#like man i don't know what's going on!! what even is this !! [<- usually something that was explained that i forgot about]

[muqingslover]

I just wanted to ask you (since I saw this prompt before and I wanted to hear your take on it), in a Cherry Magic AU setting, MC can hear the thoughts of the lads men. Who do you think would have the most unhinged train of thoughts/ stream of consciousness?

I just have a feeling that Zayne would be the most surprising/unhinged since he's so calm and collected, even cold on the outside, so he has to keep a lot inside. (Or maybe I'm just biased because I'm a Zayne girlie and he's my pookie)

I absolutely love the way you write! The flow is so nice and easy to follow. Overall, it's relaxing and entertaining to read what you write!!

[ AAA THANK YOU SM FOR THE KIND FEEDBACK! it means everything to me I'm so so so glad you enjoy it! 💕🫂 I actually didn't know what Cherry Magic was but omg?! it's so cute!? I just had to do this! ]

Coming in hot in first place we have the IT boy himself.

His thoughts are not technically unhinged as they are just OVERWHELMING.

You would be having lunch and Caleb's sitting across of you like 😊 while his mind is filled with so much stuff.

'Their lips are a bit redder today...Is it because of the spice? I should tone it down next time, oh but they look so cute like that. Their eyes are all watery it's so damn cute, so cute so, so so cute— Huh? They're staring? Oh *I* am the one that's staring. Look away look away, yeah, alright, smooth.'

His thoughts are extremely noisy all. the. time. It's pretty much about everything, but especially you.

I also feel like he repeats a lot of words regarding you like he'd immediately go 'Cute, cute, cute cute cute—' when you laugh at what he said or have an internal panic if you did something to tease him 'Too close oh god— They're close, close, close, too damn close— I can feel their body warmth—'

CATCH HIS LYING ASS POOKIES, I mean ahem.

Guys this man will have the most innocent smile on his face when he claims he'd never do something and when you take a peek inside his thoughts he is most definitely thinking about doing it.

"I have no reason to steal your clothes. C'mon now pipsqueak— Yes, yes, I pinky promise I'm not messing with you this time."

'Shit shit shit shit shit. I didn't have time to wash it yet— Why are they doing laundry today anyway? They usually only do it on Friday nights.'

Second place belongs to none other than to the neighborhood freak.

Now Xavier is a mix of absolutely empty no thoughts at all to freaky ahh stuff.

He will have a nonchalant face but his thoughts? oh dear lord.

"My throat feels a bit sore because of the weather recently."

"Let's buy some cough drops for you on our way back."

'I wonder if I can still do it tonight...I wouldn't want them to hurt their throat more. Oh. If I cover their mouth shouldn't it be fine? What should I use...Wait, I should ask them later about it...........I wonder if they'll sit on my face again.....that was nice..........Kinda sleepy.'

He is also the only one of the crew that is not particularly embarrassed, freaked out or even worried that you can read his thoughts.

If anything, Xavier believes it makes communication a whole lot easier. Sometimes he's so tired that even speaking takes a lot of energy from him so being able to tell you what he wants just by touching you is an advantage.

Yes, he will absolutely think about freaky things on purpose only to see your face turning red.

I think fishie takes third place.

#Meangirl alert. /hj

Rather than it being about you it's more about his brutal honesty in general. Lord have mercy when he is grading projects from his classes.

Rafayel is someone that calculates his words (and actions) A LOT, which means this is a nightmare for him. He doesn't want you to see past the fun, sassy persona he shows you.

Especially if the subject about his past came up because then things could get real ugly, real quick.

"I would never hurt you like that, Raf."

'...That sounds like a cruel joke. You don't know that. You don't know anything about me. About us. How is this fair? How can I tell you about what you did— About what *I* had to do when you look at me like that?'

"...I know. I trust you."

You would also realize he is actually a lot more apathetic towards others than expected. The humans' opinions/ problems are simply not something he can bring himself to genuinely care about unless they affect him or you directly.

Lastly, he hums and sings A LOT in his head. Usually they're very old, beautiful songs from his homeland and it's really nice to tune in his private radio station.

Maybe controversial but this man's thoughts are clean as a whistle.

Unless he is actively doing something sexual Sylus is not thinking about anything remotely dirty.

Personally I believe his mind is quiet in general. He has an internal "To-do list" and that's what you will hear for most of the time.

'Oh, their water bottle is cracked. I should get them a new one soon. The twins' new jackets are being delivered today, that's good. It's getting colder already I don't want them to get sick again. The new supplies will need my signature so I must return before the sunrise. Tomorrow the new restaurant they mentioned opens, I'll make sure to ask them for dinner. '

On the other hand, his thoughts can also be quite vulnerable and insecure towards your relationship with him.

Almost every night when he holds you in his arms you will hear him think 'Please stay with me.' and he sounds so genuinely afraid.

You will also hear him think a looooot of 'I love you' during the day at random times. He's just a large, lovestruck puppy looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

The calmest thoughts but the cutest of all of the boys.

Like, you don't understand he's sooo damn cute.

Zayne may look like he'd rather be anywhere else but here and then you touch him and what you get is

'...I wish I had gotten the limited cat keychain from the cafe. Perhaps they'll rerun it next spring. I'll take them with me then........We could get matching ones....Well, if they agree to go with me. Or I could bring it to them as a gift, that would be nice too.'

Another one that has an mental "To-do list". During work hours he's extremely focused and his thoughts rarely, if ever, stray from what he's doing.

When with you his mind is calm (unless you're teasing this poor man because then his mind is going into OVERDRIVE.) and his internal comments are suuuuper soft and loving.

'Their hair is styled today...it looks really nice. Should I tell them? ....No, it's best not to. Hm....Oh, right. I have some leftover candy from my appointments today, I'll give them some instead.'

10/10 experience guarantee.

[ddejavvu]

hiccup casual dominance haddock gently chastising reader who cannot stop biting the skin around their fingers……. (i love ur blog and ur writing btw<3)

the way he grabs astrid's arms and shakes her in the second movie. mhm mhm.

--

It's something mindless, the gnawing of your teeth at the sharp edge of your finger. You have a habit of biting the skin around your nails, and this one seems to have regrown from the last time you'd severed it. It's something you'd felt with the pad of your thumb and raised to your mouth without thinking, but Hiccup notices it like it's a lit neon sign.

"Hey!" He snaps, still bent over his workbench but no longer focused on the patches of leather he's sewing together. He says nothing more, and your hand lowers unconsciously from your mouth when you raise your head to look at him. You're semi-alarmed: there's really no good reason to be yelling in a forge, it usually means something is on fire. But Grump is very much asleep in the corner, and the flames have gone out.

"What?" You ask, truly stumped. You're not trying to be obtuse, your arm halfway raised to your mouth simply doesn't register.

Hiccup raises one eyebrow- you wonder whether he's gotten his sass from Stoick or Valka, because he's got buckets of it, and he flicks his eyes pointedly downwards towards your hand, then back up at your face, unimpressed.

You mirror his gaze, realizing that your eyes fall upon the mangled skin around your ring finger's nail.

"Oh. Shit," You mumble, shame heating your cheeks. You always feel like such a baby when someone points out your bad habit, but you know Hiccup isn't trying to tease you, so you jam your hand into your lap, smearing away saliva on your pants.

"You're gonna make yourself bleed." Hiccup's voice is gentle but pointed, "Again."

You neglect to tell him that the one time he'd witnessed your teeth grind too far into the meat of your finger- enough to draw blood, hadn't been the first nor the last time you'd bled. It's not the norm, but it's not the outlier either. You merely bite your tongue, waiting for further reprimands, or for gracious silence.

He's a kind man, so he grants you the latter. But as soon as the embarrassment clears from your head, you forget all about the incident, and you become immersed in the pages of your book once more.

Off-kilter stomping, one-part boot and one-part metal peg, is all the warning you get before your hands are snatched away from you, one pulled from your lap and the other from your mouth.

You're already rushing out a, 'Sorry, sorry, sorry!' but he won't let your hand go when you tug at it. He holds it firmly in his own, his brow set in a stern frown. He looks like his father's namesake, and you foresee him being a very intimidating chief one day- if perhaps he can pile on some meat to his bones.

"Stop biting your fingers." He says, shaking your arms gently with each word, "I have eagle eyes. You forget, I have to watch Toothless constantly to make sure he doesn't steal my leg right out from under me."

Toothless's great head raises from where it had been sleepily resting on the wood floor, and he presents his disdain for Hiccup's terrible accusations in the form of a testy huff.

"I notice everything." Hiccup promises, his eyes boring into yours, "You're never gonna be able to sneak it past me."

"I'm not trying to sneak it past you!" You swear, shame once again licking at the inside of your chest. You try not to whine, but your voice takes on a hint of hopelessness, "I'm- it just happens, I don't know! I don't think about doing it, and I don't do it on purpose, it just happens! It's like breathing! How am I supposed to stop doing it when I don't even do it on purpose?"

"I will help you stop." Hiccup decides, the frown on his features softening as your desperation bleeds through, "It's okay, I'll- we'll figure something out. Like gloves!" He brightens, "Leather gloves, I can make them, that way they'll stop you from biting at your actual finger. And then it'll force you to think about it, and slowly you'll stop doing it altogether. Or something that tastes bad on your fingers. I could ask Astrid to make some of her yaknog- that stuff's thick enough to be a paste. I can spread it on your fingertips and then you'll be deterred by just the smell. Or- or a restraint! I could chain some cuffs to the bench," Hiccup gestures at the slab of wood you're sitting on, "And you can have just enough give to read your book, but not to reach for your face."

"Hold on," You stop him, knowing his mind is filling with glorious, terrible ideas, "You want to handcuff me and chain me to the bench?"

Hiccup's face shifts, clarity dawning on his bright features and dimming them, "Okay, that one- you're right, that's not my best idea."

"I don't want yaknog on my hands either," You grimace, "Can we just- try the gloves?"

"Yeah. The gloves." Hiccup nods, squeezing your hands with finality, but only releasing one- the one you'd spared. He keeps the freshly-bitten fingers in his own hand, peering worriedly at the skin to spot any blood. When he finds none, he drags your hand to his mouth, kissing gently over the side of your finger before finally letting you have it back.

"I'll start on your gloves right away," He goes back to his workbench, sliding his previous project to the side, "Snotlout is just gonna have to wait for his new saddle. As long as Hookfang doesn't burn through the one he's got, he'll be fine for a few more days. But you need those gloves now." Hiccup stares pointedly at you from across the room, "For now, please try not to bite your fingers. Or I'll sick Toothless on you."

Big green eyes stare at you with interest from across the room, but the dragon won't pounce without Hiccup's command. You'd rather like to keep breathing clean air and not fish breath, so you tuck your hands beneath your thighs on the bench, electing to only remove one to turn a page of your book.

"Perfect," Hiccup grins, a hint of pride in his smile as he grabs for a fresh panel of leather, "I'll have your gloves done in no time."

[ashthesalamipiece]

can I request one where reader and katsuki are “best friends” until one day they have a argument and she ignores him and he gets clingy and jealous and finally confesses? please and thank you!

"Say You Won't Let Go"

You and Katsuki Bakugo had been best friends since your first year at U.A., a bond forged through sparring sessions, late-night studying, and silent support during your roughest days. People often mistook you for a couple, but you would always laugh it off — even if a tiny part of you wished it were true.

Katsuki was your person. Always had been. Always would be... or so you thought.

It started with something stupid.

He had been spending more time with Mina, Denki, and the others lately — and you noticed. It wasn't that you didn't want him to have other friends; it was just...you missed him. And when you finally worked up the courage to say something, it came out wrong.

"Maybe you should just go hang out with them then, if I'm so boring!"

Your voice cracked in the middle of it, and instead of seeing the hurt underneath, Katsuki bristled.

"Tch, don't be fuckin' stupid, (Y/N)."

"No, it's fine. I'm tired of being your backup plan, Bakugo."

You left before he could say anything else.

After that, you ignored him.

In the halls. At lunch. During training.

You weren’t cruel — you just... couldn't bear to pretend like nothing had changed.

---

At first, Katsuki thought you needed time to cool off.

Then a day passed. Then two.

By the end of the week, he was losing his mind.

It wasn’t just your absence — it was how easily you seemed to move on without him. Smiling at Kirishima, laughing with Sero, letting Todoroki carry your bag after a mission when you usually made Katsuki do it just to annoy him.

It made him angry.

It made him jealous.

It made him scared.

You had always been there. His constant. His anchor. And now? It felt like you were slipping right through his fingers.

---

He cornered you after training one afternoon, the setting sun painting the gymnasium in fiery colors.

"Oi," he barked, his voice harsh to mask the panic swelling in his chest.

You barely glanced at him. "I'm busy, Bakugo."

Hearing you say his last name so formally — like a stranger — was a punch to the gut.

"Don't fuckin' do that," he growled, stepping closer. "Don't act like I don't matter."

You bit your lip and looked away, crossing your arms defensively.

"What do you want from me, Katsuki?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He faltered. His fists clenched at his sides.

"I want you to stop actin' like you don't fuckin' care!"

You blinked, stung by the rawness of his voice. "You have everyone else now. Go bother them."

"I don't want them!" Katsuki exploded, making you flinch. His chest heaved. His heart felt like it was going to tear through his ribs. "I want you. It's always been you, dumbass."

Silence.

You stared at him, stunned.

He took a shuddering breath, stepping closer, lowering his voice like a secret meant for you alone.

"I'm a fuckin' idiot. I didn't know how to say it. But... you're not my backup plan, (Y/N). You're my everything."

Your eyes burned.

You wanted to stay mad — to throw his words back at him and protect your heart — but the way he looked at you, desperate and terrified, broke down every wall you'd built.

Slowly, you shook your head. "You should've told me sooner, Katsuki..."

He hesitated, then cupped your face with rough, calloused hands, as if he was scared you'd disappear.

"I'm tellin' you now. Don't make me fuckin' beg."

You laughed wetly through your tears, clutching the front of his shirt to steady yourself.

"Idiot," you whispered. "I was in love with you this whole time."

Katsuki kissed you like a man drowning — fierce, wild, full of all the things he never knew how to say. And you kissed him back just as desperately, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Because he was.

Because he always had been.

---

Later that night, as you sat together on the roof of the dorms, his arm slung over your shoulders, he muttered into your hair:

"Never ignoring me again, got it?"

You smiled softly against his chest.

"Only if you promise the same."

Katsuki squeezed you tighter.

"Deal."

And this time, you both knew you meant forever.

[thewertsearch]

Ask Comp 28/04

@worldweary-walker asked: Dad Egbert's genre friction with Homestuck is fun. He is about Serious Business… but he can take a joke! He has the very efficient Wallet Modus, but used a safe to store the note. A man of contrasts. A man of mystery…

Genuinely, the fact that he legitimately was a prankster despite his normie aesthetic is one of my favourite things about the man. Let's hope Dad Crocker is the same.

Anonymous asked: now that you've met her, the final Namco High character is Jane. you still can't play Namco High yet (I think the collection will automatically inform you when it's no longer spoilers) but soon. soon.

The fact that Namco High might actually include plot spoilers for Homestuck is hilarious.

In lieu of evidence to the contrary, I'm going to assume it's the only piece of Homestuck-adjacent media which actually explains the Aspects.

@honestlyvan asked: I hope whatever is going on with you is easygoing, and you don't feel too pressed about this side-project, tbh. I would also rather you take your time with it and enjoy yourself. @marineofthestars asked: 13/04? @gl1tchypyr0 asked: Are you planning anything for 4/13 because Homestuck day? Anonymous asked: so happy you're back! @ramdomartkid asked: Happy 4/13!!!!!!

Thank you - happy to be back!

Don't worry too much about the recent hiatuses - none of them have been prompted by anything serious. Sometimes, I'm just excessively busy, and need to catch my breath a little!

Anonymous asked: rereading your archive, dropping in a couple of my personal miscellaneous voice hc's while im here! John: Abed Nadir (Community) Feferi: Mabel Pines (Gravity Falls) Doc Scratch: The Narrator (The Stanley Parable)

Doc Scratch as the Narrator is inspired, and Mabel fits Feferi surprisingly well.

I've still never seen Community - and, in fact, I'm not sure I even know what it's about. I know about the pizza meme, of course, and I think they play Dungeons and Dragons at one point?

Anonymous asked: Is Sally being introduced to in-fandom memes at the point in the comic where they would have been popular, or are we just going off when they stop being spoilers?

(More the latter. If people want to spread the memes around, then as long as it isn't a spoiler, it gets a pass. And frankly, the two are usually pretty close together. - Vamp)

Yeah, what usually happens with Homestuck's major memes - Pantskat, for example - is that I'll get several asks referencing it immediately after it stops being a spoiler. My spoiler policy being what it is, I'm generally made aware of them during my next ask session after the fact!

@semaphoricwave asked: Hypothetically, if somebody wanted to write a fic about your trollsona's dancestor, would that spark joy or would you rather the hypothetical somebody didn't? The story you've laid out is fascinating and I (I mean, the hypothetical somebody) would really enjoy digging into it, but I also understand if that's not something you'd be interested in people doing with your trollsonas. Also follow-up in case it does spark joy: any other facts about Sahlee Senior that would be of interest to that hypothetical somebody? Either way hope you have a good week!

Absolutely! I'd be thrilled to read any fics involving my OCs. I've DMed you a short character profile on the Hostess that you can use for reference - and if you have any specific questions, feel free to ping me!

Anonymous asked: Just r3ad thr0ugh y0ur liv3bl0g, and I want3d t0 say h0w much I l0v3d r3ading it. Sup3r happy y0u d3cid3d t0 try 0ut th3 3pil0gu3s as well!¡! @heattth asked: I just wanted to say, I've been rereading the whole liveblog and it is a very fun experience. Thank you for having written it.

Thanks a bunch - it's always nice to get messages like this.

Seeing a post's note counter go up is a very abstract way to get feedback. Like, I'm aware that a ton of people are reading (and hopefully, enjoying) the posts, but it's still hard to conceptualize - so asks like this are a great way to make it feel real. I can see irrefutable evidence that people really are having a good time on TheWertsearch dot com, which is all I really ask for.

@mhafanlol2000 asked: Do you think about how Dave and Rose’s prophesied hero’s journeys both ended in suicide. What do you think that says about them? If I have to constantly think about this then so do you.

I think what it says the most is that Sburb loves suicide. It's the default way to achieve the God Tier, after all, and according to Terezi, the game actively wants the children who play it to wrestle with their own mortality.

This, to me, is one of the most explicitly malicious aspects of the game. It's really not necessary to achieve Skaia's stated goals, and I'm unconvinced that traumatizing these children makes them more effective custodians of a universe.

@caliquill asked: dropping in to say - jane is maybe my favourite homestuck character so it brings me great joy to see you cracking at her flaws in a genuine manner. thank you :]

Jane's great so far. She's not a carbon copy of John - and, honestly, she feels like the most unique of the B2 kids so far.

Hussie already had a framework to build on with Dirk, Roxy and Jake, but Nannasprite's main traits were 'grandma', 'ghost', and 'clown', none of which should logically transfer to Jane. She had to be mostly original.

@spiddermen asked: bowman just released a new track for the 16th anniversary! it's awesome and doesnt have any spoilies, it's called on the thirteenth day

Ooh, I'd love to give it a listen!

If anyone can link me a non-spoilery upload of the song, I'd appreciate it. YouTube and Bandcamp are both danger zones, and I'm not sure where else you might find it.

@faggoatquixote asked: “GT: Right o! If a man believes hard enough in imaginary things then i dare say that makes them slightly less fake!” Sounds a lot like talk from another Page boy I know… Rufio anyone?

Which is kind of weird, right?

I assumed Jake's 'belief' schtick was due to him being a Hope Player - but Tavros has said some similar things, and he shares Jake's class, rather than his aspect.

I suppose not every character trait has to be informed by a Player's Title. After all, Jade used to be defined by her clairvoyance, and she's no Seer.

@bellcarved asked: In defense of Jake, he lives alone on an island and has literally run out of people to talk to about this (unless he were to do something like ask Jane to hand her phone to her father and got advice from him)

Oh, for sure. Everything these kids are doing wrong is totally understandable, due to their frankly bizarre home lives - and Jake, in particular, appears to have been living completely alone on that island for some time, which is bound to stunt the guy's social development.

In retrospect, I'm kind of surprised that Jade turned out as well as she did.

@bladekindeyewear asked: And as expected, Kid Bro's hair is ALSO a bird, just a different one than Dave's.

Dirk's just trying to blend in with the local fauna, like his brother before him.

@elkian asked: A fun fandom trend is to give the ectogroups portmanteau names. "Strilondes" was pretty easy, but the Prospit quartet presents some difficulties and is usually an unholy amalgamation along the lines of "Crockerberts" "Harlenglishes" and the ambitious combination of all four like "Harlegbercrockerenglishes" and so on. (I feel like there was a particular one with a lot of staying power but can't recall it exactly.) There's still Reddit threads of the debates around here and there.

This is why I just call 'em the Prospit squad.

I tried to make something that's at least pronounceable, and came up with the Harkersherts. Not a lot of English in there, though.

Anonymous asked: "and I’d bet Boondollars to donuts that Jake and Roxy have 'em too." Come on, 'boondollars to bronuts' was right there.

Damn it! I really do need to step up my bro-punning now that our second Strider has entered the story.

@ben-guy asked: (in regards to your theory about B2 Dave having memory leaks possibly making him interested in Con Air) "something about an old friend" Emphasis on the "old" in this timeline lmao

Oh, good point. It is possible that Dave could have met Poppop Crocker at some point, especially if he was in contact with his Seer sister.

Maybe it wasn't his pre-Scratch memories. Maybe he learned about Con Air directly from the source, after all. <3

Anonymous asked: ”Kneel before Cal” Lil’ dude even if you don’t Know. That’s hella ominous yo

Dirk feels like the kind of guy who doesn't realize how foreboding some of his sentences actually are. He'd do numbers on Tumblr, and you know it.

...I guess, technically, he has done numbers on Tumblr. lmao

@elkian asked: Jane-Dirk is genuinely one of my favorite character dynamics in the entire comic so I'm delighted that they're resonating with you, too! Their conversations are so fun.

Yup! As I said, I'm really happy that Jane, in particular, is not just a remix of John. The way she relates to her friends is quite different from anything we've seen from Egbert - or anyone else, for that matter.

I really hope that this friend group doesn't collapse into some sort of nightmare love quadrangle, because I really am enjoying these dynamics, and I want to see more.

Anonymous asked: Do you think that when you are done for the day you could note that? Maybe as a tag or something? Then people would know to stop checking to see if you add another post?

I would, but the problem is that I never really know if I'm actually done for the day - not until the day is already over. See, I usually just liveblog until I get distracted, and often return later in the evening for a second round - that is, if I haven't fallen asleep before I've had the chance. Perils of ADHD, I guess.

I suppose I could add such a tag the day after a liveblogging session, but that sounds like it'd be too late to be useful for your use case. :/

Anonymous asked: Okay, so Lil' Bro gave both Jake the Brobot, and Jane Sebastian. What do you think Roxy's inevitable robo-buddy will be like?

There is absolutely no universe in which it isn't a cat.

Anonymous asked: Sorry about the spoiler! A while ago, I did some testing on YouTube and incognito mode because I was curious, and I found that, unfortunately, Google isn't fooled by it. YouTube's algorithm definitely prioritizes things you watch in normal mode, presumably to be subtle about this, but it also definitely knows what you watch in incognito. The effect becomes more obvious with an account that watches zero or very few videos in normal mode. (I tested this 3-4 years ago, so I can't say for certain that the specifics haven't changed, but I don't see why they'd have stopped doing this since then.)

Targeting algorithms are just too damn good these days. All I can really do is avoid watching Homestuck videos on my main account, employ a VPN, and hope for the best.

Anonymous asked: More like DORK strider

Fuckin' get him!

@mrjocrafter asked: I mean, you did get this three months ago

Those names were listed in order of likelihood - so yes, I expected it to be Dick. I really did.

Dick Strider seemed like exactly the kind of move Hussie would pull...

@library-seraph asked: Fun fact: when Dirk's name hit the comic, people were upset it wasn't Dick. Hussie still used tumblr back then, so they made a post saying that, as a small dagger, dirk is still a dick joke, and they're annoyed people would want them to go for the lowest hanging dick joke Anonymous asked: You're not alone. A significant majority of the fandom at the time also expected "Dick", enough that Hussie actually addressed it by saying that would have been too on-the-nose. IIRC, Hussie also described "Dirk Strider" as sounding more like a male porn star's stage name, while clearly implying that this is a major upside.

...but I suppose that's exactly why they didn't.

Low-hanging fruit is all well and good, but you can't always choose the path of least resistance, or your story will just keep getting flatter.

@shelbybunny asked: remember this post you made when you liveblogged jack: ascend, and how you wished they had a poster of that sburb shot? well good news PS: i’m pretty sure you can take a look at the full store now, but i’d have someone double-check just in case

(The store is, in fact, spoiler-free now. - V)

Oh, hell yeah!

I'm not going to pretend I'm not tempted - and not just by the poster, either. Those captchalogue boards look great, too.

In order to preserve just a little bit of hope for myself, I'm not going to look up the shipping costs to Europe until tomorrow.

@clueless-rarito asked: While Dave rambles fells a lot like a stream of consciousness that just spills out randomly in the middle of conversations, Dirk's fell extremely intentional and precisely deployed, make you fell he meticulously choose each word to be as full of complete bullshit as humanly possible.

Turns out, Rose and Dave's vibes blend together almost seamlessly. I could probably have told you they would beforehand, but it's still great to see it in action!

@sanctferum asked: Heiress Sans Parent could just refer to Jane's ectobiological origins as a true paradox rather than the beta kids who have ectobiological parents. (The alpha kids are clones of themselves, after all.) Well, either a reference to that or a hint that Dad Crocker is secretly a funny skeleton man.

It better be something like that. If Dad dies again, I'm ragequitting.

@aceotaku asked: when it comes to Jane's scepticism, while being a product of the Condesce's subliminal messaging IS a possibility, Dirk raises another one: that Jane simply only believes things if she's seen them with her own eyes directly, if she has direct proof of them. She's seen prospit in her dreams, she has no reason to think anything anyone says about it is wrong. The things she dismisses are things she hasn't seen directly and thus just thinks it's not true for reasons. or maybe I'm wrong XP

Nah, that's a good take. Jane's a bit of a cautionary tale, then, about how stubborn empiricism can severely limit your understanding of a concept or situation.

Sometimes, you really do have to take a leap of faith.

@liliflower137 asked: Hello!! I only just started reading your liveblog and I just want to say I love your commentary SO much, I read it pretty late (just between it ending and it being sold to viz media so the old website was still around) so my FAVORITE part of homestuck was always the mechanics of sburb, the alchemy stuff is just so cool!! So seeing you theorize about things and talk about how data structures work makes me so so happy, I hope you're having lots of fun!!!

Thank you! I really hope we get some post-Scratch alchemy binges - but sadly, I don't think it's guaranteed, as we're unlikely to be rehashing everything we've seen before.

Even so, there's got to be more we can learn about Homestuck's alchemy system... right?

Anonymous asked: congrats on finally reaching the end of one of Homestuck's Biggest Jokes. The Gift Of Gab.

I'm still hyped over those Dialoglogs - not least because it removes the main metabarrier which was preventing these kids from hanging out in person.

Let's fucking go! It's time!

@sashonya asked: Oh yeah, just a small aside as I'm sure you're going to realize in a bit. It's better to say the full "Act 6 Act 1" instead of "Act 6.1" since the intermissions also count as "Act 6.1"

Hmm. Well, it's pretty easy for me to edit my organizational tags retroactively, so I'll see what format works the best for me, going forward.

Generally, I prefer for these tags to be shorter, though - so if Act 6.1 Intermission needs its own tag, I might write it as Act 6.1.I, or something.

@jack-off-valentine asked: When, exactly, did AH pull an Aradiabot?

I initially asked myself the same question - but by now, I've learned to treat Hussie interludes as the breaks from canon they are.

We're probably never going to be told what's up with robo-Hussie, the same way that we'll never learn why Falkor the Luck Dragon has Lord English's cueball eyes. It's just Hussie being Hussie.

@pineapple-temporarily-moving asked: "By now, Jade should know why she arranged for herself to grab the Wall - but she's acting like she only did it because Karkat told her to. Maybe I'm just misinterpreting what she's saying." future jade told karkat to tell past jade to captchalogue the window because she remembered being told that by karkat (and karkat telling her that she told him to tell her that). it is simply one of homestuck's ubiquitous causal loops and it ultimately technically was only because karkat told her to LOL

Oh, god damn it, you're probably right.

Damn stable loops and their originless information. As much as I love time travel stories, this still has to be one of the least satisfying ways you could possibly resolve a plot thread.

@sanctferum asked: So, Jade, who just became a god tier Witch with striped leggings and ruby red shoes, levels up to Sayonara Kansas as she and John embark upon the Yellow Ruler Yard. Her god-tier self was formed from her living self and Jadesprite, a version of herself too cowardly to do anything despite her incredible power. Jadesprite used to be Dream Jade, whose physical counterpart on Earth was, thanks to Grandpa's inventions, a robotic version of Jade rather than Jade herself. A tin woman, one might say. Dream Jade herself was, prior to her death, notably absent-minded in a way no other dream self has shown themselves to be. It seems likely Hussie originally intended all dream selves to be this way while "asleep", but in the end only Jade acted like her brain was sleeping along with her body. And said dream self ended up being stuffed, of course. Do I need to elaborate on who Toto is in this analogy? No, I don't think I do. Original waking Jade is Dorothy. Jade's all of the Oz cast at once!

Even better:

The climax of Dorothy's story is her learning to teleport!

[writingpandagoth]

Omg a can you write about sev x fem!reader where he usually is so possessive and like kisses so possessive and jealous and reader lets him but he overhears her talking about how she just wants soft kisses that don’t bruise her lips or something like that so sev tries to make himself gentle/soft for her because he loves her so much im screaming into my pillow as i think about this ahhh

Here it is.

I might have added a lil' ✨spice✨I hope you don't mind but it kind of felt right.

I hope you like it!❤️

Where Your Fire Meets Me

The first time Severus kisses you, it isn’t gentle.

It happens in the quiet, shadowed corner of the Potions classroom, long after the other students have gone. You’re perched on the edge of a desk, laughing at something foolish he’s said — really laughing, the sound bubbling out before you can catch it — and something in him snaps.

He’s on you before you can think, hands gripping your waist, mouth crashing down against yours.

It’s not slow. It’s not careful.

It’s rough, claiming, almost desperate — teeth clashing, breath stolen from your lungs, fingers digging into your hips as if to leave a memory there.

You gasp into him, dizzy, but you don’t pull away.

Because this is Severus — complicated, guarded, intense — and you know, even then, that if he’s going to love you, it will never be in half-measures.

From that night forward, it’s the same.

Every time he touches you, it’s with a ferocity that borders on reckless. His hands grasp and pull; his kisses leave your lips tingling, swollen with proof that you are his. There’s an urgency in him — a need to mark you, to brand himself into your skin.

At first, you revel in it.

You’ve never been wanted like this before — never been seen so wholly, so unapologetically. When his hands frame your face, when his mouth crashes against yours, it feels like being chosen in a world that too often forgot you.

And Severus... he burns for you. You can feel it in every bruising kiss, every low growl when someone else so much as looks at you too long.

Sometimes, in crowded halls, you catch the way his eyes narrow when you laugh at someone else's joke. Later, he’ll find you, back you into a corner, and kiss you like he’s erasing every other man from your mind.

You never mind — not really.

Still... sometimes, late at night, when your lips ache faintly from the force of his love, a tiny, traitorous thought blooms.

What would it feel like if he touched you like you were something precious? Something fragile?

You tuck the thought away, ashamed of it. You know how much he loves you. You feel it in every frantic touch, every fierce embrace.

But the thought lingers.

It isn’t until one quiet evening, curled in an armchair by the common room fire with a friend, that the words slip out.

You don’t mean to say them.

You’re just tired — heart heavy, body aching from another night of Severus’s bruising affection.

"Sometimes," you murmur, almost to yourself, "I wish Severus would be a little softer."

Your friend raises an eyebrow. "Softer?"

You laugh, embarrassed, and trace patterns into the rim of your teacup. "Not always so... desperate. I love him, of course I do and he loves me, but sometimes... sometimes I wonder what it would be like if he kissed me like he had forever. Not like he was afraid I'd disappear."

Your friend smiles kindly. "Maybe he just is that way and that is just how he shows his love."

You nod, heart twisting with guilt. "I know. It's not bad. really. I just—" You shrug. "I wonder."

You don’t notice the shadow lingering near the doorway.

You don’t see the way Severus stiffens, his heart folding inward as your words settle deep in the marrow of his bones.

He had thought he was showing you love.

But now — now — he wonders if he’s been showing you fear instead.

That night, when you slip quietly into his chambers, you expect him to catch you immediately — pull you against him with those familiar rough hands, kiss you breathless before you even greet him.

But Severus stands by the fireplace, unmoving. Something about him is different. Tighter. More careful.

"Severus?" you whisper, unsure.

He crosses the room slowly, almost tentatively. When he reaches you, his hand lifts — but it doesn’t seize your waist or your face.

It hovers.

And then, with infinite gentleness, he cups your cheek, thumb brushing a slow arc across your skin.

You blink up at him, stunned.

When he leans in to kiss you, it’s not a crash or a conquest.

It’s a question.

His mouth is soft, almost shy against yours, his hand steadying you like you might break.

It’s a kiss that asks: Is this what you need?

You answer by sliding your hands into his hair and pulling him closer, heart hammering against your ribs.

And slowly, he kisses you again — tender, worshipful.

He is still Severus — fierce, possessive, utterly yours — but now, every touch trembles with restraint, with a kind of aching wonder he cannot hide.

The kiss deepens slowly, sweetly, his mouth moving against yours with a patience that makes your chest ache. His fingers slip to your waist, hesitant, asking. You answer him by stepping closer, threading your arms around his neck, feeling the taut line of his body pressed to yours.

When you whisper his name, something breaks inside him — not the sharp break of pain, but the soft collapse of surrender.

He lifts you carefully, almost reverently, carrying you to the bed as if you weigh nothing at all. His hands move over you with infinite patience, his mouth pressing kisses against every patch of skin he reveals, slow and trembling.

He lays you down with intention, not urgency — and the world outside could burn to ashes and he would not care.

His hands are careful, gliding over your body like he is learning it anew. He touches your skin as if it might vanish beneath his fingertips, as if pressing too hard would wake him from the dream of you.

When he kisses you, it is slow. So slow it steals your breath more thoroughly than any roughness ever could. His mouth lingers against yours, tasting, savoring, worshiping.

"Tell me," he breathes against your neck, voice wrecked and low. "If it's too much. If I—" His hands tremble where they hold your hips, as if restraining himself costs him everything.

You hush him with a kiss, threading your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer. "I want you," you whisper. "All of you."

Still, he moves with painful patience, pressing kisses along your collarbone, your ribs, the soft dip of your belly. Every motion says you are precious, you are mine, you are loved.

And when he finally joins you, it's not with the frantic need he once wielded like a weapon, but with something far deeper.

He holds himself back, his movements slow, deliberate, fighting every instinct to simply lose himself in you. His brow presses against yours, his breath ragged as he rocks into you with a gentleness so raw it feels like a prayer.

Your name falls from his lips like a broken hymn.

He kisses you between every whispered word, every trembling thrust — on your cheeks, your eyelids, your mouth — as if stitching you into the fabric of himself.

And when you shatter beneath him, soft cries muffled against his throat, he follows you over the edge, clutching you to him as if the world might try to steal you away.

He does not let go.

Even after, when the room is quiet but for the sound of your breathing, Severus holds you as though anchoring himself to you.

His lips brush your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth.

Soft.

Fragile.

--

You notice it immediately, in the days that follow.

Severus moves around you with too much care now — as if you're spun from glass, as if even his breath might shatter you.

When he touches you, it's tentative. When he kisses you, it’s soft — but so careful it feels like he’s holding himself back from even wanting too much.

You feel the weight of his restraint in every brush of fingers along your arm, every lingering glance he cuts away from too soon.

And you love him for it — you love the effort, the aching devotion — but something about it unsettles you too.

He doesn't take from you anymore.

He doesn’t grip you, doesn’t pull you into hidden alcoves just to feel your body pressed against his, doesn’t kiss you so hard you forget your own name.

He’s still Severus, yes. But he’s muted now. Guarded. Careful to the point of pain.

You miss the way he used to need you — the way he once touched you like you were the air he needed to breathe.

You miss all of him.

At lunch, he sits beside you, too stiff, too silent.

You push food around your plate without much appetite, feeling the weight of something unsaid between you.

Finally, you hear him clear his throat.

"Are you happy now?" he asks, low, rough, not meeting your eyes.

You blink, surprised. "Happy?"

He shifts, his shoulders hunching slightly inward. He doesn't look at you, staring instead at some invisible point across the table.

"Now that..." He gestures vaguely, as if the words are heavy in his mouth. "Now that I've changed."

The way he says it — so flat, so hollow — punches the air right out of your lungs.

You set your fork down carefully, turning to face him fully.

"Severus," you say, voice soft but firm, "I was always happy with you."

His eyes flick up to you, uncertain, guarded.

You reach out, brushing your fingers lightly over the back of his hand.

"I loved you before," you say. "I love you now. I never wanted you to stop being you."

For a moment, he just looks at you — like he's seeing you, really seeing you, and not quite knowing what to do with the view.

A thousand things seem to flicker across his face — doubt, hope, fear, love — before he looks away again, his jaw tightening.

He says nothing more.

But you can feel the tension radiating off him, the uncertainty knotting itself tighter inside his chest.

You sit through the rest of lunch with the weight of his words pressing against your chest.

Are you happy now?

You turn the question over and over in your mind, dissecting it, pulling at its edges.

Maybe you were reading too much into it. Maybe it was just an awkward way of asking. Maybe he doesn’t really think you weren't happy before.

But a small voice in the back of your mind whispers: What if he does?

You don't want to assume. You don't want to invent sadness where there is none.

But you know Severus — you know the way he wears guilt like a second skin, how easily he folds into self-blame when it comes to you.

And if he does believe it — if he’s holding back, if he’s twisting himself into knots because he thinks it’s what you need — you can’t leave it alone.

You have to know for certain.

You have to be sure.

You spend the rest of the afternoon distracted, restless. The thought lingers at the edges of everything you do, tugging at you like an invisible thread.

By the time evening falls, you've made up your mind.

You’ll find a way to know. You'll find a way to show him — or to be shown — what is truly inside his heart.

Because if there's even a chance he’s holding back for you, you need him to understand:

You never needed him to be anything but himself.

--

The next morning, you dress carefully.

You choose a blouse that clings just a little too nicely to your curves, skirts that sways a little too easily when you walk. It's subtle — nothing scandalous — but you know Severus.

You know how tightly his restraint is wound when it comes to you.

And today, you intend to test it.

You move through the corridors with a lightness you don't quite feel, pausing to chat with colleagues, laughing a little more freely, letting your hand brush against an arm here, a shoulder there.

Nothing inappropriate — nothing that would give anyone else pause.

But enough that you can feel the tension across the room whenever Severus’s eyes find you.

And they do.

Again and again, you feel his gaze — sharp, burning — tracing every movement you make.

You pretend not to notice.

By midday, you catch him standing stiffly across the Great Hall, arms folded so tightly across his chest it looks painful, his jaw clenched hard enough to crack stone.

You allow yourself a private, shaky breath.

It’s working.

And then — it happens.

You're laughing at something innocuous, something trivial, when Severus crosses the distance between you in three long strides.

Before you can even register it, his hand closes around your wrist — not painfully, but firm, possessive — and he pulls you into the nearest alcove.

His mouth finds yours without thought, hard and hungry, his other hand curling around the back of your neck, holding you there as if he could anchor you to the earth itself.

It’s fierce.

It’s desperate.

It’s him.

Your heart stutters with relief — you kiss him back instantly, hands fisting in the front of his robes, welcoming the raw, overwhelming need of him.

But just as suddenly — he stops.

He tears himself away from you like he's been burned, stepping back so fast he nearly trips over his own feet.

His chest heaves with ragged breaths. His eyes are wild, panicked, full of a guilt so sharp it guts you.

He lifts a hand — as if to touch you, to apologize — but drops it again helplessly.

And you know.

You know, without question, without doubt:

He’s holding back for you.

He thinks what you wanted was to kill this part of him — the part that needs you so much it terrifies him.

He thinks loving you fiercely is a flaw.

And the realization breaks something open inside you.

You don’t move.

You don’t speak.

You simply watch him — watch the war raging behind his eyes, the way he fights himself even now, afraid he has ruined everything.

And your heart aches with love so fierce you think it might undo you.

You move before he can say a word.

Your fingers find his hand — cold, trembling — and you lace them tightly with yours.

Without speaking, without hesitating, you pull him with you, out of the alcove, down the hall.

He follows like he can’t help it, stumbling slightly, his other hand flexing uselessly at his side.

You don’t look at him. You don’t need to. You know what he’s thinking — the weight of it bleeding off him like mist.

I hurt her.

I’m wrong for her.

I failed her again.

You lead him through the corridors, through the castle, through the heavy door of his chambers. Still without a word, you pull him all the way to the bedroom. Only then — when the door closes with a soft click behind you — do you stop.

You turn to him.

Severus stands there, tense and wary, as if he’s awaiting judgment.

You step forward, steady and sure, and push gently at his chest.

He sits down heavily on the edge of the bed, blinking up at you like he doesn’t quite understand. And then you straddle him, your knees bracketing his thighs, your hands threading into his hair, and you kiss him hard.

Severus freezes.

His hands hover, not quite touching you, his body stiff with confusion. He pulls back slightly, panting, searching your face with wide, uncertain eyes.

"What—" he starts, voice hoarse, wrecked.

You cradle his face between your palms, holding him still.

"Let go," you whisper. "Severus, let go."

He stares at you, breathing hard.

You kiss him again — softer this time, coaxing — and when you pull back, you press your forehead against his.

"I never wanted you to change," you murmur. "I never wanted you to hold yourself back like this." He shakes his head minutely, his hands trembling where they rest on the bed.

"When I said I wanted soft," you continue, brushing your thumbs along his cheekbones, "I didn’t mean I didn’t want you. I love how possessive you get. I love that you want me so much it drives you mad. It makes me feel... wanted. Chosen."

A shudder runs through him.

"I just" you kiss the corner of his mouth, "I just wanted you to enjoy it too." You kiss his jaw down his throat. He tilts his head back, trembling.

"Not to kiss me because you're afraid you'll lose me," you breathe against his skin, "but because you know you have me for as long as you need." You lift your head and find his gaze — dark, burning, raw.

"I'm yours, Severus," you whisper. "No matter how you love me. Fierce. Soft. All of it. I want all of you."

Something breaks inside him.

His hands snap up to your hips, gripping you with a strength he no longer tries to hide — and this time, he doesn’t pull back.

He surges up to kiss you — rough, consuming, his mouth devouring yours with a low, desperate sound in his throat.

You gasp into him, clutching at his shoulders, rocking your hips against his instinctively.

He growls low against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and you feel the sharp edge of his need finally, finally released.

When he lifts you, carrying you further onto the bed, his hands are firm, greedy, sliding up under your blouse, tracing the bare skin of your back as if re-learning every inch of you.

He lays you down beneath him with a gentleness that’s all the more devastating because it’s his, and only his — that perfect balance of fierce and tender, hunger and worship.

His breath shudders against your throat, his hands clutching your hips with a force he no longer tries to temper. His mouth moves over your skin — frantic, worshipful — and when he lifts his head to meet your eyes, there’s nothing left of restraint.

Only love. Only need.

His voice is rough and broken when he whispers, "No more holding back."

And when he takes you — fiercely, fully — it is without fear, without apology. It is all of him, given freely, utterly, completely.

He moves above you with a rhythm that shakes apart your very soul, kissing you like a starving man, holding you like something he will never, ever let go of.

And when you come undone beneath him, sobbing his name into the hollow of his throat, he follows you with a broken cry, pressing his forehead to yours, panting, whispering words you barely catch but understand anyway.

Mine. Yours. Always.

The words fall between you like a vow, sealing the space where fear used to live.

You don't speak.

You don't have to.

Severus stays joined with you, his body heavy and real against yours, his arms wound tight around your back like he's anchoring himself there.

He presses slow, reverent kisses along your temple, the curve of your cheek, the corner of your mouth — not desperate now, but steady, endless, as if he has all the time in the world to love you properly.

You thread your fingers through his hair, carding them gently through the strands, feeling the way his breathing slows, evens, matches yours.

He shifts slightly, just enough to pull you fully against his chest, keeping you as close as humanly possible, your bodies still tangled together, your hearts beating in a rhythm only the two of you share.

You can feel the rawness in him still — the weight of all the things he can't say — but it's different now.

No fear. No doubt.

Only the quiet certainty of belonging.

He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, a low, content hum vibrating against your skin, and you smile, your heart so full it aches.

Neither of you moves.

The world outside the walls of his chambers fades away, forgotten.

There is only this:

His arms around you.

Your fingers tracing lazy patterns over the nape of his neck.

The steady thud of his heart under your palm.

Together. Safe. Loved.

You kiss the crown of his head, voice trembling with love,

"This — you, like this — it’s all I ever wanted."

[zoloft3]

never going home.

☆彡 joel miller x gn! reader

tags -> pre-relationship, hurt/comfort, homesickness, trauma, found family, living together, healing

a/n : a little different from my usual fluff antics but i can't write for tlou without being upset anymore. hope you like it :)

-------༚☆༚-------

The sound of his boots scuffing against the mat by door has you jumping. You don't even have time to wipe your tears before he turns the corner and spots you.

There's a moment of silence. Him, taking in your current state. You, frozen in shame and embarrassed to be caught so vulnerable on his living room floor. Your fingers tremble around the record sleeve you were clutching. The record itself, maddeningly spinning and letting out the tune that unlocked those deep memories within you.

"I'm sorry-" Your voice breaks from the sobbing you had been doing just a minute before. "I just,"

The tears well again as you look down at the record sleeve, "I heard the record playing and I-"

Joel suddenly remembered how to move again and knelt next to you on the floor, "Don't worry it's fine, you don't gotta be afraid, darlin’."

His hand gently rubbed your shoulder and your heart melted. The tears just poured down your cheeks now.

Fuck.

Since when did you let a man get to you like this. Joel was never meant to be anything more than a patrol partner. A friend maybe. But these last few weeks, god.

The winter storm had taken several chunks out of you and your roommates’ house, so you were staying with Joel until it could get patched. And in Jackson, that meant it was going to take a few weeks. Joel offered since he had an extra bedroom ever since Ellie moved out to the garage, and you couldn’t say no. Unfortunately, it turned out to be much better than you expected. Shared meals, cooking together, late nights on the porch drinking the shit they called coffee in this town. It all resulted in you being genuinely content for the first time in decades, and maybe, possibly, falling in love.

It was fine, it was going great even. Until now.

You'd been cooking, Joel had just run out to grab you something from the garden that you'd forgotten. You didn't notice him put the record on before he left. It wasn't until you finished chopping the onions that you heard it. So softly at first, you thought you'd misheard. You paused, frozen and waiting. And there it was.

The song your dad used to play. The music your mom would drive and dance to in the car. The album you hadn't heard since you'd lost them forever.

The knife fell from your fingers like it had never even existed. You walked into the living room like a ghost, numb and mindless, only stopping once you saw the album cover on the coffee table.

And it all came rushing back to you. Every single memory of home, childhood, growing and laughing. Suddenly you were sobbing like you hadn't in years. You fell to your knees, crawling towards the coffee table like you were a child again. Your fingers trembled as you reached for the record sleeve. The thick paper dug into your skin as you clutched it to your chest.

The world didn't matter anymore, you just wanted to go home.

Go back to the place where you were you. Before monsters and bloodshed, before men and bodies. The childhood that so many children will never get to have.

What you wouldn't give to sleep in your childhood bed, one last time. To have your mother say goodnight the way she used to. To brush your teeth next to your sibling. To sit in your spot at the dinner table.

You were wishing you could've said goodbye to your family, wishing that it wasn’t true that you could never go home. You know you can never go home but you prayed that for a second, one fucking second, you could be back there, right where you were, when he walked in the door.

And now he's holding you, pressing you into him as you grieve the child you were, the person you’ll never get to be, the home you'll never go back to, the people who will always know you.

"Homesick, huh?" Joel spoke with no humor or pity, only understanding.

You only sob harder, nodding into his shoulder. He waits, silently and patiently, rubbing your back and petting your head. He doesn’t say anything, didn't do any of the things people usually do when they see someone crying. He just waits until you have cried yourself out, hiccuping and attempting to breathe normally again.

"Want me to help finish dinner?" He asks softly, "Or do you need time?"

You let out a final shaky sigh, "No, we should finish, I don't want the food to go bad out on the counter."

Dinner goes fine, not your best, but it’s edible. And everything stays calm, until you move out to the porch for your nightly "coffee".

"You wanna talk about it?" Joel interrupts your dissociative stare.

The sudden reminder has your chest tightening. You bite your lip, glancing over at him. The fact that you were even considering telling him anything means you are well and truly fucked.

"Yeah, I guess I should," You sigh, fidgeting in your seat, eyes fixed on the boards of the porch.

"You don't have to," He reminds you.

The tears threaten once again, and you try to blink them away, "I want to."

It takes a minute, but you find the words. Claw them up out of your chest were you had hurried them so many years before. Deep and tucked away somewhere between your mother's grief and your father's anger.

You looked back at him, "The record you had on just reminded me of everything I lost that day. It was kinda... a family favorite. I guess, I forgot how much I lost. I'll never get any of it back."

You give a small smile, letting a few more tears fall.

"I feel like a solider who's come home from war, but home can never be the same, after everything. I'll always be there, in the blood and the screaming and the nightmare. I'll never get to leave like I want to. How I want to."

You look up from your fidgeting fingers to see his eyes staring softly back at you. You never find anything but solace in them. And that’s still true now.

You doubt there's a soul on earth who could know you like Joel Miller knows you. Your pain echos the same as his. Haunting and everlasting.

He reaches for your hand, interlocking your fingers, "Well, I'll ask next time before I put it on."

You both smile, and you wipe your tears with your free hand.

"Thank you, Joel. These past few weeks, right now, it all... means a whole lot."

"Anytime, sweetheart." He gives your hand a squeeze.

Home is still a long ways away. You know you can never go back there. But maybe you could build a new one.

-------༚☆༚-------

a/n : this one's for you @groggygrogu <3 you and tlou have been on my mind. hope it wasn't as devastating to read as it was to write :)

thanks again to @saemeret for being my beta and sorry for not asking you to beta the last two times :( i needed to word vomit on the internet before i exploded.

don't be afraid to leave a note or reblog! I love reading y'alls comments <3

[zepskies]

Girl YAAAAS!! 😍 I'm so glad you decided to dive into @chevroletdean's fun moodboard challenge~ 💛🧡🩵

I can't believe you've wanted to write about my home state, but I was cackling right from the start at the accuracy 🤣👌🏽

chasing a ghoul through backyards full of pink lawn flamingos and chainlink fences.

🤭 sounds like Miami! loll

And Dean doesn’t mean the good kind of eating ass, either. Nope, he means the swamp-ass, sunburned, get-mauled-by-an-alligator kind.

Girl don't make me quote this whole fic, we're only like 100 words in! "swamp ass" is deadly accuracy, I cannot 😆😆

And yes we are indeed cursed - with throat-closing humidity and heat upon heat all year round, tropical storms, expensive bread, terrible traffic, and too many damn snowbirds coming to live here year 'round now 🫠🫠🫠

It’s humid enough to drown standing still, and the sand sticks to everything, including parts of him he’s not ready to confront.

lmfaoo we call that ✨making a pearl✨

Also not the drone-sized mosquitos 🦟 <- THAT is also on point, especially in summer - and the closer you get to the Everglades. 😭 And the "fried seafood and moldy flipflops" def reminds me of the boardwalk at Fort Lauderdale Beach lolll

Florida’s not even a real fucking state. Can’t be.

hahaaa We mostly divide ourselves by North, Central, and South Florida (SoFlo). All are different countries, essentially. I think a comedian once called it the dick of the U.S. or something, but I went to a Def Leppard concert years ago and Joe Elliot called it "Satan's ass crack." I haven't recovered since 🤣🤣

The bikini strings are tied in neat bows at your hips, a popsicle melting bright mango-orange between your fingers, and you’re working the thing over like it owes you goddamn money with the most sinful mouth he’s ever had the misfortune of knowing.

lmaooo absolutely LOVE this. She's really working that orange dreamsicle. Bet he wishes she'd do him like that 😝🧡

Also - "molten saffron sun" is my new favorite description ever now. 💓

That would explain why he’s three seconds away from dropping to his knees and offering to be your loyal, desperate, sunburnt servant.

LOL I'm cackling imagining a sunburnt Dean, willing to do "whatever it takes" to be her new dreamsicle 😝

Time freezes. The ocean quiets. The gulls freeze midair. Dean’s pulse slams loud and dizzy in his ears. His world narrows to you, your suntanned legs, the glint of sea-salt crystals on your skin, your bright and glistening mango lips. Jesus fucking Christ. You just– Did you– He stares at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Huh? What?” he croaks, voice pitched embarrassingly high. You blink at him, then repeat – slowly, sweetly, “I said: Should we check if it sucks the breath outta people like a leech?” “Uh, yeah,” he croaks. “Suckin’. Life. Outta dudes. Totally.”

DEANNNN. LOL just fucking talk to her already, before you implode!!! 🤣🤣 But I love how this scene played out in my head like a movie. Such a good freeze frame and cut to the reality of the moment 😂

He is too old, too tired, and too desperately in love with you for this shit.

Oh poor baby. I feel so bad for you. 🙄 Talk to her!!!!!

He imagines you bent over the hood of the Impala, bikini tangled around your ankles, hands bracing against the hot metal while he rails you like a man possessed.

oh my God poor girl, she'd burn the fingerprints off her hands - but I can appreciate where Dean's going with this 😂😂

But he sooooo is gonna die of heatstroke in his usual hunter garb, and I love her for cheekily calling him out on it! He's about to catch on fire in so many ways 🔥🔥🔥

Dean looks at you – skin kissed by flame-petals and sunset sugar, hair blowing soft in the briny breeze, popsicle stick clutched between your fingers like a crime scene weapon.

Ahhh you wove so much beautiful poetic imagery throughout this, but I really love this one^ and the "skin glinting like bronzed sugar" line 😍💖💖

Before he can say something catastrophic (like “Marry me right now” or “Please put your mouth on me, I'm begging”), Sam comes jogging up the beach, waving his phone like a savior in flannel.

Noooooo why does Sam have to butt in!! lmfao I love him but Dean was maybe on the verge of making a move! Maybe?! 😂

Yeah, Florida is one hell of a drug, but you’re the one that fucked him up.

(lol sorry I had to)

But omg this was too much fun! Part of this felt like FL tourism in the early 2000s, but a lot of it was very legit and accurate too. 🤣 This story was so layered with rich imagery (which you're so amazing at), but also fun and playful and torturous for Dean.

Maybe I'm wrong, but I feel like after a while she kind of knew what he was thinking! 🤭❤️‍🔥 I could so see her finally being the one to make the first move and be like, "now why couldn't you do that yesterday?" 😆😆

Florida!!!

Summary: One fishy monster hunt, one sweaty afternoon at the beach, and one innocent popsicle – Florida is fucking hell for Dean.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: +18 language and smut in the form of dirty fantasies, severe pining, one idiot in love, humor, Florida, one popsicle, unresolved ending & feelings

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: My entry for @chevroletdean's 500 Follower Celebration! Congrats again, lovely, and thank you so much for hosting this challenge and creating this awesome moodboard!! I was immediately inspired (and have wanted to write something set in Florida for an eternity). This was perfect and so much fun! 💛🧡🩵

Main Masterlist || DW Masterlist || Tag List

Florida can eat his ass.

Dean’s decided this at least seventeen times today. He has known this little fact since the first time he set foot here at nineteen, chasing a ghoul through backyards full of pink lawn flamingos and chainlink fences.

And Dean doesn’t mean the good kind of eating ass, either. Nope, he means the swamp-ass, sunburned, get-mauled-by-an-alligator kind.

Because no matter how pretty the scenery looks – sugar-powder beaches and sea-glass tides, slats of the boardwalk bleached bone-white under a honeyed sky – the whole damn state feels cursed.

It’s humid enough to drown standing still, and the sand sticks to everything, including parts of him he’s not ready to confront.

And between the humidity thicker than chowder and the scent of fried seafood and moldy flip-flops lingering like a bad decision, every drone-sized mosquito here is carrying at least three diseases and a vendetta. The crime rate also looks like a Mad Libs page: “Florida Man assaults alligator while wearing tutu and high on bath salts.”

It’s too hot, too wet, and too damn weird and crazy. Every breath here tastes like sweat, regret, and a hint of swamp water.

Florida’s not even a real fucking state. Can’t be.

Dean’s convinced it’s a bad trip someone had in the ‘70s that somehow got voted into the union. The sun feels less like it’s shining and more like it’s attacking. Everyone’s either a retiree, a guy named Skip with a neck tattoo of a flaming dice, or some batshit meth-head who thinks they saw Bigfoot behind the Waffle House.

Dean hates it with every fiber of his being. Florida is Satan’s back porch.

And now, thanks to a string of weird drownings at a no-name beach town outside Destin, Dean is trapped in the sweaty armpit of the country, baking alive in jeans, while trying very hard not to stare at you.

Which is impossible.

Because you’re right next to him in a little turquoise lounge chair and a skimpy bikini the color of wild citrus – or tangerine, maybe. You hum a little tune – that stupid Weezer song that only plays on the radio during summer. You kick your feet lazily in the sun, flashing him a smile so bright he’s pretty sure it could get him legally blinded.

The bikini strings are tied in neat bows at your hips, a popsicle melting bright mango-orange between your fingers, and you’re working the thing over like it owes you goddamn money with the most sinful mouth he’s ever had the misfortune of knowing.

All tanned legs and unapologetic sunshine. A vision of temptation under the molten saffron sun.

Dean sweats. Internally and externally. Better than that: He is cooked. Absolutely fried. Every casual motion of yours is branding itself into his frontal lobe forever.

Your tongue flickers out again – pink and wet and glistening – smoothing a drip from the rounded tip, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re currently starring in every X-rated daydream Dean’s ever had.

His vision whites out at the edges.

You hum absently, flipping through the manila folder in your lap. Your voice floats over, sweet as saltwater taffy. “So,” you say, casual and sunny, “are we thinking mer-creature, or like, a shapeshifter with a thing for boats and aquatic cosplay? Or what if it’s a water demon? Like a kelpie, but more murdery?”

Dean makes a strangled sound that’s supposed to be a word but comes out more like a dog’s dying whimper.

You blink at him. Tilt your head. Wait.

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah. Mer-thing. Whatever.”

“Or,” you muse aloud, tongue darting out again to lap at a drip, “maybe it’s like–… like a water wraith? Something that sucks the breath outta your lungs?”

You pop the popsicle out of your mouth with an obscene little smack. Dean’s mouth works soundlessly. Because all he can imagine is you on your knees, tongue slick against him, big eyes wide and innocent while you–

Focus, he barks at himself. For the love of fucking God, focus, Winchester.

Dean swallows hard, dragging his eyes off your mouth and back down to the battered folder in your lap.

This isn’t normal. He’s doomed. Maybe even cursed.

Yeah, that’s gotta be it. He’s probably been hit with a lust spell. Florida is full of weird shit, right? That would explain why he’s three seconds away from dropping to his knees and offering to be your loyal, desperate, sunburnt servant.

But then again, this isn’t entirely new either.

You’ve been driving him nuts for goddamn years. Laughing too loud at his dumb jokes. Sitting too close in motel beds when you both casually watch movies. Calling him Winchester in that honeyed voice that makes him feel like he’s being dared to fuck up and kiss you.

And still, he’s always been good. Good at pretending. Good at stuffing all that want somewhere deep under rib and bone and battered leather jackets.

But this? This is fucking torture. This is some bikini-clad Greek tragedy, starring one dumbass in boots on a beach who can’t stop fantasizing about licking saltwater off your thighs.

He should be thinking about the case. About that water-witch or whatever the fuck they are hunting this time. He should be thinking about hex bags and salt rounds, not about how your bikini bottoms ride up just a little when you stretch your arms over your head–

Stop it!

You lean forward to show him something on a photocopied page and tap a newspaper clipping about the latest victim – some unlucky fisherman who swore he saw a “golden-scaled woman” before getting dragged into the shallows.

But the little bow at your hip shifts, skin glinting like bronzed sugar under the clear sky. Dean makes a small, wounded noise in his throat, and his brain immediately supplies another vivid fantasy:

You perched in his lap, that bow coming untied with a lazy pull of his fingers, your thighs slick and hot against him, the ocean thundering in the tropical background while you ride him so slow it borders on a religious experience.

He blinks against the burning sun, feels himself slipping again, heat and blood rushing downward. The image hits him so hard he has to adjust himself in his jeans, subtle as a heart attack.

His dick twitches miserably.

He slouches lower, trying to think of anything not filthy – taxes, Sam’s hair care routine, the time Bobby caught him naked in the kitchen with a meatball sub – but it’s useless.

“Dean? You even listening?” you ask, laughing, poking his leg with your sandy toes.

Dean grunts something noncommittal that might be English, jaw clenched so tight he’s surprised his teeth don’t shatter. He tries to answer. Really, he does. But the words get bottlenecked behind the visual of you dragging your tongue slowly up the side of the melting treat.

You bite your lip, thoughtful, tapping the end of the popsicle stick against your mouth. “Maybe it’s something worse,” you continue. “Like a siren who doesn’t seduce you to death, just… I dunno. Sucks you off and leaves you floating.”

Dean’s soul physically leaves his body.

You tilt your head, grinning wickedly. “You want me to suck you off too, Dean?”

Time freezes. The ocean quiets. The gulls still midair. Dean’s pulse slams loud and dizzy in his ears. His world narrows to you, your suntanned legs, the glint of sea-salt crystals on your skin, your bright and glistening mango lips.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You just–

Did you–

He stares at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Huh? What?” he croaks, voice pitched embarrassingly high.

You blink at him, then repeat – slowly, sweetly, “I said: Should we check if it sucks the breath outta people like a leech?”

“Uh, yeah,” he croaks. “Suckin’. Life. Outta dudes. Totally.”

You stare at him a second longer, suspicious, before shrugging and going back to the file.

Dean exhales, trying to will his hard-on into submission through sheer force of shame. You’re systematically dismantling his ability to think in complete sentences. His entire brain is on fire.

His internal organs shut down one by one. He drops his head back against the lounge chair, squeezing his green eyes shut. He is too old, too tired, and too desperately in love with you for this shit.

The sun beats down, hot and merciless, painting everything in shades of clementine and burning copper. Apricot umbrellas dot the beach like slices of candy. The ocean blinks lazy and endless, a rolling quilt of bottle-green and blue-fire sapphire. Seagulls wheel overhead, shrieking insults.

Dean’s mind drifts again.

He imagines dragging you down into the frothy surf, your hands curling into his hair, your giggles swallowed by the sea.

He imagines you mouthing at his jeans, impatient and greedy, while the sun sets behind you in a tangle of electric clementine and bruised lapis skies.

He imagines you kneeling between his legs, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock like you’re taste-testing it, humming around him, sweet and filthy and happy about it.

He imagines you under the boardwalk, hips rocking against his like the waves, bikini strings snapping loose with frantic fingers.

He imagines you bent over the hood of the Impala, bikini tangled around your ankles, hands bracing against the hot metal while he rails you like a man possessed.

He imagines your thighs caging his head, that same lazy, teasing look on your face, and him savoring your taste of sugar and salt and heat, while the whole crazy, humid, goddamn state of Florida spins off its axis.

“You’re quiet,” you chirp, tossing a sideways glance at him. “Florida getting to you?”

Dean clears his throat, gruff. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that, sweetheart.”

You raise your sunglasses, peeking at him over the frames. “You know, Winchester, you’re the only guy on this beach dressed like he’s about to sell used beach towels out of the back of a van."

Dean frowns, looking down at himself: worn boots, jeans, his favorite faded black tee with a sun-bleached flannel thrown over it. Practical. Battle-tested. Entirely inappropriate for beachside Florida.

“First of all,” he says, lifting a finger, “this is classic Americana ruggedness. Chicks dig it.”

You lean your head back and laugh, all bright and cruel. “You’re sweating through your ‘Americana ruggedness.’”

Dean scowls, dripping like a busted fire hydrant. “I told you. I’m not gonna wear fucking board shorts like all the other frat boy idiots here.”

You laugh again, the sound bright as bells, and Dean’s heart trips hard enough to hurt.

“You’re gonna die of heatstroke,” you tease. “Right here. Buried in Florida sand. Some old lady’s gonna find your corpse and knit you a ‘Bless Your Heart’ sweater.”

He snorts a chuckle. “I’ll haunt this beach just to piss you off.”

“Promise?” you ask, giving him a cheeky wink.

Dean is about five minutes away from lighting himself on fire. And honestly? Florida would probably consider it normal Tuesday behavior.

Your gaze drifts out to the ocean beyond your feet and sandy calves with a blissful little sigh. “It’s kinda pretty, though, isn’t it?”

Dean looks at you – skin kissed by flame-petals and sunset sugar, hair blowing soft in the briny breeze, popsicle stick clutched between your fingers like a crime scene weapon.

Yeah. Pretty.

Pretty much the goddamn end of him.

“Victim said he saw orange,” you murmur thoughtfully. “Bright, like-… like a koi? A clownfish?”

Dean is about to make a dumb Finding Nemo joke when you lick a bead of melted popsicle off your wrist, slow and absentminded.

And all Dean wants is to dig a hole right here in the sugar-white sand and bury himself alive in this cursed, gator-infested sandpit.

“Dean?”

He snaps back to reality so hard he gets whiplash. “What?” he wheezes.

You arch an eyebrow. “I said, should we check the tide charts? Maybe the creature only comes out during low tide.”

Dean coughs into his fist, face hotter than the sun overhead. “Uh, sure. Tide charts. Definitely. Research.”

But all he can think about is those legs locked around his waist, sand clinging to your thighs as he fucks you into the waves. You moaning into his neck, salty and sweet, fingers yanking at his shirt like you can’t stand to have him dressed another second.

You nibble at the edge of the popsicle, teeth scraping the melting mango sheen, and Dean watches helplessly as a single sticky bead runs down your wrist.

He fantasizes about leaning over, licking it off your skin, trailing his mouth up your arm to your shoulder, your throat, your mouth. He imagines you gasping against him, laughing breathless.

He fantasizes about hauling you out of that chair and onto his lap, mouth on yours, sticky hands sliding under the knot of your bikini top, tugging until you’re bared for him and only him, sunshine turning your skin to gold, and–

Greatly frustrated, Dean runs a hand down his freckled face. Why the fuck can’t he bring himself to stop? You’re unraveling him atom by atom.

But then, the fucking frozen treat drips again, and you lean forward to catch it with your mouth, lips wrapping tight around the end. Dean watches you hollow your cheeks slightly when you suck, head tilted thoughtfully like you’re considering footnotes and not absolutely wrecking his entire being. You pull the melting syrup back again with a soft, wet pop.

At this point, he wants to fucking throw himself into the ocean and let the sharks tear him apart like Hellhounds. He’s pretty sure his soul leaves his body, too.

He grips the arms of his chair so hard they creak in protest, knuckles turning white as he’s trying to tether himself to reality and not his fantasies.

Florida is hell.

You are hell.

And he’s a good man being punished for crimes he hasn’t even committed yet.

Dean shifts in his chair, crossing one leg over the other like that’ll hide the state of emergency going on in his jeans. He’s surprised no one here has asked any questions yet or called fucking 911.

Meanwhile, the world keeps spinning. The ocean rolls in lazy, glassy sheets of turquoise and teal. The sun licks liquid gold down your shoulders. The salt air curls the loose strands of your hair into a halo. And Dean – miserable, desperate, wildly in love – watches you polish off the last inch of your popsicle, tongue flicking the stick clean.

“Earth to Dean,” you sing-song, waving a hand in front of his face and kicking sand lightly at his boots.

Dean jerks back into consciousness. “Yeah?”

“Should we check out the marina witnesses after this?” you ask, tossing your popsicle stick into the trash bucket next to your chair.

Before he can say something catastrophic (like “Marry me right now” or “Please put your mouth on me, I'm begging”), Sam comes jogging up the beach, waving his phone like a savior in flannel.

“Got a lead! Marina worker said he saw something with gills and claws dragging people under.”

Dean launches out of his chair like his ass is on fire. A man escaping execution.

“Awesome. Let’s roll!” he barks, voice too loud and way too eager.

You tuck your notes into your beach bag and sling it over your shoulder, grinning wide and bright as the sunset. The same grin that ruined him long before the bikini did.

You hop up beside him, laughing, brushing sand off your thighs with maddening slow sweeps, and Dean bites back a groan so hard it nearly gives him a hernia.

“You sure you’re okay, Winchester?” you ask, teasing. “You looked like you were about to pass out there for a second.”

“I’m great,” Dean lies, voice strangled, letting the sun melt him into roadkill. “Peachy.”

“You sure? Seriously, you’re a walking heatstroke PSA,” you quip, hip-bumping him lightly as you fall into step beside him.

Dean coughs. “'M fine, sweetheart. Just… dehydration. And Florida. And mermaid murder.”

As you brush past him, the smell of your sunscreen and coconut shampoo punch him square in the gut. Dean follows, trying very, very hard not to watch the way your hips sway like you own the whole damn coastline.

He thinks about how easy it would be to slip his arm around your waist, how natural it would feel to lean in, to kiss you like he’s wanted to for years. Instead, he shoves his hands deep into his jeans pockets and marches grimly through the sand, already planning a quick, ice-cold shower and about eight beers after this job’s done.

Yeah, Florida is one hell of a drug, but you’re the one that fucked him up.

Okay, I may have had way too much fun with torturing Dean here. Forgive me, guys 😂☀️🏝️

Hope you enjoyed this one! 🩵

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming

@hunter-or-the-hunted @k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways

@muhahaha303 @ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith

@nesnejwritings @samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02

@impala67rollingthroughtown @star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v

[rekino2114]

Ya know, I ultra loved the Kirumi Tojo comforting a reader who was harshly rejected by Miu. So I was wondering how it would work in the reverse~ M. Reader who has a crush on Kirumi and confesses and gets harshly rejected or just coldly rejected, since while she does appreciate him as a classmate and "client", she doesn't view him as a friend or see much potential in him. And he gets comforted by said rejection by Miu or Kaede~ with ever fits best, or you can do both, but in seperate settings.

Miu comforting you after you get rejected by kirumi

A/n:I went with miu to make it a full parallel to the other post and also cause I haven't written stuff for her in a while

You looked in the mirror one last time and sighed, adjusting your hair

"Come on y/n, you can do it just tell her how you feel and everything will be fine"

You had been crushing on your classmate kirumi for quite a while, her elegant demeanor and determination to complete any request that people gave her were just some of the many things that made you fall for the ultimate maid, not to mention how beautiful she was

You constantly talked it over with your friends, especially your best friend, miu who for some reason looked even madder than she usually was and called her names you don't want to repeat

But even if she didn't approve of your decision that didn't matter. You decided you were going to confess today. So you went over to the kitchen and found her cleaning the dishes

"H-hey kirumi"

The maid glanced behind herself and then fully turned bowing a little when she saw you

"Hello y/n, are you in need of anything?"

"N-no welll actually.....i-i just need to tell you something"

"Of course, what is it?"

".......w-well.....will you go out with me?"

"......what?"

"I.....I've been crushing on you for a while and was wondering if you would like to maybe go out on a date with me?"

"...I apologize but I must refuse"

".....w-what...why?"

"Because I do not have feelings for you, I'm sure you are a great man but I only see you as a classmate and as a client.....I'm sorry"

"....n-no don't apologize it's fine"

You put your head down and started walking away while kirumi got back to doing her task

You went back to your dorm and laid down on the bed, starting to cry a bit

After a while you heard your door open, cursing yourself for forgetting to lock it and saw that miu had entered your dorm

"Hey y/n there's this new invention I made its super dope and-....hey the fuck happened!?"

"Huh? Oh......hi miu"

The inventor walked up to your bed and her heart broke seeing you in that miserable state

"Seriously what the hell happened? You look terrible"

"......n-no I'm fine, please don't worry about me"

"Heck no! I will worry about you all that i can, don't stand there and go spouting that bull crap, you're crying and you expect me to believe you're fine"

".......you know me well"

".....o-oh thanks, it's literally nothing, so what happened?"

Miu sat on the bed and looked at you softly, trying her best to comfort you with her presence

"I tried to confess to kirumi.....but she rejected me"

Now miu was actually mad and you saw that immediately when she scowled at your words

"Really? That bitch? Why the hell would she do that?"

"She......she said that I was only a client and a classmate to her"

"Are you shitting me? That's such a lame excuse, after all you did for her she doesn't even think you're her friend? She's even more of a bitch than I thought"

"I-i wouldn't say I did much for her-"

"Oh no, do not start blaming yourself, don't you remember all the times you helped her clean the dorms or with other stuff, and she didn't even give you as much as a thank you kiss or anything? AND now she has the gall to reject you?"

"It's not her fault, it's just because she didn't like me"

"Then she just has absolutely terrible taste. She has an absolute hunk who is sweet, kind, and helps her with stuff in front of her and she says no? Well it's her loss plus maybe it takes a brain as smart as mine to see all your qualities"

When what she said fully sunk in your eyes widened and you started blushing

"W-wait you mean....y-you like me?"

"Did I not make that obvious enough? Do you think all the times I asked you specifically to test all my inventions was because I couldn't find anyone else?......well that was also part of it....but also cause I like you. And what about all those nudes I "accidentally" sent you? You think someone as smart as me can make so many accidents"

You blushed even more remembering all of those pictures, you would be lying if you said they didn't play a part in you developing a crush for miu too

The ultimate inventor put a hand on yours and helped you get out of the blankets, giving you a genuine smile

"Hey I'm not saying you have to get with me today or something, that would be just shitty of me you just got your heart broken, but if you ever need a girl to love you, an absolutely stunning, incredibly smart girl who is ready to do anything for you....and I mean anything....is right here for you, you know where to find me"

She smiled again and started to walk away

"Oh by the way-"

Miu was taken aback by you kissing her when she turned around but very quickly melted into the kiss, hugged you, and turned it into a passionate make-out session

"Oh my fucking God, kirumi is such an idiot"

"Hehe, you think so?"

"Yeah, you're handsome, nice and an amazing kisser, she really said no to the perfect guy, not that I'm complaining, she just left you for me"

"She sure did"

"So.....a-are we a thing now, like I said before, you can take all the time you want, I want you to be happy when you start dating me"

"No don't worry I think I'm fine"

"Eh, I always said the best cure for a broken heart is a good making out, now let's go to that all prim and proper maid and make out in front of her, I want her to see what she missed out on.......o-only if you're OK with seeing her again of course"

"I'd much rather spend some time with my new girlfriend"

"Of course, but you might have to stop me from slapping that bitch the next time I see her"

"P-please don't, she didn't do anything wrong"

"If you say so, but that doesn't matter now, come on let's go, I got a super cool invention to show you"

Miu grabbed your hand and dragged you to her lab while you just smiled at her, happy to have someone who loved you so much

[lagooneah]

I love love loved your vash fic!! Could you expand on it and perhaps see how he’d do with smooching and kissing?>_< thankies >:)

Thank you for the ask! You've opened a can of worms 😊 (but srsly thank u, I love talking about him and I hope you enjoy!)

I'm a firm believer that Vash is very, VERY hesitant in most relationships at first, but as soon as he's given the green light, he goes a little... Crazy in a way. Like, maybe he's a little too much sometimes. He just has so much love to give okay? Leave him alone.

So our sweet Vash here OBVIOUSLY would know next to nothing about kissing.

Has he seen others do it? Yeah. Does he know what it is? Sure. Does he know how to do it? HELL NAH-

Due to his lack of knowledge and fear of intimacy that I have mentioned- you'd have to go slow with this too.

YOU would likely be the one to do it, kissing his cheek or his forehead as you two cuddle close for the night, stuff like that.

I feel like he'd be TERRIFIED to kiss you back in fear of screwing up somehow, but he'd eventually do it.

One night, as you two were snuggled up and near ready for sleep, he returned your smooch on his cheek with a peck on yours- and then looked at you, wide and puppy-eyed for some kind of green light.

Or ANY signal that he did good.

You'd smile, giggling a little at his silliness and say "Thank you Vashy", probably trying not to freak out at the fact that he INITIATED something for the first time.

And after that? Oh he keeps going, you can't stop him from kissing you actually.

It'd mostly be on your body- your cheeks, forehead, really wherever YOU have kissed him, he returns tenfold.

Once you realize he's basically following your lead, you give love to other places too.

His neck, shoulder, hands (especially his bionic one to make him feel better about it), the bridge of his nose...

You don't realize the potential mistake you've made until you've found yourself spending a solid hour just being PEPPERED with love and affection from him.

I just KNOW he feels validated in the relationship by making you feel good. That's like his favorite thing in the world.

You're his favorite thing in the world.

Whenever you'd ask him WHY he goes so far with this, he'd usually answer something along the lines of "You're just so easy to love" or "because you deserve it".

It'd take him a little bit with kissing you on the lips, but after your initiating he'd totally do it.

"Can I kiss you?" You'd ask him softly, your faces so close you can feel his warm breath on your lips. Your noses brushing against each other.

"Sure, where?" He asks, his grip a little tighter around you, continuing to gaze into your eyes.

You smiled, deciding to surprise him a bit, and give him a short kiss on the lips.

The man literally malfunctions.

His eyes are wide, his lips parted like he's going to say something but only strangled noise comes out, his cheeks BRIGHT pink...

You're pretty sure you've broken him.

And you have, but not in a bad way. You mean to tell him you're okay- scratch that- WANT him to kiss you there?

Oh boy, you're in trouble.

He's not the best at kissing your lips at first HOWEVER, he is a fast learning and he quickly begins craving it. Craving you, in a way.

Sometimes you have to stop him just to catch your breath.

And this wouldn't even be 100% sexual, he's just so- SO obsessed with you, that doing what he can do only with you is ALWAYS on his mind.

He is a bit bashful of it though, wanting to preserve his most obsessive love and worship for when you two are alone.

But he doesn't mind a peck ever now and then as you walk to the van.

He's a quiet, affectionate, kind in public- gently holding your hand, kissing your knuckles or your palm on his face. It's little- but it's attention he reserves for you.

This is what I've got (for now), but this is how I think he'd feel/react to kissing and smooches! He's so sweetie pie someone free me (don't)

I'm also attempting to cook up a "Your reaction to Vash's torn body" short fic, as well as a couple of other stuff, so stay tuned for that!

[ssa-writerminds]

Undercover || Part 2

Undercover: Part 1 || Part 2

Warnings: Could this count as angst? Enemies (sorta) to Lovers? One bed trope (eye roll i know, but i like it). Use of Y/N again and I deeply apologize.

Plot: Back at the motel you and Spencer unwind, dealing with the fact that you'll have to share the bed in your own ways. After years of not getting along with Spencer you decide to talk it out, or rather, argue it out...

A/N: I don't remember how I wrote the first part and if I'm being honest i hate how i wrote it SO this is probably very different but I hope you love it nonetheless. I'm so so so sorry for how long this took and I'm still not even fully happy with it... and there's going to be a part 3... BUT I PROMISSSE it will not take as long, and if it does absolutely crucify me and burn me at the stake. 💔💔

-x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x- -x-

Showers are widely agreed to be relaxing. Cleansing yourself of the horrors of the day behind you, maybe some soft, slow music playing to help ease them out. Warm water running over your mind, washing away worries and concerns with it.

That's exactly what you did (or rather tried to do) shortly after checking in to the motel. Paul Anka was the first thing that played through the radio when you turned it on. 'Put Your Head On My Shoulder.' Any other time and you would've sang along or at least hummed softly — but now? It felt wrong.

For in the next room was a man who had been nothing less than hostile for the time he had known you. He was reluctant to even agree to go undercover with your assistance in the first place, and now that the plan he had spent 8 months working on had gone to complete and utter shit? You didn't want to push it.

You stood under the water for a little longer than usual, basking in the comfort that its warmth provided, before you gave in to returning to reality. The reality that was a mildly pissed off, rather volatile Dr. Spencer Reid — whom you would be sharing a bed with that night. Lucky. You.

You could hear the TV playing softly outside when you turned off the shower. At least he wasn't sat in silence, because it seemed like a rather Spencer thing to do: racking his brain for anything he could've done differently, perhaps trying to find a way to mentally put a curse on you for being seen by the unsub when help was 20 minutes away. Maybe that was something he could actually do — put a curse on you — because you never knew with a brain like his and all of the little magic tricks he would show off to the team.

The longer you thought about it the more you realised how, over the past 8 months, you had missed the silly, innocent genius who had sat a few desks away from you for several years... Wait- Missed him?

A soft knock on the bathroom door interrupted your quiet time and you were brought back down to Earth much quicker than you had been trying to avoid (although — with the direction your thoughts were taking you— maybe you were glad it did...)

"Y/N? You done? There's only one bathroom and I kinda have to..." You reached for the handle at a speed which you hoped he didn't take as an act of annoyance, because it wasn't. You just simply didn't wish to hear about the habits of his bladder.

"Yeah sure, I can dry my hair out there." You said rather quickly. So quick that you mentally face palmed and could only hope your cringe was internal and not a physical reaction.

"Oh- uh, okay."

Well... There's your answer.

-- -- --

Spencer finished getting ready for bed in exactly 1 hour and 37 minutes. Not that you were counting... No, you definitely were — because by the time he had reached the hour mark you definitely considered calling for help. Maybe he'd ran out on you, done exactly as Liza had said and gone to live in the desert, too pissed off at you to return to his old life. Could you really blame him though?

It was when you were considering much worse possibilities for his disappearance that he finally emerged from the bathroom, hair damp and a towel draped around his shoulders. You tried to avert your eyes from where a few droplets of water had made the back of his white t-shirt almost see-through. If you looked long enough, you were sure could figure out where each dip and contour of his back laid.... okay you were definitely looking long enough, too long even, what is wrong with you?

He could, without a doubt, tell exactly where your eyes were staring, because by the time you had realised, it was already too late. You could only watch as Spencer rolled his eyes and turned away from the mirror and walked towards the bed.

Luckily for you both, the motel did not lack pillows, and so you had crafted a sort of barrier between the two sides of the bed, separating you from him. Spencer only rolled his eyes again and you had to admit you were a little offended. At least you were trying?

"I can sleep on the couch instead? It's small but I'll probably fit if i just-"

"It's fine."

Well okay then... sorry for trying to make things less awkward...

Is what you should have said. Instead, you just sighed and reached for the remote, stopping a few inches away when another hand came into vision. It withdrew almost as quickly as you saw it and your eyes turned to the source. "Oh, do you want to-"

"No, it's fine. You take it." He crossed his arms and turned over and away from you, pulling the sheets to his shoulders.

Now you were pissed.

You had given him the benefit of the doubt — today (and without a doubt the last 8 months) had been rough. Of course it had been, it was rough for you behind the scenes, nevermind face-to-face with a sociopath — but this? This was childish, immature, and extremely annoying.

But you simply bit your tongue and looked through the channels on TV, or rather the lack thereof... Today you would be the bigger person, it wasn't anything you hadn't been through before. Just take a deep breath and don't let it bother you...

It took about half an hour for your eyes to finally droop, the noise inside your mind to go quiet, the sound of the tv to slowly fade out as you prepared to leave the conscious world behind for a much needed 8 hours of sleep — and then he spoke. Of course he spoke.

"Can you turn it down?"

A small request. You complied.

"Is there anything less bright on?"

An odd one, but sure. TV could be overwhelming when you're trying to sleep.

"Can you just turn it off?"

That's it. You had had enough.

"What is your problem?" You sat fully, crossing your legs and facing him, hands on your hips, full mother-telling-a-child-off mode, because that's exactly how he was acting.

"My problem?" He turned his head, not even bothering to give you the full turn, you were sure he couldn't even properly see you. Turn to face me coward, look me in the eyes when I'm confronting you. It was exactly like a cowboy standoff — which was fitting since you were in the South...

"Yes, your problem! You've been standoffish with me the whole night!"

"Well I'm sorry but I'm a little stressed right now since someone let the unsub I'd been trying to catch for eight months get away." You'd never heard him take this tone of voice before — well, not towards you, and especially not since he was off his mind on... nevermind.

"We. We were trying to catch her. You know- the team? Who I am also a part of?"

"Well you're not very good."

You froze. What was that? Who was that? Because that's not the spencer you knew. Sure, he could be a little blunt sometimes, he could even be a little mean. But he never truly intended to hurt you — far, far different from the venom that had just laced his every word, coating both of your mouths and ears in a sickly silence.

A silence that Spencer physically felt. He felt the way you hesitated, no, completely stopped. Saw the way your eyes widened in an emotion he couldn't quite place. Betrayal maybe? He thought about it, thought about how you had done nothing but try to reassure him and defuse him. And he regretted.

"Y/N..."

No. You shook your head, turning away from him, trying to talk yourself down from the tears that threatened your eyes, the taste of bile that rose, the way your mind raced.

What if he's right? You did let Liza get away afterall... How many times had you messed up in the past? Why did Hotch even keep you on the team? Would he rethink that after this situation?

"Y/N." He spoke again. You threw your legs over the side of the bed, and stood facing the wall, the door. You considered it, and then reconsidered when you realised what you were wearing as PJs — Let's just say it wasn't something you'd want whoever roams the streets at this time of night to see...

"Y/N please..." His voice was softer now. He was half tempted to stand up and walk over to you, to reach out and place a hand on your shoulder, to do anything, anything to make you look at him again.

His mind changed when you walked towards the one place you could possibly hide in this dingy motel room, the bathroom. He winced as the door slammed closed and he heard you sliding down the other side. He listened, and his frown only grew as you quietly sobbed. He decided against knocking — this was his fault and he needed to think about how he could make it up to you.

-- -- --

To be continued...

[lxcke]

@killerlittlerejects: The Master Post

As you all know, I love to sit back and watch things unfold before bringing up an opinion. I don't really talk a lot, but when I do, there's usually something very serious going on. Well, today's the day I air out all that dirty laundry @killerlittlerejects has been desperately trying to keep under wraps. KLR, you've got multiple GROUPS of victims spanning back entire years, and they've all got a lot to say about you, girlie. I know what you did, and I'd love to share with the class your hypocrisy, lies, and long history of bullying.

After hours of research and conversations with your various victims, it's clear you have a pattern:

You catch wind of a target when they say something you don’t like.

Proceed to make it your entire personality for months to years at a time.

Shitpost, stalk, harass, and threaten this target completely out of left field.

Bask in the attention until your victim catches onto what you’re doing.

Get called out and play the perfect little angel victim against all the allegations.

Block block block, ignore, deflect, and/or fandom-hop to the next clean slate.

Repeat.

I don't tread lightly with my words when I tell you that this chick is psychotic. She's been caught stalking, with not two, not three, not four, but SEVEN known alt accounts. My team has had to sit down as a group and block a total of sixteen other related accounts to this person in an attempt to get her and the people associated with her fully off our back, and we're still not sure if that's all of them. Her cyberstalking habit has gotten to the point of police reports being filed on her. Twice.

This chick has pushed people into getting the police involved.

So, for one, harassing someone over something as simple as writing, attempting to stir up a little hate group against one of the biggest Cluster B artists on Tumblr, is scummy and comes off like you are clout farming. You've gone from what I thought was a bad case of keyboard-warrioring to one of the vilest attention whores I've ever been forced to witness beg on this platform.

You thought you could get away with trash-talking a man who has openly stated he has a disorder that affects how he communicates, who has openly said he uses his art as a coping mechanism, and who has openly made it clear he creates for those without a voice in the ASPD community. To me, and to many others, it looks like textbook middle-school bullying. You clocked him as an easy target, someone you thought you could overpower, banking on him either staying silent or slipping up just enough to hand you more ammo.

You thought. Bitch.

I've made other posts about this. Much more civil posts. Much more genuine attempts to connect and level with you, but you're just not getting the hint. There are way more people than you know of who will defend this good man with everything they have because he has done them nothing but kindness. You want to sit here and police everything Anton does when you don't even know him, nor have made efforts to, all because you need a punching bag. Every time he so much as breathes wrong, you got something to say, and I'm so fucking over it.

It’s honestly pathetic how you refused to just block the guy like a normal person. Instead, you lurk like some bargain-bin PI, desperate to dig up more dirt to whine about. It’s also incredibly suspicious to me that both Anton’s and my accounts went under a mass report review out of nowhere after nothing but complete normalcy, and not even twelve hours later, you're back at it after MONTHS of supposed radio silence on our end. I genuinely thought we were good up until now. You don’t “get dragged into drama” like you love to bitch about, you light the match and dive headfirst into the gasoline, then cry that it burns. You’ve spent every waking moment trying to paint yourself as some pure little victim while you stir shit behind the scenes. Now that the truth's out? You're flailing and mass-blocking like that’s going to save you. It's always your move: deny, deflect, block, repeat, a predictable little meltdown from someone who thought they’d never get called out by more than just those involved in your little game.

I’m not gonna name names, dox, threaten, or send people after you, because I’m not like you. I was nice to you, dude, but I’m not going to continue and let my team grovel at you and your circle’s feet and beg for forgiveness. These kinds of serious accusations from troves and troves of people, especially since their stories all line up with ours, really makes me wonder…

Anton hasn’t done shit to you or anyone else, and frankly, I’m fed up with your bitch ass tone, instigating other creators in the fandom to come up with insane rumors and accusations, and acting like you know the motherfucker’s “dark secrets” when all of you and your flying monkeys are completely clueless. None of you want to take any of the WOMEN in his circle seriously, blatantly ignoring what we’ve all had to say in favor of your self-righteous circle jerk. I’m not an angry person. I don’t normally do this. I’ve never even been involved with internet drama like this in my entire internet career, but you. You’re on a lot of people’s shitlist. YOU KINDS OF PEOPLE ARE THE REASON I LEFT THE FANDOM YEARS AGO. This is nothing new to me!

So, let me just… go through some of the shit you’ve been spewing here.

Everything you’ve posted reads like a tantrum wrapped in fake concern?? If you’re “scared” to post and need to open with a “no harassment” disclaimer, it’s obviously just drama you’re trying to dress up as activism. You complain Anton makes people “walk on eggshells,” but really, he just has standards and refuses to turn his project into your Tumblr fanfic fantasy land. You want to sit there and claim “oh that’s not the case and they’re bad boys!!!” but then get pissed when they become too disturbing for your taste. You’re mad that he actually has a backbone, not that he's some fandom dictator. Claiming he “shames” anything that doesn’t fit his vision? Of course he does… it’s HIS project. It’s HIS blog. It’s HIS space, and you are actively stepping into his online space and then crying about it??

Anton isn’t responsible for memorizing every bad Wattpad rewrite you cling to like scripture. Calling him a hypocrite for using shock value when he’s actually writing horror and not some pity party is insane; using shock to unsettle is what real horror authors do. You just can’t tell the difference because your taste was formed by creepypasta TikToks and 2010 dance AMVs. You even admit the fandom was never realistic, yet you’re mad that Anton had the audacity to actually do something different with it. 

Anton didn’t “mistype” to cover his ass, he had to clarify because people like you twist everything into a federal crime scene the second you get confused. You think pointing out that he criticizes other Jeffs is a gotcha…? No, he critiques, that’s allowed. We all know that and we’re not fucking stupid, bitch. What YOU are doing is attempting to destroy Anton’s name with baseless but HUGE accusations getting stirred up on your blog. None of us EVER tried to do this kind of shit to you. Now the cat’s out of the bag because you just couldn’t leave us alone.

As for the Leech and Tyrant situation: he's writing a toxic dynamic on purpose to show how evil it is, not to endorse it. If you can't handle seeing morally bad characters doing bad things without thinking it’s an endorsement, you’re not fit to be talking shit. And accusing someone of guilt just because they edited a post is the dumbest middle school logic imaginable. You’re not exposing anything real here. You’re just pissed that Blessed Be the Wicked isn’t the fandom-safe, pastel-coated story you wanted. You didn’t "catch" Anton,  you exposed yourself as someone too lazy to engage with actual horror storytelling and too entitled to realize you aren’t owed anything.

You have never bothered to investigate further into Blessed Be The Wicked’s messages. Your "criticism" about how "violence isn't maturity" is laughable, no shit, but Anton isn't just throwing gore around for shock, he’s showing broken characters being broken, which is leagues more thoughtful than pretending Jeff just needed a hug. You ramble about feminism like it has anything to do with Anton's work when it doesn't. And your complaints about “spite” and “hatred” are projection at its finest, dude, you are the one bashing Anton publicly. Anton talks about the fandom, his takes, and his arts. You encourage people to call him an incest supporter, a creep, and a misogynist. In the end, you admit you don’t know anything about his actual story. You tuned out, you didn’t engage, and you decided your shallow personal grudge mattered more than facts. That’s not critique, bitch, that’s straight selfism.

Look at Terrifyer 2. Look at Hostel. Look at literally any fucking horror movie. Anton’s level of gore/sexuality in his work is like a goddamn tea party. You’re acting like a fucking baby. You admit you were emotionally unstable when you wrote your original hit piece (no surprise there), but you still cling to your outrage like a little fucking kid. You’re mad because in early drafts, two characters were written to be the same person (not literal twins,) or mentor-apprentice, and in later drafts they were rewritten, as if that’s some cardinal sin in storytelling. You PURPOSEFULLY took that literally to cause shit.

Rewriting and evolving relationships is called developing a story, not "one-upping yourself." Then you reach for the laziest grenade you could find. "It’s misogyny!!!! Look guys it’s misogyny!!!! It’s bad!!!" As if screaming misogyny without evidence somehow makes your whining valid. You tried the "healing art isn’t for the internet" take, which is such a bad-faith, selfish argument it’s practically villainous. Anton sharing art he worked through trauma with doesn’t obligate him to babysit your feelings. I’m sure we can all agree that we hold art close to our hearts in one way or another and want to share that. Your grand finale on one of these latest posts is calling yourself an "ignorant cunt" like it’s a badge of honor. Fine. Self-awareness is the first step to recovery. Stay there.

The guilt-tripping lately is Olympic-level. Someone from her asks apologized for accidentally fanning the flames, and KLR practically threw a pity party. She claims it’s "not their fault," but immediately shifts to passive-aggressively blaming us for daring to defend ourselves, because how dare people try to keep an innocent man’s name clean? Then she acts like a martyr, whining about being "singled out," even though she was the one who reignited an old drama with a new post. Actions, consequences. Not a hard concept dude, come on. She says she’s "upset it escalated," like she’s just an innocent bystander, when she chose to publish drama-bait and knew exactly what kind of response it would get. You’re not a victim of some grand scheme; you're just messy, and now the mess splattered back on you.

After stirring the pot until it boiled over, KLR pulled this AWESOME classic internet martyr move: announcing a dramatic "signing off" like she’s some war hero going into exile. She cries that blocking people somehow wasn’t enough (because her victims have to silence themselves just to make her comfortable). She insists she’s “safe” and “not self-harming,” fishing for sympathy, doing that bullshit manipulative undertone of accusation that we’re threatening her SAFETY??? while conveniently ignoring that her side started the harassment, ableism, and dogpiling over personality disorders. “I’m not suicidal guys!!!” Motherfucker, nobody said ANYTHING about coming over to hurt you. You’re projecting.

Then, just like clockwork, she wraps it all in a syrupy "you are loved, have fun, be creative" speech, because nothing says emotional manipulation like trying to look wholesome right after turning a fandom into a battleground. If she wanted things to calm down, she could've stopped months ago. But no, she kept kicking the hornet’s nest and now wants a parade for "stepping away." The Oscar is in the mail.

So, let’s look at the receipt here:

Saw Anton’s views she didn’t like → obsessed over them.

Months of “poking the bear,” shitposts, stirring the pot, supposedly dropping vague DMs from alts, keyboard warrior shit.

Ramped up the disinformation campaigns and ableism when she didn’t get the attention she wanted

Played "truth-teller" while getting ego boosts from followers.

Anton’s defenders decided to FINALLY clap back after finally getting sick of it.

Immediately switched to "I’m scared 😭 I did nothing wrong!!" mode.

Blocked critics, played dead online. Prepping for a comeback in a different fandom probably as we speak.

Yup, that checks out. She’s textbook. Not "misunderstood." Not "scared." Not "traumatized into lashing out." She's a professional abuser LARPing as a martyr and I am not about to sit here and let her continue to abuse not only my lover, my friends, and myself, but the fandom I grew up in and hold dear. 

I’ve got THIRTEEN individual people in my inbox telling me all about you, and I’m so happy to know that it’s not us, it’s you. Fuck you.

Sincerely,

Locke

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

i feel like tan is a man i would hate in real life. but you write him so well?? like sorry for going on a little rant here, i do like atj and i also like tan but i have these little nitpicks about some things he does or says in the movie that just frustrates me yk? like the scene where he tosses the cig on the floor (yes, i will admit that scene is hot but that one bit ughh), or how much he swears, or how he acts with his brother and i'm thinking what if he's like that with his partner? what if he acts nonchalant and you can't tell what he's thinking? what if he jokingly calls you a twat but you're having a bad day and you start overthinking it? and so sometimes i'm thinking that i don't like him as much as i once did but you come up with a new fic where he takes care of things for us, his eyes softens as he gently grabs our cheek and kisses our forehead? and suddently i'm calling him husband material again! or similarly, i'd be like, hey remember when little-miss-dilf-lover posted that one fic on jun 29 2024 where tan literally pulled some strings so that he could marry us? i remember

i'm sorry for this rant, i know it's silly to even think so much about a fictional man and i'm aware i'm kinda contradicting myself here but i know this blog is a safe place. do you ever feel like this about those you write about?

you know what, I so get that bc I don’t really think I would be able to get on with him if he was a real person. he’s too blasé and standoffish and I can’t lead conversations to save my life so I would be fucked😭😭

totally understandable bc yes it’s very very hot, but like it’s littering???? and that’s very very ugly

yep with the swearing thing I do very much get that, but must say bc im also english it doesn’t feel too erugh to me (I do have to add I come from a non swearing household, so my mum would hate it LMAOO)

I often chat with my friend here about tan and we talk about this sort of thing when sharing ideas etc. so I shall regurgitate some back to you🫶 tan is a very interesting and complex character and we don’t see/ learn much of him, but based off how he acts and behaves we learn sooo much abiut him and his character. like that man loves DEEPLY. he protects, he serves and he respects but like he’s also really cold and can be distant and verbally hateful, but honestly I think those traits are more of a cover/ facade. he’s so complicated, I love him

but real talk, I think that man is a once in the lifetime love kinda man. so I don’t think he would be with someone if he didn’t really truly love them and see it as a serious relationship. sooo if the things he usually says don’t get the response from you they usually do, he would do something to rectify that, and wouldn’t want you getting upset by jokingly being called a dick or a nob just bc you’re having an off day

AHHHHHHHHH NO STOP THATS SO CUTE OF YOU!!!💗💗💗💗💗

never be sorry!! I love analysing things, and especially tan bc he’s so much fun! and yep, you’re so totally safe here with your thoughts 😽

and yup I feel like that all the time, or worry that I have somehow personified the character differently and got it wrong and I’ll embarrass myself publicly for it😭😭

apologies this is very long😭

[tanilealto]

@fitzrove fair. I've seen the Dutch version and Rudolf keeps the same way of performing during the whole thing.

More outrageous moments (for everyone interested):

NO MAYERLING KISS :( what happened, Rudolf stood in the centre of the stage, Tod and the ensemble (not even dressed as Todsengelen) around him in a semi-circle. No interaction between Rudolf, Tod, and Ensemble whatsoever. Rudolf puts gun in mouth and falls dead. Tod turns on heels and walks away. The ensemble walks away save for 4 who carry Rudolf away.

DEEPLY DISTURBING THINGS:

"Der Tod" pushing a sigarette in Danique's mouth, while holding her throat. That was in my eyes when they went *too* far. -

"Der Tod" telling Baby Rudolf "I'll stay" when the child said "go away". I loved the German version precisely because Tod was able (for his goals) to "befriend" humans. Here, it looks like child abuse.

What the heck was that heroine needle-

About that ^^ at the end of "Wenn ich tanzen will", during which a music box was playing (brought by Tod), Pia broke the plate-scratching-needle out of the box and "stuck" it in her arm. My friend found from an interview it is meant to represent heroine.

What a weird way to stage the Mayerling -

Overall, I need to say, that "Der Tod" felt here like an abusive, creepy man, instead of a dangerous otherwordly being.

THINGS THAT WERE NOT DISTURBING, BUT DISAPPOINTING:

The Cardinal wasn't peer pressured enough in "Wir oder Sie" :( Usually Sophie (and sometimes the rest of the noblemen) stares him down until he agrees. Here he agreed on his own, and I didn't really like it, because, if it doesn't give any interaction, why have that line at all?

The choreography of "Mama wo bist du", and "Die Schatten". Just...no. There was SO MUCH critique about the Schönbrunn 'whip'-pulling, yet here they do the same with a rope, when suddenly, it's 'cool'. I don't know who's more at fault, the director or the actor, but there is a fine line between something being empathy-invoking and pathetic, and this guy uses this line as a tightrope. <- this is about Rudolf's excessive kneeling and whimpering

The amount of times Elisabeth is thrown on the ground and/or touches her throat. I mean, there is critique about the Elisabeth throw-and-grab during Der Letzte Tanz in the earlier productions. Here she was thrown around even more AND grabbed by the throat. Congratz, producing team.

Hi there! The Dutch Musical Awards were yesterday evening, and they always include some performances from the nominated shows and what else is in the theatre at the moment. And they did "Er valt een zwarte schaduw" (which is "Die Schatzen werden langer" in German?) From Elisabeth the musical! The performance is on YouTube, check it out:

https://youtu.be/Q8nhMQvxxNQ?si=2ujwn4F6NR1e8lpV

Thanks for the link!

Milan sure is doing something (tm) as Death (he's fine, there have been much worse ones in Germany - not sure about that falsetto opt up lmao but idk, he's decent) but wow, these people have zero chemistry😭😭 I don't think the guy that plays Rudolf is even acting or trying to show what the character is feeling in this scene, he's just kind of there???

[ivan-fyodorovich-k]

I would really like it if the hive mind could move away from the idea that the exception disproves the rule every time

there's such a thing as statistical distribution, the species is made up of unique individuals that nevertheless aggregate into identifiable trends, you can have something be true of most or virtually all people and nevertheless find exceptions. This runs the gamut from effective medical treatments, to the kinds of media people like, to gender roles and expressions, all kinds of things

This Procrustean effort to force everyone to conform to the standard and/or the delusion that the standard is just an axiomatic lie that can be tossed out on a whim are both ridiculous, you can have rules of thumb and broad heuristics that allow for all kinds of exceptions without being falsehoods

[stalactites]

we need to hide meta slashers and satirical teen horror comedies on the top shelf for at least the next twenty years. if you're not in a violent nature (2024) or bodies bodies bodies (2022).... DONT BOTHER!!!

[starboundsingularities]

tbh it's really always bothered me a bit that they never actually get into the consequences of misusing the magatama. sure, sure, they say your soul shatters, and like, yeah that's ominous and all, but what does it mean? obviously we never get to see that in-game but i've been thinking about it a lot and i would like to present these thoughts because oh boy there are a lot of them. long post under cut but it's a fun little au as well

alright so before getting into it all, obviously there are some things we're aiming to explain, in some sense, with this.

for one: what is a soul, even? most depictions of souls portray them as the very essence of one's self, as the "culmination of your being" or as some similar nebulous expression of an entire person. but... well, if a soul was the entirety of a person, what would that soul shattering entail? it would just kill them. which is a valid reading i guess but not very fun to mess around with and is also a reading that comes with some... troubling implications.

most notably, the meter on how close you are to that breaking point while using the magatama is the same meter as your penalties in court. not just in the asset used, which wouldn't be worth bringing up, but in the sense that once the magatama is introduced, that same value that meter is held at is shared between court trials and the magatama. before the introduction of the magatama, that meter refilled automatically between trials, each trial starting with it completely full, but after the introduction of the magatama, it was only ever refilled by successfully breaking psyche-locks. this is concerning, because it implies a direct connection between phoenix's soul and his performance in court, which probably wasn't intended but is very fun to mess around with and i love the idea of your soul being tied to your passions. however i don't love the idea of him Straight Up Dying if he does too poorly in court so. uh, no insta-death for soul shattering. anyways this whole side tangent never comes up again. thumbs up emoji.

anyways, if a soul shattering doesn't entail simply death, and if a soul isn't just someone's essence or personality or whatever, well, what is it? well, one compelling answer is that it's merely a container. it holds someone's essence or being or personality, but it itself is not that.

thus i present:

Soul Shatter AU

a soul is just a container. one that holds everything in. someone's passions, ambitions, personality.

someone's secrets.

if it were to shatter... without a container, everything would come spilling out. whoever was involved would be unable to keep anything contained within themself. sure, their physical self might be enough to hold in some of the more ambiguous, nebulous aspects of their "self", but it would prove rather difficult to hide something with nothing there to keep it hidden inside.

a fitting punishment, really, for abusing the power to reveal what others have kept hidden.

the fun part, of course, is what comes next. who's used the magatama? who's had the chance to fall to such a fate?

off the top of my head i can think of two people. phoenix wright and miles edgeworth. (i think mia used one too? my friend says she did but i haven't gotten to that part yet i'm only on the third game)

and both of them, despite their focus on finding the truth, are very ironically prone to hiding things themselves. their feelings, their troubles, their emotions.

what if we opened them up a little?