#maybe maybe ill just rot away like i should

[memesandthingsilike]

.-.

[ruruvxz]

“Where is my friend, smiley?”

Idol!Huh Yunjin x Idol!Reader

↳ synopsis: It was infuriating watching everyone ship you and your label-mate, you didn’t even know how anyone came to that conclusion, you didn’t even interact with her in the public! (Or from public knowledge you didn’t) So why would anyone know about your embarrassing relationship with her?

↳ cw: kinda mean reader, use of language, established relationship, reader is in a fake group, reader was in Produce 48, lovesick yunjin, hidden relationship, tooth rotting fluff (kinda a yapfest abt how much you love her…)

↳word count: 2.5k

a/n: literally my first time writing after awhile, usually my stories are old renditions/proofreads of stories i wrote back in 2023. so this is something im actually really proud of! also this story kinda was inspired by “tingin” by cup of joe more than it was inspired by “where is smiley” by serani poji… LOL

౨ৎ It was odd, and everyone agreed, that the partnership with Huh Yunjin from Le Sserafim and Y/N from Serendipity was perplexing. The only thing connecting both of the girls was the industry they happened to be in, other than that they had nothing in common. Of course, the argument could be made that you and her both participated in the hit reality competition "Produce 48", but everyone knew that was quite a flawed counterpoint.

This was because you were practically thrown out after a few episodes before getting scouted by HYBE to debut months later. And you made it apparent that you didn't want to interact with anyone associated with the production of that show. So with Le Sserafim's debut years after yours, you found it baffling that your company wanted you to "hang out" with the rookie groups, it was infuriating. You worked so hard just to be put with a bunch of girls who couldn't care any less about how much you tried. Despite that, you found mountains and mountains of carefully orchestrated videos of “so-called" proof about you and Yunjin being the "best" of friends.

Whatever it was connecting the both of you was a mystery the fans must solve, and being honest with yourself, you found the whole circumstance mildly infuriating.

So at every turn you tried avoiding that mischievous redhead wherever you went, even when it came to recording meaningless video collaborations, you always mustered up a half-assed excuse. It came to the point where you went out of your way to hide in uncomfortable places just to avoid her friendly banter. Though no matter how hard you tried you could always hear her voice linger longer than it should have in the back of your head. Or maybe it was just how awfully loud her voice was, to the point that it left a ringing sensation in your ear.

It came as no surprise when you heard her voice calling out to your other members inquiring about your whereabouts. This was usually your cue to hide away from prudish questions, last time she had asked you "Do you come here often? You look like you do" unprovoked! Admittedly you knew she didn't mean any harm, but it still struck a cord within you, and knew she was probably going to run towards you asking all sorts of questions. You picked yourself up from whatever task was put on you and quickly ran away from her voice.

Of course, you knew what you were doing was more than ill-mannered, but god forbid she quizzes you one more time about trivial interests. But that was better than confronting her, confrontation was your worst enemy, and so was Yunjin's mannerisms. She was the physical embodiment of what a "dog personality" was, always eager to learn more and help everyone out. it kinda freaked you out to some jealous extent.

So trying your best not to start any conflict with this poor redhead, you decided to best course of action was to camp out around the building's designated lounge. Hoping today would not be the day she decided to check this certain deserted area. All you could do now was fish out your phone from your back pocket to read some forums about your performance and pray that no one would notice you here.

On the other hand, Yunjin was getting more and more hopeless trying to find you around the shared building. Feeling a little lost as she mindlessly drifted across section to section of the HYBE building. Though it hadn't taken poor Yunjin a while before spotting you from the corner of her eye. Her eyes lit up when she saw you mindlessly scrolling on your phone, the energy filling her up with excitement as she inched closer. As she came closer you couldn't help but notice her come closer and closer, realizing your interaction was inevitable.

Jerking your head up to meet her gaze, Yunjin waved her hand as she came within reach of you, letting out a fake smile before putting your phone down. You glanced at her and back to the empty seat resting in front of you, she beamed a bright smile before quickly and "casually" sitting down. Yunjin opened her mouth to speak before you cut her off with a hum.

"Remember, we're the only ones here so make sure to be a little quiet, alright?" You hushed, while she gave you an approving nod, she spoke up this time making it apparent that she was trying her best not to draw attention to the both of you, not like last time.

"Of course, I just wanted to see you it's been so long since I've seen your face..." Yunjin pouts as she looks around making sure the coast is clear from the nosy "enthusiast" who was always oh so curious about you and Yunjin's relationship. Your spine chilling at the thought of people making up such absurd theories about your closeness. The way they could put together such in-depth statements about the both of you always stumped you, how did they manage to procure all this information?

Even Yunjin claimed time and time again that she knew nothing about these fan-made theories, or how her fans managed to get old screen captures of both of you. In actual reality, Yunjin most definitely knew more than he should have! Mainly because it was practically her fault that images of the both of you were wafting around on the internet. See, she wasn't exactly the silent type when it came to friendships/relationships, she loved airing out her own business, which usually came back to bite her in the ass. So needless to say when her old Spotify account was coincidently launched into mainstream media people quickly connected the dots.

For someone who was adamant about avoiding her Juniors, you happened to be insinuated in every one of her, oddly, romantic, playlists. Either that be by a photo of the back of your head being the cover of a playlist titled "The Perfect Pair", or by the fact that all the descriptions were... Unusually corny... even by Yunjin's standards. Each careful string of words all connected with an underlying message about adoration for a certain someone. This didn't help her case since she always spoke about you in high regard whenever she was in a lonesome interview.

And the evidence staked against her was just the tip of the iceberg, it was in fact, much deeper than she'd originally like to admit. If someone with a genuine interest in your relationship with Yunjin researched just a little more about the both of you, they'd probably discover your relationship cut deep. And yes— as much as you tried to avoid how embarrassing your elimination was during Produce 48, you came across one of the greatest person you’d ever meet.

The way she laughed so carefreely, and how her eyes crinkled whenever she smiled, while her gaze brightly met yours. Everything about her made your heart stop, it made you freeze up whenever she looked at you during practice, and it made you such a fool. You knew it was for the better to avoid her, if you didn't, you'd probably be so whipped so hard that you couldn't focus on your own career. But it was so hard, especially whenever she'd run towards you after every practice and performance telling you how well you did. (No one actually noticed anything because you never really got any screen time sadly...) Even if you left fairly early on, Yunjin slipped you her number so you could both keep in contact.

After that day, the one thing you swore not to do, was instantly thrown out the window, as every waking moment you'd secretly visit her to give her your luck. And when things didn't go her way, and she was eventually eliminated, you comforted her in your arms. Before you debuted, you would actively seek your smiling friend, laughing under the neatly shaded picnic table outside the PLEDIS building. It wasn't much nor was it very significant, but being by her side was more than enough for you.

Even after you debuted, you never broke contact with your dear friend, words couldn’t describe how much she meant to you. She congratulated you every step of the way, and you backed her up twice fold, no matter how turbulent her career was becoming you’d stick by her side no matter what. Because to see her smiling face was more than enough for you and you wouldn’t let anything or anyone damage that. So when she finally told you how much you meant to her, you couldn’t help but reciprocate the feeling.

Though when she debuted and years later light babble started to circulate around the corners of the internet, you so desperately wanted to stay away from her, not to damage her career. It was difficult but her happiness, and that smile you treasured so much was on the line, and you wouldn’t—couldn’t let her lose that.

(Of course, she knew what you were doing, she wasn’t an idiot, but it just made her love you even more, the way you cared so much made her heart swoon deeper for you. Yunjin didn’t want to sway your plans because she didn’t want to ruin your career as well, so she too, went with it. But that didn’t mean she ever kept you a secret. You belonged by her side and she didn’t want anyone to forget that. So yes, she was subtly hinting towards her loving fans that her heart fell in the palms of someone else’s.)

So that was what led the both of you to the circumstances you were entangled in right now. Having to camp out in secluded places, where only your faint laughter could fill her ears, and hers only. You reminisced on your past with her, how carefree you both used to be during your youth, but you wouldn’t trade what you had right now for anything. Despite how secretive the both of you were, you were content with having her hands interlocking with your fingers. It was small, honestly not even comparable to how she used to intertwine your lips during rush hour on the bustling streets of New York, but both made your heart race nevertheless.

As she talked about how practice went, your eyes drifted to how she’d scrunch her eyes whenever she laughed about what happened with Eunchae. Despite all the hardships she’s dealt with over the years, she was still the carefree girl you fell in love with. It was honestly surprising how your eyes never faltered off of her even after years of dating. You tried to take the advice from your family and peers that this was some teenage infatuation, but even through crowds of people, you’d pick her gummy smile before anyone else’s.

Your mind drifted to how you’d give her the moon and back, even if no one was watching, you’d give her everything you had. Your eyes, your heart, your mind, anything you could give her, you would. Yunjin couldn’t help but notice your gaze falling from hers and to her cheeks, she curiously stopped her story to call out to you.

“Ah Y/N, are you okay? Are you tired, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have talked your ears off—“ You cut her off by raising your hands to her face, she looked confused as she cupped her face. Yunjin looked even more shocked when you started to pinch her soft cheeks. Squishing them like marshmallows before laughing to yourself silently.

She (very pathetically) tried to swat your hands away before finally giving in with a giggle, placing her hands on top of yours. “You have such an adorable smile, have I ever told you that?” You speak, pulling her cheeks up to force a smile, not realizing she was smiling from your comment. Caressing your hands with her thumb she spoke up once more.

“Yes actually, you always tell me that my love.” She responded, her cheeks flushing red as you continued to play with her face. The way her eyes squinted like a crescent moon made you adore her even more than before.

“Your smile is just so adorable, I’m afraid I might hide it away from everyone.” You joked as you continued, she looked at you even more lovingly than imaginable, if you weren’t in public, you’d probably be kissing her face all over instead of playing with it. You were so distracted by how charming she looked that you didn’t notice a meddlesome paparazzi sneaking in and taking a very sneaky photo of the both of you. (And even if you did notice, you didn’t have the power to stop them, they’d probably run off with the photos before you could even stand up. Though they would probably release the photos later on in the day, and it would rightfully annoy you. You couldn’t deny the fact you were a little grateful that the people knew, the Huh Yunjin was, Y/N L/N’s)

“There you go again— Hey! You know, that was the first thing you told me when we met.”

“Was it really?”

“Yeah, you told me how beautiful my smile was, I was kinda surprised since you approached me in such a huge crowd of people.”

As Yunjin recited the moment you met, you remembered in detail about the interaction, because that’s what changed the trajectory of your life. (The backstage was crowded with everyone getting ready in their bright pink and white uniform, the cameras weren’t rolling so it was awfully loud. Your broken Korean wasn’t helping your cause as you tried your best to converse with your fellow trainees. The sea of faces was difficult to remember, there were 96 contestants after all. Despite how deafeningly loud everything was, and how overwhelming everything felt, your eyes wonder towards a light-brown bob. Her face caught you off guard, she was stunning, and the way she smiled made the world go silent for a few moments. And you needed to talk to her, or this moment would slip through your tender fingers, so you pushed through the crowd just to have one conversation with her.)

“How embarrassing… I hope no one finds out about that.” You sheepishly admit as you move your hands away from her face and intertwine your fingers back to hers.

“I’m sure they’ll find away, but before they do, my smile will always belong to you, Y/N.” She lifted one of your hands back to her face and cupped it to one of her cheeks before smiling softly. Making the already silent lounge even more quiet, as your mind only focused on her delicate smile. The same one you’d turn tides to protect. Your smiley.

opm and ppop lovers rise tf up!!!!!

[loveephia]

TOO ATTRACTED | kita shinsuke

sypnosis: in which kita is crushing over you, his wife, all over again.

content: (🦷) tooth-rotting fluff, kita admits his "troubles" to the reader, he's so romantically dense it's cute, round-cheeks-kita headcanon, aran is mentioned, sorta sucky writing and a reuse of certain phrases and actions from my older posts, timeskip, inspired by that one guy on reddit.

⚠ warning/s: none.

kita shinsuke is starting to feel like he did during his high school years again.

he doesn't know when or how it came to this, where he can't take his eyes off of you, or how everytime you touch him it feels like electricity, but he's starting to think that he's fallen ill.

his face gets warmer, both figuratively and literally, at the mere sight of you. have you always had this effect on him?

kita can't help but sweat when you're close. the way you snuggle into his side to steal all of his warmth almost made him flinch, as if this wasn't already a daily routine for you two.

every time you surprise him with a long kiss, he feels the need to hold you for support. by the waist, he prefers.

and whenever kita sees you playing with your wedding ring (a habit you developed), his heart swells. it's like a little reminder that he's married to you.

kita is lost in thought, and you just so happened to notice. "shin?" you call from the kitchen. kita faces you and sees you slicing some fruit, "are you okay?" you ask.

kita doesn't nod. maybe he can ask you why he's feeling this way. "can we talk?" kita asks, and you nod, making your way over to the couch, placing the bowl of fruit on the table in front of you. "what's on your mind, love?" you ask.

"love.." the nickname you called him every day, and every other day. he can feel your effect on him taking place already; with the way his heart was beating erratically against his ribcage, and the fact that he tries not to fidget with his own fingers.

"i— uhm.." did he just stutter? "..did you do something with yourself lately?" kita asked. you tilt your head before shaking it, "no, not that i can remember. why do you ask?" you respond.

"then i think i'm coming down with a flu." kita says. you widen your eyes that are filled with nothing but care, "really?" you lean over and gently place your hand under kita's bangs and on his forehead. somehow, the effect you had on him doubled.

his breath hitches from the proximity that he should be used to by now. he patiently waits for you to pull away and give him his diagnosis, but you only shrug. "i don't feel anything out of the ordinary.."

kita sighs, maybe it's best if he just tells you what's on his mind. "i just— i feel like how i did when we still attended high school." he says. you quirk a brow, not properly understanding his point of view, "what do you mean by that, shin?"

"whenever you walk into a room, aran would tell me how red my face got. i feel the need to protect you a lot more lately. not because i think you're incapable of defending yourself, but because i just want to. and when you kiss me.. i feel stiffer than usual." kita rants. "my eyes linger on you a little longer than it should, but i can't help it. you're just.." he pauses, seeing the soft smile on your face as you listened.

"so beautiful." he says, breathless.

you caress his round cheek that happened to be painted with a red hue. "now i'm no psychologist, but i think you're in love with me, shin." you said.

kita blinks at you. "but i've always loved you. why did i start feeling this way again only until recently?"

"how you felt when you were younger was probably just a crush, whereas it all felt new to you. being bashful over the person you like is normal." you explained, "like irina firstein said, "feelings don't dissipate over time, but only get stronger and deeper." so you might've just had a shift in the way you feel love now."

"but, alas, love is pretty weird, no?" you giggle.

kita nods, a small smile making its way on his handsome face.

© lowercase intended | loveephia

[sweet-evie]

Satoru & Suguru defending Shoko like…

I have so much brain rot about this, so hear me out and take the imagine/scenario... 😭

TW: Sexual harassment

This also may or may not be inspired by a recent real-life experience of mine where a bunch of guys harassed my friends and I at a bar, but thank God three gentlemen on the opposite table existed and were kind enough to tell the others off and walk us back to our car in the parking lot just to make sure we were safe.

✨ masterlist ✨

Shoko has scary dog privileges... Her "scary dogs" in question being Satoru and Suguru.

The trio had just finished their festival food.

Satoru wanders off to find shaved ice and some crepes, Suguru excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and Shoko willingly stays at their outdoor table, smoking her cigarette while keeping an eye on her friends’ things.

A guy approaches with ill intentions.

He’s hitting on Shoko, trying to engage her in conversation. At first, Shoko entertains him and participates in the casual talk, but when the guy invited her to come spend time with him and his friends (there were 5 other dudes standing not far away, grinning and hollering at their friend).

The guy hitting on Shoko is like, “I promise we’re cool.”

Shoko says ‘No.’ The guy was flirty about it at first, but when she expresses that she’s waiting for her friends, the guy keeps pushing and starts to try and touch her inappropriately. He tried to slide a hand around her waist and Shoko slaps his hand away. He pushes and pushes and leans closer and Shoko’s getting very uncomfortable, but she plays it cool.

Shoko is calm, collected, and plainly tells him something along the lines of, “You’re making me uncomfortable," "Please stop," "Thanks for inviting me, but I’m waiting for my friends. Nice talking to you.”

Unhappy, the guy explains that he’s going to lose a bet to his friends, and grabs Shoko’s arm. He’s manhandling her from the seat, pulling her up, ready to drag her towards his groupies. She struggles and tells him ‘No’ firmly.

People are starting to look…

Suguru is back, sees Shoko’s predicament, and acts immediately.

The guy looks older, a little bulkier, but Suguru isn’t fazed. He closes the gap in three strides, separates Shoko from the stranger and puts himself between her and him. He was just glaring menacingly at first, but the stranger is cocky and flashes a smile.

“This your girl or something?”

“No, she’s not. But even if she is, it’s none of your business. She told you ‘no.’”

Shoko is now just standing casually behind Suguru, taking another drag from her cigarette. There’s tension, and it looked like the stranger was raring for a fight. He’s sizing Suguru up. They’re about the same height… Maybe the other guy was four inches shorter. His friends are closing in now too, subtly.

Suguru looks calm as ever.

“What if we just took her and leave you for dead?” One of the guy’s friends pipes up, grinning and cracking his knuckles, rolling his neck. “Bring it on big boy, I got a black belt.”

He throws experimental aerial punches that look absolutely ridiculous.

Suguru looks dreadfully bored, but he’ll let them talk for the fun… well, until Satoru shows up anyway.

“Five against one, what do you say?” One of the other guys sneered.

Shoko snorts. “If only they knew. Can’t we just go?”

“Satoru should be back any minute now.” Suguru grinned.

“Having one of your other friends won’t save you.”

A guy throws a punch that Suguru effortlessly blocks, dodges, and counters against. It’s at this moment, Satoru shows up with small bags of kikufuku in hand, and he looks surprised for a second, before his face breaks into a shit-eating grin.

“I leave you alone for 5 minutes and you get into a fight.”

“Not like you would have stopped it.” Shoko deadpans. “And they were harassing me. Suguru stepped in before they could.”

“Huh…” Satoru dropped his bags on the table and sauntered up to the ongoing one-sided scuffle between Suguru and four other guys. 

It was a poor match-up. Suguru was alone, but the rest of the men were clearly outmatched. Tired of the bullshit, Satoru uses Amplification Blue to manipulate a pocket of space, pulling all the strangers away from Suguru, sending them crashing against each other. Disoriented, one of the guys get up and try to challenge them again, but Satoru steps up with hands in his pockets and slams his foot into the guy’s face.

Kinda like this...

He was trying to stand, but Satoru kicked him down before he could. One of them tried to touch him but failed (for obvious reasons)...

“That’s for harassing my friend. Can’t even defend yourselves against one guy." (He means Suguru) "You’re embarrassing.” He glowers at Shoko’s assailant over the rim of his glasses. “Think twice before trying to commit a crime, will you?”

SaShiSu, how I love you~ 💔

[phantomposting]

So this prompt is probably gonna be a bit niche and only a very specific group of angst lovers may be into it but i mean I write to itch my brand of brain rot so who cares right?

Alright so I was thinking DP x Dc but what if we have a bit of a Tokyo ghoul esque twist. Danny and Damian are twins of course cause who doesn't love a bit of family drama :3

TW: CANNIBALISM, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, STARVATION, GORE, VOMIT

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

So essentially something goes terribly wrong and Danny can't digest food anymore the only thing he can eat is human flesh like a ghoul. Not sure what triggers it wether it's a lab accident or ghost biological thing is up to the writer

Danny doesn't fully know this when things start going south tho all food makes him violently ill and he essentially starts starving himself due to not knowing what's wrong and what he can stomach. Sam and Tucker try very hard to help him but it's a bit hard to truly tell what's going on until it's too late.

Sam accidentally gets a cut while alone with him. Things are a blur. All Danny knows when he comes too is Sam is dead, and he just tore her apart. Her blood is all over him and his mouth and he's in ghost mode. Someone came to check in the screams and saw him the ghost ripping her flesh from bones. Before he can truly absorb what's happened he runs.

So on the run he has a moment of realization. He feels like he should throw up but he can't. He assesses and doesn't know what to do. He wishes he could die he wishes he could rid the world of such an awful beast and fade but he isn't sure how to even do so. Every effort just heals. So he decides to get as far away from everyone he loves as he can.

He goes to Gotham. Its the best way to hide his ecto signature to keep the others from getting hurt and there's quite literally a constant supply of corpses to keep the ghoulish side fed so that he won't black out and hurt anyone ever again. He just needs to keep moving and keep hidden so the bats don't catch on and nobody gets hurt.

While getting into a routine he tries to figure out how to stop this how to go back to normal. He's slowly losing his mind and all this is messing with his protection based core he's falling apart at the seams.

Meanwhile the bats are horrified by the new developments of what seems to bea cannibal in gotham messing with all their evidence. It's really putting a damper on all their investigations and they need to track this guy down and fast if they want to assure the citizens safety.

Joker also catches onto this cannibal and just so happens to run into the kid. He offers him shelter and a role to play in exchange he gets free food from jokers victims it's a win win really. And what a pleasant way to mess with the bats especially with this kid looking like such adoption bait for the guy.

Needless to say Danny agrees having derailed enough mentally that he figures he might aswell just be the villain at this point. He also obtains the name Ghoul or maybe even Ghoulish Laughter under jokers foot.

One night things all come to a head and there's a big fight between joker and the bats. This showdown is where Damian and Danny run into eachother for the first time. Damian is horrified to see what's become his his brother and Danny is horrified to find that he could hurt his own brother and runs.

Joker is pissed Ghoul doesn't stick around. He's gonna starve that stupid beast for his insolence. Damian is determined to find out all he can and figure out what exactly happened to his brother. Hopefully either help him or stop him from ever hurting anyone else ever again.

Writers choice of how they want things to go down from there and wether or not Danny can be redeemed or saved. There's honestly a whole world of possibilities with this one! :D

[drdemonprince]

all the recent talk about not voting has me a bit worried, for lack of a better word.

on one hand, yes so much yes, stop throwing all your time and energy in the insatiable maw of electoral politics, 5/5, no notes.

but on the other hand, where does that time and energy go then? despite lots of talk about mutual aid it doesn't seem to progress much beyond the abstract (at least in the various leftist groups/communities/etc. in my neck of the woods). it's held up as an ideal and great big important thing, but when there's shit that needs doing, it's *crickets*.

maybe it's because so much mutual aid is care work and thus, and i very much disagree with even though i care not for the label, not real activism i guess? like, a while ago a disabled comrade had ran into housing issues because of their illness, so we rustled up some folks to help clean and unfuck their home. which, yet again, were the same (also disabled) people that always show for those things.

coming of four years and counting of pandemic, that's been a consistent pattern. at a time where mutual aid was so needed, such a vacuum left by a state that didn't and/or wanted to do shit, it still fell on the shoulders of disabled people to do all the actual work while the rest just talked about abstract shit. or, to name another thing, diy hrt initiative where it's just a bunch of poor ass trans people scrounging up money to pay for supplies for trans people who have fuck all access, while the rest debates in the abstract about a more better system or whether it's even something they need to concern themselves about.

and like, yes, not pissing away your energy pleading with assholes who don't give a fuck about you is good, but it should only be the start. it sometimes feels like the big plan is: 1) not vote, 2) ???, 3) glorious anarchism/communism/mutual-aidism. i'm not arguing that they need to have it all worked out, but with so much shit that needs doing in the here and now i get a little worried. because that's going to take real work, not talk, and they're not putting in any of it.

I mean, most people won't do (what gets viewed as) "real activism" either. They don't go to protests, smash windows, call jails to check on the status of incarcerated people, cut supply lines, or anything else. And they don't vote either.

We live in a highly individualistic, atomized society filled with people who have been conditioned into an abiding self-interested apathy, and everyone is overworked and broke as shit and juggling a bunch of disabilities while not having any experience with building genuine community and lacking most of the infrastructural and social tools to do so. The number of people who are avowed leftists is vanishingly small, and among them the people who actually walk the talk or have the education and community ties to even be able to is even smaller. Not disagreeing with your read of the situations you're dealing with here, just putting them within the broader context of many very similar problems that I see touch every single aspect of organizing today. even like the most tepid liberal get out the vote kind of organizing is plagued by this, and of course that is by design.

What gives me hope in the present moment is just how many people are completely fucking done with the prevailing system, and how many are refusing to play along with its rules. A lot of the people who aren't voting are not leftists. At least not yet. Just like many of the people who are quiet quitting and half-assing it at work or just vibing on unemployment for as long as they can are not communists. But they do know that the system is bunk and is failing them, and they are refusing to be compliant within it any longer. I believe that a lot of people's better natures do get inspired during a moment of collapse. I also think there is a profound rot at the heart of settler-colonial states that fills them with people who do not recognize themselves as having any responsibility to others. That's all the more reason for such an empire to fall.

I think you're right to worry for the future, though I don't think the reason to be worried is as simple as people not people caring about disabled folks, or any other group. I always wonder who the mythical abled people are who are abnegating their duty in such an understanding of the world. I sure haven't met any of them. I only meet people who are also disabled and don't realize it.

[comfortless]

syl you can not casually mention blacksmith König and leave it at that!

sighing… ok, yes, i will talk about blacksmith! König more..! ^^

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. violence, physical/emotional abuse, descriptions of injury, death, angst, marriage on the gallows au.

Before König, there was his father, his father’s father and so on. Hardened men who were left to rot on the outskirts of the little village: sharpen blades, birth something from slabs of iron and silver. The work was tedious, but never dull. Scrape, burn, turn and roll- over and over until the smoke rose from the pit to sting at his eyes. Birth by fire wasn’t only in myths of dragons and phoenixes; he witnessed it each time he held pure malice in his hands as his hammer struck. Nothing became something, deadly and cruel. Day and night his life and lungs were filled to brimming with hellfire.

Accidents happen, naturally. No matter how careful he’s been, there’s nothing to keep the flame from entirely taking back after giving so much.

König’s father lost a finger while mentoring him.

His blue eyes were fixed on the man’s callused hand as the freshly smithed blade sliced through the digit like it was little more than a dollop of honey, no blood. There had been nothing but the crack of bone carved cleanly through, then the wet sizzle of meat cooking as it fell into the pit.

His father had screeched like a starved demon then, a barrage of insults tossed his son’s way like little more than passing pleasantries: oaf, useless cur, bitch.

König hadn’t been concerned, he sat on the stone bench looking up at his father and told him so, that he was fine: it had been cauterized, cleansed by the fire.

König lost the same finger that day.

His mother had fallen ill sometime last winter. The last memory he had of her was the look of frailty on her face, how her skin felt so cold and yet she lie dampened with sweat.

The dogs and buzzards had gotten to her grave, but it wasn’t them he felt any of the fire’s malice for.

Just his father.

The villagers didn’t know what became of the blacksmith, but König could recall it every night; how even with his dying breath he had only thought to curse his only son.

So, he wears the hood of the last executioner now, and the people shy away. They don’t like the look of death unless they can participate in it as a divined audience.

The dogs are never hungry, there’s illness all throughout the valley, and sometimes it only shines through in shimmering eyes while the villagers stare and giggle at the next withering soul led to the gallows.

König knows he should be there; like mother and father, his bones should be shared between panting mouths and blood-stained beaks. Sometimes the boars come sniffing too, and he’s always hated them, maybe even more than the birds. They’re ugly and sturdy, squealing and snarling like his father.

The villagers looked at the boars, though, because they were useful. Their eyes were hungry and happy each night the men set out on a hunt, unaware that their sons and daughters lurked in the bellies of the very beasts they starved for.

It’s cold even during the summer months in his shack.

There are blankets, a kitchen, a hearth, but it’s empty. The winter makes its wastelands each coming year, envious of how he can accomplish such with fire instead of ice. He doesn’t need to clean. The ash blackens the wood, cleanses all. One day, maybe, it would scrub him too.

The fire is a womb, but it’s never birthed anything truly alive. Not until her. A wildfire swept the field where travelers had gathered. With their supplies reduced to the very cinders König had come to adore, the surviving members sweep right into this cursed place like it’s a holy temple.

And the fire gave her to him.

König doesn’t know where this woman came to settle from; she isn’t like the other villagers, not even the travelers with their items and skills for selling. There’s still life in her eyes. He watches her as she wanders down the street with a smile on her face, one that speaks of a kindness that not a single one of these people deserves.

She introduces herself to them too, without a title to her name, and all at once any interest fades as the ghosts wander away from her.

His mother used to force him into the church when she was still alive.

She would take him by the hand as he lumbered after her, sticking out amongst the crowd of parishioners who would sing their hymns and stare at him with contempt behind their eyes. He hated going, but he did it for his mother; father was much too busy to spend his time with her and her fantasies. But König learned of angels there, fragile feathered things, all eyes and wings that wouldn’t stand a chance against a blade.

He didn’t think delicate things could be holy until her sweet, gentle smile is cast upon him.

This lady walks right up to him, doesn’t bat an eye at his hood when her lips curl up as she introduces herself. She doesn’t mind the sack of weapons thrown over his shoulder to take to the marketplace— the swords, the daggers, none of it. Her eyes don’t even glance their way; she looks only to him.

Women like this don’t want their homes and beds covered in ash, cinder in place of incense, fire instead of honey. But still she smiles while he says nothing.

König isn’t the only man who’s heart she steals, either.

The village is all gray, smoke and rot except where she walks. Flowers spring up for the coming spring, the deer and foxes are calling out for mates, and it’s all because of her— everyone must know it.

The farmer’s son brings her fresh fruit and whispers into her ear while they pass by his shack on a stroll. The man’s arm curls around her waist so naturally that König can only be reminded of the way that dagger sank between his fathers fingers, tore off a bit of him to feed back to hungry flame. If there were any god above he knew right then that it wouldn’t want him to allow that to happen to her. Not to an angel.

When the rest of the men, dogs and seraphim sleep, König tears the farmer’s boy in two— split down chest to abdomen and left as food for the pigs, right there in the middle of the field.

He doesn’t pray, he hasn’t since the last time he knelt by his mother’s sickbed, but he closes his eyes and breathes out a wish when he leaves that bloodied dagger at her doorstep.

He doesn’t pray, but he weeps when he rallies the villagers to apprehend her. She cries and fusses, face puffy from sleep and hair a mess. There isn’t a speck of blood on her, but the vultures take her anyway. König didn’t want to see her hurt; when her eyes find his, he turns away.

The day of her execution arrives like a festival ceremony. It’s been some time since the last, the scavengers are hungry, so famished he thinks he can almost hear them lick their teeth. There would be no death today, it’s already been decided. In distant places, a single act of devotion is all it takes to save a life, one that the beasts didn’t have the right to take.

The hunger wasn’t always just for death, but for something… a turn and change like steel in fire.

When the angel is taken to her death, rope dangling from her neck like a lead meant for cattle, he steps forward, parting the crowd with an ease. He’s practiced this a time or two in the smoke already, a lonesome and loathing god in the fog. The others scurry from him, looking up at him with pinched brows and bared teeth as if to goad he take her life instead.

Instead, he only catches her eye, smiles and lowers himself on one knee.

[littlejuicebox]

Dancing on my own

Guys I don’t know what this is, it’s just some random angsty drabble that came out inspired by the song “Dancing on My Own” by Robyn (the version by Calum Scott is also nice).

I’m trying to get out of a writing slump so there might be a few more random bits of writing here and there. I’m not sure I even like this tbh lol.

Summary: You and Astarion decided to be just friends after his Moonrise Towers confession. He couldn’t make himself admit to you that he wanted more than that. He knew you deserved better than what he could offer. Now that his quest with Cazador is done, he’s totally lost. He wants you, but you have someone else now; he thinks it’s someone better than him. He’s heartbroken.

Tags/Warnings: PG13, lots of angst, depression, PTSD, low self esteem, depersonalization/derealization, sad Astarion, tbh it’s kinda just a sad bit of drabble

Astarion killed Cazador. You’d think he would’ve been happy… ecstatic, even. But instead he felt exceedingly numb and so, so tired.

It had been nearly a week since then. Astarion had spent most of that time in his room, trancing or simply just lying in the dark. He was exhausted; his limbs felt like lead.

Shadowheart was concerned he had fallen ill and kept checking on him. He would simply grunt to her in response or ignore her line of questioning until she sighed and left.

You came by a few times a day to offer him your wrist; he would drink with a misty-eyed, faraway expression… or sometimes not at all. His hand would linger for a moment on yours, and then he would roll himself the other direction, turning away from you.

It was hard to look at you, to be that close to you, to touch you, to taste you. Blood and sex had been so intertwined in the beginning, it always brought back the memories from before. It made him sick to his stomach.

But his hunger often won, in the end.

How ironic, that the only blood which satisfies his near-insatiable thirst is also the only blood that makes his stomach churn with guilt and disgust at himself.

A double edged sword. Stabbed through his heart.

He should be happy… ecstatic, even. But, by the gods, is he so, so tired. Can a vampire rot into the earth if they stay in one place for too long?

Perhaps. Perhaps he should get up and move, if only to avoid rotting away.

Astarion manages to take a short bath and pull himself together… somewhat. It’s hard to move when your limbs feel like lead. His shirt is wrinkled, and his hair feels like it’s not quite in place, but it will have to do.

The pale elf slinks down to the tavern, where the evening crowd is teetering the hazy line between buzzed and drunk. He’s not in much of a mood for talking to others, so he sits in a corner booth, hoping the natural shadows and his brooding demeanor will deter any visitors. For a few moments he feels normal… or at least acts it. But then he sees you. And Halsin.

Halsin has his arms coiled around you as he absolutely ravages your lips. His thick hands are gripping your body; one hand on your waist, one on your neck. It’s an exceptional amount of PDA; he would vomit, if he had anything left in his stomach from the only small sip he’d taken from you this morning. The hand the druid tenderly placed on your neck is covering the scars Astarion had marked on you from the times before, back when you’d been his. Had you been his? Back before—

“I had a plan. A nice, simple plan…”

“Maybe what you need is a friend, not a lover.”

Astarion had hurt you. He’d hurt you. The look that crossed your face as he confessed is etched into his mind for all eternity; it’s the first thing he sees when he wakes from a trance and the last thing he sees before he slips into one. He’ll never forget the tears that welled in your eyes, which you’d rapidly blinked away. And then you thanked him… thanked him for telling you, for being truthful. Thanked him for hurting you.

He should have lied. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have chose differently from the start.

He knew what he did was terrible; you deserved something more, something real. He just couldn’t be that. He didn’t know how to be… real.

Hells, was he even real now? Was any of this real?

He felt like a shell. Hollow. Empty. It all felt like a sick, strange dream that he couldn’t wake from. All that time he spent running, and now he no longer had to… but who was he, if not a runner?

He’d run from Cazador. Run from you. Run from the concept of true intimacy, which you had so willingly offered.

But now? Now he wanted nothing more than to run to you. He wanted to run into your arms and be held by you, comforted by you. But there you were in the arms of someone who was able to give you what you deserved.

Who was he to get in the way of that? He was nothing. He was no one.

“Good to see you out of bed.”

The vampire rips his eyes away from you and Halsin, where the two of you seem oblivious to the world and stuck in a heated embrace.

Shadowheart is standing next to the booth; her eyes had followed his, and she’d been watching the same passionate makeout scene with mild interest.

She flicks her gaze back to Astarion with a knowing look, and a soft, sad smile crosses her face. The cleric extends her hand out to him, “Come on, Astarion. One dance and then I will let you slink back into this corner to sulk for the rest of the night, if you wish.”

He sighs and considers the offer. He doesn’t want to move, but he can’t keep picking different places to stay and rot. And he can’t keep watching you two. His limbs still feel like lead.

“Very well.” He murmurs, and he takes Shadowheart’s hand.

They dance. It’s a platonic sort of jig, mostly spinning around at arms length with one another. For a moment, Astarion feels a brief glimmer of happiness. He chuckles and smiles; his limbs don’t feel like lead. And then the tune ends, and he’s wandering back to the booth with Shadowheart, and that sinking feeling begins to grow in his chest once more.

“You should talk to them, you know, Astarion. Let them know how you feel. They may choose differently… if you make your true desires known. You did tell them you wanted to be friends, after all.” The cleric murmurs, with another sad little smile. Her eyes contain pity; he hates that.

He’s watching you and Halsin again, where you two are staring contentedly at one another, chatting away. You’re lost in your own little impenetrable bubble. You don’t even see him or notice him at all.

He’s nothing. He’s no one.

Astarion looks so dejected; normally he would be better at putting on his mask. But he’s so tired. He should be happy. But he’s exhausted.

“Maybe I should. But Tav looks happy… I can’t bring myself to ruin that. Selfish as I am, I do care about them, you know.”

Shadowheart nods and sighs. She knows something, he can tell by the look on her face. She wants to say more but decides against it. A small pat on the vampire’s hand and she murmurs, “Good night, Astarion. I hope to see you down here in the morning.”

Then she’s gone, heading upstairs to her room. And he’s alone again.

Astarion watches you two for a bit longer, even though every second he witnesses causes another crack in his fragile heart. Then his eyes return to the dance floor and he sighs before forcing himself out of the booth again. His limbs feel like lead, but he has to start somewhere.

For now, he’ll have to keep dancing on his own.

[blossomwritesthings]

Hii one I loved your recent Minho sickfic, I was wondering if you could write one the other way around but with Felix where he’s sick, (maybe he has a migraine) and the reader takes care of him. 🙁❤️❓

𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬

pairing: felix x fem!reader (afab)

genre: sick!fic. idol!felix. hurt/comfort. angst. fluff. reader pov. established relationship.

content & warnings: explicit & strong language. mild thematic elements. a lot of angst. felix is sick (with a migraine). reader is soft and caring for him. felix kinda has low self-esteem/doubts about his worth. slight possessive behavior from y/n (in a soft way!!). pet names (affectionately). reader praises felix a ton. toothe-rotting cuteness.

word count: 3.9k

summary: when your boyfriend felix unexpectedly falls ill with a bad migraine, you automatically throw yourself into the caretaker role. but maybe he needs more than just some pills to relieve the pain... maybe, all the medicine he really needs is you.

a/n: this was a fun request to write because having personally suffered from debilitating migraines since i was a little girl, i enjoyed exploring what this could look like for felix, while also incorporating my own experiences with these kinds of symptoms into the fic. lix is so beautiful and I just want to wrap my arms around him and give him a nice, long hug. 🥹💖 NO ONE touch me rn- i'm in my soft felix hours!!! 😭 hope you like this, anon... thanks for requesting! :))

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ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛ ᴛ�� ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ sɪᴛᴇs (ᴛʜɪs ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs). © ʙʟᴏssᴏᴍᴡʀɪᴛᴇsᴛʜɪɴɢs ⤐ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ

 You automatically knew something was wrong the moment you stepped into a dark apartment. As the front door slammed behind you, you fumbled to find the nearby light switch before turning it on, throwing the nearby kitchen-dining room into a flood of warm light. 

 Because although this was the time when you usually arrived home from work to find your boyfriend, Felix, sprawled out across the living room couch relaxing and playing his favourite video games on the large tv, the space was devoid of any life. 

 Strange. 

 With a glance at the clock inlaid within the stovetop, it read just a little past ten in the evening. Surely, he must not have been home, otherwise, at least a few lights would be switched on in the apartment. He was probably still at the company, working his ass off in practice or doing vocals lessons. Typical Lee Felix. 

A content sigh fled from your lips as you placed your bag down atop the kitchen counter, your shoulder feeling instant relief from the absence. You closed your eyes for a few moments, basking in the utter silence of the apartment before you made your way into the only bedroom just off to the left. Your shared place with your boyfriend wasn’t very spacious, but it was affordable, and it was your own, and that’s all that mattered. 

 Upon entering the pitch-black bedroom, you let out a low grumble to yourself, “We should just keep on a damn nightlight for when we’re away,” you stumbled about in the darkness before you came in contact with your nightstand and switched on the light. 

 And as soon as the room erupted in brightness, you noticed the figure curled up on the bed. For a moment, your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach. Stopping there, and slowing for a few seconds. Because… had someone broken into your place? A fan, perhaps? Or… a stalker? 

But then, almost immediately after those terrifying thoughts crossed your mind, you recognized the small body. 

 You recognized it all too well. 

 Without even thinking about your next actions, you were flying across the small bedroom. Bending down towards the crumpled form, your gaze came in contact with glassy, dark brown eyes. 

 “Felix- what are you-” You began in disbelief, completely taken aback by his presence. 

 But then he was wincing in pain, closing his eyes again, plush bottom lip quivering just a little bit. “T-The light… can you please turn it off?” His voice was gravelly and low like it hadn’t been used in a while. 

 You didn’t even have to ask why, because you already knew the answer to his odd request. 

  A migraine. 

 And if he was asking for the lights to be off, it must’ve been pretty bad. 

So after you were finished switching off the lamp on your nightstand, you made for the large bay window that was on the other side of the room. You slowly pulled open the curtains until just a sliver of light was filtering through the black-out fabric. After all, you still had to see. 

 Then you were flitting over to Felix again, positioning yourself on the edge of the bed, tilting into him. You reached up to his head and carded a few fingers through his sandy-blonde hair gently. “How long have you had it?” You asked, making sure to keep your voice quiet. His having a migraine wasn’t a new thing. He was highly susceptibly to head pain, and would regularly get headaches throughout the month. But the migraines were always the worst of it all. And with the light sensitivity? That wasn’t a good sign… 

“Woke up with it,” he said in a soft voice. Just then, he cracked his eyes open weakly, his gaze locking with yours. The furrow between his brows and the slight tinge of pink on his cheeks told you all you needed to know about the discomfort he was in. 

 “Which number is this one?” Your fingers took to massaging his scalp in languid increments, watching the way his face scrunched up in apparent relief. 

 “Sixth this month.” 

 “Wow-” You began, your heart throbbing for him. You hated seeing your loving boyfriend in so much pain. And it had already happened six times that month. “What do you think it’s from?” 

 “Stress, probably… that’s what Chan said, anyway.” 

 “What are you so stressed about?” You prodded him, pushing a few of his light strands from out of his eyesight. 

 He groaned and pushed his face into his pillow. “What am I not stressed about?” His voice was muffled against the downy feathers, but you still heard it nonetheless. “It’s… everything, and yet nothing, all at the same time.” 

 “Lix…” You began, voice hesitant, sending a hush across the bedroom. Your fingers stopped their movement in his hairline, your eyes racking over his form. He was clad in his favourite oversized dark blue graphic t-shirt that had a scene from a cartoon that he had grown up watching in Australia. Loose black sweatpants fit snugly around his waist, and he was halfway wrapped up in your bed’s thick duvet comforter. “I’m worried about you…” You trailed off as he moved his head away from his pillow. 

 Biting down hard on his bottom lip, his eyes took on a certain pleading kind of light. “Please… don’t stop.” He all but whispered, motioning towards your fingers that were resting gently atop his head. And the pitiful look on his face just then, the way his voice cracked just a little bit from his misery, forced your chest to squeeze with hurt. 

 “This isn’t healthy for you, baby,” you started up again on the massaging, eliciting a low moan of relief to fall from your boyfriend’s lips. “You need to take a break, yeah?” 

 “How can I possibly do that when everyone is depending on me?” He chuckled in a dry, humorless kind of way. “Besides, this won’t be forever. I’m just getting them a ton because we’re preparing for the new repack and it’s hell at the company right now.” 

 “Still…” Your voice trailed off, as your fingers fled from his hair and swept over one of his temples. His eyelids fluttered at the delicate press of your digits against his heated skin, and a pleased smile spread across your lips. At least you knew how to help him in moments like these. “I just hate to see you feeling so shitty, you know? Want my baby to be healthy all of the time.” 

 At your words, Felix turned from his side so that his back was flush against the mattress. His hair was mussed from sleep and your fingers running through it, his freckled cheeks dusted in light pink from your words. “Damn, have I ever told you how much I love you?” 

 You took a finger and playfully poked at his side, “Yeah, but it wouldn’t hurt for you to tell me again…” You wiggled your eyebrows in a taunting kind of way. 

 And the last thing you saw was his sly grin before he was pulling you towards him. In an instant, he had his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you tight to his warm, comfy body and peppering your face with dozens of light kisses. “Love you… so much, angel.” He mumbled against your skin, pecking each of your cheeks. “Love the way you take care of me, hmm?” 

 You chuckled at that, pressing your mouth against his in a loving, serene kiss. “And I love you too,” you started, before positioning yourself away from him and his searching mouth. “Which is why I wanna take care of you tonight. Will you let me, baby boy?” 

 He tilted in just then and pushed a fervent kiss against your lips once more. “Only if you’ll let me do the same next time you’re feeling shitty.” He rose a dark, perfectly-manicured eyebrow your way. And you knew, at that moment, he wasn’t going to budge. Everything with him was reciprocal. If you helped him in any way, loved him in any form, he felt obligated to return it - usually tenfold. 

 So you merely nodded your head in agreement, “Fine, I’ll allow you to help me next time I’m down and out.” You blew a few raspberry kisses against his cheeks, making him huff out a deep-throated laugh. Then you were separating yourself from him completely. “Now, onto the real business of things… have you eaten anything all day?” 

 It was a common occurrence for him to skip all meals entirely when he had a bad migraine, so it was no surprise to you when the look on his face turned slightly meek.“I just had a light breakfast so that I could take my medicine, but it’s definitely worn off by now, so I need to take some more” 

 Standing up from the bed in one fluid motion, you rested your hands against your hips in determination. “Then it’s set- I’ll make you dinner.” 

 He peered up at you through his wispy blonde fringe, “B-But you just got home from work and-”

 You quickly held a finger up to your lips to silence any of his protests. “Ah- remember what you promised me, baby? That you’d let me take care of you tonight?” You sent him a glare, yet there was not a threat to be had in it. 

 A tiny smirk cracked across his lips, “Yeah, yeah- I remember…” He rolled his eyes at you, before snuggling further down into the bed. He was a literal blanket burrito- covered in sheets and the thick duvet coverlet. 

 “Anything you’d like in particular?” 

 “Nah- I love everything you cook.” 

 You tossed him a laugh as you headed for the closed bedroom door, “Ha- tell that to Minho… who’s apparently, the local sous chef around these parts.” 

 As you filtered out of the bedroom, you heard your boyfriend’s laugh follow behind you. At least your presence could take his mind off of the pain. He always said it did. He told you on multiple occasions how having you around him in times like these helped to alleviate some of the discomfort in his head. How, you were like a cooling salve to the throbbing in his temples, always there to support him and give him love when he needed it the most. 

 That night, you awoke to the feeling of shifting on Felix’s side of the bed. Gradually peeling your eyes open and turning your head on your pillow, you caught a glimpse of your boyfriend in the dim lighting of the bedroom. He was sitting up, spine curved, shoulders drawn low, desperately holding his head in his hands. 

 “Baby? What’s wrong?” You asked, concern dripping into your tone as sleep immediately left you. The sight of his slouched form made your heart race because you despised seeing him in such a poor state. 

 “Nauseous.” Is all he could manage to garble out, voice cracking with anguish.

 You chewed on your lip anxiously, pushing yourself up from your pillow and nearing him. You grabbed Felix’s hand, languidly threading your fingers together with his and squeezing gently. “What do you need from me, babe?” You whispered, drawing small patterns against his warm palm with one of your thumbs. 

 A shudder ran through the length of him, as he clutched at his sandy-blonde roots in bated silence, “N-Nothing helps at this point…” he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head ever so slowly. 

 “Do you want me to rub your head like earlier?” One of your hands traveled up his spine, stopping just at the nape of his neck. You began to massage circles into his scalp. “Will that help you feel better, Lix?” 

 Then unexpectedly, he was grabbing ahold of your hand in one swift movement. Your eyes widened in surprise at the frantic look in his eyes just then, as they stared back at you in utter distress. “P-Please, don’t touch my head… just makes me feel worse.” 

 You pulled him towards you, enveloping him in a loose hug. He practically melted in your embrace, his muscles softening at your touch. His entire body was so warm - it always was, like he was your very own heated teddy bear - and you wrapped your arms around his waist, squeezing lightly. “Okay, baby. Whatever you need, I’m here for you, okay?” Your lips found his face in the darkness, and you pressed delicate kisses against his skin. When your mouths collided, you kissed him with all of the gentlenesses in the world, and for a few beats, he returned the kisses. 

 After heavy silence had washed over the bedroom, casting everything in a delicate, forlorn kind of aura, you pulled away from him to catch your breath. And even in the darkness of the room, you could see the hint of pink dusted across your boyfriend’s cheeks. “L-Love the way you kiss me, angel,” he whispered, leaning into you to press another tentative kiss against your lips.

 “I’ve always adored your beautiful mouth,” you replied, a tiny smile cracking across your lips when you pulled apart for air once more. You reached up to him then, tracing a finger around the line of his mouth. “So pretty for only me.” Your hand moved away then, as you cupped one of his warm cheeks with your palm, and he instantly eased into your touch. He had told you in the past how your kisses always made him feel a little better. At the height of his agonizing migraines, he said your lips were like a healing cure for him. 

 And for a few moments, it felt like the potion had worked. A small, content smile adorned your boyfriend’s face, and the perpetual furrow in his brow loosened. His eyes brightened just a little bit at your compliment - at your praises - because he always loved when you said quiet, loving words to him. 

 But then, everything fell apart again- 

 You watched in suddenly tense silence, as his entire body nearly doubled over in pain, spine going completely rigid, ears flushing red, bottom lip trembling. 

 Then came the glossy eyes. You recognized them instantly, for it was an absolute sign of what was to come. 

 In a flash of limbs, he was throwing off the duvet coverlet that he had been wrapped up in, racing to the bathroom with you right on his tail. 

 He threw the toilet seat open just in time as he inclined over the basin, emptying the little contents that were left in his stomach. You hadn’t made him a big dinner - it had only consisted of some scrambled eggs and a small bowl of mixed berries. But even still, it was enough to make him nauseous. 

 “Let it all out, baby,” you encouraged. You were at his side throughout it all, rubbing his back gently as Felix retched up everything he could muster, his stomach spasming with the effort. “It’s gonna be okay…” It fucking hurt you so much to see him in such a condition. You despised seeing the love of your life - your other half - suffering so much. 

 It seemed like it lasted forever, but finally- he pushed away from the basin with a deep groan. You quickly leaned over him and ripped up some toilet paper for him to wipe his mouth with. 

 And when you handed it to him, you quickly realized that his eyes were misty, tears running down either of his cheeks, leaving wet tracks behind on his smoothe skin. The sight of your loving boyfriend breaking down irrevocably caused your heart to crack open into two ugly pieces, and you once again wrung your arms around his hips, bringing him into your chest and giving him a tight hug. You two sunk to the cold tiled bathroom floor, close to the toilet. 

 “I-I’m sorry, angel,” he hiccuped in between his sobs. He buried his face into the crook of your shoulder like he was ashamed of what had just happened. 

 “Don’t apologize, Felix.” You said, trying to put some sternness in your voice. Because why in the world did he have to apologize to you? You were his girlfriend, for fucks sake- taking care of him when he felt shitty was the most basic of things for you to do. “You have nothing to be sorry about.” 

 “Y-Yeah, but you’re always taking care of me… it’s a burden on your shoulders that you didn’t sign up for.” He practically wailed, his tears leaving wet stains against your pajama shirt. 

 “I want to take care of you, baby. I fucking love you, and I care about you. And don’t ever say that you’re a burden to me because you’re not.” You tried not to raise your voice in that tender moment, but his words just fueled the deep fire that was always simultaneously burning inside of you. 

 Because he had said such things before, in the past, when the mean and abusive comments online had gotten to him. When it seemed like everyone thought he was a burden, so he had just assumed that he was one to you as well. But in reality, that was the farthest thing from the truth. He wasn’t a burden to anyone; he was the light to so many people’s lives, but especially to yours. He brightened up your day with just his smile alone, and the way that he loved you - wholly and irrevocably - was such an exquisite thing. 

 “You really m-mean that?” His voice splintered at the end of his words, as he hugged you a little tighter, nestling his head into your warmth. 

 “Of course I fucking mean it, Lix,” you began, smoothing down his hair with a palm. “You’re the light of my world- the reason my life is so complete. And I’ll do anything for you.” At that, you were pulling him away from your chest. 

 The tip of his nose was pink and his eyes were bloodshot from the tears. And with one look into his shiny, deep brown eyes, which were dancing with so many different emotions, your heart broke just a little bit more in the pit of your chest. With gentle fingers, your thumbs wiped away his excess tears. At least the crying had stopped. 

 “Please don’t cry, baby,” you whispered to him, desperation dripping into your tone. “I hate to see you cry, Lixie.” You used the nickname that he always liked coming from you, and watched in silence, as it brightened his face just a little bit. 

 “O-Okay,” he nodded his head slowly, hand finding yours and squeezing your fingers there. “I’ll try… and, I don’t want to feel this way anymore, so I’m going to do everything in my power to not get so stressed out.”

 “That’s my good boy,” you laughed softly, reaching up to his head and gently ruffling his hair playfully. Your eyes flitted down to his face, which was shaded a crimson red from your words. You always loved to rile him up, even in the direst of moments. Seeing him blush so furiously did something wonderful to your ego. His blushes were always so... adorable. “How do you feel now?” 

 “A little better… I think that helped,” he canted his head to the porcelain toilet that was just beside the two of you, not wanting to even spell out the words to what had just happened. 

 “See, baby? I told you that you’d feel better,” you gave his shoulder a nudge, offering him a tiny smile. “Now, do you wanna brush your teeth, and then we can get back into bed?” 

 His eyes pulled away from the toilet and locked with yours, and thankfully- a little bit of that Lee Felix sparkle was back in them. Shining in his eyes, although dully. But at least it was there, even if it was a small amount. “Yeah… I’d like that very much.” 

 And with that, you took both of his hands and helped to hoist him up from the hard-tiled floor that the two of you had been sitting on for the last few minutes. You gently brushed his sandy-blonde hair out of his face as he worked at the sink, and when he was done, led him out of the bathroom and back to bed. 

 Leaning down into him, you tucked your boyfriend into bed, fitting the thick white duvet around his small frame. ��Are you comfy?” You asked, as you bent forwards and pressed a kiss against his exposed forehead. 

 “No, not until I’m holding onto you,” he said in that deep voice of his, a sardonic smirk widening across his lips. Then, his hands were winding around your forearms, and you were yanked towards him. 

 You landed on top of his chest with a huff, sending a mirthful glare up his way. “I can hardly imagine that this is going to relieve your migraine.” Nevertheless, his arms wrapped around your waist, pressing your bodies close together. 

 “You must highly doubt the power that your cuddling abilities have over me,” he laughed, and at that moment, it felt like it was the first time that he had done so in ages. Gone was the bleary-eyed shaking Felix from before, in the bathroom. That man had been replaced with your Lix… all bright smiles and tinkling laughter making your chest pound with love. 

 “So I guess we’re just gonna fall asleep this way, then?” You rose an eyebrow his way, earning a dark chuckle from your boyfriend. 

 “Only if you want to.” 

 “Oh, I fully intend to lay here until I am physically forced to move. However, I’m just wondering if you’re up for that challenge.” 

 “Are you fucking kidding me, angel?” He tilted up to you then, pressing a fervent kiss against your lips. “If I could be joined to your hip for the rest of my life, I think I’d take up the offer.” 

 A wide smile broke across your face. “It’s settled then, I’ll be staying right here for the foreseeable future.” You said, pressing a light peck against the warm skin of one of his cheeks. 

 Just then, the both of you erupted into a fit of giggles, as Felix squeezed his arms around you tight, and you gave him slobbery kisses on his nose and forehead. 

 And all at once, the pain and heartache and suffering were forgotten, as the air around the two of you danced with love and happiness. Pure adoration glittered in Felix’s eyes, shining across his face in a wide grin. And you were almost positive that your face was mimicking his expression- which was made clear by the warmth that bloomed across your cheeks at his arms squeezing your waist tightly, and how your soul fluttered just a little bit at the way his perfect mouth kissed you again and again.

 Because he wasn’t a burden. 

 He never had been one, and he never was going to be one. 

 Lee Felix was perfect just the way he was; small frame, fragile spirit, migraines and all. 

 All of it was utterly perfect. 

 He was like an ethereal little pixie, all rainbows and sparkles and butterflies, and everything pretty and warm and bright in the world. 

 And the best part of it all? 

 Was that he was all yours. 

 And you weren’t planning on sharing all of him with the rest of the world - you were only going to allow the outer-most parts of him for everyone else to see and cherish. 

 But the most-beautiful bits of his spirit? 

 Of his soul?

 The tender moments, the sweet kisses, the serene smiles, the silky words? 

 Yeah, you were going to keep those locked away nice and tight inside your heart, so that only you had access to the innermost parts of Lee Felix. 

 Fin. 

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© ʙʟᴏssᴏᴍᴡʀɪᴛᴇsᴛʜɪɴɢs ⤐ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ

[ashs-cardboard-box]

Undead Nightmare 2

~ Van Der Linde gang/Male!Reader

~ Platonic

~ 4k words

CW: Gore and disturbing imagery

I'm back !!!! I hope you enjoy :33 I have a few WIP fics I'm working on, along with the long awaited requests. I'm thinking abt making this a "series" of sorts (I <3 Undead Nightmare)

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In the ripe year of 1899, it was as if a new plague had just infected the entire nation– who knew how Nuevo Paraíso was doing. No one knew how it came about. One day, everything was completely fine. The sun rose and fell all the same. The people going about their normal lives without a care in the world. The next, everyone had some sort of illness, it seemed. The animals grew emaciated, more dead than alive, making it hard to find living food. Odd phenomena showed up, like THE walking sasquatch. Due to the rumors that they ate babies, you made sure to put them down before they could.

The dead were rising out of their graves, you were sure you saw your mama come back, right before she took another bullet to the back of her skull. People were killing one another left and right, fighting for their lives.

Dutch had kept everyone on their toes more than usual. Hardly even unpacking before trying to move to another camp. Everyone was scared shitless, as well as confused and partly upset. Surely, it was just mass hysteria. That was what you would assume, if you hadn’t just killed another walking corpse hobbling through the trees at the smell of human flesh.

“Well, what the hell’s wrong with ‘em?” You hear Dutch press gruffly, earning a confused sputter from the undoubtedly inebriated Reverend. Your eyes flick around the trees along the edge of camp warily, trying to find more of those undead freaks. Unable to find any, you shuffle a bit more inward to the center of camp, one rifle in hand, the other on your back.

“I thought you were supposed to be a priest.” Micah remarks sarcastically, as if he had any ground to stand on for morality’s sake, you roll your eyes. You weren’t too sure how it happened, you saw them die right after the Blackwater heist had failed.

Yet, here they were, young Jenny, Mac, and Davey. All tied together in the middle of camp, growling and hissing as Swanson attempts to anoint them with a flask, flicking whatever liquid happens to be inside that thing, but it’s definitely not Holy water.

“Damn, they stink..” Lenny grimaces. His eyes flick over to you as you approach the group before they return to the undead trio. “No better than you or the O’Driscoll.” Bill adds. Normally, it was a comment that would’ve gotten a chuckle, at the expense of the boy, Kieran, you learned, with whom had been practically kidnapped back in Colter.

Everyone was up to their ears in stress, really. The Pinkertons were less of a concern than the rotting bodies that piled in the streets. Add that to the list of trying to keep twenty people alive. It was pretty unanimously decided to send the women and Jack away, board them up someplace with one of the men to protect them. John just so happened to be that man..until he rotates responsibility to someone new, that is.

The gang was tighter than you’d ever seen before, despite joining not too long after Charles had. Trying to protect each other from the horrors that had become society. “Maybe we should just kill them. Get it over with.” Javier suggests, earning a side-eye from Dutch. “He’s right, Dutch. Keeping ‘em here won’t do any of us any good. They’ll only bring a horde.”

“No.” Dutch responds flatly, now outright glaring at you. “We need to stay loyal. Respect our brothers, and dear Jenny, who have fallen before us. If we merely slaughter them..like animals.. We would be no better than they themselves. Savages. Beasts. Faith, and a little redemption, is all they need, son.” You didn’t see Dutch’s point. Not in the slightest. But you didn’t push the issue, knowing chaos was unnecessary during the end of the world as you knew it.

Shuffling off, you spot Hosea sitting on a short stump, staring blankly at the crowd hovering over the trio of undead. “Any ideas?” you inquire, to which he shakes his head with a dissatisfied hum. “It just don’t make sense, Y/N. They aren’t supposed to… y’know.”

You nod as you kneel down next to him, feeling the pressure get taken off your aching feet and back, down onto your knees as they nestle into the grass. Resting one of your firearms on the ground next to you, the other remaining strapped to your back. Despite all the chaos amok, nature still felt the same as it was. You wondered if the trees would remember, only to be pulled out of your thoughts with a sigh from Hosea.

“I sent Sean out with Arthur to find information. Hunt down the nearest school or something..” He mutters, causing you to quirk an eyebrow in confusion. “Arthur and..Sean..? You know he can’t–” You start. “I know.” Hosea cuts in, his eyes flicking away from the crowd to look down at you instead. “Sean can’t read. But, Arthur is the best gun we have, even if he isn’t the most literate. Keeping Sean around camp is a death wish to us all. Like a hyena in a lion’s den.” He explains calmly, earning another curt nod from you. That was the best way to describe ol’ Sean MacGuire. A hyena.

“What’d you want me to do?” You ask, feeling a bit useless just standing around and pondering what to do with Jenny, Mac, and Davey. Hosea hums, reaching into the pocket on his vest and pulling out an old pocket watch. “Maybe you should check on the women with John.. Bring ‘em some food. Find game for Pearson while you’re at it.” He suggests, putting the watch back into its designated pocket.

The thought of leaving camp made you uneasy, but it had to be done. Pushing yourself to stand, you pick up your rifle. Silently dismissing yourself from camp, just as anyone had done before any of this started, you make your way over to the hitch rails and to your horse.

It whinnies as you approach, only growing more wary with the apocalypse, a sentiment you could understand. Holding your hand out in a placating gesture, a small ‘shh’ leaving your lips. The palm of your hand comes to rest on its nose, while the other moves to unwrap the reins from around the rotting wooden rail.

Just as you adjust to step up into the stirrup, you hear someone calling your name from behind you. Turning around quicker than you meant, you spot Charles approaching, Taima in tow. “You need help?” He asks. While you wouldn’t admit it, it’d be nice to have him around. Especially for Hosea’s request of finding game for Pearson, you were a lousy hunter. Ironically better at killing humans than animals. Maybe that was just empathy’s game.

“Sure.” You muse, pushing yourself to mount your horse, swinging your leg up and over the saddle and taking a seat. Slipping one of your rifles into the carbine scabbard on your saddle, the other remaining strapped to your back, not even daring to come down. You need to be ready at all costs, especially with such limited ammunition being passed around. Gunsmiths all got raided God knows when. “‘sea asked me to switch with John, check up on the women ‘n Jack. Bring ‘em a bit of food and bring game back to camp for Pearson.”

Charles merely gives a small hum in acknowledgement, silently mounting Taima alongside you before gently pushing his heels into her flanks, with you to follow suit, allowing Charles to lead you out of camp.

“How you feel ‘bout all this?” You ask, but it’s a bit of a stupid question. Of course Charles wouldn’t feel good about it. No one in their right mind would. “Terrible.” He replies monotonously without missing a beat. “Just feels cruel, I guess.”

“You wonder if they’re suffering?” You inquire. A quick snap of the reins and a small click of your tongue causes your horse to speed up with a small huff. You keep your eyes focused on surrounding land. Watching for both predators, live prey, and those damn freaks.

“Maybe.. But- I’m not them. Ain’t too sure.” Charles sighs, doing the same to be riding alongside you, just heading East and staying away from the streets. Who knew what kind of monstrosities could lie in the cities. You didn’t even want to imagine what Saint Denis was like or how bad it smelled..worse than usual.

It was simple idle conversation, which often happened out on the longer rides, but it made it that much easier to bear. Sometimes sitting for hours at a time, riding down from Annesburg, to Saint Denis, to the middle-of-nowhere New Hanover and back to camp..all in time to make it back for Pearson’s stew in the evening.

Yet, even so, the rides were often longer than you’d like. This one in particular just felt agonizingly slow. It was one of the only times you’d left camp since this whole debacle began and you hated it. Instead of being on edge for lawmen or rival gangs, you were on edge for the growling mob of the undead. Some were slow, some ran after you like their asses were on fire. Some were dumb and brutish, while others spat acidic bile. Truly terrible. Though, the plus side is that they made noise, unlike Pinkertons.

Currently making your way across the tracks separating New Hanover and the East Grizzlies, Ambarino. Out towards a little known cabin Arthur has dubbed ‘Martha’s Swain’. When he first showed it to you, in a desperate attempt for the gang to find some place to hide the women and little Jack, there was one of those rat bastard walking corpses inside. Though, you had little time to assume if she was Martha before she was shot in the face by Arthur. After burying her outside, the cabin was deemed safe and hidden.

As you and Charles approached the cabin, after a damn too long ride, the silence in the air was concerning. Normally, that would be a good thing. Finally a moment to stretch your legs and relax. But now, that was the last thing you wanted. It was suspicious. Charles gives you a side eye with a small nod, pulling his bow out from around his torso and carefully dismounting.

Not wanting to make a ruckus, nor waste ammo, you leave your longarm in its scabbard on your saddle. Instead, unsheathing your knife and hopping down onto the grass with a small huff, your rifle weighing heavy on your back.

You silently follow after Charles, the pair of you half crouch-walking to avoid being seen by anything in the probable vicinity. Your eyes blown wide with caution and your heart racing in your chest, you’re sure your ears are ringing. Rapidly scanning your surroundings as you approach the cabin door. No sign of any threats yet..except for a bear. Your mind flashes with a split image of getting mauled by it, only to shudder instinctively.

Turning your head back to the door as you hear it creak open. Your grip on your knife tightening as Charles pushes it open, bow drawn. The two of you don’t share a word as you follow Charles inside.

To your horror, there’s one of those undead freaks trapped inside the cabin, feasting on someone. A short gasp leaves your lips in surprise, causing it to raise its head just enough from the body, allowing Charles to let go of his bow string, sending an arrow through its deflated, maggot ridden, left eye. Due to the force, the zombie is knocked backwards, dead once again.

“Where the hell is everyone?” Charles asks gruffly, to which you shake your head in uncertainty, already making your way over to the body. You’ve seen a lot of fucked up things in your life, but this takes the cake. The poor sod was still breathing…barely. His blood seeped into the cracks of the cabin, his eyes were wide with terror.

“Help- ..me…” He chokes, and you wish there was something you could do. Several bite marks and infected scratches cover the man’s body, already flushing the skin an unsightly gray-blue, slowly clawing up the man’s insides as the infection travels through his blood stream, though his pulse is slow. Skin was missing from the man’s body, his abdomen punctured and organs ruptured, leaking blood, pus, bile, and, undoubtedly, his bowel contents all over his clothes and the floor underneath. It’s sad– revolting… but every man for himself.

You felt a hint of guilt, sure. Raising your knife above your head with both hands before plunging it down into the middle of the man’s dirty forehead. You can feel bile climbing your throat, forcing you to swallow to hold it back down. It wasn’t like anything you’d ever seen before; the man’s skull just split in half like a goddamn onion. Brain matter leaking out of the bowl-shaped-skull, barely getting snagged on the optic nerve before it paints your boots. But, at the end of the day, your conscience was eased. He was put out of his misery, and there’s less of the undead crawling around.

“Gross..” You mutter, your lip curling in disgust as you stand back up. Wiping off the flat of your knife onto your denim clad jeans. Your eyes linger on the man, a sick image burned into your retinas. But, upon further inspection, the man is wearing a green vest, hardly able to be seen underneath the blood. Torn up by the undead’s mangy claws.

“O’Driscoll.” You point out to Charles with a gesturing nod of your head. Charles, uninterested with the scene, steps past you and further into the cabin, searching for where John had taken the women and young Jack.

“Maybe he had something to do with it.” You mutter, sheathing your knife, heading into the opposite side of the cabin to do the same. “Maybe.” He muses flatly, rifling through the many different belongings atop Martha’s rotting wood table. Accidentally toppling over a vase, swiftly picking it up before it could create noise.

Turning the knob of one of the back doors, you use your shoulder to push it open, finding a nearly empty bedroom as well. Nothing of value to be taken. But, abandoning that thought, you move into the room. Your boots squelching against the unknown substance covering the floor. Pushing forward, you make your way to an end table. By the looks of it, it’s already been robbed. You could only guess it was the gang’s doing. Regardless, you pull open the drawer in search for a letter or a sign. Nothing.

Not bothering to close the drawer, you shift to check the mattress. Patting around the edges, feeling for a ripped seam, the wood slats inside creak in agony as a protest to the movements. You could only imagine how old they were. To your shock, you find a hidden letter inside one of the cracks. Internally groaning, you slip your hand inside the mattress, pulling it out, along with whatever insides the mattress had to spare.

Slipping the letter into your other hand, you shake your hand free of the yellow dust that coats it. “Dear Mr. Kilgore–” it starts, but you don’t get much further. Hearing a “you find anything?” from Charles in the other room.

“Yeah!” You call back, walking back through the door, your eyes briefly scanning over the letter. Charles rushes up to you, faster than he meant to. “What’s it say?” He inquires. “From the gang.” you mutter quietly, flipping the page over to check the back of it before turning it over again to read aloud.

“Dear, Mr. Kilgore. Your grand-nieces have just been lovely, it’s truly an honor to have met them. I appreciate you letting us borrow your cabin for the weekend, but I regret to inform you that we must be headed off now. There’s no shortage of adventures to find in the great state of New Hanover. I hear Flat Iron Lake is just lovely this time of year, lots of good fish to eat! Especially from that lovely dock you mentioned that is oh, so near Flatneck Station.

I do hope you would grace us with your presence once more, but we understand if it would be a burden to request such a thing so soon after your return home from France. Do wish your brothers the best from us, will you? Good health is always important to us, you know. Yours truly, Mr. and Mrs. Van Winkle.”

With a small click of your tongue, you hand off the letter to Charles, who accepts it without missing a beat. Even if you weren’t being actively chased by Pinkertons, it was still easier to lie about your identities. You watch his eyes reread everything before you walk right past him, headed for the door. It’s pretty damn clear where they went. Though, a thought lingers in the back of your mind. What chased them off? It had to have been something they couldn’t kill. John was a coward, but he was stupid enough to stand his ground when protecting the vulnerable..right?

“Back to New Hanover, then.” Charles remarks, following you to the door, slipping the letter into his pocket.Though, as soon as you reach the door, you pause. A familiar growling heard from the other side..just barely. Holding up one of your hands, you silently tell Charles to wait.

Leaning forward and pressing your ear to the wood to listen outside. Only for the door to swing open as someone, or something, forces its body weight against the wood, knocking you down in turn. Pinned underneath one of the heaviest undead you’ve come across, you struggle to reach your knife.

Several gunshots ring out inside the small cabin, making your ears ring. You hardly had time to register what just happened before it slumps forward with a hiss, oozing something akin to blood all over you. It smells foul. You could hardly keep yourself from vomiting, gagging and swallowing down the puke that manages to make its way into your mouth with a small shudder.

You completely forgot about Charles until he kicks the hefty zombie off of you, causing the twice now corpse to roll off and onto the floor. “You alright?” He asks, oddly calm as he extends a hand down to you, holstering his gun with his other hand. He hated using it, but sometimes it was more than necessary.

With a slow nod, you place your hand in his own, allowing yourself to be helped to your feet. Your legs feel foreign underneath you as you stare down at the dumb brute that had attacked you. But, you don’t have any time to process it. With a pat on your shoulder from Charles, he finally heads out the wide open door with you following close behind.

Letting out a loud whistle from between your teeth, not exactly wanting to stick your fingers in your mouth after wrestling with that undead brute. Your eyes flicking around your surroundings, hearing the sound of hooves approach. No doubt your horse and Taima got scared of the monster. That or something different.

“You’re quiet.” Charles states bluntly, looking you over, It’s not a judgmental comment– the opposite. He’s concerned. He’s used to your thoughts leaving your mouth before you had a chance to stop it. Though, he could understand. Naturally, anyone would be a bit shaken up. He was confident you would get through it. “Ain’t you always?” You retort without batting an eye, earning a dry chuckle from Charles. “You ain’t wrong.”

Your eyes dart over to movement in the treeline, growing a bit tense at first, only to relax at the sight of Taima’s nose, a hint of a smile crosses your lips at the sight. Nodding towards her as Charles approaches her, whispering a small praise under his breath. Walking past him, you spot your own horse just down the hill, slowly making your way down to it with Charles just on your tail.

Your horse whinnies as it sees you, it’s tail swishing back and forth. “Easy..” you coo, reaching up and gently petting its mane. Getting closer and stepping up into the stirrup, further heading down the hill, expecting Charles to follow suit, which he does.

“There was another letter inside.” Charles mumbles, riding alongside you. You glance over towards him, silently asking for an elaboration, before facing forward again. Both of you heading right back down from Ambarino and back into New Hanover. “From the owner’s husband. He was in the Confederacy.” He explains, a hint of distaste in his tone.

You nod silently in understanding, remembering the skeleton you and Arthur had buried not too long ago. You hardly even registered the sight of the setting sun until it shines right in your eyes, humming with discontent as you squint. Your posture straightens as you focus more and more on the sounds around you, until you follow Charles further into the woods, finally having a bit of respite.

It’s unfortunate, really. Not finding any sort of live animals..or any at all, really. The plains were oddly silent now, more than before. Undead animals haunted the fields, attacking anything in their sights with the intention to infect further. The remaining, living animals were all emaciated. The disruption to the food chain was detrimental to the entire ecosystem…clearly.

All seemed well on the long ride to Flatneck station, until you hear gunfire echoing loudly in the distance. Much to your dismay, Charles races forward, leaving you to follow behind in a huff. Coming across the small, abandoned trading post, you damn near sigh in relief. John is the one firing the gun, getting frustrated with Abigail and readjusting her hold on a rifle to properly aim a half broken beer bottle resting atop the railway tracks.

“John!” Charles calls with a hefty sigh of relief. John tears his gaze away from Abigail and over towards you and Charles. You were sure there was a small smile on his face out of relief. “Uncle Charles! Uncle Y/N!” You hear Jack call before the door to the small building flies open and the boy comes running out. You couldn’t imagine how scary it must be for him.

Both you and Charles dismount at the same time. Jack nearly tackles your leg into a hug, allowing you to ruffle his hair. “We didn’t find any food on our way.” Charles informs, to which John shakes his head with a heavy sigh. “We got a couple rabbits on our way out..ain’t much at all.” “Better than nothin’?” You offer, to which John offers a half-hearted shrug. As Jack lets go of you, you follow after him inside the small building, mostly to check up on the other women. It’s incredibly cramped as you step inside. Five women, excluding Abigail, with Jack and yourself. But beggars can’t be choosers.

Molly is staring at her reflection in the small mirror, gently pulling at her skin. Karen, Mary-Beth, and Tilly are quietly whispering amongst themselves. Though, Karen seems shaky and jittery. You can only imagine what her lack of alcohol is doing to her body.

“Y/N.” Susan greets with a curt nod, sitting just by the door, her shotgun laying over her lap. A terrifying sight on its own. “Miss.” You reply with a nod of your own. Gently nudging Jack away from you and further inside into protection.

“How y’all been holdin’ up?” You inquire. Stealing a wary glance over your shoulder to make sure Charles, John, and Abigail were fine just outside, before returning your gaze back down to Grimshaw.

“As good as we can be..” She sighs. Her weathered hands idly feeling over the metal firearm. “I imagine y’all saw the wreck the cabin was left in?” You nod, earning a pleased hum from Susan. “O’Driscoll showed up and tried to rob us when John went out for food. He brought a damn.. horde with him. We handled most of ‘em, had to leave when we started getting overrun. Barely had time for Mary-Beth to write that letter.” She explains.

It made sense. A bunch of kick-ass outlaws wouldn’t just..abandon their safehouse for no reason. Leaning back against the doorway, you let yourself slide down it until you’re finally sitting, just relaxing. Resting your eyes with a heavy sigh, you’ve had enough to do with today. Just in desperate need for a nap. Yet, you know you can’t sleep yet. Especially not here. But Gods.. you want to. You definitely need to. You’re not sure how long it’s been since you last slept.

“Y/N.” Charles calls. With a small hum of acknowledgement, you force your eyes open, looking up towards him. “You head back to camp.. I’ll stick around here.” Nodding along blankly, you force yourself to stand up again. Yawning widely as you step fully out of the trading post, passing John and Charles, giving each of them a pat on the shoulder and a small nod to Abigail, shuffling back to your horse and mounting up, setting off into the night.

The lingering burden of finding food for camp weighs on your mind. But, as you slowly trek through the dark forests, you find nothing. You could blame it on your exhaustion or the dark..or some sort of noise, but there’s nothing around. Not a soul except you. It nearly snaps you awake, feeling a chill creep down your spine and the feeling of eyes on you. Clicking your tongue off the roof of your mouth, commanding your horse to speed up. You don’t want to be out for any longer than you need to.

But, as you come back to camp, the ride feels shorter. Dismounting your horse with an exhausted sigh, hitching up the reins to one of the rails, right next to Gwydion, Trelawny’s horse. Not feeling like dealing with the magician at the moment, your eyes flick around camp until you spot Hosea on his bedroll. You offer him a shrug, signifying you didn’t find anything, earning a solemn nod in response.

Hearing the growls and hisses from young Jenny, Mac, and Davey, your day ends just as it started. Laying down on your bedroll, your muscles aching and your skin slick with sweat. Though, unlike last night, you allow sleep to claim you and hope that, at some point, things will be okay again.

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[diaboliklove]

modern day au where yui cannot catch a break, and things only get worse when her house gets broken into by an angry red headed robber — but instead of taking her things, he takes her heart

yui was having the worst year of her life.

even worse than in 2013 when her father wouldn’t let her go to that taylor swift concert since it was deemed ‘unholy.’

she really thought only taylor could understand her.

but now its 2024, and she’s begun to have adult problems. she’s broke, her heater is broken, her apartment has started to fall apart, she stained her favorite pink skirt with coffee, her phone screen shattered when she dropped it on the train, she ran out of her favorite lip gloss, college bills keep stacking up, her upstairs neighbors never stop engaging in fornication, strawberries are out of season so she can no longer afford them and most importantly —

her father just passed away.

and all she wanted now was to rot in her apartment and ask god for mercy on her poor heart.

“it’ll be okay,” she sniffled back a tear. “father used to say the lord puts us through trials to test our faith.”

yeah, used to.

it was now late night, coming back from her fathers funeral she felt more empty than when she first got the news. her feet hurt from the black heels she now had to walk home in, the black dress did little to give her warmth, her cheeks were numb from the cold weather and having to comfort people with a smile that she’ll be okay, that there was nothing to worry about.

… but yui was already worrying about dinner. also how she’d have to shiver herself to sleep again. she couldn’t allow herself to cry herself to sleep again, her face would be frozen when she woke up, and what if she finds another hole in the walls? tape didn’t work last time, and she’s running out of rags to stuff in between them. and what about her job? she can’t buy more rags without it. they granted her a leave of absence due to her fathers passing, but what if they replaced her? if she lost her job she couldn’t pay rent — and she couldn’t ask for another extension on rent, her landlord was fed up enough with her pleading, she wouldn’t get lucky again. and also —

“no, lets just take it one day at a time. thats right,” she neared the steps to her apartment. “deep breath in, and then out. lets have some canned soup for dinner, and then pair it with rewatching the kardashians. yeah. thats a great plan.”

she turned the corner to her door.

“everything will get better,”

she put the key in the lock.

“as long as i stay positive.”

and she swung her door open —

“shit!”

“AH!”

— right into a mans back.

at first she thought she opened the wrong door. but the faint smell of her candles hit her nose, and her eyes fell on the very TV she watched shitty TV on in the mans arms — and then her eyes landed on a fucking sword on his waist.

her eyes followed it as he dropped her TV from his arms, and unsheathed it from his waist —

— and directed it right in between her eyes.

“empty your fucking purse! ill fucking kill you!”

Oh wow. wooooow.

now you would think the right action would be to do as he said. anyone would listen to a manic man with hair as red as blood, especially when they pointed a sword at you that looked like it came from the 1800’s. its not like yui wanted to die, so maybe she should save her life and sacrifice her beloved tv and the few pennies she had in her wallet.

but instead. her face twisted, and yui broke out in the most ugly open mouthed sob she’s ever done.

it wasn’t out of fear. it didn’t even register how this man genuinely had bloodlust leaking out of him. it was out of absolute frustration and sadness that this was becoming her life — and that she couldn’t even have her dream of watching the kardashians.

she fell to her knees. because, seriously, what the hell did she do to deserve all of this? she was a good kid. never acted out to her father and attended mass even when she had the flu. she never wished bad on anyone. but why does everything always have to end bad? on her 11th birthday her goldfish frank died, when she wanted a coffee last week, her card declined and now she couldn’t even sob into her blankets while she heard kim talking about how rich she was. can’t she have one good day? can’t she —

“holy shit, are you crying?” the red haired man didn’t even move.

yui looked up to him, and just stared at the man’s flabbergasted expression. through her tears, she tried to inhale through her nose, but it came out in little stutters. she extended her purse towards him.

“take it. take everything if you want.” yui spoke through her sobs. its not like anything she really wanted was here anymore.

yui curled up into her knees and rocked herself, continuing to cry hysterically at the thought of just her life. she wouldn’t mind if that man stole everything in her house — material objects could be replaced… eventually. when her eyes started to burn by the amount of tears flooding out, she noticed she couldn’t hear the familiar floorboards creak from movement and her purse was still in her hands. lifting her head to see what was going on, she noticed that the man hadn’t moved from his spot, and just was gawking at her sitting on the floor. they held eye contact for a while, like they were both afraid to move.

sure, yui thought he was a manic. but he probably thought yui was a suicidal manic.

while she held eye contact, she finally really looked at him.

he was fit. wearing a black shirt and a ripped jean jacket, yui could tell he wasn’t bulky, but instead quite lean. his pecs were defined and his muscular abdomen and biceps were flexed against the fabric from welding the heavy sword. his joggers looked worn down, and black nikes seemed like they seen better days. his face was … nice. well sculpted and he had a well defined jaw. his lips were plump and chapped from the chill outside.

what threw yui off was the cacophony that was his hair and eye color. bright firetruck red for hair that looked like he hadn’t brushed it in days, and green eyes fit for only a predator. regardless of the situation, yui could tell he honestly was… beautiful. dangerous. probably looked more attractive if he didn’t have his mouth wide open in awe.

his eyebrows furrowed, and he closed his mouth. he placed his sword back in his sheath, and leaned down to grab the tv from the floor. he looked towards yui again, with a face she could only describe as disappointment. clicking his tongue, he began to drag the tv … not towards the door but towards the tv cabinet.

“this isn’t fun anymore. you can have your shitty shit back.”

placing the tv back in its rightful throne, he squatted down and went through a worn down black backpack — that had some random pins of a band she never heard of — that was on the floor. within it, he took out her favorite necklace, her jewelry box, a couple of her wool sweaters and her damn smart toaster she picked up extra shifts for.

“this is yours. ill be back when you’re mentally stable, you deranged bitch.” he motioned to the items on the floor.

“really?”

the robber rolled his eyes. “of course I will be! do you know how much your toaster —“

“— no i mean. you’ll give it back?”

“you want me to take it?”

“well… i’d like it if you didn’t.”

“then! shut the fuck up.”

he grabbed his backpack and swung it around his shoulder. he started making his way towards the door right beside yui. as he took two steps past her, he paused.

“you’re really broke, you know.”

yui sniffled. “i know.”

“like, broke broke. i don’t think ive ever broke into a house that had so much of nothing. what are you, a level one sim? do you have no hobbies? do you even eat? i see nothing to even munch on here.”

“… i have soup.”

“you literally have two cans of spaghetti-os and tomato soup.”

yui sniffled louder. “i know.”

things were silent for a while. yui was sure the robber was still there, probably reconsidering his decision. she expected him to march back in to take her things again while flipping her off. this entire situation seemed too good to be true… but maybe this could end with her losing nothing... no. she wouldn’t let herself hope for something that was next to impossible in a situation like this.

but something even more unlikely happened.

the robber spoke again.

“do you like dennys?”

“w…what?” yui turned her head towards him.

“dennys. the best restaurant in the world. do you like it?” his face stayed neutral, but somehow the question felt like a threat.

yui feared the honest answer, ‘ive never been’ would end in her getting decapitated. so, she said, “i do.”

“do you want to go get some pancakes?”

it was yuis turn to gawk at him. he looked bored, and slid his hands in his pockets. now, maybe a normal person would say ‘fuck no, its 10pm and you just broke into my home somehow and then tried to steal my beloved tv and lovely toaster then pointed a fucking sword at me… also, i don’t even know your name you creep.’

but yui wasn’t a normal person experiencing normal things right now.

“pancakes sound nice.”

aka, the alternative universe in which two cold hearts find warmth within each other.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

butt?

I had to substitute it for arse, sorry. Exploratory fic I began to explore some character dynamics and what the lifestyle of 4 growing nations and their mother in their last real time together would be like in a slightly Post-Roman Iron Age estate as the Migration period picks up and Germanic peoples cross the North Sea to make a home. I believe of these earlier themes have their origin with @balladofthewhitehorse.

5th Century AD, Cumbria

"Rhys," Alasdair appeared at the fence line, his face gloomy. Rhys had stopped here for his mid-day meal halfway between where the shepherds had herded the sheep in the northernmost glen and their home behind on the hill. It'd been a long two days in the hills. He offered the cider flask to his brother as Alasdair approached, his frown deepening. It wasn't raining, and the day's work wouldn't have been hard. Bad news, then. It was always bad news.

"What is it this time?"

"Rot in the south store."

"Oats, rye or wheat?" Rhys asked. The rye they might go without, but the rain hadn't come so early that anything else should rot.

"Oats,"

"Fuck." Rhys sat on the low wall of flagstones and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fuck,"

He glanced up. His brother looked even more dour. "Gods, what else?"

"Seven horses," Alasdair said, sitting beside Rhys, boneless and upset.

Rhys gaped at him. "Seven? That's three more than were sick yesterday!"

"It's spreading." Alasdair shrugged helplessly. "I took the healthy ones into the third stables, and it didn't help."

"Is it distemper?"

"I didn't think so," Alasdair said. "They weren't so feverish, and there wasn't pus, but now I don't know.

"So, no horses to sell this year. At least half the oats are gone."

"Rhys." Alasdair's ingot grey gaze fell heavily, and Rhys glanced at his brother.

"I know," He said, and Alasdair didn't look convinced. He looked at his elder brother with a firm look. "I know."

"If we can't pay the tributes…"

He thought of the mustached helmets of the German kings and exhaled. "We don't know that we can't pay. There's plenty to sell."

"It's not just a lack of goods I'm worried about. It's been a bad year for everyone. There might not be anyone to sell to."

"There must be," Rhys said, pulling his cloak tighter over his shoulders. "There will be. We'll figure it out."

"I suppose all we can do is pray," Alasdair said.

Rhys frowned. Alasdair was the one with a mind for numbers, but he always worried, and they always managed before. So what if the horses would not fetch the total price if they were ill come market day? There was still the wool, the fine worked saddles he and Alasdair had made the year before, and plenty of cattle, sheep, honey and mead to sell. There were options. They had options.

"I'll see to the horses; if none of them die, we'll be fine," Alasdair said. "We have ore too. I might get a good price for my boar spears."

"Maybe," Rhys said. His hope was teetering precariously on the assumption that his brother was overly worried.

There was an unspoken sense of doom between them, both praying their worries were unfounded. Rhys grimaced after they parted ways at the outer gate, Alasdair marching off to the stables and Rhys to the poultry yard and the hives. One of the women in his mother's service alerted him to the fact that another of the hives had gone dark with rot. Honey was expensive, and now there wouldn't be enough to sell and use themselves over the long winter. Rhys waved her off with a pinched-off smile.

He stood in the poultry yard for a long moment, leaning against the half gate that kept the hens, quail, and ducks safe in their enclosure and away from the hounds. He watched Arthur tumble after a goose, laughing as it squawked and ducked him. Their dinner pail of scraps and grain was sitting neglected as he played, but Rhys looked on, letting him play. They'd have to keep more honey than what he'd wanted to sell, if only for Arthur's sake. Honey cakes with stored apples and cheese or on bread were one of those precious things that would cheer him when the worst of the winter gloom gripped him worse than any of them. Arthur rolled to a halt, cackling as the goose bobbed angrily and finally noticed him.

"Rhys!" He grinned, leaping to his feet and making a beeline for him. He exhaled a loud "oomph" as Arthur knocked into him, throwing his arms around him. "You're back!"

"I was only gone a night," He laughed. "How is Mother? And where is your cloak? Have you lost it again?"

"The same," Arthur said. "Maybe a little better. She laughed this morning when I fell right on my arse out of bed. Bridgie pushed me."

"Good! And you probably deserved it. You kick in your sleep." He replied, and his smile was genuine. Mother had at least made an effort to shake her recent gloom then. She'd been thinner, paler, and sadder than he'd ever seen her in the last few years, and it hadn't gotten any better as the days became shorter. "And your cloak?"

"I forgot it!"

"You'll catch your death." Rhys ruffled his hair. "Hurry and feed the birds and come in for dinner."

[nowoyas]

Boiling Point 3: ...Will Still Boil Over Eventually - Miguel O'Hara/Reader (NSFW)

First - Prev - Next - M.list - Ao3

A/N: well folks and strokes I have no self control. this was originally supposed to be the finale, but lol. lmao, even. you didn't really expect me to finish a storyline in only three parts?

Summary: You reach your boiling point.

Notes: sub drop, a frankly ill-advised length of time to be edging oneself

Word count: 3317 words!

It is day…

uh…

(What fucking day is it again?)

You’re tired. You’re bored. You’re horny. And that handsome motherfucker sent you a carousel of Spiders to explicitly make sure that you were actually resting in the time he so generously gave you.

Your package delivery was delayed by a combination of bad luck and worse luck, apparently, because it should have been here by now. You stopped bothering keeping up with your journaling partway through this, namely because you were starting to become hyper-aware of all your negative traits when you wrote them down (teenage boy levels of horniness and anger, mostly) and also because you’re starting to feel… low. Low low. Low low low low low.

The part of you that’s desperate for sex with a man you’ll never have or even just a fucking release at this point is losing out to your deep-seated need to be right. And in your contract, you said until the new vibe arrives. So, you are stuck waiting, lest you prove yourself completely slutty and undisciplined. And you are not slutty or undisciplined.

The worst part, you think, is the understimulation. Sure, you’ve got hobbies, but you don’t want to do any of them right now. You want to get someone’s hand on your tits and teeth on your neck, or else you want to hook yourself up to a vibrator until you discover new frontiers of consciousness and burn out the motor on that one, too, or else you want to lay here and rot. And fuck it, you can’t do any of that, because you still have your shitty office work to attend to, which doesn’t even distract you from the real problems in the world: dimensional anomalies, stopping criminals, and the criminal lack of dimensionally anomalous dick in your mouth.

Honestly, at first, it was sexy. You liked the little thrill of rolling over in bed and seeing your contract and knowing that you’re being so good even without a dom to make it so. You liked the idea of the denial, the promise of a new toy coming as a reward for all the longing in the meantime. Part of you still does, but that part has been glazed over with a level of self-loathing that usually being a Spider wipes away.

If you were worth anything, you wouldn’t have to enforce this yourself.

If you were worth anything, someone would be telling you what a good girl you’ve been, that you’ve worked so hard for this, that you’ve earned the right to cum.

Admit it.

You’re not doing this alone to prove a point.

You’re doing this alone because no one is ever going to do it for you. Not for long, at least.

You know two ways to fill time and void—searching for good views from too-tall buildings and masturbation. The too-tall buildings frustrate you even more, because occasionally one of your coverage Spider-Men will swing in and remind you that you’re under strict orders to rest, or worse, you’ll see them at work and know that Miguel has probably instructed them to web you to a wall if you try to help with YOUR job, and then you just feel even more useless and angry and empty.

Okay, so skyscraper sightseeing is out. What about masturbation?

Yeah, that’ll work. Add more sexual frustration to your sexual frustration. You like sexual frustration, right? Clearly, since you’re still doing this bullshit. Go ahead, we put some sexual frustration on your sexual frustration so you can get sexually frustrated while you experience some light sexual frustration. This can only serve to alleviate your problems. Clearly. Dumbass.

…you make sure to leave your wristband in the other room before you take your pants off.

And you know what? Maybe it’s the demon on your shoulder egging you on when you slip two fingers inside yourself and fantasize in scraps of images—sharp teeth, big muscles, webs holding down your wrists—and chase release, but you no longer care about the stupid fucking contract or your stupid fucking delayed package or your stupid fucking—

There is a noise in the other room.

A noise that sounds suspiciously like an incoming call on your wristband.

You can’t help it. Fuck your neighbors. You actually scream.

Okay. You’re overreacting. Walk it back. This is good. You didn’t break the contract, because you didn’t cum, and that call probably means you’re back in business and able to be a fucking Spider again.

So really, you're glad you got a call. You wash your hands, you scrub extra hard. You make sure your Spider suit is on, you make sure you're wearing casual clothes with the zippers all pulled and hiding your suit. When you're calm and collected and ready, the dread and self-hatred is still there, as is the frustration, but you didn't spend years in customer service without learning how to wear a smile even when the only desire you have left in your little heart is that lingering drive to take up serial killing.

You find the wristband on the coffee table. Slip it on. Hit the button to call back.

And there he is: man of the hour, loathe of your life, Miguel O'Hara. You've been trying not to think of him by his full name only, but it isn't working, mostly because you've also been halfway trying to not think of him at all.

You don't really process most of the conversation, too busy floating in the space between "horny" and "dead inside", but you do hear the words "we need you back on to help with an anomaly" pretty fucking clear, and you know damn well you wouldn't say no to that.

"Give me two minutes to get changed," you manage, already pulling at the shorts you so carefully hid your Spider suit under.

"You get one and a half.”

Aw, he's cute. Miguel's holo is looking away from you, and it blinks out of existence in the time it takes you to get your free hand hooked under your waistband. He's not flustered; you're not sure that's possible, but his unnecessary display of respect is endearing.

You're ready to go in one. You take the thirty seconds remaining to fix your hair and play it cool, even if you're now stuck between excited, horny, and dead. I heard, if you add a fourth emotion to the mix, you can build a house out of your weird bullshit and finally put a ceiling on it. Give it a try sometime!

You slip into spidery actions the same way you do swimming pools—the initial drop of your stomach, water too cold on your toes, New York City but Wrong, then the adjusting. You always adjust. Anomalies blur together for you by now, amalgamate into a series of fun diversions that lower your stress and put the pieces of you back together in the process.

They’re supposed to put you back together.

They’re supposed to put you back together.

The anomaly is dealt with. You’re spidering again. You got your rush from the heights and the wind against your mask, your adrenaline from a fight gone well. You returned to HQ with your partners from this little adventure no worse for the wear, and even Miguel has afforded you an approving nod at the work you’ve done.

You’ve done a good job. A great job. Something has pushed out the rage in you and taken its place, but you know better. This fight against this anomaly did not, in fact, put you back together.

You need to go home. You have to report in, first. It’s redundant. You need to leave. You’re doing good. You need to smile and do it anyways.

Your smile is heavy, so heavy, nearly impossible to drag out of you. You wish you could leave it where it sits in the pits of you, go home and find a cave to live in where civilization is not and no one can ever make you smile again because—

You need to stop everything there is danger there is danger you need to MOVE—

You jolt away, violent, exaggerated, but it’s just Peter, frozen with his elbow raised awkwardly, halfway to nudging your side for your attention.

“[name]?”

“Sorry,” you mumble, as though that does anything, for anyone, ever, at all. It does nothing, in fact, and you’re hyper-aware of that. An explanation might help. “My head’s not back in this dimension yet.” Great explanation. You’re winning at this. I’m so proud of you.

“Right,” Miguel says. “Your report?”

“Oh. Right.” You rattle off the details. They’re hardly anything worth reporting, really. When you’re done, there’s a heavy silence in the room. Everything’s heavy right now, kind of. Like that week away turned the multiverse into molasses.

You glance up through the silence to see that Miguel is staring you down. Okay, more like looking at you, but it all feels the same right now, your skin crawling at being perceived at all.

“Are we done?” The words come out too aggressive. You’re not angry; you’re not anything. The words are just too heavy to drag out without a little bit of bluntness. You hope he won’t take it as a challenge.

“You did good.”

Fucking hell.

You didn’t brace yourself for that one.

There’s motions between you hearing the words and you being on the floor. There must be, because you were on your feet, and now you are not. The heels of your palms press against your eyes, you’re gasping for air, and—

Oh. You’re crying your eyes out.

Are you sure you’re not overreacting a bit?

Heightened spider senses inform you someone is reaching for you, begs you to move, screams at you to throw them away and make sure no one ever touches you again, but you’re too caught up in the tears to do a thing about it, too caught up in the waves finally crashing down on you and shredding your skin in the sand of all the resentments you’ve been building, too caught up too caught up too caught up—

Woah, hey, let’s take a deep breath—

Out.

I’m not just going to leave them crying on the floor—

Out!

—someone is touching you someone is holding you leave me alone leave me ALONE—

LYLA. Portal back to their home dimension. Now, please.

Already on it. I’ll send for Jess.

Good thinking. I’ll be back.

~

Miguel is careful not to jostle you too much as he sets you on your couch. You dissolved into tears and are still dissolving now, wordless. He shakes his head at the sight.

When he realized what was going on and placed you on leave, he had sort of been trying to avoid a situation that looked a lot like this. He tells himself there was only so much he could do and not a single right answer to keep you from steering yourself straight off an emotional cliff.

Well, that’s not right. There had been a right answer; it just wasn’t the one he chose. The least he can do is stay with you until you’re stable. The least he can do is see you through this drop.

You’re not talking yet, so he tears away from you to search for anything you might want for aftercare and tries to run the autopsy report of his latest failure.

Admittedly, he misjudged what a compliment would do to you, so close to the edge. The goal really had had been to uplift you. He could have done worse. It’s not like he broke out the ‘good girl’. And yeah, maybe it was too jarring coming from his mouth after the last time you spoke in person.

Maybe he was just too late. By the time he got to you, you were already locked in. Even before that, you were acting more reckless than usual. Really, he was the one who should have seen it coming and put a stop to it day one. He should know better by now, when it comes to you.

He’s on autopilot, so he grabs the fluffiest-looking blanket from the pile on your bed, the most hug-worthy pillow, and returns to wrap you up.

You accept the pillow wordlessly, don’t even bother resisting when he wraps the blanket around you. You’ve gone from sobbing to sniffles, but he’s got work to do yet.

“Better?” he asks, voice low. His voice comes out gentle, even gentler than he was shooting for, and he curses the effect you have on him like he does every time.

You eye him warily, nod silently. You’re all verb-adverb right now, it seems, but at least you are a little better.

“What do you usually do for this?” he asks, and okay, maybe that’s a little up front, given the way you jolt and shift your expression to a glare.

“What makes you think I do anything?”

He lets out a little huff, settles in on the couch next to you. “You haven’t figured out by now how to handle yourself?”

“I can handle myself just fine, and if you even begin to act otherwise I swear to god—“

“Have I ever said you can’t?”

“You put me on leave. For a week. Not just from interdimensional stuff, but from protecting my own city. What the hell else is that supposed to say?”

Oh. You completely misinterpreted him, didn’t you?

“It means that I thought you needed the rest and correctly gauged that you wouldn’t take it willingly. If I was wrong, then you wouldn’t be crying on your couch right now, would you?” He cringes internally. That came out wrong.

“It’s not like it prevented it,” you mutter.

He sighs. You’re not being very receptive, and he needs to get the right words in his head in the right order with the right tone before he makes things even worse. So he stands and begins walking to your door.

“Where are you going?” you call after him, and your voice is small enough that he nearly stops.

No, Miguel. Control yourself.

“Checking your mail.”

“You’re going to walk all the way down the stairs to the mailboxes on the first floor? You’re going to unlock my mailbox with a mail key you don’t have, and—“

By your front door, there’s three hooks with keys. One is labeled “mail”. He picks it up, then glances back to where you’re craning your neck over the back of your couch. His hand is already on the door, and he’s firmly unbothered by your attempts to protest with logic.

“You’re in your Spider suit, stupid. Do you want people to see you walking out of my apartment? Trying to give away my secret identity? It’s not like people aren’t gonna notice one of the Spider’s caked-up new friends walking around the apartment building—“

…Caked-up?

He shakes his head and opens the door anyway. You make a good point about him being in his suit, but it’s not like he can’t handle himself for one trip to the first floor and—

Oh. There’s a package on the floor in front of your door.

That’s good enough. He’ll bring that inside.

~

“Your neighbor got your mail by accident,” Miguel says, already walking back from the door. “Let’s see, he says…” In one hand, he reads from what looks to be a hand-written note, and in the other…

You catch sight of the logo emblazoned on the side of the envelope he carries and have to kill the screech in your throat. Whatever pathetic tears you were crying for stupid reasons before mean nothing now.

You’re so fucking glad you bought from a new sex shop this time. You’re so fucking glad this one doesn’t have some super obvious name that makes it very clear that the Sex Toy Destroyer Himself was carrying your replacement for all the toys he personally destroyed. Hell no, you’re not taking credit for those. You’re not the insanely hot one here.

Of course. Of course you would have a completely unprecedented breakdown in HQ directly in front of Miguel. Of course he’d stick around to make sure you weren’t completely useless. Of course your new toy would show up whenever Miguel decides to be weirdly nice and bring in your mail for you. How else would things go? You’re the one with all the luck here.

Miguel is mid-sentence saying something you’ve been completely not listening to, and you do feel guilty for that, but come on. It’s taking everything in you not to freak out. You’re giving yourself whiplash just trying to calm down. Like, it’s normal. People receive mail sometimes, idiot, and sometimes that mail gets delivered to the wrong place, and that’s good and normal, and sometimes your neighbor is kind enough to leave it on your doorstep with a note, and sometimes—

“He’s asking you on a date.”

“What?” In less than a second, your web is on the back of the page, and Miguel lets it sail from his hand and into yours. “Let me see that.”

Holy shit. Your neighbor returned your sex toy he mistakenly got in the mail and asked you out to coffee sometime. You check the unit number he listed—motherfucker. He’s the one that shares a wall with your bedroom. He’s probably heard more than he hasn’t. You sure fucking have.

You let out a low groan. Eyes flick to Miguel. It’s not like that particular bad idea is going anywhere, and you’re basically the ruler of Definitely Healthy Coping Mechanisms anyway, so maybe—

“That was nice of him. Is he actually worth your time, though?”

The sentences are so weird coming from his mouth that a little jolt of laughter bubbles out of you. “Why are you being so weird? That was almost nice. You’re supposed to be all, tough love and everyone thinks you’re mad even when you’re being nice.”

He blinks. Stares at you a moment. “You just had a complete breakdown.”

“Yes, thank you for reminding me.” You’re doing a tremendous job at ignoring that fact, thank you very much. “…Thanks for the consideration, though. And probably not. He’s like, not unattractive, I guess, but, you know. Can’t shake the feeling that he’s only asking me out because he shares a wall with my bedroom.”

Miguel arches a brow.

Oh, fuck. That’s sexual connotations. I mean, sexual meaning, too, but come the fuck on. You’ve got to be more restrained than that. What were those two weeks of training for?

“…right. Anything good?” He gives the package a little shake, and you remember how fucking precarious your situation is in this moment.

Another web snatches the envelope from him. He seems nearly amused by your reaction, based on vibes. Deadpan as always, but if you’re not mistaken, there’s a slight spark in his eyes. “What could you possibly have ordered?”

“Nothing.”

“Given that you just snatched it out of my hands…”

“Nothing,” you repeat. It’s meant to be emphatic, but you just sound whiny. You blame the post-cry snottiness.

He sits directly across from you. “No, open it. You don’t have to wait for me to leave if you’re that excited for it.”

“I’m good.” Your voice pitches high. “Really. Thanks for all your help today. You can go.”

He stares. You begin to sweat.

“Look. I was really hoping you’d figure discipline out on your own with all that time I gave you, but I guess not.”

“If… if you wanted me to be doing something specific with the past boring-as-shit week, why didn’t you tell me what it was?”

He sighs. “If you think two weeks of edging yourself without aftercare is discipline, then I guess I have to be the one to teach you.”

…oh.

Huh.

Fuck.

Tags: @deeplightgarden @idonthaveanameideayet @dusstory @roxannarichie @vegas-writing-den @cooch1ecruncher @bluepeanutharmony @instanttragedyfire @yohoe-hoe @ambientcryptidsounds

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As always, thanks for reading! <3

[annagehtdichnenkeksan]

𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓, 𝑯𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝑭𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑬𝒏𝒆𝒎𝒚

part 3 (sorry, English is not my main Language)

With a trembling heart Visenya walk up and down in her bedchamber. The king landed this afternoon on Driftmark. She don't even dare to look out of the window, which gives her good view on Vhagar who sleeps peacefully on the sandy ground. A brother of hers, Lucerys, whom she has never met was killed by this beast. The face of the young woman twists into a grimace. What an atrocious death. He was only fourteen, four years younger than Visenya is now. Jacaerys was sixteen when he found his death. With a shudder she realizes that she is older than her big brothers have ever became. How long will the king stay. Baela hammered it in her head that Visenya is ill and needs to stay in her room, so the 'one-eyed cunt' has to fuck off.

Impatiently Aemond drums his fingers on the table. Rhaena and Baela remain silent at him. Does the stupid brat have to be sick again? Maybe it would be more relaxed if there sits someone at the table who wasn't involved in this bloody war. "It is late" Baela's firm words cut through the silence. "You should rest, if you want to leave tomorrow morning, my king" Aemond smirked at the forced out words at the end. She hates it when she has to call him that. And he loves it that she hates it. "Of course dear cousin" his deceptively flattering words, make her roll her eyes. "But only after I wished my beloved niece a speedy recovery" with that words the faces of his cousins become pale. The king narrows his eyes suspiciously. What kind of intrigue are these old, degenerate crows up to again? Baela is the first to regain her words. "She is ill" "I am aware of that. That's why I want to wish her a speedy recovery" his firm words leave no place for excuses. Baela looks at her sister for help, but she looks equally desperate. While the sisters guide the king to the chambers of their younger sister, both sending prayers to both the Seven and the Valyrian gods, that the girl just lay in her bed and pretend to be ill so they don't have to come up with a new story of her miraculous recovery.

Visenya took her meal in her rooms. What a boring evening. But at least the ugly one-eye will piss off tomorrow. A knock at her door makes her to tense up. Who is this at this late hour? "Visenya, are you awake" Rhaena's voice is trembling and thin. "Well it seems she is asleep already, we should leave her alone" babbles Baela. Yawning, she runs to the door. "I'm awake, what do yo..." Her words got stuck in her throat, when she opens the door and a tall, slender man with an eyepatch and a bitter gaze stand behind her sisters.

A young woman opened the door. Her white hair was tied together in a loose braid that falls over her chest. She was tall grown and has a female curvy build. She doesn't really look like either of her parents. Thanks to the gods. Her gentle facial features paired with her noble expression makes him enthralled. But he truly was carried away when he look directly into her eyes. Those mismatching, clear eyes with their long lashes captured him, and he makes no attempt to escape.

Two years. He let her rot two years in this pathetic place when she already could be his wife, his queen and even the mother of his children. No it wasn't his fault. His scheming cousins always come up with some stupid excuses. Here his bride stands, healthy and robust. With a murderous expression, he fixes them with his gaze "You wanted to hide her from me"

@blackswxnn

[jetantifa]

I don't accept that the Fire Nation should be allowed to keep their monarchy and maybe Zuko tries and tries to cling onto power because he's convinced he can change things in the Fire Nation from the inside out. It's ill thought out, he's naive but he's desperate to try and the Avatar lets him, just as misguided.

Zuko talks the right talk when he's suggesting they need to pull back from the Earth Kingdom, but when an advisor points out that the quarry only exists because the firebenders made it possible to mine, that if they're pulling troops back then Earthbenders will lose their jobs, and what else will they find to do? Will they go backwards without people to guide them? He sounds troubled as he says it, it reminds Zuko of Iroh and something in him twists.

Zuko doesn't recognise it for what it is he's done until the military stationed there are drowned out, like rats, and the advisor begins to let spite bleed into his words, when he calls the Earth kingdom leeches who don't even know what's good for them because they aren't accepting that hand the fire nation offered them, and Zuko can't find a reason to disagree, he knows they can't govern themselves

It keeps happening, nobility stopping him from doing a smooth, clean break, a unit gets maimed, and Zuko doesn't know how to navigate it, he doesn't even know who could be involved. It's tied to the Earth kingdom but that just draws suspicion, after all, wasn't Zuko in Ba Sing Se for a while? Who's to say he wasn't murdering them in cold blood to stir some terror, to make his advisors push back, Ozai liked to do this then cut down anyone too unwilling to fall into line quickly.

The way it looks to the people, he's attempting to snatch away power from the nobility who usually back him, his family? Zuko can't get rid of them, because he knows too much change could set up a coup, so he's moving slowly, but in doing so, he's not removing fire nation bases, or pearing down his army, he's stagnant. When people start talking about Ozai again, in whispers, he doesn't understand, he thought if the head of the snake was removed, the rest would follow along so he could rebirth the fire nation into a new era.

But the imperialistic fire nation was always more than one man, it's systematic, it's a disease and Zuko only realises it when the walls are closing in and he's abdicating under threat of being usurped, he's stuck trying to figure out what's happening and anyway, I just think Zuko finding the freedom fighters, with Jet alive and making sense of what the fire nation represents, that the advisors and nobility obviously don't want to let go of their power because war is profitable, so ofc they dress it up as benevolent rather than controlling

I just think class traitor Zuko finally joining the freedom fighters could be so fun because the Palace was always stifling but he's only realising it when he's in the trees again, when the blue spirit comes alive again because you can't wash away 100 years of imperialism when it's embedded in the structure itself and they should start getting along in their shared ideal of wanting to resist. For Zuko it's to remove the rot, the corruption from the Fire Nation, for Jet and his people, to get the Fire Nation army to stop oppressing them, to leave them to govern themselves.

That it's Fire Nation propaganda that they (the Earth kingdom) can't function without the Fire Nation, it's nothing more than a way for the Fire Nation bourgeoisie to line their pockets because war is far more profitable than demilitarising like Zuko wanted so ofc they'd be at odd ends with him

[darkstarofchaos]

Let's get uhh...constructicons/Prowl (for the ask thingy)

Don't ship it.

Why don’t you ship it?

The biggest reason is that nothing about the situation was healthy for Prowl. Not only did he become part of Devastator in the most traumatic way possible, but the time afterward was physically and psychologically harmful for him as well. Outside of that, there just isn't much for me to ship there? Prowl sees the Constructicons as a weapon and the Constructicons are just fanboys (up until the narrative decides Prowl needs to be utterly alone and they drop him like a hot potato). The whole situation was incredibly wasted potential.

2. What would have made you like it?

A different writer.

On its own, Prowl being forced into Devastator isn't a deal breaker for me because the Constructicons weren't the ones responsible. They did decide afterwards that they liked Prowl and wanted to hang with him, but until then, he was never even meant to be part of the team; just a disposable test subject for integrating someone new with an existing combiner. And I do honestly get the appeal of, "You were disposable to them, but not to us". Goodness knows Prowl needs someone in his corner. Heck, I can even get behind the angst of "this situation is physically hurting Prowl, but none of them - including him - want to stop".

So the setup was great. Super unhealthy, but you can do some pretty interesting things with unhealthy. But as they say, the devil's in the details.

See, I like the Constructicons. I do not like the way John Barber writes them as an interchangeable amalgam instead of letting them have some individuality. And I really don't like how he tried to resolve that conflict with earlier portrayals by saying that combining "rots away the individual". I like the idea that the Gestalt mind affects its components, not the idea that it supercedes them. I also don't like Prowl's recent instability being ascribed to the combining process and not, y'know. The traumatic events surrounding it. But we get this explanation from Galvatron, who delivers it alongside lies about Prowl killing Spike's father, so I can ignore it. I can pretend it's just another lie.

What I can't ignore is that Arcee doesn't hear this and think, oh, maybe it's not Prowl's fault he's been so erratic lately. Maybe I should see if he's okay when I get a chance. Nope. She just turns on him completely. Because the post-Dark Cybertron arc is the "let's tear away what little support Prowl still has" arc.

So I don't like how the Constructicons were written, I don't like the in-universe explanation for how they were written, and I hate the way everyone saw Prowl falling apart (including people who dared to call him a friend, Optimus), and just went, eh, I don't really care. He's just bad. And then, just to make sure Prowl loses everyone, the Constructicons turn on him too. Because apparently they can spend time in his head and like what they see, but it's still somehow a surprise that the mech who tolerated them because they were useful might not actually want them the way they want him.

Get these mechs a different writer.

3. Despite not shipping it, do you have anything positive to say about it?

As I mentioned above, the setup is great. It had a lot of potential, not just in terms of the relationship, but for character development, worldbuilding, and even the introduction of something like chronic illness with Prowl's physical health being affected by combining (again, he was introduced to the team as an experiment in adding bots to a combiner. It would make perfect sense if it wasn't an entirely successful experiment).

I also like a lot of the art and fics I've seen for them, even if most people seem to ignore the inherent angst in favor of sweet, funny, and fluffy pieces. I just wish more people dived into the physical and psychological impacts, whether in a shippy way or not.