#is to keep telling the same story over and over again

[hawkins-batman]

The Noah Schnapp Situation Going Into S5

With Stranger Things Season 5 coming out this year, we are unfortunately going to see a revival of the debacle around Noah, even though by then it will be an almost 2 year old subject. So, I thought I would get ahead of that with some of my thoughts based on what I've seen these last few weeks and more broadly over the last 6 or more months I've been on this scene.

Spoiler Alert: This is going to be a long one. It'll probably be my new pinned post.

Why Still Talk About It?

Frankly? Because it's still going on. Keep in mind, Liam Payne died in October 2024 (just three months ago), right around Noah's birthday, and THIS is how Twitter responded to that.

And just in case anyone thinks I had to dig back a whole 3 months to find Noah-hate-content on Twitter, here was just random things I grabbed from the last week:

Which brings me to the next point.

Why Do You Even Care?

"Noah doesn't know you." "He's not your pookie."

I know that. The funny thing is, from what little I know about Noah, I'm pretty sure if he DID know me beyond the ONE DM conversation we've had, he'd probably tell me to chill. Dude is very non-confrontational and nice. So, why do it?

Because I think the online movement in favor of Palestinian self-determination has been hijacked by teenagers and performative leftists who care more about looking good for their peers than practicing what they preach.

Because (as you can see above and in screenshots like the one below), people who claim to hold my liberal/progressive/left-leaning values have used this as an opportunity to be openly homophobic and antisemitic towards a then-19-year old who had JUST come out of the closet.

Proponents of the hate campaign against Noah have said that they are just "holding him accountable" or "criticizing him" in the hopes he "learns something."

Look up. Point to me which image is accountability. Point to me the valid criticisms.

There are none. There is just flagrant homophobia. And then there are posts like this one, coming from the same crowd:

This behavior is wrong on its face.

It is violent. It is bullying (which doesn't seem like strong enough of a word) and it's bigoted.

Wanna see more? Look up @noah_schnapp on Twitter/X. See what they've done to his account.

Inevitably, some of the people participating in this will see this blog post. If you've made it this far, this is for you:

This behavior discredits your activism. It makes you look performative and fake to say in one breath that you are a "Leftist" who cares about Palestinian lives as well as the lives of minority groups worldwide, and then to turn around and talk like this about a Jewish person and a gay KID. Because he WAS a kid when this started. Furthermore, it makes it clear to those of us who actually hold the beliefs we claim, that you are vapid enough to use Palestinian suffering for your own personal vendettas. That the APPEARANCE of goodness is more important than goodness itself. And that you will shuck solidarity with minority groups the MOMENT one of them steps out of the lines you have drawn around them.

Not to mention...

It's Based Mostly On Lies

As a reminder, this is what Noah Schnapp actually said shortly after October 7, 2023:

Read that again.

"...we will hope and pray for safety, justice, liberation, and self-determination in Palestine." That was part of the very first thing he ever said about the issue.

And then this happened:

This was the image he was crucified for.

Stickers that weren't even his. That he wasn't holding up or making. He was in a cafe, someone else came up to him with them, and he was videoed with that person.

That's it. That's all. All those tweets you saw above? The fake stories made up about him like this one?

All of that was supposedly "accountability."

The harassment of his family. Murder threats. Rape threats. All for stickers that weren't even his.

There's even a paid Stranger Things author on this very site, styling herself as a Byler shipper, who has contributed to the lies that have further added to the hate campaign I've described.

As an aside, Noah wasn't the only one in that video. The influencers that actually posted the video and HAD THE STICKERS?

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

And just to be clear - I don't think they should get hate. I think non-Jewish online Leftists appropriated a term from Jewish culture, redefined it, and are weaponizing it to beat down Jews all over the internet—which is par for the course for this charcuterie board of performative activism.

Yet the point stands. Noah was specifically targeted; and the homophobia that IMMEDIATELY came from the Left suggests to me that it was his sexuality and cultural/religious identity that motivated the attacks.

Again, I'll say, this is wrong.

Noah Has Since Responded

It hasn't stopped the bullying.

Didn't stop him from withdrawing from spaces he loved. From needing therapy from what we've learned from his now-deleted second TikTok.

And that really says something, does it? He cleared up his point. He tried to clarify and even apologize.

They didn't accept it. Not because it wasn't good enough. Not because it was "too late." Because this was the point. They wanted to keep doing it. They get sick joy from it.

Which is why...

I'm Not Shutting Up About This

This post doesn't even nearly cover the whole situation. The Byler fans who try to replace Noah's image in fan art and fan fiction. Who fan cast themselves as Will instead of Noah. The stalking and doxxing on Twitter. People reporting to GIANT hate accounts his location and when he's alone, PRAYING for him to be hurt.

I wish I could cover it all.

We have to stand up to this. On tumblr, on TikTok, on Threads, Twitter/X—everywhere we see it.

For our gay and Jewish siblings who see how Noah was attacked and feel less safe in their online spaces as a result, we have to speak up and say something.

And yeah. We have to say something for Noah, too.

The person who replied to me like this:

Him?

He did it because he needed to see a show of love from his fans. Doesn't mean he's perfect. Doesn't mean he won't mess up or do something in the future.

And no. Standing up for Noah, or for Jewish people, or other gay folks does not make you a genocide supporter or apologist. It doesn't mean you want any innocent people harmed. Don't give them the power to talk down to you like that. It's bullshit. You know it, and I know it.

All standing up to this vile shit is is an acknowledgement that Noah is a living, breathing person, as some of these people tend to forget.

And he didn't deserve this.

Any of it.

[yandere-wishes]

✮⋆˙Red Hood and The Big Bad Wolf ˙⋆✮

⭒⌒★ Yandere! Jason Todd x Reader ★⌒⭒

゜。♡ 𝓕𝓪𝓲𝓻𝔂 𝓣𝓪𝓵𝓮 𝓐𝓤 ♡ ｡ ゜

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

*ੈ✩‧₊ Thinking about how similar Red Hood is to Little Red Riding Hood, not just in name but also in practice. At their core, they are both things, red things, that survive. Reborn from the lugubre maws of death, forced to live another day, carrying baskets weaved of anguish and instability.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Jason keeps the old picture book tucked in his jacket pocket. He can't quite remember where he found the fickle thing. Can't remember why he chose such an evanescent tale to cling to.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Or maybe he does, maybe he knows exactly why he runs his fingers over his inside pocket after every fight, just to make sure the eccentric fable is still in place. Maybe it's because he understands Red Riding Hood. Knows what she's been through, what it feels like to have your innocence stripped like skin being torn from bones. To be killed and revived all in the same breath. Maybe it's because he wants to know what happens next. What happens when Little Red learns to breathe again? He wants to ask her, beg her to tell him. To be the solution to all his problems.

*ੈ✩‧₊ "How do you swallow the trauma? What do you do with the phantom pain of your heart's reanimation? How do you make the darkness go away? Did you come back the same?

*ੈ✩‧₊ There is only one thing that makes them differ. One fundamental little thing...

*ੈ✩‧₊ Jason doesn't mind the wolf. Pretty pup prowling about. He blames it on his upbringing. He'd been taught to fall in love with such wicked things. From as early as he can remember he's watched bats chase cats across gargoyle-littered rooftops. Watched pretty girls throw themselves at bleached killers. That's why he's quick to be enarmed with the new villain terrorizing the Gotham streets. The girl in a wolf mask, planting bombs in jewelry stores and biting off her victim's ears.

*ੈ✩‧₊ There is nothing scary about the big bad wolf, Red Hood thinks, as he re-reads the page where the wolf and girl meet. Why fear pain when you've been to the end of the road? Why fear something when you're acquainted with its ending?

*ੈ✩‧₊ "Shouldn't wolves only come out when there's a full moon?" He swings in from the skyline, ironclad military boots lodging into your stomach pushing you back into a glass display case. "That's werewolves you idiot" you mumble out of breath, glass shards pocking at your spine. The ticking of your newest explosive rings melodically through the air. He's quick to cut the wires, to defuse your toy without a second thought. Professional you think bitterly as you pounce on his back looking for an opening of flesh to sink your teeth into.

*ੈ✩‧₊ The thing they don't tell you about dying is that you always come back wrong. Primordially, spiritually, the person who closes their eyes, is never the same one who opens them again.

But Red Riding Hood was lucky, her story ended before she realized that dreadful thing. Jason has to deal with it every day, the reverberating scars, the colorless world that fractures and breaks should he let his mind wander astray. The fact that his heart only ever truly beats when he sees the fluffy ears of your cowl and that damn bloodthirsty smirk.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason Todd who's only brave enough to call it love after you stake a knife through his heart. The bulletproof vest and armor keep the damage away, but he can see the murderous intent shimmering in your eyes. It's only then that he pulls you down by the back of your neck. Lips to lips, a messy clash of anathema and apprehension. Your teeth gnaw at his lips while his tongue composes ballads on the roof of your mouth.

*ੈ✩‧₊ He wonders if Little Red ever went back for the wolf. If she ever dares kiss him with all the pain and anguish she has left in her body. Nicking her tongue on his razor-sharp teeth. Guiding his claws to ghost over her frail body. He wonders if the wolf can even hurt her. There's so little left that can hurt you when you've already felt the end.

*ੈ✩‧₊ He knows you stalk him, follow him even during the day. Sometimes he pulls you into the back alleyway. Knife at your throat as he soaks up your ethereal face. Mask on, mask off. In the end, you'd have found out anyway. His hands squeeze at your hips, needing the flesh, leaving his essence over your body. His lips danced over the back of your neck, biting tenderly at the apex of your shoulder.

*ੈ✩‧₊ You seem to like it when his knife cuts deep. When his punches crack bone. When his boots crush you into the pavement. You throw your head back and laugh, witty little threats spilling from your mouth. So this is love he thinks as your claws rake over his biceps ripping the muscle like ribbons, rummaging through the blood and tissue in search of bone. "Poor little puppy" he mocks "looking for a bone to chew on". "Shut up you tomato-looking freak" you scream as his teeth sink into your jaw, crunching of bone.

*ੈ✩‧₊ He thinks you look gorgeous when you're irritated, he thinks you're beautiful when your bloodthirst seeps through the anger. He bites back a moan as your knee nests into his gut.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Did Little Red ever talk to her mother again? Or did she hold a grudge, haunted by her betrayal of sending her into the woods unarmed, heartbroken that she never came looking for her? Jason's thoughts pound inside his head, picture-book illustrations flash before him of Little Red pushing her mother away, of tears streaming down her face, screaming, screaming, screaming. He hisses as his lacerations burn. Hand suspended, pushing down the urge to knock on his father's door. Bruce would know what to do...he always knows what to do. It's such a childish notion, he clings to. Even now, even after he was killed and left un-avenged Jason still wholeheartedly believes in the notion that Daddy will fix everything...He's halfway to the entrance gate when Bruce alls after him, cadence thick with grief and ache. Jason doesn't turn back, he runs and runs and runs.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason who crashes through your apartment window. Pushes you back onto the bed and lies next to you as you squirm and scream. He wraps his arms protectively around your waist and nuzzles into the crux of your neck. Mumbling Little Red Riding Hood's tale until you fall asleep. "How did You know I love the story?" you ask, the next morning to the empty half of your bed. Last night's tremulous dread still laying heavy on your corpse.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason who lays on his window seal, watching as the sun pokes through Granny Red's face. It's funny isn't it, in such a twisted way didn't he also die in his grandfather's house? Only to be reborn while he watched? Didn't the same thing happen to Little Red?

*ੈ✩‧₊ That night Jason dream he's was walking through the grass, headed for the forest behind Wayne manner. He's trapped inside his jejune body, the body of a boy wonder. Clutching a basket with a crowbar inside as dread dances in his stomach. His old red cape taut around his neck, suffocating, skin-tight. He's forgotten how to breathe, puerile fear of those ghoulish old trees clawing at his body. Through the dimness, through lose rays that escape the moon's greed he's able to spot you. Weaving through the bushes and trees, stalking closer and closer. He doesn't know whether to meet you halfway or retreat. Frozen like a robin being pounced on by a sickly smiling cat. His eyes meet yours, right before you attack.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason who misses you, when he doesn't catch you on patrol, of course, he misses you, it's hard not to miss a broken bone. Hard to feel the sting of your wounds and forget who put them there.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason finally realizes that he just can't bear to be away from you. This love, this mania, it's all for you. He needs you. He's got you corned, the end of a chase. You smile, all teeth and games, "You're pretty when sulk" you whisper, tracing claws up his chest, digging into the space between each ridge. "Oh really? How can you tell when I got this helmet on?" You laugh, coy and flirtish "I just do" you shrug. Pulling his helmet up, lips ghosting over his in a mockery of a kiss. Jason pushes forward, entraping your lips against his. Lost in intimacy he's quick to grab you, to drag you back to his apartment, to lock the doors and throw away the key. To keep the big bad wolf where she belongs, right next to Little Red Riding Hood.

   

🎀I feel like every Batson deserves a villainess to fall in love with. Let's call this one WolfWoman. TBH I feel like I want to write more for her in the future.

[yearningandstillnotlearning]

𝑺𝑻𝑨𝒀 𝑺𝑶𝑭𝑻,

𝑮𝑬𝑻 𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑬𝑵.

A/N: okay bear with me, this is a ‘poem’ (i don’t know what else to call it) that i wrote and when i read over it i realised some girls here would appreciate this imagery with their own infatuations, so whilst its not written like fan-fiction i felt generous enough to share it and i hope at least 1 of you will like it, best part is that you can picture any one of your favourite girls!!! Instead of a name i call the other character “Pretty”, so keep that in mind while reading, and again, this isn’t written like fan-fiction, but still i would appreciate it if you gave it a shot and told me what you think ♡

tags: lesbian only, think anyone!, femme!r, metaphors, suggestive, nsfw undertones but they are so slight and hidden beneath the wordplay that i can’t really count this as nsfw, sadomasochistic in a way, did i forget something? Let me know!

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · ୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨ · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

I don’t want a cottage, i don’t want a life in simplicity and independency. I want a castle, i want an abandoned mansion adorned by vines hugging it long after solitude fell cold and loveless upon its very walls.

I want to hear the floors creak with every step, i want to hear the tremble of the floors effortlessly mirror the tremble of her legs, i want to have her, Pretty, and i want to keep her on her toes. I want, behind her gaze, to be as unpredictable as the grass around the mansion, a neglected ring of hues of green. Tall, short, eaten, rotten.

I want to give her the world, and i want to make her spin in the middle of it, i want to give her everything and make her feel like in a moment she could have nothing.

I want to make her dizzy and i want to make her euphoric, i want to see her scared and i want to hold her close, be the one to comfort her, Pretty.

I want our clothes to dance against each other when the weather drops and i take her out on walks, on the endless garden we’ve named ‘our hearts’ that no matter how long it’s been there for, untouched, unloved, uncared for, it just never seems to end.

I want her to let me tear her cotton fabrics apart and off, torn by grinding teeth and claw-like nails, hungry like a centuries-old vampire, lifetimes of self control and respect disintegrated in the very same time span Pretty’s clothes get ripped. Carefully laboured fabric, soft as freshly laved hair, made with the selfish, miserable thought of this granting them extra bread on their dinner plate.

And she would, she would let me tear her apart in one shared gaze. She would let me hold her and scratch her open, she would let me wound her because she knows i’ll be the one to heal her up again. And she knows i’ll do it before she can build the thought of asking me to.

She would let me darken her vision under the noon sun, heating and blinding. She would let me bruise her neck, violet splats trailing down her body like a rosemary. She would let me reach her depths and spin them around, it’d be nothing new to her, as long as her world is intertwined with mine she’s always spinning, she’s always dizzy. She would let me cradle her head as i treat her like fresh meat in aching, starved hands, because i’ve done so another hundred times, and each one she only seems more unwilted than the last.

Because she knows she’ll get me back.

Because she plans on making my darkest nights luminous, and she knows i’ll let her. The story is always the same; she unwraps me like a one-of-a-kind royal heirloom, her touches vigilant, precise on what she unfolds, what lies beneath her hands. And she knows i don’t fancy peace, her words forming clear juxtaposition to her touches, there are no blurred lines, my sense of touch and my sense of hearing are in two completely different words, and yet they co-exist in the pits of my stomach.

But like every child asking their parent to tell them a bedtime story, it doesn’t matter if its always the same, they always enjoy it the same. At the end of the day they fall asleep to it every time.

I’ll let her unwrap the lace off the corset, i’ll let her loosen every layer, watch the silks fall off my form, i’ll let her tell me the harshest things that leave my throat closing in on itself, as her hands soothe around my flesh getting me to ease up. She’ll rock me back and forth from being velvety to being cruel, i know it, and i will let her.

Because it takes two to dance, if you’re unable to match the other’s rhythm what’s the fun? It’s only enjoyable when you’re both having fun. 🫀

[scoutofmymind]

exLuigi x Reader. I want something juicy, queen!

Darkest Before Dawn — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: SFW, angst, bitter feelings, unrequited love, arguing, friends funeral, etc.

W.c: 3,236

Notes; A close friend of yours and Luigi’s passes, setting the stage for an untimely reunion in bitter circumstances — later facing the raw truth that sometimes it takes losing someone to find your way back to each other.

This turned a lil self indulgent for my need to get some angst out. I can’t help it. I love drama

The autumn wind carries leaves across your feet in lazy spirals, nature's own procession leading deeper into the cemetery. Your arm is linked with Maya's — she hasn't left your side since the news broke, and even now her grip tightens whenever your breath hitches.

The sea of black suits and dresses before you ebbs and flows like a dark tide, faces both familiar and strange blurring together through unshed tears.

Grief comes in waves.

One moment you're choking back laughter at Jamie's story about Olivia’s disastrous attempt at making tiramisu for your monthly dinner parties, the next you're biting your lip bloody to keep from sobbing when someone mentions how she used to be the most fun out of anyone to kayak with, rain or shine.

It shouldn't matter. Not today.

Not when Sarah's gone and everything feels simultaneously too sharp and too dull.

But your eyes keep betraying you, scanning the crowd between eulogies, during the hymns, through the quiet moments. Your ears strain past the murmur of condolences and shared memories, searching for that particular timber, that specific cadence that you'd know anywhere.

The laugh that used to rumble against your shoulder during lazy Sunday mornings, the voice that could fill a room without trying.

"He isn't here," Maya whispers, tracking your restless gaze as it sweeps the room for the thousandth time. "You can breathe." Her words are meant to comfort, but they settle like stones in your stomach.

Luigi didn't come.

You force yourself to accept this, to let your guard down as the ceremony begins.

The first notes of Olivia’s favorite Chopin nocturne float through the air, weaving between muffled sobs and shaky breaths. She'd played this piece herself, once, at your apartment's housewarming. Her fingers had stumbled over the keys of your secondhand piano, but her smile had been radiant.

The memory splits you open all over again, raw as that first night — the 3 AM phone call, the way your knees had hit the kitchen floor, how the world had tilted sideways and never quite righted itself.

And then, like a punch to the solar plexus, you see him.

Luigi.

Hovering in the back, looking like he's been assembled from broken parts. His hair is disheveled, his tie crooked, those warm brown eyes you once knew better than your own now bloodshot and hollow. He's swaying slightly, and you recognize the tells — one desperate cigarette on the drive over, black coffee clutched like a lifeline.

You've seen him hold himself together like this before, all fraying edges and stubborn pride.

Your fingers dig into Maya's arm, but you bite back the words. Let her think you're still alone in your grief.

It feels safer than acknowledging how your heart still recognizes his particular brand of falling apart.

You try to stay hidden in plain sight, but his presence is magnetic — always has been. That familiar electricity crawls up your spine each time his gaze finds you across the room. Even now, even here, his eyes carry that same concerned weight they did a year ago, like you're the one who needs saving.

You feel him everywhere, the way you always have, only now your carefully constructed walls have crumbled at the worst possible moment.

The reception becomes suffocating, all polite murmurs and half-finished sentences about how she's in a better place now.

You slip outside for air, and there he is — a portrait of barely contained grief on the church steps. His fingers work mechanically over Olivia’s AA coin, turning it over and over like a rosary whilst the cigarette between his lips burns dangerously close to the filter, more ash than purpose, as if he's forgotten it's there.

Something pulls you forward — muscle memory, perhaps, or maybe it's the voice in your ear, gentle but insistent: Sit with him. He needs you.

"She was so proud of this," Luigi murmurs, eyes fixed on the coin catching the dying light. The messages wear like prayers beneath his thumb — It's always darkest before the dawn, and One day at a time. The edges are smooth now from his constant fidgeting, as if he could somehow extract comfort from its worn surface.

Olivia had been more than just his neighbor — she was the thread that stitched your lives together.

You still remember her braces-filled grin when she introduced you at soccer team tryouts, convinced her two favorite people would hit it off. From there, it was a domino effect of shared milestones; friendship bracelets woven under summer stars, prom photos where Olivia pulled faces between you both, the three of you crammed into her ancient Volkswagen for driving lessons, and dorm room numbers exchanged like secrets.

And now here you sit, on opposite sides of a chasm she can no longer bridge.

Words feel inadequate, hollow in the face of such loss, so you stay silent. But your eyes betray you — they always did with him — filling with that mixture of concern and understanding that used to make him feel seen, now just makes him feel exposed.

"Oh," he groans, waving his free hand like he could physically brush away your gaze. "Don't fuckin' look at me like that — Please." The last word catches in his throat, raw and ragged, like it costs him something to say it.

You snap your gaze to the swaying trees, watching October paint its warning signs of winter across the landscape. Your spine straightens like a soldier at attention, fighting the tremor that threatens to shake loose more tears. "I just want to know you're okay."

Luigi's laugh is a broken thing, more wound than sound.

You feel his eyes boring into your profile, but you keep yours fixed on the dying leaves dancing in the wind. "A phone call would have been fine," he mutters, loading the chamber of your familiar game with practiced precision.

It's so perfectly Luigi — dropping emotional grenades at the worst possible moments, like he's testing if the blast radius of your shared pain has changed; you chamber your own round without missing a beat. "The phone works both ways," you fire back, the words carrying just enough bite to draw blood.

This is the dance you know best — this careful choreography of hurt, each of you taking turns to twist the knife a little deeper. It's muscle memory, really, born in the crucible of young love and forged in the fire of terrible timing.

The game never has a winner, just two people who loved each other so completely it became a fault line.

"I've got a lot on my plate," Luigi breathes, the words hanging as flimsy as tissue paper in the autumn air. His gaze burns into your temple with an intensity that's achingly familiar — that same scorching desperation you remember from late nights when his demons wouldn't let him sleep.

He's still that wounded boy underneath it all, wrestling with ghosts that never quite stopped haunting him.

"You don't think I do?" The words snap out before you can stop them, your head whipping around to meet his gaze head-on. His eyes are two bruised hollows, those warm brown irises you once wrote poetry about now floating in seas of red, crowned by shadows that speak of endless sleepless nights. "Yet I-" you gesture sharply at yourself, voice pitched low and razor-sharp, "had the fucking decency to show up on time."

The punch lands exactly where you aimed it, and you watch him flinch like you've slapped him.

It's a cheap shot, using his tardiness as a weapon, when you know damn well he probably spent hours just trying to make it out of his apartment.

But grief makes soldiers of us all, and today you're both armed to the teeth with things you shouldn't say.

Bang.

Luigi stared at you with those winter-dark eyes, and the world collapsed into a singular point of existence.

The distant traffic faded, the autumn wind stilled, even the harsh rays of the sun that peeked through the clouds hid behind them once again — leaving nothing but this moment, this breath, this unbearable weight between you.

You'd remember this look until your own dying day; the way his pupils dilated slightly, how his left eye still caught light differently, the precise shade of umber in his iris that you'd never quite managed to mix on your palette.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, but the words feel like ash in your mouth, too little and far too late.

You watch him fracture in real time, each carefully constructed wall crumbling like a condemned building, and somehow – impossibly – it only feeds the anger burning in your chest. "But just because I’m not an engineer doesn't mean my life is some cute little hobby. You don't have a monopoly on struggling, Lu."

Luigi recoils like you've struck a match against raw nerves, his entire body seeming to cave in on itself.

The cigarette, forgotten between his fingers, drops ash onto his pressed black slacks — the ones you know he probably spent an hour convincing himself to put on.

His jaw works silently, grinding teeth the way he always did when trying to swallow something too big to say.

"You think I-" he starts, then stops, pressing his thumb so hard into Olivia’s coin that his knuckle turns white. There's a violent tremble in his hands now, the kind that used to precede his worst panic attacks. "I couldn't-" Another false start, words crumbling like wet sand.

What he can't tell you is how he spent three hours this morning sitting in his parked car outside the church, chain-smoking through half a pack, trying to convince his legs to carry him inside.

How he threw up twice before leaving his apartment, the coffee and cigarettes his only defense against complete system shutdown.

How he's been sleeping on his couch because his bed feels foreign without late-night phone calls about recovery meetings and bad reality TV shows.

Instead, he just stares at you with those haunted eyes, and you see it then — the way he's holding himself together with safety pins and spite, one wrong word away from shattering completely.

I'm not okay. I haven't been okay.

His composure fractures further, a hairline crack spreading across carefully constructed walls.

The hand holding Olivia’s coin drops between his knees, dangling there like a surrender flag while his other hand rakes through his dark curls that haven’t seen proper care in days.

But you recognize the gesture — it's the same one from high school, when his father would show up drunk to soccer games, when college rejection letters came, when Olivia first went into rehab.

"You know what?" His voice comes out sandpaper-rough, caught somewhere between anger and anguish. "You're right. You're always fucking right." The words twist with something bitter, but the venom isn't meant for you — it never really was. "I should've been here earlier. Should've been there more. Should've-" He chokes on the rest.

The coin slips from his trembling fingers, pinging against the concrete steps. You both watch it spin, a dizzying dance of copper catching what little sunlight breaks through the clouds, before it settles face-up.

One day at a time stares up at you both, Sarah's mantra now a mockery — because how do you take it one day at a time when every day feels like drowning?

It’s always darkest before the dawn.

Luigi's shoulders shake with something that might be a laugh or might be a sob, with him, it's hard to tell the difference. "She called me, you know. Night before." His voice drops to barely a whisper, like he's sharing a secret he's been carrying around like a bullet in the chest. "I was busy. Said I'd call back in the morning."

"Lu,” Your voice cracks on his name, the anger from moments ago evaporating. You remember your own last conversation with Sarah — something trivial about a TV show she'd started binging.

How were either of you supposed to know it would be the last time?

"Don't." He cuts you off sharply, but his voice betrays him, wavering like it walked a tightrope. "Just — don't do that thing where you try to make it okay. It's not fucking okay." His hands are shaking so badly now that when he reaches for another cigarette, he drops the whole pack.

You reach for it automatically, and your fingers brush his as you both grab for it, making him jerk back like he's been burned, but not before you feel the cold clamminess of his skin. "When's the last time you ate something?" The question slips out before you can stop it, that old protective instinct rising up despite everything.

"Christ," he laughs. "You sound just like her. She used to-" He stops abruptly, swallowing hard. "She'd text me every morning. 'Did you eat breakfast?'" His voice trails off, and you watch him pick up her coin again, thumbing the worn edges.

"I have her last text," you offer quietly, pulling out your phone. "Want to see it?"

Luigi's head snaps up, eyes wide with something between terror and desperate need. "I-" he starts, then just nods, the simple movement seeming to cost him everything.

You pull up the message thread, trying to ignore how your hands aren't much steadier than his.

And there it is, timestamped 9:47 PM: “Found this stupid cat video, reminded me of that time at Lu’s when his cat jumped from the second floor onto the dinner table.. Miss you. We should do dinner soon.”

Luigi makes a sound like someone's just punched him in the stomach. "I can't- fuck," he breathes, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "She sent me some stupid meme. I didn't even open it. I was in the middle of a work call and I just — I thought I'd have time."

"We all did," you whisper, watching a leaf spiral down between you. "That's the whole point of recovery, isn't it? Having time to fix things."

"Yeah, well," his voice is razor-thin, "turns out time's a real bitch that way." He finally looks at you properly, and the raw devastation in his eyes makes your chest ache. "You know what the worst part is? I kept the voicemail. Her last one. Haven't listened to it yet. I can’t -“

Your breath catches. "Do you want to? Now?" The raw and desperate need to hear her voice in something that isn’t a stupid video on your phone claws at you. "Together, I mean."

Luigi's hand tightens around Olivia’s coin until his knuckles go white again.

For a moment, you think he's going to say no, going to retreat back behind those walls he's spent years perfecting. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nods.

He fumbles with his phone, hands shaking so badly you have to help him hit speaker.

For a moment, there's just static, and then — her voice fills the space between you, bright and clear and so achingly alive it feels like being gutted.

“Hey, Lu. I know it's late, but... I've been thinking. About you and-" A pause, a soft laugh. “God, you're both so stupid sometimes, you know that? Life's too short to keep playing this dance. I see how you look at those old shitty Polaroids, how you both light up when I mention the other. Pride's a killer too, trust me on that one. I learned it the hard way."

Your hand reaches for Luigi’s, his grip crushing.

“Remember that time freshman year, after the accident? How you both stayed with me for two weeks straight, taking shifts so I was never alone? That's- that's what love looks like. Real love. And you idiots still have it, you're just too scared to admit it. So consider this your intervention." Another laugh, softer now. Sounds like she’s moving about her apartment, completing nightly tasks and having called Luigi to chat before bed. “Call me back when you get this. We'll figure it out together. Love you, dumb fuck.”

The message ends.

Luigi's breathing has gone ragged, each inhale sounding like it's being dragged across broken glass. "She knew," he whispers. "She always fucking knew."

"Lu-" you start, but your voice fails you. Because what can you say? That Olivia was right? That you've spent almost an entire year pretending not to miss him like a phantom limb? That sometimes you still reach for your phone to tell him about your day before remembering you're not supposed to anymore?

"I can't-" he sucked in a ragged breath, “I can't lose you both. I can't-"

"Hey," you say softly, your thumb unconsciously tracing circles on his palm. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

He makes a sound that's half-laugh, half-sob, his free hand coming up to cover his face, but not before you see the tears finally breaking free. "Last time I saw her, she made me promise we'd all have dinner together. Said she was tired of splitting holidays, of pretending we weren't all still family just because you and I couldn't -" He trails off, his shoulder shrugging as he groans, tilting his head back to unclog his nose and stuff the tears back where they belong.

"Because we couldn't get out of our own way," you finish. The truth of it sits heavy in your chest, all the wasted time, all the stubborn silence. "God, we're fucking idiots."

"She used to call me every Sunday, you know? Just to ask if I'd talked to you yet.” Another sniffle rips through him, “Every damn Sunday for almost a whole year."

You let out a wet laugh. "She did the same to me. Every Wednesday, like clockwork. 'Have you called Lu yet?' 'No, Liv.' 'Well, why the hell not?'"

"Sounds like her." Luigi's voice goes soft, fond despite the pain. His hand is still in yours, warm and familiar and terrifying.

The silence that follows feels different somehow — less like a wall and more like a bridge.

Olivia’s coin catches the light between you again.

One day at a time.

"So," you say finally, squeezing his hand. "What do we do now?"

“Well -we - we honor her, right?" Luigi looks to you again, his voice stronger despite the tremor in his hands. "Not just with words or - like - memories." He looks down at your intertwined fingers, then back up to your face with a vulnerability that makes your chest ache. "But by fucking stopping this war of attrition we've been fighting since-“

"Since the goddamn gallery opening," you finish softly. That night hangs between you — the argument that started as something small ended with eleven months of radio silence. "When you said my art was just a-“

"I never meant it," he cuts in, voice raw. "I was terrified, watching you risk everything while I played it safe. You were so brave, and I was-“ He draws a shaking breath. "I was a coward who took it out on you instead of admitting I hated my own choices."

"We can't get the time back," you say gently, watching his thumb brush over your knuckles this time instead of the coin. "But maybe,” You pause. "Maybe we can stop fuckin’ wasting what we have left."

[stilljuststardust]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You can't keep retelling the same story.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Maybe you've heard Neville Goddard say that you can't serve two masters and you're like wtf does that even mean? Maybe you just don't get why you have to drop the old story entirely or maybe you think that if the law of assumption really "can't fail" then why can't you return to the old story? Shouldn't it manifest regardless??

First you need to understand how the law works:

Your dominant thoughts/state of being creates your reality. What you are most consistent in assuming and affirming is accepted by your subconscious and materialized into reality.

Your subconscious is impartial. It doesn't care what the physical world says, it doesn't care what is and isn't "true", it believes whatever you are consistently telling it. Whatever you repeat, it believes. It doesn't have an opinion.

The law cannot fail you, but the law doesn't just apply to the free coffees and money you want to manifest. If you are affirming and assuming that you don't have what you want by law that is what has to manifest.

The canvas doesn't care that you want to paint it red. If you're using blue paint, blue it shall be. If you continue to think from your old state that is what will continue to manifest.

You can't continue to think from the old story because it directly contradicts the new one.

Your subconscious is going to go with what you've repeated the most which is the old story so you HAVE to repeat the new one instead of actively manifesting against it.

You can't manifest not having a phone at the same time as you "try" to manifest having a phone, you have to pick one.

When you are telling yourself that it's not happening fast enough, you're not good at this, it isn't working, you are affirming. All your subconscious knows is that you are repeating this over and over so therefore it must be what manifests. If you're selecting the reality where you don't have it over and over again then your subconscious will do the same.

Think as if. That's literally it. That's all you have to do.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

[r4fe-cam3ron]

Happy New Year!

I’d like to make a request a Tangerine 🍊 x Reader story sort of inspired by Mr and Mrs Smith where the reader and him work for rival contracting companies and are ordered to take out the competition but they can’t do it cause they care too much about each other. I would love to see the angsty tension.

Thank you ❤️

hiii babes!!! happy newwww year!! thank you for this request, and thank you for also being patient with me! i hope you enjoy <3 w; mentions of guns and blood — of course!

you almost hack up a lung onto the polished floors that were now splattered with tiny blood drops.

the heels you wear are surprisingly still holding up, though you couldn’t say the same about your dress or hair. the sweat that covers your face had ruined a bit of your make up — eyeshadow and eyeliner smudged.

tangerine still thought you looked beautiful — laying out on the floor, arms trying to find their strength to push yourself up, the ripped dress, and smudged makeup with faded red lipstick.

he slowly walks over, looking down at you as he wipes under his nose, freeing it from the caked on blood.

your eyes slowly lift to look up at him, teeth grinding. he clicks his tongue. “i told you, love, that’s not good for your teeth.”

gaining what strength you had remaining, you stumble to your feet. his hands quickly reach out, clutching your biceps.

pushing against his chest, your jaw clenches. “you don’t get to tell me what to do and what not to do,” you snap. tan smirks when he sees that fire reappearing in your eyes. “we don’t like each other.”

“that’s were you’re—”

throwing a punch, he easily catches your hand, twisting your arm and body, before yanking your back towards his chest.

“as i was saying,” his voice lowers and your eyes cut over. “that’s were you’re wrong. i happen to think we both are very, very fond of one another.”

your nose flares. “in your dreams, fruitcake.”

you elbow his stomach, his grip releasing to try and hold your other arm. you quickly turn and knee him, running past him.

he doubles over, grunting in pain. he watches as you enter the code once, twice, three times before pulling out the black case that held the emerald.

slowly lifting at the hips, he looks towards the door. he was still hidden from sight, but you weren’t. the man slowly steps in, trying to remain quiet.

tangerine slowly reaches for his gun, shooting him before he could shoot you — that should be his job …. if it ever came down to it (it has. several times. he just never did.).

you flinch at the sound, quickly spinning around, eyes wide as you watch the man slowly fall to his knees. they lift and stare at tangerine who keeps his arm lifted, eyes burning holes into your skull.

you gulp from the look.

his knuckles turn white from the grip, before returning back to the pale color that was light against all the cuts and gashes and scars around his skin there.

“well?” you ask finally, back straightening.

“well, what?” he snaps.

“aren’t you gonna shoot me? get the emerald?”

his eyes drop to the velvet box in your hand before lifting to meet your own defiant eyes once again. he inhales, nose flaring slightly.

his finger slides across the trigger.

do it. pull it. grab the box and run.

slowly dropping his arm, he stuffs the gun back into the waistband of his pants, stepping over the male that lies in a puddle of blood. you back up slowly, back grazing the wall.

“this is the last time you win.”

you stare up at him, lips parted. you practically had watched this man crumble in front of you. before you could say anything, he’s turning and walking out of the room — leaving you speechless and with a velvet box in hand.

[crimsoncandy04]

Okay so little known fact about me, I'm a shifter and I frequently use both spiritual methods and substances to shift into other worlds, and like when I'm in the world of Genshin Impact I sometimes see the most messed up shit but I never tell anyone cause idk why, and today since my adventure was actually kinda sexy I feel like I should share some of the stuff I learned and experienced.

Especially because you know it involved my favorite man Scaramouche.

Okay so the tea was that basically contrary to popular belief in our world, Scaramouche is VERY much okay with being intimate with humans and it's actually hard to put into words why but it can basically be summed up as this, he secretly REALLY wants a family still. And in his mind, as long as he got someone pregnant (anyone it didn't matter who as long as he found them attractive enough), then he believed he could just make them immortal when he became a god and then have an undying partner and child (which he also never stated openly but it was obvious that he wanted this in particular because he was both curious as to what it would be like to be a husband and because he kinda felt like a woman would be easier to control and shut away from the world because she would have a kid to take care of anyway).

But there was one issue in this lesser known fixation of his, Scaramouche was actually frustrated because he believed he might actually be incapable of getting someone pregnant and was just shooting blanks basically.

My adventure kinda involved seeing what would happen if someone actually DID finally manage to be knocked up by him, and it basically went like this.

Scaramouche had a little bit of a reputation amongst the fatui maids to be someone known for having slept with and then thrown away a lot of different women over the years. And it was kind of an unspoken thing that if he suddenly started giving a girl a lot of things to do and kept trying to get her alone that he wanted to sleep with her.

No one among the staff would DARE say it out loud but it was kinda obvious that the harbinger wanted a baby out of someone because anyone who had been with him before always said that he'd do the same thing and would basically fuck a girl raw for hours almost every day and would also keep her close for about a month or two as he had doctors give her certain medicines and herbs and stuff to try and make her conceive.

If she was a failure after a few months then she was completely tossed out and sent back to the kitchens. And then within days Scaramouche would be stalking the staff again because it was easier to take a maid without anyone knowing than it was a soldier or nurse.

And if he likes someone he'd put on his superficial charm and start trying to lure them into his bed.

Also no one ever snitched because according to his past victims, Scaramouche was EXTREMELY generous in the sheets. However big into overstimulation and watching the faces of the girls he coupled with.

And a LOT of maids secretly tried to look more appealing with makeup and stuff when he was around because who wouldn't want to be spoiled by a hot rich guy who just wanted you to give him a kid in return for the best princess treatment in your life?

And oh my god did he almost seem to actually smile once as the story played out and I watched him get the news that one girl was finally a success.

And was there ever some hating ass bitches when the rumors of his successful impregnation started going around.

So basically this girl was treated like a freaking goddess.

Scaramouche literally paraded her around openly with the best clothes and jewelry and even her own damn mansion in some secret location. Literally she was his everything it seemed.

And it was crazy because he didn't love her as a person whatsoever. She could have been anyone because Scaramouche just wanted a family he could make permanent and didn't care what woman's coochie it came out of. Just so long as it was his and he could keep her controlled and hidden away safely with mora and nice things.

I saw more stuff but my mind is going blank as I recenter my spirit and sober up. I'm sure I could remember it later if I tried but basically yeah.

Scaramouche is very self serving and doesn't care about who he has to use to get what he wants or how. And he secretly still longed for someone to spend forever with him, so unbeknownst to most people, he was trying to get someone pregnant and then immortalize them and his offspring once he achieved divinity and became a god.

I just remembered part two of my shifting journey so let me update.

The story went on to what would happen to the girl after irminsul occurred and it goes as this.

Now feeling immense regret for how disrespectful and borderline cruel he was to some of his past partners, Wanderer actively tries in secret to seek out the mother of his child and learning where she was and what her perception of history had been altered to was heartbreaking.

According to her she was sold to the fatui by her family to work as a cook and pay off some debt, her life wasn't too bad until she was taken advantage of by what she remembered as just one of her male coworkers, after she was proven to be with child she ran away from the fatui and eventually just found herself in Fontaine. Then soon after that, Sumeru.

And that's where Wanderer finds her again. He knows the actual truth and eventually decides to come clean to this girl about what actually happened. She doesn't believe him but Wanderer is adamant about being the real father and vows to the girl to try and do the right thing by helping her with the kid.

At least.

She agrees but only because she needs the assistance and Wanderer knew how to be charming enough to earn her forgiveness.

After that he would finally get the family he envisioned but because he failed to achieve godhood, he knew he would lose them someday. And he personally believed he deserved to feel that loss so he would stay with the girl and actually try to get to know her as a person as a means of atonement and also to punish himself for treating this girl like an incubator at first.

[starlightshadowsworld]

Concept: After everything’s fixed the Agency have group sleepovers in the dorms. They grab sleeping bags, games and blankets and bring them to their living room area.

Kunikida make sure everyone goes to sleep at a reasonable hour but more often then not even he finds it hard too.

But being together helps.

Atsushi tucks himself next to a new person almost everyday. They all take “Atsushi watch” very seriously and make room for him no matter who he chooses.

Though for the most part Atsushi sleeps between Dazai and Kyouka who never let him out of their sight.

The lights are dimmed but never fully turned off. Even with the tigers eyes no one wants him to wake up and think they’re not there.

The living room door is kept slightly open to Kyouka and Dazai’s relief.

Kyouka calls Lucy regularly just before bed and no matter what Lucy answers. They don’t say much but it’s enough. Her bunny comes with her everywhere and she and Atsushi are rarely apart.

Katai will come barrelling through the door with a take away and slot himself beside Kunikida. No amount of fear for the outside would keep him away and they all smile when they see him.

Fukuzawa is also present between Ranpo and Yosano. He delegates the games and is more then happy to just watch them all play.

Also the games they play would be the same ones Atsushi brings with him in 55 minutes.

Kenji tells stories over candlelight. Not anything spooky, they’ve had enough of that. But stories from his farm, of hope that blooms eternal.

How there’s always light to be had in the deepest darkness. Kyouka gives him her bunny plushie on occasion and he sleeps hugging it close.

Junichiro bakes on occasion. He gets restless sometimes and lets Kyouka helps out when she confessed wanting to do something nice for everyone.

Every once in a while they’re bake treats for their sleepovers and everytime Ranpo tries to commandeer them all.

Dazai lays his leg over Kunikida’s lap because he can’t just say he wants company can he. He has everyone sign his cast while Kunikida grumbles but doesn’t push him off.

He making notes of Yosano’s instructions after she examined Dazai’s leg and yells at him for not resting and it feels like old times again.

Ranpo is basically the deciding vote of every game and delights in making more hard entertaining.

Yosano shakes her head at his antics but then dives head first because she’s competitive like that and the two end up laughing along with everyone else.

There’s no stakes it’s just good fun.

Fukuzawa is the last to sleep. He watches over them all and packs up the mess. Sometimes Atsushi joins him when he can untangle himself and can’t sleep either.

On those nights they quietly go to the kitchen and have some tea.

Who knows what the future holds but right now they’ll just take everyday as it comes.

Together.

[billysgirllol]

“i think they can definitely tell, who’s a good person and who’s tryin’ to bring harm. animal’s are intuitive like that.” lucy gray reassures, smiling softly as her arm stays around her bent knees, her free arm tracing circles in the water. “oh…yeah?” brow lifting, looking over her shoulder at him before eyes glance back towards the water. shying up momentarily again. “of course not.” leave him as a single parent. a twitch of amusement pulling at her lips before softening at the thought, thinking how she can’t run. but even it she could, would she? not… exactly. not when she doesn’t have a gnawing fear in her chest yet towards him. just like the animals they speak of… if she doesn’t have a reason or sense a reason, she won’t leave. just like deer and birds, she too has those same instincts. “sort of. i mean, i can choose a favorite dessert. i can choose a favorite month. but i can’t choose a favorite color, animal or flower. all flowers, colors and animals make me happy. hard to choose just one.” a soft laugh emits, gently shrugging her thin shoulders. “what’s your favorite animal?” questioning before hearing the awful story of the man he knew and before too long her face is contorting into disgust and stomach churning, vomit reflexes on the rise when he starts saying thing about smells. “lord, then, i sure am lucky you found me in time. i might’ve suffered the same thing. that’s sickenin’, bless his poor soul havin’ to suffer all through that.” feeling sympathy and disgust, quickly trying to think of something else. she definitely doesn’t want to suffer like that and scared up to keep watching her wounds. “i hope not, i really like my hair. but then again… that’ll be my fault, maybe i’ll learn.” scolding herself— to at least brush her fingers through it and keep it from getting so matted. “it’d be devastatin’ cutting it off to my ears.” that gives her the notion to quickly start trying with her fingers to start pulling some knots out, feeling a little panicky on needing the answer if she’ll get to spare it or not. the rubs on her back feel so pleasant, too. the most soothing feeling she’s felt in awhile but she can’t exactly relax with her hair on the line.

“of course they will. if they know you’re helpin’ them, they’ll come along right to you.” and birds are intelligent, so they’ll know. “there is no such thing, but…” a tiny laugh sounds from her, glancing down at her water, swirling a finger around at trying to find the words to describe it. but she’s not used to it. “those are wonderful flowers to love. don’t ask me to choose a certain favorite, we’ll be here all day. there is somethin’ admirable about wild flowers though, you’re right.” a smile pulls on her face at his recognizing that. “thank you, tryin’ to be. i realize it’s still hurtin’ some but i guess that’s normal.” she figures, rubbing at her knee before glancing over at him, “oh, it’s alright darlin’. come on right over.” her legs are squished to her chest and while she’s a little shy and awkward about it, she’s not so shamefully shy she can’t grow bravery and accept she doesn’t care if he sees her bare back. “you can do both things if you’d like to.” now that she’s soaked in water, she guesses it’s not too embarrassing now that her hair is wet even if it’s in knots. “i’m just scared i won’t be able to get these knots out and i’ll have to cut it.” reaching back with an unpleasant look on her face, hand feeling the knots and worry spilling over her visage. almost puts tears in her eyes at how bad of shape she’s let her once beautiful hair get in. it reaches all the way down her back, like everyone in the covey, long hair is sacred. and at this point, she’s worrying she’ll lose the last thing that means a lot to her.

[haikyu-mp4]

The Comedians

word count; 937 – f!reader, part 2 of this

Tendo held the door for you and gestured with his arm like a classic gentleman. His smile made you chuckle in adoration while you looked at the sign that stood beside him: Open mic comedy night, it said. What a coincidence.

"You can go find us a seat and I'll get us something to drink," Tendo said and walked over to the barista, trying not to show how excited and nervous he was.

The atmosphere was warm and light. You and Tendo both had rosy cheeks and conversed lightly. Every topic flowed so naturally like you were catching up on your entire lives even though the topics were simple things like what you got up to recently. At some point, two guys walked in, and you felt curious when Tendo lifted a hand in greeting. "Hey!" the grey-haired one called and walked over. They did a quick handshake before his eyes fell on you with amusement glittering in his eyes.

"Semi-Semi, I didn't expect to see you here today," Tendo said, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets and leaning back in his chair. You had a feeling they were close friends.

"I'd like to say the same to you, but that would be a lie. You, however," Semi said, turning to the unfamiliar woman accompanying his old teammate. He held out a hand, and you shook it with a wide smile. "You must be y/n. Tendo told me about you, from the library?" Semi wanted to take full advantage of the situation as his friend's ears got redder and redder. Tendo exclaimed sounds of complaint at the comment but made no move to deny it.

"That's me, y/n from the library. Semi-semi, was it?" You, amused by their friendly teasing, tried to hide how flustered you felt by playing along. Y/n from the library, you nailed that, you sarcastically praised yourself. Semi nodded right as the lights in the cafe dimmed and the small stage lit up.

"Just Semi, preferably. Nice meeting you, y/n. We’ll talk more later; it looks like the event is starting."

The first few young adults daringly tried to win the stage with their humour, telling stories that ended with a funny punchline or making comments about the people in the room who interacted. You and Tendo laughed and commented to each other about what you liked and didn't like, sometimes even adding jokes in between and trying to keep your laughter silent. The last person left the stage, and the microphone stood there, lonely and desperate for some good, or bad jokes.

"Go on, Tendo. Steal the stage," you encouraged, gesturing with your hand.

"Ah, it would be unfair to the others when I'm so naturally funny," he said, and you giggled in response, shoving his shoulder lightly.

"What if we both go?" Tendo looked at the beautiful woman beside him with an unplaceable emotion in his eyes.

"Together?" he asked, making a bold move by grabbing your hand from the table between you and standing up. "We'll go next!" Tendo yelled out, making all the other students clap and whistle.

However, no one could have prepared the audience for the show they were about to see. You and Tendo took turns saying terrible dad-like jokes before taking a few seconds between each one to laugh loudly like two windshield wipers in a rainstorm. "How do lawyers say goodbye? We'll be suing you!"

"What's an astronaut's favourite part of a computer? The space bar!"

You leaned on each other for support and almost forgot anyone was watching. Semi certainly did, with an incredulous look on his face after taking a short video to send in the group chat later. "This is so embarrassing, they're perfect for each other," he said to himself, shaking his head as the duo finally stumbled off the stage while drying your tears.

You sat down by your table again and heaved heavy breaths to try and stop giggling. However, it only took one look at each other's faces to start the laughter factory up again, which is why you decided to leave and get some fresh air. "I can't breathe!" you exclaimed into the night and finally ceased laughing. Not only is he incredibly handsome, but also perhaps the funniest person I've ever met.

"We make a good duo, don't we?" Tendo thought out loud, glancing at your pretty face. You sat down on a park bench by the cafe, arms brushing against each other.

"I don't think the audience was impressed," you admitted while rubbing your hands for warmth. Tendo saw this and decided, that now was the moment. He lifted the arm closest to you and let it fall across your shoulders, which automatically made you lean closer to him.

I always wanted to try that, he thought and smiled.

You sat there for a while, just looking at the sky and enjoying each other's company, but the cold eventually got to you, and you had to walk back to the cafe. As Tendo opened the door, you laughed once again and said, "A clown held a door open for me the other day. I thought, what a nice jester".

The joke made Tendo realise how smitten he already was, and he had the sudden urge to lean down and kiss you. So he did. It was a short peck on the cheek, but meaningful nonetheless. You both enjoyed the rest of the evening, talking to some other students, including Semi. He kept watching you and his friend looking at each other like he had only read about in books.

The Schoolyear Series ║ masterlist

[bestalbertcamuslover]

Question...? pt.2

This is part two, here's part one, part three, part four, and part five (Completed Story)

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

✯ pairing:�� Jenson Button x pop star!Reader ✯

✯ content warnings: none✯

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

It passed eventually, someone else filled her heart with awe, became the muse of her songs, and drew endless smiles on her face. Edward made her feel that fuzzy feeling in her stomach again, although not as intense, in a more steady way, not the rollercoaster she had once missed so much.

“Almost three years together,” Edward whispered softly in her ear, his breath warm against her skin.

She smiled, leaning into him as they swayed to the music in the dim glow of their living room. The song wasn’t one of hers this time—it was something soft and jazzy, the kind of melody that didn’t demand attention but filled the space between them like a comforting blanket.

“Has it really been that long?” she teased, turning to meet his gaze.

Edward’s hazel eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned. “Feels like yesterday, doesn’t it?”

She nodded, resting her head on his shoulder. And it did. Edward had slipped into her life like a missing piece of an endless puzzle, filling a gap she had not known existed. He wasn’t a whirlwind, not the kind to sweep her off her feet and leave her breathless. Instead, he was a steady rhythm, a soft crescendo that built into something solid, something real.

He was just a finance guy—a very one-of-a-kind one, since he was down-to-earth, very caring, very sensitive. And she felt lucky, very lucky. Almost as if he saw the real her—not the pop star, not an object or a fantasy, just a person. And she saw her true self in him, grounding her, not letting her ego get too big, not letting the savage scrutiny and unrelenting criticism get to her head.

Her songs were a mirror of her thoughts, sometimes even before they passed through her conscious mind. It showed, as her lyrics were cozy, felt like home. But that lovely home sometimes felt suffocating; that steady chimney did not offer the same heat as the untamed fire that once—only once—burned her.

She hated herself for it. For the way her mind wandered when he wasn’t looking. For the way her songs had started to carry a bittersweet edge, lyrics slipping through her consciousness before she could stop them. “Your touch is safe, your love is steady, but my heart remembers wild and unready.”

Jenson was not helping. He would sometimes mention her in interviews, his tone reminiscent of the one you would use when talking about an old friend. What they had was so fleeting, maybe even insignificant, that no one, not even the most die-hard fans, could tell it had happened. To everyone, they seemed to be just friends.

Why? she asked, almost begged the universe that had once cruelly united them, every time he did that. She also wondered if he listened to her songs, questioning the same thing. However, she doubted he would see himself as the muse for those. It was her mind magnifying whatever had happened, she felt. He played—or that was what she thought.

And again, the haunting lyrics and melodies that betrayed her true feelings she was fighting to ignore. The pen hovered over the page, her handwriting messy and uneven, as though the words were tumbling out faster than she could keep up. The melody looped softly in her mind, but the lyrics—those came fast, raw, and jagged, pulling at threads she thought she’d long since buried.

Good girl, bad boy. Big city, wrong choices.

She bit her lip, her chest tightening as she wrote the next lines, the memories flooding back with startling clarity, reviving those moments in an uncanny likeness. She didn’t need to think about it; it was all there, etched in the spaces of her mind she had forced herself to rarely visited. The crowded room, the teasing laughter, the kiss that lingered longer than it should have.

Did you ever have someone kiss you in a crowded room,And every single one of your friends was making fun of you,But 15 seconds later they were clapping too?

Her breath hitched. The words felt too real, too close, as if they exposed more than she was ready to admit, even to herself. She put down the pen and leaned back in her chair, staring at the half-finished song in front of her.

“Writing again?”

She startled, looking up to see Edward standing in the doorway, his hair mussed and his smile soft. He walked toward her, setting down a mug of tea beside her.

“Yeah,” she said quickly, closing the notebook slightly, but not enough to seem suspicious. “Just... messing around with some ideas.”

Edward sat down on the armrest of her chair, glancing at the page. “What’s this one about?”

She hesitated, her mind racing. She couldn’t tell him—not about the inspiration, not about the man who still haunted the corners of her songs like the most fearsome yet most unreal of ghosts. “It’s just fiction,” she explained lightly, forcing a smile. “Something I came up with while daydreaming.”

Edward frowned slightly, his fingers brushing over the edge of the notebook. “It doesn’t sound like us.”

“No,” she admitted, her voice carefully steady. “It’s not. It’s... a story, you know? Something I imagined after watching a movie.”

He studied her for a moment, his eyes soft but searching. “It’s good,” he responded finally. “A little sad, but good. You’re brilliant, you know that?”

Her stomach twisted as piercing guilt crept in. She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his, and smiled as genuinely as she could. “Thank you.”

Edward leaned down to kiss her forehead, then stood. “I’ll let you get back to it. Can’t wait to hear the final version.”

She watched him leave, her smile fading as soon as he was out of sight. Turning back to the notebook, she let out a shaky breath.

Did you wish you’d put up more of a fight?

Her pen pressed harder against the page. The words came again, insistent and demanding, as if they refused to be ignored. 

She knew Edward would never suspect the truth behind the song. He’d take it for what she said it was—a story, a piece of fiction, a distant echo of someone else’s life. But she knew better. The truth was, Question...? wasn’t just a song.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

✯ authors note: I will do part three ASAP. I included more dialogue because part one sounded more like a chronicle than a story.

English is not my first language. I hope you liked it <333

[arteicetb]

Does anyone even know what they're doing at all in HH or HB? I feel like they're not getting enough info on the characters and that's why they all feel so OOC and keeps repeating the same 'lesson' over and over again with Blitz (Or isn't getting paid enough to actually care). I think Viv just wants to write music rather than put in the effort to make a story. She forgets that not all shows needs to have characters that talk a lot, if she put in the effort to SHOW more rather than TELL the audience about the character it would be better and less boring/annoying.

I'm so sad for Millie man, what is even the point anymore of her character? She was just wife of Moxxie that felt like a disney character rather than her own character in the HB show. Do you know what I mean? Same for Loona. My god, they butchered them both so bad so that they can make stolitz...

I liked it better when Millie and Loona were out hunting people. If Viv can't stand writing women in her shows then why put them in it at all?? Bad enough she talks shit on women in real life who are also cartoon creators, I think at one point she went after the creator of Chikn Nuggit. I think she called her sexist which is rich coming from her. She's not sexist. I wanna say they knew each other but I don't remember much.

I’m not sure about the behind the scenes stuff but the show has issue keeping the characters consistent.

[cutthroatcarnival]

Shadows Settle On The Place You Left

A story of how two becomes one.

Read it on AO3!

Warning for: Major Character Death

This fic will include many things that go hand-in-hand with being a lab/experimentation AU, such as: mentions of blood and needles, experimentation (unethical), cruelty (in form of tests, limiting food intake, sleep deprivation, beatings, electrocution, etc.), hallucinations.

Inspired by: Take My Wallet by Jack Stauber

Title from: Youth by Daughter

The Project X AU belongs to @gtwscratch! Go check her out to learn more about this super cool AU- I’ve got a few more fics lined up for this idea… [rubs hands together like a scheming villain]. Also this was written really early on in the AU, so any new things Scratch has posted will not be reflected here (in later ones, yes).

—————————————————————————

Everyday was the same. The walls never changed, remaining devoid of anything but violent, ghastly white. Following the same routine over and over, listening to the same horrific screaming and wailing echoing from deeper in the facility. The definition of insanity is doing something over and over again, in hopes of a different result, and by that definition, Impulse could call himself insane. Doing the same routine over and over, hoping for change, hoping for an escape, hoping for this clinical hell to be over. Trapped here in this room, chillingly empty without the presence of his cellmate- but hey, at least the beds had mattresses. Maybe if he focused on that, he could block out the pained screams of his cellmate coming from one of the labs.

Impulse stared at his hands, mesmerized and sickened by the swirling purple that traveled down his arms to his legs, twisting into and around scars. He could call himself lucky just as easily as he could call himself insane, but it felt horrifically unfair- yes, he was lucky, his new attributes could be easily hidden (they weren’t getting out of here. They’re trapped). If only he could stop hearing the sounds of his own wailing echoing and the sounds of the file roughly shaping his horns into sharp points, stop feeling phantom pains from restraints digging into him as he struggled and the panic felt as ghost needles stabbed into his arms. If only.

There were seventeen others trapped here with him, Impulse never quite learned what happened to one of them- Mumbo, a pale, lanky male with dark eyes and black hair, and a frankly glorious mustache- Mumbo and Scar had been dragged away one day for more testing, and only the latter had returned, trembling with haunted eyes, spattered with blood. Impulse wasn’t stupid, he knew what that meant. It had been months- or what Impulse thought was months, time was pointless when you didn’t have a clock- since Scar had talked again, but when he did, it lacked the cheerfulness they were all so used to. Their hope dwindled more after that.

One steady remainder of hope for Impulse was his cellmate, Skizz. The two of them were inseparable, fighting to keep some semblance of their identities and previous life. While it helped, it also became their weakness; if a scientist wanted something from Impulse or Skizz, all they had to do was threaten the other. When they couldn’t sleep, whether from the horrors of the day or fear of the other disappearing, Skizz would tell stories- weird, wacky stories that were a welcome distraction. One of Impulse’s favorites was the story of a giraffe lifting weights, it was so outlandish it had made Impulse forget the agony he was in from that particular test, laughing so hard his stomach hurt instead.

Impulse noticed early on that the scientists didn’t like Skizz. They were rougher with him- not that they were gentle Impulse or the others- dragging him behind, laughing as Skizz struggled to stand and follow- a failure, that’s what they called him. All Impulse could do was watch as his best friend returned each day with more and more injuries- deep bruises and lacerations and scars that added to the collection already decorating his body. They even started to lessen the amount of food Skizz was allowed, even when the amount they had regularly was too little, but Impulse happily shared his own with him. And even while suffering through all these extra tests, Skizz never showed signs of his powers manifesting- so in retaliation to their own failure, the scientists got crueler. Void, Impulse hated the sleep experiments the most, where Skizz would become so sleep-deprived he began to hallucinate and stare through Impulse, mumbling about how the Boogeyman was after him, a haunting purple in his peripheral, always just out of sight, refusing to leave Skizz alone until his blood was spilled.

Days had passed, from what Impulse could gather, and there was still no return of Skizz. An uneasy feeling was eating at him, usually people returned after a while, but his best friend was still missing. He could feel his mind drift to Mumbo, how it was unknown what had happened to the man. Impulse could piece things together easily- Scar’s haunted look, the blood, oh void, the blood- and the picture was not pretty. With no way of getting information, he would rather not be shocked for speaking out of turn to a scientist, Impulse went through his routine. Day after day, hour after hour, rinsing and repeating over and over. There was one small hiccup in his routine; none of them had been taken away for more tests. While not unusual, having a quiet period so soon after the previous one made his skin crawl. And the screams. No longer did they echo down the halls. All that filled them was an eerie quiet, interrupted only by the murmuring of the other patients as they were allowed to move about their designated common room.

No matter how early Impulse’s powers had appeared, he still couldn’t quite grasp them in full- teleportation was simple, so was the swapping, but that was all done when he could see. They wanted him to teleport to a place he couldn’t. When the test was demanded of him, Impulse was blindfolded with a thick wrapping of gauze, leaving him unaware and jumpy. Then there was the cold, sharp prod of something, something very clearly meant to hurt, coupled with a faint buzzing- every muscle in his body failed to keep him upright, he had collapsed in a panicked heap, tearing at the gauze and yelping when electricity coursed through him. What did they want from them? Was this entertainment?

The clank of a dish being set in front of him brought him back to the present, the grim memories leaving a sour taste in the back of his mouth. Humming in thanks at Scott, who gave Impulse a wobbly smile in return, like he had forgotten how to do so. Impulse dug into the bland oatmeal- if it could even be called that, lip lifting in a light sneer at the slop. A reaction that would normally be met with a snicker, yet the seat next to him was painfully cold, devoid of its occupant who had been unseen for probably what had been days, if not weeks.

An angry shout from a scientist sent Impulse into a panic, forcing him to drop his spoon with a clatter as he slipped under the table, watching as the others made themselves similarly sparse. Another voice joined, and no matter how hard Impulse strained he couldn’t hear the conversation. A sharp intake of breath snapped his attention to the table next to him, where one of the blondes- Martyn, he reminded himself- was hiding under, hands clenched over his ears. Martyn. Martyn could hear them. Impulse felt an unsettling chill creep up his spine as he watched horror slowly creep over the blonde’s face, and when his tears started to flow over, Impulse’s own nearly did too. Time seemed to freeze as haunted blue eyes locked with frightened brown, lips forming two simple words; I’m sorry, before Martyn curled in tighter on himself. Impulse was left to stare at the other’s shaking form, mind frozen as he processed the words. I’m sorry. He looked back at Martyn. The blonde’s lips were moving, repeating a phrase that Impulse couldn’t quite place. Martyn looked ill, as he rocked there under that table, hands that were once muffling his hearing now grabbing at his hair.

As the voices disappeared, Impulse shifted, starting to maneuver himself out from under the table- he only had so much time to eat- until a weight crashed into him. Taken by surprise, he tipped sideways out from under the table, narrowly missing one of the chairs with his head. On top of him was Martyn, and Impulse raised an inquisitive eyebrow, only to be met with a sob. There were words falling from the other’s lips, but even this close, Impulse couldn’t hear them. Martyn shuddered, fisting the fabric of Impulse’s gown tighter, before inhaling and exhaling, bringing himself from the brink of hyperventilating. Pained blue stared into brown, eyes telling a melancholy tale.

“Skizz is dead.” Martyn declared, in the smallest, most defeated voice Impulse had ever heard from the other.

What.

“What?” Impulse could hear how his own voice was so small, breathy with disbelief. Skizz was dead? His best friend was dead?

“They said he was a failure, too weak to handle the tests,” the grip on his gown loosened, “they wanted to give him wings, but his body couldn’t handle it.”

Murmuring rose from the other patients that had gathered, all in various stages of grief and disbelief. Impulse was frozen on the floor, eyes wide as he stared at Martyn. Skizz is dead. The words kept repeating in his mind, a mantra that infected his brain. His best friend couldn’t be dead. He wasn’t. He wasn’t. Impulse felt all sorts of conflicted, experiencing every emotion in the book and then some, all because of three simple words; Skizz is dead. The following information that Martyn poured out finally made its way into his brain- his body couldn’t handle it. Skizz is dead.

The world around him shattered.

“Is he… he’s gone?” The tile beneath Impulse felt colder than it ever had. Colder than the metal of the examination table. Colder than the scientists. Even his heart felt cold, frozen, even, as Impulse felt his heart shatter.

“He’s really gone?” Above him, Martyn nodded, and Impulse broke. The world around him disappeared as static and ringing sounded in his ears, drowning out the noise of his own sobs. Never again would he see Skizz, because Skizz was gone. His best friend was gone, and Impulse never got to say goodbye. And didn’t that sting? Didn’t that just twist the knife that had already cut his heart into ribbons? Impulse would never hear that infectious positivity and optimism, even in the face of horrific experimentation, because the scientists had taken it- had taken him away from Impulse. They called Skizz a failure, telling him he was too weak, and those were probably the last things Skizz heard, alone on a cold operating table- nothing but biting, burning remarks. So lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed Martyn roll off of him, or being helped up and guided to his cell. His empty, empty cell. One that would never be full again. And you know what they say about one; it’s the loneliest number you’ll ever know.

[the-thieves-gambit]

"Hmm," Elizabeth smiled at the mule comment. It was a response that said 'ain't the kettle callin the pot black' without saying it out loud. She could see where he had gotten his stubbornness from, his willingness to tell the world that he would not be the one to change, that it needed to change. But Victoria was right, there were times when situation required a give, something had to give. The stories she heard from Wally, did no justice to finally meeting this matriarch. Bouncing the little one in her arms as they got closer to the front again she thought her words over carefully as she bent down to pick up Annie in her free arm.

"Its not hard to believe, I find that when you care about someone it can be hard but necessary to talk things out. Even if it gets a bit loud. I think the you letting things out like that instead of keeping it in is healthier." It wasn't like she had much experience in this department but her lifetime of pretending showed her a lot. Then it was the answer she knew Victoria might not like. "I understand how much I mean to him, he means the same if not more to me. I also know that he holds what I say with great weight and I don't take it lightly. I am in the opinion of what makes him happy, makes me happy. I do know first hand what he has to face, what he has to fight, but I also know how rewarding he finds it when he's able to make that difference." With a sigh as they reached the front and their hay ride began to pull up, she added. "When things settle later tonight, I'll talk with him but I cannot in good faith push him one way or another." That was because she herself had something she never told him. Something that she thought she wouldn't have to tell him because deep down she didn't think things would be this serious. Something she'd have to tell him sooner rather than later now.

As the driver stopped and the attendant began to load them up, Elizabeth gave a small smile to Victoria. "I think," she said in english bouncing the two in her arms. "I think its time for a haunted hay ride! Let's enjoy whats left of all hallows eve."

"You and me both darling," she let out a gush of air as her French accent accentuated every word. "He's as stubborn as mule that one and I understand why he does it but doesn't mean I like it. Especially knowing the things he does are more often than not forced. He's grown and I know that but even then I'm a mother, he can be a hundred and I'll still worry over him. The innate feeling of wanting to protect him doesn't go away because he's an adult. It's just that I don't want him to lose his heart in order to take her down. I know him. I know his brain and once he's got a target locked in he doesn't let it go."

She laughed softly and shook her head. "If you can believe it. This one isn't even the worst argument we've had." They've had multiple arguments, mostly over the fact that their biological dad was an asshole who didn't deserve a cent from their family. Annie held onto Elizabeth's hand and looked at the line in front of her. Deciding she didn't want to walk or stand anymore she tugged on her hand to pick her up. She knew better than to interrupt grangran.

"I want him to let this go with her. They're too alike and as enemies I fear this won't stop until one of them is dead. Trust me I don't think it'll be her. Making detective is a dream and I understand that but he needs to see it for what it is. He will not make it if he doesn't let it go. I've tried to research what moving to a different department would do and all it brings is nothing. Since she's head of the department that means she's got more power than anyone else in that field office. He won't listen to me because he knows I'm right. But you, I see the way he looks at you. You mean something to him. He wants your opinion your input. If anyone can get through to him it's you. I'm not telling you to do so but I am saying that you're in a position where you can have a conversation with him and truly get somewhere where he doesn't shut down or say he'll handle it. You've seen him in action and know how he gets out of precarious situations. You must have an opinion, no?"

[sayorseee]

UM HELLO WHY HAS NO WRITTEN A FIC OF HENRY HUNTING DOWN DREX???

[javelinbk]

That’s… certainly one version of the story, Elton…

Elton John on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, December 2024