#like that has to be an insult right? or at least a tragedy?

[creative-clawmarks]

"I didn't want to get Jessica involved, that's why I told her I found Amy! That's YOUR fault!"

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KO-FI

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 IF WE WERE YOUNG AGAIN

FEATURING: osamu dazai

SUMMARY: your day was a mess from start to finish, and you knew it would only go further downhill when dazai inevitably called you up to his office once you got back to headquarters. still, you never could've imagined just how badly it would take a turn for the worse.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: AHAHAHAHAHA GUYSSSSS ARE U READY ARE U READYYYYYYYYY BEAST AU PMREADER AT LAST!!!!!!!! anyway there's not much to say yet, i shall be saying my thank yous and my full piece at the end of the last part, so ENJOY! this first part is a doozy dafuhsdiufh sorry the summary sucks i couldnt think of one and just wanted to get this out for u guys. be gentle on our girl reader, she's going through it. reblogs appreciated!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, beast!dazai, tragedy, angst, canon compliant.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: dazai is quite cruel in this first part (with reason of course but it still might be hard to read). alcohol & drug usage. unprotected sex. finger sucking. a bit of implied/explicit misogny & slut shaming.

SEE: TWO SLOW DANCERS SERIES MASTERLIST

Dazai Osamu is dead—that’s what everyone tells you, at least.

Chuuya is convinced he died somewhere between his fifteenth and sixteenth birthday, months before you ever met either of them. He tells you that if you’d seen the way he acted when he and Chuuya first met—if you’d seen how bright his eyes got whenever he insulted Chuuya and goaded him into stupid challenges, if you’d seen the way he was so careless with his life and how he’d laugh gleefully when Mori panicked trying to keep him alive, if you’d seen him compared to how he acted afterward, you would know that something happened in those months that killed the boy that once went by that name. Chuuya is vehement in his belief that Dazai has been long dead, and the thing that lives on the top floor of the Mafia’s main headquarters is only a husk that wears his ex-partner’s face.

The Flags agree with him—they never knew Dazai well, but they knew of him enough to know that something had seriously changed in those few months. You’d never been convinced of it, though. You didn’t know Dazai before his ‘death’ date, but you know that he wasn’t dead when you met him. 

He was always odd; you could always tell that something heavy was hanging over him. There was an air of gloom and despair that clung to him like a second skin, and it made people keep him at arm’s length. Sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he’d get a faraway look in his eyes like he was lost in some other world, and sometimes he became cold and standoffish for no reason at all. It would happen so suddenly that it would give you whiplash, and you never knew what triggered it. Still, you could see the way his fingers trembled with guilt after.

He was odd, but he was alive. You fought Chuuya tooth and nail about it for two years; he always tried to get you to distance yourself from Dazai, warning you that something was wrong with him, that he was not right, that something changed him for the worse, and every time would end with you slapping him and the two of you not speaking for days. Dazai was alive—it was so abundantly clear to you in every interaction with him. His eye shone brightly whenever you walked into the room. You could hear and feel his heart racing when the two of you were curled up on the couch or in bed. His cheeks would flush a pretty red whenever you teased him, his breath would catch when your lips brushed his—he was alive, and there was no one you wouldn’t fight about it.

Your partner, Itou, didn’t know Dazai before his speculated ‘death’ date either, but he too was skeptical of how adamant Chuuya and the Flags were about it because all he saw was the way he acted with you. It made you feel validated, you would vent to him about it whenever you and Chuuya got into fights because you didn’t want to tell Dazai what Chuuya was saying about him, although you had a feeling he already knew. 

Then he hopped on the bandwagon two months before Dazai took over as Port Mafia boss. You don’t quite know what happened between the two of them—Itou and Dazai were never friends. Dazai was always cold to the older boy, and Itou always kept a distance from him, but they were cordial for the most part. Something changed at eighteen when Dazai picked up a mission that was supposed to be yours. He went with your subordinates up to Kyoto to handle Ihara Saikaku, who was undoing all the work you’d done up there before you came to Yokohama. When they got back, Itou could never look at him the same. He wasn’t quite as loud and adamant about Dazai as Chuuya and the Flags were, but you could tell that he wasn’t fully on your side anymore when you vented to him.

So you were alone in your defense of Dazai. Alone, and for a long time, you never wavered—Dazai was odd, but he was indubitably alive, and he was indubitably human. You fought Chuuya on it, you fought Itou on it, but eventually, you had to fight yourself on it, too. 

Your throat swells as you look at the small metal trinket resting in your hands. It’s ugly, haphazardly made—a bunch of wires twisted into an indecipherable shape. It’s only because you remember the offended expression that crossed Dazai’s face when he saw the confusion on yours after handing it to you as a gift when you guys were sixteen that you know it’s supposed to be a crab, and he has his own to match. Had his own to match. Chuuya had one, too, but he destroyed it right before your eyes during one particularly bad fight three years ago. 

Dazai had made them after watching a movie with you and Chuuya before their shaky friendship fell apart entirely toward the end of the Dragon’s Head Conflict. You’re not really sure what pushed him to make them, but Chuuya immediately called them ugly and said that he didn’t want a stupid crab, and Dazai promptly threw it in his face. The two of them started brawling on the ground for almost an hour, but even after they fell out, you know Chuuya took careful care of the stupid crab—it brought you solace for a time because you knew it meant that a part of Chuuya, however small, still clung to his old friendship with Dazai even if they weren’t on good terms anymore. 

Until he used his ability to ensure that there wasn’t even dust left when he destroyed it, that is.

“You already finished up with Mishima? I thought you weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.”

You lift your gaze from the crab, eyes falling on Chuuya as he leans against the frame of the door to your office. There’s an odd expression on his face, and you realize that he’s not looking at you but instead at the object in your hands, trying to figure out what it is. As casually as you can, you lean back in your seat and bring your hands into your lap, giving him a wry smile.

“Dealing with Mishima never takes more than a couple of hours,” you say, quietly dropping the trinket in your desk drawer before sliding it shut. “I figured you’d be busy with the new recruits today. I heard they were incompetent.”

“Don’t get me started,” he replies dryly,  pushing himself off the doorframe to make his way over to you. He sits on your desk and you give him a withering look when he carelessly moves the documents you’d been reading. “I left Iceman to deal with it.”

“How considerate.”

“Always,” he agrees with a sharp smile. He leans back on his hands, hair falling in his eyes and hat crooked on his head as he looks down at you, eyes curious—you know him well enough that there’s a question on the tip of his tongue, but it’s likely a question he already knows the answer to and just wants to see what you say.

“We’re meeting at the bar in Hodogaya—you gonna come?”

It’s a casual question, an invite out with friends, so unassuming, but you know what the underlying question is. 

Are you going to answer him when he calls for you?

It’s a Thursday night. Dazai usually calls for you on Fridays because you’re not quite as busy trying to get together reports before the weekend—he knows you like to have them done before Friday morning—but you had a mission today, so you know, and Chuuya knows, that he’s going to use it as an excuse to call you up to his office tonight. 

There’s a heavy look in his eyes as he stares at you, waiting for a response, and you know what he wants to hear. He wants you to say yes, he wants you to turn your back on Dazai at last and come out with them instead—and you think he has some nerve expecting that of you when he still acts like Dazai’s loyal dog, killing and destroying on his command. This is going to lead to an argument between the two of you, not the first and certainly not the last. Every time you argue about this, he tells you that what he does for Dazai is different, he throws things in your face that you regret ever telling him, and then he’ll apologize when he calms down later. 

Then the same fight will happen next week like clockwork. 

“Chuuya,” you say quietly, letting out a sigh as you lean back in your chair, looking away. “You know—”

You sit upright when Chuuya suddenly leans forward, using his foot to push the drawer he’s sitting over open to grab what you tossed in there before he entered the room—you hadn’t been subtle enough. Your heart rate spikes, hand darting out to grab his wrist, but Chuuya is stronger than you, and he wrenches his hand away, staring down at the twisted wires with a disgusted expression

“Give it back,” you say tightly, holding your hand out. The air suddenly feels very hot, the room is suffocating. “Chuuya, give it to me.”

He doesn’t.

“You still have this shitty piece of scrap metal,” he spits, hand tightening around it. The Tainted Sorrow responds to his anger in an eerie red glow that emanates around his hand. Usually, Chuuya has impeccable control over his ability, he has to otherwise, destruction will follow him everywhere he goes, but the topic of Dazai is the only thing that manages to rattle the careful control he’s built. The only thing that wakes up the sleeping calamity god inside of him. “Why?”

“None of your business,” you say tightly, rising to your feet. “Give it back, Chuuya.”

“What the fuck are you still holding onto?” he demands, voice raising as he too comes to his feet, holding the trinket tight in his hands as he comes face to face with you. “He’s gone. How many fucking times does it have to be shoved in your face for you to understand? Dazai is gone.”

“Stop it,” you tell him, voice quiet but it wavers in a way you wish it didn’t. You’re not sure if you’re trying to convince yourself or Chuuya when you say, “He’s still there.”

“Dazai is dead,” Chuuya hisses. You can see he’s trying to calm himself down, but the frustration is whittling at his self-control. You used to be able to have conversations about Dazai, discussions about your opposing viewpoints, but now the instant his name is brought up, it’s like guns being drawn on both sides. “He died years ago. Whatever that thing is up in that office, it’s not him. Let him go, for fuck’s sake.”

“Rich,” you say with a laugh that you know grates his nerves. “Then why are you still here, Chuuya? You’re the strongest ability user in the world. No one could stop you if you wanted to leave, but you still answer his every whim like a well-trained dog.”

Chuuya’s expression twists like you’ve physically slapped him. A hurt expression crosses his face, and then something closer to guilt as he looks down at the ground. You know why—you know he partially blames himself for how Dazai changed. He thinks that there’s something he could’ve done differently in those months he knew him before he ‘died’ that could’ve led to a different outcome, and that’s why he stays at his side.

“Because once you’re done holding out hope that he’s still there,” Chuuya says, voice low and threatening in a way that has your hair on end—you’ve only ever heard him take this tone with enemies, “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” you reply, voice just as low. “He’s still the boss.”

“He’s a walking corpse.” 

“Watch your mouth.”

Chuuya suddenly laughs, taking a step away as he shakes his head. His eyes are wild, and you tense, waiting for him to escalate the argument, but you can’t brace yourself for the words that fly from his mouth.

“Always running to his defense, all for him to treat you like a whore,” Chuuya spits, slamming his hands down on your desk. He’s loud enough that you know all of the subordinates wandering the halls can hear. You don’t breathe as you stare at him, words processing slowly. “He calls you up there because he wants to get his fucking dick wet, and you spread your legs for him every time. Where’s your fucking self-respect?”

Your hand shoots out before you can stop yourself, palm stinging painfully as you slap Chuuya so hard that his head snaps to the side. He doesn’t budge for a second, staring at the far wall, a guilty expression crossing his face as if he only just now realized the gravity of his words.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, and you hate that your voice wavers. “Get out of my office.”

Chuuya says your name quietly, regretfully. “I—”

“Get out, Chuuya,” you scream at him, taking one of the books on your desk and throwing it at him hard. He could use his ability to stop it from hitting him, or he could dodge, but he lets it drive hard into his chest, grimacing at the pain. “Get the fuck out.”

He leaves without another word, placing the bundle of twisted wires back down on your desk and only sparing one last glance in your direction before shutting the door quietly behind him. As soon as he’s gone, your hand is flying to your mouth to muffle the ragged breath you take in. Your eyes blur with tears, but you don’t let them roll over your cheeks—you don’t even have the chance to because your phone is buzzing with a message you’ve been expecting since you got back to base. 

What timing, you think dryly, desperately trying to calm yourself down.

Dazai: Come up.

———

When you reach the top floor, your heart is in your throat. You don’t meet the eyes of either of the guards in the hall leading to Dazai’s office. You can’t even if you wanted to—as soon as you stepped out of the elevator, they averted their gaze to the ground. 

You only come up here once a week—you only see Dazai once a week. You can hardly handle being in that office, it reminds you too much of Mori. It’s been four years, and you still sometimes expect to see him when you walk down this hall and through the double doors at the very end of it. You still haven’t fully processed his death—how could you with no closure? Dazai never even let you say goodbye. He didn’t tell you what was happening and had Mori’s body dumped before you could even race up to the top floor to stop him. By the time you got to the office, the deed was done, and Dazai was sitting at his desk, blood still fresh on his face and Mori’s scarf draped around his shoulders—a spoil of war, a symbol of his conquest.

There was no apology. No explanation. Not even a hint of guilt over what he did—for keeping you in the dark, for not even giving you the chance to cry over your father’s corpse.

He looked at you and said, “You were slower than I expected.”

He let you yell at him, he let you cry, but he never rose from where he was sitting at his desk. He watched impassively as you screamed your throat raw and cried until there were no tears left to shed, and when you sat on the ground heaving, finally starting to calm down, he told you to pull yourself together. That he needed your help reconsolidating power because the weeks directly after the transition would be the most vulnerable to internal and external conflict. That you needed to reach out to Leo Tolstoy and Mishima Yukio to let them know about the power transition and to ensure they were vocal in support of him.

Sometimes, you wonder if Chuuya is right because you don’t understand how Dazai could be so callous. And to you of all people. You can’t reconcile the Dazai of that day to the Dazai you knew for years—the one who lived in your apartment, who failed miserably every time he tried to make dinner, whose fingers trembled when you kissed him the first time.

He adored you for years, he looked at you like you were his whole world—he was cold to everyone else, but never you. From the day he met you when the Dragon’s Head Conflict was raging through Yokohama, he was gentle, overly affectionate, he gave you silly trinkets that reminded him of you, and picked the shittiest movies on Friday nights. He couldn’t sleep unless you were near him—a week before he killed Mori, he was curled up in your bed and complaining when you took too long brushing your teeth. You’d known the night before it happened that something was wrong, but you never could have expected what happened. Not ever. Not from Dazai.

He never explained why he really killed Mori; he blows you off with some shitty excuse about how it was what was best for the Mafia. How Mori knew this was coming. How it was always meant to happen. But you know there’s something he isn’t telling you, and his refusal to do so is as much of a betrayal as the act itself was.

When you reach the tall wood doors leading to his office, you take a moment to collect yourself. You remind yourself that it’s Dazai behind them, that Mori is gone, Elise is gone—you do this every time you come up here, but it’s never enough to rid yourself of the hope that briefly swells in your chest before it’s crushed by the sight of Dazai.

After what feels like an eternity, you finally push the door open and step into the office. The air is cool, brisk compared to the stuffy air of the hallway, and Dazai is standing on the other side of his desk, back facing you, hands clasped behind him. The door slams shut behind you with a deafening thunk, and you stay rooted to the ground in front of it, staring at the back of Dazai’s head.

He turns his head to the side, looking at you from the corner of his eye. For a moment, you almost think that his gaze softens as it lands on you, but it’s wishful thinking. You brace yourself when you see the way the corners of his lips quirk up into a sharp smile, how his eye glitters with a type of amusement that can only be malicious. His hands slide from where they’re resting behind his back to his front, out of view, and he says:

“You were slower than I expected.”

The air whooshes from your lungs—you don’t know what you thought he would say, but it wasn’t that. You try not to let the pain show as you recover from the blow dealt, but you know you failed to stop a grimace from crossing your face with how Dazai’s eye crinkles. 

“You’re lucky I came at all,” you finally bite back, hating the way your voice so obviously wavers. 

It’s always him, only him, who hurts you like this—he’s the only one with the ability to do this to you. Even Chuuya’s worst doesn’t come close to the damage Dazai can do with a few words. With everyone else, you can fight back, you can match their cruelty, surpass their cruelty, but he leaves you at a loss for words. He always has. He used to tease you with it—he was sweet and flirty, and it left you flustered, but now he’s cruel. He digs his fingers into wounds that he created and twists, violently reopening them so he can watch you bleed, and the worst part is, you don’t know why.

“Is that right?” he drawls, voice low and languid as he finally turns to face you, gaze roving over your body once before settling back on your face. His lips are pale and chapped, cheeks a bit sunken, the bag under his visible eye is almost black—you want to find pleasure in the fact that he’s clearly not doing well, but you can’t. He takes a few steps closer to you, and it takes all of your willpower not to let him back you up against the door. He lifts two fingers to your chin, tilting your face up to him and forcing you to hold his gaze—his fingers are so cold that it makes you shiver. “As always, all bark, no bite—you and I both know you’re too obedient to go against a direct order.”

You slap his hand away hard. His lips curve up into an unsettling smile that doesn’t reach his eye. He takes a step back to put some space between the two of you, hands taking their place behind his back again.

“What do you want?” you ask him after a moment, shaking your head as you look away. You know what he wants—you just don’t know what game he wants to play before he gets it. Especially not right now; he’s been so irritable and unpredictable the past few weeks. Sometimes, he likes playing politics, asking you about missions and how relations are with the Port Mafia’s allies; other times, he likes testing your limits, seeing how cruel he can be until you finally break. It always ends the same way for you—bent over his desk. “Hm?”

Dazai tilts his head to the side, giving you a lazy smile. “So cynical. What makes you think I want something? Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

You know better than to fall for that, lips tightening before you say, “You always want something.”

He leans forward on the balls of his feet, head dipping down, and there’s a playful expression on his face that gives you whiplash. You shift back, and for a brief second you see the Dazai you remember. The Dazai who giggled as he held your phone out of reach and watched you struggle to get it back. The Dazai who teased you into giving him your first kiss when you guys were sixteen. The Dazai who learned the names and stories of all of the constellations in the sky for you.

The Dazai you loved.

The Dazai you desperately want to believe is still here.

“Do you know what tomorrow is?” he asks, visibly excited about whatever it is. But you don’t know what he means, so you don’t know how to answer, and your throat feels clogged with fear. 

What is tomorrow?

You’re fumbling, taking too long to answer, you know it, but you want this Dazai, you want him to stay, you want to drag him down to Chuuya and shove it in his face, ‘I told you it’s still him, don’t you see?’, and you want things to go back to how they were. You’re frustrated and panicked trying to come up with an answer for him, and on top of everything, you’re angry at yourself because you don’t know why you still cling so desperately to the boy he used to be after everything he’s done. 

His smile starts to fade when you don’t immediately respond, and you blurt out:

“We have a meeting with the Red Chamber tomorrow.”

It’s not the answer he wants—you know it as you say it, but it’s the only thing you can think of.

“Right,” he agrees quietly, smile gone and gaze lowering to the ground. For a moment, he looks disappointed but not surprised, and then he closes off from you again. His eyes empty of excitement, and his expression flattens—the Dazai you loved is gone again just like that. You know you shouldn't feel as gutted as you are, but you are. Not for the first time, you wish that you could rip out that traitorous beating thing in your chest. It would be so much easier if you could hate him. “Come.”

You don’t move immediately, a heaviness settling over you as you watch him pace back over to his desk, lithe fingers flipping through a manila folder lying on top of it. You swallow thickly before making your way over to him. He slides the folder in front of you and shifts so that he’s looking over your shoulder. He’s too close. You can smell the smoke on his breath from the cigarettes he chain-smokes, the whiskey staining his tongue, the familiar metallic scent of blood. Your gaze drags from the folder to the bandages that peek out from under the dark sleeve of his jacket and then up to his face.

He’s already looking at you through his lashes, eye half-lidded. His gaze isn’t empty anymore, it’s heavy, dark. You don’t know what he’s thinking—you used to be able to read him well, but you haven’t been able to in years. You wish you could now more than ever. 

“What is this?” you finally ask, voice quiet as you force yourself to look back down at the folder he passed over to you. The file is of an executive of the Red Chamber—an acquaintance of yours who worked to get Cao Xueqin to meet with you and Dazai tomorrow. “Why are you showing me this?”

“This friend of yours—”

“Acquaintance,” you correct with a frown.

“Acquaintance,” he echoes with an empty smile. “I want you to kill him tomorrow.”

What?

You don’t even realize you speak the word that instantly flies through your mind at the order he gives you. You turn to look at him again, and he’s watching you carefully now. You don’t know if this is a real order or if Dazai is just saying something ludicrous to get a reaction out of you. You can never tell with him.

“You heard me,” Dazai replies, dark eye dancing with amusement at your confusion.

“What purpose does that serve, Dazai?” you demand, shaking your head. You want to take a step away from him but his presence is magnetic, a black hole that relentlessly pulls you in. “Baoyu Jia is the closest to an ally that the Port Mafia has inside the Red Chamber. We may as well be shooting ourselves in the foot. You—”

Your words falter when Dazai reaches up with his left hand to grab your chin. He tilts your face up again, but this time, his thumb rests on your lower lip, effectively silencing you. He doesn’t speak for a moment, and you know that it’s a power play—forcing you to look at him, silencing you, and then just holding your gaze, daring you to continue. You want to rip your chin out of his grip and scoff at him.

You don’t.

“Don’t question me,” he finally tells you, voice cold, eye flashing with something indecipherable when he sees the rage that crosses your face, but it fades into disappointment when you don’t say anything. 

Did he want you to? 

You don’t understand him.

“I don’t do assassinations, Dazai,” you say instead, voice hard. The pads of his fingers are so hot against your skin, and his thumb against your lip feels too heavy. “I handle politics. You know that.”

His grip on your chin tightens just a smidge, there’s a cruel glint in his eye that you don’t like. You brace yourself for whatever he’s about to say, but nothing can prepare you for what he does.

“You slit your own mentor's throat in her sleep,” he says casually, like it wasn’t something you confided in him about when you were at your lowest years ago. “Surely, you can handle an acquaintance.”

You rip your chin from his grip, taking in a sharp breath as you physically step away. You turn your back to him so he doesn’t see the way your throat spasms as you swallow the sudden lump in it, the way your eyes sting with tears at his words. You don’t know what you expect coming up here every time he asks. You don’t know why you still have hope that he’ll treat you the same way he did before he put a knife in your father’s back and draped his red scarf around his shoulders while his corpse was still warm. 

You don’t know why you still want him to.

“I hate you,” you breathe out, hating how shaky your voice comes out.

Your breath catches when he takes a step closer to you, chest brushing your back, fingers ghosting your hips. His presence is deceptively warm, considering he has no heart to keep his blood pumping, and you hate the way it makes your hair stand on end. You hate the way he knows because you don’t have to look at him to know that his lips are curved up into an amused smile.

He leans down, breath fanning against the nape of your neck as he whispers, “Then leave.”

You won’t. You don’t. You never do.

One of his hands rests on your hip, fingers deceivingly gentle as he caresses you when his words feel like knives through your back. He lifts the other to graze your jaw, leaning in to brush his lip against where he’d touched before he lets his hand drop back to your side, sliding down your body to join the other on your opposite hip, holding you steady when your knees feel weak.

“Leave,” he tells you softly again. You press your lips together to hold back the moan that nearly tumbles out of your lips when his teeth graze that spot below your ear that makes your knees buckle. Luckily, you have enough control over yourself that your knees don’t give out, but you don’t think you were as successful at muffling the moan as you thought you were because you can feel Dazai’s lips curl up into a smug smirk against your skin. “Go, I won’t stop you.”

You should. You know it even as he resumes the slow, languid kisses down your jaw. You know it when you feel his hands slide from your hips to your upper thighs. You know it when he shifts you forward so that the front of your thighs are flush against his desk, the wood pressing uncomfortably into your skin, and you know how this is going to end. You should leave, you should shove him off of you and go back down to your office, you should give him a hateful look and tell him that the way he touches you makes you sick and you can hardly stand to look at him even if it is a lie just to see if he’s still human enough to be hurt by your words or if he’ll just stare at you with that unnervingly empty gaze that makes you question if Chuuya had been right from the beginning. 

But you don’t.

He pauses for a second. His hands go still on your thighs, his lips ghost your pulse point—he’s waiting to see if you’ll leave even though he knows that you won't. You never do. When you don’t move, you hear him take in a sharp breath, and you feel his grip tighten before he slides one hand up your back to fold you over his desk. 

Sometimes, you wonder if he wishes you would leave, if he wants you to fight back, if he’s disappointed when you don’t. 

You’re still wearing the black slip you wore to meet Mishima and his daughters. You purposely wore it because his daughters have wandering eyes and are prone to letting more information slip when they have something pretty to look at.

“You wore this for them.” 

It’s not really a question, but there’s an edge to Dazai’s tone that makes you hold your breath. You turn your head to the side to look at him from the corner of your eye, hoping to catch something on his face, but it’s as blank as ever, entirely unreadable even with you bent over his desk in front of him, hands on your thighs as he slides up your short dress.

“What does it matter?” you ask, voice tight. 

You don’t know how you want him to respond, but it’s certainly not with the way he does: “It doesn’t.”

His voice is as cold as it always is when he calls you up to his office for this. He’s never warm, never intimate—it’s always a quick fuck, it’s always over his desk and never in a bed, his fingers are always rough, and he never kisses you, not on the lips. He hasn’t since the two of you were eighteen. 

But sometimes you’ll hear his breath hitch when he’s deep inside you, you’ll feel his whole body shudder, fingers digging into you so hard like he’s terrified of letting go, and when you look back, you’ll see Dazai. The Dazai you know, the Dazai you loved, the Dazai you can’t let go of. You see it in his eye when he looks down at you—the adoration and the desperation, the tears that he tries desperately not to let spill over—and in the way his lips part like he wants to say something but can’t bring himself to. 

It’s why you keep coming back. It’s why you don’t leave when he tells you to. You cling to the idea that he’s still here like it’s the only thing that keeps you going. A part of you wonders if maybe it is the only thing that still keeps you going because the thought of your Dazai being gone leaves an aching hole in your chest that you don’t think will ever fill.

Sometimes, you wonder if you just imagine it. There’s no hidden intent. There’s no love that he pushes away because he can’t afford the weakness as boss of the Port Mafia; he’s not bringing you up here because he wants to indulge in something he shouldn’t be allowing himself to have. This is just another power play. He just wants to prove that he can have you whenever he wants—that you’re his even after everything he’s done. 

You’re just as much of a spoil of war as the scarf around his neck.

He lifts his hand to shift your hair out of the way, and the tips of his fingers brush the nape of your neck. You hear him let out a noise akin to a scoff when he sees the ribbon tied neatly around your throat. There’s a pinprick of satisfaction that flies through you when you get the audible reaction from him.

“You still wear this thing?” He’s careful to keep his voice calm as he asks the question, but you know from the way his fingers are tense against your neck that he’s bothered.

“It was a gift,” you reply quietly, watching him intently. Your cheek presses against the mahogany of his desk. It’s cool against your skin, but you feel like you’re on fire with the fingers of one of his hands digging into your hip and the other resting on your neck. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He leans down a bit more, his chest to your back, weight pressing down on top of you. His hips are flush with your ass, and you can feel him straining against his black slacks. Your lips part in a silent gasp when he presses his lips to the underside of your jaw, trailing slow, wet kisses down your neck.

“You cling to the past too much,” he murmurs against your skin, teeth grazing your pulse point before he bites down far more gently than he usually does. “You need to let go.”

You have a feeling that he’s not just talking about Mori.

“Letting go has never been my strong suit,” you whisper, lashes fluttering shut when he sucks a dark mark into the crook of your neck. Your eyes snap back open when you feel him grab one of the ends of the ribbon, preparing to take it off. You grab his wrist to stop him. “Don’t.”

He pauses, you can feel his sharp gaze trained on the side of your head, but you don’t look at him this time. You don’t want to know what he’s thinking right now—you can tell from his body language that he’s about to make a comment you’re not going to like.

“What a dirty girl you are,” he murmurs, kissing the crook of your neck over the bruise he left on it. It’s deceptively soft, which lets you know whatever he’s about to say is going to twist the knife still lodged in your back. “Letting me fuck you over Mori’s desk while you wear the first gift he gave you… I’m sure he’d be rolling if he knew.”

You physically jerk at his words, head snapping around, a shocked expression on your face, but before you can get out more than a ‘you—’ he uses his foot to knock your legs apart, hand dropping from your hip to slide against the silk material of your panties. You inhale sharply, lips parting in a moan that you can’t catch as Dazai circles his index finger around where your clit is hidden beneath your panties, his lips trail from the crook of your neck to the top of your spine, and he uses his free hand to slide the zipper of your dress down, revealing your bare back to him.

He doesn’t take off the ribbon around your neck. 

You almost wish now that he would.

“I hate you,” you say again, but your words catch over another gasp when he starts trailing hot kisses down your spine, fingers pushing your panties to the side so he can slide his fingers between your wet folds. You hate how your body is so quick to react to his touch. “I hate you.”

“So convincing, hime,” he drawls. You choke at the use of the title that Mori gave you as he sinks two fingers inside of you—it’s not his first time saying it, he used to tease you with it all the time four years ago. But it was always a soft teasing, you could see the way the corners of his lips curled up gently and the way his gaze was fond. This is mocking. It’s sharp. It’s the same tone people took when they used the title to insult you, to imply you weren’t worthy of your high-ranking position in the Mafia, that the only reason you had a seat at the table was because of your relationship with Mori. The ribbon around your neck suddenly feels too tight, cutting off the airflow to your lungs. “I can feel your hatred dripping all over my hand.”

“Fuck you,” you spit out, blinking away the tears of frustration that suddenly sting your eyes. Chuuya’s words ring through your head: where’s your fucking self-respect? “Fuck you, Dazai.”

You feel his lips curl up into an unkind smile against your spine. “In due time.”

A part of you wonders if the fleeting sight of the boy you once knew is worth dealing with who he’s become. If the pleasure you feel when he touches you is worth putting up with the cruelty. You enjoy the time you have with him—physically, at least. Dazai knows how to touch you in ways that no one else can compare to; he knows all of the ins and outs of your body and can bring you to the precipice with just a few touches like he’s doing now. You’ve tried seeking out others to warm your bed, but they paled in comparison to the way Dazai makes you feel.

But he knows your mind as well as your body; he knows all of the ways to make you hurt, and he knows how to make it as painful as possible. He reopens a wound slowly with honeyed words and sweet smiles before digging his fingers in and twisting. The hime was intentionally cruel—not just to remind you of Mori, of where you are, of what Dazai did, but also to remind you of who Dazai once was. He was shoving it in your face again, just like Chuuya always says he does—you cling to the past too much, you need to let go.

“I hate you,” you gasp again, but your lashes flutter as he fucks his fingers deep into you, slow and steady—the stretch is pleasant, familiar, dizzying in a way that no one can replicate. He hums against your skin as he drags his tongue back up the length of your spine after he’s left a trail of bruises down it, like he’s marking his territory on you. “I—hah—”

He kisses the nape of your neck at the same time as he presses that spot deep inside you that makes your eyes knockback. You claw at the mahogany of the desk you’re on top of, breath quick and thighs trembling as he leaves you on the edge.

“Things would be so much easier if you did,” he murmurs, and you think you’re not meant to hear it. You try to look back at him, and you catch an oddly resigned expression on his face as he stares down at the marks he left on your spine, the fingers of his free hand tracing them delicately. It’s so out-of-character that it draws you back from the edge, which is what finally pulls him out of whatever trance he was in, something strange crossing his face when he realizes that you caught him staring. 

At once, his fingers slip out of your well-stretched hole, and you can’t stop the pitched whine that slips from your lips, breathing heavily as you try to regain your senses after having been brought so close to your high. Your cheek rests back down against the desk, vision a bit blurry as you reel from the loss of his fingers, but you know you won’t have to wait for long because you can hear him undoing his belt, pulling out his cock to use his drenched fingers to stroke his cock before he presses his tip to your entrance.

Your body shudders at the familiar feeling, eyes half-rolled back, just knowing what’s about to happen. You feel him lean over you again, chest to your back, and he lifts his fingers to press the two that were inside of you to your lips. It takes a moment for your gaze to focus on his expectant face, and you’re too out of it to consider turning your head away to be spiteful, lips parting so that he can push his fingers into your mouth, tongue instinctively swirling around them.

Where’s your fucking self-respect?

Again, the question echoes through your mind, but before you have the chance to answer it, Dazai fucks it away as he thrusts forward, hips flush to your ass as he suddenly pushes his cock deep into you. And fuck, if the stretch of his fingers was pleasant, the stretch of his cock is heavenly, the closest to rapture you’ll ever get. The moan of his name that spills out of your lips is garbled and unintelligible around his fingers, and he lets out a breathy noise—a scoff? a moan?—you can’t tell, too focused on the intoxicating feeling of being split open on his cock.

For the first time since you left his office last week, you feel whole, and maybe that’s the reason why you keep coming back. Dazai Osamu has ruined you to the point where you can’t feel whole without him—you need him in you, on you, around you. You want to be consumed by him, you want to consume him. From the day you met him when you were sixteen, you knew it would be him. It was always him, it could only be him. He loved you in a way that you never thought you’d be loved from the moment you met. He had you as early as that night he brought you to the rooftop to tell you the stories of the stars—you were his, and you thought he was yours. 

You fell so hard for him, so quickly, it was almost unreal. He understood you in ways nobody else ever did. Sometimes, you swore it felt like he knew you before he ever actually knew you. You’d never felt so seen by someone before, you’d never felt so loved. You spent years alone in Kyoto, and before that, you were following around a man who was hyper-focused on your ability and your failures. Dazai was the first person who saw you for you. He was the first person to make you feel like your life had meaning beyond just furthering the interests of the Port Mafia for Mori.

And Dazai is observant, sure, but you've seen how he interacts with everyone. You studied it carefully because, at first, you were worried that you were reading into things you shouldn’t be, especially with Chuuya’s warnings about him ringing through your head. But the way he saw everyone else was different from how he’d seen you—he saw them for their weaknesses and their faults, so he could exploit them whenever he pleased, but he saw you. He knew you—he knew little things that he had no reason to know, that he couldn’t exploit: how you took your coffee, that you love thrillers and are bored by comedies, he knew your favorite book, your favorite constellation, your favorite color, he knew everything from trivial details to all of the fears that you could never bring yourself to speak out loud.

That’s why you cling to the past, that’s why you keep coming, that’s why you never leave. You can’t accept that he’s gone, you can’t accept that he sees you now the same way he sees everyone else: as a pawn, as someone to exploit. So even if it means having to endure his cruelty and the whirlwind of emotions that follow every meeting with him, if you can get a glimpse of who he used to be, any shred of proof that the boy you loved, the boy who loved you is still there, it makes it worth it. Because it’s easier to deal with cruel words than it is to deal with the loss of meaning in your life that would follow accepting that he's gone. It wouldn’t just be losing him, you would be losing the only other thing that’s kept you moving, too, because Dazai became the Port Mafia as soon as he took over as boss.

The breath you take in around his fingers is ragged. You don’t know why you’re suddenly thinking of this—maybe it’s because Chuuya’s words are haunting you, demanding to know where your self-respect has gone, maybe you just need to rationalize why you’re so dependent on someone who treats you like this. You don’t realize you’re crying until Dazai’s hips suddenly still, and he pulls his fingers from your mouth to grab your chin, turning your head to force you to look at him.

Something strange crosses his face—pain, guilt—and it’s only then that you realize that your vision is blurry, that your cheeks are wet. His throat bobs as he swallows, and he’s uncharacteristically gentle as he uses his thumb to wipe away your tears. His hand drops from your face, and you lay your head back down on the desk, taking in a shuddered breath when Dazai rests his weight on top of you. He kisses your shoulder blade, and he kisses up to the crook of your neck again before burying his face in it for a moment—it’s almost intimate, it almost feels like an apology, but you know better than to hope for that. 

You don’t know how long you lay there with him like that, but you bask in the intimacy he rarely allows you. One of his hands runs up and down your side soothingly, his breath steady against your neck, you can feel his heartbeat against your back. 

A reminder that he’s alive, a reminder that Chuuya is wrong.

For a second, your Dazai is back. The Dazai that loved you.

It’s only when your breathing starts to steady and the tears stop rolling over your cheeks that Dazai finally moves, but it’s not to pick up where he stopped. Your lungs are drained of the air within them when you feel him move away from you, when you hear him tuck himself back into his pants, when his fingers brush the small of your back to zip your dress back up. Just like that, you’re left hollow again, a shell, half of a whole without him to complete you.

“Dazai—”

“Get out,” he says, voice cold and sharp. It’s not the same teasing ‘then leave’ he says every time you come in. It causes a pit to form in your gut, uncertainty riddling you as you stand up unsteadily. His back is to you, hands out of sight in front of him as he looks out the window over the skyline of the city, only lit up by various buildings now that night has fallen.

“But—”

“Get out,” he repeats, harsher this time. “That’s an order. Don’t question me. And don’t make me say it again.”

Your throat swells as you stare at the back of his head in disbelief. “I—”

“Now.”

You feel sick to your stomach, straightening out your dress as best as you can, fixing your hair, and making sure your makeup isn’t terribly smeared. You don’t dare to look at him, you think you might cry if you do. So you set your gaze on the far wall as you fix yourself up, not looking back even when you hear him moving.

Once you feel somewhat presentable, you raise your chin and make your way out of his office, only pausing when you get to the double doors to spare a short glance behind you. Dazai is sitting at his desk, face buried in his hands, fingers trembling almost as much as his shoulders are shaking. Your throat swells—you want to say something.

You know better.

You leave his office quietly, making sure to hold yourself together as you walk past his curious guards. You know they must have an idea of what goes down in his office when you’re called up; they’re probably the reason why so many rumors circle around about you sleeping your way into an executive position, but you refuse to let them see you with your head hanging, so you only meet their curious stares with a cold one of your own before taking the elevator back down to your floor. 

It doesn’t take long for you to get down to your office, and you inhale as you brace yourself for your subordinates’ attention, but you freeze when the elevator doors open and you’re met with an empty hall. This hall is never empty, and it’s only when you see Chuuya waiting for you at the end of it near your office that you realize he must have cleared them out.

His expression is taut, but his eyes are gentle as they roam over you, and you let out a wet, shaky breath when you realize that he’s here to make sure you aren’t alone even after the argument the two of you had. You take one step toward him, and then another, and then you’re breaking over a sob and rushing toward him a bit faster—he meets you halfway, strong arms circling your waist as you cling to his shoulders.

“It’s not—” You don’t even know what you’re trying to say as you choke over your words. “It’s not simple, Chuuya. I can’t just—you don’t understand—”

“I know,” he murmurs, turning his head to the side to press his lips to your temple. “I’m sorry. Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

“... Yeah.”

———

You’re already wasted by the time you get to the bar with Chuuya. The two of you went to his penthouse to drink away your sorrows before Albatross started spam-texting you, trying to get you to come to the bar with them. Chuuya was planning on ignoring him and spending the night relaxing with you, but you didn’t want them to think something was wrong, so, against better judgment, you ended up making your way to meet them.

They’re already there and several drinks in by the time you and Chuuya arrive. You’re still steady on your feet, but you can feel the wine that the two of you had been drinking getting to your head. You just want a nice night, you want to forget about Dazai, you want to get drunk with your friends, and maybe if you’re feeling especially spiteful, bring someone back to your bed because you know it will get back to Dazai because everything gets back to Dazai.

No, you remind yourself, no more thinking of Dazai tonight. Even in spite. 

Unfortunately, your hopes are crushed the moment you approach the private booth where the Flags are drinking.

“Do you hear half of the shit they say about her?” Iceman asks, not realizing that you and Chuuya are approaching. “I beat the shit out of one of my own subordinates who thought it would be okay to say shit about her around me. When the fuck did they start getting so bold?”

“I’m just worried about her,” Lippmann murmurs as he takes a sip of his drink. “You haven’t seen her lately, she’s…”

Great, you think, teeth grinding together as you try to push their words out of your mind. Chuuya squeezes your bicep before his arm drops from around you, clearing his throat and giving Iceman a heavy side-eye. Iceman and Lippmann, to their credit, do go quiet when they realize that you overheard what they said.

You force a smile onto your face as you move forward to take a seat in the booth, knocking your hip against Albatross to force him to move in. Chuuya sits on your other side, squeezing you between the two of them. You reach out to take Albatross’s drink from him, not caring what it is or what it might be laced with knowing the older boy, you just want to fucking forget about Dazai tonight, and if that means consuming Albatross’s questionable choice of liquor, then so be it.

“You guys are so dramatic,” you say. “I’m fine.”

You can tell that they don’t believe you. Lippmann and Iceman exchange a long look with one another, and Doc’s gaze lowers to the table. The corner of your lips waver, throat tight as you look down at the drink in your hands before taking a long swig of it. The plain vodka nearly makes you gag, but there’s an odd sweet aftertaste that leaves you a bit suspicious. Before you can swallow, you feel Albatross toss an arm around your shoulders and drag you into him, causing you to nearly choke over the liquid.

“I knew you’d come out,” Albatross croons, pressing his face hard into the side of your head and nuzzling. He kisses your temple obnoxiously twice before licking your cheek; you slap him away with a scowl. “My favorite girl’d never let me down like that.”

His sunglasses hang off the bridge of his nose, and when you see the way his pupils are the size of nickels, you start to question what exactly is in the drink you just took from him. He seems to know exactly what you’re thinking from the way he tosses a wink at you and leans back against the booth, arm still snug around your shoulder.

“It’ll make you feel good,” he promises with a sharp smile before turning to Doc. “Hey, so about that…”

You tune Albatross out as you turn your attention back to Chuuya, who gives the glass in your hands a reproachful look but otherwise doesn’t say anything else. You give him a pointed stare before you take a sip of it, you don’t have to look at him to know he’s rolling his eyes at you.

You turn your attention to Iceman and say, “You should probably stop going out of your way to defend me. Otherwise, there’s just going to be more rumors about me spreading my legs for the whole upper echelon. They already say I’m sleeping with Chuuya, Albatross, and Piano Man too.”

Piano Man’s expression twists in disgust at your words, immediately taking another sip of his drink, and Albatross quiets down, looking at you from the corner of his eye. Chuuya only gives you a heavy look that you can’t bring yourself to look at him. 

“So you just want us to let them talk about you like that?” Iceman asks with a frown, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “They’re tearing your reputation to shreds.”

“It works in my favor,” you reply, although your voice is strained as you say the words, lips pressing together as you look down at your drink. “It makes it easier during negotiations, our enemies aren’t as guarded because they think I wasn’t given my position through merit.”

“Bullshit,” Iceman snaps, the corner of his lips curling into a sneer at your words. You shoot him a flinty look, but he’s unrepentant. “You can sit there trying to convince yourself that to make yourself feel better, but not me. I’m not going to sit and let my subordinates disrespect one of our executives.”

“Rich, considering how you talk about Dazai behind closed doors,” you say lightly, but your fingers are tight around your glass as you take another sip. Dazai’s name feels like ash on your tongue, a heavy feeling settling over your chest as you remember what happened in his office—weren’t you supposed to forget about him for the night? 

Always running to his defense, all for him to treat you like a whore.

You think Chuuya is reminded of his words from earlier, too, because you see his throat spasm as he looks down at the table. The moment Dazai’s name is spoken, the tension at the table spikes—sharp and sudden. You’ve never confronted them about their resentment toward their boss. It’s always been an unspoken rule, a line carefully danced around but never crossed. They respect him, acknowledge how he’s elevated the Port Mafia to new heights, but his name still leaves a bitter taste in their mouths—especially when it comes to his treatment of you and Chuuya.

But it’s more than that. It’s not just bitterness and resentment—they don’t understand him. They never did, even before he took over as boss. To them, Dazai is something cold, something wrong, something inhuman. They prescribe to the same belief Chuuya has: Dazai Osamu died seven years ago, and the thing living on the top floor of the building is a husk that wears his face. He doesn’t think like they do, doesn’t feel like they do. When they report casualties from missions, he turns a vacant gaze on them and tells them to leave; you don’t think they ever fully got over how he murdered Mori and how he treated you afterward. He’s a machine—a monster—in the shape of a man, all calculations and sharp edges where warmth should be. They might fear him, might even admire all he’s done for the Port Mafia, but they’ll never trust him, and they’ll never like him.

On nights like this, when you all have a few drinks in you, they get a bit bolder with their opinions—especially Doc and Iceman. You made a mistake bringing him up, you don’t want to argue with them—not tonight, not after you argued with both Chuuya and Dazai already. You’re so tired, you just wanted a nice night out after how shitty the rest of your day had been. 

“Oh my,” Piano Man sighs airily. 

“Come on, guys,” Albatross complains. “Can we not?” 

But Iceman has a temper. The table shakes as his fist drops onto it, he leans over to get closer to you, putting his cigarette out on the ashtray. “It’s because of that bastard that half of the fucking Mafia thinks you’re a walking fleshlight—”

“Jesus Christ, Iceman,” Chuuya spits, interrupting him as he slams his hands against the table and rises to his feet. You don’t react to the comment—it’s nothing you don’t know, nothing you’re not used to hearing in whispers. You finish the glass of vodka, that sweet aftertaste lingering in your mouth. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

“Come on, man,” Albatross complains again, rubbing his face. “Too far.”

“I’m only repeating what I have to hear,” Iceman says, holding his hands up before he lights another cigarette. You can tell he’s upset because it takes three tries for him to get it lit, fumbling with the lighter. “What I have to hear because of how he fuckin’ treats her, only for her to keep defending him.”

You should be angry, you think, but whatever was in Albatross’s drinks must be working because all you can feel is a dull haze as your fingers thrum against the tabletop.

“I have free will,” you say, voice distant even to your own ears. Doc raises his eyebrows and looks down at the table, not commenting but making his position clear with how he gives you a long look. “I choose to go up there, I let him fuck me. Albatross whores himself out like no tomorrow. He spends every night in a different person’s bed. Why is it an issue when I fuck one guy?”

“Yo, why am I catching strays?” 

“Because of the optics of it,” Doc replies, ignoring Albatross as he fiddles with something under the table. “Because of who you are, who he is. Because of how it looks.”

“I know the first thing Kitada-san taught you was the importance of optics,” Lippmann agrees quietly. “He knows, too. He could have anyone he wants, there’s no reason for him to be letting the Mafia drag your name through the mud like this.”

The thought of Dazai with anyone else makes you feel distinctly unsettled to the point where the intoxicated haze starts to abruptly fade away. 

“He could easily find a whore to fuck if that’s what he wants,” Iceman adds with a scoff. “He knows what he’s doing to you by making you spread your legs for him, he knows how it looks on you. On both of you.”

 And just like that, lines are drawn. Doc, Lippmann, and Iceman are on one side; you, Chuuya, and Albatross on the other. Piano Man remains in the middle, ready to intervene if things escalate. Though you know Chuuya and Albatross agree with the other three, they’ll always take your side in public, and you know the other three are only angry because they’re angry on your behalf, but it makes you sick to your stomach to know that they think… they think what? That Dazai calls you up there, and you have no say in the matter, that you let him on you, in you, because you can’t say no to the boss and not because you want it.

“I don’t give a shit,” you say tightly. “He’s not making me do anything. If I want to fuck Dazai, then I’ll fuck Dazai. If I don’t want to fuck him, I won’t fuck him.”

“Right,” Iceman drawls sarcastically. “You think that piece of shit gives a fuck about what you want?”

The rage hits you suddenly—you don’t know if it’s the alcohol, the stress that’s been weighing on you all day, or whatever Albatross had in his drink, but it makes your vision go red too quickly for you to control. You rise to your feet, the table shaking as your palms hit it hard—you think it must be a combination of the alcohol and whatever was in Albatross’s drink because you don’t even feel the pain you should feel when a piece of glass cuts into your hand.

“What the fuck does that mean?” you demand.

Iceman raises his chin, exhaling a cloud of smoke before he says coolly, “Exactly what it implies.”

“Fuck you,” you reply, eyes stinging with sudden tears as you stare down at Iceman. The older man has the decency to at least look ashamed when he sees your reaction, but he’s unapologetic otherwise. “You don’t know shit about Dazai, and you clearly don’t know shit about me either. This was a mistake.”

You move to leave, but Chuuya is in your way. Glaring down at him, you snap, “Move.”

“You’re drunk and fucked up on whatever Albatross is on,” Chuuya says, disagreeing, but when your face twists in frustration, he lets out a heavy sigh and moves out of the way. “Let me come with you.”

“I just need some air,” you say, voice rougher than you intended as you stumble out of the booth. “I’ll be back.”

Distantly, you hear Albatross spitting something at Iceman, and you can hear the anger dripping from his tone. Albatross never gets angry, and you don’t know why that makes you tear up more. You feel too suffocated in the bar; you can feel too many eyes on you, and you just can’t breathe. You slap away the hand of an attendant who tries to help you when you stumble, pushing the door open and greedily inhaling the cool air of the midsummer night. 

You rest your back against the wall of the building, trying not to let the tears in your eyes roll over your cheeks. You don’t know why today has left you so emotional—it’s just like any other day you meet Dazai. You argue with Chuuya, you go to meet Dazai, and then you deal with all of the emotions that the meeting drags up. Maybe it’s just that you’re drained from dealing with the Mishimas all day, or maybe it’s because Chuuya didn’t have to spend hours trying to calm down before he came back to you, or maybe it’s because you don’t know what went so wrong earlier with Dazai.

You still don’t fully understand why you spiraled so much. More than that, you wish you hadn’t left when Dazai had told you to. The way his fingers were trembling, the way his shoulders were shaking—there was no hiding that he was crying, and you think that if maybe you’d stayed, if you tried to press a little harder, you might’ve been able to get some answers out of him at last.

You take in a wet, shuddered breath as you try to get ahold of yourself. You miss Dazai, you miss how things used to be, and you don’t know how much more you can take of whatever this is.

You hear noise from your left, and you think that Chuuya or one of the Flags came out to check on you, but you’re startled by an unfamiliar face staring down at you, expression unreadable.

“Who-”

You yelp when his hand darts out to grab your arm. He tugs you into his chest harshly, and you don’t even have time to scream for Chuuya before there's a rag being placed over your mouth. Your hand claws at his wrist when the familiar sharp scent meets your nose, but it’s to no avail. You find your vision darkening and your knees going out—and the last thing you think of before everything goes black is him.

[kiss-inthekitchen]

same sky | spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader

a late night phone call with Spencer. unruly amounts of fluff. no gender identifiers in this one. apologies to residents of las vegas, i did insult your city's aesthetics. i had to do it. for the plot

word count: 2k

notes: this is a rework of a very old fic i used to have up on ao3 by the same name. it's the second in a series of fics i've updated from my vault of oldies :) this one's for the girlies who liked the banter in no vacancy <3 oops! all banter

“I miss you,” you say into your cell phone, standing on the back porch and gazing out at the sky. It’s late, but you can’t sleep. Spencer has been gone on a case for the better part of a week, and you don’t sleep as well without him. 

“I miss you, too. But I’ll be home soon,” Spencer replies, keeping his voice low.  

“Is everyone else asleep?”

“Yeah. It’s been a long day.”

“Where are you right now?” Even though you aren’t in danger of waking anyone up, you find yourself mirroring Spencer's tone. 

“Best guess, somewhere over New Mexico.” They’ve been in the air about an hour, and given their trajectory, he’s pretty sure he’s right. Spencer is seated at the edge of the couch, his back against the arm of it and a blanket thrown over his legs, barely covering his mismatching-socked feet. 

“How come you’re still up?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says. Somehow, he can feel you smiling across the line. It makes him smile, too. He doesn’t ask why you’re awake when it’s even later where you are; he knows already. "What are you doing?”

“Looking up at the stars.”

“You know, you won’t be able to see me up here.”

“Ha ha.”

“Here, I’ll open the shade on the plane window. At least we can share the same view.”

“Hm. Almost like we’re together,” you hum. 

His heart aches. It’s only been a few days and he still can’t stand it. “Almost.”

For a minute, neither of you speak, looking out at the sky from two different time zones.

“When I wake up tomorrow morning, you’ll be here, right?” 

“Mmhm. Maybe even before that,” he responds, a low, soothing hum in your ear.

“Should I stay up until you get here?” you already know what he'll say, but you kinda like the idea of it anyway.

“No, no, it’s at least another four hours. Don’t worry about it. When you wake up, I’ll be there.”

“Sounds good. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

You’d intended to let him go after just a quick call once you realized that the rest of the team were resting not too far from him, but you don’t want to hang up. He doesn’t make any moves to do so either, wanting to hear your voice as much as you want to hear his. “So, how was Tucson?”

“Oh, you know. Hot. Desert-y. Lots of murder.”

“Less murder now.” 

“Yeah.” 

His voice sounds strained. He doesn’t like indulging in a sense of accomplishment after closing a case, doesn’t ever feel like he’s done enough. He shows up too late and does too little, and then he gets to leave while the families of the victims have to pick up the pieces. You understand why he doesn’t like to think about the work that way, but you’ve tried to remind him that the good he does is incalculable; how many lives saved, how many tragedies avoided. It’s all you can do. 

You pivot a little, not wanting him to get too caught up. “I remember, when I first moved to Virginia, I was so shocked at how green everything was. I swore I’d never seen that much green in my life.”

“I had a similar experience,” he says, fondly, aware of your tactics. 

“Oh, I can only imagine. I’ve been to Vegas. It’s icky.”

“Icky?” he asks, laughing at your word choice. 

“I mean, no offense, but… it’s kinda ugly.”

“Wow, okay, insult my hometown, why don’t you.”

You laugh. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’re right.”

“I know,” you sigh. “Always am.”

“Well, statistically, you actually have a seventy-two percent chance of being right, which is still impressive, but hardly a flawless track record.”

“Spencer Reid coming in hot with the stats. I love when you talk numbers to me.” 

“I don’t think we’d have gotten very far if you didn’t.” 

“But I think I should be right more often than that.” 

“Are you asking me to fudge the numbers?” he asks with put-upon shock. 

“I’m just saying, maybe you’ve got it wrong.” 

“Oh, so you dare to challenge the accuracy of my eidetic memory? Or is it the statistics that you think I’ve calculated incorrectly?” 

“This is affecting my score, isn’t it?” 

“I’ll have to factor it in. You understand.” 

You giggle, and Spencer starts to feel some warmth come back into him after too many days of stress, doubt, and destruction. He hadn’t been able to talk to you nearly as much as he wanted. And it was hard to talk to you on certain cases, to allow you to make him feel lighter when reality was so dark. When he felt so much weight on his shoulders, when he should be focusing on the profile and apprehending the unsub and… sometimes he just didn’t feel like he deserved to have that weight lifted by you, even for a little while. 

“Spence?” 

“Will you go inside?” he asks, his tone full of something like reverence for you. “Please?”

“If you insist,” you sigh, already opening the door. 

“I do. I do insist, very forcefully.” 

“I’m already inside with the door locked.” 

“Man, I’m good.” 

“Mmhm.”

“Going to bed?”

“Yeah. Will you talk to me for a few more minutes?” you ask, sliding under the covers. Spencer hears the slip of fabric as you pull them up over your shoulders, and it sharpens the ache he feels to be home with you already. 

“I’ll talk to you for the rest of the night, if you want me to.” 

“No, I don’t wanna keep you awake, too.” 

“I probably won’t get much sleep regardless.” 

“I don’t condone that,” you say, your frown evident in your voice. 

“Noted,” he replies, though he sounds apologetic. 

Four hours feels an eternity too long to wait. You miss Spencer, and you hate how tired he sounds. You want to fix things for him. You want to run your fingers through his hair til he falls asleep and you want to make sure his dreams are peaceful when he does. 

“What do you wanna do when you’re back?” you ask, hoping that planning for it will make the time go faster. 

“Oh, I’m taking a shower and getting right into bed. And you can’t make me get up.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I’m serious. Don’t ask me to do a single other thing cause I won’t do it.” 

You laugh. “For the whole day?” 

“Probably. And you better not go anywhere either. We could both use the rest.” 

“Okay, rest day all day.” 

“We can order Thai though. So we’ll get up for that. But even then, it’s just to sit on the couch.” 

“Maybe the floor.” 

“I will also accept floor,” he concedes, and then it occurs to him that you might’ve been asking because you want to do something with him. “Is there something you wanted to do the next day though?” 

“Well... the saucer magnolias are blooming at the Smithsonian again.” 

“Say no more.” 

You sigh wistfully. “You’re my favorite boyfriend I’ve ever had.” 

“Well, I should hope so,” he says, smiling. “You’re my favorite, too.” 

“Aren’t I the only partner you’ve ever had?” 

“Ha ha. I had a girlfriend in college.” 

“Spencer, you were like sixteen in college.”

“I wasn’t sixteen the entire time,” you hear the eye roll in his voice, “I have three PhD’s, it took me a little while.” 

“Well, who is this girl? Do I need to beat her up?” you joke. 

“No,” he laughs. “You are my favorite, after all. She wasn’t very nice to me.” 

“Okay… so you told me not to beat her up but then gave a reason why I should?” 

“Please don’t beat up my ex-girlfriend. I do appreciate your violent impulses though.” 

“Mm, okay. As long as you know I could.” 

“Sure, angel. You’re very scary,” he placates. 

You let out a little gremlin laugh. 

“Oh, and you’re delirious,” he notes, an amused lilt to his tone. 

“Delirious because I miss you,” you sing, dragging out the ‘you’. 

“God, where did I even find a weirdo like you,” Spencer laughs. 

“I found you. You attracted me with your peculiar aura and soulful eyes. Trapped me in your… fucking what’s-it-called. Tractor beam.” 

“You know, the term tractor beam was actually coined by science fiction author E.E. Smith in 1931 as an updated version of his original term ‘attractor beam.’” 

“Hmm, yup. You caught me in that.” 

“Did you call my eyes soulful?” he asks, seemingly just processing that part. 

“Oh, you don’t like my adjective choice? Next you’ll have a problem with me calling your aura peculiar.” 

“I mean… I don’t know that I loved it.” 

“Here he goes fishing for compliments,” you sigh, rolling over to your other side and creating a bunch of shuffling noise on the line. Spencer wrinkles his nose, holding the phone a little farther from his ear until he hears you speaking again. “Okay, your eyes are big and brown and beautiful and they contain a standard unremarkable amount of soul, and your aura is also really regular. Regular Reid, that’s what they call ya.” 

He’s frowning, you can practically see it, but he’s also fighting off an amused smile. “Well, that one started off nice, at least.” 

“God! You’re so difficult. My boyfriend is sooo difficult. Why don’t you come home to me first and then I’ll come up with some more adequate compliments?” 

“I’m going to hold you to that.” 

The two of you talk for a little while longer, with you telling Spencer about the new coffee shop you’d tried out and how their lavender latte actually tastes like lavender, which is basically unheard of. Spencer tells you about the standoff between him and an all too curious roadrunner that he swears was trying to get into his motel room. Calling it a standoff is generous; the man got bullied by a bird. 

You try not to laugh and end up unsuccessful, with Spencer insisting that you were taking sides and he was well and truly in danger, which only makes it funnier. His voice pitches up even as he tries to keep his volume low, and you argue that his energy is just so attractive that even the local wildlife are drawn to him. 

“Don’t start,” he warns, overwhelming fondness in his voice. 

You make Spencer tell you something boring to calm yourself down from the image you’ve conjured of him being chased by a roadrunner, which, in your exhausted state, is even funnier than it should be. He claims to regret confiding in you with this, but he knows he’d do it again just to hear you laugh. 

Instead of telling you something boring, he recites some of the poems he’s memorized over the years. It works the way you’d intended, and you regret it when you have to stop him to tell him you’re falling asleep. He’s just a little smug about it. 

“So, you’ll be home in four hours?” you ask, the start of your goodbyes. 

“More like three now.”

“We made time go faster.” 

“We did.” 

“Will you try to get some sleep?”

“Fine. Only because you asked.”

You hum, victorious. “Goodnight. I love you.” 

“And I love you.” 

Hours later, just as the sun is beginning to change the hue of the sky from deep navy to a hazy cerulean glow, you feel your mattress shift underneath you. You’re barely awake, but still you register the scent of Spencer’s shower gel, fresh and sort of woodsy. 

Half asleep, you shift to accommodate him, and he slips an arm around you as you lay your head on his chest. You wrap an arm around his torso and throw your leg over his hips, as close as you can possibly get without literally being on top of him. 

You sigh, deep and relieved, and Spencer’s heart stutters. 

“I missed this,” he chuckles, resting his cheek against the top of your head and wrapping his arms tighter around you. You just hum in response, the last of your energy before you’re pulled back under. Within minutes, Spencer is asleep too, and the two of you sleep through sunrise and into the afternoon. 

[halitis]

do i have anything anything against jason as a character? no. i actually like him quite a bit! i think hes really interesting!

BUT DO I THINK SOME JASON FANS ARE FUCKING DUMB AS FUCK?!?? YES BITCH WHAT THE FUCK?

im gonna go through all the shit wrong with this comment thread one by one because jesus fucking CHRIST!!!!

1. "that thing" first of all. What. she is literally just a evil-aligned poc woman. she has been raised in this environment and as a result of that this is really the only life available for her and thats the tragedy of her character!

2. "why did she get with roy" THEY ARE FUCKING SOULMATES. THEIR ENTIRE THING IS THE INHERENT LOVE THEY SHARE FOR EACH OTHER WHILE ALSO VALUING THEIR MORALS ABOVE EACH OTHER. IT IS THE COMPLEXITY OF RAISING A CHILD TOGETHER AND ALSO TRYING TO FIND MIDDLE GROUND. IT IS BEGGINT THE OTHER TO CHANGE AND KNOWING THEY WONT.

3. "MY BABY JASON" YOU CANNOT SAY THAT AFTER YOU JUST INSULTED JADE.... LITTERALLY CANNOT. the biggest fucking hypocrytical statement i have ever fucking heard!!! bro!!! jason is Nawt a good person! he just flat out isnt! he has done so much horrid shit, not just to his familt, but to roy's family too. like he is not ur sweet innocent traumatised boy, he is a fucked up grown ass man who was hurt and decided to take that pain out on others. he is no fucking different from jade except he thinks hes doing rhe right thing, at least jade knows she isnt

4. "lian baby mama is jason now" ive talked abt this before, but sexism in fandom spaces when it comes to mlm ships is so fucking common it is fucking absurd. why are women only used as babymakers for ur gay characters?? why can they not be complex characters while men can???? it is fucking absurd how common it is in dc fandom and i frankly dont know why im shocked by it! women are regressed to one of three roles: evil villain who abused male love interest, baby maker, BAMF with no complexity or character at all and it is honestly so fucking tiring and just, boring to read??? like how do you not just hate it??????

5. "unemployed" honestly. i have no words. all im saying is it is No Fucking Shock that the woc is being pushed into these awful stereotypes.

now we are up to the worst part. the final comment...

6. "how are you gonna sleep with my man" ROY LEFT JADE. NOT THE OTHER WAY ROUND. roy was on an undercover mission and fell in love with jade and got her pregnant! he left because he would not be able to arrest her!!! all she fucking knew was one of the first people she truly ever loved had fucking gotten her to trust him and then left her, she had to deal with that pregnancy BY HERSELF. SHE LITTERALLY SAYS SHE SPENT THE ENTIRE PREGNANCY WAITING FOR ROY TO COME BACK TO HER, AND SHE WASNT EVEN MAD SHE STILL LOVED HIM.... she didn't even realise his identity for years!

also why is it always the woman's fucking fault if she gets pregnant? it takes two to tango! roy is as equally responsible for that pregnancy as jade is!

7. "AND THEN LEAVE YOUR KID" OH MY GOD.... [EXPLODES YOU WITH MY MIND] JADE. CANNOT. LEAVE. THE LEAGUE. BUT SHE DOES NOT WANT TO RAISE A FUCKINF CHILD THERE BECAUSE SHE KNOWS WHAT ITS LIKE!! SHES BEEN THAT KID!! jade knows fucking better then to delude herself into thinking she can raise lian safely while still stuck in her life, but lian is her number one priority always!! forever!! she pushes roy and lian away because she knows she is dangerous for them and because she thinks she doesnt deserve to have them and that love in her life!!!

8. "lian should be embarrassed to have her as her mum" i actually fucking wish nothing but hell upon you. have you not fucking read. just a single thing in ur life actually? just like actually can you read??? because i have met TODDLERS with better media literacy than you. LIAN HAS ISSUES WITH HER MOTHER. THIS WAS A BIG PART OF HER STINT AS SHOES. SHE IS DEALING WITH THE COMPLEXITIES OF LOVING HER MOTHER, THE WOMAN WHO LOVES HER AND CARES FOR HER, WHILE ALSO ACKNOWLEDGING THE FACT THAT SHE ISNT A GREAT MUM.

im sorry this is so messy and has so much shouting it actually has me fuming when people r so fucking stupid, idc if you dont like a character but dont just ignore all the bits of a characyer that make them redeemable or interesting to prop up ur male blorbos????

[slasherscream]

Wash Day

pairing:  jordan li x fem black!reader

"You wanna go out to dinner tonight? Know I've been busy this week. Feel like I've barely seen you." Jordan mutters against the shell of your ear. You shiver as he gives the skin a teasing kiss.

Already you're pouting, knowing what your answer has to be even though you wish so desperately that you could give a different response. "Wish I could, Jordan. But my night is already spoken for."

You're spun around by a hand on your hip, playful and fast so that you can't stop yourself from falling into his chest. Your hands grip his jacket for balance, and he reaches up to hold one of them with his own. "You got plans? With who? Cate? Cancel them."

"Brat." You laugh.

How demanding Jordan is would be less cute if they ever asked you to do something they themselves wouldn't. As it stands, with the way they do anything you ask at the drop of a hat, all you can do is roll your eyes and pretend to be exasperated instead of smitten.

"Fine, don't cancel. I'll just come with." Jordan sighs, as if seeing his best friend is a great tragedy (Which it is. Cate being there means you'll smack Jordan's hand away when he tries to sneak it up your skirt at dinner.)

"What if we want a girls' night?" You shoot back, grinning.

Jordan shifts. The hands on your waist are smaller now, but pull you in closer, "You're the one who's feeling bratty. Really have been neglecting you this week, huh baby?" Jordan smirks, in that condescending way she does when she realizes you're trying to get a certain reaction out of her.

"The plans aren't with Cate, and they aren't cancellable." You sigh, deciding not to rise to the bait of her tone, smirk, or the little circles she's rubbing into your skin.

"What are these oh so important plans?" Jordan asks.

"Do you know how many white boys have complimented my hair today, Jordan?" You ask.

"Pardon?" Jordan blinks at what seems to be a completely unrelated topic.

"Six! Six white boys complimented my braids today. I'm about to kill myself, if we're being honest. I must looked fucked up, and you didn't even say anything." You pout.

You've been having a bit of a rough day, to say the least.

"You look beautiful. What are you talking about?" Jordan asks, confused but nonetheless, wanting to make you feel better. "If you didn't look good I'd very politely... have Cate tell you. But you look great! You've been getting compliments all day, you just said it yourself!"

"Wow, you'd throw Cate under the bus, huh coward?"

"Cate isn't interested in making out with you every spare second of the day. I am. You can be mad at her. I've got stuff I wanna do." Jordan's grin is downright salacious. You smack her arm, trying not to smile.

"Ah. You are operating under the same delusions of the white man. I see that now, I'll let go of the anger." You say, sighing and kissing Jordan on the cheek.

"First of all, don't you ever fucking insult me like that again.... Second of all, what particular delusion am I sharing with the white man?" Jordan asks.

"White men only compliment a black woman's hairstyle at two points in time. When it's brand spanking, fresh off the lot new. Or when it's started to look like shit. I've had these braids in for longer than... is your business. So guess which compliment I'm getting right now?"

"I fucking refuse to say your hair looks like shit, and this conversation feels like a trap. You're always beautiful to me." Jordan says.

"Thank you, baby. But we live on a campus where the diversity win photographers lurk around every corner trying to get pictures of 'The Diversity Win Couple' in our most natural state. I need to take out my braids tonight before I talk crazy in the group chat, and Andre sends me a 'this you?' pic that will devastate my argument." You shake your head somberly, already imagining the fate that lies before you.

"You could stop talking crazy in the group chat." Jordan teases.

"You know damn well I'm not capable of that."

The two of you burst into laughter, unable to keep it together. Jordan has always been obsessed with how easy it is for you to make them laugh.

"Is that gonna take up your whole night, though, baby? We don't have to go to dinner early! We'll go wherever you want." Jordan insists, tone bordering on begging.

Whenever they come out of a particularly busy week, they spend the next two weeks glued to you. As if to make up for it. The clinginess is a stark difference from how they acted before you made things official.

"Jordan, look at the braids on my head."

"I'm looking at them."

"Are you seeing them with your eyes?"

"Yes, and my eyes are sending the image to my brain, which I assure you is working. What's your point here, baby?"

"How long do you think it will take me to undo these, detangle my hair, wash it, deep condition it, and then wash it again?"

Jordan squints at you for a long moment, analyzing your hairstyle and the utter displeasure on your face. "I dunno? Maybe... four hours?"

"I should fucking murder you. Just for that, you're helping me with wash day now."

Jordan's face breaks into a grin like sunlight breaking through clouds, "So I do get to spend the day with you, is what you're saying?"

"Yeah, baby, you get to spend the day with me." You click your tongue at them. Pitying them for the ache in their fingers they're about to feel. They complain about curling their God damn hair a couple of times a week. You suspect you'll be ready to kill one another by hour two.

But you also missed them a lot. Or whatever.

"Don't cut too high up, Jordie. " You whine, shifting his grip lower on your braid, to an acceptable cutting length of the hair extension.

"Baby... can I ask you a very serious question right now?" Jordan hums, obediently cutting where you instructed.

"What?" You ask, already starting to unbraid the piece.

"How... long... do you think your hair is?" Jordan, to be fair to him, does ask the question quietly and with the proper amount of hesitation.

"How dare you! Are you calling me bald?" You gasp, stifling a laugh.

"Don't do this to me. You are prolonging the process. We can cut these braids at least four inches higher than what we're doing right now." Jordan says, you can't see his face but you can tell he's also trying not to laugh. Bastard.

"My hair grew!"

"From the top of your head. It did not magically lower itself further into the fucking braid extension." Jordan loses the battle and laughs.

"Jordan Li do not fucking cut off any of my hair or I'll cry and then blow up this school."

"Of course, princess." Jordan kisses the top of your head and gives in to your terrorist demands because you're cute.

"So how am I supposed to do it, baby?" Jordan claps her hands and you smile at how eager she sounds to help.

"You're gonna want to section it off. Do like... eight parts of hair. That'll make literally every step after this easier. Then you're gonna comb the hair from the bottom, 'kay?"

"Got it."

Jordan starts the process of parting your hair, careful and slow. Fingers sectioning off eight chunks of hair that she keeps apart with the silky hair ties you hand her over your shoulder.

"You sure you don't want me to comb it, Jordie?" You ask Jordan.

"I'll be gentle, don't worry. You always say your shoulders hurt at the end of wash day. Which is crazy, because I've seen what you can bench. I've got you, baby." She spritzes extra detangler spray on each of the parts she just made.

You move around slightly, a little sore already from sitting still between her legs for so long, but smiling to yourself nonetheless. A pillow is suddenly shoved into your face and you lean away, confused.

"Sit on this one instead. It'll be better." Jordan says.

You switch out the pillows and tilt your head back to look at her. "Why're you always right? Is that your kink?"

"No, my kink is bossing you around." Jordan smirks and leans down to give you a kiss. Despite the awkward angle you can't help trying to deepen the contact. The feeling of her soft lips sliding against yours, firm but gentle, is always irresistible.

She hums and gives you a playful nip before pulling away. "Don't start something we can't finish."

"Who says we can't?" You shoot back, staring up at her.

"You will be pissed an hour from now if you glance at your phone and we haven't made any progress." Jordan runs her thumb along your bottom lip before pushing your head forward.

"Who says it will take an hour?"

"I do. If we start, I'm not stopping." Jordan's voice dips seductively and a line of tension runs up the length of your spine.

You smack her thigh for teasing you, "Shut up."

"Is this comfortable?" Jordan frowns, staring at the angle your head has to be at to fit in the bowl of the sink.

"No, but this is the best angle this chair can get me to." You say. Usually you just wash in the shower, but since Jordan is helping the sink makes more sense.

Jordan stands, scowling at how uncomfortable you seem. Suddenly he grins, "Baby! Make a chair with your shields. Something that leans."

You were getting a lot better with being able to make complex shapes, with less concentration. You stand up from the chair you'd dragged from the common room. Jordan pulls it out of the way and gives you an encouraging thumbs up.

It takes you a minute, but you conjure a shield that resembles a salon chair and the both of you let out identical cries of delight.

Jordan pushes you to sit down with a kiss on your forehead. "That's my fucking girl. Tell me if the temperature is too hot."

Jordan washes your hair with the perfect amount of pressure and thoroughness. He's nearly rhythmic in his methodical cleaning. You didn't realize your eyes had fluttered closed until you hear him laugh. You open one eye to glare at him playfully, knowing he won't get soap in them.

"What's so funny?"

"You're like a cat. You gonna purr for me, baby?" He smirks.

"If you keep going like that, yeah. Or I'll fall asleep. Please don't make me fall asleep. I'll fall on my ass." You say.

"I'll endeavor to make the rest of the wash as unpleasant as possible."

He does not do that. And at one point you do fall asleep. Jordan catches you before you can actually fall. 'Thank God for Supe reflexes', you both think. You spend the rest of the wash with your eyes wide open and Jordan laughing at you.

"Did we put too much?" Jordan asks, dabbing at another drip of oil and conditioner down your brow.

"No, this is typical. The hair has to be saturated. It's dripping because the oil is you know... getting hot and even more liquid-y." You say, eyeing the episode of Property Brother's you'd both decided on. "Hm. I think that woman should be put to death."

Jordan was keeping vigilant about dabbing at the sides of your face. You'd been in charge of one side, at first. But Jordan seemed to have a sixth sense for when the other side was dripping as well, and kept interrupting you before you could get to any trickles of oil. You'd given up and just started narrating the show for her as she wasn't taking her eyes off the line of your brow.

"Why? What did she do?" Jordan dabs again.

"She wants to put up a fence that blocks the view of the historical house that she did not have to buy if she wanted a fence so bad." You roll your eyes.

"Is the city gonna let her?"

"No."

"Haha. 500k down the drain." Jordan cackles.

"Anti-gentrification win!" You hold out your fist for a fist-bump and Jordan obediently obliges, oil soaked rag still held in her fist.

A comfortable silence falls over you two, besides the noise of the portable hair dryer.

"I really think we put too much, baby." Jordan mutters, dabbing again.

"I have been doing this since I was twelve, Jordan!"

"Play the video again, one speed slower this time." Jordan's eyes are glued to your phone.

You're sitting between his legs again, cushioned by the (superior) pillow of his choosing. You were trying to decide on a simple hair style when Jordan saw a picture of Mini Twists and got excited to see you in them.

("You've already seen me in mini twists, Jordie. What are you talking about?"

"You weren't my girlfriend the last time you wore them though! Now you are, and I get to look at you as much as I want."

So that had decided that.)

"Okay, I think I got it. 'M gonna start with a braid base, without making the parts too big, then start twisting the hair with two strands, and that will make it last longer, right?"

"Right." You smile at how focused Jordan sounds.

They're hot when they're in the zone. You just didn't think they'd get so into helping you with your hair. But you should have known, really. Acts of service paired with their inner perfectionist? You're completely relaxed at this point. You know Jordan won't have you walking out of your room looking crazy, come hell or high water.

"Is this okay?" Jordan shows you a picture of the back of your head, three rows of twists done.

You gasp, snatching the phone, "That's my head?"

"Uh... yes?" Jordan answers slowly.

"The back of my head? The head on my body?"

"Should I start over?"

"Fuck you! These are almost better than mine. Who's hair are you playing around in when I'm not here, Jordan LI?"

"Stop using my fucking government name." Jordan tilts your head back to look at him with a gentle grip on your neck, grinning down at you. "You play too fucking much. You sure they're good, princess? It's okay if I need to redo them."

"I'm gonna give you orgasms that will make you lose brain cells."

"Baby!" Jordan laughs, rolling his eyes. "I'm serious. Do any of them need redoing?"

"The first row is really fucking good for a beginner but the second row is damn near perfect." You say.

"I'll redo the first row then." Jordan kisses your temple before moving you to face forward again.

"I said they were good!" You protest.

"But the second row is better. I want the whole thing to look good. Don't want you feeling self conscious cause I fucked up the style, y'know." Jordan mumbles.

You tilt your head back to look at him, ignoring him sucking his teeth (a habit he picked up from you) at you moving.

"I love you, Jordie. Thank you for helping me today." You coo.

You watch his face go red with a grin. He grins back, leaning down to give you a gentle kiss. When he tries to pull away too soon you whine, holding him close by the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Wanna kiss you. You're sweet." You breathe the words against his lips, insistently continuing the caress.

He sighs, smitten, and let's you lead for a moment. Hand finding it's way back to your neck and tightening just enough to make you gasp. Still, he pulls away too quickly.

"I'm gonna fuck you up." You scowl at him.

"The only thing you're gonna fuck up is your neck, brat. This is a horrible angle for you." Jordan's smile is so soft at the edges it's your turn to blush.

"Speak for yourself."

"No, I'm too busy speaking on behalf of your neck."

"Well, I'm speaking on behalf of my-"

"Pussy?"

"I was going to say raging hormones but that's a lot more to the point, yeah. Or maybe I was going to say something romantic. You ever think of that, Jordie? Huh?"

"Were you going to say something romantic?" Jordan hums.

"No."

"Let me do your hair in peace." Jordan turns you forward again with a laugh.

"Turn this way." Jordan instructs, snapping another picture.

"I don't know whether you're worse than an Instagram hair stylist or a Mom." You ponder, words barely audible because your girlfriend is scary.

"Shut up and smile." Jordan scowls.

As if engraved into your genetic code the words make you do just that. You suffer through another 20 pictures being taken before you say enough is enough.

Jordan happily shows you the pictures, as if you hadn't seen yourself in the mirror just a minute ago. Or ever. The grin on her face so wide it looks like it hurts.

"You like it, baby?" Jordan asks again.

"It looks so good, Jordie. It looks like I paid someone honestly."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You drape your arms around her shoulders. "How's this angle?"

"For what?" Jordan tilts her head to the side, puzzled.

"For kissing. Since you were so worried about the angle before."

Jordan scoffs, but she's the one to pull you in. She doesn't pull away this time.

A/N: i needed reader to have a goofball vibe because i have a goofball vibe. if you enjoyed this fic consider reblogging, leaving a reply, or an anonymous ask saying you enjoyed it! a writers fuel is engagement. xoxoxo

[stainedglassthreads]

I feel like the four leads of Deltarune--Kris, Susie, Ralsei, and Noelle-are just. Somehow two different levels of queer-coded.

(Edit: Just to be clear: not saying any of this to disparage or insult shippers of Kralsei, Suselle, or Kriselle, I've just seen a lot of cool analysis about tropes, romance, and lack of choice in Deltarune and wanted to chime in with some of my own thoughts. If you ship any of those ships in Deltarune--fantastic! May you find a lot of content precisely to your taste.)

Like. On the one hand, if you're looking at tropes, they are very neatly set up into two romantic partnerships. Noelle is very blatantly interested in Susie, and Ralsei's feelings for Kris are often portrayed similarly. On a surface level, both pairings appear very clear. Noelle is a girl in love with another girl, while Ralsei is a very effeminate boy in love with a teen who doesn't appear to use pronouns. And a big deal isn't made of either pairing, there's nothing really in the way of Suselle or Kralsei on a societal level we've encountered so far. At least in terms of gender and sexuality. But if you look a little closer, it's kind of...'these are a very straight idea of queer ships', y'know?

Noelle and Susie are both girls, but one is very effeminately coded, anxious, uses magic, and is more traditionally cute, while they other is crass, crude, intimidating, and physically strong. Ralsei and Kris are gender-noncomforming, but Ralsei is a sweet pacifistic healer who bakes cakes while Kris uses a sword, and keeps being mistaken for a boy by much of Youtube and Reddit. The active one and the passive one, the fighter and the mage, the one with cute hobbies and the one who eats moss, the one in pants and the one in a dress.

And here, I start thinking of some posts I've seen analyzing how, in Deltarune, romance is used to explore how Kris doesn't really get choices. Kris has been cast as the leader and knight, and Ralsei has been cast as the healer and Princess, even if he is a boy. The leader often ends up with the healer. The knight often gets the princess as a happy ending. But Kris doesn't seem to like this! Their reactions to Ralsei are constantly lukewarm at best, and that's not getting into how Ralsei seems to be in love with his idea of Kris, while being very. Asriel-coded, who the game describes often as Kris' brother, in sharp contrast to how ambiguous Chara and Frisk's relationships with the Dreemurrs were.

If we and Kris reject Ralsei as a love interest, we can a different romantic partner in Noelle...but this choice has a bodycount, traumatizes Noelle, doesn't seem to leave Kris any happier, and it's still a kind of straight-coded ship. Now it's the knight being paired up with the apocalypse maiden, for the doomed codepedent toxic tragedy lovers out there. But it kinda makes sense too, right? If Kralsei is the expected RPG romance, then Kriselle would be the expected romance if there were no Dark World and Ralsei weren't an option. They're childhood friends and neighbors in a small town, their families used to be very close, Rudy is still very fond of Kris. They're even extremely angel/devil coded.

But the most interesting part is. It's implied that there IS someone that Kris is very interested in, either platonically or romantically. It's Susie. Kris never seems frightened by Susie when they're bullied by her, and rejects Noelle's offers to switch seats. They seek comfort from Susie rather than Ralsei after the Spamton fight, they call her their friend when Toriel calls, they share moss with her, they refuse to think about her during Snowgrave when Ralsei prompts them, they make it clear that out of all the people they COULD go to the Carnival with, Susie is the one they'd ACTUALLY want to choose.

And this is the part that drives me crazy. Because while Kris is so tightly controlled by genre and narrative, and those things would usually push them towards Ralsei or Noelle, and Ralsei keeps encouraging Kris to stick to the narrative. Susie is the one who refuses to be bound to the narrative. Susie is the character of Deltarune who is most unapologetically herself--and isn't that a very queer thing, refusing to be anyone but yourself despite everything? She says no thanks to the prophecy, until she comes around to it on her own terms! She makes herself and Ralsei learn to take their own actions, and drags Ralsei off to have fun with him instead of letting Kris choose who to with! She doesn't stay in her box of the damage-dealing fighter, she insists on learning Healing magic, even if she's not particularly skilled at it at first! Even Ralsei is forced to admit that it's wonderful that Susie is Susie, and not anyone else!

I think Kris likes Susie a lot. And part of it may be admiration. That while Kris is controlled by the player and the narrative and the prophecy and humanity and divorce and a dozen things outside their control, Susie refuses to ever be bound by anything. And Kris and Susie together happen to be the two more masculinely-coded party members, the two melee fighters, the two troublemakers. It honestly makes me wonder a little if Susie and Kris might be able to make their own ending beyond the bounds of gender expectations and romance expectations together? It would be cool. And I think it would make Kris very happy to break free like that.

[amerricanartwork]

Fat-Shaming

Technically, Pebbles is right here, but I think it's about time he got a taste of his own medicine!

This is technically the first true comic strip I've done... ever, it seems! I've had it in the works for at least a week, and I'm really enjoying how it turned out! It was inspired by a Reddit post I found comparing these two characters, and this silly scene just popped in my head as a result, since that part of the Gourmand campaign where Pebbles makes little side-insults about your weight will never not be amusing to me. Probably requires more context to get than the previous, but I hope you still found it funny!

Also, a headcanon of sorts below, if you want some more serious ideas:

I like the idea that Five Pebbles has a particular disdain for Gourmand, not just because he's the polar opposite in many ways, but because Gourmand represents everything Five Pebbles and the Ancients sought to overcome: indulgence, attachment to the pleasures of life, attachment to family, having low aspirations, accepting your place in life, accepting life in general the way it is.

I also like to think part of it comes from jealousy — this fat, lazy animal barely scratching the surface of civilization is both able to enjoy all the pleasures of life AND ascend whenever he wants, meanwhile the near-godlike supercomputer far more intelligent than this creature could even hope to fathom in a century is stuck just standing there, abandoned by his creators, trying to solve an unsolvable problem while he literally rots away? He'll hardly admit it, but it really does feel quite unfair, if you ask him.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

I'm curious to see how my ideas for Five Pebbles evolve over time. As of now, I actually have like, half the campaigns to finish still (did Survivor and Monk, and just about to complete my Gourmand run), so my ideas of his character may not be the most accurate right now. From the glimpses I've gained through fanart and such, there seems to be so much more to the story of the Ancients and their iterators, and it's tragic at that. Needless to say, though I usually don't like tragedy, I'm very curious to see the rest of that story...

[eastern-lights]

The real tragedy of Vivienne, at least for me, is how utterly impossible for her it is for her to just fit in with the rest of the companions. And I don't mean that in the sense of sacrificing individuality or goals, but rather in building relationships with the rest.

You never get the sense that she's developed a genuine friendship with any of these people, the Inquisitor included.

And this is the same crazy bunch of assholes that potentially adopted a fade spirit and turned a homicidal god into their weird but alright apostate bestie (as the Inquisitor may put it in Trespasser "Whatever else he may be, Solas is one of us").

You don't get that with Viv. In a brilliant showcase of writing ability, the staff at BioWare managed to make every single piece of banter she has with the others convey either aloofness and calculation or, more importantly, genuine affection intentionally stifled and hidden under several layers of snark and eloquent insults. She would rather be feared than loved and much rather respected than liked.

And every time it starts looking like we are starting to see the real Vivienne, like when we convey our condolences for Bastien's death... she just always goes right back behind her mask. Which is both immensely sad and incredibly frustrating.

If I made a strict tier list of my favourite DAI companions, she would probably be at the bottom. Not because she is a bad character or even a bad person, but for the amount of frustration she instilled in a player (and Inquisitor) who really, really wanted to like her and she just never let them.

[usedtobethelegendcreator]

Lucifer is a horrible king.

Yeah, I said it. And I’m gonna tell you why.

I get that people really like the depressed, duck-obsessed father, but they consistently let that overshadow what he has (or, rather, hasn’t) been doing.

First of all, Dad Beat Dad.

I see post after post about how Alastor is too arrogant for his own good, and I will definitely get to that later, but think about it.

Lucifer, the King of Hell, has never heard of Alastor. Alastor, the Radio Demon. Y’know. The guy that went on an Overlord killing spree? The guy that lives in the Pride Ring, and is therefore Lucifer’s direct subject? The guy that Lucifer only considers a threat when he starts getting jealous of *checks notes* a bellhop’s supposed relationship with his daughter?

If anyone should know who Alastor is, it should be Lucifer. And the fact that he doesn’t is revealing.

Let me put it this way: imagine you’re a king. One day, this mysterious dude starts killing off your local government. Keeping an eye on this dude should be a priority for you, right? It should at least be a mild concern. But no, only when the consequences of your actions—oh, sorry—when your daughter starts seeing this mysterious dude as a father figure do you care.

Lucifer, King of Hell, has never heard of the Radio Demon. And if he ignored that, what else was he ignoring?

Oh, right. The eternal suffering and misery of his subjects. Almost forgot.

And sinners aren’t his only subjects. What about the Hellborn? What about the imps and the hellhounds?

He’s doing nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Sure, Lucifer is depressed. He still has a fucking kingdom to take care of. A kingdom he has been completely ignoring in favor of…making rubber ducks.

And Charlie says, in Dad Beat Dad, that he allowed the exterminations to happen.

Let me rephrase: he allowed annual slaughters.

The only people he asked to be spared were the Hellborn. Oh, look at that. He did something. Shocker.

No wonder Lilith left him.

Oh, and have I mentioned how genuinely pathetic his beef with Alastor is yet? Yes? Well, I’m not done.

After rewatching (and rewatching, and rewatching…) the scene where he meets Alastor, guess what?

Lucifer threw the first metaphorical punch. At himself. In front of his subjects and his daughter.

He doesn’t know who Alastor is.

And Alastor, who clearly knows who Lucifer is, gets way too much criticism for his reaction.

Oh no, a short joke. Who knew that the 10000+ year old King of Hell could be felled by a short joke?

And when Alastor essentially gives him a second chance to recognize him—“You might have heard of me from my radio broadcast!”—Lucifer responds by insulting him.

Oh, and as a side note, he only said the name was clever when he thought it was Charlie’s idea. Which calls into question how genuine his initial statement was.

And, okay. Regardless of if Alastor was bullshitting being a father figure or not, Lucifer had it coming.

Oh no, the archangel was an absent father, and now a male sinner is being *checks notes again* supportive of his daughter. Oh, the outrage. What a tragedy. Can you hear the fucking sarcasm in my voice.

It’s pathetic. It’s so pathetic.

Lucifer needed a wake-up call—hey, your relationship with your daughter doesn’t even exist anymore, maybe you should step up and do something—and Alastor gave it to him.

Sorry if this sounds bitter. I am.

[camilasstories]

❝feeling unreciprocated❞ chapter 2 | jungkook x reader (edited version 2025)

summary: Heartbreak was never a plan, but now it's the essence of her existence. Sleeping with one guy seemed like a way to escape the hurt—but sleeping with another, then another, only made things worse. Especially with her handsome crush right behind the wall, watching her spiral and just as confused as she is about her messy ways of coping with a broken heart. As she struggles to move on, the deeper she digs, the clearer it becomes: the only person who truly understands her may be the one she’s been avoiding all along.

🩷 SERIES MASTERLIST

you've read chapter 1/you're reading chapter 2/you probably want to read chapter 3

"No, no, no, Jungkook. You don't understand." I threw my hands up, nearly losing my balance in the process.

The sidewalk blurred slightly beneath my feet, swaying like a boat on low tide. My center of gravity tilted dangerously. At least I didn't suffer from any seasickness.

A boat. And seasickness. You get it? I giggled to myself, my voice running through my head, thoughts not making any sense. However bad my state was, my inebriated brain insisted I was perfectly fine—graceful with my moves, even.

In reality, I just stumbled over a protruding paving stone that magically showed up.

Jungkook reached out instinctively as if to steady me, but I regained my footing just in time. He’s laughing—lighthearted, amused, and clearly much less drunk than I was, leading us towards residence hall.

“I don’t?” he provoked me, taking another sip from his plastic cup, his lips curling into a barely-there smile.

“Do you know how hard it is to balance the life of a student and be a full-time nanny for my roommate?” I demanded, leaning in as if I’m about to tell him the greatest tragedy of our time. "It's like running a daycare without proper qualifications."

“I imagine that's... not ideal,” he said, his voice laced with amusement.

“Not ideal?" I scoffed. "Way worse. And guess what?” I paused for dramatic effect. “They don’t even pay minimum wage. In fact, they don’t pay at all.” I hiccuped loudly before I could cover my mouth with my hand.

Jungkook hummed thoughtfully. “I’d be pretty surprised if they did. It’s not like you were hired, were you?”

“Exactly!” I threw my hands up again. “Living with her is a nightmare.” I paused, my brain struggling to form a coherent thought. “She can be likable, sometimes, but still she thinks she can push me around like some sack of potatoes.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yeah.” My brows furrowed in deep concentration. “Actually, I’ve just realized something really important.”

“What’s that?”

I grabbed his arm suddenly, squeezing it like I’ve just made the most groundbreaking discovery of my life.

“Jungkook.” I looked him dead in the eye, voice low, serious.

“I live in hell.”

He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head.

"Do you even believe me? I know we've just met, and you have no obligation to trust me, but if I'm being honest, it feels like I was tossed from the very top of the stairs, straight into heaven, only to fall and roll all the way down into hell."

“I can tell. I see the similarities.”

I nodded solemnly, as if he’s just confirmed my worst fears. “Exactly. She has her own sidekicks, Jungkook. She gossips with them every single Saturday, and she’s freakishly good with insults. She’s always telling me to put on makeup. Like—” I squeezed my own cheeks, leaning closer. “What’s wrong with my face?”

Jungkook studied me for half a second before saying, casually, “Nothing’s wrong. It’s a normal, pretty face.”

I blinked. “Duh.” I waved my hand dismissively, completely missing the compliment. “Tell her that.”

Jungkook smirked, shaking his head. “You still didn’t tell me your name, by the way. I’ve asked you, like, three times already.”

“Oh, really?” I tilted my head, genuinely surprised. “That makes four times now.” I stuck out a hand as if we’re making a business deal. “I’m Y/N.”

“Good to know.” He accepted the shake, his hand nice and warm. “We’ve been walking around for an hour now, you know. The party is almost over.”

“Huh. Seriously?” I glanced around, as if noticing our surroundings for the first time. “Then how am I still drunk?”

“I don’t know,” Jungkook mused. “You’re a hard case.”

I snorted at that. "Definitely not. I'm the most simple person on this planet. Like ever." I glanced at the rests of the drink in his hand. "Are you going to finish that?"

"Only if you're planning to mooch off me," he teased, pulling the plastic cup further away. "I don’t want to play the mom here, but I think you’ve had enough."

"True," I muttered, no longer insisting on continuing the conversation. The weight of my frustrations was starting to settle over me again, and I couldn't help but groan. "God, I don't want to go back there," I complained softly to myself, feeling the thought of my dorm and everything it represented pressing down on me like a heavy weight.

Jungkook, who had been walking beside me with that same unbothered demeanor, suddenly spoke up. "I have a spare room," he said, his voice casual as he glanced over at me. "Maybe not right at this moment... I set up an office there a few months ago, but still. I mean, you could move in if things don’t get any better."

The words hung in the air for a moment, as if they were so simple, so nonchalant, that they almost didn’t register. "What?" I blurted, unable to process the offer right away. He must’ve been joking. This was just him trying to lighten the mood, right?

But when I looked at him again, his expression was entirely serious. The offer felt almost absurd, like something you’d casually suggest when you were in the middle of a throwaway conversation—like offering to lend someone a pen or letting them borrow a book. But this wasn’t just a simple offer.

For a moment, I wondered if the alcohol was clouding my ability to properly interpret what was happening. Was I hearing this correctly? Had he really just suggested that I could move in? The absurdity of it almost made me laugh, but there was something about the calm way he said it that made me hesitate. He wasn’t teasing me. There wasn’t a hidden agenda or a joking tone beneath his words. He was being completely... earnest.

I swallowed, trying to find the right words. “Wait, hold on,” I said slowly, my head spinning just a bit more now. “You’re offering me a room? To... move in? Seriously?”

Jungkook shrugged, his hands tucked casually into his jacket pockets. "Yeah, why not? It’s just a room. Not like it’s doing anything in my office space. If you’re serious about getting out of that place, I could make it work. No pressure."

I squinted up at him. “Swear? You’re not lying?”

Jungkook smirked. “Would I lie to someone who almost puked on me?”

I paused. “I did not—”

“You definitely almost did,” Jungkook interrupted, his tone playful, yet with just enough edge to make me second-guess the reality of the situation.

I tilted my head back, letting out a soft laugh of resignation. "Yeah, definitely, came close" I agreed, nodding as if to acknowledge the undeniable truth of the moment. "Thanks for reminding me that. I almost forgot. Good to know I'll be probably too drunk to remember anything tomorrow morning."

"Why are you so sure?"

I gave him a half-hearted shrug. "I've never been this wasted before. That's why. I'm still processing how I manage to stand straight."

"Yeah, you're doing great" his laugh ringed in my ears like little bells. "Come on, I'll walk you back. Where are you living?"

"That's very thoughtful of you, Jeon Jungkook." I patted him lightly. "It's not that far from here, the second building over there." I pointed with my finger as we were getting closer to my dorm.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm not that drunk not to recognize where I live." I brushed his comment with a laugh, but soon my voice became completely serious. "You know what, Jungkook? I think we would actually make pretty good roommates. And, you'll probably ask why, right?" I sent him a knowing look.

"What?" He didn't grasp the idea. "I'm listening."

"You were supposed to ask why" I whispered, rushing him with gesticulation of my hands.

"Oh, right. Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Why?"

"Well, Jungkook, that's pretty obvious. Strange you're even asking that." I huffed, my speech slurred. "But, I'll spare you this time." I decided mercifully continuing my rambling. "The answer is easy-you are nice, and I am nice. We're both nice!"

"Is that your only requirement when you're looking in a roommate? To be just nice?"

I nodded slowly, a lazy smile showing on my face. "Yeah. What else do we need, right?"

"Can't argue with that."

I saw him smiling at my state, but it didn't make me uncomfortable. "How do we make this official? Where do I sign? I'll do anything, even a blood pact."

"You know people tend to exaggerate when they're drunk".

"Yeah, I heard that, but not me" I stated firmly.

"Alright then, I will just send you a form to sign if you decide." He pulled his phone, asked for my number and soon I got the message with a link. "Just text me this, or next week. No pressure."

"Oh, really? And that's all? How cool" I stuck my gaze into the screen of my phone. "It's like doing some kind of shady business."

"How's that supposed to be shady?"

"I don't know, we look like criminals making deals while drunk in the middle of the night! That's dope" I grinned, the words slipping out of my mouth faster than intended due to bubbling excitement.

No later than a few minutes, the surrounding felt more familiar. You recognized the black, almost gothic gate which led straight to the student dormitory complex.

"That's me." I said when we arrived at my place. "Thanks, Jungkook. Get home safe" I waved at him, but my attention was quickly moved towards my smell.

"Shit, I need a shower," I muttered to myself as I turned back to the door, wrinkling my nose in disgust. "I reek."

"Just don't slip."

I ignored his remark, a wince crossed my face as the stale smell of alcohol and sweat hit me. I inhaled deeply, grimacing at the scent of my t-shirt, which felt like it had absorbed every mistake I’d made that night. It was probably a good idea to get inside, wash off, and pretend I was a functioning human being again.

But, of course, that would require me to actually focus and get through the door without tripping over my own feet, and wait for the alcohol to somehow vaporize from my body.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and gave one last glance over my shoulder. "Thanks again," I added, my voice trailing off, more to myself than to him. He gave me a quick smile, and I waved again, though I wasn’t entirely sure if he saw it this time.

"Yeah, yeah," I mumbled, more to my own drunken self than anything else, before I finally pushed open the heavy door with a little too much force, the sound echoing through the night air. "Bye, Jungkook."

As I made my way up the stairs, one hand gripping the railing for dear life, I fumbled with my phone. The screen blinked to life, the bright light making me squeeze my eyes. With my vision swam, my fingers slipping across the screen and my mind insisting, I filled up all the boxes.

And the most important, when I reached my door, I signed it off in the most drunken way possible—my full name sprawled across the screen in a chaotic, illegible scrawl.

[04:07] Thank you. Your form has been sent. Please, wait for the acceptance.

Ha! Easy! I laughed, shaking my head again.

At that time everything seemed to be ridiculously fun.

taglist: @betysotelo18, @smwhrinthehaze, @goldiemess, @jksusawife, @imurfantassy

feeling unreciprocated, version 2025 - 05.04.2025

[beforetimes]

First, I really like your AUs and writing in general?? The roleswap AU was really fun to read about, but have been thinking on your transmigrator LBH AU.

1) Do you suppose LQG still dies in that world?

2) How do you imagine the whole demon reveal goes?

3) What’s the funniest thing LBH has heard from SQQ?

I’ve also been turning over what SQQ could be so mad about post the Skinner incident. Was it the getting kidnapping of the one person who treats him like a person? I can imagine he gets mad about attempts to be closer to him as like, a disbelieving defense mechanism because he could be taking the polite or friendly gestures as more of Binghe insulting him or worse, pitying him considering the state of his relationships, but.

Anyway, whether or not you expand on it, please know that this will probably consume me as I think about it this weekend. :D

[original post here]

ahhh thank you! and i am. so glad you asked about this au. i think it's my favourite after the roleswap one. anyway!

one ) i really want to say that he would live! mostly because liu qingge is my favourite character from the novels by far. but like, as far as in-universe reasons for him to live goes, there are very few. maybe we could argue because of the nature of luo binghe being the transmigrator in this instance, he would? somehow. butterfly effect the plot to the point that liu qingge would live? or shen qingqiu would be taken aback by the sudden pushback in his disciple and that would butterfly effect into liu qingge living. short answer; i very much want him to live in this au. when i eventually write this i will find some way to make it happen!

two ) ohh the demon reveal. i think it would still be disastrous. in a manner of speaking. but transmigrator luo binghe wouldn't have deluded himself quite as severely as canon luo binghe into thinking that shen qingqiu still cared for him. i think he'd be this bitter snarling angry thing all the way down, and betrayal would hit twice as hard after growing to understand shen qingqiu better. because he would assume this would at least go both ways, but shen qingqiu was still so quick to send him into the abyss?!

and shen qingqiu, for his own part, i think wouldn't immediately abandon the idea that luo binghe truly was betraying the sect. but like, luo binghe's snappish remarks before being pushed down ('this stupid disciple supposes that the years he spent helping to strengthen the sect were all done to make my betrayal easier' and 'shen qingqiu is a fool for thinking that this one had time between all the nonsensical useless chores and tasks you send me on to plan a betrayal to this extent') starts to. eat at him in a way he didn't expect it to. and he spends the next few years in this weird? state of thinking he did the right thing while also grieving while also getting mad at himself for grieving a demon while also refusing to let anyone speak ill of his disciple because he hid the truth of the matter. but also if someone brought up the tragedy of the immortal alliance conference he wouldn't feel depressed or necessarily too happy. just numb. just a lot of conflict in his mind, that he puts to the side and decides not to deal with because luo binghe is dead so what does it matter?

of course, because luo binghe's childhood wasn't as filled with miserable bullying + the fact that transmigrator luo binghe still has like, modern sensibilities, i don't think he would full-send the whole revenge, tear shen qingqiu into pieces storyline that he's supposed to go on. but one of his system goals is to get revenge somehow. and he spends enough time in the abyss tearing monsters apart so he doesn't get torn apart that, eventually, he does get a taste for blood. i'd imagine that gaining xin mo would be an unavoidable plot point as well, but luo binghe would be struggling between actively resisting xin mo's draw while trying not to go to far in his revenge on shen qingqiu—just enough that he could fulfill the system's request without inflicting too much harm. while also being unable to throw xin mo away himself because of the loss in b-points that would basically kill him. on top of all this still feeling betrayed for reasons unbeknownst to him over shen qingqiu pushing him into the abyss. luo binghe is having a Bad Time. the demon reveal does not turn out good for anyone.

three ) honestly, if liu qingge lived, it would probably be something that shen qingqiu said to him in passing. shen qingqiu drags luo binghe along to a meeting when ming fan is greviously ill because every other peak lord is bringing along their head disciples and shen qingqiu doesn't want to be outnumbered. and liu qingge inevitably makes some comment about shen qingqiu being a cheat/unworthy adversary on a previous mission, somehow. to which shen qingqiu replies without missing a beat 'ah, this one was unaware that next time our lives are on the line, we should all patiently wait our turns for the most honourable amongst us to die. make note of this for mine and liu-shidi's next mission together, beast (luo binghe).' and the room kind of explodes because like. liu qingge. duh. but luo binghe has to stop himself from smiling every single time he thinks about it. lmfao.

and as for the skinner demon! i hoped i got it across but i don't think i did a very good job lmfao. i wanted it to be seen there that like! it was luo binghe bowing his head and agreeing with everything that shen qingqiu said that bothered him. because before that point, luo binghe was talking back in his own roundabout way, pulling pranks, and other little rebellions that shen qingqiu absolutely makes note of. and he got used to a luo binghe that had teeth and wasn't afraid to use them. so when he was greeted with this sheep-like disciple who seemingly weakened to the point of getting captured and seemingly had no reason for the sudden personality change? he got very irrationally upset. because like. he's not looking for a subservient disciple in luo binghe, even though he might have been before he transmigrated and was switched out with this more rebellious version. shen qingqiu here likes that luo binghe doesn't take shit lying down. and is bothered when he seemingly reverts back to his old ways. if that makes sense.

thank you for asking about this au! again, i like it quite a bit. i think the next fic i write might be in this universe because i don't plan for this one to be super-long/i might leave it open-ended following transmigrator luo binghe being throw into the abyss but like. shrug. you guys can let me know what you think. ^_^

[tsbs-shipfessions]

Ship confessions?

S..Safe place to share rants?

Oh dear how should I say this...

(Warning for anyone not supporting SolarNexus I guess..)

As much as I like the story of how New Moon went deranged from grief and self deterioration: as in finally realising he can never satisfy this "family's" need of him to be thee og Moon himself. A carbon copy replacement with unrealistic expectations set at full high. (Even though factually thanks to Eclipses V1-4 transitions it's shown that it can't possibly be 100% accurate.) Failing again and again over and over till the event of Solar's death finally snapping him. Derailing himself to push everyone away to the point of losing himself entirely as Nexus.

And Solar valuing New Moon so much that he was in absolute distraught when the first thing he hears upon waking was that his best friend, HIS REASON OF HOME, lost himself so far in the name of lone desperation. A desperation he knows all too well thanks to his past Moon's ungracious reaction to unfortunate loss.

Solar knows what it's like to be alone and afraid. He can't possibly leave Nexus like the others like the flip of the switch! Because just as he gave mercy to Eclipse and Ruin, he'd give mercy to Nexus too.

The canon doesn't make any sense!

And, well, being a silent (yet intimidated from this fandom) supporter of SolarNexus...

The angst writer side of me wishes that this story didn't clap off to the cliche "power hungry" complex.

Why not have Solar continue to drive himself to find some cure or solution? In the name of friendship; to justify himself that he can fix it all before it's too late. To not lose another from his (falsely blamed and uncontrolled) faults. To be the reassurance of comfort Nexus so desperately needed.

Why not have Nexus secretly die inside whenever he speaks the words he does not mean; unwillingly pushing himself to the edge every time he starts to believe hope can be retrieved. Falling in the spiral that nothing is real and he has no right to feel and express. The moment Nexus felt like grasping on light is when strings of dark pull him to a choke to remind just exactly who he's working with. Why he even decided to make a deal with DarkSun. That no matter how Nexus puts it, he technically is a husk for dark star power. An element. Like a living battery for some bigger project he may not be entirely aware of. (And my best guess: a tragic death to Dark Sun's intricate plans.)

A reminder so cruel and twisted that Nexus can't possibly see a way out without Solar's guidance and safety.

Life was never fair for the both of them. They both suffered at being blamed and antagonised for things they had no proper control over. They both had self doubts and a sense that they were never home.

(For f--k's sake! Nexus was LOSING HIS MIND!! CRITICAL DANGER OF WELL BEING, and the "family" decided: Hey! Instead of actually getting him proper treatment, lets just lock him in a cell and keep calling him a villain for insulting people! An action he had no say over because HAHA he LoSt hIs mInD. Wha- eH- HUUEUUH???? NnNO???)

But ey! They were Home for each other.

That's why Solar and NM/Nexus's friendship worked so well! They had a sense of comfort to speak and express openly, to have negativity or concerns spill out without backlash. To actually live freely knowing they have each others back!

And I'd like to believe they'd still ache to have this connection again. That Solar would do whatever it takes to have Nexus free from his chains.

Not to be welcomed by the "family", but to be welcomed by Solar's own loving arms. To get proper care, proper help, proper recognition of all parts of Nexus. Both good and bad.

I really think there's tragedy love potential here. I wished to see them fight whatever forces against them to be together again. To get at least that ounce of safety within the chaos.

Whether it's fighting mental illness or dark star power. Who cares! They gonna be together again dAhM iT! Even if it's just a minute before tragic death from DarkSun or somethin! T-T

*COUGH* oUgh man.. what a doozy of a topic..

Thank you so much for reading! And for making this confessions blog! I appreciate it! Was really good to have this off my chest. Wish you and everyone reading a wonderful day/evenin! :)

I admire the hell out of your passion. This was a good read, and has a lot of neat points. Nice going, Anon.

[everybody-loves-purdy]

With a bit of inference, Moth Flight’s Vision is an accidental tragedy about generational trauma.

Moth Flight’s Vision is a book which tries to justify the medicine cat abstinence rule, and it fails at this. This is mainly due to the exceptional circumstances Moth Flight was in when she gave up her kits. And obviously you have the fact she was a very young mother with four children in a time before a nursery system and when Moth Flight herself was also navigating being the first ever medicine cat. But I want to bring up another aspect of Moth Flight’s Vision that heavily influences our titular character’s decision to give up her children and bar all medicine cats from ever having mates or kits: Trauma.

And I want to stress that at no point so I think the Erins wanted to make this a story about trauma. But boy did they accidentally make a pretty compelling story about generational trauma. You need to squint a little though but trust me, it’s there. Accidentally put in the narrative like some of the best stuff in warrior cats often is.

So the trauma I am referring two comes from two cats in her life, her mother Wind Runner/ Windstar and her mate Micah.

So if we start with the former, Wind Runner at the start of Moth Flight’s Vision is very critical of Moth Flight. She has no patience for Moth Flight getting distracted and her lack of hunting skill, and voices how she dislikes Moth Flight’s lack of prey contribution to the clan, and frequently insults her and makes snide remarks to her. Such as you can see in just this one example.

All this leaves Moth Flight feeling inferior and feeling like she is wrong.

All this cumulates in an argument in which Wind Runner lists how irresponsible she believes Moth Flight to be tells Moth Flight she is a danger to her clan. And Moth Flight believes her, and runs away.

Now after this once Moth Flight returns as a medicine cat we don’t really get anything like this from Wind Runner again but the damage is done. Now here’s where the inference has to start coming in a bit. Who wouldn’t be left with a complex after this? Who wouldn’t be left with the need to prove themselves however they can? Moth Flight certainly sets out to please Wind Runner and prove she can be useful to her clan in the early part of the book when she’s receiving this abuse. So why would it just evaporate later when she actually finds something she’s good at and can be of great use to her clan doing? Just put a pin in that for a moment.

Also while we’re talking about Wind Runner; Moth Flight has a conversation with her dead siblings about how she wishes she could please Wind Runmer, which leads to her dead siblings saying that the reason Wind Runner is so harsh towards Moth Flight is because of the trauma she experienced when she lost her kits. Wind Runner’s trauma is ultimately what is causing her to inflict trauma onto Moth Flight.

And now we move onto the second inflicter of trauma in Moth Flight’s life: Micah. Don’t worry, unlike Wind Runner, Micah didn’t inflict any trauma on Moth Flight through his own actions. Unless you count dying in a tragic accident right in front of Moth Flight. In which case yeah, his actions did inflict trauma on her. At least it was an accident.

Micah’s death deeply traumatises Moth Flight. She cannot bear to be in WindClan due to it, she lives in ShadowClan for a moon, avoiding going home due to her grief, and then only travels back once she realises she is pregnant, and decides she wants to be with kin.

The stage is set. The Erins have a young cat set up about to have four kittens that she’s going to give away and change the medicine cat code forever. What they do not realise is that the trauma they have influenced on this character can most definitely be inferred to have an effect on her actions surrounding her children from this point forward, ultimately being perceived as a large push as to why she gives them up.

The book wants us to believe that she gives up her kittens because it is just inherently impossible to be a medicine cat and have mates and children. Which isn’t true as cats such as Leafpool and Yellowfang have since proven wrong. And obviously there are the exceptional circumstances Moth Flight herself has been subjected to during this period. But her trauma can also be perceived to pay a huge part in her feeling like she cannot balance her duties and her children.

To start off with. The first moon of her kits life is fine. Moth Flight steps back from medicine cat duties and lets the very knowledgeable Reed Tail take primary healer duties for the clan. The book skips over the first moon with her kits and therefore we can assume nothing important happens, and no issues come from Moth Flight raising her kits for this first moon. Moth Flight does reflect that how she did on occasion try and do checkups but her kits always called her away. And here, while Moth Flight is reflecting on this, we get this paragraph:

So here we learn two things:

She feels ready to stop having Reed Tail help her when her kits are a moon and a half (6 weeks) old.

Moth Flight does not want to let go of her kits for any amount of time. She equates Slate saying that she can leave the kits for short periods to them not having a mother figure in their lives. And she thinks her kits can only receive adequate love from her.

So with point 1, Moth Flight’s kittens are still little babies. And she feels that she should go back to being a full time medicine cat when they’re still that young despite having Reed Tail to hold the fort, and dismissing him as her helper entirely after this point. And here I’m going to bring back the idea of inference. I feel that this could stem from Wind Runner’s abuse at the start of the book. Wind Runner left her daughter feeling so compelled to be useful to her clan that she’s throwing herself back into her work far too early in order to keep her mother happy and be of use to the clan in the only way Moth Flight feels she can be. Is any of this written in the book? Hell no. But I feel that you can absolutely infer that Moth Flight’s drive to get back to work so soon is due to the lasting trauma and insecurities her mother had imposed on her.

Point 2 is a lot to unpack and here, and this is a point that comes up again, how Moth Flight feels compelled to take care of her kits personally rather than hand them off to babysitters due to their lack of a living father.

So if we use some of that inference here, we can infer that Micah’s death has left Moth Flight insecure about leaving her children alone. She feels that she is the only one who can properly take care of them in her clan. And, undoubtedly by accident, this idea comes back. There are two incidents with her leaving her kits to be babysat and irresponsible babysitting causes the kits to get hurt. The first is where she goes to a gathering and Rocky encourages three of the kits to climb a rock but tells the fourth she’s not ready. So the very next day she climbs the rock. She falls, she gets hurt. And not once does Moth Flight get angry at Rocky for encouraging her children to climb a big rock, oh no, she blames herself.

There isn’t one second where she thinks about how it’s Rocky’s fault this situation arose. She entirely blames herself for it, and the situation is never even discussed with Rocky.

And then something similar happens later on. Storm Pelt is supposed to be watching the kits while Moth Flight goes to RiverClan. And then all four kits end up following her and one of them falls in the river. She doesn’t blame Storm Pelt for any of this. She doesn’t have a single word of blame to say to him about him allowing all four of her children to follow her to RiverClan. And from that we can infer (even though again, the book doesn’t say) she feels the blame lies with herself. This inference can be strengthened given that this is the incident which causes her to feel she should give up her kits.

On top of her feeling wholly responsible for her kits at all times no matter who is looking after them, the main other way they distract her from her medicine cat duties is when she suddenly becomes paranoid that some horrible tragedy has befallen them while she isn’t watching them. And I think all of this paranoia and heightened sense of responsibility regarding her kits all comes down to Micah.

He died traumatically in front of her eyes. She feels extra protective of her children because they no longer have a father. And we can infer that her paranoia of them meeting a gruesome fate has come from her witnessing the painful death of her beloved Micah.

And where does this leave us? All this trauma stemming from both her mother and beloved? Well, Moth Flight decrees that medicine cats must not have mates or kits. She then inflicts trauma onto her own children by separating them and forcing them all to live apart. The trauma that Wind Runner and Moth Flight experienced can now be inferred to have trickled down to both Moth Flight’s kits, and many, many medicine cats for decades to come. The book wants you to believe this is because kits can distract from medicine cat duties, that they can pull a medicine cat away from important duties. But that only happens in Moth Flight’s Vision due to poor babysitters or mainly Moth Flight becoming paranoid that her kits are going to die horribly like their father once they’re out of her sight.

Is this all a stretch? Absolutely. I have no doubt this was absolutely not the intention of the Erins at all. But in the words of Todd Chavez:

Isn’t the point of art less what people put into it and more of what people get out of it?

And thats what I get out of Moth Flight’s Vision. A story about how tragic trauma can be, not only for an individual, but also for others if it becomes generational.

[myfairkatiecat]

Girl how do you get away with saying Keefe is your favorite character when your actual posts about him say way otherwise. You’ll be like “yeah he sucks and makes tons of bad decisions but I love him”

rlly you come across to me as trying to spread your Keefe hate to the other Keefe lovers in a more palatable way because you know theyll reject hate but maybe they’ll accept it if it’s disguised as love, like hiding the dog’s pill in the peanut butter

like you can get away with making your “fellow” Keefe lovers agree with your hatred of him by saying “these are the reasons I love him” and surprisingly it looks like it’s worked with at least a few people?

anyway you can just- Be a character hater. You know that right. You don’t have to sneakily pretend you actually like him and quite frankly it’s insulting to those of us who actually love keefe so 👍 yeah

…

……….

……………..

Ok I really wish I could say with certainty that this ask was satire but here we go.

1. How dare you call me a Keefe hater. I am OFFENDED. That’s my pookie 🥺 but seriously I LOVE that guy. He’s so interesting (to me)

2. Loving a character doesn’t mean being an apologist for everything they ever did???? People aren’t perfect okay? Keefe in particular has been through a lot and has a ton of trauma and is receiving zero professional help of any kind! He’s in a bad mental space and he acts like it. We even get into his head in unlocked and see that yes he is really messed up. I feel bad for Keefe for a lot of reasons, but I’m also incredibly intrigued by the CLEAR connections between what trauma he has and what poor choices he consistently makes. But I truthfully and unconditionally love this guy. He is hands down my favorite character. He’s charming to me as a character archetype (I am a teenage girl bookworm sue me) but also a gut-wrenchingly intriguing mess with problems and guys he’s FASCINATING—

3. My favorite Star Wars character is Anakin Skywalker. You gonna tell me the fact that I disagree with child murder means I can’t love him and the tragedy of his story and the delicious character depth he has? Huh?

4. This is an insult to the real keefe haters. @the-way-astray come collect your title, it has been improperly pinned onto me and I don’t want it

[badaziraphaletakes]

It’s not necessarily a fully bad Aziraphale take but I feel like the ‘other who can’t admit their queer’ is pointed at him

Thanks for the submission @gretinternetllama

Well, they ain't talking about Crowley 💀 LMAO

This is the most privileged, out-of-touch Aziracrow take I have ever seen. If you think the most painful queer trope is “one of them’s scared to admit they’re queer”, then fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

The most painful queer “trope”, BY DEFINITION, is “one or both of them will be violently killed if they openly acknowledge their love”. Like Aziracrow. Like Castiel. (The tragedy of that isn’t that Dean didn’t love him that way. It’s that Castiel DIED for saying he loved him, lmao. It is so insulting to Castiel to suggest that the worst thing that happened to him is not having Dean’s love.) Like the overwhelming majority of queer people throughout human history. Because THAT IS THE DEFINITIVE TRAGEDY OF THE ENTIRE QUEER EXPERIENCE.

Fuck anyone who thinks that not being willing to openly acknowledge your love for your partner because you know it can never go anywhere BECAUSE YOU’LL BOTH BE KILLED FOR IT is internalized homophobia. (I can hear the gays in Russia laughing rn.)

Having said that, though, let’s take a look at the way OP analyzes “internalized homophobia”, because there is PLENTY to be concerned about there as well.

The “can’t *even* ‘bring themselves’ to admit they’re queer” is DISGUSTING. Fuck this person’s judgmental tone. God, the more I read this the angrier I get. (If they’d written a post saying “I feel so bad that Aziraphale is losing his chance at a relationship with Crowley because of his internalized homophobia; that must be so hard”, that would be one thing. They’d still be dead wrong, lol, but at least this take wouldn’t be bigoted crap. But that’s not, remotely, what they said. There is no sympathy or understanding on offer for Aziraphale whatsoever.) NO ONE has the right to judge someone for not being ready to accept that they’re queer. It is NEVER their fault. It is ALWAYS the fault of the disgusting homophobia and queer phobia of our society at large.

And also fuck anyone who judges someone for rejecting another person’s romantic advances. It’s literally never any of our business why they do that. (This is giving me flashbacks to the 2010’s Phantom of the Opera fandom. And that is NOT A GOOD THING, lmao.) Romantic rejection, even for a depressing reason like this, is not the tragedy people seem to think. No one needs to be with any one particular person in order to be happy. This whole thing is giving “oh, the poor person whose love interest won’t date them”.

Move on and find someone who will date you. Plenty more fish in the sea.

I'd say it's actually a lot more tragic for the closeted person, who has probably missed out on a lot of other relationships for the same reason and is hurting very deeply. But again, does OP have any compassion to spare for the characters they've labeled as closeted? Nah.

(Side note: If you can’t bear to date someone who’s in the closet, DON’T DATE THEM! It’s that simple. And for the love of GOD don’t pressure them to come out or blame them for not being willing to do so.)

Also. This whole thing is giving faint vibes of the putting-your-hands-over-your-ears, “la-la-la-if-I-ignore-your-problems-they’ll-just-go-away”, “if you come out, everything will be fine and everyone will magically accept you” trope, which is offensive, harmful, privileged, dangerous bullshit. Love does not always conquer all. Love does not always make everything magically okay.

(When it comes to Aziracrow in particular, it is also VERY MUCH reminiscent of the belief that once victims leave their ab*sers, their ab*sers will leave them alone, which is the POLAR OPPOSITE of what actually happens in those situations.)

The most ridiculous part out of all of this, though, has got to be mentioning Johnlock. 🤣🤣🤣 Um, which one of those two is supposed to be flamboyantly queer, exactly? Lol that’s just sad. We have better queer representation now. Come on.

Not to mention, Sherlock and John’s relationship/friendship/situationship/whatever the fuck we were supposed to think that was, was horrendously toxic. Nothing about the way they behave to each other is “loving”. Sherlock is a terrible person (and istg if I hear ONE SINGLE PERSON try to say it’s not his fault because of “mental illness” or some ableist bullshit like that, I will come after you with an axe) and not a suitable partner for anyone unless he does some seeeerious work on himself. Even supposing John is in love with Sherlcok, he has EVERY REASON IN THE WORLD not to want to date him - and it has fuck-all to do with shame (more flashbacks to the 2010’s Phantom of the Opera fandom lol).

Also... I thought we'd all collectively agreed to move on from Sherlock because it's horrendously anti-Autistic and queerbaity and Cummerbund Bumpersnatch is a vile ableist stain upon the face of humanity whose name I will not utter? Did I miss something lol?

To the next person to demean Good Omens and the precious, beautiful relationship between Aziracrow by lumping it in with crap like 'Sherlock' - we meet at the dueling grounds at dawn.

One final thing to add: Crowley doesn’t want to “scream their love from the rooftops”????? Because he also knows they’ll be killed or worse if they do that??? Canon Crowley is a FAR better person and a far more loving partner than willfully oblivious, damn-the-torpedos fanon Crowley. I wouldn't like this show if Crowley "wanted to scream their love from the rooftops".

There’s a LOT more that should probably be said about this, but my thumbs are tired and my heart is tireder still.

[kwop-kilawtley]

I GOT WAR FLASHBACKS FROM THE REDDIT MENTION OMG-!!

Fuck Twilight reddit tbh. Twilight tik tok is right up there too but I at least encounter some team Jacob accounts that are popular and clap right back in the comments so thats at least smth 😭

istg there's so much coping and bending over backwards to defend their favorite white cullenizers lmfao 🥴🥴

"he's frozen at 17!!!" yeah but he's been 17 for DECADES. if he had time to get medical degrees then you'd think he'd know better than engage in creep behavior. Also, Jacob is 16 and unlike Edwin, has only been 16 for an ACTUAL while. But sure, keep defending the 100+ year old "17 yr old" vampire who had all that time to learn is supposedly soooo "mature" vs the 16 yr old who's an actual teenager.

"he learned from his behavior/prejudices!!" bitch WHERE?? even after he claims to Bella he's "learned", he STILL calls Jacob dog, mutt and mongrel even at BD, does NOTHING to stick up for Jacob/the pack when the visiting vampires look down or insult them. FUCK the cullens for that. If they were smart they'd get together literally ANYWHERE else, and NOT anywhere near where the tribe who's people are forced to shift when vampires are around. "B-but Alice's vision says they'll gather there! 🥺" Change the meet up, then!! It's not like the Volturi will leave you alone if you don't show up! Dumbasses.

"jacob assaulted bella and kept forcing himself to her when she wasn't interested!!!" this one makes me laugh the most tbh. They ALWAYS use the Eclipse KissTM as a gotcha every time someone even says they're Team Jacob or defends him. Also, so many of them revise history to where they act like it was Jacob who kept pursuing Bella in New Moon when really it was BELLA who went to him FIRST (with the intention of using him for the bikes to feed her Edward delulus), and it was BELLA who kept leading him on (btw, twilight reddit also copes about how she "didn't" 🙄) and didnt set firm boundaries. Then again, most Team Edweirdos skip New Moon and only read the "vampire parts" so it's not our fault they conflate Eclipse (where Jacob actually disrespects boundaries in some parts) and New Moon (where he's being an honest friend). Maybe don't make up events against Jacob if yall dont know what your talking about!! 🥴🥴

sdkjhkjrwiu sorry for the longish rant it's just,,,The mention of Twilight reddit opened the flood gates for me lolll

also, it's funny how a lot of hardcore Team Edward weirdos bend over backwards to defend Bella's bland ass characterization and Smeyer's writing. 🤓

CULLENIZERS!!!!! HOW HAVE I NEVER USED THIS TERM OMFG ckskdksk. Yeah it’s legit everywhere… on Instagram I commented on a Jake x Bella post saying something like “god I love them.” And just by saying that someone replies being like EWWWW WHAT??? BUT WHAT ABOUT ECLIPSE KISS TM

lmfsofksk I’m like so jaded by now idgaf

im so goddamn tired of Jacob being the only one in the saga who gets ripped on to this extent.

Everything you’re saying I’m just nodding along like yes, yes, yes TELL EM ANON!!

luckily I blocked so much out of BD cause to me my BD rewrite fic is actual canon so I forget so much of it. But When I’m reminded I’m like just disgusted… like the fact there’s like a million new 13 year old wolves or some shit bc of all the new vamps that came to visit??? Fuck off actually oh my god CAN YALL FUCK OFFFFF. Someone asked me why I don’t have Brady and Colin or whatever their names are in my fic im like cuz LET THEM BE CHILDREN I’m not entertaining this idc idc. The pack has gone through enough smh.

The cullens and bella actually have learned nothing throughout the story and nothing changed whatsoever. The only thing that changed was Bella became a vamp and Jake imprinted. Things that are both horrible tragedies imo. So it forces them to change who they are but it’s not like a natural character arc nor is it a development. It’s plot convenience that strips Jacob and Bella’s character completely.

completely agree lmfao legit they just hate Jacob cause he gets in the way. A lot of them admit to skipping new moon entirely or Jacob parts. And that’s fine they can do that but like don’t make weird ass shit like talking about BELLA NEVER LOVE JACOB LIKE THAT SHE LOVED HIM LIKE A BROTHER. Ummmm okay! You need to go back and reread some parts otherwise you’re lookin kinda weird cuz that was NOT no brother sister relationship lmao. Bella and Jacob are literally dating without the label starting New Moon. Be fucking serious like… they almost kiss, they’re always cuddling holding hands. She sees a future with him with kids and explicitly they both say they are IN LOVE with each other. Now listen yall gotta take it up with smeyer why the fuck she wrote them like that all for Bells to be his godmother 💀💀💀💀💀 why did she make Jake a love interest for Bella if she knew she was gonna do that the whole time.

Well, here’s what actually happened and why team Jacob even exists in the first place. There’s a clear split as to what this series is. There’s Twilight and Forever Dawn and then there’s New Moon and Eclipse. She wrote Jake cuz her publisher needed more and she ended up naturally writing the better love interest for Bella, became attached to his character and couldn’t stop writing him. But then she changed Nothing about forever Dawn… so that’s what BD is and why it doesn’t at all match up with the last two books. This is why it’s so easy for me to discard BD like it’s a rotten ass fruit…..

Like I love Jacob cause he’s flawed, nuanced and the only one with common sense in this damn series. He starts as a sweetie sun boy in new moon and then he turns into a dick and an asshole sometimes. I think this is an unpopular decision but I actually like this about Jacob lol. Could you imagine he was sunny boy Jake throughout the shit he’s put through? For what? For him to get even MORE walked on? Nah fuck that. He should be angry. It IS shitty that smeyer made it so that the wolves cant control their anger and are supposed to be hostile though cause this contributes to even more problematic shit. But I certainly understand Jake being an angsty dick when he is. Now, this makes him flawed. He is not perfect and I know that and that’s what I like about him.

He’s actually a fuckin idiot especially with the eclipse kiss and he shouldn’t have done that. I get called an assault apologist solely for being team Jake or whatever like it just makes me roll my eyes in the back of my head. Everyone seems to think that Jacob is just “trying to get some” with Bella. He’s not a fuckin rapist like they make him out to be idgaf. He did not force himself on Bella in new moon. They almost kissed but he didn’t force the kiss. He’s a stupid teenager that doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, let’s be real. The eclipse kiss happened not because he was “trying to get some” but because he was trying to make Bella see she did have feelings for him. This is dumb but this was his thinking. Essentially trying to wake her up from the vampire thrall she’s under and maybe make her see she doesn’t have to die and stay human. I don’t believe he would’ve kissed her like this if Edward hadn’t come back in the picture and she tells him she’s going to die or WORSE become his enemy that he may have to KILL in only a few weeks. Jacob even says it didn’t matter she chose someone else over him, it wasn’t about that. It was because she was GOING TO DIE. This is just his perspective and it wasn’t RIGHT. He shouldn’t have done it. Smeyer also tried to make Edwin look better too and tried to make him look like the “mature” one and Jake to be the out of control one. Which again, problematic.

But yeah I’m just tired of the eclipse kiss being the only thing brought up lol. But the confederate and his shitty control freak wife are angels<333 they’re the good guys! Edward’s obsessive stalking a week into knowing Bella I feel is horrible and violating but ok go off! He legit watches her from the bushes at her house, snoops through her things, watches her in her sleep. She doesn’t consent to any of this. But this is “fine” because Bella had no reaction to it? Uh yeah cause she is a teenager who hates herself and is obsessed with edwin. and throughout the books he’s just overall manipulative, pretentious, condescending and controlling. But no, he’s the good guy okay lol. Like I’d prefer if they were just honest about it. Like can’t we agree they’re both morally grey… it just annoys me that they make it seem like Edward is a perfect angel?

The appeal of vampires in general is that they’re toxic and morally grey. I love a toxic vampire. It’s all about how a story is written tho. the issue is that the cullens pretend that they aren’t? This is what is annoying as fuck about them to me. They are made out to be perfect and innocent, especially in Bella’s pov. This is why I don’t like them. Bc they ARE toxic mostly in the non-hot ways (colonizers, racist, billionaires who treat bella like some doll) but try to mask this and it’s seen as good? This is also what makes Edwards stalking not hot.. he just seems like a fuckin pathetic creep LMFAO. Sitting outside her house thinking about meteors hitting it and shit 🙄🙄 like it’s all under the guise of protection. No. Just be a vampire freak. Be honest!!!! It’s not about protecting Bella lol you’re just goddamn obsessed. Edward pursued her cause her scent and he can’t read her mind. It really is that simple but I’m supposed to believe it’s love? And Bella fall for him because literally ANY human would fall for a vampire. It’s like in their design. Like just be honestttt. And then the edwinos wants to talk about shitty things Jacob does but thinks the stalking and shit is fine? Like it doesn’t make sense to me lmao. Just admit that Edward is a toxic freak and that’s why you love him. That is perfectly fine. But no… they see him as he can do no wrong. I prefer the volturi and nomads. Give me an evil little vampire who is honest about their intentions.

Also never apologize for screaming into the void that’s my inbox. It’s a safe space here <33333