#mentally unwell due to this man

[lun4r-eclipse]

So I was taking a literature test the other day and guess what one of the articles was about? The Fibonacci sequence. And guess what they touched on while doing an overview of it (obviously)? The GOLDEN RATIO. The way I had to mentally restrain myself to ensure I'd continue working on the test-

Below is an excerpt from it lmao

[vonlycaonwife]

....it just hit me that I barely reach Lycaon's shoulders.....

EXCUSE ME WHILE I JUST CONTEMPLATE THIS AND FREAK THE FUCK OUT

[firelightfics]

Work your magic.

Scar x Mage! Healer! Gn! Reader

From this message (CAUSE I FORGOT TO TURN THE ASKS THING ON BEFORE AND REALISED SO LATE 😭)

Warnings: mentions of illness, violence and drug use [not Reader], should be mostly fluff though, banished mage reader, okay.. I kinda gave Reader an adoptive daughter I can't help it I'm sorry.

Extra: The person requested for the reader to be strong, so I went with the route of them being able to create and manipulate detailed and realistic illusions, and their strength is in that sort of field rather than battle strength. So they have a more mental strength and can manipulate dreams although its not really a main point.

DID I NAME SCARS BABY? YES. I NAMED HER RIRI OKAY? ITS CUTE. SHE'S CUTE.

Summary: Y/n, a mage, who has wandered too far from home finds themself under the care of the firelights. Or perhaps the firelights have found themselves in their care. A particular chirean takes interest in their less than typical methods of calming people.

Masterlist.

Ko-fi

---

Its been too long since I have seen my family. I come from a place far from here, so far I'm not even sure it is of the same plane of existence. My home feels foreign to me now. Years have passed since I was there. Banishment does tend to keep a person away I suppose.

Since I have wandered to a new home, a place I stumbled upon by chance. No, even that isn't right. I stumbled upon the person running this place is more accurate, he was shielding a small injured girl from harsh weather and clearly manic due to the fear of losing the child in the even harsher city of Zaun. I offered them help as I was nearby enough with a place to stay. I couldn't be more glad that Ekko accepted my help that day, as stubborn as he can be.

Its only been a couple of weeks since such an event, but Flora has healed quickly with my help and has been helping introduce me to the Firelights. She's a sweet girl who now seems rather attatched to me and tends to stick around the medical area that I have taken residence in. Ekko, the leader, has helped me get more comfortable here and I couldn't be happier. Or maybe, I could be happier. I've never tried to be more than just content, its all my family allowed until I tried something new and got myself banished.

In the past few weeks, many people have come to me for assistance. Plenty injured from time out on the streets, a few scraped and scratched children and returning firelights after their dangerous missions. It worries me how many shimmer affected patients I've recieved, this drug is a foreign concept to me still but calming those affected with illusions of things they enjoy seems to solve their aggression for a time until the drug wears out. Healing can only help so much when the wounds are not visible. I find much more difficultly with these patients, but if I weren't up to the challenge I would have left.

-

Flora had just settled in for the night, a small loft area for her to use as she pleases. Although she doesn't have a proper room, I plan to change one of the unused rooms into a proper space for her if she wishes. For particularly gruesome patients, I always ask her to return to her normal room and she does. What a sweetheart. I hum a tune as I pack away balms and bandages to use another day. The quiet is nice with the shadowy atmosphere, few things would dare disturb such a calm. Few, but never zero.

The door is quickly flung on its hinges as Scar, Ekko's seemingly stern right-hand man, bursts into the room, startling me and Flora, who was very nearly drifting off. His eyes are wide with a certain kind of distress only a worried father can display. In his arms is his screaming baby girl, the poor dear clearly unwell. Not a word is said as I take her from his arms and usher her to the nearest and softest place to lay her. Scar seems to shake with terror. He must be almost as frightened as her.

I gently feel her forehead to vaguely check my suspicions of a fever and am pleased to have guessed correctly. I swirl my hands with a dark blue starry mist forming into shapes and animals, floating and playing with one another as a distraction for the poor baby. Her cries seem to dull, if only for a moment. Her concentration taken from what I could only assume to be a headache and placed on a starry fox prancing amongst a now fully formed forest scene. With the distraction working, I quickly gather a child friendly medication for her. Its a sweeter flavour than most but she surely won't mind or care as she is too enraptured by the friendly forest creatures of my hometown.

She doesn't fight or fuss over the medication, simply grumblles a little, and turns back to her little show. However, I'm reminded of another presence when the silence is broken by his ragged breathing. I assume Flora is asleep after the littlest was calmed. I pick her up and move towards where Scar is sat. The larger man looks utterly horrified, his normally steady stance shattered at the thought of his daughter being deathly ill. Luckily, it seems to be not much more than a fever and headache.

"Rough day?" I ask simply as I bounce her lightly in my arms before handing her back to Scar. He sighs as he carefully grips her small form, his lip twitches up in a quick huff of air and smirk paired as one.

"Something like that. Is she going to be okay?" He quickly switches topics to avoid the obvious worry I have forming for him.

"Of course, it doesn't seem like anything serious. No real magic had to be used aside from my little 'puppet show' for her." I gently tickle under her chin, causing her to giggle at the attention. Scar's eyes bounce up to meet mine, and he smiles. Staring into his eyes, I see the clear tiredness of a struggling parent.

"We shou-"

"You should stay." I catch him before he tries to flee. Why is he so against taking a break? If not for his own sake, why not her sake? "I have a cot she can use, and we have spare room for you both it really wouldn't trouble us. To be able to look after her, you need to be able to look after yourself."

He looks down and grimaces but nods and follows while I guide him to one of the spare rooms that are likely to keep longer-term patients, but I've never had that, so they're empty. I bring him to a room with items for caring for babies and a bed big enough for him to sleep nearby. He lays her down so gently that it makes me honestly question what I even know about the man.

"Thank you." Is the last thing spoken between us as I leave for the night.

-

This is the first of a few of our encounters, seemingly becoming more frequent. His eyes always a sharp contrast to their normal rough shape and instead becoming soft around me and little Riri. Maybe a small bit of progress, but it is progress nonetheless.

She quickly recovered and yet Scar was adamant on staying and asking me to care for her when I could, which was admittedly most of the time since the only patient I seem to ever recieve is the vastayan himself. As though he was allowing only himself to take the rougher hits to get treated by me.

The door to the clinic gently clicks open and Scar appears in the room, Flora and Riri are playing in the far corner and I'm reading a worn down book on the counter.

"Pick up time already? My, how the time flies. I-"

"Actually I'd like to stay tonight, if thats okay?"

My face contorts to one of confusion, but I won't lie and say it isn't a pleasant surprise. I simply nod, thinking he'd leave to the room he's basically claimed as his and Riri's. However as he stops he nods me over.

Curious, I follow without any debate. Flora will look out for Riri and knows what she's doing by now. He sighs as he drops to sit on the bed and pats a spot next to him.

"I, I have had trouble sleeping." He grimaces and puts his back against the wall. "I was wondering if you could use those illusions of yours to help me?"

My eyebrows raise, and my mouth falls open slightly. He's asking me to use my magic on him? I was convinced he hated it as he only ever cautiously stared when I'd used it. I thought he was afraid. His brows are pulled together, and he can't meet my eyes, hands placed on his lap in front of him.

"Why would I ever turn down my second best patient?" I grin at him and he looks up confused.

"How am I second?" Almost offended, a fake snarl on his lips but a slight upturn that is barely hiding a smirk.

"Oh poor dear," my hand gingerly raises to meet his cheek, "are you jealous?"

He quickly breaks and chuckles, fake snarl failing completely, instead changing to a weak smile. Oh, so we are like that, I suppose. The grin on my face turns to a full smile that I hope properly conveys the joy that comes with the accidental confession of sorts.

"How could you possibly be jealous of your own daughter? The little thing has been such an angel, why wouldn't she be my number one." I tease knowing it will irk him slightly.

Before I can revel in my slight victory, he gets in close and grabs a hold of my jaw. Eyes meeting mine in an intense stare before quickly pressing his lips to mine. Simple. Yet so impactful. He pulls back and his eyes droop, the tiredness still there yet he seems far more awake somehow.

"Shut up and work your magic, mage. The quicker your done, the quicker we can sleep."

"We? Whoever said I was going to sleep too?"

"Me."

---

OKAY I THINK I LOST THE PLOT OF WHAT I ORIGINALLY WANTED TO DO WITH THIS PROMPT BUT I can't lie, they're cuties still 🤭

I'll be getting through each request one at a time and will post when I open them up again, sorry this took so long (im still reeling from Act 3 ngl but also life is catching up to me so it might be a sec)

[lunatic-pudge]

FUCKING PREACH IT, HOMIE!!!!!!

But seriously, this fandom has a serious infantalization problems with characters such as Scout and Pyro.

Like, they see Scout, they see how he's this hyperactive, childish merc who's "God's gift to women" and immediately immediately boil him down to him being a grown man-child. He's literally 27, can drive, kills people for a living, and has been shown to pull women.

Yeah, he's immature and childish, but you gotta remember he's almost in his 30's, is the youngest of seven older brothers, and works to help support his mom (who he had to watch struggle to raise him and his older brothers on her own)

And then you get Pyro, who gets the worst of it. Pyro's case gets me especially heated cause they're infantilized due to them being mentally unwell. These are probably the same people that wouldn't even sit near Pyro IRL cause they think "Schizophrenia=evil monster"

Yes, Pyro also kills for a living, but that's cause it's their JOB. Schizophrenia is such a complicated condition, and it gets such a bad rep. I don't have Schizophrenia, so obviously, I can't speak for those who do have it. But I know for a damn fact that those who have it don't appreciate how people treat it.

Now we know Pyro is an adult, what age are they we don't know. My guess is that they're close to Sniper and Scout in age. We also know that Pyro handmade their weapons and was CE-FUCKING-O OF AN ENGINEERING COMPANY. I can not stress enough that there's so much more to Pyro's character, but everyone and their Mother's wanna look at them and go, "Aww, look at the precious baby. They don't realize that they're hurting people"

I think another thing that plays into it is that they appear to like things that can be considered "childish" (Balloonicorn, bubbles, rainbows, ect.) But you can be a fully grown and functioning adult and like those things. I'm 22, and I have a huge ass stuffed animal collection. I have friends who are in similar boats as me. It's normal.

Okay, I'll shut up for now. I just hate how people treat some of these mercs.

[seriouslycromulent]

The Math Ain't Mathing

So I'm sure people are going to accuse me of being a conspiracy theorist, but the more I think about the results of this US election, the more it's clear that things aren't adding up.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm well aware of the US's long history of racism and misogyny, and it is totally possible -- in theory -- that more people voted for a moronic straight, white male who is an ajudicated grapist and convicted felon over a more-than-qualified, intelligent, results-driven woman of color for a position as leader of the wealthiest nation on earth.

I'm not saying that couldn't happen. But did it? Legitimately?

The more I think about Trump's campaign, the more fishy this result seems.

So here was a man with ...

virtually no policies (that he could talk about openly),

no ground game,

no door knocking apparatus to urge folks to get out the vote,

no phone banking,

he was constantly running out of money and had to shill products to raise more,

stole money from down ballot candidates, putting their marketing strategies at risk,

found liable for SA,

found guilty of millions of dollars in fraud,

constantly rambles and shows clear signs of being mentally unwell,

invokes violent and hateful language against specific communities as well as individuals,

bragged about being a dictator on Day 1,

had over 40 former cabinet members declare him unfit for office,

was called a fascist by his own former chief of staff,

was not endorsed by any reputable economists,

saw a flood of lifelong Republicans -- literally millions of them -- abandon their party to vote for his opponent,

has been impeached twice,

has seen sharply, dwindling crowd sizes at his rallies for the last 6 weeks,

... and somehow he won the popular vote by 5 million?

Even though he never won the popular vote in 2016? Or 2020?

Suddenly he "found" a bunch of votes from people who liked him?

Um, no.

Just no.

One of Trump's biggest failings is that he and his team tell lies like children. That is, they've never learned how to keep things believable. Like a misguided 10-year-old who is desperate to impress someone with his whopper of a tale, he always exaggerates to the point of hyperbole and insults our intelligence.

For example, he told us his rally at Wildwood, NJ, this past summer had 108,000 even though the town itself only has 80,000 residents and the venue he held the rally in only held 20,000 people.

Or how he kept insisting that American kids are going to school and somehow receiving gender reassignment surgery over a couple of days and without parental consent before being sent home.

Each lie is so over the top and grandiose it makes him look infantile while at the same time insults our knowledge of reality.

And that's exactly what this feels like.

There is no way this man won the majority of the votes and the popular vote after only winning due to the electoral college the first time and not at all the second time. More people vilify him now than they did in 2016 and 2020, and that's saying something.

There just aren't enough voters in the US to give him a clear path to victory here no matter how committed his sycophants are to white supremacy. MAGA voters are not the majority of the voting electorate.

Also the fact that the exit polling data is suspiciously similar to the same tall tales Trump's been selling for the past year about how he had a ton of support in the Latino and Black communities, despite there being no data to support it at all. He was polling damn near 0% in some majority black communities like Detroit and Atlanta.

Yeah ... no.

This math ain't mathing.

I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but I know when something isn't adding up. And nothing about these results add up at all.

On top of that, they ran their entire campaign like they didn't care about people getting out to vote. They kept insulting different segments of the electorate over and over again, as if they didn't need the votes of single people or people without children.

Plus, we saw record voter registration leading up to the election. More people voting early in state after state, and millions of people voting for the first time in their lives. But somehow there were fewer votes cast in this 2024 election than in the 2020 election?

Hell, Georgia alone tripled its early voter turnout. So how is this election getting fewer votes than 4 years ago?!

There were historically longer lines than ever before in parts of the country that never saw long lines, and yet there were millions fewer votes counted so far this year? Are we really to believe that all those long lines and so many new voters managed to only add up to 136M versus 158M who voted in 2020?

I call bullshit!

Also, a number of folks are commenting on how quickly the states were called. In all my years of voting, I've never seen a US election turning around so fast.

Yeah, the math ain't mathing.

Sure, he could've eeked out a win via the Electoral College without the popular vote like he did in 2016, but given her momentum and the majority of the polls either favoring her or having had them tied, none of these results pass the smell test.

Meanwhile, Harris had a multigenerational, multiracial, multiethnic, multigendered coalition of enthusiastic supporters who volunteered, phone banked, door knocked, and fundraised in every state plus D.C. Her media strategy was savvy, her interviews were sharp and intelligible, and her demeanor was inclusive and congenial. Again, not putting anything past good ole American racism and misogyny, but all the data showed that her supporters were clearly larger in number and more enthusiastic than his.

Long story short --

I do believe we are witnessing the American government being hijacked and a dictator installed right before our very eyes.

[stressedoatmeal]

I fear ya’ll do not understand Ronan and Adam like I do. Granted I read the entirety of td3 within 16 hours and it feels mostly like a fever dream (I genuinely had to reread a good portion of Greywarren to believe sweetmeatles were actually a thing) so take everything with a grain of salt. but the decisions those two made? Understandable. Not right but not wrong. They’re kids. They’re kids who are both mentally unwell. They have never understood what proper communication is. It was NEVER taught to either of them. Ronan abandoning Adam for Bryde? That’s fucked but sounds like what a kid fresh out of high school would do. The ecoterrorism? Honestly dudes a literal god who doesn’t know he’s a god. He’s gonna do some bad stuff. Adam abandoning Ronan when Ronan goes to sleep? Shit man that’s messed up.. but also Adam tried and tried again to help Ronan and states in almost every book of trc that he is not going to babysit the dude. Ronan has to understand the consequences. Also god forbid a traumatized 19/20 year old try and figure shit out and do the wrong thing. Ronan is 19 in call down the hawk. Adam is also 19. The shit I did at 19 was fucked. I don’t understand why people are putting these characters, who we love for how realistic and three dimensional they are, on this moral pedestal. They’re gonna do bad things. Teenagers do bad things. I don’t know how long it’s been since you guys were teenagers/young adults but it seems like it’s been a while.

Not trying to make people mad with this and I’m totally fine with criticism to what I say, Speak your truth. I’ve just seen so many ppl ripping the trilogy apart due to these things in particular and I’m like ? Sounds like normal teenage decisions (or as normal as it can be considering the nature of the story)

[nowimjustastranger]

I have been binge-reading your tumblr all day, and AHHHH, dude I love the StCMO AU so much holy shit. I cannot get enough of it. I actually read a Rick and Morty fic somewhat similar to this? It only focuses on one perspective, though. High key recommend:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22024960

Also love love loveee your fics! I actually first subscribed to your AO3 back when you were first writing Supernatural fanfiction, and then I found you again when I got into Gravity Falls ❤️. The Supernatural to Gravity Falls pipeline is SO REAL and there are so many similarities between Dean vs Stan and Sam vs Ford that it haunts me. I have so many fic ideas just based on episodes of Supernatural 😂. HIWTHI is actually lightly inspired by s2e20.

Sorry, I'm ranting. I had a few questions related to StCMO:

1. What would StCMO!Ford do about a Stan and Ford stuck in a death time loop together? Somewhat similarly to Deja Vu by interlude (though it doesn't have to be), but if it wasn't resolved? I gotta know how he feels about the crossbow death 😭

2. WWS!FD if Bill is constantly going after Stan through Rico and the cartel and whoever else because Ford wanted to make amends with his brother before the portal was finished? Bill doesn't want the distraction, and all of Stan's enemies are easily manipulated into deals to kill Stan off? (an AU of mine i've been toying with)

3. Does he ever feel a little bit detached after going through so many dimensions of Stans and Fords? I feel like it would be easy to become desensitized to it and forget the original perspective he started with.

Holy shit hi! Lovely to see you in the bottomless hole that is the GF fandom with me lmao. And yeah, lots of parallels with respective sets of brothers! I will absolutely read your fic rec! It looks delicious.

Death Loop

Admittedly, Ford 419"3 would have some trouble getting into the time loop, but he'd find a way if it meant safely breaking it. The hardest part for Ford 419"3 would be seeing Stan die and having to wait for the loop to reset. Lots of bad memories being dredged up. Because not only is he traumatized by his time in Bill's clutches, but the missions that go wrong had also left lingering mental wounds. Ford would have to figure out how to keep Stan and his brother alive long enough for Ford to actually break the time loop, so he'd have his hands full to say the least.

Bill is a Bitch

Ford would be having none of that shit. He'd probably enlist Lee to act as a bodyguard and have Lee deliver Stan to his brother safely while Ford handled the threats at the source (ie: wiping out all the gangs that have a vendetta against Stan). After he finished his task or removing the vast majority of threats against Stan to make it harder for Bill to find a puppet, Ford 419"3 would meet Lee and Stan at his counterpart's shack, showing his counterpart the evidence that he and Lee had collected to prove that Bill was behind the attempts on Stan's life.

Same Shit, Different Day

Ford doesn't become desensitized, per say, but seeing so much bad shit does leave it's mark on him. Instead of becoming numb to it, he had become obsessed with the safety of his loved ones. He's mentally unwell in the sense that he's constantly on alert, no longer able to truly let his guard down. Even with Lee and the niblings, unfortunately. He's more like a feral animal than a man, viciously protecting those that he considers his until death. He has insomnia due to his anxiety and paranoia, only sleeping when his body literally shuts down on him. Lee and Fiddleford are working on coaxing him to sleep a little here and there before that happens, but it's slow-going.

[ai-art-thieves]

The Jeremy James Hammers master blocklist

If you encounter any of these accounts, block and report. Do not interact with him. Do not reply. Do not follow. Do not reblog. This man is mentally unwell and any form of interaction will fuel his ego and/or make him worse.

Tumblr Accounts (if bold, it's active)

stopharassingme

sweetiguessso

jesusandthesheep

whenheskissinyou

judahmaccabees

idealog

toranato

tejuti

kazpar

azarafel

frmag

ortael

novjerusalem

abm000

Martiangem

Wordpress Accounts

judebattleangel

thecorrectbible

zelav.design.blog

Anumaraj

horam804897865

tejuti (yes, the same name used on one of the tumblr blogs.)

lightonly

hammerofgod842640536

YouTube Accounts

Christ, Jeremy James Hammers 🌞

Jamunnna

Jesus (Jeremy Christos)

Malachi 3 2 ♌ ~ Cursed to Hell, Murderers.

Isa (@MatthewTwentyFiveGoldenRule)

Facebook Accounts

Jeremy James Hammers (a private account)

Jesus Crist (Elohim Spirit)

Jeremy Hammers (he has this account linked on his sweetiguessso blog)

Jeremy Hammers (yes, there's another account named "Jeremy Hammers".)

Jeremy Hammers (this one is under "jeremy.hammers.146". Could very well be one of his first.)

Other accounts

LinkedIn (Jeremy James Hammers (or jjmh))

Twitter (Jeremy38631722 (locked unless you follow him. Possibly banned/blocked by Elon due to him being super creepy with both him and Donald Trump.)

Reddit (could not find his account anywhere, but from what I had gathered from his posts, he was a part of the r/lds (latter day saints) subreddit before getting blocked and muted.)

Hellopoetry.com (The Last Honest Fellow Tzav)

Vimeo (Jeremy (user232649230))

Soundcloud (Alberto Dijonero)

Instagram (jeremiahkingslayer)

[aziraphales-library]

Hi hi hi! I’m looking for some longer hurt/comfort fics. I love angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, anything dealing with mental illness or unwellness, things like that. Preferably over 50k! Sorry if this is super specific! Doesn’t matter if it’s an AU or canon compliant. Thank you 💗

Hello. We have #angst, #hurt/comfort, #emotional hurt/comfort, and #mental health tags so check those out. Here are some 50k+ fics, at least some of which we have recommended before. Mind the tags on these!...

Sharp Objects by ElderlySardine (M)

Back in the mid-nineties, Aziraphale and Crowley had it all. They were friends, lovers, soulmates. Life was hard, but as long as they were together it didn't matter. Then in one catastrophic fight caused by Aziraphale's cruel, coercive brother Gabriel, the whole thing came crashing down. The boys parted company for good. Now it's 2021. Life has spun Crowley and Aziraphale in very different directions before throwing them back together at their lowest ebb. Can they manage to hide their history from their new friends? Can they forgive each other, and themselves? Could there possibly still be something there between them? And with Gabriel still lurking on the horizon, will they be strong enough to do anything about it?

And There Will Be Great Lamentations by TheBobblehat (M)

It has been a month since Aziraphle has become the new Archangel of Heaven, and it's worse than he can possibly imagine. Due to Gabriel's poor management while he was in charge, Azirpahle has been playing catch-up with all the paperwork that Gabriel didn't bother to do. On top of that, while Aziraphale has a shiny new title, he still can't seem to garner the respect of his fellow Angels, and now without Crowley, is feeling more lonely than ever before. Meanwhile, on Earth, Crowley isn't doing much better. Depressed, he haunts the bookshop under the lame excuse that he's "supervising" Muriel in their new position as bookseller. That old, demonic spark has long gone, and all that's left is a very depressed, very heartbroken shell of his former self.

Hold Me Until The Morning by TheLinThing (E)

Anthony Crowley is a lot of things, but mostly single and very unhappy about it. His brain is not his best friend, and that makes it hard for him to find love. Until a certain handsome blonde walks into the gaybar he frequents, and Anthony can only hope he can keep his fears in control so they won't be interfering with his plans for this angelic man.

Tiny little fractures by Wildphoenix_ofthe80s (M)

In a human AU, Aziah Fell and Anthony Crowley meet while looking for distraction on a self harm help message board. Please pay close attention to tags, they're there to protect you.

Introduction to Philosophy – an Inter-Faculty Course by Black_Bentley (E)

Everyone who participates in the Introduction to Philosophy course regrets they chose it for an "easy credit" as one of the students is taking critical thinking to an absurd level that is going nowhere (...), while the other can’t be bothered to think for himself. It would be hilarious if they weren’t so damned annoying. As for those annoying students, Crowley falls deeply in love and Aziraphale... Aziraphale is prophesied by their fellow student Anathema to break Crowley's heart Initially started as a half-silly something inspired by this post on Tumblr*, but then it got angstier and more disturbing than the first chapters would suggest. Please, mind the tags, but I promise a happy ending! *If you ever had That Student in any Philosophy course, you know what this is about.

Free by imposterssyndrome (E)

Anthony J Crowley's been living rough since he was kicked out by his parents as a kid. Somehow he's made it to the age of 40 and he's still alive, but if you asked him, he's not really sure how the hell he's managed it. It's not been pretty. Alistair Zachariah (Az) Fell runs a bookshop, but is still under the strict yoke of his parents: their eternal disappointment. 40 years old and he's desperately unhappy and hit crisis point. They meet (again?) as inpatients in an acute mental health ward. They have nothing in common. Obviously. How could they? They're practically opposites. So why are they so drawn to one another?

- Mod D

[dr-spectre]

The scrunkly-ification of this man in the community needs to get studied via a microscope.

Friendly reminder to those who forgot, this man is probably responsible for hundreds if not thousands of deaths during the Great Turf War (although both sides were kinda fucking bad), he feds his army and society propaganda via music to motivate them to fight. He allows CHILD SOLDIERS INTO HIS ARMY!!!! He has stolen the Inklings power source several times without even trying to negotiate peace due to prejudice between the two groups.

He manipulated and then later hypnotised a mentally unwell Callie in order to get her to help him. Despite Callie willing to help, he still hypnotised her so that she doesn't randomly change her mind and keep her under his control more. Or at least that's what I speculate as to why Octavio developed the Hypnoshades for Callie in specific. She is very chaotic even under the shades, and when you factor in her being mentally ill during the events of Splatoon 2, yeah I can see why Octavio would develop the shades.

Although he didn't brainwash his army or Callie, I'll give him that. Like I've gone over Hypno Callie MANY MANY TIMES on this blog before and the whole idea of Octarians being brainwashed slaves is fucking stupid as hell and factually false. He at least allowed Callie to decorate his bases, influence the Octarians, and give them more motivation after their loss in Splatoon 1. He never restrained her, he never abused her or tortured her, hell he didn't fucking kidnap her despite what you have may been told, but I've said that trillions of times before.

He was never truly evil or malicious in his acts but Octavio still ain't no saint. He did redeem himself somewhat at the end of Splatoon 3, but he isn't some cute and cuddly 130 year old octopus guys. He's a war general and will do ANYTHING to save his people. He will kill teens and manipulate the mentally unwell to save his people from death. He's filled with nuance and I think we gotta respect that more. Not turn him into some cuddly cute octopus guy who's a good person.

Im not hating on those who do so and make fan comics and art where Octavio is more laid back and is a silly grandpa. It has its place in the community, Splatoon is a silly franchise!!! We should have fun of course! But I don't want y'all to forget what kind of man Octavio truly is and the acts he's done for over 100 years.

[alexthebordercollie]

Going to bounce off of what you talked about with your thoughts regarding Stan's relationships and just say I totally know what you mean about shipping two characters together because it's funny!

Heck I ship Lazy Susan with both Stan and Ford because I just think the idea of her being with either of them to be extremely funny and cute lmaoo.

So sorry for the late reply (not been posting much for a while been sick and busy) but I actually have been playing around with Emma-Stan as a possible PapaFord ship ^3^

My Emma-may is mixed race and from a Ciphertologist family. She was too little when Billville was disbanded to remember it, but her family still practices behind closed doors. It was an incredibly toxic environment with very mentally unwell caretakers, and rumors that the Dixons were devil worshipers made her a social pariah. She befriended Fidds, who was the dweeby awkward baby of a family of five sons. Emma was his cool, scary friend who drove away the bullies and the two weirdos stuck together in a small town where neither of them were very popular.

She was Fiddleford's best friend, and as they got older, everyone just expected them to end up together. When Fiddleford went off to college, he promised to come back and marry her after getting his degree, which he did indeed do. Emma didn't know any other way at the time to get away from her family but to leave with Fidds. Their marriage grew increasingly rocky over the years due to Fidds being a closeted gay man (unbeknownst to Emma) and Emma being increasingly bored and frustrated by life as a housewife and mother. Emma-May is naturally hot-headed and brash and always has been. She's a loud strong strong-willed woman who doesn't fit well into other people's boxes. She's actually very clever in her own right and learned programming from Fiddleford. She got into making video games as a hobby. She simply never had access to the kind of educational opportunities Fiddleford got. I was going to make this a comic but I was having a hard time drawing this one for whatever reason so I decided to write a short fic instead I hope it still satisfies even though there are fewer pictures. -3-

That's your Ex-Wife?

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

"Thanks for comin' to help out."

Stan picked up the twang from around the corner. Heading out the kitchen side door and back to the truck. Ford's neurotic string bean of a boyfriend had speed walked ahead of them on the way over a caught Emma-May before they did. She'd gone off to run an errand with their boy and Fidds had let the Pines brothers in to start bringing in boxes without her. It sounded like she was back. Certainly sounded like Stan expected Fiddleford's wife to sound.

"Oh no it's nothin' it's the least we could do." Fidds insisted as he pulled another box from the back of the truck.

Stan watched as the box jerked Fidds arms down. He struggled for a second to catch it and tried to support the weight with his back. Flashing a pained smile around the truck.

"Yo Fidds, ya need help with that?" Stan offered as he approached.

He registered the woman's voice before he saw her face.

"Oh look, if it ain't the home wrecker," she snarked in that southern drawl.

Stan stopped shy of taking the box from Fiddleford and looked past him.

Holy shit, that was Emma-May?

Stanley didn't know much about Fiddleford's ex-wife. He'd seen the two argue on the phone a few times. Caught her voice in passing once or twice. Their son Tate had come to stay with them a few times while his folks were working out the divorce.

Stan knew Emma-May was hot headed woman but nothing could have prepared him for just how hot she was.

A light-skinned black lady greeted him curtly with her hands on her hips. Caramel skin and a mess of chocolate freckles. Dame looked like dessert. She had on a low-neckline paisley blouse with free titties underneath like the best kind of feminist hippie. Not that Stan was a fan of either of those things but he could certainly be convinced of both if it meant he got a peak of nips through the thin orange fabric. Fuck man… He'd been expecting a traditional southern housewife but those daisy dukes were giving anything but.

Stan coughed and cleared his throat as he registered what she called him. Homewrecker.

"Oh hey," Stan cooed, brushing back his mullet before offering her five fingers. "You must have me confused for my brother toots," He corrected. Stan held out his hand and flashed his best smile. "Stanley Pines, the hot twin," he introduced playfully.

"Hey!" Ford interjected as he rounded the corner just in time to hear Stan's introduction.

Eh fuck em, he could take a joke. Not like he had anyone to impress. He was already raising to kids with his live in partner. His bachelor life was dead, he could stop trying now. As if he ever had.

Emma-May popped the gum in her mouth and looked down at Stan's hand for a moment before she took it with a playful smile. "I see that," She snarked playfully back. She had a firm grip and gave Stan's hand a good shake. "Dunno how I ever got ya'll two confused, my bad sug."

Stan couldn't help but beam. Straightening up his coat as he pulled back to rock leisurely on his heels. "No hard feelings doll, it's an honest mistake."

Fiddleford groaned and rolled his eyes. "Yes Stanley here moved in to help out with the twins," he explained.

"I recall," Emma-may assured him. Arms crossed as she looked Stan up and down. "Tate's mentioned ya, says yer fun."

"Glad someone around here appreciates me," Stan laughed and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. "He's a good kid."

Ford leaned in around Stan's shoulder and pointed back towards the house. "The twins are in the kitchen by the way," he warns. "I assure you the dog kennel I have them in is both entirely necessary and completely safe."

Emma-May jerked back a moment. Stan couldn't see her eyes but he could make an educated guess. "Ya'll keep yer babies in a kennel?!" She snapped at Fidds.

Fiddleford shrunk back holding the box to his chest. "I promise it ain't what it sounds like-"

"Newt can climb walls and Nick will chew through anything weaker than aluminum," Ford clarified, emphasizing his point with a hand gesture.

Emma-may winced and looked between the two Pines brothers before looking back at Fiddleford slightly horrified.

Fiddleford chuckled awkwardly and shrugged. "Welcome to Gravity Falls."

Emma-may snatched up the box Fiddleford was struggling with and hoisted it over her shoulder without breaking a sweat. "I swear ya better not make me regret comin' here," she snapped.

"I sure hope not," Stan stressed. "Man already blew it once, can't let him scare you off before someone else gets a shot."

Emma-may looked back a little surprised. She cracked and laughed into her knuckles. A cute little pig snort of a laugh. "Are you volunteering over there sharp shooter?" she teased.

Stan shot finger guns back at her with a click of his tongue and a wink. Grinning ear to ear.

Emma-may laughed harder and threw her head back. She slapped a juicy thigh and took a second to collect herself. Fuck, that laugh, Stan could get used to that laugh.

"Ain't ya bold mother fucker-"

"I mean," Stan shrugged, leaning in playfully. "Go big or go home, might as well aim for the hottest mama in town."

Emma-may smirked back at him. "Well, good luck with that slick. Let me know how it works out fer ya."

Emma turned to head back inside and Stan certainly couldn't complain. He'd never be disappointed watching that fine ass leave. Holy Moses, those shorts! That denim was working overtime to contain that much ass.

A harsh throat clearing pulled Stan's attention away. He turned to see Fiddleford glaring at him red faced. The twiggy blonde scarecrow looked so puffed up he pop a blood vessel. "What the fuck was that!?" he hissed, waving franticly in the direction Emma-May had left.

Stan looked back towards the open front door then turned his attention back to Fiddleford. "What?"

"Did you seriously just hit on my ex-wife?!" Fiddleford bocked in exasperation.

"Did you seriously leave a dime like that for my dweeby brother?" Stan huffed indignantly. Crossing his arms over his chest.

"I'm right here." Ford whined from behind Fiddleford.

"Can it Sixer, this ain't about you," Stan dismissed.

"Could ya go check on the kiddos Sugarbear?" Fiddleford cooed sweetly.

Ford rolled his eyes and turned back to the truck bed. Scooping up a couple boxes and heading back inside. Fiddleford watched him leave before turning on Stan again. Jabbing his chest with a boney finger. "You listen up and you listen good," he warned. "You keep yer greasy paws off Emma-May, we clear?"

Stan furrowed his brow and frown. Who the hell does this guy think he is? Stan shoved Fiddleford back. Man was ninety pounds soaking wet, Stan wasn't about to let this little weasel push him around. He didn't care if he was his brother's boyfriend.

"Where do you get off getting all possessive now?" Stan snapped back. "You're the one who cheated, you didn't want her then but as soon as someone else is interested you wanna act you own her?"

Fiddleford growled back at him before collecting himself. Pulling back to rub the faint scar on his temple. "Look, we go way back ya understand? She's my best friend."

"I thought Stanford was your best friend," Stan snarked back with giant air quotes.

Fiddleford glowered at him. "I know how ya treat women Stanley," he leaned in again. Practically nose to nose with Stan. "If you hurt her, god have mercy on my soul cause I'm goin' to hell," he threatened.

Stan laughed and pulled back. Slapping Fiddleford's shoulder. "Ah fuck! HA! For what? Crying at me? You gonna tickle me with those noodle arms?" Stan hugged his gut to contain his laughter and wiped a tear from his eye. "Oh man, go right ahead and do your worst Fiddlesticks I ain't scared," he grinned back at Fiddleford.

"I mean it Stanley," Fiddleford insisted.

Stan gave his shoulder a light jab and watched the other man wobble and rub his arm. Still twisting up that squishy baby face of his with the meanest look he could muster. Stan offered him a sincere smile and a hand extended. "Look you wanna play better man be my guest. If I fuck up you better put your money where your mouth is."

Fiddleford frown down at Stan's hand before hesitantly reaching for it with a raised eyebrow.

Stan took Fidds hand and pulled it in. "And if I make that southern bell ring you back off like a real gentleman, ya got that?"

Fiddleford's frown wobbled irritably before he spat out a reluctant, "Fine."

[rayclubs]

Thoughts on the Zoldyck family dynamics because I'm normal and fine and normal.

Their grandfather is law. He seems to handle the most dangerous contracts, he oversees the kids' training, but he doesn't seem very personally involved - as in, he doesn't interact with them directly and doesn't appear to be interested in what they do at all, unless it's work-related. I think he's one of those set-in-their-ways old people who's had a long streak of valuable achievements throughout their life so they think themselves infallible. I think Kuroro would have obliterated his ass but he would die before he admitted it.

Now, Silva, being the father figure of the family, is compensating like all hell. Literally no other reason for a man to be this tits-out gigantic, but Zeno is still the head of the family, and that deals major damage to Silva's ego. In way of self-validation, he arranges this distant yet carefully controlled relationship with his kids, and he likes being seen as the Cool Dad, but only very rarely, so that every crumb of his attention is sought after with utmost devotion. I don't actually think he hates Zeno or anything though, I think he kind of secretly also wants to be validated by him but it's just not happening because Zeno doesn't give enough of a fuck.

Kikyo is not a presence in the Zoldyck family business. She's also supremely mentally unwell. She's generally well-treated but often neglected by her husband, she's not as successful at her job as the men of the family due to having to split her time between assassinations and child care, she feels unfulfilled as a result and does it have any functional coping mechanisms for it. Like Silva, she seeks validation from her kids. Unlike Silva, she cannot build herself a Cool Mom profile that the older kids would respect, so she dotes on the younger children instead.

Illumi is the oldest child, so he was trained by either Zeno, Silva, or both, personally. He's diligent but untalented. He has a lot of discipline but very little main character juice in his veins. Due to his father's policy of keeping his kids at a distance, as well as his mother's overbearing control, most of the actual parental responsibilities regarding all the younger kids were pushed onto Illumi. He was a bit too young to get overly attached to Milluki in this manner, but he feels very protective of Killua both because they're fairly close as brothers, and because Illumi views his younger siblings as his responsibility. If anything were to happen to one of his brothers, it would be seen by the rest of the family as a failure on Illumi's part. However, due to being the oldest child, he actually spent the most time with Silva, so he lacks the puppydog instinct the man so fervently instills in all the other kids. Illumi is not looking for validation. He's terrified of his parents and grandpa.

Milluki is the failure of the family. He's desperate to please but neither talented nor diligent. His grandpa views him as moderately worthless, his father is too emotionally constipated after involving himself with the parenting of Illumi to even notice Milluki, and Illumi was too young when Milluki was born to become a substitute mentor figure for him. Milluki thinks Killua is stealing the attention he so desperately wants. How, you'd think that since Illumi is papa's boy, then, logically, Milluki would be mama's, and fucking hell he wishes he was, but his anime figurine collection is too cringe, and remember - he's desperate but not diligent. He's obedient but not clever. He can't pick up on social cues and emotional signals. He wants to do what his mom wants from him but can't meet her unpredictable tastes and unstable moods. She mildly dislikes him.

Killua is the prodigy. Illumi loves him, Silva can't wait to emotionally manipulate him to make himself look good, and Zeno pays attention to him but doesn't bother all that much with parenting him - all for previously established reasons. Kikyo tries to dot on him but he's only talented, not diligent - like Milluki, he can't give her what she wants. Unlike Milluki, Killua has a spine. He already has Silva's and Illumi's approval and validation, so he's not running after his mother looking for affections. He kind of starts doing his own thing after he meets some folks outside the family and they introduce him to the concept of free will.

Alluka is transfem and her father hates that whole ordeal viscerally. Like Milluki, she's neither talented nor diligent. Unlike Milluki, she has evil autism ontop of it all. Zeno and Kikyo wish she didn't exist. Milluki senses the similarity between them and doesn't actively dislike her but he's too busy chasing after everyone's approval to actually be a good brother to her. Illumi was so beyond traumatized by the time she was born, I'm actually fully convinced he removed her from his memory entirely or he would go insane. Killua likes her because she's weird and epic, she likes Killua because he's exactly the same.

Kalluto is finally a mama's boy, and holy shit does he play into it. She dresses him up and does his hair and kisses his forehead and calls him a sweetie, and he just wants to go outside for one (1) day. Silva likes him fine but he's still riding the high from Killua looking at him with admiration in his eyes once so he leaves the matter to Kikyo and Illumi, as per usual. Illumi loves Kalluto in a similar way to how he loves Killua, but Kalluto is more protected and far, far more obedient, so Illumi isn't scared for him nearly as much. Milluki thinks Kalluto is annoying, but Kalluto is emotionally intelligent enough to avoid conflict and not provoke any hatred. Killua thinks Kalluto is a stupid little baby and Kalluto honest to god does not care. Kalluto likes Illumi, is indifferent towards Silva and Zeno, tolerates and at times even loves Kikyo, and is too young to properly remember Alluka. Thank god the spider adopted him.

Thanks for reading, 'ight cheers.

[lovelyrocker]

I honestly do not understand how someone could watch/listen to the Painful Lessons podcast, the Bill Maher interview or the Piers Morgan interview and look at all the evidence out there and not see the unbelievable amount of horseshit they put Armie through!

I have spent a LOT of time on Effie's (and others) Instagram and Twitter looking at their "evidence". Most of their (Effie for sure) responses are left out or removed so you are only getting Armie's response. You are missing half of the conversation. And when you do get her half she is verifying his statements. Like Effie posting her screenshots of them planning the CNC scene proving it was mutually planned!

I'm not saying the man is innocent. He was a drug addict and an alcoholic. He emotionally abused women who equally used him for money, gift, etc. He was an asshole and a dick and he admits it. A big part of recovery is admiting you wrongs and holding yourself accountable.

It reality he was fast and loose with his sexual escapades and it just so happens he was in a position that they became very public. I think he is a great actor and deserves a comeback.

Being a dick is not a crime.

Having sadistic kinks is not a crime.

Cheating, while horrid and disgusting, is not a crime.

Two and a half years of police investigation and no charges. Not innocent but not a criminal.

I think Effie is confused and mentally unwell. Looking at how she speaks to people and how she is in general screams of a woman who needs help. What kind of true sexual assault survivor wished rape on a child?! Not a real one. As far as the other women go, well the fact that items from the House of Hammer "documentary" were removed due to proof of false evidence says enough. As well the fact that he never even met one of them.

And don't even get me started on his ex wife.

I so glad he waited to speak out of wisdom and healing as opposed anger. I as well asany others are so proud of you Armie.

[hellfirecvnt]

I've Got My Eye on You Pt. 1

Benson x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Misogyny, bullying, cheating, everyone's traumatized, abusive relationship (not with Benson), body shaming, mention of body dysmorphia/ weight concern due to harassment, kidnapping, stalking, violence, angst, Y/N is mentally unwell in a big way, it's not a Stockholm situation, but it's really gonna seem like that at first. Pls.

Summary: Benson's displeased with your inability to stand up for yourself. You're the distraction he needs to keep him from snapping.

"Are we really doing this again?" You pinch the bridge of your nose, staving off a headache. You've barely been awake for half an hour when your partner starts an argument. He claims you use a "tone" with him "all the time." But yet, he can't give an example. It's clear his baggage has caught up to him, and he's projecting onto you. You're too tired. You've had this argument a million times.

Despite the drama, you manage to get dressed and presentable for work. Being a paid intern isn't so bad, except yes it is. Your boss, Mr. Andrews, is a kind man, but his colleagues are another story. And it'd be a cold day in hell when someone checks them for it. With your significant other still bitching in the background, you mumble a goodbye and step out the door. If you give him too much attention, he'll make you cry again. And last time you went to work after crying, those... men had a heyday hazing you.

It's like any other day. You're an asset to the team and anyone would agree, but this doesn't free you from misogynistic comments and vulgar remarks thrown your way regularly. All you can do is remind yourself of all the changes you'll make when you're in their seats.

"Hey, Y/L/N, what are you thinkin' for lunch?" One of the more smarmy men asks.

"Oh, um-"

"Let's do that burger joint down the road. They're doing a deal." He interrupts, clearly uninterested in your answer.

"Yeah, okay. That works!" You chime, always oh so easygoing.

"Great, just go around and get everyone's orders and pick that up, will ya?" He grins and turns, taking off to his nice, fancy office down the hall. You roll your eyes, sighing heavily before doing exactly what he so rudely demanded. Whatever, at least I'm paid for this, you tell yourself.

You gather everyone's order and even decide to expand out to the "lower" level employees, seeing as no one said not to. Free lunch de company credit card. You make the trip and hesitantly step through the untidy entrance of the restaurant. It's not all around filthy in there, but it's certainly not hygienic. You make a mental note to stop somewhere else for your own food.

An unenthusiastic young woman at the counter takes your order monotonously and you take a seat at one of the empty booths while you wait for the large order. It's an odd bunch, the employees of this establishment. A handsome, broad-shouldered man keeps his eyes downcast as he mops the dining area. A scrawny blonde man silently cleans trays in the corner. In the kitchen you can hear two men arguing about something. You can only hope they're still cooking while yelling at each other.

You're visibly intrigued by the growing volume of the kitchen dispute and the man with the mop takes notice. He looks at you, and then to the kitchen. "They're always like that. Shouldn't take too long." He mumbles as he strategically cleans around the table right beside you. You notice his name tag says Benson.

"Oh, it's fine. It was a pretty big order," you chuckle. "Uh, for my coworkers." You clarify. You're not sure why, but you shudder at the idea of anyone thinking it's all for you, even while it's obviously a group order. It must be all those comments on your weight fluctuating. You know, like humans do. Benson slightly tilts his head and you shake your head and fake a smile, displeased with the power your superiors have over you. Even on a mental level. Even when you're alone.

"Alright," he nods, continuing across the dining area floor with his scraggly mop. The quiet blonde kid in the corner has moved on to another task, straightening up, trying to fix all the flaws you spotted on the way in. You sigh, waiting for what feels like ages, but it's only been a few minutes. Suddenly, your phone rings, causing you to jump. Benson notices your reaction across the room.

"Hello?" You answer nervously, already knowing it's your boss without having to check the name.

"Where you at, kid? These guys are getting overbearing over here," your boss laughs. He's the only tolerable one out of the whole group, and he runs this branch of the company, so you often wonder why he doesn't correct his underlings when they accost or harass you.

"Oh, it'll just be a little while longer. I ordered for everybody, so-"

"Everybody? Like sales and accounting too?" You can hear a commotion on the other end of the line and then someone else's voice booms through the phone.

"Who the fuck told you to do that? That's gonna take all fuckin' day!" An angry voice you can't place on its ugly face.

"I just did what I was told," you try to keep your voice low. "Mr. Dockins said to get everyone's order-" you're cut off again.

"You know good and god damn well what he meant, Y/N!"

"I'm sorry!"

"Get the fucking food and get back here STAT." You can hear your boss' calm voice ask what that was for as the phone is slammed on the receiver. You're already aware the whole, silent restaurant could hear the scolding you just caught. After this morning, you're fighting for your life to hold back tears. When you turn to see if anyone's staring, you're shocked to see every single eye on you, except Benson's. He's mopping away as if he's not taking in any and all information he can.

"My apologies," you breath, trying to remain composed. You can feel your nose and eyes reddening, but you don't let a single tear fall.

"Your boss a prick or what?" The unenthusiastic girl seems to perk up as she pries. Smiling deviously like your pain entertains her. She can't be older than 20.

"Uh, sorta. That wasn't really my boss."

"Yikes," she laughs, tauntingly. You want to be snarky in return, but she's young and could be off doing worse than working in a shitty burger joint. So you just smile flatly and return your attention to your phone. You answer as many emails as you can, scheduling several meetings and appointments in the process. Finally, the food is ready. You thank you mean girl and take your order to the car in two trips. You nod to the quiet kid and he thanks you for coming, inviting you back soon. No thanks, you think.

When you return to the office, you pass out everyone's food on the lower end first, just to make sure it makes it to them. They're thankful and a few women look at you with sympathetic eyes, knowing the extra time lost is gonna earn you a verbal lashing. "Mr. Andrews, I have your-"

"Y/N, you scheduled all my meetings for 3:00 PM." A different, equally terrible to Dockins, man meets you at the door as you walk into your boss' office.

"Yes, sir. You have a planning hour all week from one to two-thirty. And Wednesday, you have a luncheon with the investors."

"Three isn't going to work. You need to refigure the schedule. Can you work through lunch today? Since it took you over an hour, after all?" You tighten your jaw, 100% certain it did not take an hour, but you don't argue. You forgot to grab yourself something anyways.

"Of course, sir. Send me your planner link and I'll get right on it." You set the bags down and turn, ready to tackle this tedious next task.

"Wait!" The man snaps at you. "Give these people their food first. You've kept them waiting long enough." You sigh and feign a smile, taking the bags and making the rounds to pass out each complicated, stupid order. Your frustration rises by the minute. After fixing a schedule that was already perfectly laid out to a T, you relieve yourself of duty and clock out. The last person in the office, and of course, most of the lights have been turned out, leaving only a frustrating dim glow of the emergency lights.

You're tossing your belongings in the back seat of your car when a car passes by on the unoccupied street. They seem to slow down, but you're not thinking much of it. You're dreading getting back to your house after leaving during an argument this morning and it's taking up too much of your mental space for you to be aware of your surroundings.

It's a tan 1974 Chrysler Newport Custom 4-Door Sedan. A very specific car that you've seen before, but don't recall because of the insignificance. You're on your way home, dissociating and listening to music before returning to the warzone you call home. You're so zoned out that you don't notice the same car emerges from the side of the road. It lingers just far enough behind to leave you unbothered, unaware.

When you pull into your driveway, you're met with a bittersweet feeling. Your partner isn't there, but that also usually means he's out being unfaithful. At the very least, he's out being untrustworthy with your shared finances. You can only sigh. You leave your stuff in the car, too tired, mentally and physically, to cart it up your porch steps. Benson slowly cruises by, taking in every detail of your house. The address, the entrances he can see from the road, the broken garage door you tried to hide by just leaving it closed all the time.

Finally, you notice the car's strange behavior and you glance behind you, towards the road. Your hand on the key in your doorknob as you narrow your eyes. The car picks up a little speed and disappears beyond the trees. You shrug, figuring they were lost or admiring the lawn gnomes you've had to re-glue several times due to your partner lashing out. The memory makes your chest ache. You find yourself wondering how you ended up in such a loveless situation with someone so cruel and so different from the man you knew years ago.

When he finally returns home, yelling ensues almost instantly. Neither of you is keeping calm, as you've had time to recharge and now you're ready to return his energy, knowing nothing good ever comes of it. You're both going back and forth, slinging the meanest, most vulnerable insults you can fathom. You each grow angrier by the minute.

Unbeknownst to you or your partner, Benson's car sits right outside, and he watches the argument through your wide-open living room curtains. He can't hear anything from the fight, but he keeps a hard, focused eye on the man screaming at you. All of a sudden, your lover-turned-adversary grabs one of the large, decorative, glass candle holders and lobs it in your general direction. The heavy candle within lands with a loud thump against the wall, shattering the glass surrounding it. It misses you by quite a good bit, but even just throwing it near you sends you into fight or flight. Benson speeds off, squealing his tires, but it barely catches your attention.

"What the fuck?!" You scream. You're used to his violent outbursts, but he's never hurt you or even come close until now.

"I need to go the fuck to bed. I have work tomorrow," is all he says before stomping to the bedroom and slamming the door. You already know this means you'll be sleeping on the couch. Mostly by choice, so the argument isn't prolonged into the morning hours. He knows he overstepped, but he also knows you won't do anything about it. And you know it too.

The next day, work is like any other day. You're getting to actually complete tasks in your job title without interruption until about lunch when Mr. Dockins appears, peering over your cubicle. "Hey, Y/N," he draws out the vowel of his greeting, letting you know you're about to be given a demand in the shape of a "favor."

"What can I do for you?" You smile, unbreakable, at least on the surface.

"Me and the guys are thinkin' of hitting that burger joint again. Think you can make that run in under an hour this time?" He laughs, insinuating that the other employees are not included in this free food run.

"Of course, sir. I'll get everyone's order right after-"

"Just get the same things we ordered yesterday." He waves a dismissive hand, already walking away. You groan and lean over to your desk trash can to find the list of orders you threw away the day before. The liner has been freshly replaced, and another groan escapes your lips. You track down the janitor on duty, a kind woman, thankfully. She allows you to shamefully dig through the office trash and find the list. Luckily, the trash consists mostly of shredded documents, crumpled paper, and empty disposable coffee cups.

Piece of trash in tow, you make your way back to the restaurant. This time, the quiet kid is behind the counter. Benson's cleaning tables and there's no yelling coming from the kitchen. You read the quiet kid's name tag, Bradley. "Anything else?" He asks, smiling politely with hollow, sad eyes.

"That's it for me, Bradley," you chime. The pleasant interaction is visibly appreciated by both parties.

"Randy," Benson speaks suddenly.

"Excuse me?" You raise a brow, wondering if he might be on the phone or something.

"Bradley is his last name. His name is Randy."

"Oh! Okay, well." You swallow the knot you didn't realize was forming in your throat. "That's it for me, Randy. Thank you." You both smile, equally off-put by the interruption. You sit at the same table as before and check your messages. You missed a call from a coworker, so you take this time to check your voicemail. At full volume, your phone explodes the message into the dining room.

"Hey, Y/N!" The voice is taunting and you already know something terrible is coming. You try so hard to silence it or turn it down, but nothing's working. "Company card is only covering you if you get a salad. Those little skirts of yours are looking snug." You can hear others in the background snickering just before the message ends. You're mortified. You've never felt any sort of way about your body before this job. You were a normal person who didn't see fat as bad and you still don't... On other people. But on you? My God, it's like they climbed inside your head and reshaped the way your reflection looks in your eyes. It's not that you fear fatness, you fear giving them something else to bother you about. Nevermind the fact that most of them have beautiful, fat wives. Your face burns with embarrassment.

"Do you want me to, um..." Randy points to the register and to the kitchen with each of his hands.

"Yeah. A salad." You chuckle, but nothing's funny. You're just thankful the young woman from yesterday isn't working and didn't get to give her input on that disrespectful message. You decide it's just best to set your phone down and pray no one else from the office calls. Somewhere in the kitchen, the sound of shattering glass tears through the atmosphere. You jump, a reaction far too big for the extremely mild accident that must've happened just out of view. Your pulse is racing as all you can think about is the sound of the hefty decoration smashing just a few feet away from you the night before. Your face flushes and Benson doesn't miss a beat.

Your food is ready, much quicker than last time and you notice the gross, fast-food salad seems to have been prepared a little nicer than usual. Fresher. With extra dressing cups. You smile at Randy and Benson and nod your goodbye before heading out the door. The food run was swift and easy and your superiors burst into thunderous laughter when they see you with your salad. You're ashamed you even ordered it. Every day consists of you trying to eliminate anything that could get you in trouble, at home or at work. You thought getting the salad would alleviate the bullying, but it's clear that was a miscalculation.

The next two days are peacefully quiet. Your partner is acting normal for once and the men at work are finally getting together on a project, so it's taking a lot of their free time. ergo, there's no time to insult your appearance or IQ. Regardless of the fact that you are provably smarter and more efficient than any of them. None of this will matter when I'm climbing up that latter, you silently relay your mantra. Hoping it gives you the will to go on.

You haven't had to make any food runs, they have everything delivered when they're in meetings like this. You often wonder why that isn't always an option. You're almost allowing yourself to smile when you walk in the door and find your partner, once again, livid over a situation he seems to have made up. "Oh, God," you sigh.

"Why the fuck are you texting all these other guys?" You spend almost two hours explaining that your job is to text various clients links to their meeting planner and they respond to confirm. Not a single message goes further than that, but he's not hearing it. It's clear that he was out cheating the other night and now he's projecting. Benson's watching the whole time. He's taken to it like a hobby. He even parks his car at the end of the road so he can just stand in the dark and watch you. He's there most nights, watching the way you cave and crumple beneath yet another angry man.

Benson makes sure to never linger too long, almost like he's done this before. He takes off to his car, casually strolling down the road. He's gone and nobody on the street is the wiser. The next day, your peaceful streak has been crushed to nothing. In fact, your life changed completely overnight.

No one at work notices anything, why would they? You're almost thankful to be invisible while the others are so busy. Your desk phone rings and it's your boss, sending you on another food run. He explains that they waited too long to order delivery and it'd just be easier if they sent you. You happily agree. You take your list, saved this time, and head to the same restaurant for the third time to order the same things. Monotonous. Work is, at least.

As soon as you walk in the door, Benson's eyes are on you. He's no longer being secretive with his side glances, now he's staring. Staring right at your swollen, bruised eye. Not quite blackened, but damn near. Randy takes your order with a sympathetic look, but he doesn't say anything. He disappears into the kitchen.

"When did that happen?" Benson asks, breaking the silence. He's certain it wasn't there when he left your yard, but he can't quite say that.

"Oh, it's been there. I had a weird reaction to a new food." You're professional and sure-sounding. He almost believes you.

"Yeah? From here?" He raises an eyebrow.

"No, no. It was a seafood thing, I think. No big deal." You turn back to the empty counter, awkwardly waiting for your order. Wishing so badly it could be made in an instant so you can run and hide the evidence of your failed relationship. Benson glances at the kitchen, you're alone with him.

"Someone hurtin' you?" He asks, not looking up from his cleaning. You feel frozen. Like some sort of horrible fate awaits you if you answer.

"I- uh, no. Of course not," you force a laugh.

"You gotta stand up for yourself." And he's gone. Slipped into the back area off limits to customers. Almost like a ghost. You sneer at his words. How could he possibly know or understand the shit you endure at all times? Work and at home. Fuck him. You stare angrily at your phone, watching the number on your email app continuously grow.

Work wouldn't be so hard if your partner wasn't dragging you down. Your relationship might not have deteriorated if you had a less demanding job. You can find a way to blame yourself for anything, can't you? "Here you go," Randy says. He seems to be the only normal person who works here.

"Thank you." You grab the bag of greasy, fried food and do everything in your power to keep from running out the door. In the car, you waste no time reapplying your makeup, hoping to cover the visible mark that no one at work has so much as asked about. You're relieved they haven't noticed, but it's just another reminder of how little you're valued there.

Back at the office, it's the same old, same old. You can hardly allow yourself to react, so what's the point in feeling anything about the harassment at all? You force yourself numb, counting the minutes of your internship as it slowly ticks by. When you finally get off work, you dread the drive home so badly, you begin to cry. You allow yourself a private sob in the comfort of your car before driving home.

In the driveway sits your partner's car. Something in you feels dark and heavy. You know there is an argument looming over you and it's sure to only escalate in violence. Sure to surpass the closed fist to the eye you'd just taken the night before. You inhale a deep breath and exhale with closed eyes. As you do this, you feel watched. Your trembling hand frees you from the safety and peace inside your vehicle, and you head for the door.

You cram the key into the doorknob and hold your breath as the door opens. It's just like clockwork, so you expect the house to erupt into screams as soon as you step in the door. You're stunned when it's silent. Your pulse is racing, thumping hard against your chest as you slowly close the door behind you. Anxiously, you scan the whole house, only to find it empty. Everything's the same save for a broken glass in the kitchen that wasn't there when you left.

You assume your partner pitched a fit and left, maybe with some friends since his car is still in the driveway. With a depressed sigh, you settle into the couch and watch TV. You do everything you can to hold it together, despite your assumed lack of audience, but you can't. You allow a few silent tears to fall down your reddened cheeks as you watch your favorite show. It's the most peace you've known at home in a while. It's not unusual for him to run off, but something feels different. It's a new level of quiet. Like he never existed in the first place.

From outside your home, Benson watches. He tilts his head, a disgusted look on his face as he watches you cry over someone who saw no issue in harming you. Someone who still expected love and loyalty from you after tormenting you. Physical or not. He shakes his head. What could possibly make you ache for something like that on top of how you're treated at work? What's your limit? He wonders as he disappears into the night.

The next morning, your bed is still missing a body. You frown as you look at the empty space next to you. Work is as it always is. Annoying, disgusting, and disheartening. You're once again sent to get lunch. Same place. You almost start to believe your coworkers are doing it on purpose, knowing you'll get that gross, wet salad every time after the comment one of them made.

When you walk in, Randy greets you like a regular. It grosses you out a little to be considered a regular in a place like this. But at least Randy is sweet. "Bradley, you heard from Benson yet?" The manager yells from the office. He's distressed. You glance around the restaurant and realize that's what was missing.

"No, sir. He hasn't called in," Randy answers shyly. The manager sighs and slips back into the office area. "Sorry. Short staff today."

"No problem, Randy." You smile and he seems shocked that you remembered his name, despite the incorrect name tag on his shirt. Once the order is done, you return to work. Everyone at the large, round meeting table shamelessly accepts their meals without thanks, and you're hardly surprised.

For a week, this continues. Your partner's car stays sat, your bed stays empty, and your bosses treat you worse and worse as they watch your mental health deteriorate. You find yourself wondering what any of it was or is for. You moved here with the love of your life to pursue a career you thought you'd only ever dream of. Your sleepless nights drive you further into irrational, uncontrollable rage. Every sound your house makes feels like a fake out as you bold down the hall to greet no one.

Back at work, while you're dropping off lunches, you're distracted and absent-minded. "What the hell is this, Y/N?" A higher-up asks, prodding into his burger with his bare hands. Enough to make you want to gag at the childish action.

"What's wrong with it?" You ask, unsure how it could possibly be any different than the last 97 times they had it.

"I'm not eating this shit," he tosses the food onto the middle of the table. Discarding it like a picky toddler. You shift uncomfortably in place, fighting back the boiling anger in your blood. You wait for him to answer your question. "This is exactly why you're getting kicked at the end of your-"

"Hey!" Your boss cuts him off, but you already know what's been said. You snap your vision toward the man in charge.

"What'd he say, sir?" You ask with a sinister calm in your voice.

"Y/N..." He starts, rotating slightly in his chair, fidgeting with his thumbs. "It's just not the kind of environment for you, but we're letting you finish out your internship."

"Oh." You drop the contents of your arms in the floor, earning disgruntled groans from everyone.

"Jesus Christ, I told you she was gonna act like this." A man whose name slips your mind calls from across the table and before you realize it, you've picked up an ink pen and driven it straight through the top of his hand and onto the desk. By the time you snap back to reality, you're already in your car, flying down the road.

"Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck," you repeat over and over as you hastily pull into your driveway and dip inside. You're not worried about charges being pressed considering the absurd amount of bad business being conducted in that building, but you're certainly out of a job. "Oh, god. What did I do? What did I do?"

Suddenly, there's a knock at the door. You nearly jump out of your skin. Maybe you were wrong about them calling the cops after all. Your head rushes and your heart pounds in your throat. Part of you wants to grab the emergency firearm your partner keeps in the drawer by the door, but you quickly shake that thought away. You concern yourself for even considering it. With trembling hands, you unlock and open your front door.

"You got out of there kinda fast," Benson says, standing before you. You're shocked to see anyone by the cops, but especially him.

"H-How do you know where I live?" Your voice is still steadying and your breathing has yet to calm. Benson looks you up and down, assessing your emotions like a computer. Soulless. When his eyes return to yours, he slips right past you, letting himself inside. All too familiar.

"You don't usually get off this early." He speaks like you two are old friends, running into each other at the supermarket.

"I stabbed a man in his hand." You blurt, guilty and desperate to confess to anyone who will listen. Disgusted with yourself for relishing the rush it provided. Such a long time coming.

"Stabbed a man in his hand," he laughs, repeating you. "What? You use a fuckin' letter opener?"

"Pen. Ballpoint." You shudder, recalling the sound it made, vibrating through the pen and into your angrily gripping hand as it broke past his skin and tendons.

"What'd that feel like? Standing up for yourself."

"I don't know if that's what I'd call it. I-"

"Are you the type of person to stab a man in his hand for no reason? A psychopath?" Benson grins deviously.

"No! I didnt- I don't know why I did that." Then, the adrenaline high begins to plummet. "Why are you here? Why are you in my house?" You're anxious, suddenly hyper aware of the stranger sitting across from you in your own living room.

"Just making sure you're okay."

"Okay. What? Why do you know where I live? Why are you inside my house? Get out of my house!" Your heart starts to pound again.

"This is the thanks I get for getting rid of that fuckin' prick for you?" He leans back in the recliner and you stare at him from the couch.

"What?" You glance down the hall to your bedroom, considering the car in the driveway, the broken glass, and days of silence. You slowly turn your attention back to Benson.

"Black eyes aren't usually a symptom of an allergic reaction." His face darkens. "I didn't think you'd do anything about it. So I did." His words nauseate you. The room seems like it's spinning and you wrestle with the intrusive thoughts. The ones thanking him for handling it for you.

"What did you do?" Your voice is only a breathy whisper.

"He's at the bottom of a landfill, two towns over." He speaks blankly. Unfazed by his confession.

"You killed him? F-For hitting me?" You arch your brows in fear and disbelief.

"Are you stupid enough to think it would've ever stopped there?" He looks at you, confused. "Does it ever stop there?"

"Well-"

"The answer is 'no.'" he interrupts. "I did you a favor." He stares at you, his expression returns to its serious, dark nature. "Say thanks."

"Thank you," you whisper. You're unsure why you're so quick to obey. Is it that you want to appease a man in your home who's admitting to murder, or is it that you really might be thankful?

"Come on," he instructs, hastily standing from the recliner chair. His sudden movements startle you. You stare at him as he walks right up to the drawer by the front door and retrieves the gun he shouldn't know about. He notices your confusion. "Your man tried to use this, but he's not very fast. Wasn't very fast."

"Please..." You balance on the cusp of begging for your life, hoping he'll take the gun and take off, leaving you with the heavy reality. You know it's wishful thinking. Benson stuffs the weapon into his waistband and meets your gaze.

"Y/N."

"P-Ple-"

"Y/N, I could've killed you a hundred times by now. Would you get in the fucking car?" He exclaims, snapping you out of your frozen trance. The sudden change in his voice, volume and tone, forces you to stand up straight and do exactly as he says.

The interior of his vehicle stinks of cigarette smoke, but nothing can stop your deep, panicked breaths. You watch him through the windshield as he closes and locks your door, and you wonder when he got his hands on your keys. When Benson finally gets in the car, he holds out his hand. You stare at it in shocked confusion. "Cellphone." He huffs.

"What?" You furrow your brow.

"Give me your fuckin' phone. I know you're smarter than this." You hastily fumble with your pocket, finally placing the device in his awaiting palm. Benson stuffs it in his pocket. He whips the car out of the driveway and you're off on an unknown adventure. You glance at him every so often, trying to read his expression. He's flat-faced and dead-eyed. Something about the way a fake smile slips across his face makes you shudder. "Y'know, I told you, you needed to stand up for yourself. I don't know if that meant stabbing a guy."

You're stunned silent, but still astounded by his hypocrisy. He'd just killed a man for harming a stranger. You, the stranger. He continues on in the wake of your silence. "It's like, you're what? Twenty-something and barely an intern, getting talked to like garbage with a smile on your face?"

"It's a paid intern position. I'm very fortunate to..." You trail off, the defensiveness leaving your body as you remember how that position was a lie. You weren't working toward a permanent high-up position, you were half a secretary doing the work of at least four.

"Yeah, sounds about right." Benson laughs. "You know, this is the same shit I watch Randy go through every god damn day."

"What? Your coworker?"

"He takes more shit than anybody I've ever seen, 'cept maybe you." You frown. "Watching that shit go down. The way you both just take it... It's enough to make someone snap." You get the sense that the "someone" in that sentence isn't referencing you or Randy.

"So... Where are we going?" You ask hesitantly, unsure if you want to know the answer or not.

"That's up to you." He shrugs, grinning warmly. It's a distinct juxtaposition to the seriousness of the moment. You're strangely comforted by it. You cling to that smile before words blurt right out of your mouth.

"I want to go home."

"I don't think you do, Y/N." His voice is sweet and mellow, but his words feel threatening. And yet, he's right. "You hungry?" You don't get the option to respond, it's clear he's made the decision. You're not in control of anything. You never have been. You sit in the dulling static of the rowdy music blaring through the radio. A band you recognize from your days outside the corporate world you'd worked so hard to enter. Moistboyz. You had their T-shirt once upon a time.

You're shaken from your thoughts as Benson puts the car in park. You were deeply dissociated from the moment, doing anything to escape the confusion of why you aren't more panicked. Scared? Of course. This man intends to do harm. He's already killed someone. Things aren't going to end peacefully, and he's only just gotten started.

It's a diner. It's small, cute, and a little dated. You stiffly follow Benson inside. You're still in a state of shock, but Benson is uncharacteristically charismatic. He's almost giddy. He makes a few inquiries about the menu, but you tune him out. You tune everything out. All you can think about is the fact that your long-term relationship has come to a violent end, you've gruesomely assaulted your coworker, and you've lost a job you spent years humiliating yourself for. It's all just over. And all you got to do was cram a pen in his hand.

"And you, ma'am?" The waitress turns to face you. "Ma'am?" You're still deep in thought.

"She'll have an orange juice or somethin'." Benson interrupts, dismissing the woman. You finally tune back into the conversation, only in time to watch her walk away. When you turn to face Benson, he's already staring at you. He looks like he can read your mind and you'd almost think that to be true when he begins to speak. "A lot to take in."

"Yeah." You mumble.

"Well," he says as the waitress sets his plate in front of him. "You don't seem too worried." He smirks, digging into his food. You feel a flush of heat on your cheeks, embarrassed by the truth in his words. You're not as worried as you know you should be, and that scares you more than being dragged along on Benson's ambiguous bender.

After he finishes his meal and pays, the two of you are back in the car. Back into uncertainty. By now, you're not sure if you're scared for your own life or not. "Where to, now?" Benson asks, to your confusion.

"Why are you asking me?"

"Why am I asking you?" He repeats, equally as confused. "This is all for you. I'm trying to help you." He sounds desperate.

"Help me? You killed my-"

"I took out the guy that was only gonna beat you more and more until you were in the landfill. Don't play stupid with me." His voice is serious and stern. "Where to?" He returns to his original question. You hesitate for a while, allowing a thick, tense silence to settle over the moving vehicle. Benson's just about to drop it all together when you finally speak up.

"I wanna get on the roof of the old, abandoned mall." You pick something that requires a lot less murder. Something to satiate his impulsive needs.

"Are you fuckin' 13?"

"I really need to smoke. It used to be my favorite place to go when I was... Younger." You hesitate awkwardly, not even entirely sure why. Benson notices right away. "I just want one more joint up there. Like I used to."

"Alright. Roof of the mall." His taunting nature seems to diminish instantly. And for a moment, you think you realize what it feels like to be heard.

PART TWO COMING SOON!!

[justrandomboiwhatev]

Hooooo BOI, here I thought that only the suitors were dumbasses

While I already despise Dracula for what he's doing and has already done (gave Johnathan PTSD, forced a mentally unwell man to work for him, slaughterd a ship's crew and turned a random lass just to cover his own trail unsuccessfully), I've gotta criticize him on one damn thing in particular that is extra dumb.

Seriously, "count de Ville"?!

That is the best a 500 and something year old fucking demonic blood-sucking sorcerer graduate of the Devil's Hogwarts analogue could come up with?!?!

de Ville?

De Ville?!

de fucking Ville?!?!?!

You ain't even trying, ya unsly, clumsily coffin-shitting devil.

Though, credit where it's due, it could at least pass for a pseudonym of some unpopular writer anywhere.

But I know for a fact that yo ass don't write shit, count. It ain't writing for shit.

[brudmoment]

this is very unserious but I can't help but notice how bad people are at dressing some of the sprunkies ESPECIALLY owakcx. in my mind's eye he's a grown man who USED to be employed but lost his job due to a traumatic accident that left him really rattled and unstable and thus I have a hard time picturing him wearing scenecore/mallgoth/whatever fashion is trending right now. he would just throw on stained-ass oversized faded graphic t-shirts and wifebeaters he is too unkempt and mentally unwell to put that much thought into an outfit