#its been a while i wrote something like this

[marsupials-of-mars]

Was thinking about @ckret2 's bill when i wrote this, but it applies to bill more generally. I think the main thing people pick up on, maybe subconsciously, about their bill that makes him feel so accurate is that he feels.

A lot of people (and most people are guilty of this including me whether they mean to or not) tend to write him as a tragic immortal? In the sense that he's been beaten down by time and learned never to care about people, and has lost the ability to care.

And the first part of that is true!

He HAS learned never to care about people! In the tbob love page, he says its stupid to tie yourself to a mortal in a way where your happiness depends on them. He's LEARNED this. But he has NOT lost the ability to care. And he DOES care despite knowing he shouldn't.

He interacts with people genuinely, he legitimately enjoys the company of "lesser" mortal species, he has fun, he thinks about people when they're gone, he's taken lovers, he speaks in phrases hes picked up from past earth decades because he likes how they sound (ya dig?).

And some people are frustrated when he's written suave and unfeeling for this reason, because he is a goofball. But the thing is, he DOES act, in a way, suave and unfeeling when it comes to situations like Ford and Dipper. He plays up his "immortal deity" persona, constantly reminding them of all the knowledge he knows, PROVING his value to them.

But he gets mad! He falls in love! He jokes around because its fun! He gets stupid and reckless when he's upset! He burns bridges when he doesnt get his way! These are all insANELY short-sighted things for a trillion-year-old to care about!

This is why he can relate to people, and why he acts like a kid sometimes. I firmly believe that he stopped aging the day he destroyed his dimension (which is basically canon i think) not only physically but mentally. He legitimately cannot mature, cannot gain wisdom no matter how much he tries.

He has a lot of INTELLIGENCE and KNOWLEGE, but its like giving a child the library of alexandria and infinite time to explore. Sure theyll probably learn some things out of boredom or curiosity, but theres no curriculum. They COULD read it all, but why would they? That's boring and dumb and they want to climb the shelves and make book forts instead.

Now, more specifically about ckret2's Goldie:

He describes himself as a consumate extrovert. He hangs out with mabel and watches tv and goes to the Rainbow club. And while he does these things, he isnt thinking "this is so below me, why should i care about any of this?" He's just trying to have fun, and is knowingly fulfilling his social needs. He believes he and ford WERE friends.

And the most important part of this that im always thinking about is Bill claiming that being friends, enjoying peoples company, loving, playing, and all that is not mutually exclusive with being an all powerful god of destruction to be worshipped by all.

Which makes sense! Because he is INTELLIGENT and he knows that he's more powerful than these people, and he SHOULD be a being that demands their worship, and he needs to find something that lasts, and makes sense in the wake of INFINITY. But he also has the mind of a mortal, and he thinks the same way he always has. And with both of these insights, the ONLY thing that MAKES SENSE is to have his cake and eat it too. Focus on the big picture while also enjoying the present, SIMULTANEOUSLY.

Manipulating ford to his own end that leads him closer to his forever plan, while also bringing him to karaoke and falling in love. Securing his rule and reputation over the nightmare realm, being feared throughout the multiverse, having his fingers in as many pies as possible-- while partying with his henchmaniacs, drinking out of solo cups and flashing the cops.

Its the only thing that stops him from going crazy. If you have a mortal mind thats built to love and lose and feel and party and wisecrack, and you relinguish it to the horrifying prospect of timelessness, if you're always looking at the existential...you are not going to last a trillion years.

[mammomlette]

"𝙸 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚝��𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗

𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝙸'𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛."

-'𝙵𝚎𝚛𝚗' 𝚋𝚢 𝙰𝚕𝚎𝚔𝚜𝚒𝚊𝚑

Synopsis: Satan’s world used to be burnt by hatred, but recently he can’t seem to stop the warmth he feels when around the human exchange student.

Genre: Fluff?? None? (Romantic)

Warnings: One of the last paragraphs is a littleeee bit suggestive, not proofread

Notes: Satan x MC, I made this at midnight as I do most things so I blame low quality stuff in that🧍‍♀️also I haven’t wrote in ages ok so give me mercy, MC is referred to with they/them pronouns!! ‘Her’ is used in the title because that’s the song lyrics, but MC is gender neutral :)

Word count: 754

For a long time, all Satan saw was the flames burning through the Devildom. Looking out of the civilised areas and into the land past the denizens and watching as the natural flames of the Devildom overtook trees and small animals, growing higher and higher and killing more and more.

Or even if he looked within the walls of the city and into the halls of RAD, even within the perimeter of his own home, there was the omnipresent chaos that comes with a demons nature. Fires, all around, some extinguished and some fed, but fires none the less.

There were the screams. The damned souls or the unfortunate lower demons stupid enough to venture out of the safety of the more civilised Devildom. The shrieks of pain and agony, cries for their long gone family and careless friends to try and save themselves from their own self-inflicted wounds and shenanigans.

All of it was the norm to Satan. He was a demon, and unlike his housemates, he wasn’t turned into one. He was made as one. It was in his very blood since the moment of his very creation to feed on the cacophonous screams of terror and to admire the bright flickering lights in the distance, to bask in its attack and glory.

The burning hurt, but it was part of a demons nature to touch fire.

Never did he long to seek out the daylight his brothers described from their celestial days nor did he yearn for peace and tranquility that the celestial realm presents.

So why now was it that he spent so long yearning for a human?

Horrible choirs of unwilling participants being replaced by the sweet harmonies of their laughter, the fires causing chaos in the distance being replaced by the flush on your cheeks when he gets to close or says something in that’s hushed manner, disrupting his heart instead of those of the innocent.

Never had he felt so in tune with his brothers. He has always been different to them, knowing they have different origins, knowing they have different powers, knowing they have different thoughts and feelings- However now, he finally understood them. The way they, among other demons, would turn their heads as you walk past and the way people would whisper about how sweet you seemed (In what way, he wondered)

He, liked the rest of the crowd, followed you around helplessly after you slowly made your way into his heart and combined your souls into a beautiful pact mark on your skin.

The way you would stop and look at him, for even a second, when with someone else while they were talking. The way you would turn to him and stifle a laugh whenever someone was making too much of a fool of themselves at an important meeting or during a lesson, biting your lip or hiding your face while your shoulders shook. The way you would always ask what he wanted whenever you were going up to buy something, even though you both knew he had more money than you and wouldn’t mind queueing on his own if he wanted something so badly.

The little things showing you cared.

The way you would spray yourself in human body sprays to create such an artificially sweet smell or the way you licked around your lips after chugging a drink or shoving too much food down your mouth was utterly tantalising. Did you even know?

Did you know how he wanted to eat you up, give in to his demonic nature and devour you in so many ways, like a cannibal? Know how badly he wanted to taste your food on your tongue and smell your body spray from his head planted right in your neck?

Did you even know how badly he wanted to put you on a pedestal, high above everyone else for the three worlds to see, and did you know how much that thought fought with his urge to keep you to himself like a collectable, delicate and gorgeous and all his?

His yearning was indescribable, but he would never stop pining after you even if he could. Because the way you look back at him and offer your hand with the slightest shake in your smile and the smallest blush on your cheeks gives him the slightest flicker of hope that you might just yearn for for him like he yearns for you. And a little flicker is always capable enough to turn into a flame.

[ghouldtime]

Ghost'ed

Been thinking about literal Ghost! Ghost. Maybe it's playing too many ghost hunting games or watching too many shows but I cannot stop thinking about it. You also cannot convince me this man wouldn't be a restless spirit. His entire life is troubled and I don't see him going down in a peaceful way or leaving until he feels the job is done - and likely ending up trapped as a result

I wrote this at work so sorry in advance for any typos or slip ups!

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

Ghost hunting wasn’t exactly what most people would list in "Top ten relaxing hobbies" - but it's not like you were most people. You were simply you. The same you who thought spending your time speculating about spooky specters was one of the best ways to pass by those few stretches of free time that could be all too fleeting in the hellscape known as adulthood.

The stares that followed you when you announced paranormal investigation as a hobby was something you knew all too well. After all, telling someone you’re a ghost hunter only stood as a slightly more socially acceptable version of telling them you believed in bigfoot (you did, but that’s beside the point). The dozens of cheesy TV shows certainly popularized it but they did little to help with the perception of it.

When the face of popular ghost hunting media was full of grown men who screamed like a squirrel high on helium at every little thump of a house settling, it did little to help what people automatically thought of when they heard of your unique hobby. Plenty still turned their noses up, scoffed slightly as they rolled their eyes and sneered, “Aren’t you too old to be doing that?” 

Or worse. They gave a tight-lipped smile, nodded, and crinkled their eyes as they said, "Oh, interesting." While the tension in their body told of holding back laughter or wanting to bolt right on out of there, far far away from you.

Quite frankly, you didn't care what they said anymore as it was your life to live, not theirs. You’d seen enough to know without a fraction of a doubt that there was more beyond the veil of life itself, hiding just out of sight. The hundreds of hours you spent wandering dark hallways and dilapidated ruins with nothing but your flashlight and ghost box proved otherwise. At least it proved it to you.

Proving it to others was a horse of another color. Skeptics who spit their criticism loud enough to deafen even the most positive prevalent of voices in the community were a dime a dozen. Unfortunately, their existence was as certain as the sky is blue. Skepticism was apart of human nature, after all. They would always exist as long as the day and night kept up their eternal dance.

Convincing them was a fruitless effort. You'd sooner be able to convince hippos to fly than you'd convince them of the truth you knew. Trying to get everyone to agree, to acknowledge the paranormal, was hopeless and something you certainly weren't going to waste your life on no matter what they called your or what they said.

As far as you were concerned, being paid to sit in the dark alone and find evidence of life beyond the grimy waters of death itself was a pretty sweet gig. The naysayers could seethe in their own jealousy all they wanted because at the end of the day, you’re getting paid to do what you love. That they never could take away from you.

They'd never be able to have the same thrill that you did as you took on another case, ready to see even more of what the phantasmal realm had to offer.

Anticipation, nervousness, and excitement rolled together in a palpable energy you hid beneath a calmer exterior every time you took a job. There always would be that wonder there, the question of what exactly you might find dangling just out of reach, the hope that maybe, just maybe you might see even more than you already have. Another chance to investigate meant yet another night spent lurking in the shadows, tirelessly trying to find more evidence of the great world beyond the grave and its inhabitants. Tonight certainly would be no different.

An older couple quite reluctantly booked an appointment for a standard investigation after mysterious things that they really could not explain, no matter how they went about it, happened time and time again. They'd tried to ignore it, they said, but it only got worse.

Footsteps that echoed through the house at first in a gentle patter had become confident strides. When they went to look, no one was there. Doors that used to slowly creak open, as if blown by the wind, instead started to rattle the frame with force as they opened or slammed in the middle of the night. The husband looked particularly miffed when he groused about the TV going on at odd hours of the night, while his wife seemed more concerned about the possibility of someone having broken in and the fact that it kept doubling in intensity as time went on. The list went on and on about their complaints ranging from things being moved around to always finding a light turned on in a room in the middle of the night. There most certainly was something going on if all of what they were saying was true.

The glaring parade of red flags that easily would send others running for the hills lured you in. Like a dog with a scent, you weren't going to drop the trail, oh no. You were there to sink your teeth and claws in and not let go. Come hell, heaven, or high water - nothing would stopping you.

True to your title, you were a paranormal investigator which warranted a lot more work and professionalism than the standard ghost hunters you saw on TV who couldn't tell the difference between a gust of wind and a ghost. Your job was to research, conduct a proper paranormal investigation, and provide your evidence - or lack of, if it was truly devoid of haunting. But here hardly sounded like it.

Taking your time and reassuring them that you were, indeed, a professional, you went over all the usual questions with them: when did this start, how old is your house, any history of deaths in it, have you acquired any new items recently, do you have any items that were second hand or antique, any family heirlooms in the house, was it in any particular location, etc etc.

Every angle had to be considered, especially the mundane. Plenty of times, people just had a poorly constructed house, deeply held superstitions, and a touch of paranoia to make for a perfect combination of nothing happening at all. That didn’t seem to be the case here, however. While none of their answers pointed in a clear direction of what it might be, it still all pointed to signs of something unworldly happening. But that's what you were there for. To determine if there actually was a ghost, why it was there, and maybe who it was (if things went well and it felt like cooperating). 

You bid them a good night as they headed off with family friends in a beat up convertible, chattering away without a care in the world as if they didn’t have a paranormal parasite problem. At least they were going to go enjoy their night by having an evening out instead of breathing down your neck like some of those who hired you. Locking the door, you trudged in with your gear and began the initial inspection with practiced ease.

A haunting in a house as young and modern as theirs was quite unusual. Open, airy rooms completed with white, sleek, almost eye-hurtingly clean interiors made up the entirety of the house. Even as night crawled higher and higher into the sky, pulling its dark cloak over the land, the house stayed bright. Nothing about it said haunted or caught your eye. The scariest thing there was likely the heating bill. 

As far as your research showed, there hadn't been a death in it or on the land. The owners also seemed quite appalled at the idea of antiques (go figure) so that went right out the window, too. Normally there might be some stashed somewhere that they weren't thinking about, like the attic, but this house didn’t even have that. No basement, no attic, no creepy graveyard in the back; it was a normal, suburban house that shouldn’t have anything going on.

Perusing the house at a leisurely pace, you browsed each and every room with a thorough consciousness of finding something, anything, that could possibly have started it. Yet you turned up empty handed. Everything was as pure and alabaster as the marble countertops and the expensive sleek metal furniture. 

Oh well, not every job would be easy. And not every haunted house was obligated to look run-down and rustic. Some ghosts just had more upper class tastes - or were unfortunate enough to be stuck in an eyesore like this. Maybe a ghost would add some actual personality to their home...

Seeing as they'd said there wasn't exactly a rhyme or reason as to where things would happen, you decided a central room was your best bet. The living room was open enough for everything and an easy place any spirits could find. It had plenty of room for your equipment and the open layout meant you had a great vantage point for the whole house.

Preparing your gear came as naturally as breathing to you, the tasks you've done dozens of times over were a matter of habit. Moving through the motions was your second nature as you worked, not batting an eye as you checked batteries and strategically stationed your gear. It only took a matter of minutes to have your cameras, light system, motion activated interactable objects, ghost box, and the rest of your fancy gadgets set up all around the room.

Placed on the coffee table was your heaviest piece of equipment - your modified spirit box that you had made some special adjustments to just to make sure your results were as accurate as possible. The broken antenna and attached amp weren't standard, nor were the noise reducers, but they stood as a testament to why you were a professional and why you kept getting called out to different places. You knew how to get results and tuned every tiny thing to your needs. There was no room for error or doubt alike in an already uncertain field.

Double checking everything was ready to go once more once more, you plunged the room into somewhat true darkness as you drew the curtains shut and pressed the button on the spirit box, causing it to crackle to life. Speeding through the static of radio stations, it scanned the many frequencies in a blur, far too fast for any natural noise to come through. The whirring of it evened out into a constant, muffled background noise that you’d spent countless hours listening to. Its familiar hum lulled you into a relaxed state, your heart as steady as your calm breaths despite the slight buzz of familiar adrenaline you always felt when you first started. A small beep signaled the successful activation of the digital thermometer as you walked around in a slow, even pace, checking all around. 

Taking a deep breath, you began as you always had. In a confident, but even tone you called out, “Is there anyone with me right now?”

....

........

Silence.

The static of the spirit box continued to filter through in its usual constant churning hum of white noise. Typical. Many supernatural beings wouldn't want to interact, especially not at first. You don't blame them. If a stranger barged into your house and demanded if you were there, pestering you with questions as threw their belongings around, you'd not want to answer them either. That wasn’t even considering that many were so unused to people hearing them or trying to talk to them, not at them. They didn't exactly register on the same frequency that humans did most of the time.

Walking around the room, your boots echoed on the tile flooring. Your footsteps ricocheted off of the high ceilings, amplified by the lofty ceiling and wonderful acoustics this house apparently had. Keeping your attention ever shifting, you kept alert for signs of anything happening. Looking too long in the dark and expecting things to happen would only yield false results and cause paranoia. You knew far better than to do that. 

Nothing lit up, nothing beeped, nothing changed. There was conclusively nothing happening for the first few, long minutes as everything kept at an unwavering constant. Visiting each room, you rechecked their temperatures and tried to find anything amiss or out of place. Yet all seemed well, still, and normal.

Only when you crossed the hallway back into the living room after a quick visit to the bedrooms did your hair stand on end. A chill ran down your spine, the once warm air now holding the barest bite of cold on the edge. Holding up the thermometer, you narrowed your eyes at the steady decrease. While it wasn't quite freezing, it kept dropping and dropping. Numbers ticked lower and lower, your hair stood further on end as a small shiver ran through you as the chill dipped lower and lower. Bingo. First sign of activity of the night. It wasn’t much but it was plenty to know that something was happening here.

Despite the crisp chill, nothing else shifted in the room. Silence prevailed behind the distant drone of your equipment; mainly the comforting, steady typical static of the spirit box. Even the appliances seemed to have gone quiet, exchanging their usual low thrumming rhythm for a break that suspended them in a noiseless limbo.

Your shifting movements echoed far louder than you would have liked as you paced around the room, looking for something new, anything. An actual tangible reaction you could record would be just what you needed but so far, the haunt was holding out.  “What is your name?” You asked, keeping your voice as steady as you can as you tried to switch it up. 

Continual feedback from the spirit box sounded as steady as can be. Still, there was no voice trying to get through it. The fabricated noise reigned supreme as it did its job, whirring away. Pressing your lips into a thin line, the smallest hint of a frown tugged at your lips as disappointment flickered through you. Okay, that's fine. It usually took a few tries anyways. 

A faint, sparkling crackle escaped from it as you heard one, tiny word in a rumbling timbre. One, single word that halted you mid step, your head snapping towards the machine. 

“Ghost.”

Doing a double take, a grin split across your face as your heart jumped with joy. A response! A true, actual response. Not that it exactly answered your question but it meant something was listening.

There was something here!

Nearly tripping over your own feet, you scampered over to your beloved machine. Your eyes fixated on the glowing orange screen, gleaming with glee. 

“W-what’s your name?” You repeat a bit louder unable to hide the excited tremble in your voice or hands, figuring the ghost likely didn't hear you right. 

Static white noise continued for a few seconds, the little x in the corner flashed once, twice, before it lit up solidly. 

“Ghost.”

The smile you held dropped only for a fraction of a second before you cleared your throat. Well, maybe your slight stutter and excitement got in the way. You did talk fast when excited, after all. Taking a deep breath, undeterred as can be, you repeated in a far steadier voice, “What is your name?”

This time you made sure to enunciate every single syllable, speaking clear and confidently into the air. 

One flashing X glowed in the corner of the screen. Another flash. A third. Fourth. Fifth.

Yet again, the deep voice came a bit louder and rougher this time. A thick Mancunian accent that barely picked up through the filter didn't dull the single word you were trying to avoid, “Ghost.”

Okay. Your brows furrowed deeper, your nose wrinkling slightly as your heart sank. The minor disappointment couldn't be kept off of your face as you really had hoped to hear something else. Approach one clearly isn't working. 

Maybe he didn't speak English. Or maybe he wasn't sure that he was dead. Whatever. There was a ghost and he was answering, that's what mattered, you reminded yourself forcefully until the smile came back to your face and the smallest bit of a headache dissipated. Focus on that. Not on the slight annoyance you felt and the agitated twitch of your fingers.

Exhaling, you pursed your lips. Your grip retightened on your flashlight as you racked through questions in your mind, trying to find something that it would have to answer differently too. 

“Can you do something?”

Hopeful, your eyes trailed around the room, praying that maybe the ghost would do something like interact with the many objects scattered about, or even the motion sensors. 

Nothing happened for a few long moments, silence once again prevailing in the otherwise empty house.

Orange light flashed from the spirit box as the X lit up again, only for a second before the dreaded word repeated itself. 

“Ghost.”

Before you could ask what that even meant, or curse it out for that matter, the spirit box and your flashlight shut off, plunging you into true darkness. The flashlight nearly flew from your hands in surprise as you flinched instinctually, your heart leaping into your throat. Frantically flickering the button of your trusty tool did nothing as you desperately tried to turn on your one source of light with the only way you knew how - only to be met with the continual sight of empty, non-shining bulbs. 

Curses spilled from your lips in all the languages you knew as you fumbled for a battery pack, only to find them missing. What? But you swore that they were right there -- ugh, nevermind. This just wasn't going to be your night.

The initial panic subsided as the chill left the air, the residual regular warmth of the house sinking into the room as if blown in by a lazy breeze. Your hair still stood on end as you walked around with cautious, hesitant steps, having given up on the flashlight. There wasn't coming back from that.

It's only when you approached the spirit box, trying to turn it on to no avail, that you realized what he meant. You asked him to do something and he obliged.

He ghosted you. 

God fucking damn it. 

As you glared at the air in frustration, threw your hands up and personally cursed the fiend, you could've sworn you heard a resonating chuckle behind you as breath brushed against the nape of your neck in a way that sent shivers down your spine for a whole new reason.

[starhvney]

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: mcd laurance x reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: when your lover can’t calm himself from a nightmare, you try to calm him through a connection only you can give

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: angst with comfort, shadow knight laurance, once again i present laurance angst, yet another fic where i write laurance obsessing over reader’s safety, do i have a thing for it? yeah, do something about it, also can you catch the canon line i slid in here? i couldn’t help myself

𝐂𝐖: nsfw/smut. unprepped sex, large size difference, does this count as monster fucking? not really? but he’s a big boy

𝐀/𝐍: thank you to @thebunnednun for giving me this prompt!! shadow knight laurance *convulses* anyways i hope this is coherent guys i wrote most of it last night while half asleep ahshah

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑷𝑶𝑺𝑻 𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑨𝑰𝑵𝑺 𝑵𝑺𝑭𝑾 𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑻, 𝑰𝑭 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑨𝑹𝑬 𝑼𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑹𝑨𝑮𝑬 𝑶𝑹 𝑼𝑵𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑭𝑶𝑹𝑻𝑨𝑩𝑳𝑬 𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯 𝑺𝑬𝑿𝑼𝑨𝑳 𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑻 𝑷𝑳𝑬𝑨𝑺𝑬 𝑫𝑵𝑰.

you had been just there.

right at his fingertips.

at the comfortable distance where he knew he could protect you if something went wrong.

but it’s never enough, is it?

one second you were next to him, the next you were separated by what could practically be considered a herd of shadow souls. he didn’t know where they came from. he hadn’t even sensed them. but now they were overwhelming him, and overwhelming you, too.

he had even transformed, using every ounce of power he could to tear through the shadows around him. his movements still somehow managed to be too slow—too sluggish. each one he cut down it seemed like two more were on him, and two more were on you.

your screams were haunting. over everything he could hear, your cries for his help echoed against his eardrums, shaking his head like a bell.

“laurance, please!”

he has to get to you. he has to. he thinks he can as he slices through several of them, before one of them leaps towards him, knocking him down onto the ground with a groaning screech.

“no! get off of me!” he groans, struggling to push it away enough to grab his sword.

immediately it digs its claws into his cheek, and despite trying to turn away the sensation doesn’t leave his skin.

“laurance!” the soul cries, the empty and dark void of its mouth mimicking your voice. your distress.

it was mocking your pain in his face.

his vision is tinted red.

“laurance!”

he’s going to kill it. he has to. he has to kill.

“laurance, get up!”

his vision goes dark, but he can move again, and he lunges forward, pinning down the soul closest to him and keeping it there. he’s going to kill it once his eyes focus again.

he got it. where’s his sword?

“laurance?!” the soul asks in a panic, its voice clearer and a lot more like yours than the warbled disjointed one from before.

it felt smaller, too.

his hands squeeze against the arms of the creature to keep it in place. he knows he has to kill it, but there’s a part of him screaming at him to stop, but it’s drowned by the echoes of your screams for his help. what’s happening? why is it so dark right now?

“it’s me!” you hiccup, eyes wide and breaths short.

this wasn’t him right now.

no, not when your body was telling you to run. that you were in danger. not when you look up to see unfocused and rageful dark red irises trying to focus on something, his chest heaving as a whirlwind of unstable emotions seemed to batter against his rib cage.

you knew something was wrong when you had woken up so suddenly and so late, your skin sticky with sweat and feeling strangely on edge as your mind wandered to the possibilities.

why do you feel like you’re in danger right now? was it a predator? something lurking in the shadows of your room?

when you’d turned to get a look at your lover, you had your answer. he hadn’t completely transformed in his sleep, his armor hadn’t formed against his body and he still wore the thin and loose linen sleepwear he’d gone to bed with last night.

but it wasn’t loose anymore—he was nearly bulging out of it his already tall legs now hanging over the edge of the frame. his skin wasn’t that beautiful olive shade, but rather a desaturated almost deathly pale color. and his eyes. they weren’t open, but the skin underneath them showed unnaturally red veins that webbed from his eyelids just under the skin.

what was he dreaming about that had him transforming into a shadow knight in his sleep?

after some hesitation, you had reached out to his cheek to wake him up, calling out his name as he seemed to almost growl in his sleep. you almost regret your decision when blood red eyes snap open in a frenzy, and a split second later you find yourself forcefully pinned against the sheets.

you can see it. the instability on his face. he wasn’t here with you in this moment, his judgment was clouded by whatever rage had overtaken him in his dream. but what could you do? he already had you, his hands holding down your arms rather painfully and heavy body pinning you in place. the only thing you could possibly be capable of was to soothe him with your words.

“laurance… it’s me. it’s me.” you whisper, cursing at how your voice was the least bit assuring as it shook. “you were dreaming. you’re here with me.”

his chest heaves with ragged breaths, expression twisted in a lost and distressed frenzy. the startling blood red of his eyes dart across your face, before locking onto your eyes.

there he is.

you see a piece of him return, as rage turns to horror and realization.

“you—it’s you.” he manages to get through disjointed breaths, whatever scene that was looping in his mind clearly still clouding his ability to calm down.

“it’s me.” you whisper.

he closes his eyes, pulling in a sharp breath as he lets go of your wrists and moves his hands to beside your head. he ducks his head, shoulders shaking and mouth curling in an expression that could only be described as pure self loathing.

“…it’s okay.” you breathe, your words quickly cut off by his own.

“it’s not.”

it’s harsher than he probably intended. his voice is hoarse and deep, an underlying growl there that he can’t seem to get rid of. you watch as a few sparks of ember float up into the air, fizzling out thankfully before it could hit your sheets or spark the wooden ceiling.

he was going to hurt you. you. you. you.

a second goes by and shakily you raise your hands, cupping his cheeks. “laurance. look at me.”

his jaw clenches and unclenches. once, twice, three, before he cracks open his eyes again, focusing on you.

“i’m okay. see?” you keep your voice hushed, thumbs running along the red veins beneath his eyes. “you need to calm down so you can transform back.”

“i ca—i can’t. you should’ve heard—no. no.” he shakes his head, lowering it again—but this time resting his face into the crook of your neck.

your heart sinks. he sounds so unstable. so panicked.

fingers drift up to the nape of his neck, massaging into the tense muscles there and drifting to the now impossibly broad expanse of his shoulders. they seemed to double your own, his form completely swallowing yours as he leaned over you. he breathes in, taking in your scent as his lips pressed against the juncture of your shoulder and neck. it makes your heart rate involuntarily spike, a shuddering breath leave your lips in a mix of fear and something else you don’t want to admit to.

a few more beats pass like this, you frozen under him like prey caught in the jaws of a predator, before his lips part and he bites down onto your skin.

his teeth were sharp, and a small whimper of discomfort involuntarily leaves your lips at the feeling.

it makes him flinch back and freeze in place, like once again he hadn’t even realized his own actions—the primal part of him taking over his rational thoughts.

“i can’t.” he mutters lowly, moving to get up, like he was going to leave. “

“no.” you quickly wrap your arms around his shoulders, trying to pull him down to you but instead pulling yourself up to him.

“i’m going to hurt you. i don’t have… control over myself right now—“

you gulp, before slinking your legs around his waist and pulling your hips up to connect with his.

he inhales sharply. “what are you doing?”

“you’re here with me. let me show you.”

“no. no, i’ll hurt you.” he says, groaning as you pull yourself closer and roll yourself into him.

there’s a low warning of your name from his lips, forehead dropping to rest against your collarbone. “you don’t know what you’re doing—”

“i do.” you reassure, cutting him off. “i want you.”

he settles back down with a groan, lifting his head to look at you. “i’m dangerous to you right now. why can’t you understand?”

leaning up, you connect your lips with his and he groans against you. you can feel his self control beginning to crumble, and the much thicker bulge pressing between your legs through the material of his pants and your nightgown.

“i understand.” you say. “i understand that i love you more.”

“you’re going to be,” he groans, the deeper timbre of his voice sending a shock of electricity down your spine. “the undoing of me.”

he rolls his hips down into yours, and you gasp. regularly, what was under his belt was nothing to scoff at—his flirtatious remarks irritatingly wasn’t just all talk. but now? in this form where he towered not one but two heads taller than you? just from him pressing into you alone you could tell he was huge.

this is what he needed, though. you can already feel the tense trembling of his muscles beginning to calm, his ragged and uneven breathing turning to just a shuddering tempo.

his hands find themselves on your hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin. “is this… what you want? tell me right now, because i’m losing my grip.”

you were almost ashamed of the damp spot that had already begun to form on your panties, and how just his touch was enough to send shockwaves through your nervous system.

“yes.”

it’s like a switch is flipped, whatever wall of self control his conscious had put up crumbling to the ground. his hips push down into yours, harsher this time, while his lips press into your skin. he begins to pull your skin between his teeth, suckling bruises against it while his hands no less than tear your nightgown from your body.

cool air hits your skin, a small gasp leaving your lips at his sudden eager need to have his skin on yours. his hands briefly leave your side, only to pull his own clothes and briefs from his form. you don’t dare to look down, the length that was pressing against your thigh enough to intimidate you.

“i—“ he stutters, the internal war being fought in his head stopping his movements. “i’ll hurt you. i don’t know if i can control myself.”

tilting your head up, you kiss him once again, fingers threading into his hair and massaging his scalp. “you won’t.”

he shudders against you, breathing in your scent and deepening the kiss. eagerly he shifts your hips, moving you closer with one hand and dragging the fat tip of his cock against your clit. you were already well lubricated with the slick that covered your folds, but you still weren’t sure if it would fit. regardless his lips continue to devour yours, pulling each breath from your lips and leaving you dizzy as he shifts his hips up, dragging the length against your folds and pulling back. the mere girth of it was startling, but you don’t get to think about it for long until you’re subjected to it, the tip bullying it’s way through your entrance.

he slowly keeps pushing in, making you feel like you were going to split in half by his size. the stretch was entirely new, an uncomfortable one you hadn’t felt before. it was almost too much, but you didn’t want him to stop, either.

but you needed to breathe. managing to part from the messy lock of your lips with a gasp, you throw your head back with a shuddered moan. he keeps pulling out just so he can push back in deeper, each thrust somehow filling you out impossibly more. your body was protesting against the push, squeezing against his length like your insides were trying to shove him back out. each time you fluttered around his cock he’d groan lowly under his breath, the noise a gravelly sound that rattled against your ribs and send a lightheaded wave of pleasure up your spine.

your eyelashes flutter down, a shocked gasp leaving your lips when you see he’d barely pushed halfway through. he pulls his attention from the spot on your collarbone he’d been leaving bruising kisses on, eyes darting across your face as he keeps bullying his way inside. it was bordering on being painful, but the shocks of pleasure shooting through your nerves overpowered everything else.

the veins under his eyes had begun to recede, the red of his irises now dulling in color. his nose wrinkles for a moment as he looks at you, his hands cupping your face as a conflict of emotions crosses his face. you can tell what he was thinking, with the look of guilt that crosses over his eyes at the sight of your smaller body trembling underneath him.

he was meant to protect you. and everything in his nature now wanted him to do the opposite. even as he fought against it, it still wasn’t enough. your screams, real or not, still echo in his head.

he was always so gentle with you. always taking his time to make sure you—the most important thing to him—felt safe and comfortable. the thought that he was possibly hurting you right now was revolting to him, even though he needed you close right now. you have to reach up to his face to snap him out of his thoughts before he spirals once again.

“it’s okay. i’m okay.” you whisper.

he presses his face into your hair, before a shuddering sob leaves his lips.

“i couldn’t protect you.”

you reach for his face pulling him up to look at you. his eyebrows are pulled together, red glazed over in angry and distressed tears.

“laurance, my love. it wasn’t real. i’m safe with you.” you tilt your head. “you’ll always protect me.”

he shakes his head, gritting his teeth. “but what about when i can’t? when i fully lose control? when i finally lose you? it would be my end. i couldn’t handle it. i can’t. i can’t.”

“you’re not going to lose me.”

“you don’t… you don’t understand…”

“yes, i do.”

your voice is firmer, and it snaps his attention back to you.

“i know you. i know what you’re capable of.” you gently brush your hands across his face, and his eyes slowly shut, taking in your words. “i know your strength, and your values. i know you’d rather throw yourself into the worst pain imaginable before letting something happen to me. even now, when you claim you’re so dangerous, i know i’m safe.”

his breath shudders as he hunches over you, seeming to feel a pang through his chest that knocked the breath out of his lungs.

“i love you.” you whisper, before the breath is knocked out of you as he gives a harsh thrust of his hips, rocking you up against the pillow.

“i love you.” he groans back. “so much. you’re my everything.”

you can’t respond to that, can’t even think of the words as he fully pushes himself in, his pelvis meeting your ass. his hands grip onto your waist like you would disappear between his fingers if he let go, head dipping down to your chest as he begins to set a rhythm. pain has faded to pure pleasure at this point, the stretch of his girth and the veins that dragged along your walls with every thrust left your mouth gasping for air and back arching up into him.

his tempo was rough and sloppy, leaving you unable to catch your breath and stirring your head into a mindless haze, your fingers grasping onto the firm expanse of his shoulders for any sense of stability as you’re knocked into oblivion.

his mouth latches onto your neck once again, but unlike his brutal thrusts his lips are soft against your skin. that was your laurance. the one that laced his hand with yours as he took you in a slow and sensual pace. the one that whispered sweet nothings in your ear and treated you so gently—focusing on pleasuring you until you couldn’t think before even beginning to focus on himself.

despite how much you loved how he treated you regularly, you couldn’t even try to deny how good this felt.

he lifts his head up, fingers brushing along your breasts and up against your collarbones, taking you all in as he sped up the pace. you can tell he’s already close to his release from the way his chin tilts up in the air and his glazed-over eyes roll back, his lips parted as he pulls in ragged breaths. suddenly he’s pulling your thighs up, large hands squeezing into the plush skin and hitching them up against his shoulders.

“so beautiful. and mine.” he murmurs, voice a deep rasp. he turns his head down, leaning back over you and staring at you through hooded eyes—practically folding you in half. “don’t you dare ever run where i can’t protect you.”

you’re close, too, and the way he looked at you now was about to send you over the edge. the mix of the new angle his dick was brutally drilling into you and his possessive and borderline wild need to protect you has you squeezing against him, your cunt sucking him in deeper and not letting go.

he moans out lowly, his hips stuttering into yours and slamming to a sudden stop. it’s so much, in more ways than one, when his hips grind in a slow circle and the heat of his cum overflows into you. you swear you feel it in your guts, with how much of it keeps coming, and how he jerkily pushes it back into you. it snaps you over the edge, vision going white and limbs turning shaky and weak, the mix of both of your releases spilling from your stuffed cunt and creating a sticky mess where your skin connected.

when you regain your vision again you find yourself looking back into gray-blue eyes, his eyebrows turned up and under eyes wet with tears. his skin had returned to its normal tone, but he still looked so pale, still so filled with a fear he couldn’t swallow.

you bring a hand up to his cheek once again, wiping the stray beads of sweat away from his face and leaning up to press a soft kiss against his lips.

“there you are, my love.”

your voice is merely a hoarse whisper, but it’s enough to knock him down. he crumbles onto you, forehead landing on the pillow next to your head, breaths shaky and fanning across your skin as his arms circle around your waist and pull you tight. slowly, he pulls out, leaving the both of you softly groaning in discomfort at the absence of each other’s warmth. his cum continues to spill out from inside you, dripping onto the sheets in a messy mix.

“…did i hurt you?” he whispers, voice trembling in the fear of it being true. his hands feel so very gentle on your waist, like he was holding fragile porcelain in his hands.

“no.”

his breath hitches in something like relief, a choked sob leaving his lips. “i love you more than anything.”

“i know. and i love you.”

his shoulders relax, and he rolls to the clean side of the bed, pulling you right into his chest and hugging you close. strong arms wrap around your shoulders and waist, leaving you little wiggle room against him. with the fragile state he was in, though, you don’t dare to say a word about it.

“i’m sorry. i don’t know what happened—” he starts, his voice an exhausted and hoarse whimper as he buries his face in your hair.

“laurance. i’m safe.” is all you say, silencing the self-deprecating thoughts he wished to express.

in the quiet dead of night, you both lay there, limbs tangled and pressed together as the moonlight filtered through the window and illuminated your sweaty skin—shining from the afterglow. the fears that plagued your lover’s mind melted away for now, his breaths evening into a deep and steady cycle and mind lulling into a peaceful sleep.

©starhvney 2024. do not plagiarize, feed to any AI, or repost my works to any sites.

taglist: @wasting-away-on-the-internet @angelhyperfixates @valentique @dazedbydeath @theaquaticplant @starsbrightly @kalegrinch (if you are a minor or uncomfortable with being tagged in nsfw please let me know immediately and i will take you off of my taglist for nsfw works in the future)

[firefly--bright]

september coffee

jean kirstein x reader, modern au

summary ; september feels alot like the start of the year. jean brings you pastries while you make coffee, and september feels less daunting than january. warnings ; none! a/n ; im sorry for the last atrocity. please enjoy this domestic slice of life and forget i ever wrote the last one. thanku. also this is just me revealing my mocha recipie. enjoy :3 taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿

middle tile art creds ; @ppushable !

september feels a lot like the start of the year. more than january, a better fit. maybe it's the air, maybe its the cool breeze, maybe its the fact that your hair falls a little better, maybe its the fact that your coffee tastes like how you know how to make it, or that your music fits the occasion of the leaves falling on the ground. orange, a little soft still, littering the entrance of your apartment building.

or maybe it's none of those. maybe you're reading too much into it. the wind holds your face with its coolness and you think it's okay to breathe a little better. you think it's better to forget you were ever fourteen. its okay if your bedside table is lined with coffee cups, a dark band running on the inside of them, indicating that it has been used well enough to know it isn't forgotten. youre barely there but its okay because the year is just starting - nine months in.

or maybe it's him. his hands in his pockets, waiting outside your door with a brown bag holding croissants and some cheese. the good one, he says, holding a grudge against everything that doesn't meet his taste. his coffee is black and made by you, just how he likes it, sitting on your kitchen counter patiently, cooling down.

maybe he just happens to breathe life into the september's stillness to make it a little fuller. which is an important title to give to someone, akin to god, being the one your risky and dangerous hopes are pinned on, an unknown specter.

he balances his coffee on his laptop, carrying the both of them - dangerous, risky, hopeful. places both on top of the kitchen counter in front of your quarter-made coffee. it's barely starting, the brew of your present concoction being only planned out and the mug is empty when he peers into it, curious.

"what's it gonna be this time?" he asks, taking a sip from his cup with gentle breaths, knowing just how hot the coffee is going to be. this is not hope. no, its the fullness that comes with being with him. being with him is to feel september around you, semi-crunchy leaves on the ground being forgotten by everyone else but you even if you're in your home making an iced mocha.

"you'll see." you say, speaking about hope. he'll see. you'll wait.

he nods, slowly, twice, uncalculated movements that you have somehow counted and known since you'd met him. "show me." he says. this is also not hope, and you dare not to mix the two - his voice isn't a command but its a plea. not a hope, because he knows you enough to know you'd comply. its certainty. not risky, not dangerous. safe and sound in your home, cup of quarter-made coffee, marbled floors, september air, his voice. safe. easy.

you've been too focused on stringing hope together. beady rocks of what people describe as a glimmer. you'd describe it as something more of a small weight. beads. something that required effort to be collected together once they scattered away. hope came with the dangerous of risk and its own existence, a mapped road that you had been down to several times, hoping against hope. but this was good. the little shine in his eyes, looking at you without expectance.

"two spoons of coffee." you start, taking your shitty pack of instant coffee, crumbled at its zigzagged edges, cut unevenly. jean's face scrunches up at your choice, something you cant show you agree with. "why this one?" he grumbles, and you spare him a glance from the corner of your eye.

"its backup coffee." you say, shrugging. the plastic crinkles under your fingers as you slip a spoon inside it.

"backup coffee?" he asks, pushing the cup closer to your spoon - things that dont go unnoticed by you. its not about actions being added up in the end, you think, because you were always taught that it was the sum of all your actions that determined if you were good or bad, but its not. in this moment, you decide that everything - little or big - that he did made your heart feel like it actually mattered. every thing had its own consequence.

"my actual coffee's finished. this is the one i use when i have to wait for the next grocery run to buy the good stuff." you answer, and he hums, his hands folding themselves over his chest, nodding, attentive, certain. You turn your attention to another cabinet – the one containing the sugar and cinnamon – and jean’s attention rests on you. the music sounds different, you think, clearer. another thing about September stillness. Another thing about the normalcy of hopelessness. Despite how big and scary the word sounds; hopelessness isn’t a curse. It doesn’t have to be, not when jean’s eyes are on your hands and the way you turn the cap of the sugar jar, careful, certain. Hopelessness is certain. It’s a favour. it’s the lack of hope, the lack of the blood-curdling risk that comes with it. It’s the lack of the expectation for something to be perfect, you keep thinking, take one spoonful and dumping it on the coffee powder in your less-empty mug.

Another spoon. Your mind shifts - you're going to add chocolate syrup in this, that’s going to have sugar too - you shake some sugar off the spoon and back into it’s jar, grains falling in-between the space of the jar and the mug, spilling on the counter. Hopeless. Jean snickers. “shut up,” you say with a smile of your own, capping the lid back on before moving on to the next step.

“cinnamon?” he asks, tilting his head. You nod, flipping the lid open to the part with tinier holes than the other side and sprinkling some in. “how do you know how much?”

You shrug, but your moves are decisive. “just eyeball it.”

he rolls his eyes, hopeless. “I need measurements.” He says. you scoff. “and you’re going to actually make this?” “yes.” He says as if its obvious, “for when you want it but cant make it.”

Little things. You were always taught about adding things up to make them count more, but this counted just as much. You pause, taking a breath to take in the fact that he admitted to the act of loving you. admitted to the fact that he’d love you into routine.

September air breathes a little more into life.

“just… trust your gut.” You say, a little hopeful, you think, because your heart’s beating a little bit faster. Risky, dangerous. pearls of hope are scattering away from you. in the silence where you don’t speak, jean seems to have made up his mind, giving you a deadpan expression when your eyes meet his. “don’t give me that bullshit.”

“what? I trust your gut. Why cant you trust your gut?” you challenge, closing the lid, placing the bottle on the marbled counter, turning your face towards his. He runs one hand through his hair, shaking his head. “my gut cant even digest lactose.” “and yet you eat blocks of – what is it you got?” “gouda-“ “gouda with wine.” “yeah that’s because…that’s my duty.” You laugh in affectionate disbelief. “then its my duty to drink how much ever cinnamon you put in my coffee.”  

The same silence spreads across the room again. Contemplative, comfortable; an unsaid recognition of your own version of a confession, just as his was. And jean thinks about how you claim you don’t know how to talk about things in a way that make sense and have shape, but then you do. You always somehow find a way to make everything into a prayer, into a sentence that hopes to be something more than itself. And then he thinks about how comforting it is. The fact that he’s the only one that can decode your false bait into its much more real, much scarier reality. Each phrase hoping to be an “I love you” that only jean can hold, seeing it to be something akin to a scripture rather than three countable words.

A duty to make coffee for his beloved; a penance, an act, a confession. And then the duty to drink the coffee if it turns out worse than promised; a recognition, an act, a confession.

You move to get the milk from the fridge. Its half empty, half full, and you pour just enough for the milk to cover the powdery mix in your mug, filling up around one-third of the glass.

“hmm. Milk. Right after you made fun of my disability.” He says. you laugh. It’s a ritual. “being lactose intolerant is a curse, not a disability.” He waves his hand around in dismissal. “whatever,” he says, just as you place your mug in the microwave. The action catches his attention more than the rest of your actions do.

“microwave?” he asks, tilting his head again, a strand of hair falling over his forehead. Your hand reaches forward, brushing it back, your fingers tangling in his hair. His eyes flutter, cheeks tainting a watery red.

“helps the sugar melt faster.” You say. You watch his adam’s apple bob, his eyes opening to meet yours, your hand still in his hair. He hums, and you're almost afraid he’s going to fall asleep – standing up, leaning against the marbled kitchen counter, with your hand where its supposed to be, soft strands against your fingertips, just where he’s supposed to be, the slope of his shoulders relaxed, calm, only moving with his breath.

The microwave dings. Once, twice, and you open it before it reaches it’s last beep. Another ritual. The song changes, playing another soft tune, and jean’s shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, scratching the back of his neck and hiding his stupid blush from you even though you’ve already seen it and taken pride in it. You’ll grant him the illusion of having gotten away with it. Just this once.

placing the mug on the counter again, you stir the sugar into the milk and coffee and cinnamon. “how do you know if the sugar’s dissolved?” jean asks. He leans back to his left foot, shifting closer to you. his chest is against your arm, just enough space to let you mix the liquid, it’s warm scent filling the room, taking up space, mixing with your breath. September air lulls – its all just shitty instant coffee and cinnamon now, and the old, burnt-out candle on your coffee table not even three steps away is long forgotten.

“chocolate next.” You say. Jean nods, moving off of the counter to the cabinet beside him, and you try not to focus on his movements too much. It proves to be hard when his forearms flex with little effort and his face lights up subtly when he spots the bottle of the syrup, reaching forward to grab it. Another confession, you think, that you didn’t ask him for this. You didn’t ask him to come to your apartment just to watch you make your coffee, you didn’t ask for him to waste his time while you could ramble about the day you spent without him. He didn’t ask for you to look at him as if he was doing you a favour, but he was. Is it a favour if you didn’t really ask for it? You didn’t ask him to open the bottle for you, you didn’t ask him to squeeze whatever was left at the end ontop of your warm coffee. And you mumble out a “thanks” anyway, because what else can you do?

“I kinda… stab the cup? With the spoon? To feel the bottom…if there are any grains left, id feel it though the spoon.” You say, demonstrating exactly what you were saying. Your spoon hits the bottom of the mug, and you feel a crystal of sugar through the tip of your spoon. “complicated,” jean whispers from beside you and you try to stifle a laugh.

“not really. Youre stupid.” “im not.” “sure.” “im not.”

Pearls of dangerous hope string themselves together without your say in the matter. You breathe out and watch as the remaining ribbon of smoke from the heat of the coffee distorts around your exhale. Jean’s hand rubs the flesh of your arm, the un-asked for warmth leaving it’s traces on your skin. You didn’t ask for this. His hand is on your shoulder now, and you cant help but enjoy it. You stir the chocolate into your concoction, and jean leans forward to place a small kiss near your collarbone without prior notice. But you don’t flinch from surprise, relaxing under his lips. He pulls away before you can start wondering again, and your mind lulls.

“I just followed some video at first and then I hated it. And then I just fucked around and found out. my first coffee was with my cousin sister when the lights went off. We all went to the grocery store because that was the only place with the a/c still on, and she got a can of cold coffee and I had a sip and now my only goal in life is to make coffee that was exactly like the shitty can of coffee we had then.” You said, overexplaining while the ice in your now full mug of coffee melted slowly. Jean took a sip of it, nodding to your story. His brows lift in little surprise after taking a sip, shaking his head in appreciation. “don’t know if this counts as shitty,” “you like it?” you ask with a smile, and jean pretends it doesn’t affect it as much as it does. The coffee settles in his stomach as do the butterflies. He nods.

You love him. there are no favours to ask for. After making sure the chocolate’s dissolved, the colour of the coffee changing from what it was before, small bubbles gathering at the edge of the liquid, you move to the fridge to get some ice. Jean’s eyes follow your figure, glued to your face as you reach into the freezer, prying the ice cubes out, holding them in your hands.

“you could’ve just got the mug near you,” jean says, watching you pour the handful over the coffee. “and I’m the stupid one?”

“shut up.” You tell him with a smile in defeat, unable to come up with a clever response. You wipe your now damp hands on your pants, and jean grabs the milk, pouring it over the ice, knowing just how much you’d like. A couple of the cubes float to the top, just as he stops, and now its your turn to lean on the counter beside him, hands resting on the marble as he stirs the coffee.

“if this were a glass mug-“ you say, and he looks at you with a soft smile you cant quiet place, “-you could see the layers of the coffee and the milk and it looks really pretty,”

he hums in response. “when did you find out you liked it like that?”

“its good. Sweet,” he remarks. You tilt your head knowingly, “you pretend to like black coffee but I know you’d tear up a frappe,” “I would not-“ “literally last week.” “that was different.” “how?” “I bought that for you!” “and you drank all of it before I even knew you got it for me-“ “I was tempted.” “sure, jean.” You say, laugh laced in your words. Jean pushes the mug towards you as if to prove you wrong.

You take a sip. The song changes again, and jean’s hand finds its way to the small of your back. With your lips still touching the cup, his lips touch your cheeks. His stubble tickles your chin, but you don’t flinch. September air is calm, quiet, there’s little breeze. Jean kisses your cheek. “how was your day?” he asks, ready, quiet, calm.

you breathe a little better, turning your face to his and pecking a kiss to his lips. He unwraps the pastry he bought not too long ago while listening it you, hopped up on the kitchen counter with a cold iced mocha in your hands, jean’s eyes on you. pearls become a necklace, and the string is stronger than before because he’s here. His eyes are on you.

[ceo-mochee]

Right I'm gonna say it cus I've seen and heard enough.

If you ship something toxic, Do NOT complain when people hate it.

(NOTE : Do NOT send me hate asks/comments if you choose to read this, cus I really do not gaf if you hate me for this. It's just my opinion and I wanted to get it off my chest.)

If the ship your shipping is a healthy pairing and people are hating you for it, then sure you have a reason to be upset. However if you're shipping something like Romesse, Aidesse or I don't know...... AXDEN.... (which are pretty toxic ships in general (my opinion)) then yeah people have a right to hate the ship.

I will agree on some part that attacking people is not a good thing, and this goes to both sides. People who don't like your ships shouldn't have to force you to change that, but at the same time if people hate on the SHIP itself (and are NOT namedropping people), then why should you be so worried? I literally watched one of my moots get attacked by someone because they wrote about not liking Axden.

Hell I'm even gonna take a quick minute to slander this ship now. Why? Cus it's pretty toxic- Aiden bullied Axel and tried killing his friends, do you reaaaaally think Axel would be friends with someone like Aiden, let alone get in a romantic relationship with him?? Yeah I don't think so either.

Here's the thing tho, this is just MY OPINION. If you disagree, COOL! But making a huge fuss about it and attacking others who disagree is only fueling that belief that "its not the ship itself, it's the shippers that are the problem." Getting pissy cus you CHOOSE to read someone's opinions and decide that because you disagree, and believing that you should go send anonymous asks attacking said person is also just making yourself look real pathetic.

I'm sorry, but if you're gonna get sensitive over a fictional pairing getting hate, then I don't know what to tell ya. s

I, of course, may or may not be the one to talk. I've shipped Axel and Lukas together for a long while and I may or may not have been hurt by some people's opinions myself, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna go off with my pitchfork and torch and bombard someone with hate asks/comments, you know how much easier life is when ya just silently disagree with one's opinions and move on? It's amazing lemme tell ya.

So far I've only seen this happening with the ship Axden (Axel x Aiden), which is pretty damn bonkers if you ask me. Why can't y'all just accept the fact that no matter how much you preach, self project onto characters, or fuss about your own opinions, not every single person is gonna agree with you. My ass already got turned into a damn PTSD trigger to one person (who I'm of course choosing NOT to namedrop) cus I disliked that ship.

"I know Aiden bullied Axel but... but I made it to where he redeemed himself!!!"

Okay??? Still doesn't change the fact that you're getting upset that people are understandably uncomfortable with that ship mate... do you understand how happier we would all be if you'd just BLOCK people who disagree instead of burning an innocent user at the stake because they dislike a toxic ship.

Like seriously if you're gonna get upset and attack someone for not liking a (pretty toxic) ship that you like and not just like- Idk- BLOCK them... then you're probably already a lost cause my friend.

[littleplantfreak]

'When', not 'if'

("I'm not a romantic" I cry and scream before dropping the most sickening thing i've written to date. Blame @stunie because i did tell her i would write the most ume thing ever and maybe this is it. The title in my docs for it is 'Fucking disgusting' but i figured i better not title it that here because I'd be seeing it in my notifs lmaoo)

SFW/no cw unless you hate fluff

When you wake up from your nap, one of your slippers is gone, and there's a blanket on you that wasn't there prior. Looking at the clock, it's been about an hour since everyone had left your apartment once your birthday party ended. The day as a whole had been chaotic, your boyfriend shoving you out the door with a note to go see Kotoha.

The note took you farther than that, though, as it seemed Umemiya created a whole scavenger hunt for your birthday that had you running into all of your friends, having dessert at your favorite cafe, and eventually ending up at your shared apartment to find that all that time spent around town was a distraction so that he could set up the space for your party. After it had ended, you were banished to the couch because princesses aren't allowed to help clean up their own birthday parties, which had you huffing and falling face down into the chicken shaped pillow affectionately called Mr.Clucky.

It was a product of your boyfriend's endless cycle of hobbies when he took up sewing. A little lopsided and overfilled with stuffing, you complained to and into Mr.Clucky with your face pressed into him. Apparently, he was soft enough to fall asleep on because before you knew it, you had been drooling on him the entire hour. Prying yourself off the couch took more effort than was almost worth it before your eyes fell on the reason you were so tired to begin with.

Hajime smiles and hums looking at your bleary eyes. "Good morning sunshine, I was just about to take you to bed," he says, folding a dish towel over a chair. You toss off the blanket and grab on the slipper that fell under the living room table before padding up to him. Dipping your hands under both of his arms to lock them together behind him, now your face is in his chest instead of the chicken, which is entirely preferred.

"Don't wanna go to bed just yet," you muffle, sinking even deeper into him when both of his arms wrap around you in support. He smells like dish soap and birthday cake, and you turn your head to hear the heartbeat in his chest.

"What do you wanna do lovey? You know I'd give you the world if you asked," you can hear the rumble of his voice in his chest with your pressed ear. He's cheesy, but half asleep, you feel just as much, if not cheesier.

"I have the world if I have you, they're one in the same. So just you is more than fine." Your eyes are closed, but you feel him shiver a little. "I wanna dance with you, though," you say, voice still soft and kinda raspy from sleep.

"Dunno if I can top what you just said even when I propose," he chokes out a laugh, or at least you think it's one. He shifts his hold a bit and starts leading you both in a lazy sway that starts near the toaster and ends next to the potted plant at the back door before starting over.

"When? Not if?" You tease him, a hand going to scratch the nape of his neck lightly.

"I'll never meet another you, so I'm pretty set on When."

"I'll say yes." Because you will. You can't imagine a life where you wouldn't.

"And I'll still cry when you do." You can tell he's crying now because it comes out shaky and his hold tightens a bit, before you lean back, stopping your impromptu waltz. Both of your hands come up to cup his face and look at his teary grey eyes before cooing at him.

"You big baby! Save those tears for When please. You'll be congested and sniffley all night if you don't stop." You start cleaning off his face with your sleeve, but he stops one of your hands and starts peppering your palm and wrist with small kisses. "I think I'm ready for bed now. Princess's orders," you say, dragging him towards your bedroom. You'll have to figure out tomorrow just how soon When is going to be, but for now you can hear the slow thumps of Hajime's steps as he follows behind you, squeezing your connected hand. It's not pressing in the least, you think, because it feels like there will be plenty of tomorrows too.

-----

When you wake up in the morning, it takes you an hour to realize Hajime had put the ring on your finger while you were asleep.

It takes you five minutes to run through town in your pajamas, barefoot to find and full on tackle him in front of the place he was about to get your breakfast in.

And it takes about two minutes of unintelligible blubbering on both your parts before anyone understands what is going on.

No one timed it, but if they did, it would've taken less than ten minutes for the whole town to find out via texts, calls, and yells down the streets and through windows that you're engaged.

[seagull-scribbles]

The Lesbians doing each-others make-up meme but its these two idiots!

This also inspired a one shot, which you can read on AO3 [here] by @veritas-dolos 💖

[corrodedcoughin]

little story about little Eddie and his 2 new friends | word count approx 2.5k | general audience rating | steve and eddie are kids and Wayne is a pushover

Wayne sometimes thinks it was a mistake, not taking in the boy. God no, he would never think of Eddie as anything other than an important and intrinsic part of his life, couldn't be without him, wouldn't want to be. 

No, what Wayne worries about is how his readiness to help Eddie feel loved might contribute to the boy's difficulty in making friends.

It was an innocent enough request, Eddie asked for a pet as all young children do. He was so small and so wide eyed, just a scrap of an 8 year old with more feelings than he knew what to do with. Wayne knew he'd never hold up against any request Eddie made but he liked to pretend to himself that he could. And while technically he never pandered to the boy, yes Eddie usually got what he wanted but in a way that suited their means. Or so Wayne tells himself. 

8 year old Eddie asked for a pet and a pet is what he got.

-

Eddie barrelled into the trailer door, backpack swinging off his arm and ready to be thrown into the corner. Planning to shoot off back out the door to do his usual; lift up rocks and inspect whatever bugs he could find, to grab sticks and imagine them as wizard staffs, to let his imagination finally run wild after hours of sitting still at a desk under too bright lights and too busy class rooms. In truth he wasn't really paying attention to the insides of the trailer, expecting it to be the same as always. It took a very pointed cough for Eddie to register that Wayne was unusually home from work, far earlier than normal, and a further loud clearing of the throat for Eddie to pay attention to what Wayne had placed on the kitchen table. 

Right in the middle of the table, sitting in a beam of sunlight, was a cage and in that cage was what would soon become, Eddie's very reason for being. He crept up close, almost as if scared that any sudden movements would prove the whole thing to be a cruel illusion. He was brought out of his reverie by a pink nose wiggling at the bars, whiskers attached and twitching as the rest of the rat appeared.

'is he-? is he for real?' Eddie said with a gasp, hands inching towards the door of the cage. 

Wayne had to suppress a laugh, trust this boy to be bowled over in wonder at a rat as if it were a puppy. He opened the contraption of the enclosure door and dipped his hand inside, allowing the rat to climb onto his palm. The guy from work assured him that this one was the most tame he had, inquisitive to a fault and oddly enough, desperate to be handled. Quite honestly, the perfect match for his well meaning but excitable nephew-near-enough-son. 

'Yeah, yeah kid it's for real. And he's a she.' Wayne lets the rat sniff at Eddie's hands, little pink hands finding a platform on Eddie's palms, clearly holding himself a still as possible but if Wayne knew this boy, and he did, he knows that Eddie is so close to vibrating out of his skin, that containing that much excitement must be killing him. 

'I don't care. Wayne, I don't! Can she sleep in my room? Does she know tricks? Can I teach her? What does she like? Can I take her to school? Please! Wayne!' He's started now, words pouring out of his mouth, tripping over himself to try and release every thought entering his brain at lightning speed.

'Woah, there' Wayne says pulling the rat up, cradling it in two hands, 'We got to be kind to her alright? She's only small. Doesn't know what loud noises are good and which are bad, okay?' He watches as Eddie nods vigorously, eyes never leaving the creature. 'Now you promised me you'd look after a pet so that's what's going to happen. She is your responsibility. That means cleaning, feeding and loving, got it?' Eddie nods again, tentatively reaching his hands up, the image of Oliver Twist springs to Wayne's mind. 

Wayne comes around the kitchen table, crouches down to Eddie on creaky knees and hands the rat over, filling Eddie's small hands with a heartbeat and fur. Eddie giggles, watching as the rat surveils the new patch of skin its found itself on. 

'Tickles, Wayne' and its said with such love and devotion Wayne almost feels his heart break 

'Yeah son. She does, doesn't she?' 

-

 Of course it takes less than a week and Eddie and Sam are inseparable. As soon as Eddie gets home he's itching for his furry friend, delighting in the way she scampers around the room, over his arms and anywhere she can get. No matter what though, she always comes back to him. She can be digging in to a particularly interesting crevice behind the couch but she'll always come running back when she hears Eddie make a noise.  

The thing is, Eddie is a pretty lonely kid. Not for lack of trying, don't get it wrong. Eddie tries to socialise he tries to talk to the other kids in his class, get them involved in his imaginary games and play pretend but being the new kid doesn't really do him any favours. Being the new kid that lives in the trailer park and a penchant for biting to show affection does him even less. 

To Eddie, its him and Sam against the world. He can come home and know that his best friend will listen to all his problems, will stay close and won't run away even when he's extra loud or being 'a lot' as his teacher like to tell him. He's so tired of being told to use his 'quiet hands', his 'inside voice' and every other subdued phrase they try to press on him. 

This particular day was a hard one, Sally Winters had said that Eddie was 'bad luck' and the word quickly spread around by recess. Eddie had thought he was making some progress with a couple of kids from the class, was thinking today might be the day that he finally got asked to play but that hope quickly got squashed. He had hopped up to the potential friends with a stick in his hand and a notion of being a pirate when they both looked at him like he was a monster, they couldn't get away fast enough. And Eddie couldn't find a place to hide quick enough before the fat and heavy tears fell from his eyes. 

It was a long day and home time was his only saving grace. 

Wayne knows somethings up, can tell in the way that Eddie isn't even really talking to Sam, hardly looking at the Tv despite the fact that Wayne very purposefully had put the cartoon Lord of the Rings movie on. The sure fire fall back he liked to keep in his back pocket. The trump card to get his kid happy. This time though? No luck. Looking at the kid makes a chasm open up in his gut, deep and full of overwhelming sadness that he just wants to stop, wants to find the solution to make this boy smile like the sun again. They don't talk much for the rest of the night but Wayne makes sure to stay close, stay awake in case he's needed. Eddie spends the time between dinner and bed sitting on the floor, side pressed up against Wayne's leg and playing fetch with bits of Wayne's whittling with Sam, not a word said. 

-

Eddie wakes up the next morning with a plan and a devil may care attitude. Oh so carefully he maintains his usual routine; says good morning to Sam, carts her around the trailer as he washes his face and wanders into the kitchen, placing her in her secondary cage so she can eat breakfast with Eddie and Wayne - Eddie was adamant that they couldn't have meals without her, 'she's part of the family!' and soft hearted fool Wayne Munson agreed and an additional cage was sourced. 

When breakfast is finished Eddie begins his usual rigmarole of dragging his feet to get out of his pjs and into his clothes, reluctant to grab his bag and go out the door. Same old protests as Wayne watches him walk out towards the school bus. 

What is a new addition to the routine though, is Sam Munson hiding up the sleeve of a school boy and about to go on a secret and very dangerous mission. A mission to survive the school day. 

Surprisingly, Eddie manages to keep Sam secret, keep her safe, the whole morning. He came prepared with snacks to make sure she was entertained and happy, he couldn't stand the thought of her being sad, her eyes get so big and her tail droops as well as her ears, it makes the whole of Eddie ache. But no, she's happy, or happy enough at least. 

So the morning goes without a hitch, Eddie making noises to cover up any squeaks and keeping a hand in his pocket to reassure Sam, stowed in the pocket of his hoodie. He knows he's seen as 'weird' so what's a few extra noises? They are let out for recess and Eddie breathes a sigh of relief, thinking this is his time to let Sam out, knowing she's desperate for some fresh air. Sure, she's peed in his hoodie pocket, but he can't really tell with it's dark colour and the layer of t-shirt between the wet material and his tummy. 

He runs off to his usual corner, stuck between a bush and a tree and gently tips Sam out of his pocket, she scampers around his feet and gratefully accepts a broken off bit of cracker between her hands.

'Thanks for coming with me Sam. Everyone is so mean, its so stupid. I don't care. You are a better friend than any of those losers' He crouches down, hoping to find a twig to play fetch with. A game that he delights in, is immeasurably proud of her for learning it so quickly. 'Gonna find you the best stick Sam. Promise. Best stick for the best friend' 

He continues muttering to himself and doesn't notice that he's getting progressively louder after finding a twig and beginning the game. Doesn't register that he's drawn unwanted attention with his happy shouts and encouragement until a body is crashing through the shrub he's hidden himself behind. 

Sam doesn't notice either until the unexpected form is right in front of her and she bolts, running as fast as her legs will carry her and Eddie is right behind her, muttering under his breath as he trips over his own feet in an attempt to catch her 'oh shit oh no oh no oh no' He's pushing himself as hard as he can but it doesn't count for much, he never was the fastest. He keeps trying though but then a faster body is accelrating past him, in a evident bee line for Sam. 

Without thinking, Eddie lets out a painful 'NO!' terrified of what might happen.

He knows people think rats are dirty, thinks they don't deserve love and don't deserve life. He doesn't want to imagine what this person's intent might be. Sam reaches a dead end up against the wall of the school and the body, the boy, stops infront of her. Scoops her up? Cradles her into his chest? Eddie...Eddie doesn't know what to think, he's prepared to fight this kid but then the boy is looking up at him with curious hazel eyes. Stroking Sam's head gently and with intent.

He holds Sam out, careful with his motions, trying to blow his brown floppy hair out of his face without disturbing the animal in his hands 'is she okay? is she yours? did I hurt her? she looks okay, is she?' Eddie gingerly steps forward and plucks Sam out of the boys hands, gives hera thorough inspection as the other boy continues 

'I didn't mean to scare her I swear! I didn't even know you had her! I won't tell, I swear I wont! You know...you shouldn't really have a rat in school. If I promise not to tell can I play with you? I'm Steve' 

Holding her close, Eddie squints at the boy, at Steve, and thinks. Thinks about how he looks nice, about how soft his hair looks and how he asked Eddie, Eddie!, to play, that he didn't give him a wide bearth and that he held Sam with such care. It isn't even a hard decision.

They spend the rest of recess together. Eddie shows Steve just how smart Sam. That she can play fetch, that she can run across one arm to the next, over your shoulders without losing balance. That she can twitch her whiskers and it seems like she's laughing at the joke Eddie tells her. That she laughs at the joke Steve tells her! Steve learns that she's named after somebody called Samwise and it doesn't matter that he's a boy because Sam is brave just like Samwise and smart and cares just as much. That Sam is Sam and Eddie is Frodo and together they can take on the world. 

Steve asks if he can have a name too and Eddie calls him Legolas, doesn't tell him why. Doesn't say that Steve reminds him of the pretty elves described in the books Wayne reads out loud to Eddie. It doesn't matter, not really. 

Recess ends and they shuffle back to the school doors, both of them lagging behind the others.

Eddie steels himself, knows he has to bring his misfortune up so that he can own in, so that his new friend doesn't find out from someone else. 'I'm bad luck you know. Sally...she said it. now everyone wont talk to me. I wont be mad if you don't either. I've got Sam. We'll be oaky! So you can just go, I don't care!' He knows he's getting wound up, he can't stop himself. He just wants the bandaid ripped off so he can start feeling sad quicker, get it over with sooner.

Before he can register is, Steve is wrapped around Eddie in a flash of a hug, careful to keep his tummy away from squashing Sam. 

'Not bad luck to me. See you tomorrow Frodo' Steve whispers next to Eddie's ear and shuffles through the school door. 

Eddie is in a daze of joy and happiness, thoughts rumbling through his head but none of them sticking as he journey back into his class room. Pure happiness radiating out of his body, he takes Sam out of his pocket and holds her up to his face 'Sam you made my bad luck go away!' kissing her on the forehead as he hears his teacher scream 

'EDWARD MUNSON IS THAT A RAT?!'

-

So Wayne thought the already unpopular kid having a rat would make things worse. Turns out, he was wrong. Very, very wrong. He might have to start pocket inspections before school though.

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

also on ao3 if that's the preferred reading format for you

[monpalace]

time and warriors. reader is significantly taller than the chain (they are at hip height). no pronouns used (you/your). non-graphic mentions of blood. can be read as romantic or platonic. time and warriors teasing reader. 700 words.

The hiss that echos through the streets is more than enough to pull the Links away from the shopkeep's wares to where you stood just outside the small building.

The Link who had kept your attention off the doorframe and on him, Warriors, was quick to pull you down to his height by the elbow and sit you down.

"I called door, didn't I?" He lets out a quiet huff while gently coaxing your hand away from the flowering bruise across the bridge of your nose. The frown on his face deepens upon seeing a trail of blood already falling down your lips and to your chin. "You didn't hear me?"

"In my defense," you swallow, voice already taking on a nasally tone. Your eyes were screwed closed, doing your best to ignore that pain by focusing on his voice. "You were late and didn't bother making it any clearer."

Even if you couldn't see him, you could imagine the way he rose his brow. "Oh really?"

You hum to the best of your ability, flinching away when the vibrations of it shift your nose too much for your liking. "Really," you sigh back, lips pulling back into a sneer when Warriors taps your nose as though a ghost. "Your— stop— story about the barracks was too engaging for my own good."

He laughs, pulling his hands away when feather-light footsteps approach. Based on the way they were accompanied by the purposeful shifting of armor, you know it's Time with a red potion already in hand.

Warriors steps around so he's instead at your side. His hands reach out so they're just shy of your biceps. "It's nothing too bad," he relays, voice airy as he reaches a hand up to your shoulder blades, nudging you forward so Time could better reach you. "I've seen children with worse injuries."

Time sucks his tongue. "Again?"

"Not again," you scoff, flinching again when the vibrations reaches your nose again. Time is quick to grab your chin and tilt your head back, pressing the mouth of the bottle to your lip. "The roof is too tall. All the others have been stomach-height."

"You're a giant!" Warriors' hand pats your arm comfortingly. He wipes away droplets of blood and water with his glove, grinning while rising to his toes. "You're as tall— if not taller— than the Gerudo! You can't blame the constructors for not taking that into account."

You lower your head when Time releases your chin, eyes slowly prying open when the pain starts to subside. He waits for the bruise to fade into your natural skin tone before reaching a hand around the back of your neck to pull you closer.

"Go easy now," he chides, failing to hide to teasing lilt in his voice. His voice lowers into a murmur the closer the less distance there is between the two of you. "Surely it's no easy labor having to be in a world made for dwarves."

Time presses a kiss to your forehead to hide his chuckle, pulling away and running his tongue over his when the foreign word leaves a strange feeling in his mouth.

Lifting your hand and nudging Time away with a finger, Warriors is quick to take it into with both of his and press several more to each of your finger tips. "It makes me wonder what all else if different where you're from. Do kisses make you feel any better?"

You're quick to swat him away, forcing yourself onto your feet while ducking. "I'm going to find the others. I'm sure the others would find my pain less amusing than you both."

Time lets out a quiet hum, hand raising to tap against your thigh as you pass him. "Have Legend or Hyrule take a look." He tucks a small pouch full of rupees into the lace of your shoe before it leaves his range. "Our apologies," he adds.

It takes you a moment to realize what he had done, to focused on not hitting your head on the doorframe again. When you're finally clear, you take the bag from your shoe and feel the rupees between your fingers.

"Apology accepted, I suppose."

[kotoal1011]

Your yandere f/o wraps their arms around your shaking body, gently, almost as if they were scared to break you with their touch. They caress your hair and wipe away your tears with their thumb.

"Shh, you poor thing. You made me do this", they whisper, trying to calm you down. Taking a closer look at all the new wounds they left on you, at your weak and fragile figure, at your clothes stained with your own blood, your f/o can't help but smile. They'd be lying if they said they didn't enjoy every single second of your punishment.

"Don't misbehave ever again. Understood?"

[miutonium]

Its 4 am, I should be sleeping but why is it that I just have the urge to draw and ship her with a pathetic nerd gf??

[minamaybe]

comeback!!

hey everyone! <3 i‘m not sure if anyone remembers me but i used to be quite active here a few months ago - then life got in the way (i graduated and subsequently fell into a deep hole of despair and confusion lol) and i couldn’t keep up with this blog and this community. i‘ve really missed it tho and would like to come back to y’all again, and to re-awaken my love for writing that got lost somewhere between stress and heat exhaustion. i‘m really really excited to see what you‘ve all been up to <3

[godsfavoritescientist]

Building off of what I wrote in my fic "Sparks," I'm really compelled by the idea of Ford genuinely no longer being interested in sailing around in a boat with Stan by the time they were seniors in high school.

I like the idea of it not being just a symptom of the resentment that had been building between them, nor it being a dream of Ford's that only paled in comparison to west coast tech, but it being a genuine loss of interest on Ford's end. I think it complicates things even further in some really juicy ways.

Like, imagine going through high school slowly losing more and more interest in the dream you've shared with your twin and only friend ever since you were little kids. How do you break it to him? How do you explain it to him without making it sound like a rejection of him? Without it making him hate you?

How do you explain it without it feeling like a spit in the face to all the hard work he's put into a plan that started out as a way of him comforting you by telling you "it doesn't matter what people say about you, you're going to be an adventurer who sails away into the sunset and never has to hear their mockery ever again, and there will be babes and treasure and heroism, and then they'll all see how cool you really are!"

And all through high school you think to yourself, "he's going to move on to more realistic dreams any day now, and then I won't have to say anything about it!" But no matter how many times you mention something else he could do with his life that he seems interested in, or bring up the challenging logistics of traveling around long-term in a boat, he sounds just as committed to the childhood dream as ever, and completely oblivious to how apprehensive you sound.

So resentment grows, little by little. Because that's easier than confronting the soul-crushing levels of guilt that are building up inside of you, every time you don't take an opportunity to tell him you don't want to do the plan anymore. You don't have a single person in your life who modeled how to have difficult conversations for you. As far as you know, having this conversation with Stan would crush him into tiny little pieces and then he would hate you forever, and you can't stand the idea of losing the only friend you've ever had.

So tensions grow. A lack of interest turns into a bitter resentment that, if you were really being honest with yourself, is directed more at yourself than it is at Stan.

And then the falling-out happens, and it seems like you were proven right. Stan hates you now, and he's never going to forgive you for giving up on his dream. But two can play that game, so you try to hate him too. Because if you hate him too, then maybe it won't hurt as much that he never came back. That he never even turned up at school, or by the boat, or in through your bedroom window in the middle of the night. He knows what dad's like, and how he says impulsive exaggerated things when he's angry, and haven't you both dealt with his harsh words countless times before and been able to dust yourselves off and joke about it later? So why isn't he back at home, joking with you about how absurd your dad acted that night, being impossible and belligerent about ruining your dream, but at least now you're even, because you've ruined his dream too.

-

And now imagine you find out he risked the lives of everyone in existence to bring you back, right after you had accepted your fate was to die killing Bill. It would be terrifying and confusing and infuriating. If he cared so much, why didn't he do something to reconnect with you sooner? Why did he ignore you in favor of trying to make it big without you? Why didn't he take the infinitely safer and simpler action of reaching out to you without you having to track down his address and send a desperate plea for help? You were convinced that he didn't care enough to bother with you unless you had an important enough reason for him to come. But even then, he thought your plans were stupid. He didn't want anything to do with you, not even with the world at stake.

Did he save your life out of guilt? Does he pity you that much? It doesn't add up with what he did in the decade leading up to shoving you into the portal. And the dissonance between the version of him in your head that hates you, and the man who held out his arms to welcome you back to your home dimension, is so strong that you feel like you're being lied to again, like you're back in the depths of gaslighting and manipulation that Bill put you through, even though there's no way that's what Stan is trying to do... right? You can't figure it out, so you run away from it. You don't want to know the answer to whether or not Stan hates you, because you don't know which answer would hurt more, so you try to make him hate you more than ever, because at least then you would know for sure how he feels.

And in the end, after he sacrifices his memories for you, and for the world, things seem clearer. The layers upon layers of confusion and anger and hurt seem to have washed away like drawings in the sand, leaving behind the simple truth: that you two had an argument, and didn't move past it for forty years, and despite everything you put each other through, you both still want to re-connect.

So you sail away in a boat together.

And at first, it's wonderful. It's exactly what you want. It feels like an apology to Stan, and a thank-you for saving the world, and a once-in-a-lifetime chance to heal the rift between you two, and it's good to be back on earth, and you wonder why you ever doubted the dream you two once had.

But then, after the first long journey you spend on the sea together, when you get back home to dry land, Stan is already talking about planning your next adventure out on the open sea. He recaps every adventure you had on the first trip, over and over again, and he wants to chat with you all through the morning and long into the night, and you don't have the words to explain to yourself that you don't have enough social battery for this, and suddenly you're slipping back into the horrifyingly familiar feeling of Stan being overbearing and needing space from him and how could you think that? How could you think that about him after everything he's done for you and everything he's forgiven you for? But the longer this goes on, the more you realize that you still don't want to spend the rest of your life sailing around with Stan. It's great fun in moderation, but the idea of your whole life revolving around Stan and going on adventures with Stan and being in a boat with Stan with no time to be by yourself thinking about your own things and figuring out your own dreams makes your skin crawl with a claustrophobic kind of panic that you still don't know how to put into words forty years after the first time this feeling grabbed you by the throat and ruined your friendship with Stanley.

But the first time this happened, it nearly ruined his life forever. You can't let yourself feel this. You don't feel this. You're happy to spend the rest of your life fulfilling Stan's lifelong dream, and making up for the time you crushed his dream, and sure, maybe he crushed your dream once too, and maybe it would be nice for him to support your dreams like you're now doing for him, but you can't say that. He saved the universe, and it would be horrible and ungrateful and cruel for you to try to voice these feelings, especially when you don't know how to voice your feelings without it making other people feel like you twisted a knife into their gut. So you try to pretend the feeling isn't there.

You go out on a boat with Stan again. You planned out another incredible journey together, and this should be fun, and you should be happy about this, but the unspoken feeling you shoved as far down in yourself as it could possibly go is eating you alive. The worst part? Stan is starting to notice. You have never been good at hiding your emotions. The trick to it has always been to convince yourself you don't feel it at all, and not think about it, and that has always worked like a charm. But whenever the emotion claws its way back up to the forefront of your mind, you can tell Stan knows something is wrong. So you can't even give him the happy ending he deserves. You can't even convince him that you want to be here on the open seas forever with him, like he deserves. And you keep trying and trying to hide it, but Stan keeps asking in roundabout ways, like "You're being awfully quiet, sixer," and "whats that look on your face?" and eventually it comes exploding out of you like a shaken-up soda bottle dropped on its cap.

And then it's like you're back at home in New Jersey again, standing in the living room while dad grabs Stanley by the shirt. It all comes pouring out of you, in the worst possible way, with the worst possible phrasing, like a pandora's box of monstrousness, and Stan tries to fight back against the sting of your words, but you're made out of acid and you're burning through him and you can see it on his face, and there's never any coming back from this, not this time, you'll just have to either jump into the ocean or become a monster forever, so Stan can hate you more easily again, and-

-and at the end of the outburst, you're still on a boat in the middle of nowhere in the ocean with your brother, in dangerous waters, and you have things to do to keep the boat running smoothly.

You can't run away from him. He can't run away from you. You're stuck here for at least a couple more weeks, even if you turned around and sailed back towards shore right away.

-

And the thing that compels me so much here, despite how unbelievably angsty it all is, is that it sets up a situation wherein the Stans might end up forced to actually address the decades of resentment and confusion and wanting-to-reconnect-throughout-it-all that they thought they could gloss over and heal with enough time spent adventuring together on a boat. They might end up forced to actually address the crux of the issue that drove them apart in the first place: Ford wanting a little more space to feel like his own person, and to feel like he's able to have his own dreams, too.

It wouldn't happen easily, nor right away, but if they were stuck together on a little boat in the middle of nowhere surrounded by magical creatures they have to protect each other from in order to make it back home alive, then after they had one fight where they brought up all the things they silently agreed to never bring up again, it would probably happen many more times, and each time it would leave them both angrier at each other than ever, until eventually something honest slipped through amidst all the saying-anything-except-what-they-mean bickering. And once enough of these honest moments slipped through, then they would have a thread to tug on to start to unravel the gargantuan knot of their decades of unresolved conflicts.

And then, eventually, maybe Stan could learn that he can have a good friendship with his brother without needing to be glued to him at the hip, and Ford needing a certain amount of alone time doesn't mean he dislikes him or wants to abandon him, and Ford could learn that he can be honest and have a meaningful connection with someone without it driving them away and making them hate him.

[thehappiestgolucky]

ah, the quest that emotional ruins Fe'gahl, whether Pawn or Arisen, for a good while~

[cinnaminsvga]

alright i opened my google doc! time to write something good and be productive!

me: opens a fic draft from last night that i wrote drunk

the fic:

AGHHHH COWBOY!YOONGI HORNY JUMPSCARE