittle, sarcastic edge; a guarded effort to probe at her intentions, to provoke a reaction that might shed some light into her bizarrely sentimental-seeming behaviour. His pink-tinged gaze was dark and intense.

"Or am I just special?"

@independentzaun

[stanmammon]

I was wondering if I could request Mammon with Angst #10

(I don’t do angst often and I don’t think i’m good at it but I hope this tugs at the heartstrings!)

Mammon: 

Your eyes felt like they were burning.

Your heart was aching in your chest as you stormed away, hands clenched at your side, barely able to keep it together. You can hear Mammon calling out your name desperately but when you whipped around to face him it only made him angrier, the witch’s lipstick still smeared across his face. If you thought it would do any good you’d punch him but right now you don’t think he even deserved to be spit on. You only stop for a fraction of a second before you get your wits about you and realize you shouldn’t be stopping for him, beginning your forward march to…

You didn’t know.

Anywhere but here.

“C’mon! Can’t ya just let me explain?”

“How could you do that to me?!” Mammon jumped back when you suddenly turned again to face him, a finger poking into his chest as he had caught up with you in record time. “How could you… and not only did you kiss- or whatever it is that was going to happen, you told her I don’t mean anything to you? You told her I’m a servant? I don’t fucking think so, Mammon.”

“Don’t know if ya forgot but I’m a demon! That’s just what demons do, ya know?! Why should I have to be loyal to some human… to some human who’s gonna be dead in a couple of years anyway?!” Mammon’s arms were crossed and he looked annoyed, for a second you really believed he had been just messing with you these past few years. But if Mammon didn’t care he wouldn’t be here, you knew that, but it only made it sting even more. Were you really the stupid one here for believing you could date a demon and not be cheated on?

“So now it’s this argument again? I’m human and have a shorter lifespan so you can treat me however you please? I’m just a little speck in your fuckin’ life and you’ll forgot about me anyway? Get out of here. Leave me alone. Don’t talk to me! I’m over it!” To hear such harsh words from sweet Mammon, from seemingly loyal Mammon, the demon who would bend over backwards to make you happy. You remember exchanging rings, a silent promise to be loyal to one another since your kind couldn’t technically be married, and all that for what? To have him turn on you when things get hard?

This wasn’t the same Mammon who had gotten teary-eyed at the thought of your death, at the mere joke on your part that he better pick you a pretty tombstone and bring you flowers at least once every century. It’s not the same Mammon that laid in bed with you, cold washcloth on your head telling you that you’d be just fine once your fever passed. This wasn’t the demon who ran you baths and laid out flower petals once because you said you wanted a romantic atmosphere (he had gotten the advice from Asmo) and spent so much time with you because he said it felt wrong to be apart. How many times would he repeat this with others? How many times had he already done it?

Your heart ached.

“Take this and go pawn it off. I’m sure you’ll get some Grimm for it.” You threw the ring at his chest, watching as it bounced on the ground as his reflexes were quite at their peak; he was staring at you in stunned silence, mouth opening then closing, unsure of what to say. He did love you, he knew he did but this moment of weakness… Maybe he deserved the vitriol you were spitting at him now, the hatred in your eyes.

It hurt him down to his very core. He was in agony, wishing he could explain to you the hold the witches had over him, how disgusted he had been by their touch because it wasn’t you. He couldn’t find the words, not when you were looking at him like that, with so much hatred. He had thought you were the exception to all of that, that you saw the better traits in him and loved him as he was even if he was a demon but your feelings had turned quick. He wished he could blame it on the fickle human heart but he knew in the end that this was his fault, his inability to communicate with you quickly spiraling out of control.

When he finally got himself back together the ring you had thrown was the only piece of you he had left.  

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Just The Way You Are// D.M.

Request: Hi can you do a draco x reader where they are in a relationship and her parents are like as**oles and they always bother her about her weight so one day she is with draco and makes a comment like “maybe i should stop eating so much” or something like that and Draco is like WHAT and tells her that she is beautiful and all that and he is like really worried Thanks!!

A/N: MY 100TH FIC!!! MY 100TH FIC FOR HP!!! Of course it has to be Draco!! I didn't think I would ever reach 100 fics as well as get over 1000 followers yet here I am. I am so thankful to all of you who have read everything but have also motivated me into continuing to write even when I doubt my own abilities (which is a lot). Thank you so much for requesting, lovely! I hope I have done your request justice! I enjoyed writing this, I ended up writing it all in one sitting. Please read the warnings before you read! And as always, I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader

Warnings: food, weight issues, shitty parents, swearing (I think) BUT DRACO IS CUTE DAMMIT.

Word count: 2k

Every morning in the Great Hall, breakfast is served at seven am sharp. This gives the students enough time to eat, socialise and let their food settle before classes begin promptly at half past eight. It also gives the students time to read over any mail that should fall with the Owls upon their arrival at eight am.

As your family owl drops a letter inscribed with the familiar handwriting of your mother, you don’t know whether to scream in frustration or burn the letter without reading. You knew that it would be filled with her usual criticism rounded off with a few sweet lines about the renovation to the house or how your cousin was doing so well on her internship abroad.

You flip the letter in your hands a few times; wondering whether the Howler from your mother would be worth it once she never got a reply from you. However, you eventually decide that the Howler would not be worth it and that your mother’s vitriol is better off read in silence.

Rolling your eyes, you try not to let the letter affect you so much. Her words are always poisonous and toxic, but this time, she cuts you where it hurts.

“My dear, how on earth is the Malfoy boy supposed to stay with you if you continue to gain weight? I’ve enclosed a new diet regiment for you to follow – stick to it, this is not an option.”

You scrunch up the letter and the included diet regiment in your hands. Crunching them up until they resemble litter rather than the foul words scrawled onto parchment.

You had never felt you had issues with your weight; there wasn’t any need to necessarily – the meals at Hogwarts were scheduled and there was enough exercise done through the day in order to get to classes on time, and this was before the weekend walks to Hogsmeade or the ambles around the Black Lake with Draco.

You don’t feel like there should be an issue with your weight, but your mother’s words are venomous barbs that stick into your brain. Her words on replay in the forefront of your mind.

There was no real excuse for the way your mother harked on about appearances and reputations. Your family hailed from an ancient line of witches and wizards; even going so far as to state that your ancestors were among the very first to attend Hogwarts when the founders were teachers.

So for your mother, everything since then had to be perfect.

Perfect hair. Perfect dress. Perfect manners.

Perfect weight, apparently.

Any appetite you had before has now dissipated. It’s funny how three lines of a letter is enough to put one off their morning meal.

You felt like a rule change should be implemented at Hogwarts; no mail until the evening - that way students don’t have the time to sit and worry about the thoughts of their parents.

Pushing your plate away from you, you bring out your reading book from your bag. Flipping through the familiar pages, you find the dog-eared corner from where you rounded off last night before falling asleep.

It’s easy to lose yourself in the pages having read the story over a thousand times before, but the niggling voice in the back of your head that sounds suspiciously similar to your mothers has you reading the same paragraph over and over again.

A kiss being pressed to the top of your hand is the first greeting from Draco. The next is a quiet good morning as he pours himself a glass of pumpkin juice.

You smile at the blonde-haired teenager, looking up from your book, but the smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Love, is everything okay?” Draco asks; immediately spotting that something is off.

You shake your head, “It’s nothing to worry about, love. I just didn’t sleep very well last night.”

Draco chuckles; not entirely convinced but happy to wait until you come to him. “It’s because you didn’t stay with me last night.”

You roll your eyes with a grin, “I’ve stayed in your dorm the last three nights; it’s only a matter of time before someone says something.”

Draco shrugs; leaning over to peck your cheek, “Let them, I don’t care.”

“You will when we get caught out by Snape on a random inspection,” You comment with a light laugh.

Draco smiles broadly at the idea of the Head of Slytherin ever completing a random inspection of the dungeon. He grabs a slice of toast from the rack and reaches for the marmalade.

His eyes wander over the lack of food in front of you, “Already eaten?”

You nod, smirking, “And all alone as well since you take so long in the mornings.”

He laughs, “It takes time to look this good, darling.”

“Sure it does,” You comment, leaning in to peck him on the lips. He hums against your mouth happily, but all too soon, you pull away, “I’m off to the library before class, I want to get ahead on the History of Magic essay. I’ll see you later.”

You drop another kiss to Draco’s mouth before hoisting your bag onto your shoulder and departing from the Great Hall.

Draco shakes his head at your retreating figure; something about you was off, but he couldn’t place his finger on what. He wasn’t going to pester you as it would only make things worse, but he knew he had to address it before you lost yourself from overthinking.

Draco bites into his toast; already thinking of the ways he can talk to you.

----

Your days are always filled with little highlights; seeing the first flower bloom after a long winter or reading your favourite part of your book without being interrupted or it’s finding Draco waiting outside your classroom after every lesson of the day.

You find him waiting opposite the door to your class; leaning against the wall with his robes open, showing the white buttoned shirt underneath. His rebelliousness highlighted in the undone top button and untucked shirt. You shake your head as you make your way over to the teenager that made your heart stutter.

He grins, holding his elbow out to you, “Lunch, my love?”

“Lead the way.”

The Great Hall is loud upon your arrival. Students shouting, laughing, grabbing for food from the centre of the tables. It’s a ruckus, but it makes you smile as you take a seat across from Draco at the Slytherin table.

“Is that all you’re eating?” Draco asks with a frown at the sight of your plate.

You nod your head; your mother’s words from this morning making another round in your head, “I’m not overly hungry.”

The frown doesn’t leave Draco’s face, and through lunch, he glances between your face and the plate, wondering what’s changed for your appetite to have disappeared.

Draco walks you to your next class after the bell rings signalling the end of lunch.

He pauses outside the classroom, keeping a tight grip on your hand. His other hand reaches up to caress your cheek; a rare form of PDA from the Slytherin Prince who was more than happy to kiss and hold hands but would rarely show his feelings so openly.

“You’d tell me if something was wrong wouldn’t you?” He asks; concern alight in his eyes.

You hold his hand to your cheek; pressing a kiss to the palm, “I would.”

He nods silently. Kissing your forehead, Draco turns away, striding to his next class.

Guilt stirs within you like a lead balloon; weighing you down for the rest of the day. Even the ringing of the final bell of the day wasn’t enough to lift your mood.

Draco continues to meet you after every class; his arm always ready for you to slip yours through. But he’s quieter; more sombre as he leads your through the bustling corridors and staircases.

At the end of the day, he escorts you to the Great Hall. The level of noise quieter from lunch but still loud as students discuss their plans for the evening over the food laid out on the long, wooden tables.

Dinner is a feast by any standard, and Draco tucks right in, piling food onto his plate – ravenous after a day filled with exam preparation. You take your time with your meal; selecting more and more vegetables as you think back to the letter and diet regiment now burning a hole through your bag.

Draco sighs as he watches you pick at your food. He reaches over, checking your temperature with the back of his hand on your forehead, “Well you feel fine,” he murmurs, “Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve picked at your food all day, and you’ve become more distant as the day’s gone on.”

“I’ll talk to you about it in the common room,” You state.

“You will?”

Nodding, you promise,  “I will.”

Draco makes his way through the rest of the meal; drawing you into a conversation after conversation about how the day has been. When his plate is empty and yours has been pushed to one side, Draco stands from the bench. He takes one last drink of his pumpkin juice before holding his hand out to you.

The walk to the common room is quiet; you think over the letter in your bag, wondering about the reply you’re going to send back to your mother. One cross word from you and you wouldn’t be surprised if she, herself, showed up in Dumbledore’s office demanding punishment for your insolent words.

It was tiring, you realise, to be her daughter.

The Slytherin common room is silent when Draco leads you through the door; all students either still eating in the Great Hall or ambling about the castle. You settle on the black leather couch in front of the already lit fire; you hum at the warmth it gives off – holding your hands out to warm them through.

Once your hands are warm enough, you lean back into the couch. Feeling Draco’s eyes on you, you shift your head, facing him with a small smile.

Draco tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, “What’s going on in that pretty little head?”

You sigh, opening your bag and pulling out the letter. Handing it to Draco, you say wryly, “Dear old mama wrote, that’s what.”

Draco scans over the letter; getting to the three lines that have played on your mind all day and have affected your eating habits so quickly.

Draco folds the letter carefully into the three; he folds it ever so neatly before ripping it to pieces in front of your eyes, leaning forward and throwing the tiny pieces into the fire.

“I hope you don’t believe a word she’s written.”

You shrug, fiddling with your fingers, “Maybe I should stop eating so much.”

Draco leaps up from the couch; spreading his arms wide, “There is absolutely nothing wrong with your weight – you do not need to lose, you do not need to gain. You are perfect the way you are. I love you to pieces, but darling, your mother is an awful person. What sort of person sends that to their child?”

He kneels on the ground in front of you, “I will love you no matter what. The sky could be green, and the clouds could be purple hedgehogs, but even that would not distract me from my love for you.”

He gestures to the pieces of parchment now turning to ash in the flames, “Everything about you is beautiful; from the top of your head to the tip of your toes – there isn’t anything about you I don’t adore. Reply to your mother if you must; tell her that you’ve let me read the letter and that I absolutely disagree with her words.”

Draco surges forward, kissing you soundly. He shifts slightly, beginning to press you into the couch, “I love you – just the way you are.”

******

General (HP) taglist: @chaotic-fae-queen @obsessedwithrandomthings @harrypotter289 @dreamer821 @kalimagik @heloisedaphnebrightmore @nebulablakemurphy @the-hufflefluffwriter @figlia--della--luna @bforbroadway @idont-knowrn @summer-writes @big-galaxy-chaos @black-lake-confessions @annasofiaearlobe @imboredandneedalife @levylovegood @mytreec @haphazardhufflepuff @teheharrypotter @chaoticgirl04 @accio-rogers @msmimimerton​ @izzytheninja​ @slytherinprincess03​

Draco Malfoy taglist: @the--queen-of-hell @obx-beach @obxmxybxnk @sycathorn-slush @dracomalfoyswifey

[vecnawrites]

Playing Hard To Get

Everyone knew that Jaune Arc pined for Weiss Schnee. But what few knew was that Weiss Schnee pined for Jaune Arc just as much. The reason they weren't together? Weiss had gotten bad romantic advice. Hopefully, this wouldn't work against her...

The last of my Patreon Rewards for August! And Safe For Work, to boot!

Weiss walked down Beacon’s hallways with a confident smile on her beautiful face. Her snow white hair was perfectly shampooed and conditioned, her tiara was in its proper place, and she had just the slightest bit of make up on her face to accentuate her best traits, making her eyes and lips stand out, accentuated her cheekbones, and all that.

Why all the primping? Well, Weiss was a woman on a mission. She knew, well, more like everyone knew, that one Jaune Arc was smitten with her, completely and utterly. But what no one actually realized was that she was smitten with him as well.

Why hadn’t she agreed to his many requests for a date, then? Well, the answer was surprisingly simple. She wanted to see that he would fight for her. She had read in a myriad of articles and books based around romance that it was very good to play ‘hard to get’, as it would show if the boy in question was truly serious about dating her. If he continued to try for her, he was worth keeping around, worth dating in the long run.

Jaune hadn’t stopped, he had always tried to convince her to go out with him, but he was pleasant about it, always accepting her answer of ‘no’ with grace, backing away only to try again about a week or so later. And he never asked her to do something boring. It was always something that she loved (she loved comedy movies! After all, there was little joy growing up in the Schnee household), or had never done before but actually wanted to try (she had never been allowed near any sort of arcade or even gaming before as a child, being expected to be the perfect heiress at all times)! He even knew her favorite flowers and how she liked her coffee!

She knew that now was the time to strike, as the Beacon Dance was coming up during the next week. Now, she knew that most girls considered Jaune a dork (and they weren’t wrong, he was a wonderful dork), but that left him open for her to snag as a date for it!

She already knew that it would be perfect~ Jaune was always the perfect gentleman, even when it was against someone that was being rude to him-that brute of an oaf Cardin and her own teammate Yang were two examples.

Reaching the Library, Weiss walked in confidently, seeing the head of blonde hair that she knew by heart over at one of the tables, scribbling away at a notebook before him, glancing at one of the books on top of the table.

Walking up, she gently coughed to catch his attention, and when she saw him look up and focus on her, she gathered herself and spoke. “Well, Arc,” oh, how she loathed to call him by his last name, she would be sure to call him by his proper name after this, “I know that the Dance is coming up, and since I know you don’t have a date, I’m willing to go with y-” she blinked, stopping as Jaune closed his book, looking up at her with that sheepish, slightly awkward grim that she adored, but for some reason, this one filled her with dread.

“Actually, I do have a date to the dance, Weiss!” he said, his face happy and voice calm, but both made her freeze as though she had just heard some of the most dark, foul, and violent vitriol to ever grace her ears.

“R-Really?” she hated how weak her voice sounded, how faint it was, the sinking feeling only growing as Jaune gathered up his finished work and stood, nodding to her with a smile. “Yeah, she even asked me, rather than the other way around with me asking her, so it was a nice surprise! I’m sorry, but I can’t stay and talk; I have a team training session with Pyrrha, Nora, and Ren! I’ll talk to you later?”

Weiss found herself nodding weakly, wondering where things had gone so wrong as the boy she wanted left the library. She had no doubt that he was just too polite to say ‘no’ to the girl in question… so she would have to find said girl and… convince… her that it was in her best interest for something to ‘come up’ the night of the dance and allow her to go with her Dork Knight.

~

Weuss was going to have to give up, as much as she despised the very thought. All of her investigations had come up with nothing. She knew that it wasn’t Pyrrha: her largest rival for Jaune’s affections wouldn’t have been quiet about going to the dance with him. She’d have been singing about it from the rooftops.

Her own partner was also out as well; after all, Ruby was not only the only one of her team to know about how she truly felt about Jaune, she also only saw Jaune as her ‘goofy bestie’. Which wasn’t bad at all in her case. It meant she had someone to talk to about her feelings.

But that still left many candidates: the chocolate skinned, green haired girl named Emerald Sustrai eyed him in interest several times, as did the beret wearing Ciel Soliel from Atlas, and even the beanie wearing sniper from BRNZ, May Zedong had been eyeing him enough to make her feel uneasy. A scowl formed on her face at the thought of one of those… those hussies taking her man!

...but, she hadn’t figured out who it was, and tomorrow was the dance. She hadn’t bothered to see if anyone else would go with her, not when the only person she wanted to go with wasn’t available. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to attend anymore. She wouldn’t enjoy it.

She sighed, shaking her head as she saw the person of her desires walking towards her, that sweet smile on his face. She swallowed, but forced a smile to her face. It wasn’t like a lady to be sour at someone else’s happiness… even if it hurt.

“Hey, Weiss, how are you doing?” he asked, making her smile become more genuine, even if still being sad.

“Hello, Jaune… how are you doing?” she saw him frown, and panicked a bit, she didn’t want him to know that she was feeling sad! She watched as he bit down on his lower lip a bit, looking at her with his deep blue eyes.

“I’m doing okay. Prepared for the dance tomorrow, how about you?” she felt the sting again at the knowledge that he would be going with someone else, someone that wasn’t her. Horrifyingly, she felt tears building in the corners of her eyes, and quickly focused her gaze down towards the floor so he wouldn’t see them.

“O-Oh, that’s nice…” damn her for sounding so weak! “I...I really hope you enjoy your date with w-whoever it is…” she sniffed, feeling the tears beginning to make their way down her cheeks-

“IT’S YOU!”

Weiss froze, two single tears dropping from her face to fall on the floor as her eyes widened, hearing those two, powerful words. She looked up, seeing him looking at her with a sad, but warm smile on his face as he reached out and gently wiped her cheeks clean.

“It’s you, Weiss… you asked me in the library, remember?” Weiss’s mind flashed back to that day last week, and their conversation, specifically, her saying that since he didn’t have a date, she would-a small gasp left her lips, and more tears built up and flowed down her cheeks, but these were ones of happiness.

He hugged her gently, and she sank into his hold happily, inhaling his scent, crying steadily now. “Let’s have a lot of fun, just the two of us, okay?” she croaked out, feeling Jaune nod against her head. “I’ve thought a lot about this all, so I hope you can keep up with me.” another gently nod and a hand cupping her cheek as she hiccuped, carefully wiping her tears away.

Weiss couldn’t wait for the Dance now. She was just thankful she had gotten her dress ready when it was first announced!