#ive learned so much and i feel like ive found where i belong

[mueritos]

happy new meow almost forgot to post my updated fursona ^-^ also drew my bfs fursona, we are cat x dog yaoi!! honestly i started drawing my fursona in an effort to break art block and feel better about my body so that helped lol oh and i played so much viva piñata last week and thats it yahoo!!

[hidden-ember]

take me past the edge

🗯 pairing: sleep token vessel x afab reader x sleep token iv

🗯 tags: nsfw - mdni, oral sex (giving and receiving), penetrative sex (receiving), gendered terms (girl), degradation, praise, submission

a/n: short one! forgive me if it's not the best. i wrote it for a friend based off of their idea for some ves/iv dynamics and figured it was worth posting here. this starts right in the middle of things, so no preview this time- it's all under the cut.

“Come on, love. Make me feel as good as you do right now,” IV purred while grabbing the end of your chain collar, pulling it tighter around your throat. You looked up at him from all fours on the floor, a position you often found yourself in.

IV let up the tension on the chain when you finally moved your head forward obediently, his throbbing cock entering the back of your throat. You tried your hardest not to gag on his length, breathing steadily through your nose.

“Now that’s a much better use for your mouth, brat.” The man looked down at you with a devilish smirk on his face, pleased to have finally gotten you to shut up. 

You had spent the whole day working his last nerve, mouthing off to him, giving too much of your attention to Vessel— who was now on his knees, eating you out from behind. His hands were wrapped around your legs, slender fingers digging into your thighs with a firm grip as your head bobbed up and down on IV’s shaft.

You were momentarily lost in the sensations of Vessel sliding his tongue along your folds, lapping up your arousal. 

You moaned around IV’s cock and he let out his own noises of satisfaction, but when your eyes slammed shut as Vessel’s tongue darted hungrily into your opening, he became frustrated once more.

“Hey,” IV tugged your collar again. “None of that. Eyes on me.”

Vessel abruptly pulled out of you. The overwhelming wave of emptiness hit you like a train and caused you to stop your movements on IV. Before he could begin to chastise you, Vessel cut him off.

“Can you blame them?” The man said from behind you, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine. 

He chuckled at his bandmates’ irritation, kneading your inner thighs soothingly when you whined around IV’s cock. 

“Our pretty girl is just a little sensitive. Isn’t that right, lovey?”

“Our pretty girl,” IV spat out bitterly, grunting as he began to fuck your face, “needs to learn their place.” He punctuated each word with a harsh thrust. 

“Well,” Vessel placed a tender kiss to your puffy lips before resuming speaking, “at least we can agree that place is on their knees.” 

“Exactly where such a submissive little slut belongs,” IV muttered. He was panting heavily now, feeling his climax building as you sucked harder on his cock. 

Your eyes widened at his statement and he returned your gaze with an amused look. Despite his harsh tone, he knew his words were only driving you further to the edge. 

IV’s hand left your collar and he gripped the back of your head forcefully. He pushed you down on his length while moving his hips forward, bottoming out in the back of your throat. 

With your lips pressed firmly to his pubic bone, he held you in place for a moment, only pulling back when you choked. The tears that had formed in the corners for your eyes started to flow once IV jerked his hips forward again.

Vessel looked on, briefly distracted by the sight of you taking IV’s cock so well. He was certain you were the most beautiful thing in the world when you submitted to them like this.

Returning his attention to your aching pussy, Vessel dipped his thumb into your entrance, gathering your wetness before dragging it up towards your clit. He rubbed gentle circles at first, then slowly increased the pressure. 

The sound of your strangled moans around IV’s shaft was music to his ears. He moved his free hand to your hip, holding you in place as you began to tremble from the stimulation.

With the way Vessel skillfully attending to your pussy contrasted with IV roughly fucking your throat, you weren’t sure how much longer you would last.

“Gonna cum already? You’re rather pathetic, aren’t you?” IV chuckled as he brushed one of your tears away before it trickled down your cheek. He brought his thumb up to his mouth, eyes never leaving yours as he tasted the saltiness of your tears.

“You’re doing so well, pet,” Vessel praised, ignoring IV. The warmth of his breath on your sensitive folds made you shudder. He brought his mouth back up to your pussy, tongue swirling around your entrance as his thumb continued working at your swollen bud.

You quickened your pace on IV, watching his stern demeanor fade. His eyes fluttered shut as you milked his cock.

“Fucking hell,” IV let out a soft gasp.

The erotic sounds from his bandmate goading him on, Vessel picked up his thumb's tempo to match yours. His tongue delved deeper into your core now. 

You lost all resolve, being left motionless as they both greedily took what they wanted from you. 

The sight of you coming undone from the other man’s touch drove IV past his limit. 

“Pretty little thing,” his voice strained as he fought to get the words out. He couldn’t hold back anymore, slamming into your mouth one last time.

You watched IV’s head fall back in pleasure as thick ropes of his cum shot down your throat. You swallowed it all, as you always did. 

The familiar taste of him and the pride you felt from satisfying him was enough for the dam to burst. You came around Vessel’s mouth, eliciting a satisfied moan from him. 

Vessel continued circling your clit, ignoring your shaking legs as he milked every last drop of your orgasm, much like you did IV’s. A high pitched whimper escaped your lips as you pulled off of IV’s cock. 

“You taste divine, my dear,” Vessel murmured once he pulled away from you, relishing in the way your juices coated his tongue. 

“And why don’t you tell me how I taste, hmm, brat?” IV grabbed your chin, angling your head upwards. You held out your tongue proudly. 

“Well done, love.” IV’s kind eyes betrayed his dominant façade as leaned down to place a kiss on your forehead. He held his hand out for you, assisting you to your knees. 

“Such a good girl for us,” Vessel cooed from behind you. 

You turned to face him. His wide smile showed off his fangs and he was practically radiating pride for you. He held open his arms, eagerly waiting for you to embrace him. 

Moving to where he knelt on the floor, you wrapped your arms tightly around him. He pulled you into his chest and began gently running his fingers through your hair.

IV watched affectionately as you held one another. He knew you usually turned to Vessel for aftercare– he was the softer one when it came to your needs, after all.

“Well aren’t you two adorable… but I don’t think you’re quite done, love,” IV said, eyeing Vessel’s hard-on.

[call-sign-shark]

Pairing: The Darkling x Heartrender!You || The Darkling x HeartrenderOC!Reader

Summary: A public confrontation during dinner escalates and leads General Kirigan to show his quiet but firm protection of you to everyone. Especially Zoya.

Words: 4K

TW: graphic mention of injury, humiliation, reference to past prostitution, slight alteration of canon events: Zoya was never Kirigan's fav.

Part IV - The Fear Within

Previous || Masterlist || Next

As you walked out of the training room alongside General Kirigan, his shadow-like presence enveloping you entirely, murmurs erupted behind you. They were only whispers and yet sounded as loud as the cacophony of screams and cries that followed the frightening silence after a bomb exploded.

Did you see what she did to Zoya? The way she almost tore her apart?

Broken ribs, one lung reduced to mush, heart badly injured, the healer who took care of the arrogant Squaller couldn’t believe such damages were the result of a Grisha. While Heartrenders had always been the most feared and valuable soldiers of the Second Army, none of them could induce that much damage with one sole flick of the wrist. Let alone a beginner who had only used her abilities a few times. The origins of your power remained a mystery for everyone including Zoya, yet she was at least sure of one thing: hadn't General Kirigan intervened, she would have died today in a painful, gruesome way.

Following the incident, you had quietly followed the Black General through the corridors until he stopped and turned to face you. His dark eyes, darkest as the blackest moonless night, had bore into you, as though searching for something.

“You need to control it,” He had said, his tone still firm but the pace of his voice slower, for he was carefully choosing his next words, “Your power is immense. I can feel it pulsing around you like a chained beast… But it’s dangerous.” He let out a long exhale through his nostrils, “You can’t let anger guide you.”

The weight of guilt you felt in your weaving chest became heavier, settling over you like an anvil, “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Aleksander interrupted, his gaze softening ever so slightly, “But intention doesn’t matter when lives are at stake.” 

You simply nodded, unable to find the words to respond, and watched him disappear upstairs with his black kefta dancing behind him like shadows lingering in his wake.

Weeks passed and life at the Little Palace soon fell into a rhythm for you — a rhythm laced with unrelenting tension and exhaustion. Days were a grueling cycle of harsh training sessions where you pushed your limits under the watchful eyes of Ivan and the disdainful stares of your peers. As for your nights, they weren’t any better. Here in this foreign place, terrifying memories of your past impatiently waited for you to sleep in order to plague your dreams, turning them into nerve-wracking nightmares. And when the nightmares wouldn’t come, it was the shadows that crept into your room at night, seeming to carry Aleksander’s presence with them and to watch you as you rolled over in your bedsheets.

Despite everything, there still were moments where you could breathe again and they were when Fedyor spent time with you. Admittedly, you had found an unlikely friend in him considering how everyone carefully avoided you, but his cheerful disposition, unwavering kindness, and humor gave you a sense of normalcy in a world that constantly reminded you that you didn’t belong here. Nevertheless, Fedyor wasn’t always there, his frequent missions for Kirigan leaving you alone to fend off the cold hostility and wariness of the other Grisha. You couldn’t blame them though, not after almost killing a well-known figure of the Little Palace in front of their eyes.

Kirigan too was rarely present during the day, the last time you truly spoke being your last discussion about the necessity of learning to control your powers. For weeks, your encounters with him were fleeting — just brief moments stolen between his duties as General and your relentless training. Yet, even in his absence Aleksander was always there, making you silently understand that he was watching over you. Not in a way that felt overbearing but in a manner that made you hyper-aware of his presence nearby. 

Sometimes it was a brush of his warm hand against your freezing one as he handed you a training sword. Some others, a shared glance across the room that made your heart miss a beat. Or the way he stood a tiny bit too close when he spoke to you, his voice a velvet promise that made your skin prickle. Each time, his intensity steadied you and unnerved you all the same for you hated how easily he seemed to consume your thoughts for some unknown reasons.

Once, during a passing encounter in the hallways, Kirigan stopped beside you, his void-like and unfathomable gaze sweeping over you as if carving every detail of your face in his memory.

“You’re improving,” He said with an even tone, though his somber pupils gleamed when the Palace’s light hit them at the right angle.

You couldn’t help the shiver that ran through your spine, nor control how your pulse quickened a little under his scrutiny, “Thank you, General.” You replied, your tone neutral despite the inner turmoil he triggered in you. His lips curled into a small, enigmatic smile that disappeared as fast as it had come before he walked away, leaving your heart racing even more.  Why the fuck am I feeling like this whenever he’s around? you thought. 

Since your childhood, you have always considered yourself an anomaly. Like an island detached from the ocean of emotions that seemed to flood the others so effortlessly. You were cold, unfeeling, almost clinical, which had often left you wondering if something fundamental within you was broken. Like, an essential piece of humanity missing. Joy, sadness, empathy — they had always felt more muted than they should have been, like distant echoes you could experiment but never fully grasp.

But not with him.

The weight of him was thrilling each time he entered the room and you hated it. Hated the loss of control, the way your supposedly buried emotions now surged to the surface like a storm breaking through the calm waters. To be honest, you didn’t know what unnerved you more: the way he looked at you as if you were the only person in the room or the way you found yourself wanting to be looked at like that by him. And there was more to it, something deeper. It wasn’t just about his commanding presence nor the unbearable tension when your skin brushed his, but it was a pull. A tug at something unseen within you. As though your souls had already known each other in another life, an unspoken murmur of recognition that both terrified and soothed you. You couldn’t understand this foreign ache of familiarity in his presence. 

The ache of something that called you home.

The dining hall was alive with chatter, filled with a background noise that only served to highlight how utterly alone you were even surrounded by the crowd of Grisha who lived here. Prior to going downstairs for dinner, a gifted tailor named Genya had asked you why you weren’t wearing the red kefta given to the Heartrenders. To this, you had simply replied “Why should I bother? I’m not one of them” and proceeded to leave, closing your grip on the collar of the white and comfortable fur coat you had found in your bedroom’s closet. Quickly sneaking into the dining hall, you walked to the far end of a table and sat there.

With your gaze fixed on your plate, you were trying hard to ignore the whispers all around you. As always, the other Grisha avoided you, their fear palpable and their resentment an unpleasant feeling that washed over you. Fedyor’s absence was particularly striking tonight. How much you would have loved him to be next to you, listening to his stories and laughing at his gossip but here you were, without an ally. 

You were about to bite into your fork when the room fell silent with the kind of quiet that only preceded trouble. Wondering what was happening, you looked up and quickly understood: Zoya had stepped into the dining hall and was approaching you, a cruel smirk playing on her pretty lips.

“Still sitting alone, I see. Fitting for someone like you.”  Her voice was loud enough to draw the attention from the nearby tables. Attention… Everything you didn’t need.

You didn’t respond, keeping your pale eyes firmly on her as she slowly moved her wrist to make the content of the cup she was holding swirl. It was probably wine.

Unfazed by your silence, she leaned closer and continued to taunt you, “You know, for someone so dangerous you’re awfully quiet. And out of place. Like a wolf pretending to be tame.” 

“And you’re awfully chatty for someone who begged for her life a few weeks ago.” Your words felt like sharp shards of ice that pierced through her ego. “Have you finished yet? I’d like to eat without having to bear that stupid voice of yours.” 

But Zoya wasn’t finished. 

“Tell me first... What does it feel like to be the monster even among deadly Grisha?” 

This time, your grip tightened on your fork as Kirigan’s words circled in your mind like a broken record.  You need to control it. You need to control it.

“Struggling to reply? Here, let me help.” Joining words to deeds, the Squaller let out a bitter giggle and, with a theatrical flourish, she lifted the cup she was holding and dumped its contents  —a thick, deep crimson liquid — onto your white outfit. The splash of its cold content against your chest made you freeze instantly. It was the metallic scent that hit you first and made you understand what the liquid was even before you saw the dark crimson stains on your dress and coat: it wasn’t wine. It was pig’s blood.

A chorus of gasps echoed through the room, overhung by Zoya’s and her friends’ laughter that rang hollow in the silence.

“Red suits you far better, Sankta!” She sneered.

Rage suddenly boiled beneath your skin, making your body stiffen and your little hands tremble – not with fear, but with a fury so cold it scorched you alive. And even though the whispers and laughter around you were deafening, resounding like a thunderstorm, you could barely hear them above the buzzing in your ears. For a moment, your vision blurred as you stood up in one violent motion, your chair falling to the ground with a loud thud. Your brutal movement led Zoya to take a step back, anticipating your reaction and potentially violent way to attack her back but nothing came. 

You stood rigid in front of her with blood splattered on your diaphanous skin and white outfit, your chest heaving as your quick, shallow breaths resounded in your skull. The crimson streaks soaked the fabric and created a grim contrast with your pale, delicate figure. Of course, you’d have loved to erase the smug smirk on her lips by pouncing on her and ripping her face with your own sharp nails in an animal-like fit of rage, but your body was petrified. Your eyes burned with uncontrollable anger, unblinking, as your fists clenched at your sides, even more trembling under the weight of the humiliation.

“You—” Your throat went dry before you could say something else, your resentment so deep that it strangled you, choked every word you wanted to utter and every insult you wanted to scream.

“What’s the matter, little Saint?” Zoya tilted her head, beaming.

“Is this how we treat one of your own, now?” 

The shadows in the corners stretched toward the two figures standing, creeping slowly in black smoke curls, and the more they came close, the more it seemed to feed the storm that was building up inside you. As the atmosphere became heavier, silence fell again in the room and hushed all whispers as the Black General appeared, emerging through the thick fog of his darkness. Without wasting time nor condescending to glance at Zoya, Kirigan moved toward you with an unsettling calm, his pace conveying determination and his boots echoing softly against the luxurious stone floor of the dinning hall. The two obsidian of his eyes, sharp and as dark as midnight, locked onto you as if you were the only person in the room worthy of his attention. And despite the silence, the weight of his presence was deafening. 

When he reached you, General Kirigan stopped, standing close enough for you to feel the shadowed intensity as well as his power radiating from him. Not a single word was uttered, not a sound escaped his charming lips. Instead, his hands rose, unhurried and confident, to undo the few closed buttons of your blood-splattered fur coat. The gesture might have been simple, but it carried a startling intimacy as his fingers brushed gently against the edge of your collarbone when he lifted the coat away and let it fall at your feet. The intense feeling of humiliation still crashed against you like brutal rogue waves crashing against the shore, rendering you unable to hold his gaze. As you bowed your head, your fierce nature momentarily flickered at the sight of your ruined dress with its thin white fabric soaked through and clinging to you like a second skin. But even drowning in humiliation, the light touch on your collarbone sent a surge of electricity through your whole body.

In this moment suspended in time, Kirigan’s eyes dropped, lingering on your body for a bit too long. Surprisingly, his expression held no disgust or pity — only something unreadable, almost reverent. Something scorching, making you feel exposed both physically and emotionally to the extent that your breath hitched in your tight throat. As if he had stripped you naked with the sole power of his eyes. 

“Look at me.” The Black general said in a low voice, the very top of his index finger delicately pressing under your chin to force your gaze to meet his, dizzyingly deep and intense.

Blood rushed quicker in your veins in return, every fiber of you reacting to him in an uncontrollable instinct. It was only then that he shrugged off his own black kefta in a fluid movement, but the subtle care with which he unfolded the luxurious garment and wrapped it around your shoulders was anything but cold or impersonal.

 The fabric of the kefta was thick and warm, its weight providing a comforting and protective embrace that immediately calmed both your fury and feeling of shame down. Finally, your petrified body came back to life as you batted your doe lashes as though you had just woken up from a terrible nightmare. It had been the unmistakable scent of him — earthy cedar, spiced amber, and a fragrance darker, undefinable — that had helped you emerge from that feral state of rage. A hypnotizing, reassuring smell that enveloped you like a shield and anchored its owner’s presence in every thread. 

He patted your shoulders, then took one step back just enough to give you more space. “You’ll sit with me,” he said, his voice low, cutting through the tension like a blade, and his tone leaving no room for argument.

You almost opened your lips to speak but restrained yourself to do so for the way he uttered his order had been truly disarming. It wasn’t a question, not even a suggestion. No, it was a statement, one that accepted no debate. And even though the only thing you truly wished at this moment was to run away from this hellish place and lock yourself in your bedroom, you still followed Kirigan when his hand pressed lightly to the small of your back to guide you forward under the glance of every member of the assembly and a gutted Zoya. 

One step after the other. 

The dining hall seemed to fade as he led you across the room, his touch steadying your trembling steps and giving you the strength you lacked to ignore all the pairs of eyes that were riveted on you. Once he reached his table, Aleksander pulled out a chair, the scrape of wood against the floor creaking, and he gestured for you to sit. Hesitation crept into you but the way his dark, shining eyes softened ever so slightly — not in kindness but in reassurance —  encouraged you. Moreover, pushing him and rushing out of the room wasn’t an appropriate option anyway so what else could you do besides sinking into the seat? He took his place beside you as the officers seated at the table exchanged confused looks but knew better than say something for their deference to the General was absolute.

The dinner unfolded, and exquisite plates followed, but the humiliation you had suffered earlier lingered, giving you a bitter taste in your mouth. And there were their eyes, their fucking eyes staring at you in a way so nerve-racking that you wished you could have plucked them out of their sockets with your nails.

It was halfway through the meal that Kirigan’s gaze flicked discreetly toward you, with an expression still unfathomable. One look was all it took for him to sense the unease that seeped through every bit of you. Maybe that was why, hidden beneath the table, his hand sought yours. You froze slightly, surprised at the sensation of his fingers finding you, warm and firm, and lacing yours together without hesitation. 

“Let them stare. They’ll grow bored of it really soon.” 

The gesture was grounding, a silent lullaby for your soul, and relaxed you enough to allow you to exhale a shaky breath.

“I feel like an animal in a bloody zoo.” You whispered, the word ‘zoo’ spat with disgust as it painfully reminded you of the Menagerie. For the umpteenth time, Aleksander seemed to read through your thoughts for his gaze briefly dipped to your wrist, catching the faint outline of a tattoo partially obscured by the sleeve of his kefta you were wearing and that was too large for you. His brow furrowed slightly at this observation, curiosity gleaming in his dark eyes but you turned your arm and hid the mark right away before he could study it further.

“I know the feeling.” Kirigan replied after a few seconds, his voice briefly letting you grasp a tinge of humanity before he turned to stone again and shifted his attention from you to discuss war strategies with Ivan. 

Your shoulders relaxed a little bit and, finally, you started to eat — or rather to carefully pick a few things from your plate just so you wouldn’t have to sleep with an empty stomach. Your two hands remained intertwined during the entire meal, his thumb sometimes brushing lightly against the back of yours in a soothing caress, like an anchor amidst the storm. Admittedly, the intimacy of it sent a jolt through you in a mixture of comfort and confusion that only deepened the inevitable pull you felt toward him. The way his touch quieted the turmoil in you was both thrilling and suffocating, a contradiction that left you shivering… As you always did when he was around. 

It was wrong.

This whole situation made no sense. And still, you tightened your grip around his hand. Needy. Surely.

Tenderly.

The office was dimly lit by the dozen candles flames dancing around, feeble and slow, and casting their long shadows across the walls. 

Zoya was standing stiffly near the doorway, arms behind her back and her posture irreproachable, though her confident demeanor crumbled under Aleksander’s cold, unwavering gaze. Leaning against his desk, the shadows around him curled faintly at his shoulders as a visible manifestation of his restrained anger.

“Close the door,” He ordered without looking at her with a voice calm but edged with steel. Wasting no time, Zoya obeyed. The click of the latch sounded far louder than it should have in the silence of the office. 

Aleksander spoke first while looking directly at her, his pitch-black eyes sharp and accusing. She couldn’t help but notice that he had fetched his kefta back from you once you had reached the door of your bedroom safe and sound “Do you enjoy embarrassing me, Zoya?”

She gritted her teeth. “With all due respect, General, I’ve done no such thing. I merely—”

“You merely threw blood on a member of this court.” Cold fury crackled from his tone. He had given her no chance to justify her behavior for he had already charged her guilty,  “In front of everyone. Did you think that it was acceptable behavior for a soldier under my command?”

Zoya stiffened, “She’s dangerous. A liability. I was making a point—” Her lips tightened into a thin line.

“A point?” Aleksander’s voice had turned into a hiss now , “What point, exactly? That you are envious of someone stronger than you? That you cannot stomach the presence of someone who makes you question your own worth?”

“She doesn’t belong here!” Zoya burst out with trembling words but her tone bore clear hints of both defiance and frustration. “She almost killed me! You’ve brought in a wild animal and expect us to treat her like—”

“Quiet.” His order was like a whip, “You will not speak of her like that again. Do you understand me?”

As Zoya’s fear momentarily eclipsed her anger, she stuttered, “General, I only meant—”

“Do you know what I meant, Zoya?” Against all expectations, the tall darkness’ voice was deceptively soft and still, and yet it cut deeper than any shout, “I meant for you to serve this court with dignity. To protect your fellow Grisha, not humiliate them for sport. Tell me, did you feel powerful when you poured that blood on her? Did you feel strong?”

This time, the fierce Zoya Nazyalenski looked away, “I was protecting us,” she muttered, though her speech lacked conviction. “She’s—”

“She is under my protection,” Aleksander interrupted, “And that should be all you need to know. You will respect her because I demand it. Not because you like her. Not because you understand her. But because you respect me. She’s part of this court and you will treat her accordingly.”

Tears started to prick at Zoya’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “I’ve served you faithfully for years,”  She lamented, “And you would cast a loyal follower for her?”

Aleksander leaned over his desk to come a tad bit closer to her, his gaze filled with threats that didn’t need to be spoken to be horrifying. “For someone with your talents, Zoya, you can be remarkably shortsighted. This is not about her or you. This is about the unity of Grisha, something you should value more than your petty grievances.”

For the first time in years, the Squaller flinched as though struck by lightning, her confidence shattering in millions of shards like a broken mirror under the General’s unemotional eyes. He straightened and waved off the topic, “You may go. And if I hear of any more incidents, there will be consequences far greater than this conversation.” 

At first, she remained still and hesitated, as if she desperately tried to search for some trace of leniency in his expression but she found none. Just plain disappointment and anger as cold as the deadliest blizzard. For Zoya, pride had always been her armor, but today it cracked, leaving her exposed to a truth she could no longer deny: the General’s favor was a fortress she would never breach. A fortress you had conquered in the span of a few weeks while she had worked on it for years. As the door closed behind her, the sound was not just the end of a conversation—it was the shattering of the illusion that she still stood untouchable.

And even though no one had overheard what they had said, many saw Zoya leaving the General’s office in tears. Quite a paltry price to pay for the humiliation and pain she had bestowed upon you earlier.

Please consider reblogging and commenting if you want the story to continue. It is what motivates writers to write the next chapters...

tags: @lunawants , @emtaz-art, @lightinbug, @kmc1989, @thepassionatereader @mystic-mara @m-riaa @kallista-diune

[hotwritergf]

I had a rough time growing up and ive never relaxed around anyone, i was wondering if maybe i could request a little thing with eddie where theyre cuddling and hes helping the reader relax and helping reader learn to trust him, that shes safe now, that she can let go.. nothing bads going to happen..

maybe alittle bit of subspace too?

And she tells eddie that she loves him while shes all doughy eyed and relaxed ❤

Softly and slowly. Eddie Munson x female reader. Angst/fluff. Blurb.

Ty for your request, I hope this is okay. It’s a bit self indulgent but I hope it helps you feel better. My DMs are open if you ever need to speak to someone impartial<3

“You’re okay. No need to worry doll. You think anyone’s gonna hurt you? No chance. They’ll have to get through me, and do you think anyone’s gonna try and fight the freak? Nah. They’re scared of me. So you, little princess, are so safe here.” Eddie mutters, breathing his words into your ear as you lay on his chest. His hair curling over your forehead, he looks down at you with a reassuring smile. You knew you belonged to him. He never treated you like his property, but like you were the most precious crystal he’d ever found. As if you were washed up on the shore just for him to find and polish.

“I promise you. I got you.” His smile beaming from ear to ear, your heartbeat begins to slow and return to its normal pace. Something about being on Eddie’s chest became the most comforting thing for you. It’s like when a baby is born and they lay on their parents chests almost immediately after, soothing the crying to a holt. With your father absent for most of your life, the daddy issues really came to life when you met Eddie. The sort of guy you’d bring home to your parents to piss them off, I mean look at him. A metal head, a stoner, tattoos and in a band called “Corroded Coffin.” You knew your mom wouldn’t approve, she barely approved of you. Always criticising everything you did, putting you down at every given opportunity. But Eddie? He was almost paternal to you.

“They can’t hurt you anymore.” He whispers, running his hands through your hair, scratching at your scalp. His hands massaging your head melted away all of the thoughts, all of the trauma memories that came to light in the panic attack. Eddie knew your past, he wasn’t the sort of “don’t kill yourself you’re so sexy!” Or “don’t do it again.. for me?” Whilst rubbing your scarred skin kind of guy. He was patient, it took years for you to open up to him and he waited. Never pushed for information, never tried to force you to open up about your childhood. He just comforted you, held your hand through the panic attacks, cuddled you through your nightmares and sat in the therapy office waiting room for you every Thursday while you worked on yourself.

“I’m here for you.” He kisses your forehead. The act is so simple yet so intimate. He was right too. He was there for you. He sat with you for hours at skull rock when you got the news that the dad that left you when you were just seven years old had passed away. He was there for you when you were finally diagnosed with complex post traumatic stress disorder, and he wiped every single tear that fell down your cheek. But the best part was, he never expected anything in return. Eddie never tried to cash in on his emotional support to you with sexual favours. He didn’t see you as a doll that you could use when you wanted her. He saw you for who you were, a little damaged but a huge heart with so much love to give.

“Nothing bad is gonna happen to you now baby.” Eddie mumbled as he cradled you, swaying your body from side to side. You let yourself breathe, the breath came out harshly. Mustering up all of the energy you have left to lift your chin up from his tattooed chest, your head feeling a little hazy from the second hand smoke of his joint. You see him, half smiling and brushing the hair from your face behind your ears.

“I love you.” Your voice was breathy and insecure but you knew you meant your words. They didn’t come from your throat, but from the depths of your heart. You lean in, planting a gentle peck on his lips, feeling him smile against you before he agreed, “I love you too.” He’s honey-eyed and his facial expression so gooey and soft for you. Time slows as you stare at each other, so innocently in love with each other. He loves you gently, softly and carefully. You know your heart is safe with him.

[agentrouka-blog]

I was wondering if Bran ever think of Sansa? And how much? Because I mostly see people talking about Arya when they discuss Sansa and her siblings.

Actually, he's the sibling with the most compassionate and softest thoughts about her, safe Jon. :)

He doesn't think about her a ton, because he's an unruly little boy whose society encourages this kind of thinking:

Bran had been left behind with Jon and the girls and Rickon. But Rickon was only a baby and the girls were only girls and Jon and his wolf were nowhere to be found.  (AGOT, Bran II)

But when he does, he demonstrates an ability to understand her and feel compassion far beyond what Robb is capable of:

When the raven came, bearing a letter marked with Father's own seal and written in Sansa's hand, the cruel truth seemed no less incredible. Bran would never forget the look on Robb's face as he stared at their sister's words. "She says Father conspired at treason with the king's brothers," he read. "King Robert is dead, and Mother and I are summoned to the Red Keep to swear fealty to Joffrey. She says we must be loyal, and when she marries Joffrey she will plead with him to spare our lord father's life." His fingers closed into a fist, crushing Sansa's letter between them. "And she says nothing of Arya, nothing, not so much as a word. Damn her! What's wrong with the girl?" Bran felt all cold inside. "She lost her wolf," he said, weakly, remembering the day when four of his father's guardsmen had returned from the south with Lady's bones. Summer and Grey Wind and Shaggydog had begun to howl before they crossed the drawbridge, in voices drawn and desolate. Beneath the shadow of the First Keep was an ancient lichyard, its headstones spotted with pale lichen, where the old Kings of Winter had laid their faithful servants. It was there they buried Lady, while her brothers stalked between the graves like restless shadows. She had gone south, and only her bones had returned. (AGOT, Bran IV)

He wants to save her and Arya.

"Bran, child, why do you torment yourself so? One day you may do some of these things, but now you are only a boy of eight." "I'd sooner be a wolf. Then I could live in the wood and sleep when I wanted, and I could find Arya and Sansa. I'd smell where they were and go save them, and when Robb went to battle I'd fight beside him like Grey Wind. I'd tear out the Kingslayer's throat with my teeth, rip, and then the war would be over and everyone would come back to Winterfell. If I was a wolf . . ." He howled. "Ooo-ooo-oooooooooooo." (ACOK, Bran I)

Inside Summer he thinks of Sansa and Lady:

These woods belonged to them, the snowy slopes and stony hills, the great green pines and the golden leaf oaks, the rushing streams and blue lakes fringed with fingers of white frost. But his sister had left the wilds, to walk in the halls of man-rock where other hunters ruled, and once within those halls it was hard to find the path back out. The wolf prince remembered. (ASOS, Bran I)

He has memories of being comforted by her that come back to him in a moment of fear.

The footfalls sounded heavy to Bran, slow, ponderous, scraping against the stone. It must be huge. Mad Axe had been a big man in Old Nan's story, and the thing that came in the night had been monstrous. Back in Winterfell, Sansa had told him that the demons of the dark couldn't touch him if he hid beneath his blanket. He almost did that now, before he remembered that he was a prince, and almost a man grown. (ASOS, Bran IV)

He firms counts her as a magical member of House Stark.

Old Nan had told him the same story once, Bran remembered, but when he asked Robb if it was true, his brother laughed and asked him if he believed in grumkins too. He wished Robb were with them now. I'd tell him I could fly, but he wouldn't believe, so I'd have to show him. I bet that he could learn to fly too, him and Arya and Sansa, even baby Rickon and Jon Snow. We could all be ravens and live in Maester Luwin's rookery. (ADWD, Bran III)

Bran is clearly trying to define himself as a Man Grown in opposition to "the girls" and the kinds of feminine-coded subjects Sans cares for, in the same wa Arya rejects them as "stupid" because she stuggles with the confines of the role she was supposed to occupy. Neither of them is right to do so, but it helps to understand why they do it.

Bran did not understand, so he asked the Reeds. "Do you like to read books, Bran?" Jojen asked him. "Some books. I like the fighting stories. My sister Sansa likes the kissing stories, but those are stupid." (ADWD, Bran III)

The relationship of "the girls" (as Bran keeps referring to them) is obviously more prominent because they shared more of their time and space every day (and are meant to illusttrate through their conflict how no woman wins in patriarchy, they are all equally oppressed) while the education of the boys required more time outside and away. But there is a clear indication that Bran cares for Sansa and understands her and she was a gentle older sister to him.

[distortionmewtwo]

-The Unown shifts from next to Uv to spin and rotate their body in frustration outlet needing to move as they think-

How could that detail even slip your mind?? Oh this is what I shall claim as my champion this is my champion then just oop this is a child huh how did I end up with a child oh well. Just,! I cannot comprehend such a detail slipping I know time moves differently with God's when you're alive so long years can blink into seconds or months can feel like a lifespan it's all complex and disproportionate but you didn't even make plans with yourself on what sort of training you'd provide your champion when old enough?! I can understand waiting while Uv was a child but did you never set anything up in advance?? An area to play to learn coordination to dodge and dive and be wary of flying obstacles nearby, when Uv learned their first move did that not remind you that he needed to know more?? I'm sorry Giratina but your love for Uv and forgetfulness has endangered Uvs safety!

And stars above but all three of you are so stupid! You picked yours first, who's to say Dialga couldn't have foresaw these events with time powers?? I don't know if you three took an honorary oath to not use your respective ability to your advantage when picking a champion but even if you didn't you didn't even pick at the same time! If Dialga and Palkia knew and saw and sensed you picking Uv that immediately gave them both an edge in their choosing and with Palkia choosing last that gives an advantage over you and Dialga!

Non of these champions are going to be proportionate to the battle they need to partake in, Uv no training, Dialgas champion HAS had training and if Palkia has only just picked a champion who knows what kind of creature was found that Palkia feels so confident to call for a battle effective immediately. This little proxy war isnt fair by any means in terms of power levels experiences equality or anything! Save for Uv everyone else has an advantage if Dialga checked the flow of time and found a timeline with a champion which guaranteed victory and if Palkia already saw what you both picked and waited to choose a champion with power and typing advantage over the pair of you!

God's this is so stupid all of it and I hate it I hate it so so much because I know there's nothing I can say even if I convince you I don't know if your siblings will listen be reasonable and I don't know what sort of empathy and care your father has if Arceus here would even step in, you all need to be thrown into a pocket dimension away from everything where you can fight it out and sort out all your shit!

-The Unown heaves heavy breaths-

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just, I don't know, this fight isn't fair I've already raved my piece about it and I still stand by the idea you three should just ask 3 rattata to have a play fight but I know your egos will get in the way and there's always going to be subtle differences between each of their strengths due to natural variation nature's what not, and you can't exactly ask a mew to create three pokemon of completely identical stats purely for this battle as creating life just for the benefit and satisfactory pleasure of God's wanting to know who's better is all kinds of messed up. Not to mention I don't know your siblings I don't know how liable any of you are to cheating which could just urg break everything in the everywhere all at once. -The Unown floats down in a sigh exhale drooping after their rant, no matter what they thought of they couldn't see anything working out, they already felt as though this was an event that could not be changed and it only made them feel worse-

- U

IV belongs to @hoodies-monster-ranch !

[ins1ders]

❝ —— MEN ALWAYS SAY THAT AS THE DEFINING COMPLIMENT, DON'T THEY? SHE'S A COOL GIRL . 

WCS | MUSINGS | CLICK BELOW FOR INTRO

//   (  yaya dacosta  .  cis female  .  she/her  )  .    ⸻  renee kelly nee hart (when practicing) ,  a  forty-six  year  old  ,  has  survived  another  day  in  red  creek  where  they  have  lived  for  26 years  .  the  seer  is  known  for  being  composed  and  superficial  and  is  often  associated  with  manicured hands neatly folded over an open notepad with a pen , a half full glass of shiraz never cabernet , warm yet neutral toned clothing that carefully never shows a peak of her real personality , old vogue magazines on dining tables   .  in  a  small  town  where  they  work  as  therapist and psychologist  word  travels  fast  .  it’s  hard  to  keep a secret .

i know icb ive done this again don't worry i won't lie this time and say i don't use discord LKSNFN

inspo: jean milburn (sex education), allison hargreeves (umbrella academy), karen page (daredevil), jane chapman (big little lies), amy dunne (gone girl), michelle obama (irl)

SAY HI TO RENEE KELLY nee HART . renee is a certified clinician in psychology and therapy . yall at redcreek need it

renee practices under her maiden name : renee hart , for obvious reasons , but also because she's a dr and earned that title all by herself thank you

renee used to be a model in the 80s and 90s. nothing huge, but people still may recognise her from iconic commercials or ads. she wasn't quite a household name or FAMOUS in any huge aspect, but she was memorable to some degree

grew up in new york city in a very poor part of town . her parents didn't have a lot of money , but they had a lot of love

met demetrius kelly and found him to be quite funny and charming when he wanted to be, allowed herself to be whisked to redcreek because she was done with the big city life and modelling by that point anyways , thought redcreek was her future

REALLY STRUGGLED for a long ass time in redcreek . she felt isolated and alone. demetrius was busy with police work and cold case stuff so she kinda fell to the side and was a bit neglected. she spent time studying hard to get her masters then a phd in psychology.

had one younger brother who went astray for a while. dipped in and out of her life, unpredictable, unknowable , addiction final boss until he overdosed one day and died which broke her heart into many, tiny pieces . she found out while she was living in redcreek, slid to the bathroom floor, shoved a towel into her mouth and sobbed for hours.

has a big soft spot for people who are seen or perceived poorly by people (the underdogs).

despite being a literal mother , probably doesn't act that motherly . believes in non-smothering and acting lowkey . will always be there , but won't suffocate or be overbearing . trusts her children to know what's best for them and act like the adults they are .

LOVES her job deeply and sincerely. she knows she's well suited for it and good at it. she can make anyone comfortable in her presence in like .2 seconds, very soothing, very calm, very collected, very assured, almost motherly but not quite

struggled intensely with demetrius and redcreek for years, probably even decades. she couldn't find her footing, didn't feel like she belonged, didn't know many people , was kinda that traditional housewife you nod and smile to but didn't know much about. this was mainly due to demetrius' fuckass mum who was overbearing and intensely did NOT like renee

renee handled it well : she internalised a lot of the dislike his mother showed her, learned to paint a smile on her face when she'd be given a backhanded compliment, or say thank you when she'd be pushed to one side (never marry a Mummas boy . . iykyk..)

honestly secretly praised god that his mum died in 2022. tbh should have happened sooner, she made renee's life HELL

despite all the pressures between them, renee has demetrius' back no matter what. she loves him but isn't sure she's IN love with him or has been for a long time. she does see him as her other half though and is extremely devoted and loyal to him

has absolutely perfected the face of a politician . can smile and wave and be the Perfect Doting Wife and Mother in public, but also knows her boundaries . if you fuck with her or people she loves, she'll smile right to you as she tells you to Fuck off . can be quite passive aggressive but you'd really have to push her buttons to get that.

[starscream-is-my-wife]

Same anon, aha I loved your hcs on megastar- I'm super interested that you hced Megatron as a bird person since most people usually see him as a dog person?? Do you have any particular reason for that?

Also what got you into megastar initially?

Thanks anon! Ngl I don't know how much I am self projecting here but Im a bird owner so there's a couple of things about them that remind me of Starscream, a pretty, intelligent creature in your space that never shuts up, will just draw blood if they feel like it, destroys your belongings (clothes, furniture, the any wood on your house, wires, laptop keys, seriously they cause alot of property damage don't get a bird unless you really research), but there's a satisfaction for those moments where you witness cleverness where you don't expect, even if it's detrimental to you. One time my bird learned how to leverage their beak and feet to unlatch the lock to their cage, sure I had to spend a couple hundred dollars on a new one but I was still really proud of them, its a fascination that I think that Megatron would find familiar, but not attached to a bot that wants to kill him.

He also seems like the type of guy who can just sit reading on a park bench and is so still that birds land on him.

I like the decepticons all liking a different animal, like Soundwave with elephants, Shockwave with whales, Starscream with cats, Thundercracker already has dogs covered, Skywarp doesn't have one but I saw someone say snakes and I was like yeah that makes sense, the nemesis turns into the ark lol

Here's some pics:

Also I got into megastar cause I just liked starscreams and megatrons interactions in G1 they were funny and dysfunctional and I wanted more, then I found fanart and fanfiction and Ive been in the megastar hole since

[wishful-seeker]

I will soon be the only person in my close family to not finish college because illness forced me to leave, and thats a strange feeling. Im not sure how i feel about it.

I feel a little alienated because of it, but even though i LOVE learning and i enjoyed college classes, i didn't enjoy college itself.

Even in high school i was the "sick kid" and missed a year there, so feeling like i don't belong isn't new.

But i really thought I'd meet people like me in college, but all i found was snobby rich kids that ignored my existence. I genuinely tried making friends but college students are not my type of people.

I don't know if this is because i wore braces on my knees, or because they could tell i was poor, not sure but college kids always gave me bad vibes.

Im sad that the things im truly passionate about isn't taught in college, and i miss the classes i did have, but i don't think a fancy college was ever my scene. Maybe i would've fit better at a community college. But im probably too disabled to ever find out.

Idk i guess it feels strange because i was heavily encouraged to go to college, and now i can't even if i wanted to. Its weird that i could probably guess the view outsiders have of my life, how they'd feel bad for me, or laugh at what I've become.

And i think of that a lot: how outsiders may view my life. "Oh so sad, look how far she's fallen." Ya know

But im happy

I LIKE my life, sure i got all As and Bs in college, sure i won a writing contest in my class, and yes i also completed a triathlon before all this. So many medals saying "look how hard i worked, look what i accomplished" but when i was accomplishing those trival things i was really lost and alone on the inside, those medals were to convince myself i was better than the years before this one, a lie that i was becoming my best self.

But now all that shit is gone, dead, useless to me. Eventually i was left alone, with NO distractions, only my mind and a body i couldn't move in. Only a bed, in a room, no where else to go. Everything i thought that mattered, everything i connected my worth with, suddenly didn't mean anything anymore, because all that was was my chronic pain, and what i did with it. All that mattered now was fighting for a better life, for freedom from a bed, for freedom within my head.

I had to rebuild myself from nothing, i had to literally rewire my brain. I studied neuroplasticity and my only goal was to train my brain to be able to live with this pain. And i had to change a LOT. I can tell you my mind and the internal dialog in my head is completely different from 2 years ago, and also much a much kinder, and safer place.

So no, i won't finish college, im gonna be poor forever, i wont work, but i am much happier.

I finally feel like the best version of myself. The challenges i face in my life are no longer overwhelming, but a cycle ive grown rather fond of. Im so secure with myself that i can say "this next hardship will be good for me." And i don't think many people have the privilege of being that optimistic when faced with stressful situations.

It would have taken me my whole life to get to this point if i was still focusing on things like grades.

Im happy, and im more proud of myself than when i beat a triathlon, or won art contests.

[library-ghoulette]

My Path Serpentine (Ministry librarian series) - Chapter 1/?

Pairing: Copia (Papa Emeritus IV) x Original Female Character

Rating: This chapter is gen, later chapters will be mature to explicit

Tags: Third person POV, original female character, slow burn, workplace romance, Satanic nuns, libraries

Words: 1916

Summary: Sister Beatrice Laurence has spent her entire life seeking knowledge and belonging, and she thinks that she has found them both in the modest Satanic church where she works as a library assistant. But a job announcement from Ministry headquarters stirs her ambitions for more, and places her in the path of Papa Emeritus IV.

A/N: I intended to write some no-frills library smut, but it got away from me almost immediately. There will be smut in future chapters, I promise. But for now, let us meet our intrepid heroine and learn of her professional frustrations, and an intimidating yet tantalizing opportunity for power...

ao3 link

divider by @gothdaddyissues

Winter - Unholy Church of the Infernal Heart - The Library

"Sister Beatrice?"

At the sound of her name, Sister Beatrice Laurence's head pops up from behind the stack of books on the desk. Her aspect is harried, veil riding back to reveal her blonde bangs, her round, silver-framed glasses slipping down her nose from where she has been looking down at the book cart where she's alphabetizing the check-ins to be reshelved. She pushes her glasses back into place and attempts a smile—a genuine one, in contrast to the expression Sister Grace usually turns on her, which has a hollow quality and never quite reaches her eyes and makes Beatrice feel as though she is always about to get a nasty surprise.

"Yes, Sister Grace?" Her voice carries a note of hesitation, born of her experience with her supervisor's tendency to find fault with even the smallest tasks Beatrice completes. The older woman loves nothing more than to question all of her underlings' competency, but Beatrice seems to be her favorite target. It's never a good thing when Sister Grace comes out of her office.

"Father Kirk just called. He wants to see you." Before Beatrice can ask if she should finish her work first, Sister Grace cuts her off: "I'll take it from here. You're dismissed for the day."

Beatrice's palms are clammy as she retrieves her bag and coat from the tiny break room that always smells like burnt coffee, and as she heads out of the library with a bright "have a good night!" that Sister Grace doesn't return. She pushes out of the front doors of the library into a cold and dreary February afternoon and hurries across campus to the building that houses clergy offices. The lowering sky hangs heavy and ominous with clouds that spit the occasional hard flecks of something that vaguely resembles snow. It's not the kind of day that portends good news.

When she reaches Father Kirk's office, the door is closed. She straightens her veil nervously, wipes her hands on her coat, and knocks three times.

"Come in! Ah, Sister Beatrice!" Father Kirk stands up behind his desk as she enters. He's heavy-set, with close-cropped dark hair just starting to go grey at the temples and small, bright eyes, dressed in his customary black slacks and button-down, with a black clerical collar. He's not much older than Beatrice herself, and has always felt more like a big brother to her than some of the older, sterner priests in the Satanic church. Even so, being summoned to his office has her stomach twisting with nerves.

"Hi, Father Kirk! Sister Grace said you wanted to see me?"

"Yes, yes, come in. Have a seat. And uh, close the door, please."

Beatrice settles herself in the brown leather visitor's chair with hobnail trim in front of Father Kirk's desk. She smiles to see the assortment of toys and miniatures that clutter the space around his computer, the rubber duckie with devil horns and the rainbow-colored Baphomet figurine a friendly contrast to the rest of the drab administrative decor that came standard.

Father Kirk sits down again and regards Beatrice in thoughtful silence for a moment, elbows resting on his desk, fingers steepled, in a move that does nothing to assuage her anxiety. Then he asks, "Beatrice, where do you see yourself in five years?"

It's so corporate HR, so job interview, that it flummoxes her. "I- Here, I guess," she stammers, gathering her composure to summon a more dignified answer. "I want to be wherever I can best serve the will of our Dark Lord."

Father Kirk sighs. "Humility is not a virtue in our faith, Sister Beatrice. So please. Do me a favor and cut the bullshit."

From someone else, the words might sound harsh, but when Father Kirk says them, they carry no hostility, just the rough-hewn kindness of someone who knows when you're wasting everyone's time by not being as straightforward as he always is, and as he always wants everyone else to be, as well.

"What did you tell me when you first petitioned to join our order?" he asks.

Though a handful of years have passed since then, Sister Beatrice remembers that day clearly. "I said that I wanted to learn everything there was to know," she recalls. "And that I wanted to be a conduit for the word of Lucifer, for His knowledge and the freedom it brings, to all who seek it."

Father Kirk nods. "And do you feel that you are fulfilling that role here, in our parish?"

"I enjoy the work that I do in the library, Father," she says, choosing her words carefully. "And I do my best to fulfill my calling, in all the opportunities that are afforded to me here."

There, that was diplomatic enough. She thinks of the opportunities afforded to her, the ones that Sister Grace condescends to hand out. Shelving books and basic circulation tasks, mostly. Answering reference questions as quietly as possible so that Sister Grace doesn't eavesdrop and nitpick how she handled them. Begging for more responsibilities, only to be given the simplest copy cataloging—that Sister Grace always double-checks for imagined errors when she deigns to allow Beatrice to do it at all.

"And are you happy with those opportunities, Sister Beatrice?" It feels like Father Kirk is reading her mind.

There's no use lying: "I know that I could be doing more. I want to be doing more."

Father Kirk nods, looking pleased at Beatrice's candor. "I agree," he says. "You could be doing more."

There's a beat, and Beatrice feels compelled to fill it. "Is there… another position opening at the library?" she asks. There have been times when she has imagined Sister Grace quitting, or retiring, or—on her most frustrating days—running afoul of a negligent driver who fails to stop at crosswalks. Maybe her fantasies are coming true? Is she getting a promotion?

But Father Kirk laughs ruefully. "Not at our library, no. However—" He spins his chair around to grab an envelope from the mail tray on the shelf behind his desk, then sets it on the blotter between them. "I want you to look at this."

Beatrice picks up the envelope. It's made of heavy, creamy paper, and it feels important and expensive in her hand. The return address identifies its origin: "Ministry headquarters?"

She looks up to find Father Kirk regarding her seriously. "Read it."

She turns the envelope over, and, seeing that it has already been slit open neatly, she extracts the paper inside. Unfolding it, she reads:

[MESSAGE FROM THE CLERGY]

We wish to inform you that the position of Ministry Head Librarian is vacant. This position oversees daily operations of the library and archive at Ministry headquarters. Qualified applicants will possess thorough knowledge of circulation and reference, collection development, cataloging, and resource sharing. Supervisory experience strongly preferred. MLIS or equivalent degree from accredited institution required. All interested parties should submit completed application and letter of reference to…

Beatrice skims over the address to the bottom of the letter. It is signed, Sister Imperator. She turns the paper over, seeking answers, but the back is blank.

Her head feels strangely woozy, and she finds that she can't meet Father Kirk's eyes. "I- I don't understand."

"I think you do understand, Sister Beatrice."

"But this job—" It's my dream job, a voice in her head supplies, who do I have to kill to get it? But aloud, she says, "I- There's no way they would give it to me."

"Why not?" Father Kirk asks, and when she opens her mouth to protest, to list all of her deficiencies, real or imagined, he cuts her off: "You have the required degree. You have an entire portfolio of projects and internships. If you hadn't taken your vows, you would undoubtedly be running your own library by now."

It was likely true—she had been on that trajectory when she left her role as the assistant branch manager at a public library to dedicate herself fully to her dark faith, leaving her secular life behind.

"But I haven't taken my final vows yet." She has moved through her postulancy and novitiate periods, and she took her temporary vows over a year ago. She has been looking forward to professing her solemn vows, to the feelings of stability and permanence that she imagines doing so will bring. Feelings she has longed for her entire life, that she has searched for in vain.

"You can transfer and take your vows at the Ministry when you get the job." Father Kirk shrugs. "It's not common to move to a different diocese, as you know. But it can be done, especially under extenuating circumstances. I'll do my best to ensure that you don't have to restart your novitiate."

It would be worth it, though, that ambitious, greedy voice in her head says. Even if I did have to restart. Even if I had to do anything.

She allows herself a brief vision of herself in the role. Living in the beautiful old abbey she has seen photos of online but has never visited. Surrounded by the most powerful and influential members of the church. Being in charge of her own library; and not just any library, but the very heart of Satanic scholarship. Having power, real and tangible. No one to stand in her way and hint that maybe the Dewey Decimal System is just a bit out of her league, doesn't she think?

"When I get the job?" she asks.

"Yes, when. I wouldn't be suggesting this to you if I didn't think you had a chance—and a very good one, at that. You are the perfect candidate. They would be fools not to hire you."

"It's so far away." Sister Beatrice looks at the letter again, tracing and retracing the lines of the Ministry letterhead. Tears prick her eyes. "I would have to move," she says.

Father Kirk reaches across the desk and places a warm, reassuring hand on hers. "And you will be missed. You have been a dark blessing on this parish from the moment you entered, my dear. One of the most gifted Sisters we have ever admitted." He squeezes her hand, prompting her to meet his gaze. "And that is why I want you to apply for this job. You are destined for so much more than what is possible here. It would be cruel to keep you."

He releases her then, and as though a spell has been broken, she finally folds the letter again and places it back in the envelope.

"Will you at least consider it?" Father Kirk asks. "For me. Not as your priest, or your boss, but as your friend?"

Beatrice nods. "I'll consider it."

When she leaves his office, Father Kirk sends the envelope with her, and it weighs heavily on her the entire night. It seems to whisper to from her from her bag during vespers, and as she eats her dinner in the church cafeteria, as she showers and pulls on her nightgown, and as she lies in bed vainly trying to read a dark romance novel that would normally hold her attention easily.

Sighing with resignation, she sets her book aside and takes up the envelope again. She slides the job announcement out with the anticipation of someone rereading a love letter. She reads it again and again and again.

And she considers.

[the-voxel]

Journal Entry Two

I awoke this morning to John's soft sounds of discomfort. It was a moment before I remembered where I was, but then the previous night's events returned to me. I am stranded on an unknown alien world with only one know survivor of my crew other than myself, and the locals have us in their village. I admit, when I woke this morning my spirits were not high.

We were brought breakfast by an handful of locals. They were lead by an older individual who leaned on a can for support and had a greying beard and was decorated in what I could only guess was ornamentation to designate his high social status. But my eyes were not drawn to his jewels and braided wire jewelry. No. My eyes were beckoned by a flash of emerald green that reflected for a moment to dazzle the entire room in dancing green light as it passed through a beam of early morning light. The green belonged the a local girl who, instead of the standard blues of the other members of her people, had hair that was green as a rare gem and shiny as the rare spider silk thread of Homeworld IV.

Before I gathered my thoughts, her and the others set down trays of fruit and some sort of porridge and left the room. I was then alone with only the elder, who began to speak gently to me.

His language was strange to me. His voice reminded me of my days as a boy, hunting deer on the King's land for meat and scurrying home when I heard a guard to avoid arrest. And when the elder spoke some words, it almost sounded like two voices speaking at once, but the words came from his mouth alone. He must have realized I have no home of understanding, because he moved to John's side and put a hand on my companion's chest, then made a sound like rattled breathing.

I listened carefully to John's breath, my ear to his chest, and found it was true. John seemed to have fluid of some kind building in his lungs. An easy fix if I could go back to my ship and salvage medical supplies.

I attempted to explain as much, but the old man could not understand the wider galaxy's civilized speech. A minor frustration, but nothing I am not equipped to work around.

After an exchange of charades, I was allowed out of the hut, which was a blessing as the ceiling was so short I could not stand up properly.

Outside in the light of day, I was able to finally breath. The air here is rich, making it easy to feel awake and invigorated. I will have to retrieve equipment for testing, but I can see the lack of pollution and feel the high oxygen levels. I would love to know what else I am breathing.

The gravity of the world is somewhat low, which made my spirits feel lighter, and my hopes rise to the belief that I can make the best of this situation.

Once I took stock of the location, it became evident that this village was larger than my initial estimate. I expected only a few dozen, or a hundred individuals at this location. But after a short walk, I can say there are at least a thousand people living in this town.

The place is in full flood, and I speculate that as a normal seasonal occurrence, as all the streets are made of raised boardwalks, and houses are built on stilts.

A wooden wall surrounds the entirety of the village, with guard stations mounted to the top. And one thing I had to learn fairly quickly, through a complicated exchange, all washrooms are mounted on the wall. When I approached one, I expected little more than an outhouse that dumped my excrement into the water outside. Imagine my surprise to be met with genuine plumping, and pipes that took it away to a safe distance. From what I could see through the little peephole, they use an aquifer system to take sewage to fields, where I can only assume it is used to fertilize crops.

Alas I have saved the most vexing technological feature for last. Over the sky of the entire village is a dome of energy, one that looks almost as sophisticated as the energy barriers used in space faring races. This dome seems to be powered by several massive crystals that buzz with energy. I will investigate this further.

My efforts to go to my ship were in vain. Any time a local realized my intent to leave the wall, I was immediately barred from exit. Every gate was guarded by locals in grey uniforms. No amount of explaining my urgency swayed their ruling.

Eventually I went back to John, who was awake by this time. I explained the situation, and, ever a good friend, he told me to calm my nerves. He had been tended to with the strange medicine of these creatures, and for now was okay. I shall focus for now on gaining enough trust to be allowed outside of the walls of this village.

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[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

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(Disclaimer: only one of the characters in this story belongs to me. You can find more information about Azalea here. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob she and Murdock work for, go here.  Caliban will only be mentioned, but my boy still deserves credit. So, for more information about Caliban, go here. Murdock/Murderplier belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, but if you’re interested in my personal headcanons on him, go here.)

(Trigger Warnings: snakes, descriptions of pain/injury, blood, descriptions of medical procedure, syringes/needles, IV treatment/equipment, poison/venom/toxic chemicals, mentions of illegal business, slight mentions of eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Snakes were typically very hard to read. Personalities varied from breed to breed, of course, but reptiles in general just couldn’t really express themselves the same way dogs or cats could. Aside from that, it was impossible for a cold-blooded creature to get warm-fuzzies. 

One could logically assume that a domestic serpent only tolerated its owner; that at most, it’d come to recognize said owner as some strange creature that provided food and shelter for whatever reason.

Well, logic didn’t seem to apply to Cuddles. 

The scarlet kingsnake was slithering up her driftwood perch. She lightly bobbed her head as she tried to lean up towards her owner. Azalea chuckled, lowering her hand into the small enclosure, allowing the snake to eagerly curl around her wrist. 

“Seriously? Your cage has been moved around so much tonight, and you still don’t want some alone time yet?” Azalea, who had just barely returned her pet’s terrarium to its usual place on top of her dresser, asked. The question was sarcastic, but she hadn’t worded it unkindly. 

Cuddles’ only response was to steadily advance along her owner’s arm. She soon came to rest her head on Azalea’s shoulder while the end of her thin tail looped around Azalea’s wrist like an organic bracelet. Azalea smiled, using her free hand to gently run a finger along the serpent’s glossy scales.

She already knew snakes were more intelligent than they were typically given credit for, so Cuddles’ curiosity and willingness to be handled hadn’t been too surprising. No, what had really caught her off-guard was the fact that Cuddles seemed to get actual separation-anxiety on occasion.

Aftertaste followed a perfectly reasonable schedule, but Azalea often stayed in the restaurant hours after closing time (alright, she was technically spending that time beneath the building rather than inside it, but the point still stood). A hitwoman’s work was never quite finished: jobs needed to be discussed, targets needed to be tracked, poisons needed to be studied and mixed and slipped into seemingly-innocent treats. . .

Since being a contract-killer wasn’t the same as being an irresponsible pet-owner, Azalea found herself transporting Cuddles’ terrarium back and forth between her house and her subway-tunnel-den on a semi-regular basis.

Azalea exited her bedroom and ventured downstairs, holding one arm steady for Cuddles. She soon arrived in her kitchen, where washed her hands before searching through the cupboards. She found a shiny kettle, which she filled with water and set on top of the stove. 

It was late, but Azalea was feeling restless. She’d adjusted to the odd, random hours that came with The Pentas Family’s business. She’d learned how to shake off shock like a normal person would a Sunday Morning Hangover. She’d grown familiar with not exactly having peace-of-mind, due to the plans, names, locations, codes, everything she needed to keep memorized for her work. 

In any case, tea had proven itself a surprisingly effective quick-fix. (Then again, maybe that was just an old instinct.)

The water would take some time to boil, so Azalea was about to move to the living room, weighing the benefits of putting a movie on. But she quickly found herself frozen in place.

Her backyard was spacious, and most of that space was taken up by her greenhouse—why buy plant-based poisons when you could just grow and harvest them yourself?—but the kitchen window was wide enough for Azalea to see past it. And as her gaze passed by that window, she caught something out of the corner of her eye.

The houses in this neighborhood were separated by personal fences. Beyond each of those fences, a weed-choked alleyway was commonly used as a shortcut, whether on foot. . .or by car.

Azalea watched as a lone vehicle quietly crept through the alley. The sun had set hours ago, so the machine was partially camouflaged by shadows. Neither its head-lights nor tail-lights were glowing; not a good sign. The fact that the car’s windows were tinted didn’t bode well, either. 

Especially when it slowed to a stop right outside her fence. 

The driver-side door popped open, and a tall figure climbed out. Due to the distance and lack of light, Azalea couldn’t make out any details other than the black clothing the figure was dressed in. The figure approached the fence’s gate, then paused. Paranoia began festering in Azalea’s stomach as she realized that the lock on that gate was probably getting picked right now.

Azalea turned, silently rushing through the living room and up the staircase. She returned to her bedroom, where she gently pried Cuddles from her arm and deposited her back into the terrarium. The snake didn’t resist, but her beady little eyes shone with a surprising amount of worry. 

Azalea then went across the hall to her office. She tugged a chair away from her mahogany desk before dropping to her knees. This house wasn’t connected to the abandoned subway tunnels like Aftertaste and so many other buildings in the city were, but it’d still come with a small crawlspace hidden beneath the carpet of this particular room. Hell, Azalea had found the compartment in question purely by accident. 

And upon that discovery, she’d done what anyone would do: cleaned it up and used it to stash things that most people would be better off not knowing about. (Now, you could claim that, when faced with a surprise crawlspace, you’d either just ignore it or cut it off via replacing the office carpet. But then your parents would’ve raised a frickin’ liar.) 

Azalea combed through rows of neatly-stacked, unassuming boxes that awaited her. She fished out a container made of purple-stained wood and opened it up. In its top half, six syringes were kept in place by velcro strips while six glass vials were carefully nestled in slots on the bottom half.

. . .Well, five syringes and vials right now, as Azalea took the sixth of both sets into her hands. She expertly pulled back the syringe’s plunger and inserted the needle into the vial’s rubber stopper, drawing out the clear, innocent-looking liquid inside.

Azalea’s work didn’t just involve killing—sometimes she was tasked with interrogations and the like. And no matter what kind of assignment she focused on, self-defense was always a must. Thus, she made a habit to collect toxins that, while not fatal, still promised a bad time to whoever’s system they ended up in. 

Now armed with a dosage of platypus venom, Azalea surged back downstairs. She glanced out the kitchen window, making sure to stand in a way that wouldn’t let her be seen from the other side. And then she found herself suddenly halting yet again.

As she’d predicted, the fence gate was now hanging open, and the figure was slowly but surely trekking through her backyard. He’d grown closer, clearly intent on entering Azalea’s house. 

In fact, he was now close enough for Azalea to see a head of raven hair that was almost shoulder-length. She also discovered a pair of circular, black-tinted glasses on his face. Along with a brass pendant hanging from a simple chain around his neck. . .

Azalea’s fear vanished, quickly being replaced by confusion and frustration. She slunk across the kitchen and into the laundry room. She approached her house’s back door, unlocked it, and wrenched it open to whisper-yell, “Murdock?!”

Upon hearing his name, Murdock startled badly, staggering back a little. Despite his spectacles, Azalea could tell he was making eye-contact. A few seconds passed before he awkwardly nodded and resumed his march. 

Azalea raised an eyebrow, stepping aside to let her surprise guest in. “You nearly gave me a heart-attack! If you needed to stop by, you could’ve at least texted me earlier!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Murdock muttered, clearly as exasperated as he was shaken-up. “I had to get here quickly. Couldn’t waste any time sending a message.”

One part of Azalea felt a bit relieved, but that only lasted a few seconds. She knew right away that something was very wrong.

Sure, Murdock was a hitman, and an unexpected visit from a hitman typically wasn’t a sign of anything good. But Murdock was also someone Azalea was familiar with. They’d worked together numerous times; hell, he was the reason she and Caliban had found new lives in The Pentas Family. Aside from that, one of this mob’s laws specifically condemned the act of betrayal. 

No, Azalea knew that she wasn’t in any danger. . .

Murdock was doubled-over, breathing heavily as he trudged across the threshold. His body language was anxious, distressed. Almost like that of an injured animal.

“What’s going on?” She questioned as she closed the door behind Murdock.

“I-I need your help, Aza,” Murdock proclaimed in a low pitch. He had a naturally deep voice, but this was different. His tone was hoarse, and his words were labored. “I need some medicine. I can’t afford to go to the hospital.”

It was then that Azalea noticed three things.

The first was that Murdock wasn’t wearing his leather gloves. (He took them off when he wasn’t focusing on mob business, but he was still decked out in the rest of the attire that he always wore while on the clock.)

The second was that Murdock’s left hand was clamped around the wrist of his right, shakily keeping it in a lowered position.

The third was that the back of Murdock’s right hand was adorned by a dull, reddish-purple splotch. As well as a pair of very distinct puncture wounds. They were small (snake fangs were typically thin, after all) but they’d been stretched out due to the obvious swelling in Murdock’s skin. 

And just like that, the syringe clattered to the floor.

“Oh my God! Hold still, hold still—!” Azalea reached out to tug at Murdock’s black overcoat. She easily pulled the first sleeve off of the hitman’s left arm, but she had to carefully maneuver his right arm out of the second sleeve. The overcoat was left in a crumpled heap on the floor as Azalea put a hand on the small of Murdock’s back, walking him through the kitchen and over to the living room.

“What was it?” She demanded. “What bit you?”

“A diamondback,” Murdock croaked, making an obvious effort to not lean on Azalea for support.

(Rattlesnakes weren’t exactly aquatic creatures, but, like many things, they were more competent at swimming than your mental health would be prepared for. While their preferred habitats were desert areas, they could still be found in seaside environments like the Cove Port Inlets.)

“How much time has passed since it happened?”  

“Erm. . .almost twenty minutes, I think.”

“You think?” Azalea repeated incredulously. 

“Yeah, that’s my best damn guess!” Murdock snarled. “So sorry it’s not a closer estimate. I was more focused on getting here before paralysis set in!”

Azalea couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Good to know the venom isn’t affecting your brain yet.”

She led Murdock to an armchair sat in one corner. “Here, sit down. Move slowly.”

Murdock nodded, turning around and carefully lowering himself onto plush leather. 

Azalea ran back to the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers until she found a clean hand towel. She held it under the faucet, soaking it in warm water and lathering it with soap, then hurried back to the living room. She knelt down beside the armchair, rolled up the right sleeve of Murdock’s currant-colored turtleneck. She turned his arm so that his palm was facing the ceiling, then spent a moment scrubbing at the bite wound. Murdock hissed in pain, but he didn’t jerk away. 

As soon as Murdock’s hand was a bit more sterile than before, Azalea stood and began jogging away once more. “Don’t move that arm unless I say otherwise!” 

She stopped by the laundry room to chuck the towel into an empty hamper, then raced up the staircase and back into her office. Unlike the cabinet she kept in her subway-tunnel-den, the hidden compartment also happened to store a decent quantity of antidotes and specific painkillers. 

Considering the nature of her work, Azalea hardly ever found herself having to use this stuff. Then again, being unhinged didn’t automatically disqualify one from having foresight. 

Azalea quickly found a larger green box adorned by a small sign, which proclaimed ANTIVENOM in her handwriting. She grabbed it and hurried downstairs, now rushing over to the medicine cabinet in the hallway, where she snatched up another box (this one stark-white), as well as a fresh roll of bandages and some odd-looking, folded-up metallic contraption. 

It was a bit miraculous that Azalea didn’t drop anything as she sprinted back to the living room, setting all of the things in her arms onto the coffee table.

She made yet another trip to the kitchen to wash her hands and, for good measure, donned a pair of fresh latex gloves from a container under the sink. Once she returned to the living room, Azalea wasted no time dressing Murdock’s injured hand in a few layers of gauze. 

With a series of clicks and snaps, she unfolded the metal object, revealing it to be what looked like a coat stand that was apparently collapsible. She opened the white box and fished out the essentials of an Intravenous Infusion procedure. 

Azalea searched through the green box until she found a batch of vials specifically labeled RATTLESNAKE. 

She carefully opened up a clean IV bag, pouring vial after vial of antivenom inside until it was full, then hung it on one of the metal racks at the top of the stand. Next, she unwound a long plastic tube and piped one end of it into the valve at the bottom of the IV bag. At the other end of this tube was a cannula: a small, somewhat cone-shaped object that almost resembled one of those toy syringes that could be found in a child’s pretend-doctor set. 

Unfortunately for Murdock (well, sort of fortunately, considering his predicament), this was not a toy. Azalea took a clean, slender needle from a little package in the white box and loaded it into the cannula. 

As soon as that was done, she produced a purple tourniquet, which she tied around the center of Murdock’s forearm. 

“Augh—what’s the pressure-cuff for? We’re not in a goddamn pharmacy!” Murdock sputtered as Azalea adjusted the tourniquet, undoubtedly making it uncomfortably tight.

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you like to handle this? Because it sure doesn’t seem like you’re in a position to!” Azalea snapped. “If I can’t get this right, then you can’t get the antidote. So do yourself a favor and STOP WHINING!”

Soon enough, a long vein visibly bulged under Murdock’s skin. There; that was the place the needle would have to go.

Azalea quickly poured some rubbing alcohol onto a cotton swab, wiping that patch of flesh clean. Then, she took the cannula into her hand, holding it like she would a syringe at a 30-degree angle to the vein. 

“Brace yourself. This is gonna hurt,” she warned.

And with that, she pushed the needle into Murdock’s forearm, right below the tourniquet. Murdock sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut and grinding his jaw.

A couple seconds passed before Azalea felt something pop against the cannula. She kept it parallel to Murdock’s skin, watching as a few drops of his blood oozed into it. Her hands were a blur as she deftly removed the needle and connected the free end of the IV tube to the cannula. 

Little by little, she fed the tube further into the cannula hub. Once a good portion of the tube was very clearly inside Murdock’s forearm, Azalea tore a few pieces from a spool of medical tape to keep the IV attached to him. She then untied the tourniquet and swabbed at the skin around the injection area yet again. 

After that, she stood and reached up to the IV bag, twisting at it in order to open its interior valve. The antivenom, now actually having somewhere else to go, quickly flowed through the length of the tube. . .and, obviously, into Murdock. 

Azalea quietly took a couple steps back, holding her hands up in a way that suggested the IV set might spontaneously combust. 

The hitman shifted in his seat, no doubt feeling the odd sensation of foreign liquid entering his veins. Azalea knew he was still in pain—hell, he would be for the next several days—but he’d be okay. The cure was actively being guided along his bloodstream. 

For a moment or two, the pair were frozen in silence, slowly peering back and forth between each other and the antivenom in the tube. 

“Is. . .is that all?” Murdock eventually asked. His voice was quieter than it had been earlier, but there was a generous amount of anxiety in his tone. “Is there anything else to do?”

“No,” Azalea replied, shaking her head. “There’s more than one way to deal with a snake-bite, but getting an IV is the most efficient. Recovery’s gonna be rough, but you’ll be fine.”

“A-Alright.” Murdock nodded, some of the tension draining away from his frame.

“Well, I suggest you get comfortable,” Azalea announced. “You’ll need to stay attached to that bag until it’s empty.”

“Let me guess: that’ll take the rest of the night?” Murdock inquired. 

“Most likely. And even after that, it’ll still take a while for the venom inside you to be completely neutralized.”

Murdock was only able to shrug halfway before wincing. “That’s fine. Better than being at my place without any treatment.”

 “Damn right it is.” Azalea hummed in sarcastic agreement. “You owe me at least half of your next payment.”

“Why?” Murdock asked, although his tone of voice made it clear he already had an idea.

“Because I’ve had to use five vials of antivenom on you, and that stuff is not cheap,” Azalea answered. She picked up the aforementioned empty vials and carried them over to a small recycling bin in the kitchen. 

“What if I just found that diamondback and brought it over? You’ve milked snakes before. Plus, you always say antivenoms are kind of like vaccines.” Murdock tilted his head to the side, offering a shit-eating smirk that only lasted a few seconds before his face contorted with discomfort yet again. 

“True,” Azalea admitted, “but I doubt I’d have the time to actually make some antivenom afterwards. Considering I’d have to save your ass again.” 

“. . .That’s fair, I suppose,” Murdock sighed. “Besides, I can already tell you’d be more concerned about the snake.” 

“Yeah, I would,” Azalea snarked. “Because the snake would be an innocent victim of circumstance only trying to defend itself. Meanwhile, you’d just be a moron who screwed around and found out for a second time.”

Murdock huffed at this, but he didn’t really put up an argument. He rested his head against the chair’s back cushion, cringing in irritation. “When I’m up for my next job, we’ll talk,” he murmured. 

“Sounds good,” Azalea replied with a nod. With not much else to do, she went about cleaning up the living room. 

She threw away the used latex gloves away before strolling outside. Quickly and quietly, she crossed her backyard to close the fence gate, then raced back to the laundry room and locked the back door. The weapon she’d abandoned earlier glinted against artificial light. She carefully plucked it off the floor, carrying it and the antivenom box back upstairs. 

The platypus venom was drained back into its vial, the syringe was cleaned, and the boxes Azalea had opened were finally tucked back into the office crawlspace, now lying in wait for another day. 

Azalea stopped by her bedroom, instantly feeling a pair of eyes on her, and a smile finally flickered back on her face as she approached Cuddles’ terrarium. 

“Sorry for the panic,” Azalea announced, gently gathering up her pet and setting her down around her shoulders. “A friend of mine just made a mistake. Everything’s alright now.”

Cuddles always seemed to know when to live up to her name. She happily began cosplaying as a scarf, rubbing her scaly head against Azalea’s collarbone, barely even flinching when the keening distress call of a boiling kettle stabbed into Azalea’s ears. 

Azalea hurried back down to the kitchen, turning off one of the stove’s burners. Steam billowed from the spout while she washed her hands. She then poured herself a cup and fetched a little bag of almond tea from the pantry; clouds of spice colored the hot water as she carried her beverage over to the living room. She immediately noticed how Murdock’s tinted glasses lay askew on the coffee table, suggesting their owner had lightly tossed them onto it. 

As expected, Murdock was waiting for her, trying and failing to ignore how the fingers on his injured arm involuntarily twitched. (Despite all the dramatics he was infamous for, even he knew better than to just rip an IV cord out of his arm.)

At the sound of Azalea’s footsteps, Murdock instinctively glanced in her direction. Azalea glanced right back, tilting her head. Unlike just a few minutes ago, she was able to see her guest’s dark brown eyes. 

The Pentas Family was exceptionally skilled with secrets. One couldn’t simply talk about underground business, after all. When it came to interactions between the mob’s members, however, the Fight Club rule didn’t always have to apply. 

Therefore, anyone who knew Murdock probably also knew about his case of eye-misalignment. 

Specifically speaking, Murdock’s right eye was turned to the right, as though he was looking at something sideways without having to move his head. His left eye could shift around in its socket as intended, but his right eye never followed along. This didn’t render Murdock half-blind, despite how traumatic the accident that had shoved it to the side apparently was.

It was also something that Murdock was adamant on not being self-conscious about. His sunglasses were a memento from one of his earliest jobs; that was his reason for constantly wearing them (when he was doing things on the less-than-legal side of the spectrum, at least. He wore a medical eyepatch while keeping up appearances in normal society.)

And for the most part, this was true. 

“Comfy?” Azalea asked, heading for the plush sofa that stood adjacent to the armchair. She took a seat on the far side of said sofa, not wanting to crowd the hitman.

“Not exactly,” Murdock answered. His face ever-so-slightly fell at the sight of Cuddles. Azalea couldn’t help but smirk, practically able to hear the Red Touch Yellow rhyme echoing between his ears. 

Murdock lightly shook his head, his expression shifting back to a casual one. It was still too late for him to hide the mild panic he’d just felt. 

“That’s a shame.” Azalea shifted on the couch cushions, taking a sip of her tea. “So. What’d you do this time?”

Murdock flinched. Despite its blank screen, the television at the head of the living room suddenly seemed very interesting to him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means. Don’t tell me you think I’d just believe that a rattlesnake attacked you out of nowhere.” 

Murdock rolled his left eye. He was about to petulantly fold his arms across his chest, but the IV tube had other ideas. “Maybe the rattlesnake was being a dick.”

Azalea raised her eyebrows, obviously not convinced. 

Murdock let out a melodramatic sigh, clearly not looking forward to explaining himself. “Y’know that loan shark who���s been renting a place uptown?”

“Of course I do,” Azalea replied.

The Pentas Family had eyes and ears all over the Cove Port Inlets. Whenever something—or someone—new came to the city, at least one member of the mob would be aware. That, in turn, would lead to a report to The Boss, who would then bring all of her subordinates up to speed on the matter. New residents were just typical background characters most of the time, but one could never be too careful. 

It’d been years since The Boss had claimed the Inlets as Pentas territory. And thanks to reputation, protecting turf wasn’t too difficult. Even so, it wasn’t uncommon for pests to try and set up shop in the community. They didn’t pose much of a threat to the mob’s power, and they weren’t as tricky to deal with as organized groups were, but they were still so. Damn. Annoying. 

“I overheard The Boss complaining about him,” Murdock continued. “She’s worried that he’ll start trying to lend to potential clients around here—”

“—and if that happens, our earnings could be damaged when he starts exploiting his borrowers,” Azalea finished, narrowing her eyes in disdain.

(This particular idiot hadn’t exactly tried to weasel his way into a partnership with The Pentas Family, but it was still less than ideal to have him on the loose in the community. Loan sharks in general were just complete scumbags.)

Murdock nodded enthusiastically. “Bingo. Since we can’t really let that happen, I took it upon myself to send the guy a message.” 

Azalea blinked, the focus of her annoyance quickly transitioning from the pest to the man who’d dropped by in the middle of the night for pro-bono medical attention. “And that’s where the diamondback came in, huh?”

Murdock flinched, undoubtedly having seen the shift in his accomplice’s expression. He was already the worst kind of adrenaline-junkie; working with The Boss and being paid to kill was just a bonus on top of that. And yet he still wasn’t immune to the humiliation that came with making stupid mistakes. 

“. . .Yeah,” he finally stated, his voice tired. 

Azalea pointedly raised an eyebrow, gesturing for him to continue his story. Sure, she was still kind of pissed off, but schadenfreude was a natural thing in this line of work (and Murdock was damn well aware of that).

Murdock stayed quiet for a long moment. He glanced around Azalea, probably staring at the calendar hanging on the wall behind her, which was currently displaying a picture of a bouquet of roses just above the word February. 

“I went to the department store and bought one of those heart-shaped boxes,” he finally muttered. “I took out the chocolates and. . .well, I remembered you saying something about rattlesnakes nesting in one of the fields by the beach, so. . .”

Azalea clicked her tongue, slowly shaking her head. 

“Murdock.” She set her tea on the coffee table in order to start massaging her temples. “Murdock—look, I appreciate you. You’ve done a lot of things to help out Cal and I. You’re one of the most resourceful people I know. But right here, right now. . .you’re an idiot.”

An indignant squawk emerged from Murdock’s throat. He threw up his hands in a lame gesture, gritting his teeth at the stinging sensation of the IV tube’s protest.

“At least I know the message’ll get across!” He argued. “If the snake bit me, then it’ll probably bite the loan shark! So, if he doesn’t die from the bite, then he’ll run off after he gets treatment; and if he’s stupid enough to stick around, then we’ll just bump him off! One way or another, he’ll be out of our hair soon!”

If there was ever a time for a record to suddenly be scratched. . .

Azalea was about to respond with more sarcasm, but stopped short upon hearing this latest statement. Murdock pursed his lips, realizing too late that he probably should’ve just left that part out. 

“Let me get this straight,” Azalea pronounced. She rose from the sofa, beginning to pace back and forth on the living room carpet. “You went out into a field to try and catch a snake. A venomous snake, remember. And, somehow, despite not having any equipment—”

“Hey, I found a forked stick before I started looking,” Murdock protested.

Azalea, not to be interrupted, gave the hitman a death glare. “—you actually managed to catch that snake. Then, that snake bit you, because OF COURSE IT DID. . .”

She paused, as her brain was still attempting to process this. On one hand, Murdock was a contract-killer: he was professional when he needed to be, but he and lapses-in-judgment were still old friends. On the other hand, Murdock was a grown-ass man who should’ve had a few more shreds of common sense than this.

“. . .and you STILL went through with your little message plan? After you were bitten, you decided NOT to let go of the thing that bit you and run far away from it?!” 

A little voice in the back of Azalea’s head worried about her eyeballs potentially dropping out of her sockets due to how bewildered her expression was.

“You STILL thought it was a good idea to put it in a box?! Not just that, you drove that box over to a secondary location! You did all that BEFORE you made your way over here for the cure?!”

Murdock’s eyes were also currently the size of dinner plates. Although the movement was subtle, there was no mistaking how he shrank back into the armchair. 

He may have clearly been much taller than Azalea, even in a seated position. 

He may have had more than enough experience maiming, mutilating, and murdering his fellow humans for money. 

He may have known that he’d long-since earned Azalea’s trust (and vice-versa). 

But he still knew what Azalea was capable of. And, despite The Pentas Family’s laws, he was still very much aware of that phrase about women being scorned.

“. . .Pretty much,” he eventually murmured. 

Azalea blinked, unable to stop herself from reaching up to pinch at the bridge of her nose. 

“You can’t say I wasn’t dedicated,” Murdock tried.

“No, I can’t,” Azalea admitted. Before Murdock could start thinking he was off the hook, however, she added, “But I can say that you’re a dumbass sometimes.” 

It took no time at all for Murdock’s natural sardonicism to resurface. “I mean, you don’t have to say that, but alright.”

“Have you ever seen that one video of some guy poking and licking a Portuguese Man O’ War?” Azalea inquired. 

“You think I live in a place that doesn’t get WiFi?” Murdock snorted. “How couldn’t I have seen that? It was all over the news.”

Azalea nodded, smiling in an exhausted manner. “Good. That means you know.”

Now having been thoroughly thrown out of the loop, Murdock tilted his head to the side. “What exactly do I kn—”

“The clout-chaser in that video is the only reason why what you did tonight doesn’t qualify as the stupidest, most reckless thing I’ve seen since I started working with you!” Azalea swiftly marched across the living room to give Murdock a surprisingly harsh flick to the forehead. “Thank your lucky stars!”

@sammys-magical-au  @insane4fandoms  @callmegkiddo  @neons-trash-blog   @ayoreneehere  @flamestar456  @inkangeliguess  @safe-hayven  @dleep-deprivation-idk-jelp  @forestcouncil  @themarpsimp @slasher-smash  @sw33tst4rs  @butterboyfly 

[nahalism]

heyyyyy 🖤 ofc ignore and dont feel pressured to answer if this goes into too personal territory. Did you ever get diagnosed/got suspected personality disorder(s) and (if yes) did it give you any guidance/deeper understanding of yourself?

<3 heyy, — i havent been diagnosed with a personality disorder, although there was a period of time i questioned if i had bpd, specifically quiet bpd. there are still symptoms of bpd i resonate with, but they could be related to other mental health issues ive dealt with (depression, anxiety, cptsd etc) so idk. tbh, because of how cloudy it all gets, i no longer look to being diagnosed as a solution. i personally dont want to be medicated, & outside of medication, allopathic medicine (imo) doesnt have answers or solutions for the 'issues' i face. ive used therapy during moments where i feel unable to look after myself/see the situation at hand clearly, (mostly to make sure i dont regress / i have someone objectively able to evaluate my decision making, which helps a lot cause when im spiralling i can doubt myself & feel out of touch with reality) but thats about it.

that said, every symptom ive dealt with/deal with, has helped me understand myself. the way i see it every problem pushes you toward its solution. e.g, (trigger warning) self harm was a symptom of the issues i was dealing with. it led me to understand that i struggled with regulating my emotions and that i held a lot of rage. i also realised that when i experience deep rage (rooted in fear), i take it out on myself, not on others. partly cause i didnt want to harm people, also because as much as the people, or situations i was in, caused me harm, i didnt want to push them away/give them a reason to 'leave me/my life' because that would reopen wounds i had regarding abandonment and not being good enough. each realisation was something i had to confront and deal with individually. thats just one example, but hopefully it details how i acknowledge symptoms i experience, then unpack them to point me in the direction of solving the issue.

knowing these things doesnt make the issue disappear. i still get distressed, and at times my impulse is still to hurt myself. but because ive taken time to understand the issue, i have coping mechanisms in place that help me self regulate and put things in perspective (e.g journaling, mindfulness practices, learning to address situations, and communicate my issues rather than take it out on myself). at first its not easy and it feels like 90% failing. sometimes you'll know the right thing to do, & not want to do it, orrr be doing the wrong thing whilst knowing what the right thing to do is. but awareness is the first step, and eventually it gets easier. over time (and by choice) ive learned to respond to myself with love. even though i have urges to be self destructive, i have enough compounded experience and perspective on what being destructive does to me and the people i care about to not do it. deeper than that, ive trained myself to stop recognising stress and chaos as 'normal' or my baseline. shadow work helps with this a lot. id recommend reading 'owning your own shadow' by robert a johnson, it helped me understand what to do with the left over destructive energy i was no longer using & how to put it into creativity rather than let it be damaging—

i know this was super long but i had to be specific because imo theres a lot of people who claim personality disorders are a life sentence / or who demonise people who struggle with them and that something i have never agreed with or felt was fair. i do think recovery is possible. however please bare in mind, im sharing my experience & whilst i stand on it & believe it can work for anyone, i have not been diagnosed with a personality disorder. it is completely possible ive found solutions to an issue/symptom that crosses over but does not belong to the issue ur asking me about. (e.g someone could use ashwaganda to solve their anxiety & panic attacks, but that might not work for someone who has panic attacks triggered by ptsd). the way i went about things was unconventional. it worked for me, but has taken a long time, has not been easy & im aware its not a path everyone would choose. (im not saying that to be quirky. its literally given me everything but cost everything in the process). if this resonates and feels like something you can do i highly recommend it. but if you begin to struggle, get lost in the weeds or feel like medication/therapy & whatever other solution better suits you, plsplspls do what it right for you and safest for you.

🖤 sending u big love. i hope this helped

[harmonicunt]

i rly cant see myself as separate from the primordial soup. every flaw i see in others is a reflection of myself, every joy too. every cruelty, all kindness. so many people see themselves as leaning towards one or another, but thats wrong, isnt it ? we're capable of all, in our own particular ways. youll pin yourself & doom growth if you put yourself in one corner.

narratives about who you are are mostly about who you think you are--and the thinking is only one fractal of it. i think ive been afraid of defining myself by the "doing" part of my existence because for so long i didnt feel like the "doing" was anything important or interesting or fulfilling. i didnt have language to show what it was teaching me, what it really meant--it was all isolation, and boredom, and rage. it was that, and it was more, and now that im still doing many of the same things alongside that which i truly want, which i find self respect in, which i am fulfilled through, i can see how i could've used different language to spin it in a different light, to be less lonely and afraid of myself. as my story evolves and changes each time i tell it, as others' stories of me grow (and i learn to listen to them, and trust them), im open to all the ways i hadn't seen before, and i understand how blind we are to who we are in one particular moment. reflection must come second.

thinking & doing are two pillars of our selves, pillars we learn to build and tear down and build again. i'm trying to figure out where our control over those pillars lie. i know there are more--we are more than what we think and what we do--and i know we can change and reshape them, but the first shaping is amazing to begin with. is the first shaping the one everyone else does when we're young, and we don't know how to do it ourselves? or the one we do when we emerge, when we look at how our pillars been formed for us--a necessary evil, unfortunately,--and we decide that it should be something else, something that belongs to us? some people never make their own, and i think many of them are very unfulfilled. each one is unique. the idea you can control it utterly, shape yourself into anything you want, is partially a false narrative, addressed by the fact that at first we have no control over what shape it takes. then, i think almost everyone finds there is an immutable self they can never put a finger on, no matter how long they circle around it. you repaint, and carve in new grooves, and add height or branches. you circle around a self you won't know until you've found them. we have many methods of circling around to the self, of seeing what fits with the pillar we think we want to create, and then adjusting when we realize that's not quite the look we thought it'd be.

i've employed a few strange ones through my life, one of the most curious that i come back to often being kin & kinning. a sort of pinning that often felt like a chicken/egg situation, even while i was in it i found it fascinating. what i was and what i wanted to be and what i thought i would be (i was kinning when i was 12-16ish, so i wasn't much of anything but a ball of energy and wanting) merged together into these grand pulls to characters who werent necessarily favorites but made me fucking insane because of what of myself i saw in them (sometimes it still happens, but it's gotten weirder and more specific as ive aged, and harder to explain or project to others who dont already know me.)

i dont know where im going with this. can we ever know ourselves if we dont know who we are to others ? if we dont listen to what they say about us? it feels bad when someone doesnt take what youve said about them, compliment or criticism or neutral, seriously. people who ignore compliments or use them to insult themselves, and people who ignore criticism and tell themselves that they are the best at something you have been struggling with them for, convincing themselves that the problems they run into are external and eschewing responsibility. how far can we push our own self actualization before collapsing? how happy can we convince ourselves we are, not knowing the joy on the other side ? what tells us that we're miserable in the shape that's been built for us? why do we all seem to forget from time to time that everyone else has been using the same scale of time that we have been to build theirs? why do we flatten them to the pillar we see in one moment, inconsiderate of what came before ? it's self-centered, and that's seen as very dirty, but we can't be anything but self-centered when we're only in our own heads, right ? generosity, consideration, kindness, respect, so much of that is in the eye of the beholder. what we think of as universally decent can make another think of us as deeply annoying, even rude, culturally or personally. idk. we're all the same and we're all different and it's weird and i could add questions and ponderings to this forever but ill stop here. i love you.

[ebdanon]

jfc another ask

anyway, he said we could get the stuff we needed from the cabinet, use it, and put it back when we're done or when we go to bed. which sounds reasonable if it's something like a mug that you use for a bit and then put away with the rest. but not expensive tech we've worked hard to acquire and use extensively, that you then have to store in a cabinet that barely has any room, so you have to put one laptop on top of the other one, and then more stuff on top of them and do that any time you need them? bitch if im not working on my laptop im doing other shit on it, whether it's studying, or entertainment, or looking for another job so i can move. its also not made to be stored that way. so there was a huge argument about him feeling the freedom to take and move shit around that doesnt belong to him. and my mil was defending him. it then devolved into her talking shit about how many things we had and why couldnt we bring some stuff over to my parents' apartment. that they were horrible people and likely told us to store it in their house because that's what they do, give us instructions we have to follow.

around a month or so into that, i learned that my mil and shitty grandma had become close friends. i realized this because some of the shit talking she did sounded suspiciously familiar. like word for word familiar. one day i caught them on the phone together and it made sense. so thats where my mil was getting her tea from to call my other grandma a whore, my aunt dumb and incompetent, and even made up her own conspiracies on top of that. like how my husband and i were working freelance for my sister. she does work freelance to but something i have no idea how to do. sometimes she'll come to me about how to deal with a client or an admin issue because ive been doing this a few years longer. but we stopped talking after that funeral/party weekend. she was pissed at me for not attending the party. but somehow this woman got it in her mind that we were working for my sister or that my sister was working for us. she said it either way a few different times so idk. but basically the issue there was, her daughter is a stay at home mom in a different country, low on cash, we should be giving her money or work because she needs it more than my sister. what she doesnt know is that my sister in law is the one we've been lending money to for years now with nothing in return. they're having a difficult time with a small kid, we want to help. if they can pay us back at any point fine, if not fine. there are more issues in that particular situation but that's irrelevant here. anyway, pretty often, my mil goes on rants about the country her daughter is in is shit, the people there are shit. there's been a huge brain drain from our country to that one in the last two decades. she keeps saying more and more people are coming back because its so shit there. except its more shit here which is why we're trying to leave too. people arent coming back, shes making it up. how if her daughter came back, she wouldn't have to be a stay at home mom, because my mil would find her a job. except that's the reason they left. my sil and her husband couldnt find jobs anywhere here that paid decently. and they had a toddler. no one was helping them financially from both sets of parents, so thats the solution they found.

in that first month, i kept asking my mil where she keeps various things like baking supplies or cleaning supplies or whatever else i needed that the apartment already had (former) or we left behind (latter) which i never got a response to. "hey where do you keep the stand mixer? silence, leaves the room" is a common example. my fil years ago, made the garage (oh yeah theres a garage too) to fit two cars. except to park them, they gotta be one behind the other, so you have to take out one to drive the other, if my description makes sense. our car is always the one on the inside because "we dont need it much" according to them because they go to work every day and we work from home. any time we need the car, we have to ask them to move theirs so we can get ours out. we're not touching their car no matter how much they push us to sell ours and drive theirs, or just move theirs whenever necessary because that's just a shitstorm masked as a kind gesture. i stopped asking about the cleaning supplies and we bought our own, even though i know she has a set for each floor because she's told me. funny thing i learned last night: the bathroom we got assigned had a single toilet cleaning product in there. the bathroom was also absolutely filthy. we kept trying it out to clean the toilet with the product but nothing was happening. so i checked the date and it turned out to be expired. i left the expired one where i found it because god forbid you touch anything of theirs. im not even allowed in parts of the house. so there were two identical toilet cleaners next to the toilet. my mil brought it up in one of her screaming monologues last month, and we told her why there's two. so she proceeded to yell about why we never told her. and she grabbed the expired one and threw it out. last night during the shitstorm, my father in law said it wasn't that kind of toilet cleaner. he bought some off brand cleaner that her poured into the packaging of this expired bottle (im like wtf u could have made poison gas or something mixing chemicals like that) a while ago, and you're supposed to scrub hard to get any sort of cleaning done. and i said well if the instructions said that, i would have done that, but everyone here takes the pleasure in keeping everything hidden. he said he didnt bring it up earlier because he wanted to see us "tear each other apart" because he was bored. so not even his wife knew. psycho fucking behavior i swear, sometimes i dont know whos worse between the two of them.

my sister in law and her family were over for the christmas holidays, and my niece's bday was coming up soon so she asked me to bake some muffins for her to decorate before the party because she needed the oven at their place to bake other stuff. i said no problem, and had to scavenge a whisk i remembered seeing because idk where the stand mixer is despite asking multiple times. and being ignored. oh but my mil knew id be making them and kept trying to convince my sil against it because im incompetent and would fuck it up and its best if my mil bakes the muffins. my sil assigned mil on muffin decoration duty. which my mil didnt do because she was too busy. i dont even

anyway, since the year started, i decided to make a spreadsheet to keep track or all the shit my mil says about me or my family. i keep track of dates and what she said because the first few months i felt like i was losing my mind. she would say some crazy shit, my husband would call her out and she'd say she never said such a thing. hence, spreadsheet. it got too much for me to handle and my body started reacting. she tends to start shit during weekends. my blood pressure started spiking during the weekends as soon as id wake up. id get shakey, out of breath, my heart rate would go up. my husband and i went to a bunch of doctors, just like we did for him last year. his dad was there too, because thats how shit works here. my husband had to kick him out so i could explain the symptoms to the doctors. so they could examine my chest because they were worried its a heart issue. idk my fil is weird and creepy and thats a nice way of putting it. he walked in on me in the bathroom multiple times. just me, no one else. im now the only one that locks the door when using any bathroom. because my husband asked what his problem was and he said he's not used to other people in the house. yet he never walked in on anyone else. any bathroom any time of day. fil asked why i didnt lock the door and i said my mil and husband said not to do that because the locks are old and rusty and i could end up stuck inside. he said thats not true so i started locking the door. he still tried to get in. weird behavior aside, turns out my symptoms were due to hereditary thyroid issues triggered by stress. the blood pressure has gone back to normal since but not everything else, and especially not during stress, everything spikes then. many times since, she'd start yelling, my husband would notice im not looking great, and he'd pull out the blood pressure monitor so we can check. and she'd continue yelling how she doesnt care i have health issues, im gonna take it, she has health issues too and no one gives a fuck about her. she's shoved me out of the shed when i went to grab something for her daughter while yelling at her daughter why she has things in there (it was a pair of forgotten shoes). several times she's screamed/asked me what she's done wrong for me to mistreat her, how shes opened her soul to me and ive been using it against her, how i changed since we moved out of town and changed her son too. ive asked her how ive used anything against her, no response. ive asked what ive done wrong, no response. so i didnt respond to her question either. until last night when she screamed/asked again.

okay last ask will be about last night ive been typing for so long im sorry for clogging ur ask box with my lore

ur mil would literally argue with air atp jesus christ

[spilt-ink-and-sleepless-nights]

Oh thank God I'm not alone in feeling this way. Upcoming long ramble bc this has been in my head for days now and this post FINALLY gave me the words, warning you now.

I found Good Omens tumblr posts that ranged from borderline to actual aro/acephobia and it made me feel so isolated and alone for headcanoning the ineffables even in the range of aroace, that because I'm aroace I'm just projecting onto these characters who CLEARLY are in ROMANTIC love and want to FUCK and I'm an idiot for not seeing it that way.

Ive watched season 1 but it was season 2 that really got me exploring the fandom, and I was blown away on how much aro/ace posivity and rep was found in the fanart and fics. This was the first fandom where not exclusively romantic interpretations of the main ship was celebrated, and when I found just how many fics that had the "queerplatonic a/c" "asexual a/c" "aromatic a/c" "ambiguous a/c" I nearly cried. I’ve never seen so many aro/ace artists in one place before, I felt like I belonged. I never felt so welcomed to be myself in the Good Omens fandom, but when I found how much aro/acephobia was also in the fandom I felt so betrayed that I was considering leaving the fandom. Dramatic in hindsight but knowing that there are people who actually look down at these wonderful interpretations of azircrow and their artists made me feel so down that i worried I wouldn't be able to find that aro/ace type of joy in these characters ever again.

And look, I love love love the headcanons and fanart and fics where a/c are allo and fuck nasty, those interpretations are beautiful and awesome and I'm so happy that so many people in the fandom can interpret aricrow's relationship into one's that they can see themselves in, I just wish that some people were nicer about not sharing or relating to other people's headcanons, you know? Azicrow are toys that we use to explore the world with and we don't need to and we don't have to be shitting on each other because we think the way we play with them is "superior".

Anyways, I was debating leaving the fandom temporarily since my reveal in the amount of aro/acephobia in it, I felt like I was going crazy and that no one else could see how upsetting it can be. And then this post popped up and just the acknowledgement from others that I'm not alone in feeling this way that I started to feel much lighter about this fandom. There are still aro/ace people making wonderful aro/ace art, even making it in spite of the hate they see, it makes me feel like I can push back and continue to create and still be apart of this fandom too.

I'm so not good at words so I hope this makes sense, I'm just screaming at the void but knowing that I'm not alone and I'm not "in the wrong" for my fandom experience which means so so much to me and others is what I needed, I think. So thank you Good Omens fandom for being a place where I can be myself and grow and learn I love you I love you I love you all <3

Lgbtq people saying it's queerbaiting because two people didn't kiss or fuck on screen has the same vibes as cisgender heterosexual people saying two characters aren't gay and completely missing romantic undertones just because the two didn't kiss or fuck on screen

Aphobia is just recycled homophobia