#just something i wrote to deal with the pain of existence

[saneabandoned]

You weren’t loyal to me.

Oh, but they were. That’s why they never questioned you, they know how loyal you are, how you pride yourself in that, and never thought you’d actually leave. That’s why they never went after you, they just couldn’t believe you’d really left, left them, they didn’t know how to search for somebody who made it clear he didn’t want to be found. They were loyal, they just never expected you not to be.

I was one of you.

They know. They remember, and how couldn’t they, when they are not the same without you, they don’t see things the way they did with you standing next to them. They lost their balance the day they lost you, there is an empty space now where you once were and it’s just not the same anymore, not without you.

You still are. A brother, a friend. You are standing in front of them, and they’d take you back in a second, you need only ask.

You may have forgotten, but I haven’t.

Believe it, they can’t either. They just can’t wrap their minds around the fact that you’re not there anymore, that you chose to leave them, after everything you’ve been through together. They never looked for you because they didn’t know it was possible you didn’t want them anymore. They thought you’d forgotten, they never could.

And it’s why I’m going to give you what you never gave me: a chance.

They never gave you a chance because they didn’t think you needed it. They would never presume you’d wanted it, that you were ever even thinking of betraying them, that you needed something else other than them, than what you had together. They gave you a chance, don’t ignore it. They’re giving it now too. They’re here, aren’t they?

But you’re too proud, too stubborn, too insecure. How could they want you when you left? You can’t admit the mistake you made because you don’t think they’ll forgive you, and what then? You’d have lost your purpose, you’d be left alone, again. The kind of loneliness you never knew existed, the one you felt for the first time when you left them, only it would be worse because you’d know they don’t want you back this time.

You can’t bear to hear their refusal, which is why you prefer to have this on your own terms, you won’t beg, you want them to beg. Beg to join you, beg for you to come back.

Just a bit more, and maybe you’ll yield.

You want to feel that they’d missed you, and to be able to have someone watch your back again, someone to care enough for you to risk defending you. You weren’t made to be on your own, not like this, and you know it.

But you won’t break, why won’t you break?

[dduane]

i cant belive that you of all people are at risk of homelessness >:(

homelessness isnt a problem that should exist in general, but you, specifically, should have like a million dollars from the star trek novels alone

(chuckle) Wouldn't that be lovely! (And it's kind of you to be thinking that way.)

But alas, that's not how it works.

When you're working in/for other licensed universes—which is always on a work-for-hire basis—the only really significant payment(s) you're likely to see will happen when you've turned in a given book and it's been formally accepted. And even then, the payment's rarely going to be higher than low-to-mid five figures... which (after your literary agent gets their cut, and after your taxes on the income get paid) won't take you very far even in a single year, let alone the years that follow.

If you're very lucky in your publisher, or have a very good agent—which I do—you may even manage to get some royalties on such a novel. But they'll be at the low end of the scale—maybe 2-3% of the cover price. (Bearing in mind that even for original novels in one's own universe, an author rarely gets more than 8-10% of a given book's cover price in royalties.) And when the book goes out of print, the royalties stop.

So just because the owner of the IP makes a lot of money off it, doesn't mean that any significant amount of it necessarily trickles down to the writer. (sigh) Nor does the fact that a book is good, or the writer is good, or both, make any significant difference in this branch of mathematics. Eventually, pretty much inevitably, sooner or later sales of a book drop off and the publisher lets it go out of print.

(shrug) It's not like I didn't know this was eventually going to happen when I wrote my Star Trek work. I did that because I loved Trek (and still do), and I was sure I could write a better Trek novel than anyone else had up until that point. (And maybe that was even true. Who knows.) To have done the work was the thing that primarily mattered.

But let this be a reminder to folks that only a low percentage of writers make enough from their writing alone to live on: and that something like 90% of writers at times live at or near the poverty line and sometimes slip below it. ...And for all of us, even for strong writers who seem moderately successful and have other income streams, bare patches happen: times when publishers don't pay (for example, I still haven't been paid anything for Disney/Marvel's reissue of my Spider-Man books), times when you can't work, or times when accident or illness or other unexpected circumstance eats the cash you've stashed away to serve as a cushion.

This is not a safe lifestyle. With talent and luck and endless slogging away at/over the writing mechanism of your choice, and with the support of your readers (whom I'm very much thinking of at the moment!—and thanks again to the Ebooks Direct customers and Ko-Fi friends who just now saved our butts), it can be survived. Which, from day to day, @petermorwood and I do our best to keep on doing.

...In any case: people who even at this end of time can say things about my work such as you did at the top of this, make me feel like about a million dollars. 🙂 (And since today I have both an upper respiratory infection and laryngitis, that's quite a trick!) ...So thanks.

ETA: for those curious, to deal with local physical issues I am now making this chicken soup, which—whether or not it has any actual therapeutic benefit—is still going to be very nice. ...It annoys the shit out of me that I have to leave out the onions and garlic, which would quickly trigger my IBS and subject me to an entirely different level of pain; but such is life. We've got all the other ingredients on hand sans the fresh turmeric, and if there's one thing this soup's short on, it's chilies. Which around here, believe me, is a deficiency that Peter's well positioned to remedy. :)

[undiagnosedcruelty]

I Needed You

Pairing: Lee Minho x GenderNeutral!Reader

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Summary: You turned to Minho for comfort, only to be met with cold dismissal. But as you lie in a hospital bed, the weight of the guilt consumes him.

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Content Warning: mentions of medical Issues, fainting, miscommunication, feelings of neglect, guilt, regret, hospital setting.

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: this was a request submitted anonymously, hope this could satisfy as I wrote this in a rush earlier 💀

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EVERYTHING WRITTEN IS PURELY FICTION FICTION──NOTHING IS DIRECTLY RELATED TO ANY REAL LIFE EVENTS.

 The lunchbox felt warm in your hands, the comforting weight of home-cooked food giving you a sense of purpose as you stepped into JYPE’s building. But deep down, the real reason you were here wasn’t for Minho’s lunch—it was because you needed him. The sharp, unrelenting pain in your side had been getting worse all morning, and all you wanted was to curl up in his lap and let him hold you for just a little while.

You had been dealing with discomfort for days, an ache that started as a dull throb but had gradually escalated into searing, unbearable pain. At first, you brushed it off as simple cramps, something you could push through. But as time passed, it became harder to ignore.

Moving too quickly sent a sharp, stabbing sensation through your abdomen, and even breathing deeply felt like knives twisting inside of you. The pain radiated outward, making every movement feel like a battle.

You were exhausted from the constant discomfort, and waves of nausea had started hitting you intermittently, leaving you lightheaded and unsteady on your feet. Despite the pain, you hadn’t wanted to make a big deal out of it, convincing yourself that resting in Minho’s arms for just a little while would be enough to get through the worst of it.

When you finally reached the practice room, you found him sitting on the floor, his laptop balanced on his knees, eyes flicking rapidly across the screen as he studied the choreography video in front of him. The usual warmth in his features was absent—he looked focused, sharp, as if nothing else existed outside of the pixels dancing before him.

“Hey, I brought you lunch,” you said softly, setting it beside him. Your voice was quieter than usual, drained from the pain clawing at your side.

“Thanks,” he muttered without looking up, fingers tapping against the keyboard.

You hesitated before kneeling beside him, pressing a hand to your aching side as you tried to find the right words. “Min, my side really hurts... can I just—”

“I’m busy, Y/N,” he cut in, irritation lacing his tone. His eyes flicked toward you briefly, but they held no real concern, only impatience. “If you’re not feeling well, just go home and rest.”

You blinked, taken aback. “But—”

“Please, Y/N. Not now.”

The finality in his voice stung worse than the pain in your side. Your stomach twisted, but not from the nausea this time—from the unmistakable ache of rejection.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and stood up, pressing your lips together to keep them from trembling. If he was too busy, then fine. You wouldn’t bother him.

Each step down the hallway felt heavier than the last. The fluorescent lights above blurred, the throbbing in your side intensifying until your vision darkened completely. The last thing you heard was a familiar voice calling your name before everything faded to black.

—

When you woke up, the sterile white of a hospital ceiling greeted you, the harsh brightness making you blink against the unfamiliarity. The soft, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor filled the silence, grounding you in the present. A dull ache still throbbed in your side, the pain more bearable than before but still a lingering reminder of what had happened.

As you shifted slightly, a warm pressure tightened around your hand. Turning your head, you spotted Felix sitting beside you, his fingers curled firmly around yours, knuckles pale from how tightly he had been holding on. His worried eyes softened when they met yours, and his entire body sagged with visible relief.

“You’re awake,” he breathed, exhaling shakily as if he had been holding his breath for hours. His voice was thick with worry, but underneath it, there was that familiar warmth—the kind of unwavering presence that had always made you feel safe.

You tried to smile, but it came out weak. “Felix, you always worry too much.”

He scoffed, but there was no real annoyance behind it—just exasperation, just Felix. “Yeah, well, that’s my job as your best friend.”

A small chuckle escaped you, but even that sent a faint pang through your side. You winced, your free hand instinctively moving to press against the sore spot. Felix’s grip tightened around yours.

“…What happened?” you asked, your voice slightly hoarse.

“The doctor said it was a ruptured ovarian cyst,” he explained gently, “You have to stay for a few days.”

You let out a weak, humorless laugh. “Great.”

Felix pursed his lips, hesitating. His thumb traced small, soothing circles over the back of your hand, a habit he had picked up whenever he was nervous. “I, uh… I texted Minho.”

Your breath hitched. Your heart clenched painfully—though whether from anger, regret, or something else entirely, you weren’t sure. “Of course you did.”

“He came rushing over as soon as he read my message,” Felix added, glancing toward the door. His fingers drummed lightly against the metal railing of your bed, another old nervous habit. “But you were still out, so he’s been waiting outside your room all night.”

Your gaze flickered to the closed door, your chest tightening at the thought of him just sitting there, waiting.

And then, when you finally managed to get out of bed to use the restroom, you saw him.

Lee Minho was still there.

He sat on the bench outside your hospital room, hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His fingers were loosely clasped together, but his knuckles were pale from tension, as if he had been gripping them too hard just moments ago. His normally sharp eyes were dulled with exhaustion, dark circles shadowing beneath them. His hair, slightly disheveled, stuck up in places as if he had run his hands through it too many times.

But the moment the door creaked open, his head snapped up.

“Y/N,” he breathed, standing abruptly. His voice was raw—hoarse, like he had been replaying this moment in his mind, whispering apologies to the walls long before he could say them to you.

You met his gaze, and in that instant, emotions crashed inside you. The resentment simmered, the sting of his earlier dismissal still fresh in your mind. But beneath it, there was something else—a pull, an ache.

Minho hesitated, his hands curling into fists before unclenching as if he didn’t know what to do with them. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and then, finally, he spoke. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I should have listened to you. I should have—”

“You should have,” you interrupted, your tone firm but not cruel. “I told you I was in pain, and you brushed me off.”

Minho flinched. His shoulders tensed, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to shrink into himself, to disappear beneath the weight of his own regret.

 “I know,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I hate myself for it. I wasn’t thinking—I was too caught up in work and I didn’t realize how serious it was.”

You sighed, shifting uncomfortably, the pain in your side flaring slightly. “I’m still upset.”

“I know,” he nodded, his voice almost desperate now. His posture slumped slightly, as if the guilt was pressing down on him. “And I don’t expect you to forgive me right away. But please… let me make it up to you.”

You stared at him for a long moment before narrowing your eyes slightly. “You can start by leaving.”

Minho’s face fell. He stiffened, his throat working as he swallowed hard. “What?”

“You heard me,” you said, your voice quieter now, but colder. “I don’t want you here right now.”

His hands clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening. “Y/N, please—”

“I needed you,” you cut him off, your voice shaking despite your best efforts. “And you weren’t there. So go.”

For a second, it looked like he might argue. His lips parted, his brows furrowing, but then, he exhaled shakily. His shoulders slumped as he nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Okay,” he murmured. “I’ll go… for now.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving you alone with the hollow ache in your chest.

Hours later, Felix returned, dropping a bag of snacks onto the bedside table with a quiet thud. He hesitated before glancing at you. “He’s still outside, you know.”

You frowned. “What?”

“He left the hallway but stayed in the waiting area,” Felix said softly. “He hasn’t gone home, hasn’t slept. Just… waiting.”

Your chest tightened at the thought. And even though you were still upset, something inside you wavered.

—

The next few hours blurred into the evening, the weight of your emotions pressing heavier with each passing minute.

The guilt you had tried to push down kept resurfacing, gnawing at the edges of your resolve. Unable to ignore it any longer, you finally stood, padding slowly toward the door.

With a deep breath, you turned the handle, the faint creak of the hinges breaking the quiet. And there he was.

Minho was still in the same place, slouched against the wall, his head resting against the cold surface. His eyes were half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion, but the second he sensed movement, they snapped open, sharpening with alertness.

 The sight of you standing in the doorway seemed to send a jolt through him, and he straightened immediately, his body tense as if bracing himself.

“Y/N—” His voice was raw, hesitant, carrying the weight of everything left unsaid.

You exhaled softly, crossing your arms over your chest. “Come inside.”

Minho hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or keep his distance. His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t speak.

 Instead, he searched your face for any signs of hesitation, any indication that he should stay away. But when you didn’t move—didn’t shut the door—he cautiously took a step forward, his movements slow, deliberate.

You studied him for a long moment, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the faint crease between his brows that hadn't eased since you last saw him. The exhaustion was evident in the way he carried himself, shoulders slightly hunched, his usually sharp gaze clouded with uncertainty.

Finally, you let out a small sigh, shifting your weight. “…Only if you come inside and sit with me.”

Minho blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”

Your lips quirked ever so slightly, though the exhaustion still weighed heavily in your voice. “And rub my waist and my head so I can actually sleep,” you added, tilting your head slightly as you watched his reaction.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face before the corners of his lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile ghosting over them. He let out a breath, one that sounded suspiciously close to relief, before finally nodding.

“Deal,” he murmured, stepping past the threshold, his movements softer now—more careful, as if afraid he might break the fragile truce between you.

[crheativity]

SUMMARY: Something goes wrong, and you’re in tears. How do the Overblot boys help you?

WARNINGS: Tried to keep things vague but sorry if it’s a lil too specific sometimes. Reader is Prefect. Written under a romantic presumption but could possibly be read platonic. The Hell Word pops up in Leona’s and Idia’s. Book 3, Book 4 and Book 6 spoilers in Leona’s, Jamil’s and Idia’s respectively. I wrote all of these late at night also, so fair warning

NOTES: sorry it’s been a while, life go brr. This is heavily self indulgent, and sorry if it’s OOC. Might do the others (First, Second & Third years) if enough people want it. 

Also, if you like this, please feel free to check out my Valentine’s Day Event!

He hesitates for a moment, hands hovering beside you as he thinks carefully about what to say. As he speaks, his voice begins to shake. 

“Thank you for trusting me of all people with your feelings and circumstances. I… I am so, so sorry, Prefect. I’m-- I wish I was good at this - there are no rules for comforting someone you care about - but I’ll do my best. I— I can’t imagine what it’s like, going through what you’re going through. What you’re about to be going through. But— of course, all of Heartslabyul and I are at your disposal. Anything, anything at all that would bring you a moment’s comfort or peace, please come to us. I— all of us care about you deeply. Please tell us what to do to assist.”

If you want it (and are willing to excuse a slightly flustered Riddle), he’ll give you a tight hug, trying to convey how much he cares about you. He hates that he struggles to talk about things like this. For you, he’ll do anything. Anything to bring your rosy smile back. And if anyone dares oppose him? Heads will roll. 

He’s been strangely quiet during your explanation, venting, tears - all of it. He waits until you’re finished - and then a moment longer, to consider his words. He reaches up to dry your tears. With his spare hand, he takes yours and pulls you a little closer, speaking in a low, gentle voice. 

“Oi, Herbivore, c’mere. It’ll be alright, you hear? You’re strong, shameless and crafty. Hell, you give that Octotwerp a run for his money. If you gotta fight tooth and claw to get through this, then I’ll fight with you, okay? Just— no more waterworks for now. Yeah, it sucks. But you’ve cried about things, so now you should have the strength to get up and stick through them. If that’s all you can manage, I’ll get Ruggie to take care of the rest. Just don’t push yourself right now, ‘kay? Good, now rest. You’ll need it after a sob-fest like that.“

He pulls you into a surprisingly gentle hug, rubbing circles on your arms. After a while, he’ll ask if you want to nap with him. Once you fall asleep, he’s calling Ruggie and making plans. No way in hell are you dealing with more than you have to. He’ll fight for you himself if he has to. 

Hearing the pain, the anguish and the tears in your voice, he has to fight back tears himself. He hesitantly reaches out for you. Pausing for a moment, he begins to speak, voice filled with emotion. 

“This is— I’m very, very sorry, Prefect. You do not deserve to go through this— any of this. Should you request anything at all, the Mostro Lounge will provide, free of charge, of course. If there is anything we— I— can do to ease your burdens, please do not hesitate to ask. The world can sometimes be a deeply flawed, unfair place. I wish that I had the power to better shield you from this side. I’m truly, very sorry, Prefect. Please know that I— we care about you. This world is a far better place for your presence in it. Please, let us return the favour for you.”

He (with permission) gently pulls you into a hug, holding you as though you were glass. He was going to find who- or whatever caused you to hurt like this and make their pitiful existence miserable. Those poor, unfortunate souls. 

As you confide in him, Jamil seems to turn strangely quieter than usual. His solution oriented mind begins to whir, thinking about what he can do to help, the logistics of it, etc. Your sniffling snaps him back into reality. Putting solutions aside for now, he reaches for your hands and squeezes them gently, offering you a small, sad smile.

“Hey, everything will work out. It sucks right now, obviously, but in a while, it’ll all be okay. That’s just the way life goes, for some reason. World shattering events can happen, but time marches on anyway. It’ll always drag you with it, too. What I mean is that because you’ll be okay eventually, it can help you be okay now. I guess. And we at Scarabia are always here for you, okay? Kalim’s… Kalim, and I’m always here for you if you need to vent or complain or if you need help. I’m never too busy if it’s you, alright? Just don’t bottle it up… that works out well.”

He smiles a little ruefully at that last comment, then takes off his hoodie and drapes it over you. He tells you to keep it - that way he’s always there with you if you need it. He squeezes your hands and rests his forehead against yours, comfortingly. Jamil wasn’t used to being quite so… hopeful. But you had helped him become better, and he wanted to return the favour.

Vil may be a good actor, but his thoughts were shockingly readable as you vented to him. He seemed to react correctly in all the right places, asking questions but never pressing for answers. When you finish, he gently reaches out and starts stroking your hair. He pulls you a little closer for comfort. He pauses for a moment, then begins to speak.

“I’m so sorry, Prefect. You do not deserve this - any of this. Pomefiore’s students and I are always here for you, no matter the need. Anything you need, it would be our honour and privilege to provide. In times such as these, I find taking care of oneself is extremely important. Not to the extent of perfectionism necessarily, but enough to bring you joy. So please, if it’s not too much trouble, please find one indulgent thing each day. Not something so unhealthy it’d ruin you, but something gentle and sweet. Like a bubble bath, or watching that movie you’ve mentioned wanting to see. It’s important to keep yourself as happy as you can, when life is attempting to do the opposite. And if you can’t think of anything, then please, come to me. Let me take care of you.”

He then, with permission, sweeps you into the biggest, comfiest, warmest hug you’ve ever experienced (Ghibli-style), and stays that way until you move. He wants to do so much more for you. He knows where you’re at, and, being the kind of person you are, he trusts you’ll know what’s best for yourself. He only hopes you let him take care of you, too.

Bro was low key in panic mode. What the hell is he supposed to say/do??? He really, really can’t afford to screw this up. He’s pretty sure he’d get a -1000 debuff to his Charisma stats if he doesn’t say the right thing. Usually, he wouldn’t particularly care if it was just some NPC he had to comfort - but this is the protagonist we’re talking about! And Ortho’s not here, just his luck! He sighs and his mind races back through every Otome/VN game he’s played and every shoujo romcom to figure out what in Twisted Wonderland he’s supposed to say.

“Uhh, that’s not very… plus ultra? Shoot, I mean-... That sounds really tough. I’m sorry, Prefect… Stuff like that is rough… I’m, uh, not the best person to go to for advice. Not particularly known for my ability to… handle stuff. mentally. But uh, I’m always here for a distraction if you need. That’s what I typically do. Distract until you don’t feel anymore haha… but uh, that’s probably not a good thing. Still, though. I’m always happy to play games or watch anime with you.. Or something. Those are my favourite things, not necessarily yours. We don’t have to. It’s honestly enough just to hang out with you… ugh, that was cringe, wasn’t it?”

Once you assure him that it was very much not cringe, he sighs in relief and gives you a small, soft smile - not an expression you’ve seen often on him. He reaches over and pulls out two controllers, throwing one to you. He boots up a game, commenting how he’s not gonna go easy on you just because you’re sad. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

You cautiously ignore the thunderstorm brewing outside as you vent to Malleus about your problems. You carefully construct your words and phrases, to protect Sage Island from month-long hurricanes. After you finish, Malleus asks if you are comfortable with physical affection. With consent, he pulls you into a hug. 

“Apologies, Child of Man, I am not familiar with methods of comfort. I will do my best - I only ask for your leniency if I say something wrong, and for you to understand that all I say is with the best intentions. I want you to know that I care about you. I believe it is important for those going through difficult periods of time to know where they have true friends. No matter what, Child of Man, I wish to be counted among those. If I am, and with your permission, I will enact all I can to assist you through and out of these situations. I only ask your patience. I promise, I will do whatever you require during this time. Only speak my name, and I will be there.”

Malleus continues to hold you gently, unsure about what to do or say from here, other than gently repeating he’s here for you. He stays there with you until you are ready to move on, then takes you for a walk around campus. And this time, he’ll only go on two tangents about gargoyles you pass.

♥Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it!!♥

[punkpandapatrixk]

🍁Essentially, What’s Your Main Aesthetic? ♦︎ Timeless Pick A Card

Aesthetic is anything concerned with beauty or the appreciation of beauty💋Don't you think beauty is essential for human health? It inspires and uplifts the mind and heart, after all. I think the pursuit of beauty whether in things, people(?) or creation makes Life exciting~🎨And the attainment of that very beauty makes Life worthwhile~🩰

Beauty contains an essence of something Cosmic. If you get it, if you live by it, it has the capacity to connect the Human Expression to a Divine Experience. Why religion when there is Art?🎀lmao

What about your Beauty? Do you know where to find it? I think every person's Cosmic Beauty can be found in their Story🎠Your unique blueprint that's just waiting to be expressed whether in writing, in a melody, in a sculpture or perhaps a painting, and in aesthetic décor or personal fashion choices💄

Live and breathe your Art, aliens~🛸

pov: You Found The Enchanted Garden You Dreamed in Your Childhood | ultravclet

vlog: productive days 📝📖 finishing books, writing reviews, journaling, organising✨ | cups and thoughts

deck-bottom: 9 of Swords Rx, Gold Historian (Raphael Holinshed), Priestess of Success

[PAC Masterlist] [Part 1] [Part 3]

[Patreon] [Paid Readings] [buymeaboba]

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 1 – I’m Hurt, But the Show Must Go On

vibe: HER by MINNIE

poetic suffering – Ace of Cups Rx

Oh, almost your entire Life has been one bloody show—like, actually bloody, figuratively or literally—and you’ve survived it all, although some screws inevitably got loose here and there. You probably identify as having somewhat of a multiple personality disturbance—yeah, just a disturbance, not so much an actual medical disorder, but what do I know? The point is, you’ve developed many voices in your head🍹

I once read something someone wrote on a YouTube comment: ‘The voices in my head make fire podcast.’ I believe that resonates loudly for you and your kind of ‘problem’🥂lmao For some of you, this was developed as part of survival; but for some others, you couldn’t help but develop this ‘disturbance’ simply because you’re high-IQ. It’s just part of the mechanics of your brains. So, it isn't to say you're damaged...

The crux of the matter is that you were always an empathetic child. Creating all these characters or personalities was your way of understanding other people—why they did what they did, what they’d do in a given situation and some such. Like I said, some of you could’ve developed these voices in your head to anticipate chaos, but for some of you, this was simply a philosophical pursuit🎡

aesthetic insanity – Queen of Pentacles

Having said that, it isn’t to say that your whole existence has not been painful. After all, with such a sweet and sensitive heart you’ve had to fight for your place in this cold, cruel, criminal world where you were preyed upon. You were preyed upon because your aenergy was so good. Empathetic people tend to get preyed upon by narcissists not so much because they’re good just like that—but because destroying your sanity and sense of self feels good to a bitter narcissistic monster🤹

You get the difference? A narcmon could target just about anybody whether or not that person’s good. But you were always a much easier target because soft-hearted people can be very accommodating to other people’s wounds. And empathetic people tend to be willing participants in the cruel shitshow created by a narcshit because they want to be a hero in someone’s Story~🎭So, that’s been your shitstorm.

How’s dealing with that supposed to not fuck people up somewhat? But in the grand scheme of everything you’ve had to deal with, you see now that you’ve still got your integrity and sense of humour. That’s all that matters, really. Someone wrote a meme that says ‘You forced me to study narcissism. Now enjoy my educated ass.’ The most ironic iconic outcome here is that now you know how to play up narcissism to get back at real narcmons you meet in society🩰lmao

dramatic scene – Page of Pentacles Rx

So, essentially, if we could summarise what your main aesthetic is: you’re simply INSANE. You were forged in hellfire and came out a little woo woo, but you’re also genuinely superbly intelligent that you know how to use this woowoo to your advantage. The you that has come out of this hellfire is now operating on VENGEANCE🏵Could be for your past; could be for any abuser/manipulator you meet in society; could be for culture, tradition or the establishment.

Simply said, you want to wreck it. Fuck it all up. But with style and humour. You’re going to mirror back society’s cruelty and lack of empathy with sarcasm and a really dark sense of humour. Show ‘em how unintelligently they’ve been interacting with Reality! Either you’re a Gen Xer in your 40s or you’re going to really vibe with this generation’s dark, almost sick sense of irony🤪

Any form of self-expression that showcases your crazy, uncontrollable, unhinged personality would feel most authentic to you. Something deep in your psyche wants to get back at society; for that, you’re willing to play up the villain or menace in society, so long as that re-educates them about what it means to be Human. But deep inside, I know that you know that you’re still the same kind and caring little child with an unchanging loyalty to…Love😘

DIVINE FACT🔻❤️

dream design – Red Alchemist (John Dee)

essence of my identity – Priestess of Magick

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Pile 2 – I Still Dream of Everything I’ve Lost

vibe: Summer Rain by IRENE

poetic suffering – Page of Cups

Ah, you are a poet. A total romantic. Even if your idea of what’s 'romantic' differs from most people. If anything, more than anybody else around you, you seem to be the only one who’s got a saner, purer grasp of what ‘romance’ is all about💞More than anybody you know in your surroundings you want something much more honest and sweet. Most of the time, people just think you’re starry-eyed and unrealistic—but what you feel in your heart cannot be denied❣️

If what you’re feeling isn’t real then why does it exist in your Heart of hearts?💚That’s why you needed to do Art. Maybe poetry was your way to make sense of this clash between your inner world and the world around you. Maybe you devoted massive amounts of time and energy to creating aesthetic collages just to see your beautiful inner world reflected in the physical Reality—even if all of that beauty exists only on paper, illustrations or digital edits💻

Of all the people you’ve ever known, for some reason it always felt like you were the only one with a Heart for Poetry. It could be that your society didn’t much like this type of pursuit. Or maybe it was just your family that didn’t seem to have a high level of appreciation for the kind of Beauty that ever so naturally captures your Heart. In many ways, growing up could’ve been somewhat isolating for this reason…🧸

aesthetic insanity – 6 of Wands Rx

Always the weird one out. All because you have so much feeling. You feel and feel your emotions to oblivion. It hurts to be you, if anyone cared to know. To have your kind of Heart means to be so easily moved to tears by the smallest of things. A beautiful melody, a nostalgic vibe, a display of genuine kindness or happiness, people being unconditionally helpful and patient with each other. Things that may seem so casual in the grand scheme of human greed and ambitions…but you have no such ambition to become like the rest of ‘em🔫

It's hard to be this way from time to time. It’s a challenge to navigate the pond of compassion that exists deep within your Heart. In today’s world especially, it’s so much trendier to be jaded and cynical. For many, of all ages, that seems to be the most acceptable modus operandi🕹Even if you tried you wouldn’t be able to operate well on such a negative and unexciting command. Lucky you, you’re weird enough to not give a little bunny shit about fitting in or, obeying~🐰

You can be really emotionally divorced from the world outside of your imaginations that, to your own surprise, it really is that easy to detach from the expectations of society and drift to Neptune instead—probably dreaming your whole Life away on some distant nebulous fantasies🍄That’s why you identify as an introvert. Your rich inner lives are always far more interesting than any mundane conversation some Normie is capable of conjuring.

dramatic scene – Ace of Pentacles

In the grand scheme of everything that’s wrong with modern societies, you most likely feel that Humanity has lost much of its cherished values that you tend to like things that are either old—very, very old and out of fashion—or simply childish and/or otherworldly. In essence, you’re far more attuned to aesthetics that remind people of INNOCENCE. When things used to be much more beautiful, classy, thoughtful, innocent, and just….my gosh, cute🐶

And yet, you’ve most likely been told that you act motherly, or that, ‘You’re going to be a really good mother one day.’ People can sense that you’re trustworthy and dependable—very Old Soul, you know?👽In spite of how sweet and feminine or even weird you look on the outside, on the inside you’re integritous, and most everybody can see that because you exude this charmingly calm, mature and wise aura🌾

If you’re a creator or have a social media presence, what you put out there—illustrations, poems, edits, fanfics(?), etc.—seems to possess a healing attribute. I’m sure your audience have told you that your channel/page/blog serves as their safe space🚠People who tend to be loners or those who've often been misunderstood in society gravitate towards your vibe in real life and Art on the Internet. In that sense, you really are a nurturer and protector of some motherly sort🎀

DIVINE FACT🔻💙

dream design – Silver Astronomer (Galileo Galilei)

essence of my identity – Priestess of Contemplation

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Pile 3 – Utterly Lost in this Sad Girl Escapism

vibe: Tejano Blue by Cigarettes After Sex

poetic suffering – Knight of Cups

Let’s admit it, you’re constantly drowning in feelings that you escape through obsessive drinking habits, yeah?🥃Most likely anything to do with liquid substances, so this could involve alcohol or coffee, or endless cups of herbal tea with heavy uses of creamer, or you could be the type that smokes obscene amounts of ciggies in a day or snacks violently on crisps all day long or… I dunno, putting yourself through hours of trance on some of Tchaikovsky’s most dramatic pieces?🎻

Perhaps this Reality is just that disappointing for you because the unnatural world doesn’t seem capable of offering ecstatic experiences what would match the feelings you carry since birth—thus your effort to escape into alternate states of feeling. You were born different🌜You feel more intensely, you feel more types of emotions, and you know more of the colours that make up the natural world; but in modern everyday reality, obviously something is missing. Cold-blooded post-war capitalism has made everything ugly…

Human interactions, as a result, become distant and dreary, unspiritual, unempathetic and unkind. And every single day of your waking hour, this awareness tortures and kills you on the inside🥓Depending on how artistic you are and how much Art you’re capable of producing, you may generally feel a sense of inadequacy from not being able to function ‘well’ in modern society. Even if you may appear to be doing just fine on the outside, on the inside you’re melting and flaring and swinging through everything…🌪

aesthetic insanity – XI Justice

If, for example, you’re the type that watches vintage movies, you realise that others your age may watch them for the laughs or other analytical pursuits, but you watch them genuinely for the staggering display of emotions, no matter how theatrical, and you get so involved and your heart aches and you let out a sob or a silent tear…🎭If not vintage films, umm, I dunno, anime, cartoon or perhaps, murder shows? Some of you may have a rather disturbing way of finding ‘materials’ what would let you feel your feelings more vividly🌈

The truth of the matter is, all of these pursuits are fuelled by a desire to find more honesty in the world. You find it vexingly difficult to express your true feelings in society; perhaps because you know this world ain’t ready for your kind of honesty. It feels like tedious intensity to them. And you’ve noticed that most people, actually, truly enjoy shallow interactions🦥Stooping to their level would be humiliating to you.

So then, you just do the best you can to feign normalcy and showcase a temperate disposition when interacting in society. But once you’re in your own company, that’s when you indulge in watching, reading or writing or creating or listening to exasperatingly profound things what would let you shiver from the core of your being☃️You, have a need to gasp and choke by emotions… And that’s intensely insane. And not many people would know what to do with any of it.

dramatic scene – Knight of Pentacles Rx

Well, not many indeed would know how to connect or get through to you. It’s true. And you may have felt very lost in this sad gurl escapism that seems neverending. As if you’d want it to end. If only you could verbalise this accurately and in a succinct manner: you have absolutely no idea how to be a responsible grownup. To begin with, what is ‘responsible’? But at this point, you don’t really give a damn anymore🙈

You grew up watching grownups perform duties and fulfil expectations—and they seemed responsible and sensible and capable. But your little heart always knew that these humans weren’t necessarily responsible in a spiritual sense. Your little sage mind always suspected that a lot of their ‘practical’ choices would sooner or later lead to much more disastrous outcomes🐾So in the end, what’s in being a responsible adult?

It was all too humiliating. And from a rather young age, you decided already that you would avert your eyes from the world of the grownups. And such it was that until now you still don’t know how to be ‘normal’ and ‘temperate’. Actually, more accurately, you don’t really know how not to be a destructive force to yourself. You just, have so much to say, and you don’t know what to say; so much rage, and you don’t even know who to be angry at…💔

DIVINE FACT🔻💗

dream design – Silver Physician (John Dee)

essence of my identity – Priestess of Luxury

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☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

[PAC Masterlist] [Part 1] [Part 3]

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[samuelsdean]

Stitch Me Up

pairing: dean winchester x reader

summary: for dean, every scrape, every gash, was a twisted plea for your touch.

genre: angst

word count: 0.5k

author's notes: i wrote this at 3 am on my notes app while simultaneously rewatching spn because i'm insane and i'm a huge advocate of touch-starved!dean.

THE METALLIC TANG OF BLOOD WAS DEAN'S CONSTANT UNPLEASANT FOREWARNING THAT DEAN HAD RETURNED—HE WAS HOME. Sprawled on the floor, another injury marring his flesh, and he sees you right there in front of him. He could see the anger in your eyes, could feel the fury that bubbles in your gut is ceaseless, a familiar dance with the ever-present terror.

For Dean, every scrape, every gash, was a twisted plea for your touch.

Dean loves it when you touch him, when you lay your hands gently on his skin, careful not to cause him more pain than what he is dealing with at the moment. He loves it when you clean his wounds while going off on another tangent as to how he should be more cautious—threatening him that next time, you would not be there to treat him; yet, every time, not one did you miss his homecoming, when he comes home bloodied, the first thing you do is come running and restoring him to full health. He craved your tirades, the harsh scoffs, and thinly veiled threats that were your flimsy shield against worry. Each rant was a desperate battle cry, a plea for him to be careful.

Yet, Dean could not help himself. He reveled in your ministrations, the gentle contrast to the fire of your anger.

Dean loves it when you tend to him because it is proof that you care.

And he craves it—craves you—your presence, your touch—everything. He thinks it is sickening how much he has grown to crave you. Because he thinks he does not deserve you, and he knows that the universe always tries to play a sick joke on him.

It was a warped version of his affection born from a life spent in the shadows. Love, for him, was a dangerous dance, a promise of heartbreak waiting to happen. People he cared about had a knack for disappearing, leaving him with the cold comfort of solitude. Hunting was a drifter's existence. A life with no room for roots or dreams. Letting someone in, and building a family, was a recipe for disaster.

It is a lonely life being a hunter. One could never have the chance to put down roots because there is always a monster to hunt, a demon to exorcise, and a case to solve. Loving someone and having a family is just a foolproof way of getting yourself hurt. Yet, here he was, craving the very thing he swore to avoid. It was a sickness, a yearning that gnawed at his soul.

Because the truth, the terrifying truth, was that Dean could not bear the thought of being truly alone.

The sting of disinfectant was a cruel reminder of his twisted reality. As you patched him up, his eyes, usually alight with mischief, held a touch of vulnerability. At that moment, Dean gave you a glimpse of his plea for something more than just mending—a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find a place in a world that felt increasingly fragile, right beside you.

But the question remained, a silent echo in the tense air: could you give him what he craved without sacrificing your own heart in the process?

[writingreadinglurkingandsmirking]

Hold Me Down (Is This A New Start?) - Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: After a long, hard day of work you just want to go home and go to bed. But, when you get a persistent knock on your door from Rafe fucking Cameron. you know you’re gonna have a long night ahead. Letting him in, after two months of not seeing him, you fully anticipated a screaming match. But, you got something much different than you bargained for—much better too.

CW/TWs: brief angst, brief mentions of Rafe being on house arrest lol, feminine pronouns used, gorgeous/sweet girl/baby/darlin' as nicknames, toxic behavior, canon-adjacent Rafe, mean-ish Rafe, smut, piv sex, oral sex (male receiving), impact play, (not really) lowkey daddy kink, brat reader, dumbification, degradation kink, praise kink, overstimulation, breath play, unprotected sex (be safe I am nawt your mom gn), allusions to a pain kink for sure, mushy gushy sweet ending, not highly edited or reviewed

Words: 8.1k+

Note: 18+ MDNI, really just fucking don’t. I wrote this one in first person because writing in second person irritates my very soul. Uhhhh so this kinda came out of left field and I did nawt plan on writing this but here we are! But such is life! Anyways…back to regularly scheduled programming.

It had been a long day - too long. There was something exceedingly exhausting about living paycheck to paycheck that the average person didn’t understand. There was nothing quite as specific as the exhaustion that you encountered by overworking yourself day after day, week after week, month after month, all for nothing. Because that’s what this all amounted to. Nothing. Nothing extra at the end of the week to take home, nothing to do anything nice with. Just nothing. And nothing sucked the joy out of your day like knowing you’d have to get up the next day and do it all over again.

When I’d finally gotten home from a shift that didn’t end until almost the crack of fucking dawn - a good twelve hours after I was supposed to have gotten off shift - there was not a thing I wanted more than to sleep. Still, even as I sat on my fucking couch, my woes could not end. There was a loud, demanding knock on the door.

The first time I ignored it.

The second time I ignored it.

The third time, an annoyed voice accompanied the knock.

“Baby, open the fucking door,” came the snarl from the other side. I groaned and ran my hands down my face. I really didn’t want to deal with Rafe today. Not like that had ever deterred him before. “Baby, come on. Listen. Please. The cops are fucking trolling around outside. Baby, please open the door.”

I groaned and pulled myself to my feet, opening the apartment door. Standing there, looking at pitiful as ever was Rafe fucking Cameron. The bane of my existence. My more-or-less on-again-off-again boyfriend—though I’d sooner bash my head against the door than admit that. I glared at the ass who had done nothing but make my life harder since he’d entered it. Then, I stepped to the side and let him in. He stepped in and closed the door quickly, locking it behind him. He turned to me and pressed an absent-minded kiss to my forehead before going to sit down on the couch.

“You look like shit, darlin’,” he said. When he even had the decency to look up and notice I was there.

“Thanks,” I said dryly. I looked down at his leg. His ankle monitor looked fucked. “What the fuck did you do this time?”

“Just a little mod,” he said casually. “I needed to get out for a minute.”

“Why did you come here?” I demanded. “Did you stash more fucking coke in my house I swear to fucking God I will kill you. I am not catching a fucking charge for you, asshole.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why would I leave my coke with you knowing that you’d throw it out, baby? That’s just bad business. Besides, darlin’ the cops aren’t outside for me some loser is probably getting caught selling a few doors down again. And hey? It’s a crime to want to see you now, darlin’?” he asked, winking.

“No. But it is a crime to skip out on house arrest, Rafe,” I said blandly. “And I know damn well that you’re not here because you want to see me. I’m just convenient to you like fucking always.”

He rolled his eyes as if I were being the dramatic one. “What’s wrong now, gorgeous?” he drawled. “Always seems like there’s something these days, hmm?”

I clenched my jaw. “Fuck you, Rafe. Get the hell out,” I snapped.

Rafe frowned. Stood again and walked over to me. He placed his hands on my hips, refusing to leave. I, in turn, refused to look at him. “Look at me, darlin’,” he demanded. Reluctantly I did. “What’s wrong?” I didn’t answer. He brushed my hair back from my face and just kept looking at me. “Come on, sweet girl. Tell me…what’s wrong.” He smiled to himself when I still didn’t answer. “You know better than anyone I’m not going to leave until you tell me, baby…so come on…what’s wrong with my sweet girl?”

“Fuck you,” I repeated weakly, pulling out of his arms. I plopped down on my couch, curling into myself and closing my eyes. “Just fucking leave when you see the cops are gone. I can’t be bothered today.” The asshole had the audacity to laugh at my words. “Shut the fuck up, Rafe.”

Dramatically, Rafe sighed and knelt down on the ground in front of me. I felt him grab my knees and pull me to face him. I had no choice but to unfurl, otherwise, I would’ve fallen into him, which I had no interest in doing. So, I leaned back into the couch, trying to ignore the heat of his hand sinking into my cold legs through worn jeans. It was hard to ignore that. Hard to ignore any of him, really. And he knew that. That’s why he only waited through my stubborn silence for a few minutes.

“Come on, baby,” he hummed. “Tell me what’s wrong. I’m sorry I’m a dick, darlin’…you know I care.”

I laughed weakly, eyes still closed. “No. No, you don’t,” I said flatly.

He ignored my words and kept rubbing my legs. “It’s so fucking cold in here, baby,” he commented. “And your legs are freezing. Your heat not working?”

“No, it's working. It’s just too fucking expensive to heat this shitty goddamn apartment and I’m not forking over more money to the cunt landlord,” I said sharply, glaring at him. “Did you suddenly forget what life is like if—” I cut myself off, shaking my head.

He had the audacity to glare back if you could believe it. Then, he slapped my inner thigh. “I told you to call me if you needed help,” he hissed. He slapped my other thigh. “The fuck are you doing? What game are you playing at, baby?”

I pushed him away from me with my foot. “A game where I don’t need to rely on a man who is a fucking wannabe felon,” I snapped.

He rolled his eyes and got to his feet. “Newsflash, baby, you do need me,” he said, sounding way too smug about it.

“Fuck you, Rafe. I need a bullet to the brain more than I need you,” I sneered.

“That’s cute.” He continued on like I didn’t even speak in the first place. “I could give you that, if you want. But that doesn’t change anything about it, darlin’. You need my money, you need my cock, you need my love. You’ve said it yourself that no one gives it to you as good as I do. And I know you haven’t been looking which means you’re still as invested in this as I am. So.” He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes. “When I tell you if you need my fucking money to heat your stupid apartment because your ass is too stubborn to move in with me…then you fucking call me.”

“You are not my fucking father,” I snapped, pulling out of his tough.. “Like I said. Bullet to the fucking brain before this shit anymore. I’m sick of it.”

“I don’t know. You do call me daddy a lot,” he mocked. He smiled down at me, but there was hardly any warmth to it. “But, oh? You’re so sick of it, hmm? You want to be brainless?” He laughed. “Well, I can make you brainless without having to put a hole in your pretty little head.” He wound his hand tightly in my hair, pulling my face towards his while I sharply inhaled. “And you’ll remember exactly why you’re not done with me, gorgeous.”

I glared at him. “I haven’t seen you in two months. The last time I did see you, you called me a stupid, worthless cunt and told me that you never wanted to see me again. And you think you can just show up here and get me to listen to you?” I demanded. I felt my face heating with my frustration. “Just like that? You think you’re…you think you’re worth me listening to?” I laughed. “Like I said. Fuck you, Rafe. I deserve…I deserve so much better than this. Than you.”

There was a mocking pout on his face. He reached out and grabbed my face again, squeezing my chin. “You think you’re going to find someone better than me?” he asked incredulously. He let out a laugh. “And where do you think you’ll find someone like that?” I didn’t answer. I refused to give him the satisfaction. He chuckled, but then his face went serious. “I’m sorry that I haven’t seen you in months, darlin’. I’m sorry that I said I never wanted to see you again. I was pissed, sweet girl. I didn’t mean it.”

“Oh you never mean it,” I said, the sarcasm’s impact dampened by the tearful sound of my voice.

He moved his hand from my chin to cup my face. I hated myself for it, but I did lean into the touch. “Come on, sweet girl…don’t be like that, baby,” he said. He leaned forward and dropped a kiss to the side of my neck. “You know that I love you.” Another kiss, followed by a short nip. “I’ve been busy, darlin’. That’s all. I’m sorry. I should’ve called, sweet girl. I know that. I’m not mad.”

“You were mad,” I accused, glaring at him.

“I was mad, baby,” he said, deceptively calm. “I was…frustrated that you wouldn’t let me take care of you. I just want what’s best for you. But I’m not mad anymore.”

“Well maybe I’m mad at you,” I retorted, harshness still lessened by the teary voice and the way I leaned into him.

“That’s okay,” he practically cooed. He pressed another kiss to my neck then moved so we were face to face, just a breath between us. He smirked, eyes drifting down to my lips and then back up. “You can be mad at me as long as you want, sweet girl. Just as long as you tell me that you love me.”

I sighed and closed my eyes. “No,” I said stubbornly.

“Come on, sweet girl, please,” Rafe purred, stroking my neck with his hand lazily. “I love you, darlin’.”

“I love you,” I said, voice breaking. My eyes popped open and I felt the tears in them.

Rafe’s smirk didn’t waver, but his eyes did soften. He let out a hum and wiped a tear that slipped. “There’s my sweet girl,” he cooed. He leaned forward and pressed a long, languid kiss to my lips. “Let me make it up to you, baby.” Another long kiss—lazier this time. “Let me apologize for calling you names, baby.” Another kiss. “Remind you that you’re my special, sweet girl.”

I huffed. “Oh so you wanna fuck me and suddenly I’m not a stupid, worthless cunt then?” I spat, voice dripping insecurity.

Rafe rolled his eyes so hard I was shocked that his eyes didn’t stick in the back of his head. “You’re not a stupid, worthless cunt. You’re my sweet girl and you know it,” he drawled. “I was a little fucking high when I said that. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

I gave him a withering glare. “Oh and you’re not high now?” I asked even though I could already tell he wasn’t. He gave me a flat look and I deflated, leaning back, covering my face as I leaned against the arm of the couch. I sniffled. “Okay, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. I didn’t mean it.”

He chuckled dryly and rubbed my leg gently. “It’d be fair if you did,” he drawled. He squeezed my leg. “And it’s fine that it’s not fair, sweet girl. I wasn’t fair. So.” He grabbed my legs and lowered them both to the floor. He gently pried my legs open leaning further into my space, hands dancing up both my thighs now. “How about I be real nice and make it up to you?”

“No,” I said stubbornly, glaring half-heartedly down at him. I felt his hand toy with the waist of my jeans, dancing just over the button. “I don’t want you to.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow, unconvinced considering I’d begun to lean into his space more, opening my legs to give him more space to occupy, more space to get closer. “Oh?” he posed, tone almost mocking. “You don’t want to?”

“No,” I corrected, grabbing his hand, putting it back on my hair to silently prompt him to grab it just as he did before. “I don’t want you to be nice.” I glowered at him .”It’s been two months, Rafe. I need…”

He let out a low chuckle, eyes dark with quickly emerging lust. “Fuck, darlin’, tell me…what do you need?” he asked.

I blinked slowly, still looking right into his eyes, intoxicated by him already from such a short time together. “I need you to take care of me like you always do,” I said quietly.

Immediately, his hand wound tightly through my hair and he rose to his feet, forcing me to tilt my head up. I felt my breath hitch in my throat as I looked up at him, my eyes wide and wanting. I bit my lip, eyes trailing slowly down his body, to his belt at my eye level, and then back up. He chuckled again, grinning down at me. He wound his hand a bit tighter in my hair making me let out a squeak as he dragged me just a bit closer to his body.

“You need me to take care of you?” he posed, tone just shy of mocking. “Need me to help turn off that gorgeous fucking brain of yours, baby?” He used his free hand to trail down my cheek, fingers briefly touching my neck and stopping there. “Need me to fuck you stupid, sweet girl?”

Taking a shaky breath, I reached out, hand loosely holding his belt buckle. “Yes,” I said breathlessly.

I reveled in the sudden, sharp sting in my cheek. “Try again,” he warned, voice raspy.

“Yes…please fuck me stupid, daddy,” I said, batting my eyes up at him. “I don’t wanna think anymore.”

“Fuck,” Rafe muttered, his voice raspier still, thick with lust. He chuckled and loosened his hand in my hair before dropping it. He took his shirt off and then knotted a hand back in my hair. “Okay, baby. I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of my sweet girl.” He stroked my cheek gently with his free hand before moving it to his belt buckle and undoing it with ease. He then smirked down at me, inclining his head. “Well? Take me out, darlin’.” I glanced down at his open belt but he tutted, tilting my chin back up. “No, baby. Keep your eyes on me.” His request was one that was most easy for me to accommodate considering I felt like I’d die if I looked away from him.

My hands trembled as I reached forward, taking the belt off of him. I was ready to throw it to the side but Rafe held out a hand. Without even questioning it, I placed it in his hand. He then set it to the side and gestured with his head at me to continue. Which, I happily did. I heard him let out a quiet chuckle as I undid the button on his pants and brought down the zipper without breaking eye contact. I almost hastily pulled down the fabric until it sagged the rest of the way down. I raised my eyebrows at Rafe in a silent plea.

“What, baby?” he asked, amused, tightening his grip on my hair. I let out a weak whine and pouted. “What? You gotta tell me what you want, sweet girl. Use your words.”

“I wanna see your cock,” I responded, hooking my hand on the hem of the waistband of his boxers. I tilted my head to the side, jutting my bottom lip out further. “Please, daddy.”

He let out a dark chuckle. “Okay, baby,” he drawled. I hummed, pleased with myself, and looked down, prepared to take his boxers off. But, he tutted, turning my head up with his grip on my hair so I’d meet his eyes again. “Nuh, uh, darlin’. Keep those gorgeous eyes on me still. Don’t you dare even think about looking at my cock yet, baby. Just get it out.”

“But—” I began to complain before being silenced with another warning slap on the cheek making me whine and pull back slightly; not that Rafe let me get very far.

“No but, baby. You listen to me. Be a good girl,” Rafe warned, tone darkening. “You know I want what’s best for you, right, sweet girl?” I nodded through teary eyes, looking back up at him. He cursed under his breath at the sight, tightening and then loosening his hand in my hair once more. “Good girl, baby. Such a good fucking girl. Now, get my cock out. And don’t even look at it.”

I shivered at the order but complied. I reached and used two fingers to gently drag the fabric of the boxers down until they too gave way, falling down past his knees. Using every bit of restraint I had, I kept my eyes locked on his, refusing to look at his dick even as it hung directly in front of my face. Rafe hummed, his free hand moving from his side to wrap around himself, pumping lazily. I swallowed, biting my tongue as a reminder to keep my eyes up. A mocking laugh fell from Rafe’s mouth at the sight and I felt my stomach tighten.

“Oh there’s my good girl,” he cooed. “She can finally fucking listen, huh? So proud of you baby. Little slut that you are, I didn't think you’d be able to do it.” I let out a tiny whimper at his words, feeling a growing, heated pit of arousal low in my stomach. I shifted slightly, just barely able to keep my eyes from falling down. He chuckled again and pursed his lips. “How about you take your clothes off for me baby? Then I’ll let you look all you want at your favorite part of me.”

“All my clothes, daddy?” I checked. He nodded. I all but raced myself to do so. I whipped off the shirt I had on with ease and shimmied out of my jeans easily enough. Sitting there in my bra and panties, Rafe told me to stop and so I paused, looking up at him. “Yes, daddy?”

“Nothing, darlin’…just wanna look at you a minute,” he said, eyes dark with lust. “So fucking pretty, baby. God on fucking high, can’t imagine what I did to deserve such a blessing.”

“Stop,” I dismissed, blushing.

“Nah, baby. You’re a fucking twelve-course meal and I plan to have all of ‘em,” he dismissed, stepping closer and grabbing my chin. “And you aren’t gonna say some dumb shit like that again. We clear, baby?”

“Yes, daddy,” I murmured, feeling his thumb ghost up to trace my bottom lip. My breath hitched in my throat and he seemed to remember himself.

He pulled away and smirked down at me. “Bra and panties off. Let me see that pretty pussy, darlin’. Been missing it so much while I was gone,” he purred. I shivered at his words but peeled them off, shivering at the cold feeling of the air against my nipples and the cool fabric of the couch against my exposed core, quickly growing wet. “Fuck you’re so pretty. Look at you…all this…just for me.” He came closer again—even more this time—and his hand loosely went around my jaw, jerking my head up. “You are just for me, aren’t you baby?” I nodded immediately. He glared, his voice gruffer. “Words, darlin’. Or I might not be inclined to be too nice to you.”

“Yes, daddy,” I said breathlessly, wide-eyed. “All yours. Just for you.” I felt my heart beating rapidly in anticipation of seeing Rafe smile down at me. “Daddy?”

“Yes, baby?” he asked, hand still hooked around my jaw.

“Can I look please?” I asked sweetly, pouting up at him.

His lips quirked into a smirk and he narrowed his eyes looking at me, appraising. “I don’t know, baby. You think I should let you?” he asked.

“Please,” I said, pouting. “I just wan’ you. Want to see you. Wanna have you.”

“Awe with my sweet girl saying all that, well how could I say no?” he drawled, removing his hand from my neck to trail back and join the other in my hair. “Go ahead and look, darlin’. Take as long as you’d like.”

Ever so slowly, I broke my eye contact with Rafe, trailing my gaze down to his dick. Rafe’s confidence even as he stood bare as the day he was born was one of the things that had initially attracted me to him. But, looking at him now, lazily pumping his hand over his cock while he smirked down at me? I don’t think that I’d ever been quite so down bad for him. Which was…concerning, maybe? Pathetic, perhaps? But I didn’t care. At that moment, with his long, thick dick just hovering right in front of me, all I could think about was how badly I wanted him. Of how long I’d wanted him…of how long I’d waited.

“What? I don’t even gotta fuck you to turn that pretty brain off anymore?” he said, voice an alluring growl as he let out a dark sort of chuckle. “Got you so trained to take my dick you don’t even try to fight it, do you sweet girl?”

I shifted at his words, suddenly feeling my core flutter at his words, clenching regrettably—miserably—around nothing. His smirk increased tenfold at that and he stepped closer so that there was practically no space between us, not that there had been much before. Now, his cock stood proudly just next to my face. Again, ever so slowly I raised my eyes to meet his again. And the desperation must’ve been clear in my gaze if the smug, self-satisfied look in his were anything to go by.

“And this was supposed to be for you,” he hummed. “My dumb little baby won’t be able to think for herself and tell me what she wants when I get started, will she?” I let out a pathetic little whimper. “You just need something in that sweet little pussy and your perfect mouth, huh?” His eyes trailed down to my lips, briefly displaying the heated desire he was feeling before moving to meet mine again. “Tell me one thing, darlin’, okay? Think your cute lil’ brain can take that?”

“Yes, daddy,” I said, voice coming out breathy. I squirmed slightly, squeezing my thighs together to avoid doing something like grinding on the couch and making him stop this before it even started.

“I don’t have too much patience before I gotta get in that tight fucking cunt, gorgeous,” he drawled. “So…tell me. You want me to eat that pretty pussy? Or do you want to choke on my cock?” He grinned, sharp-edged and shark-like. “It’s up to you.” An aborted moan came out of me at his words. The answer for me, right now, at least, was obvious. I glanced down at his dick and then back up. “Nuh uh, darlin’. You tell me which one you want.”

“I want you to fuck my throat,” I whined, looking up at him wide-eyed.

Rafe chuckled, hands tightening in my hair. “I’ll give you a pass on not addressing me properly this once because you said something so sweet, darlin’. But don’t do it again,” he said, half-mocking, half-warning. I nodded eagerly. One hand released my hair. He pat my cheek and then held my jaw tightly between two fingers. “That’s my girl.” The possessiveness dripped off his tone. “Now be good for daddy and open that fucking mouth.”

My mouth fell open without much thought after that. He grinned as I left it open, tongue sticking out just the way he liked it. His thumb pressed down on my tongue, head tilting slightly to the side as he looked at me. I moaned at even that simple feeling, my body practically trembling with want for him. But, for a good few long moments, that’s all he did, slowly pressing his thumb more against my tongue. But, after a few moments, he drew it away, using his free hand to lazily pump his cock—still only half-hard—in his hand. I inhaled shakily, eyes looking at his heavy cock, knowing the weight and feel of it without even touching it.

“Mmm,” Rafe said, letting out a leisurely sigh as he jerked himself off in front of me. “You want my dick, sweet girl?” I nodded eagerly, tongue still shamelessly hanging out of my mouth. “You want me to make you choke on my fucking cock, baby?” Again, I nodded and he groaned. “You’re so fucking sexy, darlin’, fuck.” I watched with rapt attention as a bead of pre-cum leaked from the tip of his dick. I heard Rafe chuckle not a moment later. “Holy shit are you drooling, baby? Fuck, you really want this dick, huh? Well, I don’t wanna leave you wanting.”

Rafe used the hand in my hair to bring my head closer and anchor it in place. His other hand still held his dick that he was bringing towards my awaiting mouth. The second I felt the tip of his dick touch my tongue I groaned in appreciation at finally having something, feeling myself growing wetter and wanting. Already, with him not even having touched me yet, I was a mess. Rafe knew it damn well too. He chuckled, slapping his dick against my tongue making me inhale sharply then let out a tiny little whimper.

“Should I stop teasing you baby?” he said, voice measured, even, and entirely unaffected—as if he were in a business meeting and not getting ready to ruin my throat. “Should I make sure you lose your voice tomorrow now?” I nodded as best I could while ensuring that his dick did not fall from my tongue which just made him let out another low groan. “Alright, then, baby. You asked for it. Time for you to put that fucking mouth to work.”

I barely had the time to inhale before I felt Rafe’s heavy member settling against my tongue. I let out a breathy moan, reflexively hollowing out my cheeks and bobbing my head to take him further into my mouth. I moved my hands to touch him and he slapped them away.

“No fucking hands,” he grunted, pulling my hair so I’d look up at him before pushing me down to the hilt of him, nose settling against his pelvis. He cursed and I felt his dick pulse in my mouth as he looked down at me, eyes dark and wanting. “So fucking pretty when I’m stretching your fucking mouth open, baby. Look at you. So fucking good.” My core fluttered again at his words, clenching and unclenching while I felt myself starting to dampen the couch slightly the wetter I got. “Gonna fuck your throat now, darlin’.”

With the minimal warning issued, he thrust heavily, pulling out of my mouth almost entirely before thrusting entirely back in. I forced myself to breathe through my nose, relaxing before something unfortunate could happen like my gag reflex being triggered. I moaned around him, using my tongue as little as I could find myself able to when he started to consistently, aggressively thrust himself to the back of my throat. I whimpered at the feeling, grinding absent-mindedly against the rough fabric of the couch, letting my tongue trace along the vein on the underside of his dick.

Rafe caught sight of my desperate rutting against the couch and he let out a dark, slightly breathless chuckle without interrupting the pace of his thrusting. “God, look at my desperate fucking baby. What, is daddy not taking care of you fast enough? Fuck,” he grunted. “You wanna grind like a desperate, needy, brainless little toy? I should make you fucking get off of my thigh without me touching you?” My choked whine of displeasure at the threat made him let out another mean sort of laugh. “Don’t worry, darlin’. That’s gonna be for later.” I let out another whine at the promise then. “Yeah, baby. Gonna make you get yourself off on my leg and then I’m gonna eat your pussy so good. Gonna make you cum for me at least five times before I stop. I’ll fucking tie you up if I gotta, gorgeous. Gonna make my sweet girl so overstimulated she’s not gonna think ‘bout anything but my fucking cock…my fucking mouth…my fucking hands.” Each word was punctuated by a pointed thrust down my throat. “As if you think about anything else, my dumb little fuckin’ baby, yeah?”

When he pulled out of my mouth entirely, releasing my hair, I reflexively gasped in a breath of air, eyes wide and watering. I looked up at him. But, Rafe was still non-plussed by how fucked out I already was. He wasn’t even pausing, barely breaking even a bead of sweat across his gorgeous, obscenely perfect body. No, instead, he knelt down in front of me, one hand making its way immediately to my pussy and finding my clit like two ends of a magnet attracting to each other. He let out a low tutting sound, shaking his head at me as I bucked my hips against his hand before I could stop myself.

“So fucking sloppy, pretty girl. Is this all for me?” he asked, his voice both teasing and harsh. “Barely even done anything to you, baby. You’re just that much of a needy little fuckin’ slut for me, huh?” I let out a high-pitched keening noise and he hummed, wrapping his hand around my throat to make me focus on him even as he slipped two thick digits inside of me. “You want me, baby?” His voice was husky, rasping and his alluring eyes were locked intently on me.

“Yes, daddy,” I whined, voice weak around the whining and moans that I couldn’t help but release as he finger fucked me into oblivion. Even with so little direct stimulation, I felt my legs starting to tremble and my stomach starting to tighten, coiling and ready to barrel quickly towards release. Rafe could tell too based on the way my pussy was practically trying to swallow his fingers whole. “Please.”

“Please what, sweet girl?” he cooed, pretending like he didn’t already know damn well what I wanted.

“Fuck me,” I begged.

“Oh but you sound so pretty when you’re whining, gorgeous,” he groaned. “And I need you to be nice and fuckin’ ready for me. So I need you to cum for me before I fuck you.” My stomach tightened further just on the edge of sweet, sweet release that I’d been missing the past two months while he was missing on fucking house arrest. “Okay, baby?”

“Okay,” I sobbed, hips trying to buck even as he used his massive hand to direct my hips to keep the rhythm he wanted, the other tightening around the outside of my throat, making my eyes roll.

“Good girl,” he huffed. He paused his speech a moment, his fingers moving even faster, making me choke out a sobbing moan, head falling back until he squeezed my throat again in warning, making me lift my head. He then issued a command. A single word. “Cum.”

And who was I to disobey?

The coil in my stomach exploded into a mirage of light behind my eyes as they rolled back. I felt a slightly shrill shriek erupt from my mouth more than I actually heard myself. And all that I could think of beyond the veil and haze of pleasure was the feeling of Rafe’s hands, his skin so close to me. He supported my body as I slumped against him, both of his hands moving to rest low on my hips.

“Good job, gorgeous. You look so fucking pretty falling apart for me,” he encouraged, his voice an appreciative, warm grumble of affection. His hands ghosted up and down my sides. “You ready for me to fuck you, pretty little thing?”

“Yes, daddy,” I said, letting out a long, shaky sigh. I reached out, hands trailing up the planes of his solid chest, leaning my head on him to listen to his steady, calm heartbeat. “Thank you, daddy.”

“Of course, baby,” he said. I could hear the smugness in his voice but I didn’t care. He leaned me back on the couch and moved to get up. I let out a whine of dissatisfaction and grabbed his hand tightly, pulling him back towards me. He looked amused as he raised a brow. “I have to go get a condom, sweet girl.”

“No,” I said stubbornly.

“No?” he asked.

“Have you been fucking bitches on house arrest?” I asked, bottom lip jutting out.

He reached out, pulling my lip down and looking at it in undisguised intrigue. “No,” he admitted.

“Well, then you haven’t worn a condom with me before. So fuck’s sake, Rafe just fuck me,” I demanded.

Rafe’s eyes had a hardened sort of glee to them. His hand moved before I registered it and my head turned as his palm made contact with my cheek. Again, my core clenched around nothing. This time, I bit back the moan that threatened to escape.

“Who?” he warned, sounding all too happy to remind me of my place.

“Fuck me, daddy,” I reiterated, still with an extreme attitude. “Fuck me, don’t pull out cum in me, I don’t care. Just fuck me, daddy.”

“Drop the attitude,” Rafe said, a final warning.

“No,” I spat, knowing exactly where it would get me. You know, right where I wanted.

Instead of slapping me again as I’d first expected, Rafe tilted my head up with just his pointer finger under my chin, his shark-like smile back again. “Do you want to be punished, baby?” he asked, sounding all too eager. I offered no answer. He used his free hand and slapped me, harder this time. I couldn’t bite back the moan this time, or the way that my hand tried to drift between my legs. He caught my wrist easily to stop me. “Answer me or I’m gonna stop. I’ll walk out the fucking door, darlin’.” My bottom lip quivered at the thought, chest heaving. “Do you want a punishment, baby?”

“Y-yes, daddy,” I admitted after another stubborn moment.

“Well why didn’t you say so, darlin’,” he cooed sarcastically.

In a flurry of movement, Rafe sat on the couch and had me over his knee. My bare, soaked cunt made contact with his hard knee and I choked on a moan at that feeling. I barely had time to register the change in position before he landed his first hit on my ass. I yelped at the feeling, reflexively trying to squirm away from the pain, even as I felt a jolt of pleasure at the feeling. Rafe held my hips in place easily with one hand, keeping me firmly on his lap, and used the other to lay a hard slap against my ass, making me yelp again.

“That feel fucking good baby?” he grunted, slapping me again. I didn’t answer, a sharp, hissing inhale coming from my mouth. Another slap. Another whimper. “You should be fucking thanking me for this, darlin’. Disciplining your unruly fucking ass. Making you my good girl.”

“Thank you, daddy. Thank you, thank you. Please,” I whimpered, reflexively trying to squirm once more when his hand made contact with my ass yet again.

“Please, what, sweet girl? Remind you that you’re fucking mine? Oh, I am gonna, darlin’. This is just part of it,” he ground out. I could feel his rock-hard cock pressed against my side and I was torn between wanting it stuffed in my mouth and my pussy. Both thoughts escaped from my mind entirely as he landed another slap against my ass.

“More,” I ground out through clenched teeth, barely able to resist the urge to grind against his thigh and knee with the desperation that I was feeling.

“Needy little slut, you are, huh?” he asked, amused. His hands stopped their cyclical pattern of slapping my ass to rub the abused flesh for a moment. I felt his hand move between my legs more, teasing my entrance with his fingers. Naturally, I opened my legs for him. He chuckled at that. “Can’t wait to be stuffed with me, can you? Already brain dead to everything but me, aren’t you, sweet girl? You’re just my little plaything right now, aren’t you?” I buried my face in the couch and let out a groan, feeling his hand circling my clit again, lazily, not creating enough friction to do anything.

“Daddy, please,” I whined.

“Don’t worry, pretty little thing. I know just what you need to cum again. I decided I need two from you before I fuck this sweet little fucking pussy,” he grunted. With sudden and almost startling accuracy, Rafe slapped me again. This time, his hand made contact not with my ass but with my pussy, the sharp slap making me gasp and jerk from the pain. I let out a half-aborted scream and rocked back into his palm, panting from surprise. He openly laughed. “You didn’t think I forgot how much you liked that, did you, darlin’? Remember that real fucking well? So I’m gonna take care of this pussy just the way I know you need it.” I let out a breathy moan mixed with a cry as he spanked my clit once more. Again and again and again he did it until I felt like I was dripping sweat on my whole body and my pussy was soaked with my juices—the couch too for that matter. “Fuck me, baby, your pussy is so pretty all puffy like this. She’s just crying for me. You want me so bad your poor fucking brain can’t handle it, can it?” I let out a pathetic little whimper, unable to muster much more. “I tell you what, darlin’. You cum from me slapping this pussy and I’ll fuck you til you pass out if that’s what you want. You wanna do that for me?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” I gasped immediately, hardly even grasping the words just knowing that I wanted the pleasure that had been slowly building to finally reach its fucking crescendo.

“Good girl,” he said before unleashing a series of slaps to my pussy in a pattern that I couldn’t have anticipated if I were in his damn brain myself.

This time, as I tumbled over the edge of pleasure, I wailed, jerking against his hand. I collapsed against Rafe’s leg as the aftershock of the second orgasm washed over me. I gasped for air like I’d been drowning and I felt Rafe’s hand tracing up and down my back lazily. As I caught my breath, he placed a final sharp slap to my pussy making me let out a weak yelp of complaint. Without being too gentle, Rafe maneuvered me off of his lap and over the arm of the couch. He let out an appreciative groan and I lifted my head to look back at him. I was startled to see him lifting the belt. My eyes widened as I felt him wrap it around my wrists, quickly binding me.

“You’re not getting away from me, gorgeous. Not when I finally get to fuck my pussy again. You’re nice and ready for me,” he said, sounding almost absent-minded as he spoke to me. He grunted as he slid into me with a single thrust. When he bottomed out we both let out moans—his low and mine high and keening—and I felt my body shake. “Fuck. When you can feel your legs I’m gonna fuck you so hard in doggy you’re gonna not walk the day after. But right now I just gotta finish the job, baby. Gotta turn your fuckin’ brain off forever.”

With that, he started to purposefully piston his hips, holding my bound wrists behind my back for better leverage. I was nearly boneless, shrieking in pleasure as his hot, throbbing cock stretched me open and brushed against each and every nerve ending just right—at least that was how it felt. How he felt. His thrusts were deep and slow and pointed. I sobbed against the feeling, wanting to rut back into him to make him speed up. But, I couldn’t muster the strength. So I just let him fuck into me at his own pace and I felt myself starting to build towards another bout of pleasure—this bound to be even stronger than before if the stars already behind my eyes were anything to go by.

“Daddy, please,” I sobbed, not knowing if I wanted more or less stimulation, more or less pleasure, from him.

Regardless of what I wanted, Rafe didn’t say anything. He grunted out a noise of acknowledgment that I’d spoken then doubled down in his efforts to make me cum again. And when he wrapped his arm around my throat again, tightening quickly and entirely, it was over. This time, as he forced me to a third orgasm, I was actually sobbing, tears running down my face from the fucked up amount of pain and pleasure entwined in being so overstimulated in such a short period of time—especially after so long away from him.

“There’s my good fucking girl,” Rafe said, voice slightly hoarse as he slowed his thrusts to a stop.

He still hadn’t cum himself, his dick fully pulsing inside of me with how hard he was. I dreaded what that meant, even though I also fully anticipated what I knew would come. He gently undid the belt from around my wrists, releasing me, and then eased himself out of me. He flipped me around on the couch and I looked at him with big watery eyes.

“Please no more,” I said, tears slipping down my cheeks. “It’s too much, please.”

“Come on, darlin’,” he cooed, pressing kisses to my cheeks. “Come on, sweet girl. You can give me one more. Been missing my pussy so much. You know I need one more from her.” Another series of kisses, the last one a long and lingering, filthy one to my lips where his tongue entwined with mine and we both pulled back needing air. “Please, baby. One more for me.”

His hand moved down, gently tracing my clit, making me jolt. Already I was so sensitive, so overstimulated. But, the impossibly sweet and imploring look on his face? The hunger he had for me? It was impossible to deny.

“Okay, daddy,” I agreed, sniffling.

He leaned his forehead against mine, grinning. “That’s my girl,” he said softly.

He hitched my leg up over his hip, settling between my legs on the couch. He used his free hand to grip his cock, looking down at us. He gently slapped the head of his dick against my clit once, twice, a third time until I whined and he chuckled, reaching over to press a short kiss to my lips to shut me up. He ran himself up and down my slit over and over until I was shivering and he saw a tiny dribble of new arousal dripping from me. He let out a low moan of his own and then sank into me in one, hitching my leg up again so he could thrust as deep as humanly possible.

“There you are, gorgeous. There’s my beautiful fucking girl,” Rafe praised, pressing a kiss to each cheek, to my lips, and to my forehead as he steadily thrust into me. “So fucking perfect for me. So fucking good for me, baby.”

“You feel so good, daddy,” I said, eyes rolling back and then curling as he pressed down on the slight bulge in my stomach only present because of him. “Thank you, daddy.”

“Anything for you, baby. Fucking anything,” he grunted. He ground slower against me instead of thrusting for a few moments. “You don’t get to keep me from my pussy anymore, baby. I gotta fucking be with you.”

“Wanna be with you, daddy,” I babbled in agreement.

“Good fucking girl,” he huffed, pressing down on the bulge again making me whimper. I felt his dick pulsate again and I tightened around him habitually making his breath hitch. “You gonna cum for me one more time, baby? I’m so fucking close.”

“Yeah, daddy, I’m gonna cum,” I whined. “Please can I cum? Please, please, please?” I begged.

“Fu-fuck yeah,” Rafe stuttered. “Cum with me baby.”

And this time, as I fell across pleasure’s razor edge once more, Rafe fell with me. I felt as he came inside me, hot and deep. My eyes rolled at the feeling, almost addicted to the mere feeling of him being so close and intensely part of me at that moment. I held him without realizing it, nails digging into the skin of his back as I held him against me, ignoring the fact that I was trembling like a leaf.

“So proud of you, my sweet girl. So good for me, gorgeous. Love you so much. So good for me.” Those were the first things I was coherent of hearing again when the whooshing in my ears had faded. They were the sweet praise that Rafe was offering. He went to move—to pull out—but I held him to me still, almost wrapping myself around him like a koala to stop it.

“No,” I denied. “Don’t move yet.”

“Okay, baby,” he agreed. “I won’t pull out. Do you want me to hold you?” I nodded. He carefully moved us. I winced as he adjusted us so that I was sitting up and in his lap because it made him deeper for a moment still but as we settled that faded and I just melted into his chest. “I’m so proud of you, baby. You did so good.” He stroked my skin and hair for a moment. “I gotta get you cleaned up, sweet girl. Get you some water.”

“Not yet,” I denied again, eyes closed as I leaned against him, as much of my skin touching him as possible. “Take care of me in a minute.”

He chuckled. “Oh? You’re gonna let me take care of you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I answered absent-mindedly. “Fine. You can take care of me, Rafe. I’ll stop being stubborn.” I needed his help. He’d been right about that when he showed up, I was adult enough to admit that. And I knew that he loved me. That he meant it from the best place.

“Really?” he asked, disbelieving. “You’re gonna move in with me? Let me take care of you? Just like that? All I had to do was fuck you like that?”

“Yeah. That’s all you had to do,” I agreed, far too exhausted to explain the complex detail of it in truth. I let out a breathless laugh though, a thought occurring to me when I felt a cool bite of metal and plastic on my leg. “Well, as long as you don’t get arrested for busting out of house arrest.” I cracked open my eyes to give him a smile.

“Shut up, I'll be fine,” he muttered. His hands held me closely, tightly, possessively to him. “You don’t get to take it back. I get to take care of you now. To make sure you’re safe. You’re gonna live with me, sweet girl.”

“Okay, Rafe,” I agreed softly, reaching up to stroke his cheek gently. He leaned into the touch and I smiled. “I will.” I leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, laying my forehead against his.

“I love you, baby,” he murmured, so quiet I could barely hear it.

“I love you too,” I replied, just as quiet, just as simple.

He smiled at that, the sight making his eyes go warm and sweet. “Alright, then, gorgeous. Let’s get you cleaned up and get the fuck out of here,” he said. His smile morphed into a cheesy sort of grin—the kind I rarely got to see. “Let’s go home.”

For once, I couldn’t disagree. And I couldn’t help but echo the cheesy smile. “Okay, then, Romeo,” I teased. “Let’s go home.”

[thepenandthepistol]

Mundane Aching (Platonic!Grian x reader)

Due to some soreness, you're unable to help Gem like you said you would. Grian helps you out and soothes some of your worries.

A/N : Sickfic I wrote because my period was killing me T-T and also the first thing I've actually posted on this account! A win for the slayers of perfectionism. This was meant as a platonic fic but I'm sure you could read it as romantic if you want. Also, reader is an avian as well. (1018 words)

Art by @applestruda and divider by @saradika-graphics

There's still so much to be done, and here you are, still under the sheets. You spent the first half of the day trying to manage a creeping pain in your back right where skin meets the base of your coal-black wings. Ache spreads in waves from the limb and into your vertebra, as if something alive is puppeteering the sinews under your skin.

Despite the guilt, you've resigned yourself to your bed; due to an enormous nap, you missed your afternoon plans with Gem. Being an avian means you were much more used to flying than she was, and the new nether build she was planning required some tight maneuvering. Days like these are some you look forward to, holding onto the back of her chestplate, hovering over lava lakes and bastions. 

The trust she has in you, feeling safe even if dangling over potential death, is special in its own right. The friendship you've cultivated and the idle conversations had midair are among your most treasured memories. So, when the exhaustion from carrying materials to and from your shop finally made itself known, you groaned as you curled up on your bed, trying to push away the pain and at least pass by Gem's to apologize for your absence. Maybe sweeten the deal with a nice cake and evening tea.

A sudden flash of crimson outside your window makes you stop in your tracks, feet just inches from touching the cool floor. A single moment of silence is had before Grian pulls himself back up onto the windowsill with a mischievous smile. 

"Did I scare you?" He asks, shuffling inside and closing the window behind him with a soft click.

"Oh yeah," you start, closing your eyes and breathing deeply as a particularly sharp stab rolls from your back and claws at your ribs. "Only if being worried you were going to cut your wings on the bars outside counts as scared." 

"Excuse me, I'm very skilled! I could probably dodge like five of those in a row." He speaks with a smile, but, to your dismay, he's seen through your teasing and into the discomfort below. 

"Gem's been looking for you," he says, aligning some of the trinkets on your shelf and picking your work clothes off the floor. "Sent me here to check while she continued working." 

"Shit," you sigh and drape your arm over your eyes, blocking the light crawling in from outside. "I'm having a bad day, I guess. Must've overworked myself last week, and now my wings are killing me."

"Have you had something to eat?" You hear your closet door creek open and Grian looking for something between clothes and towels.

"Not exactly. I had a snack before midday, but I slept through lunch." You open your eyes to see him bring a nice blanket over your shoulders. It doesn't ease the pain, but the soft texture makes existing a little easier.

"Well, just about time for some tea then." You grimace, remembering your promise to Gem. Grian moves to close the room door behind him when you groan out a protest, wrapping the woolen quilt around yourself and finally standing up.

"I'll join you. If I lay here any longer, I'll sleep the entire day away," Grian snickers, but walks in sync with your lethargic steps down the stairs and into a quaint kitchen. 

Plopping down on a stool, you watch Grian clack on the stove and place a ceramic kettle on top. It was a birthday gift from Ren. A painted flock of dark birds contrasts the white background alongside some fleuron details. 

"Grian, mate, it's you," you point to a particularly wonky bird.

"Absolutely not, look at him! He's your splitting image." He gestures to the dark wings behind you. 

"You know what else is splitting?"

"Your head?"

"My head."

You rest your temple on the wooden table and furrow your eyebrows. You could probably make the journey over to Gem's by now; despite the headache and muscle cramps, you're feeling well enough to stand, and you could chance flying the short way over. 

With a crack, you stretch your wings entirely; they spasm a bit before reaching their full length; you pay no mind. What was once a terrible tendon-deep flare has resided to a burning soreness; you've done more than travel a couple hundred blocks in worse conditions. 

Grian pours the water into two mugs, each with a homemade teabag flopping loosely off the side. You take the smaller mug, lifting it to say 'cheers,' and sip on the sweet berry. You begin putting on your boots when Grian finally lets concern wash over his face.

"You should rest a bit more. Gem's fine. Her garden's turning out really nice." You hesitate a tad bit before tying the laces together.

"I promised her I'd help you know. I'm sure she understands, but I want to make good on my word." You don't register Grian setting down his mug and tilt your head in confusion as he kneels and pulls your boots to his thigh, unlacing them.

"You sound like a knight going to war," he cracks a tiny fond smile. "I know it's your nature, but these things aren't that serious. Your 'word' is still good even if you don't put your own health on the line." Silence follows.

"You're sure she doesn't need me?"

"Positively." He stalks off to line your shoes up by the door and then returns, sitting next to you on the couch and letting his wing curl around you.

"You need to relax. No wonder you're having a bad time when your muscles are that tense." He teases, and you scoff, taking back the mug and continuing to drink.

"Can you tell Gem I won't be making it then, please." 

"Yeah, course," he says, knocking his shoulder with yours and hopping to his feet. 

"I should tie a letter to your leg and throw you out of the second-story window." You say into the mug as he turns the knob on the front door.

"Hey! I am not a pigeon!"

[saintrvckwell]

The fair and the brave and the good must die (joel miller x platonic!reader)

joel miller x platonic!reader

summary: it felt frightening when the world gave you a second chance. but how many chances could you give joel, before it was too late?

warnings: angst at times (what a shocker with me), joel sees his daughter in reader, they travel to find her family but instead, find it in each other (sappy at times, lol almost never), reader is somewhere in her mid-teens, appearance not really specified, the father-daughter dynamic hitting as per usual, joel sabotaging himself 24/7

wordcount: 7.1k

a/n: well look at that, me releasing two pieces in one year, wow. well anyway, i got this idea last year, wrote it last year and then rewrote the ending this year. it's very much chaotic but thought the idea was cool. with the new season around, figured we need some joel x platonic!reader. well lmk what u guys think! hope u like it, it's a mess

A few months ago, if you were to describe what kind of man Joel Miller was, there probably would not be enough curse words to spit out. A few months ago, if you were to choose between saving him and saving yourself, you would probably be the one responsible for his demise. A few months ago, Joel's presence in your life was a mere part of the deal and nothing more, or less. A few months ago, you would not allow his existence carry that much importance in your life.

But now, no question needed to be asked. No hesitation on your side, no second thoughts. Just a gun in your hand, finger on the trigger, eye focused on the one who would stand in between. Because for Joel, you would not question anything. For Joel, you were prepared to walk to the edge of the universe and back. For Joel, you would lose yourself.

Not him, never.

You walk through half of the continent with someone, expecting to keep to yourself. The final destination hanging in your mind like a warning. You are not here to make friends, you are not here to share wholehearted life stories around the fire. The only reason your steps kept following Joel's, was his lead. Lead towards someone you have been searching for ever since you escaped the FEDRA school. With stolen ration cards in your back pocket and shiv attached to your belt. In the dark of the night you ran through the Boston's quarantine zone, knowing exactly who you were looking for.

He was the best at this, you kept hearing. No one had the soldiers wrapped around their finger like him. Side to side, the word didn't change. If you wanted to find someone who decided to become unwanted, he was the right fit. You bet your everything on Joel Miller. He was your one-way ticket out of this shithole. Following the same tale you had been studying since your mother died. 

Whether there was some credibility to her words, you never found out. But she made a plan for you, from one connection to another, from person onto the next one. Until you found yourself standing by his door, knocking so persistently until he could no longer pretend he was not there.

Disgruntled and annoyed, he looked at you, your hair wet from the rain, muddy clothes. He was prepared to send you away, tell you to go back where you came from. He was no babysitter, no tour guide. 

But then, you pulled out the picture. Ripped in the middle, old polaroid picture taken by your mother, you presumed. And he wondered. If it were her, looking for him. If she were to survive, get lost in the escaping crowds. Would she be standing in your place, at someone else's house, with his picture?

The salvation was something he could not decline.

Not when you kept looking at him that way. The desperation hidden behind your determined stance. The little child in the eyes of someone who had to grew up before the world did it for them. You were too much of a painful reminder to shut the door in your place. Especially once he let you come inside and saw the scars on your neck, from pulling through all the wired fences around your school. Fresh, washed down with the rain, drips of blood on your collar. It was either him or some other smuggler. Who would use the desperate adolescent asking for help.

Taking more without giving anything in return.

No, Joel made the decision. Let you lay out on the table all of the leads you had gathered over the past few weeks, from the connections your mother had left you. Day and night, he planned, he searched. And before long, he knew exactly where your father happened to be. There was a warrant on his head, not so long ago. Nothing good came his name.

Except for you.

At dawn, three days later, you set off. You noticed, second before the door shut, that he had left a note on the table. For a moment, you wondered for whom it was written but before you found the answer, Joel was already nudging into your shoulder, urging you to move faster. You had one shot at sneaking out of the zone. And although Joel had become experienced traveler over the years, he did not take your inexperience into consideration.

And thus, how the trial started.

It appeared the second you and Joel set foot out of the quarantine zone; trouble seemed to follow you everywhere. Closed calls turned out to be a daily dish and ammunition rarity that you almost never stumbled upon, unlike the traps in each city you wandered in. Just two days in and Joel started to regret not thinking this through. 

No amount of ration cards was worth saving you from every trap you managed to step into, he thought. You were a loose cannon, catastrophes seemed to walk hand in hand with you.

"How was I supposed to know it's going to be a trap?" you mumbled, whilst trying to fix the cut on your left ankle.

Joel looked up from his backpack, where, just a second ago, was trying to find what was left of his first aid kid. If he knew you would be such liability, he would pack more. No, he would not have gone in the first place.

"Common sense?" he hissed, walking over to you. "Didn't they teach you that in school?"

"No, they just taught us how to hang smugglers on the streets," you replied.

The amount of sarcasm accompanying your cutthroat response kept making it harder for Joel to maintain his calm demeanour.

Without much thought, he threw the bandage away and got up. "Fix it, smartass. We're leaving in ten minutes."

Not wanting to poke to bear any more, you hurried up and managed to join Joel back on the street. With revolver in his right hand, he looked at you, disgruntled.

"Move, we gotta make it before sundown."

You didn't know at which particular comment or situation Joel started to withdraw. His patience seemed to be running out with each day he was forced to pull you out of the trap or save you from a close call you had caused. Every time, you would be sitting on the ground, fixing up, looking at a dead point, trying to get through his scolding. He would yell, throw hands in the air, taking out all of his anger. 

At a certain point, you weren't sure whether your behaviour was truly the reason, or his chance to get everything out of his system and blame it on your recklessness.

Neither did Joel know. 

There was something so triggering about seeing you so helpless. Seeing you get into numerous troubles that could have cost you your head. He had no emotional attachment to you whatsoever, you were a business part -- if a teenager setting off with smuggler could be even called something like that. But the look, the damned look in your eyes. Each time, with each moment, his paternal instincts awakened a little more. You were a walking reminder of what he had lost, what could have been.

He would be sitting by the window, late at night, keeping the watch, wondering. How easy it would have been to take his backpack, walk through the door and never look back. No note, nothing. Go back to what he had got used to -- the stillness of life in Boston. Where nothing would remind him, nothing would pull out those rotten roots. That settled somewhere in the pits of his mind, along with the shame. No one to force him to face his mistakes.

It was odd what power your presence had in Joel's life, despite knowing nothing about you. Perhaps, when you stick to someone, twenty-four hours a day, when someone else's life depends on your actions, the fine line becomes thinner. 

Until there's none.

In certain aspects, at certain points, he could no longer tell the difference between you and Sarah. The way you quickly came to enjoy making fun of him and testing his patience. The days you spent on foot, you kept irritating the living soul out of him. You found the string to play on and there was no reason to stop. You hated the silence, that he was subtly trying to enforce.

You noticed pretty quickly the effect your comments could have on him. And, of course, you found amusement in it. The days on the road were long, especially without a vehicle so you were looking for anything that would distract the anxious thoughts in your mind. 

The longer you were gone, the more second thoughts arrived.  

You had never met your father yet here you were, travelling across the infested country to see a man who, perhaps, was not even interested in acknowledging your presence.

Why did he leave your mother? Why did he leave Boston? Did he know about you and if so, what did it say about him?

And why would your mother send you to look for someone who might not even be aware of your existence?

The answer was simple, at least according to your conclusion.

You had no one.

Your mother was the last person you had and when she died, you found yourself living in a tiny, three-bedroom dorm room at the military preparatory school. And every night, after the curfew, you kept on reading her notes. The letter she had left you. Place like that did not leave enough space to carry a hope, yet you managed to squeeze it in. But were her last words enough of a reason for you to risk your own life? Perhaps, you were about to find out.

Although, probably not from Joel.

He was not the most talkative individual. After all, his only job was to lead you to your father, collect the rest of the ration cards and head back. This was strictly a business deal, which he kept reminding himself, each time he caught glimpse of you. Looking at you made him wonder -- about you, your life. Where your parents had been. He knew that now, in the world, there were far too many children like you, wandering alone. 

Even in the Boston QZ, there would not be a day that Joel would not run into a child, sitting on the pavement, counting their last ration cards. He usually paid no mind to it, fed with false belief that he was not interested to care in the first place.

But then, there were you. And that hopeful spark you had every time you looked at him. He was there to protect you, despite the reasons. So, naturally, after years of almost forgetting how it had felt, you found comfort in Joel's presence. He could have been mean and spiteful. And you could send him to the deepest pits of hell, screaming your lungs out.

And yet, you would not turn back.

You could have screaming matches all the way through abandoned suburbs, you could slam the door in his face and ask him to go fuck himself for being such an asshole to you.

Despite the inner voice telling him to leave, he would sit down on the stairs and wait. Until an hour later, when your anger boiled down, you would open the door and go back on the road. And he would follow. And that conversation would never be brought up again.

That was the cycle.

Through the cities, through the suburbs, through the meadows, through the highways.

There were times, where Joel's patience ran over the edge, and he ended up going further than he had initially intended. Only then his falsely justified arguments came to slap him in the face. When his eyes would lock with yours and he could see how determined you were to keep your tears back. 

"You are being an asshole," you whispered, grabbing your backpack from the floor, not giving your impulsive ideas second thoughts.

Joel sighed, rubbing his chin, before he looked your way. "Where are you going?"

"Anywhere," you shrugged your shoulders, opening the doors. "Anywhere but here."

He chuckled, crossing his hands over his chest. "Good luck with that."

Your eyes fell on the cracked floor, as you let out a deep exhale. "You really are an asshole," you whispered. "Fucking asshole."

Trying so hard to keep it together, not giving him the pleasure of winning over you, you stood by the door, watching the raindrops outrunning each other. It was already dark out there, the storm was settling in the skies, as quickly as one falls asleep, and you had no idea where to go. And when you thought about it, it was probably better to draw your guns now, as opposed to coming back here, hours later, soaked and cold. Serving the win on a silver platter.

Joel waited, convinced you would not leave. He was the compass holding this plan together and besides, as he knew, you had nowhere else to go. Your father was your only remaining connection. Joel was aware of the position he found himself in. An argument he already knew was a win. But in his preoccupied mind, there was no lust for such thing.

Perhaps, not now. Not when he noticed how swiftly you wiped away the tears with your sleeves. Of course, it was not the first time that Joel had become the reason of your momentary sadness. His words managed to hit your sore spots one too many times. 

Though, why now? Why would the guilt float above the surface of his false beliefs, waving the red flag? Why now would the regrets start to squash his entire, washed-out being?

He would ask, despite already having the answers.

There was something about watching you sit there, on the floor, leaning against the door. The shouting, the threats of leaving. It was as though he was back in Texas, twenty years ago, sitting in the kitchen and listening to Sarah complaining about short curfew. Begging Joel to let her go out with friends, stay a little longer. And he would refuse, being as stubborn as he is. Inheriting those qualities, she would insist on her wish. Until it ended up in a scream match and she would threaten to go anyways, with or without his approval.

Then both sides ended up defeated. Sarah, sitting in her bedroom, listening to the regrets setting down in her mind. And Joel, sitting by the kitchen table, cursing himself for being too harsh. He was a man of few words, always has been, when it came to expressing his feelings out into the world. So instead of struggling to find the right ones, he would take her favourite DVD of Curtis and Vipper and knock three times on her bedroom door.

She would know exactly what he meant.

But you were not Sarah, you were not Joel's daughter. There was no relation, other than the business one.

Which, in the end, did not even matter anymore.

"You should have said no," you whispered into the rain.

The reality pulled Joel out of his thoughts.

He frowned, puzzled over your statement.

"You should have just said no," you mumbled, turning around.

He stood still.

"I should have talked you out of it," you whispered. "If I knew how much you will hate me, I would never knock on your door."

And suddenly, everything he had convinced himself with, came undone.

You found all the sore spots, striking into the pits of their existence. Until the shadow of man, he once used to be, stood right behind you, looking into his eyes. What he thought had died that night with her, was standing in one piece. He had nowhere to run, no beliefs to feed himself with, only the truth. Now it was up to him whether he was going to face it.

You wanted him to say something, more than anything. Even if he should just scream at your existence, damning you to hell. Everything would have been better than him, surrendering to his shame. The anger in you was starting to boil. You loathed Joel -- simply for the fact of what his role now meant in your life. Joel was your source of safety, despite the arguments, the curse words headed into his direction. And the only thing you wanted was to know whether there was at least a part of him that would sympathise.

You knew giving your hopes into someone like Joel was a risk with little to no chance of winning. Yet, you allowed yourself to hope, as you looked at him, awaiting.

You should have known how that would end.

Putting a faith in a man who’s past has been coming to haunt him every night for the last twenty years was perhaps as reckless, as running towards a clicker, with a friendly handshake. It would cost you an arm and a leg, you knew it. Of course, you knew it. 

But the hope, rotten to the core. The sweet-talking hope. 

Which he was well aware of, seeing it in your desperate eyes. The guilt was about to swallow him all. What Joel wanted and what he allowed himself to want were two different categories. And what frightened him the most, was the fact that you were in both. 

Despite his best of efforts to bury it. No matter what he tried, the truth could not be undone or destroyed. Even though his guilt kept feeding him with the false claims. Convincing him that after betraying her, he was no longer worthy of that title. When in reality, he would never become someone else. It was who he had always been. 

Didn't matter where would he run, what amount of liquid courage his organs would absorb to numb the pain, it would always be there. Waiting for him, waking up from a hangover. Joel spent twenty years searching for salvation in the wrong places, in the hands of wrong people. 

And there he was, scarred, old and defeated. 

You were his second chance. 

"Stop confusing me with the man you are looking for." 

But the anger, oh the anger. And the frustration he fought with. The what ifs, the possible scenarios recreating his life-long failure that haunted him relentlessly. It could go wrong, he thought. He could not even count the exact number; it was too many of them. 

So, he settled with the thought of doing what was best for both of you. But selfishly, as he was well aware, he welcomed the pain with open door and a handshake. Whilst you were left in the rain, watching it close. 

It would have been too dangerous to act differently, he continued to sweet-talk himself with lies as the dawn fell upon his feet. The truth kept on eating him alive, through the roads and through the woods. Flesh by flesh, until there was nothing left. Joel stood against his own mind, his own beliefs. 

How long could he keep on denying them? 

You wondered about it, even though you forbid yourself from doing so, when you stood in the door the following morning, eyes swollen from how you quietly cried yourself to sleep. The consequences of Joel's previous actions were falling down on you. You avoided him like plague, waking up before sunrise and hunting in the nearby woods before the two of you set off. 

He did not comment on your unannounced morning trip but with all honesty, there was not much to say anyway. One thing that Joel knew, which you were grateful for, although you would never admit it out loud, was to keep quiet when it was needed. 

Unfortunately, this habit of his showed up even when it wasn't required. 

The distance he created between the two of you could not be erased. So, for your own sake, you followed his lead. There were no more jokes, no more comments about Joel's age being close to dinosaurs. Because there was nothing left to say or do. 

And as the days continued, your guilt and regret, naturally, turned into anger. 

Anger towards Joel. 

The more you thought about it, the more resentful you had grown to be. You gave him a chance; you gave him a piece of something only your mother has been worthy of. Something you had once buried but for Joel, you would search for it through the deepest pits of your soul. 

You wanted to feel safe, more than anything else in this world. And there he was. When you looked at the picture of your father, then back at Joel, you knew which one was the option you would choose. 

But what would that be good for, when Joel did not choose you?

As hurtful as it might have been to admit it. 

It was pointless, stupid, you kept telling yourself. Joel's reasoning for this voyage was simple, different from yours. And it would always be different from yours. 

That's how it started to bubble up inside of you. Through days, through nights. It would take one look at him for you to clench your fists and curse yourself for ever being this naive. At a certain point, there was no reason for you to hide it. 

And Joel knew it. He knew how you felt when you yelled at him, spilled out that he should not care whether you had eaten or not, whether you had got enough sleep or not. You would let it all out, frustrated and disappointed. 

He would never say anything, just let you get it out of your system. And once you were done, he would hand you the last bits of jerky from his backpack because he was right -- you did not eat that day. But he would not once try to get back at you.

Perhaps, when he stood against you, watching your eyebrows dance up and down, your hands gesticulating in the air, hearing each word sounding faster and angrier than the one before, Joel had realised he now stood in your position. 

There it was. 

The metaphorical blink, perhaps? 

That found Joel standing above the map, marked with your estranged father's supposed location. 

If you kept heading east, you would arrive to his quarantine zone by next week, according to his counting. A week. 

Seven days. 

There was an odd feeling, growing inside his chest. The symptoms of guilt had arrived into their places, occupying his indecisive existence. The time was slipping through his fingers and selfishly, Joel did not anticipate the meeting that was yet to happen. Despite not doing anything to stop it. 

Your father was no exemplary man, quite the opposite. He made trouble wherever he went, so it was not that shocking when one day, Joel saw a soldier putting up a warrant flyer with your father's face. 

He was supposed to be hanged, the day he vanished from the Boston quarantine zone. FEDRA was searching through every place that could carry his trace, but nothing. A few months later, via radio tower, Joel heard his name again. 

With his connections around the zone, it was not too difficult for Joel to find his current supposed whereabouts. Still, as the days on the road went by, he started to have less and less sympathy for finding someone like him. If there ever was some. 

For personal reasons, of course. Being too attached and too subjective, he could not see past his selfish mind, despite doing everything in his power to have you run to your father with open arms. 

He could only blame himself for not seeing how lost you were. For not seeing through the opportunities falling upon his feet. Especially when they started to run out. 

"How long, Joel?"

Your voice pulled Joel out of his frustrated thoughts as he looked back at you, sitting by the fireplace. He realized he has been standing above the table the whole time, gripping the pencil. 

He has been still all evening, which you tried your best to not care about. Spent almost two hours drawing things on the map, running around the house, looking for more pencils. For a moment, you thought he was going insane. 

Would not be so shocking. 

You attempted to pay no mind to it, mostly browsing through the farmhouse, looking for something to kill your time with. The books were ripped apart, rooms raided, so eventually, you ended up sitting by the fireplace to warm yourself up. 

While you waited for the answer that did not seem to be coming. 

"Week or more," he replied, after another minute. "Though we will be lucky if he's still there by the time we arrive," he mumbled, packing up the map. 

The tone of his voice raised your eyebrows. You could have let it go. 

But weather got you both stuck here in the first place, you might as well square up. 

„Well, you won't be there to see it," you whispered. 

He looked at you, confused over such statement. 

"What?" you got up, "Wasn't your whole plan to drop me by the gate like some baggage? Suppose that was the only thing I ever was for you.“

There was no reason to suppress your frustrated thoughts inside. At such point, there was nothing to lose, not on your side. Miles away from Boston, in the middle of nowhere, your hands were empty. Nothing to treasure, nothing to hold. 

Nothing to hope for, anymore. 

The spark in your eyes that once scared the living soul of Joel was fading away. Perhaps, the reality of that became much more frightening for him. 

"You seriously don't have anything to say to me?" 

The desperate tone of your voice, breaking at the end, frustrated you. 

Not more than Joel's nonexistent stance, though. That was still at the top of your list. 

Just two feet away from you, halfway in the shadow of the night, he stood there defenceless.  

"Seriously, Joel?"

But then, for reasons unknown to your being, the cycle had fallen apart. 

"What the hell do you want from me?" his voice echoed around the living room. "We had a deal. That did not include reading you a goddamn bedtime story and tucking you in." 

Joel himself did not know why he was so harsh. The defence mechanism was running on its own system, leaving him out of the door. 

You could not help but chuckle over his angry statement. 

If he was going to cut deep, so were you. 

"Don't flatter yourself," you whispered, stepping closer. "I don't even think someone like you could ever be capable of that. You will always be too selfish for that." 

He knew he had it coming, of course he knew. Just, perhaps, did not realize how severely he would lose this war. How severely would the last strike hurt. 

Until those words left your mouth. Only then the dust settled as the room had fallen into a deadly silence, with Joel's dignity vanishing into the fireplace, like a lonesome soldier surrendering. 

There was no desire to look into your eyes. On Joel's side, there was no anger left; he waisted it all out. Now, the guilt had won the war, creeping through the pits of his mind, sitting on his shoulder, trying to pull down the rest of his tired, scattered being. 

The shame has been weighing on his shoulders for the past twenty years. Its existence could never be denied nor annihilated. He knew, somewhere in his heart, she would never want him to wander through life like this, of course. But choosing to let go was a price he was too afraid to pay. 

When in his mind, he was not allowed. To have life she could have had. It would have been a betrayal, he thought. To leave it all behind, to prove to you that there once had been and always will be part of him that would do anything for his child. 

Joel was aware of the amount of childish naivety you had within yourself when you knocked on his door. The dedication to see through the plan your mother had prepared for you, Joel knew the final moment would never live up to the expectations you had fostered in your mind. The salvation you had been waiting for. 

And there, it ached. The idea of having you reach the final destination, only for the spark of light in your eyes to die once and for all. To see the disappointment settle in your mind for the rest of the days. 

Same as the one you had; every time Joel let you down. 

By the time the truth had dawned on him, you were already sitting on porch, right by the stairs, wiping away the rest of the tears you had waisted on him. If it were not for the lack of weapons and dark night, you would have been gone. 

But where to road would lead, suddenly remained unknown. In the middle of nowhere, stuck by an old farmhouse, you wished to retrace your steps. Stay in Boston, pull through the military school, become another soldier without a soul and eventually, walk into death with open arms. 

What else would the world give you anyways. When what you had yearned for, has been declined. 

By Joel, standing still in the living room, analysing the spot you occupied just a few minutes ago. He looked around, seeing the glimpses of life this place had before outbreak. The last bits of wallpaper, the broken framed photographs on the credence. He used to wonder what it would have been like to set up a little sheep farm, somewhere outside the Austin, just him and Sarah. 

The two of them running the place, not needing anything or anybody else. Occasionally, they would spare a room for Tommy, force him to help out with the livestock, to repay Joel for bailing him out of the jail, again. It sounded almost idyllic; what could have been and never was. 

Joel knew that he was not the only father losing part of himself on the night of the outbreak. Yet, he found no comfort in this fact. If anything, it added another layer of guilt upon his shoulders. He thought, there was no father who had failed as miserably as him. In his eyes, there was no father guiltier than him. 

What he had buried under glasses of moonshine and traded pills, you ripped out. Pulled it on the surface and close the door on your way out. 

After everything that happened, all through the woods, all through the meadows, there was one, last question Joel had to face. 

Was surrendering to his shame worth losing, perhaps, the very last chance of making things right? 

Of honouring what he once had, instead of grieving what he once lost. 

Of being the one for whom you had knocked on his door in the first place. 

Despite his actions, Joel was not an idiot. He was well aware that the chances and opportunities you had given to him would run their course soon. And then, then -- he will be left alone, awaiting the arrival of his remorse. Why couldn't he try, you wondered by the moon. 

You sat there, eyes on the skies. 

The thought of your mother danced in your tangled mind. Of the wish she had put together for you. Back in Boston, you would do anything to fulfill it -- after all, that is how you found Joel. 

But now, there was no desire to continue. 

Of course, there was the urge to know your father. The other half of you. But would he do what you had done? Would be travel across the states, just for you?

Even if he would, you thought, he could never live up to Joel. 

Whose steps pulled you out of your thoughts, as you heard him closing the door. 

Not so long after, he found himself sitting on the opposite side of the stairs -- doing so, when he realised how persistently you tried to maintain your distance. He would not blame you, only the numerous times he had managed to disappoint you. 

There was no desire to look at him. Part of you wished for him to never speak, to collect the little he travelled with and set off, for good. Part of you wanted to curse him out. 

But the other part, oh the other part. 

That damned part. 

The questions that came along, the thoughts. 

The fear. 

That joined you on the stairs, in the dark of the night. 

The fear you caught in Joel's eyes. Clear as the skies above you. 

There was one last battle remaining, for Joel. 

The broken watch sitting on his wrist caught Joel's attention. The crack was bigger than Joel had remembered. Surely, as the years went by, as the roads came along, some of the glass pieces fell out. But the hands stayed the same. The time forever more imprinted in his scarred mind.

Long ago, he convinced himself his clock would never resume, never having a reason to do so, without her. 

But, perhaps, the reason was sitting right next to him. 

"I know you think I am an asshole," he whispered into the night. 

Joel had to think. It has been a while since he led a conversation with an adolescent -- a conversation, not a screaming match. Surely, he had his fair share of arguments with Sarah. But the differences were incomparable. 

Unlike her, you grew up in the world where kindness came with a price ticket and dignity as an exception not many accomplished to hold onto. You had no recollection of what it meant to have a home. 

Or perhaps?

"That is an understatement," you mumbled. "It is not fair, you know?"

Joel's gaze met with yours. The sadness danced in your eyes. 

"It's not fair how hardly I tried to hate you, Joel, but failed miserably, whilst you succeeded for both of us," you uttered, not letting go of his sight. "You have to hate me, you made it so obvious. But, I  still wonder. Why walk through the woods, through the roads, through the cities with someone whose presence holds no meaning in your life?"

You got him, time and time again. How far was he willing to test your abilities to forgive him? Until there was none?

"Did you walk all the way because of the pity you had stored for me? If your guilty conscience needs a verbal order, then you are free to go," you mumbled. 

The silence entered the empty sphere. Your trembling voice went quiet, as the sleeves of your jacket wiped away the rest of the tears, strolling down your red cheeks. The anguish seemed to never end. 

"Joel, leave," you whispered, not daring to meet his gaze in such condition. "Pack your shit and just leave."

"Actually," he spoke, as though ignoring your disheveled state of mind. "Now, that the deal is off, I think I might stay for a while.“

For a short moment, you could not say for sure whether was mocking your statement or happened to be deadly serious about staying in this half-destroyed house. The jury was out. 

You dared to look up -- solely to convince yourself that there would be a vicious smirk on Joel's face, hitting the final nail in the coffin of hope you had left for him. 

There was no such thing, other than him, looking around. 

"Joel," you whispered, "Leave."

"Some of the walls are busted, the roof is leaking but it ain't nothing I could not fix," he mumbled, not paying a single ounce of attention to you.

You thought you might as well go insane. 

"Joel, I swear to fucking god, leave!" the frustration was pouring out. The hands were thrown in the air, the redness in your cheeks filled your whole face, as your voice rose because of Joel. "Seriously, you treat me like some fucking burden the whole time, but now, you have a what, a change of heart?"

He shrugged his shoulders, remaining calm. "I don't need a change of heart. I just need to fix this house."

Unbelievable. 

"If you do all of this to just laugh in my face, you are probably more pathetic than I ever thought." 

The longer you stayed, the heavier the ache had become. 

"You know, I was so afraid meeting my father would disappoint me," you whispered. "Thankfully, you had prepared me. Now I know that whatever waits in the east, it won't hurt nearly as much as this."

In that final moment, Joel knew the chances he waisted, took for granted, had, at last ran out. There were no words to say, no ropes to hold onto. Everything you had given him, everything you allowed yourself to feel for him, vanished into the night as you got up from the stairs, brushed off your knees and disappeared inside. 

The hopes you had given into this, now ached deeply in your chest as you walked upstairs. For a moment, you wondered, whether this would be the end -- of everything. Whether this wound be the final destination. 

Head buried in the bedding; you thought the agony would never go away. The suffocating feeling in your lungs, the cries. The pain swallowed you whole, piece by piece until you found yourself wishing to tear off your own skin to escape it. 

There has not been this much pain inside of you since your mother died. That night, you held her lifeless body, screaming until there was no air left in your lungs. Cursing yourself, cursing the world itself, wishing to come away with her. 

You hoped to never go through this ever again. 

Now, here you were. 

Yet, what turned out to be the worst part of it all was not the pain itself, however intense it might have been. It was the sole realisation that for Joel, you would go through it. The same way you had done with your mother, for Joel, you would do it, too. The role he had earned in your life, despite denying it, settled down. And there was nothing you could do about it. 

Only accepting the grievous conditions. 

He would not, you thought. No, you convinced yourself. 

Would he? 

He wondered, as he found himself standing by the door of your temporary bedroom, watching you sleep. Would he? Would he put his shame and guilt to rest? How many times would he need to ask himself this question before the time ran out? Before the last bits of patience, you had stored for him, vanished along with his chances. 

He looked around the room, taking it all in -- the teared-up wallpaper, missing pieces of furniture, cracked wooden floor. He was right when he said that house was no lost cause. He could have done wonders with it, saving the treasured, replace the destroyed. 

He would paint the walls for you, fix your bed, find new bedding for you -- just to make sure you would have a place to call home. In the middle of nowhere, surrounded by peace. He would make you dinner, he would eat it with you on the front porch, whilst the two of you would be watching the sunset. He would force you to help around to garden -- only because he would want to make it safer for you. 

You mattered -- that was the most frightening part of it all. However big of coward he could be, his impulsive urges could never be stronger than the fear. The swallowing, harrowing fear.

So, would he? 

He asked himself again, sitting on the edge of your bed. 

Would he fix it? Instead of the broken windows and leaking celling, would he fix the damage he had done?

Joel sighed. 

His hands grabbed two ends of a blanket. 

There it was -- the feeling. Looking down on you, lying there quietly, he wondered again. 

He wondered that long he did not even notice you had woken up. 

Only when his gaze met yours, all red and tired, he realised he was still holding the ends of the blanket. 

He could have waisted the words. 

Or he could do what felt right for him. What felt familiar. 

"Joel," you mumbled, half-asleep trying to grasp the situation. 

It was hard to keep your eyes open, being too worn out. The only thing you felt was the warm of the blanket you wished to hold onto. You grabbed so tightly on the thread of comfort -- as tight as you could, before you passed out again. 

Holding Joel's hand. 

There it was.

His world collapsed. 

The spare defences left in his scarred hands, vanished. Now, the only one he could have held onto, was your hand. 

Almost twenty one years later, under the hoards of pain and buried memories was the feeling of peace he would never find at a bottom of any bottle. 

Looking down on your, falling asleep under his guard, Joel sighed, before he leaned over to your face. Staring at you quietly, he felt at strangely calm. 

How easy it was for Joel’s world to collapse, with just one look at you. If there were ever to be a salvation, a chance to fix what he had done, pay for mistakes no one would ever put on his name, there it was. Holding his hand.  

There was nothing to forgive, nothing to repay. Despite the anger and frustration he managed to awaken in you with confusing actions, despite your vocal wishes of leaving you alone, you held for your life on the last thread you had given him. 

He wanted to leave -- somewhere in his mind, the coward voice of his past failures urged him to leave and never look back. He could have done it anywhere on the road, having more than enough opportunities. But if his doubts made him a coward, then the fear of losing you made him a twice of one. 

He walked through the cities, through the highways, through the meadows for one reason. The one he denied himself of having, pushing you so far away, he almost lost the last thread. He could never lose the reason, no -- for it lived in him for the past twenty years. It never left, however much Joel tried to convince himself. 

There was something to fight for -- someone to fight for. 

He sat there for a while, losing track of time, holding your hand. He could not move -- he did not want, no. Instead, with shattered breath and trembling existence, Joel dared to squeeze your hand.

In that moment, across the quiet bedroom, Joel could have sworn on his life, his watch started to tick again. 

[meetmeinanotherworld]

Things that helped me believe in shifting other than my own personal experiences...

This will be a loooong post so grab a snack for this one.

Shifting tattoos- the fact that so many people have gotten the shifting symbol permanently tattooed on their bodies despite how ridiculed the shifting community is. Tattoos are expensive and painful and to get them removed or covered up is even more expensive and even more painful. People get the shifting symbol tattooed onto their bodies knowing people will probably ask about it. They would not put themselves through that if shifting wasn't real.

The gateway process aka the cia documents- no, this document is not about shifting. However, the topics in the gateway process can certainly be tied to shifting realities and the fact that the cia even explored this shows that it's not a crazy concept. Of course the cia is not exactly a great source or a group to look up to as they are a terrible unethical organization, I think we can still appreciate the fact that there's a whole long document about the power of human consciousness. "It may not be the brain which creates consciousness, but rather the consciousness that creates the appearance of the brain" -a direct quote from the gateway process.

Old experiences- the fact that shifting has been documented long before 2020. Long before the internet even existed, actually. It just wasn't called shifting back then. That's a relatively new term, but the practice has always been around. Neville Goddard was sharing his experiences way back in the 50s/60s. The idea of exploring other worlds is also something that has been touched on in Hinduism and Buddhism and I believe some native tribes.

The ganzfeld experiment- again, not shifting related. Just really fucking cool. I recommend looking into it but to simplify it, it was an experiment testing for telepathic communication. Essentially, one person would be in a room with ping pong balls over their eyes in a red lit room and white noise played over headphones to block out external stimuli, while another person would be in another isolated room looking at different images. The receiver would have to describe the images. Approximately 835 ganzfeld sessions were conducted through 28 studies and they achieved telepathy 38% of the time. While that seems low, it is statistically a huge deal because in order for it to be "chance" it would have to be 25% or lower. The fact that our brains are capable of that makes it difficult to believe shifting isn't real and that's where the line draws.

Lady wonder, the psychic horse- I know that sounds fucking insane and once again is not shifting related. But lady wonder was a horse from the 20th century that was super smart and could spell things out. Not so crazy, right? WRONG. People started believing she was psychic because of how smart she was so they would ask her questions or even had her help solve crimes and she had a super high success rate. They even ran a test where they had scientists try to debunk it by having one person in another room write stuff on a notepad and lady wonder was in a separate room and spelled out everything they wrote down. She even helped find a little boys body that was missing. I'm sorry but if we live in a world with psychic horses, I'm going to believe I can shift to be with my crushes.

Communication through dreams- Researchers at REMspace have been studying lucid dreaming for a long time now and last year in September of 2024, they were able to successfully have two participants communicate to each other through a lucid dream for the first time. They tracked their brainwaves and when person a was in a lucid dream, they generated a random word to him through his earbuds. When person b became lucid, she was able to also receive that message and repeated that random word when she woke up, confirming successful communication through the lucid dream. If someone tried to suggest communicating through dreams five years ago, people would've scoffed at it the same way they do with shifting. This is a very recent discovery that shows what our brains are capable of and communicating through dreams doesn't sound much crazier than being able to shift our awareness to different versions of ourselves.

What we know now vs what we knew in the past- it feels very, very silly to act like everything we know now is all there is to know. Yeah, there haven't been really any studies into shifting realities. All we have are theories and people's shared experiences. But it's difficult to prove something that's not physical. We're still studying dreams and what they mean and how they work and we're still learning about the human consciousness. We may know a lot now, but we certainly don't know everything. Think about what we knew 50 years ago vs what we know now. We've learned a lot over the years. Now think about what we know now vs what we'll know in 50 years. It feels like we know a lot because we don't know what we don't know. But truthfully, in the grand scheme of things, we really don't know a lot. We're still learning new things about our universe and this planet every day.

People still sharing things about shifting today- if it was just a trend, it would have passed by now. It would have passed before 2020 even ended. The internet is horrible about keeping trends alive. Remember that fake TikTok movie thing that became a joke and people would make up lore and stuff about? It lasted like two weeks because people can't keep up with things like that. Trends and inside jokes do not last on the internet. But it's still going strong because it's not just a trend. It's real. Which leads me to my next point

The people that said they were lying- I know this is going to be a strange and unpopular opinion, but honestly, the fact that a small handful of people have come out as lying is very motivating to me. Hear me out. I used to have the mindset of like "oh no these people are lying is it all fake after all???" But in actuality, the fact that there has been a handful of people that have said they were lying and it wasn't real and even a couple that went super viral and yet people are still standing strong tells me no, it's not fake. They just didn't try hard enough and gave up. There have been so many opportunities for people to be like "ok yeah it was fake and I lied" but they haven't. If it was just an inside joke it so easily could've wrapped up by now. When TikTok was getting banned in January, so many shifttokers who knew they were losing their platform and had no reason to lie anymore still stood by the fact that it is real. Although I am not trying to give any credit to those antis that came out as liars because they suck and are horribly disrespectful and give shifters a bad look, it's still motivating knowing despite the liars, we're still standing strong.

People shifting without knowing they shifted- I've heard so many stories before shifting even became popular of people having these experiences. I remember a Reddit story that went viral years ago of a person who got injured or something and ended up living like an entire life with a wife and family and thought it was real until they noticed something was off and then they came back and all of that was gone. There are a bunch of stories of people having near death experiences and they see themselves die but end up being okay in actuality and they believe they shifted timelines. I heard a story someone shared completely unrelated to shifting where they were at a ski resort and somehow got separated from everyone and suddenly there was nothing there. Only snow and trees. No people, no resort. She was gone for hours and eventually saw this bright light and followed it to a subway and eventually made her way back to everyone but to them, she wasn't gone long at all. She said everything felt off and when she got home things were still feeling off like stuff in her room was in different places. She believes she shifted timelines and I believe her, especially because she didn't even frame it as a reality shifting experience.

The diversity in the shifting community- the fact that there are hundreds of thousands of us in the shifting community and we're all different. There are people of different ages, races, nationalities, gender, sexualities, different religious backgrounds, etc. There are people that have been shifting long before shifting blew up. There are people that have shifted that don't even post about it. We're all so different. Idk that just makes it more real to me.

The universe as a whole- the fact that we exist on this planet right now and that we are such a tiny spec in the universe is insane. The universe is constantly expanding and we will literally never be able to explore all of it. We have no idea what all is out there. What is the universe expanding into? How is it expanding? What existed before it? Obviously we know we're here because of the Big Bang but how did that even happen and align the way it did? Like of course I know science and stuff and I understand the theories, but it's just the fact that everything aligned the way it did. The universe is so massive we'll never be able to comprehend it. We came from tiny little atoms and evolved into human beings. I feel like we don't appreciate how insane that is enough. Energy can't be created or destroyed so we're all literally made of the universe. Oh, but shifting is so insane? Sorry, the existence of the universe and the fact that we even exist the way we do and somehow turned a planet made of dirt and rocks and water into what it is now with skyscrapers and airplanes and Bluetooth makes me believe we're capable of a lot more. Also the fact that it's proven that the fabric of space and time can bend..... right.

Tarot reading- another thing that is completely unrelated to shifting. It's more so the fact that tarot has existed for hundreds of years, since the 15th century, and is a pretty well respected practice. Of course there are scammers out there that give tarot reading a bad reputation, but it's been around so long and is amazing when done right. The fact that a deck of cards can be used as a tool to answer questions and look into the future. I have a friend who doesn't believe in tarot or really anything sort of "witchy" or anything like that. But he and his friends had tarot readings just for fun and he was so shocked and confused when the things the tarot reader said all started coming true. Like it truly shocked him. How is that more believable than just becoming aware of another version of ourselves? Like we already have all these capabilities within ourselves so why is shifting crossing the line?

Witchcraft and manifesting- kind of tying into the first point, witchcraft and manifestation are things that have been around for centuries. And even today, while shifting is something that is ridiculed, people are more open minded toward witchcraft and manifestation. There's still a lot of people that don't believe and think it's ridiculous, but there's also a lot of people that do believe even if they don't believe in shifting. And what is shifting if not just a more advanced version of manifestation? Yet so many people think shifting is ridiculous and made up because people are choosing to go to hogwarts while they still spend their time manifesting their desires. It's two sides of the same coin, babes.

This picture-

ALL OF THOSE ARE GALAXIES WE'LL NEVER EXPLORE!!!! And you wanna tell me it's crazy to think there's other realities out there???

Shiftblr- of course like many of us, I discovered shifting through shifttok right at the very, very beginning of it. I know many people hate shifttok, but it will always hold a special place in my heart. Despite that, the existence of shiftblr has solidified my beliefs way more than shifttok. You don't get clout or fame or money posting about shifting on tumblr. You don't gain anything posting on here. Yet the fact that thousands of people do, and most of them don't even get much attention from it at all tells me people are doing it for themselves. Because they believe. Because they've experienced it. And while I don't think people on tiktok are all liars and I don't think they're all trying to get clout because they also have to deal with horrible antis harassing them, there's also more of a possibility of people just trying to get attention or money. Again, I still enjoy shifttok, but tumblr feels more authentic. On tumblr, you don't even get to see how many followers people have.

Honestly, there's more I could get into but I have yapped long enough. This isn't even including my own personal experiences. I could ramble on about shifting and all the ties there are to it for so long but I think I hit the main points I wanted to get into. There's just one last thing I want to say before I wrap this up. If shifting didn't get popular from people going to hogwarts or the mcu or these "fictional" places that we perceive as fictional because they're just tv shows/movies/books in this reality, more people would believe in it. If it got popular because of more mundane things such as visiting a deceased family member or going on a dream vacation or reliving childhood memories, more people would be on board with shifting. But instead, they saw teenage girls talking about going to hogwarts and scoffed and rolled their eyes instead of considering all the possibilities.

[saneabandoned]

Amber

Oh, hello. I didn’t see you. How are you doing? It’s been a while, not sure if you remember me. We can start over, if you’d like. I can help you remember, or I can help you forget. But I will never leave you alone, you and I are one, made of the same matter, the same way rain is water even though you don’t drink it. The sea is also made of water you don’t drink. The same water runs in your body, flows in your veins as part of your blood. Yet you don’t drink it. Oh, but I do.

You wonder why I’ve come back now. I know I’ve been gone for a while. See, I couldn’t be there. When you don’t need me, that’s when I come, that’s what I’ve always done. You can kick and hit and cry and shake all you like, but that won’t ever push me away. See, I’m the only one who’ll never leave – I’ll boil your insides when you want to be cold, and I’ll freeze your blood when you’re trying desperately to warm yourself up. I’ll make it impossible for you to touch another person, you’ll feel like they’re not real; you’ll smell desperation when you try and do it; and you’ll see yourself as barely a figment, as your own reflection; but you’ll never know for sure what you are, or if you’re even there anymore. There will be my voice in your ear, always, always there, and your mouth will be forever dry. The loneliness will consume you and ---

I leave the pen abruptly and shake my head. I had no idea my mind was so full of this when I sat down to write in my journal this morning. My hand aches from pushing the pen too hard on the page, there are a few places the paper is starting to tear from the pressure. I really hoped it would work – I’ve watched so many videos of people claiming that it helps to start the day with a few minutes of just writing your thoughts down, clearing your mind, setting your goals for the day. So, I decided to try it out – I have always liked writing, and it might just help me slow down for a few minutes before I have to rush out. It is a sunny and warm morning, birds have just started chirping, the sky is blue. It smells like autumn already, I can hear a gentle breeze swooshing and picking up the yellowish-orange colours from the ground, spinning them in beautiful little clouds.

My sandwich has now gone completely cold, and it probably tastes like sponge. I am not good with eating and writing simultaneously – should have known that really. I get up and go inside, putting my plate back in the microwave, setting the timer, then looking around. Pages scattered, clothes starting to pile in certain corners of the room, dishes waiting to be washed. It does need cleaning, this place, but I’m just not sure I have it in me, not now at least. I stare at the microwave, watching as my food spins and spins.

And then I can feel it coming and I can’t stop it, it’s like a wave, first warm, then hot, and finally scorching, crushing me, pulling me down, and I’m suffocating, and I feel my knees hit the floor, and I can hear the distant beeping of the microwave, but I can’t stand up, and I can’t stop seeing everything. The flash, the sudden light, the unnatural silence, and my ears ringing (they would for days after), the smell of smoke. And above that, the metallic taste of fear that spread faster than butter on toast.

You were there. You were inside. You were.

I ran after you, squinting my eyes and not seeing anything in the smoke, the ashes piling in my throat, suffocating me in a way that felt like they were reaching my heart; but someone there stopped me, maybe a firefighter, because I remember their sirens blaring loud and piercing, the same sound I wake up to every morning. Someone held me and tried to put their heavy arms around me, and I still remember the pain from their touch, though I knew they were only trying to calm me down, tried to make me stay put; but I couldn’t, I knew if I could only get there, I would have… would have…

It’s too late, they said. You can’t do anything now.

I had stood so close to the fire that the tips of my fingers got burned, and I can still feel it from time to time – and they’re always so cold and no matter what I do I can’t warm them up, sometimes it’s like they aren’t even attached to me anymore. But I’ve tried, do you hear me? I know you’d be mad. You hated the cold. You’d have taken care of me, if only I could have gotten you out of there.

My left shoe is still stained by the coffee I dropped on my foot when the explosion happened. I can’t seem to get it off, and now I have one brown shoe, even though I tried everything, bleach included, and its stench followed me for days, sticky and blindingly strong. But it didn’t work, the shoe is still brown. I hate brown, you know that; I hate all of its nuances, I hate it on clothes, and I hate it on me – but you liked my brown hair, and you liked my brown eyes even more – you always said they were warm. “Amber is my favourite colour”, you’d laugh, you were always laughing when I was asking you things.

“Isn’t amber the thing that flies get stuck in?”

You’d shrug.

“I like being stuck, at least it’s somewhere warm and cozy.”

I hate the warm now. I can’t stand it, really, I can’t. I don’t know how it can be cozy. You would have again laughed at me, “you and your weird associations”, you would have said. I can almost hear your voice, though I know it’s not real. The other day I saw someone, and I thought it was you, the only way I could tell it wasn’t was because they walked right past me, even though I had frozen still and was staring at them. You wouldn’t have ever done that, you were always so warm to me, to the point where I thought I’d never get cold again, not from anything, not from running in the snow naked, or having ice touch my bare bones. But now I hate it when I’m warm, and I hate sitting here in the sunlight, but oh how you loved it though. I used to, as well, but now it feels chemical, like it might burn me and my skin will peel off and I won’t be able to feel anything anymore, and I will have to walk around exposed. I prefer my cold, numb fingers, and my breath coming out in little clouds, the only proof I have that I’m still alive. You’re not, I know that. I know because I couldn’t see your breath when they brought you out.

My sandwich is cold again, but I don’t mind that. I’m so tired of trying to warm it up, it’s easier to just eat it cold. Tastes the same, actually. Only it’s a bit bland sometimes, if the bread or the salad is not too fresh. Like today, I suppose. But I can deal with it. Not out there on the porch though, not until the sun sets at least.

The journal might as well stay out there too.

[reixtsu]

*ೃ༄ Whispers In The Twilight ༉‧₊˚.

༊*·˚ Aventurine x reader

༊*·˚ Genre: angst with sweet comfort

༊*·˚ Synopsis: While enjoying the night on Aventurine’s patio, your intrusive thought start to invade. Luckily your wonderful partner is here to comfort you. (´ε｀ )♡

༊*·˚ A/N: I was feeling very down the day I wrote this, I so I thought about sharing this comfort story in hopes to help those who feel similarly. Enjoy!

༊*·˚ Word count: 1k

To Aventurine, you were the best thing he has won is his god-forsaken life. You were the light of his world, a candle in a dark tunnel, his reason to continue living. He was willing to do anything for you, even sacrifice himself for you. In his eyes, you were worth the whole world. So why couldn't you see that yourself? Why couldn't you understand your own value? Why do you belittle yourself so much? That was something that Aventurine could never grasp.

You sat with Aventurine on the patio of his penthouse, gazing up at the artificial stars that dotted the night sky. The soft flicker of candlelight bathed the patio in a warm, golden glow, creating an intimate ambiance. You sighed contentedly as you rested your head on Aventurine's lap, feeling the tranquility of the moment settle around you.

Placing a gentle hand in his, you gracefully slipped off his rings one by one, followed by his silk glove, revealing the warmth of his skin beneath. You took his hand in yours, bringing it tenderly to your lips. "You are so beautiful," you whispered, your voice soft and breathy, as your half-lidded eyes gazed up into Aventurine’s with a deep, lingering affection.

Aventurine smiled warmly, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on your forehead. "I should be the one saying that to you, sweetie," he murmured, his voice tender and full of affection.

You smiled, though it looked a bit forced, the corners of your lips not quite reaching your eyes, before you closed them again, letting the moment pass in silence.

He observed you closely, his gaze softening as he kept his hand over yours, savoring the warmth between you. "Is something wrong?" he asked gently, concern threading through his voice.

You hummed, shifting your head on his lap. "No. Why would there be?" You asked softly.

Aventurine could spot an actor from a mile away—after all, he was one too—but unlike him, you lacked the years of experience in concealing your emotions. There was a subtle sadness in your voice, a note of vulnerability that didn’t go unnoticed. Your body was tense, and your hand only tightened around his, a silent plea for comfort. "You can be honest," he said softly. "We're alone.”

Silence, silence, and more silence. All the two of you could hear was the cracking of the candles. Aventurine sighed, bringing his other hand to start combing your hair. You sighed, leaning into his touch. "What? Don't you trust me?" He teased.

You scoffed, opening your eyes again to look at his frame. "I trust you, 'turine," You said softly. "I'm just... thinking."

"About what?"

You averted your gaze, your eyes darkening as a shadow of emotion crossed your face. "I hate pain," you said simply, the words carrying a weight that lingered in the air between you.

Aventurine blinked, pausing his strokes on your hair.

"We experience it every day. Stress, pain-just existing is painful," you said, exhaling shakily as you tried to rein in your rising emotions. "I'm so tired. Day by day, I lose the will to keep going. I have no purpose, no reason to keep living. And what makes it worse is knowing that there are people out there, really struggling, fighting to survive. And here I am, wishing for death.”

Aventurine hummed, staying silent. He didn't know the best way to comfort you when you were like this.

"People tell me I should be grateful for my life, and I am. I have you, after all," you said, forcing a smile as tears welled up in your eyes. "But I hate dealing with all the negatives. I wish I could stay with you forever in a utopia, but this world is anything but that. I hate it. I'm so tired, I want to disappear-"

"My love," Aventurine interrupted gently, placing a finger over your lips to quiet your words. "I know this world can be a terrible place to exist. But when you're by my side, you make everything bearable. With you, I can see color, endure pain, laugh, and love.”

You stayed silent, sniffing as your tears threatened to fall. "But—" you began, your voice trembling as you struggled to find the words to express the conflict within you.

"You are the one that keeps me alive. I want to be your reason to live."

"...Huh?"

Aventurine placed his hands gently on your hips, lifting you to sit on his lap, facing him. "Make me the reason you live," he said firmly, his grip on your waist tight yet comforting. "Do I not make you happy? Don’t I lighten your burdens?”

You couldn’t meet his intense gaze, too ashamed and afraid to look him in the eye. "You do..." you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Then what can I do? What can I do to stop these intrusive thoughts of yours? It might be impossible, but I am willing to take a gamble."

You stared at the ground, your eyes and emotions becoming numb, something they always did when your emotions started to become too strong for you to handle. "I could be laying in a grave today, all of my efforts are going to waste. Everything stays the same while we play and waste away. Some things are impossible but my death is fated to arrive. Why can't I decide when it will happen?"

Aventurine paused, his eyes glistening with a mix of fear and desperation. Despite being blessed by a god, he didn't believe in any divine power. No deity had saved his sister when she died, nor his mother. No god had intervened when he was enslaved by the IPC. Uncertain of how to answer your question, he decided on the one thing he felt he could do: he wrapped you in a tight, reassuring embrace.

Cold arms wrapped around your warm body, enveloping you in a comforting embrace. Your breath hitched, and a single tear traced down your cheek as you began to tremble.

"I don't want you to die," Aventurine said, stuffing his face into your neck, his hands massaging little circles along your back. "You're my lucky charm, I need you, a lot more than what you think."

You started crying, no longer able to uphold the barrier. You clung into him, sobbing into his pricy leather coat. Feelings attack you like an avalanche, waves of negativity and guilt dancing in the hole of your heart, kicking and tearing at it, only making it hurt more.

"Live. Leave the dying to the dead, alright?"

You sniffed, digging your face into his shoulder. "That doesn't even make sense, 'turine."

He chuckled, the sound a soothing melody that fought against the demons within you. "Of course it makes sense," Aventurine said simply, his voice steady and reassuring.

There was a moment when you and Aventurine were wrapped in a tight embrace, his arms holding you as you sobbed uncontrollably. After a while, your tears subsided, and you lifted your head from his shoulder, noticing the damp spots on his clothes. "Ah, your clothes..." you said softly, a hint of embarrassment in your voice.

Aventurine shook his head, his charming smile lighting up his face as it always did for you. "No need to worry," he said gently. "It’s replaceable. You, my dear, are not.”

You wrapped your arms around him, a small, grateful smile touching your lips. "Thanks. I'm sorry for crying," you murmured softly.

He clicked his tongue, his smile gentle. "You don’t have to apologize, sweetie. I’m glad I could help you." With that, he leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on your lips.

A/N: I was listening to that one Hu Tao fan song… so if someone is able to guess which one it is I’ll grant you my upmost respect. Hint: It’s sung by Will Stetson. Oh shoot! Is that hint too easy?

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Madhubala (Mughal-e-Azam, Barsaat Ki Raat, Mr. & Mrs. '55)—The Venus of India; heart-throb of all who saw her; responsible for the sexual awakening of every single desi lesbian I know (including me!) And my god, she is breathtakingly beautiful. Look at the subtle grace with which she moves, and that smile - the kind of radiant smile that can make you laugh with sheer delight, or cry because of its hidden pain. Those wild curls! That Cupid's bow! The way she tilts back her head and smiles at you with mischief dancing in her eyes! She has a way of looking at the camera that makes you feel she's sharing a private joke just with you; it's something about that quizzical twist of the lips and eyebrows. As an actress, she is inimitable; she seems to effortlessly inhabit roles ranging from a heart-broken courtesan to a laughter-loving socialite. Fun fact : she's had quite the fan following in Greece! Stelios Kazantidis even wrote a song as a tribute to her.

Olivia de Havilland (Adventures of Robin Hood, Gone With the Wind, The Heiress)— The woman who took on the Studio System at the height of their power and Won! A double Oscar winner! Is magnetic and beautiful in everything she's in and gave us all the juicy scandal with her sibling rivalry with Joan Fontaine! Before the Oscar Slap was the Oscar sister snub! Also everything she wears in Robin Hood she makes beautiful even a purple green and orange monstrosity how does she do it! Anyway this scene is one of my old Hollywood favourites

This is round 3 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Madhubala:

An icon of Bollywood, who was well known for her beauty and has continued to inspire performances and songs into the 21st century. She was at times described as "the number one beauty of the Indian screen" and "the biggest star in the world".

SHE IS EVERYTHING AHHH. JUST LOOK AT HER SMILE-

She's been nicknamed the Marilyn Monroe of India and was one of the highest paid actresses in the Hindi film industry (the term Bollywood did not exist yet) during the 1950s. Also an extremely talented dancer and singer

SHE'S JUST SO STUNNING, like seeing her eyes IMMEDIATELY CAPTIVATES YOU, THE DANCING, THE BEAUTY!!!!!!!!! She worked in Bollywood for over 20 years and passed away at a sad early age of 36, BUT THE IMPACT SHE HAD WAS UNMATCHED!!!!!

That sassy sideways glance she does always has me WEAK AT THE KNEES. And when she's making silly faces at the camera to mimic someone ahhhh my gay little heart <3

Olivia de Havilland:

She is just perfection. She has a smile that is looks like it is barely holding back, and yet so reserved as well.

Broke the contract system and won freedoms for actors (the de Havilland Law is still in effect I believe). 2 time Oscar winner. Beautiful and smart

She legally challenged the movie studios' unfair contracts and won, setting a precedent for other actors to be treated more fairly. This was at great cost to her financially and essentially getting her blacklisted for years but the resulting judicial opinion is still known as the De Havilland Law and has won her a great deal of praise and admiration.

Her performance in The Heiress is one of my all-time favorites, she’s so good at making melodrama feel real and grounded without sacrificing any of the passion/drama.

Serenely beautiful, she struck a balance between crowd-pleasing fluff and prestigious drama. Famously at odds with her equally successful sister Joan Fontaine, she was too much of a lady to ever say anything public. Successfully sued Ryan Murphy for portraying her as a saucy gossip in Feud.

the period costume + eye patch combo in That Lady is just an absolute serve

She has the most adorable and cherubic face and voice

[queenscatorccio]

A Long-Ass Post On Nat's Music Taste (Biblically Accurate)

I have thought about Yellowjackets + music a very normal amount which is why I have this imperfect and probably non-exhaustive but hopefully canon-accurate list of all the music we know Natalie Scatorccio likes (with reference photos.)

There will probably be a pt 2 with some of my own actual thoughts or a Nat-specific soundtrack rant but I imagine this one could be helpful to writers or smthing so I'm posting it as is.

Pictured above, from left to right: me presenting you with this post, me writing this post

FROM NAT’S STORAGE UNIT

'Kevyn's Mix 4 Nat'

'New Order 1987' -> I think this is their 1987 compilation Substance aka Substance 1987

D.O.A

'Crawford Mix' - the 1st Crawford that came to my mind here is the music journalist Scott Crawford who wrote and directed Something Better Change, a documentary about D.O.A's frontman Joey Shithead, amongst other things. In the 80s-90s he covered the Washington, DC punk scene; maybe Nat is an avid Metrozine reader and made a tape based on Crawford's recs? Music nerd Nat confirmation or does someone else have a less convoluted take?

'Halloween Mix'

'Fine Young Cannibals' - This definitely has some double meaning esp since it's p different from her other stuff

Dinosaur Jr. - Without A Sound. It's blurry as hell but imo the layout + colors are a perfect match. Also: methinks this is a strong contender for Nat's fave album/artist; it's the only tape that doesn't look self-made and in the 1x04 flashback Nat and Kevyn Tan listen to 'Feel the Pain' (the album's opener) and he tries to impress her by claiming that Kurt Cobain wanted J Mascis (Dinosaur Jr.'s singer-guitarist) to join Nirvana (it's true btw)

'Mix For Nat' (this is the mixtape made by Kevyn that Nat retrieves in 1x04; the connect-the-dots-Os match)

for the life of me I cannot read this label :(

'The Gathering' They've undergone a few genre chances since but the Gathering of 1990s was a metal band

'The Actors/The Gathering' - I'm not certain about. Actors (without the the) is a post punk/dark wave band that I do think Nat would dig but it's presence here is a anachronism; the band was formed in 2012. My money is that "The Actors/The Gathering" is just a lil wink from the set designers

this one I think says "SUMMER 4EVER" but it's honestly anyone's guess

'New Wave Mix' - New Order and Blondie (more about them in a minute) are definitely featured!

'Bauhaus Mix'

the Team Dresch tickets!! Hopefully bi!Nat foreshadowing but could also be set designers calling the Yellowjackets gaywads

Tuscadero (pop punk band with heavy girlgroup influences)

FROM NAT'S TEENAGE BEDROOM

her biggest poster is of Debbie Harry so she's definitely a Blondie fan

a riot grrrl poster (so many headcanons but I digress)

Nat has several Megan O'Neil poster and I have no idea she is. There is a Megan O'Neil on the Yellowjackets crew so it might be a reference to her? Or there is a Meghan O'Neil (Pennie) whose music I think Nat would enjoy. She has a signature dark pixie which this poster could reference - but why would the name be spelled wrong?

Nat's room has a shitload of Sub Pop stickers(??) In the flashback, Nat and Kevyn actually talk about Nirvana leaving Sub Pop, an indie record label, for a major label deal.

MEGAN O'NEIL WHO ARE YOU? She has me crashing out. The poster is v visible during the 1x04 scenes at the Scatorccio trailer so idk why they would make two posters for an artist that doesn't exist. If you have any information about Megan 0'Neil, Schrödinger's missing niche (or I'll feel v stupid) riot grrrl act, please reach out!

a poster for Betti-Cola, Cub's debut album

ASSORTED BAND SHIRTS

In 1x02, Nat wears a Black Sabbath shirt - my best guess is that it's for Heaven and Hell but honestly metal isn't my sandbox so idk

Nat wears a Death to the Pixies shirt (which refers to the Pixies' 1997 compilation album) in 1x02 and 1x03 (pictured)

In 1x05, Nat wears a Pink Floyd Europe '77 shirt - if you want to take this as an indication of her fav Pink Floyd album, the 1977 In the Flesh tour was for Animals (1977) but they also performed the all of Wish You Were Here (1975)

In 1x09 and 1x10, she wears and Amyl and the Sniffers shirt

If you notice mistakes or missing pieces - no you don't! But also feel free to tell me or add on etc

tl;dr: Nat has taste and I need someone to tell me who Megan O'Neil is.

[h8ani]

You don't mean to hold onto the past but, you do. You hold onto him with every piece of you and you're only going to hurt others in the process.

Takashi Mitsuya x Reader

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: nsfw, female reader, non-canon events, reader deals with grief, major character death, descriptions of a dead body, mentions of blood, mentions of a panic attack, unprotected sex, hurt & no comfort

Here is my entry for @bioticlaw TUN collab! I don't know why I choose sadness and angst but I hope anyone who reads this enjoys what I wrote! I tried my hardest with this one :')

taglist: @kkittycries @blackfire2013 @benkeibear @suyacho @shujistars

join my taglist -> here

Grief: (noun) deep sorrow, especially that caused by someone's death. 

Grief is the response to loss, particularly to the loss of someone or something that has died. Death is the tragedy in the young, too many opportunities and experiences cut short. There’s a different kind of mourning you feel when someone you love dies young, you’re angry; the unfairness in the world makes you want to scream and cry, all the lost occasions and celebrations you’ll never get with your person. It’s different when they never get to grow old with you, getting to have the same initiations in life that you had to go through; the heartbreaks, the ceremonies, all the celebratory times in one’s life all cut too short by the angel of death himself. Death is a right of passage for the elderly, the old have lived their lives fully, looking back on the memories that they made because they had a full life to live, a life they had lived absolutely.

The death in your life was one no person should have to endure. The loss of your one true love; Ken Ryuguji. The sorrow you feel should be a testament to the love you had, the pain stands as a witness of your bond with him and how it still survives even when time has spent since his passing. 

Ken was a true gem, a diamond in the rough of the people in your life. He was a protector by nature when it came to you, always shielding you from danger since you two were young, it continued even after you two grew up from little kids to young adults although by then you were able to defend yourself without needing his presence. It’s a shame you were never able to do the same for him. 

The memories of seeing him were ones engraved in your mind, the blood that pooled around his cold, lifeless body still haunts every aspect of your being. Most nights you cry yourself to sleep, the recollections of that unforgettable night being the only thing you’re able to think of when the moon shines brightly through your window, the darkness of the night mirroring just how you felt inside most days. No matter what you do to stop them, the tears continue to flow. 

You wish you could think of the happy memories, lord knows there were plenty of them to blur out the bad. Your favorite memories hazily glow in the glum thoughts, the light trying to brighten but eventually being downcast into the murkiness of your heartbreak. You still think back to when you’d be on the back of his bike – your arms wrapped tightly around his waist as the bike was revved up and exceeded speeds that weren’t legal in any way but you didn’t care. You could’ve driven for hours and ended up who knows where and you wouldn’t care. You would’ve been content just being with Ken forever. 

But forever doesn’t exist.

The suffering you endure from the memories of that very night – it’s like razor blades filled inside one of the many stuffed animals he had given you throughout the years, the more you clung to them the deeper the cuts go, and no chance in healing as you embed them deeper and deeper. 

You gasp aloud, body shooting up in a frenzy as you look around, the heavy comforter that was once draped over you was now kicked down and bunched down at your feet. Your throat constricted against itself as you tried to heave as much air in your lungs as possible. The room was spinning even when the darkness surrounded you with no form of light peeking out anywhere. You squeezed your eyes shut, the tears that had already been welling up fell down your cheeks now. You’re so focused on catching your breath and centering yourself that you don’t hear the calling of your name from beside you, the low buzz in your ears greater than his voice could reach. 

You feel a gentle hand on your back, the slow movements of his hand seemingly calming you down in a matter of seconds. “Sorry…” you mutter out, voice hoarse and quiet, you glance over to see your boyfriend, a worried expression etched all over his face. 

“No apologies tonight, okay?” Mitsuya says as he sees your broken figure, he pulls you closer to him as he lays you both back into the bed. Your head rests against his shoulder while he continues to rub small circles along your back. A shaky sigh escapes your lips as you melt into him feeling the tingle in your body slowly dissipate while you calm down. 

Mitsuya knew what he was getting into when he finally decided to approach you, he had known you since you both were kids; being introduced to each other by Draken himself, he also knew of the relationship that you and Draken had, Mistuya was also the one who realized that you were the unlucky soul who found Draken’s body, but how could you not when you were pinged the location. 

It was something out of a movie, a horror movie that no one should have to live through. Mitsuya remembers hearing that you found Draken’s body but when you opened up enough to tell him the events that happened that very night a shiver ran through his spine. 

You rushed through the story when trying to talk to him about it, tears pricking your eyes because you were so tired of crying and just wanted to stop. When you finally got to the part that took an eerily chill turn Mitsuya could feel his own throat start to contract, the bile in his throat slowly rising up. You got the location ping from Draken himself, it was a random spot, an area behind a field that was frequently packed during the summer when little league would be in full swing, but you knew it. You went to go meet him, confused as to why he was so M.I.A during the day and why he didn’t tell you about the reason for this random location drop. You finally saw him, lying in a patch of grass staring up at the stars until realizing what you were actually looking at. 

Draken was dead. 

His face looked peaceful but the torn, dirty clothes he was wearing said differently. The grass was stained red around him and it dragged on as if his body was moved. Days later you found out that he had been dead for hours prior to getting the location ping that was sent to your phone, a silent yet deafening message being sent to you.

Mitsuya listened to everything, seeing how you were when reiterating the story to him, watching how you fidgeted and struggled to finish the story towards the end. You were never the same after that, the lasting effects of witnessing and living through something so traumatizing was something you dealt with on a daily basis. You told him that the first few months you had nightmares every night, some so bad that you forced yourself to stay awake for days on end which only made you incoherent at work. Therapy was something you now go to three times a week, it does help but he sees the anger behind your eyes when you say you shouldn’t need it. 

You were closed off when Mitsuya came to you, another result of what you had been through. He remembers vividly of your warnings to him, you were so adamant on telling him that you weren’t the same girl he once knew, you couldn’t be. If you could’ve given him a powerpoint presentation as to why he shouldn’t be with you, you would have if you were given the time. But he didn’t care, he just smiled that same comforting smile he’s always had at you just waiting on you to finish the 15th reason as to why he’d be better off with someone else. 

The look on your face when he just waited for you to finish and proceed to ask you out on a date was something he cherished, the little gap your lips made in astonishment and wide eyes was something to snicker at. He was going to be the one to break down this concrete wall you had built up. 

Days turned into weeks which turned to months and here you were, almost a year together and if you were being completely honest you were surprised. You didn’t expect a relationship to come from him, but when it did, the guilt that started to eat away at you displayed so vividly that you were so sure that he was going to cut and run at the earliest convenience, but he stayed, he kept his feet planted firmly down and promised to help you, he told you that you weren’t alone in this and for the first time in a long time you didn’t feel alone. 

Mitsuya was never a rebound to you, you never wanted him to be just someone to take up the space that Ken once filled up, you don’t think that anyone could truly do that. Being with Mitsuya you learned that it’s okay to keep ahold of those memories you held so close when it came to Ken, that still loving Ken was okay even if you were now with Mitsuya. With the relationship you now had it was easier than you had expected because he had seen all of you, all of your troubles and hardships, and what you needed. There were no points of uncertainty because he was there to help you through it all. If that’s the secret to the strong bond and how it formed so fast for you two you’d be happy to say it aloud and shout it from the rooftops, although you still have your troubles it’s easier to talk to someone who isn’t being paid to listen. 

Despite the fact that your relationship with him wasn’t always like this and your feelings for Mitsuya were more of a slow agonizing burn than something that blossomed like a beautiful flower in the springtime. Your feelings crept up slowly, once treating him like a foreign object that was protruding into you deeper and deeper until you felt the ache subside, you caught yourself waiting on his calls, always happening around the same time, and just like clockwork you let it ring three times before answering. You started to miss his absence and sweet words, always knowing what calms you down when you’re more anxious about the world around you. You genuinely liked him, although the thoughts of uncertainty always loomed in the back of your mind. The guilt eats you away in random moments of the day, when you feel content it hits harder than you’d like. Would Ken be upset with you? This was his friend, his close friend to be exact and it felt wrong. Continuing on with life was something you needed to do, you had to keep going on, so why did you still feel this way? Was it too soon to move on? Should you have stayed alone and dealt with this all yourself rather than finding solace in another person? Was it fair for you to find happiness while Ken couldn’t feel anything anymore? He was gone, dead and buried yet here you are alive and tormented by nothing but the thoughts of him and what could’ve been. 

“We’ll get through this.” Mitsuya’s voice brings you back to him, his voice was as quiet as a whisper but came through so loud in your head. He always has a way of bringing you back down. Your throat still hurt and you could still feel the drum of your heart pounding against your chest. “We’ll get past this.”

Past this… Past Ken… God, if only he was still here. You wouldn’t be like this, you wouldn’t be in pain and constantly having a battle within yourself, you wouldn’t be– 

“I love you.” Mitsuya’s voice cut in. 

Suddenly everything stopped; time, sound, your breathing. The words that left his lips danced around in the atmosphere circling around you both. You raise your head and look at him, lavender eyes wide open as he stares right back at you. He’s terrified, the silence in the air making him more nervous than he’d like to be. 

It slipped, of course he feels that way but he didn’t want to say it until he was absolutely sure you felt the same. A childlike way of going about things but who could blame him when you looked the way you did right now, you were stunned, you might as well have been hit with a stun gun with the way you seemed to be frozen just from three simple words that carried so much weight to them and worry was now creeping up on him, God knows you’ve tried pushing him away before but now this just might be the final blow to send you running away from him for good. 

“Say it again.” You speak up, albeit quietly and unsure of the words that you had just heard but still understood by Mitsuya. 

He swallows down the fear that creeps up his throat, the look he gives you is uncommon yet raw, shifting to face you more, his hand grazes up your arm until it rests against your cheek, and his thumb brushes against the soft skin as he takes a deep needed breath. “I love you–” 

Mitsuya felt your lips on him before he could finish let alone process what was happening. Your eyes squeezed together tight and hands squeezed around his wrist even tighter. If a single kiss could condense a million thoughts and promises in one, this would be it. He kisses you back, lips forming against yours and bleeding all the passion between the words he said to you behind it. Your lips were warm and soft against his which was a stark contrast to your bodies, his was cold to the touch; chest pricked with goosebumps as your warm hands roamed over him. He snaked an arm around you quickly tugging you closer all while shifting to hover over you. You feel his weight bare more on top of you, one hand holding himself up as his other slides under your shirt just enough to feel your skin against his. 

Your skin felt like a million fireworks were being set off on top of it, the way his hand set them off in an instant made you feel so many things: excitement, regret, acceptance, guilt.  

The thought of Ken slips into your mind. Of all times to be here, you thought. You were always so shy with him, the memories of your first time flooded in like a dam that had finally burst. His face; rosy cheeks and the beads of sweat that graced his body, he was praising you the entire time, telling you how good you were doing and how beautiful you looked under his body. His hands; how strong they were when you finally switched positions, he so easily lifted you up and brought you back down his cock with such ease. And his mouth; the way he effortlessly spewed such filth on top of the sweet and loving words he’d call you. And his-

You shake those thoughts away, needing wanting to focus on the man in front of you. 

Your hands find their way to his hair, fingers grazing the side where his tattoo stays hidden. Strong hands find place at your waist and soon fingers dexterously hook into the waistband of your bottoms and tug them down.

He wishes he could take his time with you, wanting to go as slow as he can to savor this moment, but the way he’s tugging your top off and pulling his sweats down he can’t help it. Your hands move quickly as well, tugging at his boxers with a slight tremor. Nerves running rampant at this very moment, you want this, you need this with him. You want to get this right. 

You’re both so sweaty as his cock is thrusted back into you continuously. The oversensitivity for how long you two have been going is catching up to you and tears well up in your eyeline ready to fall. Just a little more and you’ll get there, teetering on the edge of ecstasy and falling back down to losing your high. 

Mitsuya’s thrusts weren’t rough but were just enough to pull the small whimpers from you. His hands were on your hips pushing you deeper into the mattress with every thrust that kissed your walls, it was needy, the way your legs hooked behind him pulling him deeper and deeper just chasing that high you couldn’t reach. Your brows furrowed in frustration and he saw that, he saw how you’ve been trying for so long just to finally cum. His thumb pressed into your clit rubbing small, quick circles to help you but that barely did anything. 

Your walls fluttered around him for the nth time that night but almost like a mental block you don’t reach your peak, your walls stop gripping around him while a pout forms on your face and a huffed out sigh that was quietly heard. You couldn’t get yourself to finish. 

Mitsuya swallows thickly as the words he’s about to say cause a deep churn in his stomach. “If you need to say…” he swallows them down, hips slowing down in the process yet still flush against yours, “his name. If that makes all of this easier for you, then say it.”

You snap your head up to look at him. Disbelief filling your brain from the words he just said. His name. Say Ken’s name…

“Takashi-”

“It’s fine-fuck.” He groans, his hips slowly pulling out until just the tip then slowly thrusts back in, a certain fervor behind it that makes your ears ring. His pace picks up, the shallow sound of his hips meeting yours until another groan leaves him. “You need this.”

He leans down and his lips latch onto the sweet spot to your neck, licking a stripe up until you visibly shiver. Your arms hook under his own, holding him tight against your chest. His own groans of pleasure in your ear spurring you on further. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears finally falling past your waterline as you allow yourself to think about him, bringing those thoughts you so desperately tried pushing away earlier this night. You think about how Ken would grab you, hold you, kiss you, touch you. Imagining that he was the one to touch you now, cock buried deep within your walls and groaning from how tight you squeeze him. If you thought hard enough Mitsuya’s voice melded into his, the same deep vibrato you loved to hear, especially in the morning. Mitsuya’s cock buried in you soon blended in your thoughts of Ken, finally feeling as if it was Ken who was fucking you.

His name slips out of your lips before you realize what you’re doing, a gasp rips from you as you open your eyes wide. You meet Mitsuya’s pretty purple eyes that are already staring down at you. You couldn’t decipher what it was; he had a different appearance behind his eyes. “Again.” He says before thrusting into you harder, each thrust of his soon becoming rougher than the last and hitting all the sensitive spots inside that make you choke on your own moans. 

“Fuck…Ken.” You moan his name, this time a bit louder than the last. You clench down tighter than you have for the night, you were so close, Mitsuya could tell from the glossy look you had. 

“Come on baby, cum for me.” His voice was desperate, he needed you to cum, he needed to feel you unravel underneath him even if it wasn’t him who you had on your mind. 

He leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, hips slamming in rougher that had you squealing out. His tip hitting deeper the harder he fucks up into you. You look up at him seeing that his eyes never left yours. “I love you.” is all you utter before finally crashing down. Body shaking as you orgasm, Mitsuya’s hips sputter as your own orgasm causes his, a flurry of curse words leaving his lips as he paints your walls with his cum.

It’s silent in the aftermath, just the sounds of heavy breathing from the both of you and the sound of the blankets shuffling as he pulls out, laying beside you. 

You both are at a loss for words, how has someone as pure hearted as Mitsuya lasted this long in a world so cold and fucked up? How did he end up with you? Were you also just the last string left he had left of Draken? Had his feelings been blinded by the pain he felt from losing him? How did you end up with someone so kind and understanding? Knowing no one else in this world would have the patience that he has had for you. How did a once calm night turn into tension that couldn’t be cut with the sharpest blade? 

You really fucked up this time, you both think to yourselves. 

Eventually, Mitsuya turns to flick the bedside lamp off, soon enveloping you in the darkness that you felt was your heart. You felt the blankets now cover you as you were pulled into him, the warmth of his body and his arm holding you tight allowing you to feel relieved in some way, you still felt cold inside, nonetheless. A sigh leaves both of your chests while you close your eyes and let the darkness take over. 

The last thought before falling asleep was of Ken.

Oh, how you missed him. 

If only it really was him.

networks: @enchantedforest-network @bitchcraftinc @ghostqueue

[antikittysocial]

007n7 Dies To Tapeworms

Oneshot below of exactly what I just wrote. Oh and trigger warning for vomiting cuz he does that A LOT in this oneshot

It all started with the killing games. Because of course it did. It was pretty much the only thing to do, and even then, it was repetitive.

In a team, there were multiple designated roles you could fit. Stunning, support, and survival. Or a mix of two of those. Support included healing, which was just Builderman and Elliot. For Builderman, you'd simply stand near a dispenser. For Elliot, you'd hopefully catch pizza flung at you.

Sometimes, it missed, or it was cold and thrown earlier, but in a place where they had to fight for their lives, food safety and general hygeine were thrown out the window. Eating grassy or dirty pizza was a fair price for living, after all. Turns out that was a threat in of itself.

It was only after a good while it started to become a problem. What began with constantly being inbetween not wanting to eat and insatiable hunger and stomach pains ended up with vomiting and weight loss. Quickly, to boot. But this couldn't be anything more than fatigue, right? Surely this was only a product of the Spectre's torture. That's what 007n7 assumed, until other survivors started commenting on it.

How on some days he'd eat a ridiculous lot and on others nothing.

The weird weight loss patterns.

The lack of focus in rounds and overall weakness.

That's what got him to start questioning if there was something else going on. Something else causing this.

He wouldn't know until much, much later that he wasn't the only thing being brought back to life every time he died in a round.

...It was, currently, shown by his wristwatch, approximately two in the morning, and he was leaning on the sink in the bathroom, gripping it.

He'd just vomited up stomach acid for the third time that night. First time it was in his mouth, so he came to the bathroom to dispose of it, but he drank some water after and that probably wasn't a good idea, so he threw up again, and once more some time after that. He didn't know how long it had been, but for all he knew it didn't exist - he could only barely see his face reflected by the mirror in the dark, the only light there cast from the moon, and he felt so sick his arms didn't have any feeling. He didn't even know if he was breathing or not.

But maybe he spent too long like that, because the next thing he remembers, it's morning and he's still standing there. Passed out? Slept? Stayed awake, dazed? Didn't really matter, it would probably be time for rounds again soon. Hopefully he wasn't complete dead weight. It was bad enough that his clones could walk more like a real person than he could, if not just embarrassing.

But that was probably an advantage, that he kept walking into walls. Unless the killers were going to be competent that day.

Unfortunately, the killers wouldn't be his only cause of death that day.

When he finally got John Doe off his tail in a round, the vomit came up again. In his mouth, again.

Shit, where do I... The acid lake, maybe??

He was currently in the glass houses, hiding behind the pool table. But he was not dealing with stomach acid burning and souring his mouth. Consequently, he went right over to the acid lake after checking to see if John Doe was there, and promptly emptied his already empty guts out in that lake. Much better, but the taste of acid lingered.

He was then sent slightly backwards by an array of black spikes that appeared right out the floor. Yikes. How much time is there left, even?

He checked. Two minutes and 23 seconds. 21. 20.

Yeah no, time to get back to running again. The spikes, luckily, weren't aimed at him, but it had him trapped in a corner where he couldn't get to the bridge without inflicting damage on himself, which wasn't exactly convenient considering his already weakened state.

But whatever. He wasn't the target yet, so that's something. When the spikes disappeared, he crossed the bridge to hopefully find some generator to help with. And he found one. In fact, he found two. One was being done by Chance, and the other by Two Time. Two Time was already halfway there, so he decided to approach Chance's generator instead, and began fixing the wires. It was kind of weird how everyone managed to not get electrocuted.

Except, Two Time rushed past when the generator was completed, holding their arm in front of them, with John Doe swiping at them. However, he quickly switched targets, which was Chance, but seeing as he just died to his own flintlock, there was a new target. Which was 007n7. He threw out his clone to hopefully body block, but John Doe saw right through him and impaled him with those all-too-familiar black spikes. So he opened his eyes, and there he was, back at the main cabin. Great. So that's just Guest 1337 and Two Time left.

...Hey now, why does it feel like he's dying again? Didn't he quite literally JUST do that?

Yup, something's happening. Something's happening. Collapsing maybe? Definitely. Maybe he was weak from just getting killed, but whatever. He could just close his eyes for a little bit, maybe until the round ended...

He opened his eyes again, feeling better, an-

Oh, he just respawned again. That's... A sight. What happens to all the dead bodies, actually? Hopefully not just stick around. He didn't particularily feel lige lugging a dead body off to somewhere else. Especially his own.

... Doesn't matter for now. He felt a lot better after that, somehow. At least it's over, thank goodness for that.