#misery and co : reblogs

[astralnymphh]

copy that, romeo

— ellie williams was supposed to be your supervisor, not your object of infatuation ~ ♡

⋆❝ this is cordero tower, calling in.❞⋆

CHAPTER ONE: SUMMERTIME INTERLUDE . NEXT CHAPTER > ♡. pair; firewatcher!ellie x recruit!reader

♡. summary; it's 1995, and the angel crater national park welcomes you; a retrograde lookout all to yourself, a space nerd for a supervisor, and a whole summertime job spent in hues of sepia and juniper, waiting for the first sign of smoke. ninety–three days. you don't know her face, you share no breath— but by walkie–talkie, you know her voice.

♡. a/n; READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. CLICK HERE. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. ALSO THIS.

♡. content; EVENTUAL SMUT, narrator present, silly fourth wall breaking, a dash of comedy, slowburn (somewhat), living alone, long–distance pining, reader/characters are similar ages(mid–late 20s), depression, heavy metaphor usage, complicated poetry styles, mentions of organs, mentions of weaponry, metaphorical death, grim humor, drinking alcohol, drunk!ellie, drunken flirting (vaguely and bluntly), ellie jumpscare, uh-oh sassy masc apocalypse, she's corny and cheesy too (a dork), awkwardness, humiliation, lighthearted bickering, nicknames used. [lmk if i missed anything] . SERIES PLAYLIST .

WC; 6.1k+ ✮ thank you @trackinglessons for your sexy brain and beautiful ideas + custom art ✮ masterlist ✮ series masterlist ✮ ellie ref sheet

Summertime is the interlude between misery and Mondays.

  May was a rough patch for you. A coagulated chapter within the spring world, a shunned ponder, red jello in the gradience of passage. Tempus, time. Early months hence were just as pessimizing, doubt is an arid reservoir in you. But, as a maypole sits a svelte giant in the sweet Beltane soil, braving an invisible smile whilst little ones— little laughters, spun prances and wraps of dainty satin to an ensnare on its long body, it weeped for its delicate capture. You; flesh coarse like timber, relate to the log standing, ensnared. Sunk in that gelatinous texture, unmoving as pressures collided with the surface outward, ripples everywhere yet incapable of sprinkling through you. Something would have to delve itself to drag you out.

  Chapters; cusp of autumn to April, every single month, wound ‘round you. They each had separating colors, and spared turns to soundly fold your limbs and bulge your skin in ribbons. It snipped your circulation, shriveled the ripe breath in your skull and traded it for a pressure. A throb. Weight upon the cranium, you felt the narrowing cradle inside wilt from thought, drain from consciousness, and soften your stiff eyes locked on drywall. Hour to hour.

  But those weren't the only things taunting you with a dance— expectations danced faster. Expectators, paired minds heaping expectations; yourself and the selves blackjacking their wants expressed as worries onto you. Stressful creatures, they are. Bosses, co–workers, energy vampires disguised as lover boys prowling about your workspace, general creatures of the retail world. God, they're like ravenous wolves snarling hunger through their teeth, slobber moonlight–bright of that dire carnality for variety meats. Depression just took the first serving before they could.

  Even the domesticated places are a wilderness untamed.

  Stress drained you of life. It softened your desire to even try. Gods are dulling, blamed you, on another dull morning where the trickling sound of coffee pouring drilled irk into your ears, rather than simply a trickle. Caffeine, a roast so void–black was brewed to un–drain you. Yet, it fuckin didn't.

  Impugning was your everything, until it could no longer purify; Elaine. Emptiness. Hmm, you gave this state of vacuum–headed hollowness a name, keenly because it deserved so by its dismantling of your autonomy. You don't want it. It's not you. It's Elaine. A some–angel fallen out of grace, weary of its wander upon a washed up cove, beige toned and swept shivering–cold. Interested by the warmth your sundry organs pushed into its light silhouette. 

  And perhaps, if the bird was never freed from its heavenly cage, it would be powerless to pester you, to poke the meat inside with the pointy end of plumage.

  Elaine was an organized assault on your wellbeing, moreso against the pulpy, pinkish-gray blob sitting ugly above your throat. Believe it, or assume it. A paralysis, moving shoulders from bed sheets proved farcical, running bristles over your teeth twice a day rhymes with nonsense, and midnight ink born to swirl and curtsy to convey thoughts gone rancid, goes unused atop the white flutter between your journal hardcovers. You have a morbid case of the seasonal blues, except this time, the season is beyond its blue hues. Spring, a fuckin’ kaleidoscope embellished. Blotches of big fuck you greens so vibrant you'd long to die from your tears, and an abstract spit of smell me reds thorny as your stomach brought to a scream for something. Anything.

It was a slow, banal descent into the jello.

  January, floating atop the sweet delicacy, atop your bed.

  February, the solidity gave out beneath you, goo subtly etching around your ankles, calves, elbows, unforgivingly cold when it first hit. When in reality, the bed was heating from your lay.

  March, marrow goes heavy, your limbs at this time could not lift, your efforts waned, and satiating the rumble in you with sustenance was forgotten, as that rumble got so, so.. quiet. 

  April, the jello had stuffed your nose, your sockets, and lullabied your ligaments. You let it happen.

May.

  You let yourself sink. Let yourself decompose and go mush in the head. Like a zombie.

  The descent doesn't taste of sweet delight, but it also fails to churn your lips with a heavy saccharinity. Neutral, your hopeful side did say. Nothing, rationality slapped past your lips.

Five months, either a misery, or a Monday.

  Yes Eve, a bite out of the Apocrypha will indeed fill this human abysm in me. Forbidden knowledge is my craving. Contraband of truth, bite to bite, I envy that I could not cope with its coating of my empty gut earlier.

  Innocence is so dull. You are depressed, not a fucking saint for staying indoors, starving your rage.

  But on came a crisp bouquet of biker–boy newspapers; ‘Hiring’, and a few scans further; ‘Do you harness a great love for the evergreen?’

  A honed section in Missoula's local print— jobs. A publisher boldens and compresses enthusiasm sporadically; writing–on–the–wall hollers speckle themselves meticulously on the newsprint that strike a sense of obligation into the susceptible and soft–of–heart chunk of the population. A pert voice read with persuasion between your ears, gritty in tone and stereotypical of a middle aged ranger, vocals fried by cigarettes but as booming as a cannon.

“Do you care for the animals inhabiting our national sanctuaries?”

  Abutting small paragraphs, the sagging belly of a black bear, tender caramel snout and snoopy–faced, fitted on its head a mustard yellow campaign hat labeled, ‘Smokey’. Its burly, blundering frame on all fours stood out over a comic–style vista of the Montana rockies, paws obscured by blocks of thickset text reading ‘Only you’.

  Huh, a realistic depiction of Smokey Bear— over a not–so–realistic background, avant–garde. 

  Tree greens sprawly that didn't shout ‘Fuck you’ on your poor, sunken eyes searing for sleep and a twilight darkness. Sagey lichens that didn't draw out the spasms above your own bones, calling your regard to bring pin–sized problems and blemishes sprawling your own flesh out of the bliss of ignorance. Brunette muds with only a fleck of sun, a slice of earth dull, humble and unprocessed enough from benevolence to leave you unconsumed, unsunken. A mere slop and pudge in the future and wake of your walk. Nothing obnoxiously grand, nothing sanctimonious. Nature is by birth— righteous, regardless.

  “Before we can be proud of our nation, our nation must be proud of us!”

  The advertisement gropes for a summertime made free. A cyclopean sinkhole in the becoming of time. Recruits–in–waiting are called to bargain normalcy and the bustling cities plump with lumbering limbs of sheen–tight pantyhose shaded under short shapes of plaid skirts for boot–cuts n’ backpacks hefty with gear that could either save you the trouble of mountaineering by path, or trouble your time with a faulty snapping of two things. Rope and neck.

Too grim?

  A months’–long moment of tension snapped at the pressure joint— Summertime the snapper.  You'd be devoting ninety–three suns, ninety–two moons, and some two–million breaths of fir laden air up in Angel Crater National Park, northwest of here. Pupils flickering the double-page setup, you continue: A pictographic, old–fashioned lookout taller than the timber spires surrounding would be your station, your core of operations, for those three young and sunny months. Boxed provisions and supplies are guaranteed to ship every other week, and testimonies encourage even the anxious, balmy buzzes of your brain to sigh in solace learning that the weald creatures there— are mostly harmless, if you aren't bred an imbecile. Alongside, an appointed supervisor, whose name was never disclosed duly except for a scratch of text gingerly clasped in quotations reading, “E.R.W” trailing the mention of said supervisor. What’s required of you was delivered plain written and patent on that shoddy newspaper, held thick in your intrigued thumbs; Keep the forest from catching wild fire.

  You fiddled the idea. Should I? Or should I wallow the summer away? Fiddled it anxiously, fiddled it needily, bumped the clumped rim of the newsprint on your cupid's bow in bending rumination, steadied it cause newspaper smells oddly good— but next to minutes racing hours upon musing, a conclusion had to knock your static looping of gloomdom in the butt.

  One phone call, and the bird would be barred again. Pesterer, Elaine the Terrible, would be cast back where eyes can't roll over the cottony clouds. Just a couple fucking prods to your number–pad, might genuinely un–drain you.

  Luckily, you aren't an idiot reared to take bullshit longer than meritted.

You took the job.

May 30th, 1995, 7:28 PM.

  What does any clever pedestrian traipsing capricious terrain store in their pack to avoid total gangly–branch–grips–of–nature butchery?

Item one; Black nylons— scratch that, you aren't getting paid to snag at every kink and curl of the forest, tighties of gossamery fabrics are a no–go. Citywear stays citywear. Double scratch on those sweet, blackberry Mary Janes too prized and polished to muck up in shit of the earth. Immolating the rigid underside of some chunky hiking boots to the unruly woodlands is the adrenaline pinnacle of out–worlding, come on. It proves you've got a hardy backbone and the right row of teeth to chew what you've bitten off, sullying boots ‘till the color is forevermore stained. Backup boots are tradition, so that's item number two. Best get used to cargo, ankle–length overalls and miscellaneous graphic tees, cause the rockies’ fashion gurus can't get enough of ‘em!

Clothing, check.

  Swathes of ropes twined pumpkiny orange and plenty of clanging anchors to bolt them in, goddesses and gods forbid you be tight on anchors. Medical kits— duh, did you trudge all from yonder just to die out here? This country is dicey, at the cuddly claw of a bear, or not. Hair ties, scrunchies you hoarded as a teenager in the eighties, disposable camera to suit your flaky memories, and an eclectic dump of nutty and fruity cereal bars galore. Unless you're allergic. Substitute.

Accessories and essentials, check.

  Ah, and a spare pistol and switchblade in replacement of newcomer paranoia! Keep that hush–hush though. No matches or lighters, obviously.

True American, illegal weaponry, check.

  All this paraphernalia bangs and clangs heavily on the polyester holding of your backpack, straining your scruff uncomfortably as you tiptoe, scarcely tumble, and tread lightly across a log. It creaks, it groans, it wobbles slightly over the blaring white rush of a stream, suctioning your heart–to–stomach when it grinds a wee bit louder than you thought it should.

  “Shit!” you crimp your torso in and dart wary hands on the timber beam at your feet, assuming a gawky newborn–bambi–pose in hesitation, shuddering in cracked tones, “This can't be the right way..” 

  Hoping on an evaporated sun, you frazzlingly testify in repetitive thought that the map mailed by the rangers a week prior led you on this perilous and incorrect path.. for the last two days. Winding and wounding, literally— your bruises are measureless and on top of that ache your skin to want no more of this. But, you have to. A boulevard of brown, short and stout, wrung unyielding from one gray side to the greener other, a shortcut. Assumed to be a shortcut, based on the route drawn by utter confusion.

Oh yeah, and remember the advertisement stating the park was twenty-five miles out?

Nothing about that hot-press, black-cat inked newspaper accounted for the extra eight weighing your ankles down and your motivation dead low. Twenty-five only stretched out unto the ranger parking lot. The entrance, for fuck's sake.

  Shaky flit of your digits, they float gently off the carve–veined surface of the wood, unfolding your spine as you rise. “Wrong way—” you utter to your chest, oven–warm as it puffs, “—gotta be the wrong..” 

  Tentative–ism is normal here, right? Like, no way you're cautious and sweating at the brow for nothing. Right? 

  One foot— creeakkk— in front of the prudent other, two sailing lunges, three hurried hops and a matched thud soft as marshmallows plants your shoes to hallowed ground. Blades of verdant whiskers so innocent crush under, and it feels fucking— demeaning, actually. All that gulping and pausing.. for nothing.

  You tuck a shoulder–glance to the makeshift ricket of a bridge, and blankface, “Didn't feel like killing me today?”

The tree bears no reply.

  “Hmph, surprising. Seeing as someone killed you,” a sigh parts, fading into the whip and straightening of your head, “figured the pursuit of revenge doesn't stop at ghosts.” and the hoist of your boot up, carrying onward.

  Sundown paints, crescent layers repose approaching moonlight and dying sunlight sprawls psychedelic limbs above you. Balance ambling in tiny bops only made the swirling grasp of those gradient rays more trippy on your eyes and coercive of daydreams, rot–nip for the brain. You spot nutbrown brick— a fireplace in your mind, fevered heat roasting on the inside wall of your forehead too. It was Christmas before the storm, a subzero December. And it was, in fact, colder than the unreachable heaven. Dad was hunkered down in front of that innocuous amber crackle, his right leg slack to the ground and his left arched in the neck of an acoustic guitar, arms plaiting its hollow curve into his chest. 1971, when the veil through and within was thin, and love–vomit poured so easily through. A time of justified ignorance; Childhood. 

  Stood you adjacently, legs short and posolutely not stout, dimpled in the knees. Aged two years, and mushy as ambrosia, contorting your mouth jubilant as you're told for the camera, contrary to your father with his expression drooping to his strumming fingers. Sickly sweets, adult–you unpurposefully neglects to twirl lips at, your extraordinary grins now turned ordinary flat–lines. Holiday memoirs, those spoiled ripe quick after adulthood bolted itself in the slabs of your tender spine and instilled an artificial love for labor and country, displacing nostalgia from ever being seen as a flesh existence. 

“Say cheese!”

  America is sub–human, and sub–humans created America, the imperfect cycle. Families tear, eagles outcry, friends drink their death, and the days continue to unfold without a trace of acknowledgement. Days exist where you soak festivities and stave off the pointer–finger poking at so called slack you relish, and some twenty dwindling years ahead the slowly deadening oak grove road, carousals will be criminally known as layabout–makers.

Joy is a luxury now.

  A blockage prevents your foot from winching clean forward, meeting the bone–hard kiss of a boulder to sore your toes. “Fuck!” you brand your throat walls to a shout, pissed at the rock rather than your woolgather that lead you to said rock, “Fucking fuckhead rock!”

  Woolgather means daydreams, by the way. Funner to use words that don't make a split of sense. Yay for English.

 The sunset clouds dripped with a mania of fascination and had strung your brain to its hypnotic whims, like a siren had soloed a trance, drifting your mind somewhere utopian and phantasmagorical. It sounds silly, but, blanking out seems so often out of grasp from your control, you usually could never flag what caused it, when it started, and why. Nothing practical surfaces. Fuck, your head is so tangled upon memories, you haven't even noticed the progression of scenery twelve o’clock from you. 

  Ponderosa boughs band together where your eyes brush shapes and forage for a clue of what scene wants to greet you ahead. The sequestering silence of rustles indicates a clearing, possibly. Possible as it could be, you fully expected this cruel footslog to wallop your ass into a minefield, so you bet cards and course carefully beneath the crowns of pine, completely bent to the chance of another obstacle threatening your tender ankles. Leafy whispers above strum your ears brimmed with its sotto voce song, and then— colors it silently behind.

“Holy shit.”

  Presence crumbles above you, and opens before you. The lookout. Wood shafts slant in opposing directions, up and up along four brawny beams in three consecutive layers, like a blocky cone. The face closest to you overlaps the backing rest, giving the illusion of tufted wooden legs sketched under all lackadaisical. Endgame daylight spies from behind this one–roomed cyclops, gushing final spurts of citrus rays as if it truly was an orange squeezed to pulp. So, the flank and forehead of that towering, mountainscaping lookout rolling a cold shoulder to the sun, paves in a tattered tapestry of garnet smokiness instead. Shadow of sundown. From where you sow feet, a football field apart, petty details are difficult to squint into clarity, but the window panes appear tawny, too.

  An intimidation, “So much for a tiny room.” A beaute intimidation, “And no actual bathroom.” it makes you feel like a genuine insect compared.

  A sort of stairwell serpent faintly chokes the foot, the calves, the thighs, and punctures kindly a mouth leading up to the skirting balcony hedged in many gaunt teeth. Tamping gravel closer, subtleties and fine points fade as the tower's plank–lined and flat underbelly turns to you. Larger and larger, it dips darkly from miniscule masquerade.

  Bringing your decently aching foot to the first step, you press into the curb and meander your cruder aching— thanks to a random boulder— foot weirdly on the outer ridge of your boot. Making it up the stairs to fund yourself a fucking break was a palpable mockery in itself. Like, ‘Hey! Climb this long–ass stairwell for a teensy break before doing it all over again the next day!’. 

Un–fucking–believable. 

  Fifty years of history and past rangers grate in your walk, the floorboards thump with their stories, thump into your skin— verse you a wordless eulogy. Each step is a sentence, and every sentence branches into a whole tree of genealogy, lives. Lifestyles you can't understand now, but will.

  Really redundant of me to highlight the generations alive in those floorboards. The walk up there isn’t that exciting.

  After the last step, you're met eye–to–frame with a scratched door, pygmy window centered and paper–screened from within, and the stories predating your stay inspire a comical theory, “Jeez— bears make it up here?” you half–suppress a snort, palming a fist on the doorknob coldly before rotating and giving sympathetic pressure to the door.. jammed. 

  “C’mon..” knuckles pulse into the knobs plate, gradually upping the force you pushed, “.. losing light out here..” eventually adding your other hand to sweeten the push.

  Sure, a whole year has gone by since it homed somebody, and it's retro, but come on.

  Breaking splinters into the door was your last intention, so you try so–so carefully— to some extent, “Please..” now butting the tip of your boot on the rim to ease it— ease, and finally pry, a clapback of wind blowing dusty, nightfall air past your crescent cheeks following the snap of the fallow door.

  Thank goodness for your grace and balance, some days, avoiding a timely trip face–first to a floor so powdered in light dust, any kid would mistake it for a good time sweeping snow angels. 

  Not so good for the respiratory system though.

  Muggy space filtering your lungs tightly, you cough out, “Gah— fuck!” nothing higher than the level of a guttural wheeze, your chest punching into your throat. Gaping out the last flock of butterflies clumped at your collarbones, the tickle inside calms, and you find your sights taking in a dark box. A dim orb of lily silver glow rests in the middle of the pall room, raising the natural, “Where's the ligh— ah, big clunky thing—” 

  Flicking the off–white and stubby nub attached to an impractically sized lightswitch, which frankly resembles an electric box externally, an essence of Apollo ladens the room. Lemony–gold light, passably bright off the redwood ceiling, and murmuring a low buzz through one ear, and out the other, your pupils caper along the contrasting shades awakened.

  “Definitely retro, but.. no roommates.” spoke you, gingerly content with the colors piecing this camper pad together. You observe.

  Forget–me–nots bled the cotton bedsheets baby blue, leavening the mattress with a tidy emotion as it's tucked, folded at the top and draped in a complimentary quilt— benevolent blues, hues your lids soften on. The bed beelined from the doorway, a corner counter fawn–brown as the wood extends adjacent to it, covering the northeastern angle of the room. Magpied brands of canned food clutter shelves, spines spanning thick books of epic poetry to sci–fi comics create a ribcage of literature along a compact bookcase perching that countertop, and sunken in the east side of it, a steel sink. It shimmered sunflower bands of light as you moved, a rainbow–arched faucet brightened completely.

  Step by step, you draw near a circular table in the middle. Strange rods and gadgets stuck out of the borders, inlaid glass protecting a local map so sleek you could see a phantom of your face in it, and a black bar looming the width, so it rings with tangible importance. Of which you'll gauge about later. Truthfully, the journey by foot here? Dead–beating, your knees bloated, throbbed flesh hot, and almost buckled; fatigues infamous way of scolding you to sit the fuck—

“Sup Maple lake, you there?” 

  A pang hammers to your heart, and a crawlish wave of startled blood pales from your face and drops to your jaw, “Jesus!” sweat hitting you a blink after, every normal function just— flunked. That voice, more like a ruptured stereo sizzling, caught you the fuck off guard. Now you dither, dumbassery taking your eyes through a new loop of figuring out where–why–how and what the robotic intruder wants.

  But pre–realizing, your ears perk to a more coherent, and outstretched string of static, “C'mon, know you're checked in.” and post–realization tugs your eyes to a mustardy n’ black cased device; a walkie–talkie.

  Okay, way to creep recruits out. Whoever, for whatever reason— at the nick of night too, gimme’ a break. You wry, knitting raisin crinkles above your nose, trying to discern your palette of options; pick up the walkie, tap in and feign politeness in the shortest and sluggiest scraps of small talk to be done with the day, or rant off the bat— highlight how fucking late it is, and how taxing a double–goddamned–day hike made your head and patience feel. And right now, the second response route feels arguably more tempting than—

  “This is Cordero Tower, calling in. Can see ya’ standing by the Osborne, by the way.” 

  Its staticy feedback has waned completely, densening a thick husk and tilting towards a honeyed undertone. Relaxed sounding or not, what the fuck.

  You react predictably, flicking your chin west, then east only for you to meet the dead of night— thanks mountains— stalking perfectly in every single window. So, useless to check. Answering it was a yes–go, it would be sickenly awkward to thrust it under the rug now. Your knees pull forward, eyes calligraphing the power buttons tinted in cherry light, palm drawing to meet your focal point.

  The case is ribbon gentle under your fingertips’ graze, fresh and in store–new condition. Maybe the only thing hot from the pot of newfangled technology. Plastic intricacies roll under until you settle on a swollen button, denting the plush of your finger as you press, hold, and speak. A crisp crackle activates your line, tuning you in.

    Breath hesitates between your chords, “Maple.. lake.. speaking,” off–the–tongue words manifesting on–the–spot, “you can see me?”

  “Yeah.” the walkie chuckles, sugary curl pitching up and through their tone, “Look out ur’ north window, you'll see her.”

Her?

  Nooking your nose north, you only widen pupils on that same, starless coast of darkness nosing the rim of your window sills. What do they mean to—

  “Nh–no,” You literally said north, “get closer to the window, n’ look up.” What, are you a fucking sparkling, rasp–voiced eagle?

  “Fuck are you talking about,” mouthed you void of voice, stumped on what this person was getting at. Wedging your knuckles below the meshy underside of your backpacks right strap, you wrangle it down your arm as you glide rubbery sole along croaking oak, tossing that bag so cumbersome atop a lily white pillow— looking fresher than a daisy, and clamber the mattress pliantly dented to your knees to grasp a broader panorama. 

  And with that window hood washed over, a convoy of fireflies focus a tiny constellation in the murked glass. Little pinholes of light, dots in the distance. They rough–hew a blur, but the excess seconds taken to brood squints and balance the blurry blotches, an outline crops up. Another fire lookout, sprouting from rock and rise of a berg. Offspring of the distant cordillera that gives this whole park its sense of a cradled–woodland, but either way thought, a lookout hosts it home on top.

  “You can see me from all the way out there?” you wondered, truly. I mean— at minimum, a sore sprawl of miles bridges you both.

  “Mhm..” a pause loiters that fluid hum, then some really throaty syllables, “Binoculars~” you could almost envision— nah, feel the stare of those binocs, undoubtedly taking note of every contort in your body right now.

  “Oh thats, totally.. not,” you blunt your tone, shying a few inches from the glass, “.. creepy.” awkwardly. “Uh, who are you anyways— are you like, uh, another recruit?” as you engage small talk, grumpy frown pouting, the habit of kissing your wrist to your jaw as you would a piglet–tailed telephone overruns your burnt out focus, having to wince the walkie away when your eardrums nearly burst.

Ouch.

  “For one, I'm actually your supervisor. I know, I don't sound like a typical smoker–lunged, middle–aged white dude.” their tone gruffs and deepens to impersonate, finger air quotes practically radiating from the other end, “And two, my name is Ellie— Ellie Miller–Williams, if you care.”

  “Don't.” you heave out the pain stretching your head, aching each time you simply thunk.

  “Straightforward,” her timbre ups in approval, seemingly, “I like it. I like you, recruit I dunno’ the name of.” and a bubble hics her throat, quite audibly.

  “Not single.” Wrong, just uninterested. Hooking two fingers in the fabric handle of your bag and craning it to the ground, with scattered grates of plastic buckles skating the floor.

“What?”

  Oh, shit she wasn't— oops, ‘course she meant that platonically, heads so damn muggy,  “Uh, it's—my name.. sorry I’m just a bit out of the loop—” Dumbass, unscramble your brain alphabet soup, will you?

  “That’s a long ass name, what were your parents thinking? Haha.” Her duo–beat chuckle flares your humiliation, and then proceeds to pinch its swollen parts into total inflammation, “Where does it originate from?”  

  Cheesy bitch, “Can you not— I like, pfhh..” you temper yourself with a moon–cool blow to chap your lips and inflate your cheeks, ending up with a draw of an even more loosened tongue sour as it complains, “Did a whole two–day hike through the most torturous terrain just to get here, I really don't—”

Please.

  And if gripes trudged through teeth aren't persuasive enough, you recess your bone–ache bod avidly in the springy haven of your bed which chirped at your weights shifting motions, collarbones packing down on your vocal chords. You shouldn't sound up to chat whatsoever. Instead, vehemently drained, “I just wanna get some shut eye, talk me over n’ the mornin’.” your thumb lying a button away from disconnecting. 

  “Hey, hey—” Ellie ushered, her slurry breath fogging up the mic. Lips squeak softly into it, smacking before an intone, “Can't I be a little curious?”

  You synchronized in noise, sucking teeth behind heart–pursed lips, “Do you think somebody this exhausted has the appetite to entertain you?” stilling your thumb–pad on the power off key.

  “If I keep bothering you,” that alone ticked you, her blatant drive to carry on when your brain rejected its substance, “.. yeah. Maybe you'll be nicer then too.. huph!” a heartier peep hicced up on the speaker, and right then that noise jogged a discovery.

“Are you drunk?” has to be.

  Of course, she ignores the naked and sorely obvious, “Did your boyfriend break ur’ heart or something— an’ that's why you're out here?” bottle sloshing in the background of her mumble.

  Dumbstruck, you furrow a miffy expression, “W–what, boyfriend?” 

  “Said you weren’t single.” she recalls, warmly unspinning the fuddle that knit your brows, “Think I forget so easily?” drawled like a sultry retort, baking your ears.

You a hundred percent forgot though.

  Gosh, short–term memory sucks, or it's just your energy drought making you woozy. Blame it on lethargy, “No no, that was just.. tired talk. I thought you were hitting on me.” 

  “Oh? That's cute.” her choosing to say that latter statement unfolded discordantly, you seriously couldn’t gauge if that was a flirt, or another paper daisy— mock honey, a platonic notion. Even so, it sounded so damn smooth, lace to the ears. “But no, I wasn't— m'not like gay or ‘whutever.” stammered her, light snort fanning.

  A stifled chuckle hops from your chest, mixing with hers, “Uhuh, cool.” halfway uncaring and halfway amused, bafflement working your facial muscles. 

  “Yeah, um, but seriously..” her voice drifts into a ponderous rasp, the faint rustles of flimsy paper licking page to page subtler than her speech, “what's got you out here, newbie?”

“Newbie. Really?” A brow pricks.

  “I mean, you're new— new to the lookout, new to the job, in need of my phenomenal supervision and my wide range of knowledge. Yeah, a newbie.” 

  Then your brow mellows, tension held in your face dropping dead on backhanded flattery, “You are funnily agonizing.”

  “Aw.” her scratchily suave coo has your jaw set like stone, “That's so sweet.” but her short–lived song has your heartstrings soaked in ripe honeycomb, touched to the core by sweetness nebulose and an assortment of some foreign threads. Thickened heart, tighter ribs, a churn to weaken your stomach, a maverick of things unfamiliar to you.

  Momentaries, but still noticeable even if your senses were twisted backwards.

  Chewing over how you'll begin to explain, a few letters sift through your chords, until you hook on a sigh, “Ah, well, I'm out here for a fuck ton of reasons—”

“Reasons, or— huhp, problems?” Ellie blurt–hics, nosy.

“..”

  A brief gulp and exhale wheezes from her, “Sorry, it's the bourbons’— super good. Continue.” 

 You loosely split your mouth, gasping to exchange a gale for words pressing out, “A series of reasons, and problems, that I don't bother to lay on a grand platter, so you'll get a summary tossed on an appetizer plate.” you preface. Allow an elliptical gap to cut through, rousing her hum to let you know her ears are as intent–peaked as a Chihuahua’s, “Contact with my parents’ has gone cold, my last job made me want to hurl into a pack of crocodiles— and the city became too loud and too heavy–handed. Saw this job on the local paper, and got the hell out of dodge.”

An omissive summary, you meant. 

  There’s more that eats the heart. People can’t just.. drop the burden of knowledge wantonly on randos like they’re idling under fertile treetops waiting for the apples to plummet, biting into a pulpy biography. She’s just a girl, not a therapist.

  A discomforted purr lengthens into her reply, “Mmmmh, ever try a drink or two?” her intoxicated reply.

  “Oh, see,” you flap your hand and slap it to your denim clad thigh, “you are drunk.” as if she could even see your gesture.

  “No, I’m Ellie, hmhm~” comes with a giggle, and you consider her state of insobriety to be— wavering, but it’s stimulating to hear her fluctuate between groaned jokes and extra raspy comments, “Still haven’t told me your name though.”

  Some moments during this whole ‘Who are you?’ seminar made you concerned for your future here— if you’ll make it out psyche intact, but some moments found by winnowing through the illogical backtalk touched you with inbound camaraderie.

  Invisible touches that inhabit your neck with a leak of your name so— sincerely. It transforms into a fairer sound on your ears when she repeats it, affirming it. Nobody else's teeth clutches your name so welcome as she.

  “Hmm, ‘name kinda fits your voice.” odd commentary, but since composed with her already peculiar and drunken tongue, the shoe fits.

  That said, crabby confusion seems easier to articulate, “Thanks, weirdo.” but lips rebellious, they press an inevitable grin together. 

“No problem, sleepyhead.”

So many nicknames.

  Recognizing that downtick in hubbubs and breaths on the walkie, checking out for the night posed as a passionate option the burden weighing your eyelids couldn't or shouldn't veto. So you haul your torso up, kick and poke your toes over ankles to butt your boots off prior planting your heels, whisking toward the lightswitch and committing your lookout to swell with the outside's dark fresco. 

Stygian tones.

  “Speaking of sleepy heads..” you taper off speech, leaving the rest to her— touch wood— wide enough, hopefully–not–drunk–enough imagination to fathom as you slide and slip desperately beneath woolen blankets, sleepy worries, and sentences sailed to rest.

  “Aw man.” Ellie bums so, so stupidly, for comical value.

“Yeah, man.”

  “Mpht—” wetness smacks, “wanted to bore a pretty girl to death with recruit regulations and syllabi..”

How would you know?

  In reality, Ellie was reaching a transcendent caliber of wasted, drinking up your atmospherics and drunken to her gutly core. Woods hatch forlorn people; forlorn people get thirsty, “But, mhh, heads’ nearly falling off, whoof.” she expresses a soaring of vowels, but it parallels a gruff howl more. 

  Drowsy, buzzy jubilancy, plucking her flirty strums. You sugarcoat the flare in your chest hearing ‘pretty girl’, ears clicking to the swallow convincing your heart that Ellie was not flirting. As established; She’s under the influence, and not gay. Your brain repeats that, over and over, repeat, repeat, she isn’t flirting. 

  “Hey, here's a tip..” you inch the walkie a penny away from your flopped head, clefting your lip open, “Don't get drunk on the job. They didn't hire you to decoct your brain the day before chaperoning a recruit in the literal wilderness. So, stash that shit, n’ let's both get some shut eye, yeah?” and saying all that, may have just cashed in your last dose of breath and brain cells for the night.

  Ellie being Ellie— well, what you suspect is a ‘her’ thing after these few speckled minutes, dopily laughs at you. And dammit if she wasn't glamoring a dopey smirk in accord, you’ll have gleaned wrong.

  A voice, “Who’s the boss again?” her witty and cruel wisecrack, “They didn't pay you to boss the— hup, boss around.” 

  They will pay you to confront and reflect your spectrum of limits if this girl brushes their seams, that's for certain. Or, play God and lambast her, tender as milk.

  There's even a stroke of a chance, that your crooked lips poached her dopey grin instead, “Kay, well, maybe they'll reimburse me for your poor services.” 

  “My services are not poor. You'll see, tomorrow.” the volume of her melts away, going muted under liquid swills clanging on glass.

  “Please tell me that's the sound of you putting the bottle away.”

  “Mhm!” came out plugged, the bottle confining her garble, then popping clean as a cork, “Fuck— okay,” she siphons air in, pure little clink tinting the end of her sharp–edged sniffle, “Make sleeping in earlier worth it t’morrow, wanna drive you nuts with my questions.” she nasals, drawing near the mic again.

  Such a magpie, “Cause you're lonely?” and weird.

  “Shut up,” she shushes you, a satin whisper light–hearted and quick on beat, “M’not lonely anymore, right?” The type of softly spoken outcry that would balloon your cheeks with soreness if you were face–to–face with the throat that conducts it. Involuntary smiles plague you everywhere. But there is no mouth, no larynx, no throat that you view the swallow of. Just a walkie, so you settle in stoicism.

  You tug your upper–lip and pivot your eyes, drumming up something clever to combat, “In a sense. Not like we’re bunkmates, thank goodness.”

  “Fuck you,” Ellie breaks into a cuss spout so serenely, she sounded small and harmless, “just go to bed.” reduced to birch in winter shed of its brittle autumn arguments.

“Don’t gotta tell me once.”

  By the first full and emphatic giggle she cast just now that wasn’t suppressed nor achieved by humble pie, you take it that Ellie found you funnily harrowing just as her, two peas in an outstretched pod. Fault be with her, for getting wasted. Otherwise, you might have pried her skull open with questions dolled up as a pruner, clipping the forelimbs that are foliated in a messy breadth of first glance leaflets and attitudes until you piece it prettily, in a way that thralls you to never shrink your eyes back into their sockets. Drunk people are like prone beehives though, so you don't prod them.

Tomorrow, you can paint her portrait, or vice versa.

“Whatever you say, newbie.”

And with the whirry crunch of the walkie shutting off, Monday, came to a close.

if you enjoyed this chapter, please lmk what you thought!! i love getting asks about my content ♡

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[interstellarsystem]

Plurality and Suffering

This was going to be a reblog to someone else's post, but this deserves its own. My wording might be slightly weird because I'm having some disorganised thinking, ask to clarify if you need.

People online have such an issue with plurals presenting themselves as happy, or enjoying the fact that they're a system in the slightest. If you're not all doom and gloom, people just... Assume you're faking it for fun? As if plurals have to share their suffering online? As if they have to suffer?

"You're clearly treating plurality like its all fun and games! Look at all these silly, lighthearted posts! Not a hint of distress or trauma! How can you be diagnosed with DID when you're clearly not disordered?"

Do you ever stop to think for more than 5 seconds about personal safety? There's people who hate systems left and right, cringe subreddit posters, and generally people who would take that information and use it against you in some way. You don't share your personal name and address online, so why should we share the ins and outs of our daily struggles? Our trauma in any amount of detail? Anything that could be used to hurt or manipulate us further?

Not only is no one else entitled to that information, but it's not safe to share in a place where strangers can see it. We don't share a list of our triggers for the same reasons--we don't want to hand out the keys to our trauma to anyone who happens to see us online.

Not every plural has to suffer either, mind you. So many types of systems tend to not struggle due to their plurality or even anything remotely related to it, and that's okay! You don't need to suffer to be real, suffering isn't a prerequisite to being plural. I'm not even just talking about nondisordered systems here either.

Systems with CDDs can heal. DID, OSDD, DDNOS, anything. They can get to a point where life is worth living if it didn't feel like it already. It could be through final fusion, but it could also be through learning to live together happily as a collective. They can get to a point where the major suffering of the past is far behind. Having a dissociative disorder is NOT a death sentence, I promise you. Things can get better, either through therapy, or medication or just time and learning itself--all while still remaining happily plural.

Acting like disabled people (or even a subgroup of them) will never ever be able to live a life with any happiness or one even worth living at all is an ableist argument used to support so many horrible things thrown toward disabled people of all kinds. It's a few steps away from saying we need to be put out of our misery because we can never live a meaningful, happy life. We've seen this exact argument used against all kinds of mentally or physically disabled people, saying it's cruel to keep them living. And that's absolutely ridiculous.

It's so sad that these sentiments are common in CDD spaces. Yes, there are struggles that come with the disorder, but you can heal. The idea that you will never be okay is a lie. You might not be at a neurotypical level of functioning, but you can be happy, and you can be happy being plural. You are worth it, your disorder doesn't change that, and neither does the general community vibe of "everyone has to suffer and hate their system". You can be happy, you can love your system, you can grow together and make life what you want it to be.

Being a system of any kind is never, EVER a sign that your life will never be good. It's never a sign that you can never feel happy again. It's never a sign that you should just give up. And being required to show off how much you struggle in order to have the basic amount of respect--people just simply believing that you experience what you say you do--is absolutely ridiculous. You don't need to suffer at all, and if you are suffering, you don't need to do it forever--much less share that with people who could use it against you.

Do better, for yourselves and for others in your community. It's okay to be in pain, it's okay to wish things were different, it's okay to share experiences and gather support, but it's not okay to act like no one who is plural could ever have happiness in their life, or claim that those who don't suffer as much as you are fake. Stop spreading the sentiment that suffering is the only way.

[average-hyperfixator]

This is probably the weirdest way to show that I'm in the Mouthwashing fandom, and like nobody is going to see this BUT

If I see ONE MORE person compare Ted to Jimmy I'm going to LOSE MY FUCKING MIND. Is this another testament to people not understanding Ted's overall role in the story and his character arc? YES, YES IT IS. RE READ THE BOOK. RE LISTEN TO THE RADIO DRAMA. GAME IS IT'S OWN CONVERSATION THAT WILL TAKE TOO LONG FOR ME TO DISECT + IT HAS IT'S OWN STORY AND THUS WILL NOT BE INCLUDED HERE.

Jimmy is a jealous man, who assaults (and unfortunately impregnates) Anya, and then tries to crash the ship so he doesn't have to deal with the consequences, and when everyone lives, they live in misery BECAUSE OF HIM. He is the co-pilot, he has more power and authority over the others, and he ACTIVELY makes things worse, and is at fault for the crash and the subsequent fallout. (this section is shorter, simply because I've been in the IHNMAIMS fandom much longer and have way more thoughts on Ted) Ted, on the other hand, is not at fault for the world ending. He is just as trapped as the other five, he's more prone to mental manipulation and THINKING he's better off, but he really isn't. He doesn't have more power of the others because he's also a victim. He is by no means a great guy, or even a good guy; They key difference is that at the end of his story, the book, he actually fucking HELPS. Rather than make his friends continue to live in misery, he puts them out of it, and rather than end his own suffering, he spends those precious few seconds he could be ramming an icicle into himself, comforting Ellen as she dies. It doesn't make up for what he's thought and said, BUT, it's something at least. It's remorse, it's letting her finally be content, it's trying to give her the empathy she showed him time and time again. And he gets turned into a horrid slug creature after, he actively suffers more than everyone else for the rest of time- he self sacrifices so his friends could be at peace. TLDR: Jimmy is objectively selfish and doesn't change much throughout the game, save for MAYBE the very end (ig putting Curly in the pod is one brownie point for him) however Ted actually shows growth by the end of the story, and makes a point to end the suffering of his friends, while ultimately sacrificing himself in the process. If I catch another person equating these two I'm just gonna start throwing hammers at them I DON'T CARE. I am THE Ted defender, and I WILL stand my ground that, while he is no where near perfect, he DOES become a better person by the end of the story and deserves to have that acknowledged. anyway this has been sick rants with me, feel free to add on in reblogs or perchance spark a FRIENDLY debate. I apologize if I come off rude here, Ted and IHNMAIMS have been a hyperfixation of mine for months and I am very easily riled up about the story and characters. adding new tag ; Jace rants 🗯️ ! For all my ranting escapades from now on.

[shadeysprings]

Rebound - Part I

—DBF!Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Your night of wallowing in your misery takes a different turn when your dad’s best friend bumps into you at the bar. 

Warnings: noncon/dubcon undertones, oral sex with fingers at play, unprotected sex, age gap (around 20-25 years), kinda SoftDark!Joel but also nah & predatory vibes. Use the warnings wisely and tread carefully. But nothing to worry about for this part for now.

A/N: Another Joel fic for ya nasties. This is a Modern AU so no brain-eating fungus is present. Also, tell me what kind of Joel you wanna see next! This is a mini-series, y'all!

Your feedback and reblogs are highly appreciated. Support Content Creators! And of course, I hope y’all enjoy!❤️

“Fuck you, Alex,” you murmur under your breath before taking a shot of the liquor, the burn of the tequila is a welcome sensation.

Slamming the glass down against the bar top, you give the bartender a tipsy smile of apology when he looks at you in disapproval of your rowdy actions. But can he really blame you? The anger you thought had passed slowly starts bubbling in your core, your hand gripping tight around the glass before letting out a defeated sigh.

Bullshit!

That’s what you call the reasons he gave you that fateful afternoon when you marched into his office, worrying, thinking if he was alright and well but also annoyed for ignoring you the entire five days he was on his business trip. 

You couldn’t take it any longer. His silence, too deafening and his disregard becoming too much to handle that you stormed into his office the day after you knew he would be back. You even went as far as missing a day of work, Denise’s nagging ringing in your ears when you called that morning. 

Though you can bear her wrath, something you’ve done countless times. But this? Not this. Not with Alex toying with your feelings. 

I’m not ready for anything serious yet.

You deserve someone who’ll give you the time and attention you want. And that’s not me. But you can always call me when you feel lonely. 

Oh, how you wanted to scream at him and punch away the smug look on his face. To throw the things sitting idly on his desk and cause a ruckus and fully express that you are not one to be played with. To make him regret wasting your time loving him and taking care of him. 

But you didn’t.

Instead, you nodded in defeat, much to your chagrin, and bade him goodbye, shoving him as hard as you could when you ran out of his office. You ignored the stares of curiosity his co-workers threw at you, your heels clacking against the marble floor as you rushed through the lobby so that no one would stop and notice the tears running down your face and hear the sound of your heart breaking. 

And now, here you are—wallowing in your self-pity, your sadness, and loneliness with tequila being your only friend.

Unshed tears begin welling in your eyes and you mop them away harshly with the back of your hand. You call the attention of the bartender once more, a little loud and more obnoxious than you expected, and order another round of shots.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ alone in a place like this?”

Your back straightens upon hearing the lilt of the man’s voice. Turning your head to the side, your eyes widen in surprise when you see those familiar hazel orbs glinting against the light of the bar mirroring your expression.

You almost don’t recognize him without the flannel he usually wears, replaced by a navy suit jacket hiding the same colored shirt underneath. His salt and pepper hair is tousled back neatly and the scruffy facial hair you’re used to seeing him with is neatly trimmed, accentuation further the cut of his jaw.

“Joel?” you ask with a soft voice. “Wh—”

“Sweetheart—” he grunts, “Jesus—fuck!” he takes a step back, disbelief and embarrassment evident on his face before he turns to you once more, a sigh leaving his lips. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I thought you were—wait,” he pauses mid-way, palm pressing flat on the bar when he leans closer. “Why are you crying?”

“I—”

You turn away quickly to face the bar and dab away the tears away you didn’t know escaped, cursing yourself for allowing them to fall in the first place. But you stop moving when you feel a hand gently wrap around your wrist, your eyes looking upward to see Joel with concern looming in his. 

“I—I wasn’t,” you say with a chuckle, hoping the display of mirth would mask your lie. “I just had something in my eye and the tequila they serve here is very st—”

“You know that I’ll know if you’re lying to me, sweetheart.” Joel scolds and you pout at his words, knowing full well how much the man knows you. “Who hurt you? Was it that stupid boyfriend of yours?” he growls.

His question makes you blink in surprise. “You know about Alex?”

“Yeah. Your papa told me about him before I moved here.”

“Moved? Here? But this is a long way from Tex—”

“Don’t try to change the subject, sweetheart.” he interrupts, hand moving to cup the side of your face with his thumb reaching over to rub gently underneath your eye. “Now, tell me what happened.” 

Releasing a breath of resignation, you turn back to face the bar and grab one of the shot glasses already lined up in front of you. 

“He broke up with me,” you admit, tipping your head back as you take a drink and hiss when the liquid burns your throat. “After five days of ignoring my calls and messages, he tells me he isn’t ready to be in a committed relationship and a couple of bullshit nonsense.”

You glance at Joel, waiting for him to chime in or say anything, but he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his eyes focused on you, the hand once on your cheek now resting on your shoulder and giving it an encouraging squeeze. You continue. 

“I loved him, Joel—fuck! I still do.” you cry, the tears flowing freely, though this time, you do nothing to wipe them away. “I just don’t understand why he would do this to me. Why he would ghost me like some stupid teenager and hurt me instead of being honest with me.”

You frown as doubts begin to plague you and your self-esteem slowly crumbles. You never once were the first person people chose, always the last, or if the universe was being kind, at least the second. And meeting Alex, you thought that would change, that for once, someone actually chose you, wanted you.

He was sweet, attentive, and possessed all the qualities anyone would want in a partner. The sex was definitely amazing but that was simply a consolation for you for it was his personality and charm that drew you closer to him. But people always said ‘if it’s too good to be true, it probably is’ and what he did and the pain he’s caused you, only proved it to be very accurate.

“Was I not good enough?” A hiccup erupts from your lips and you press the heels of your palms to your eyes when the tears keep going, sobbing silently as sadness completely takes over you. “Was I not worthy enough to be loved? To be honest to?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Compassion laces Joel’s voice and you keep your head down to avoid him seeing you in such a state when he takes your hands away from your face. You allow him to wipe away the tears, calloused hands cupping your face gently afterward and tipping your head back for your eyes to meet his. “Never think that because you are enough and you are worth it.” he intones, thumbs gently caressing your cheek to put away stray tears.

“You are beautiful, inside and out, and that boy couldn’t see that. Just know that someone is out there and they want you, will do anything to be with you and it will only be a matter of time before they reveal themselves.” His words, sweet and comforting, pierce through your heart for no one has ever told you such things. You want to believe him, you really do, but a small part inside tells you that he simply pities you and is feeding you words you want to hear. 

“You’re perfect,” he adds and leans over to press a kiss on your forehead. You sit on your stool, stunned at his display of intimacy and staring up at his warm, caramel gaze when he steps closer. “I hope you can see that.”

Warmth blooms at the base of your neck, crawling up your cheeks and you pull away from Joel’s hold to face the bar instead, feeling shy with the way he’s acting. Still, you’re grateful for his presence, happy to have even bumped into him even if it was a weird coincidence.

“T-Thank you, Joel.” you give him a small, pathetic smile. “Really—it means a lot and I’m happy you’re here.” 

“Anything for the best girl I know.” he grins at you and calls on the bartender before leaning against the bar and setting a hand on your thigh. “Tell you what, why don’t we drink and let the alcohol take that heartache of yours away.” You startle when the bartender sets two tumblers of whiskey in front of the two of you and stare at the glass when Joel casually slides it in your direction. “No need to think of the pain but be happy at the fact that loser saved you years of it.”

He lifts his glass to you, a grin etched on his face. 

“What do you say?”

I no longer keep a tag list but if you want to be kept updated on my fics, follow my side blog @springlibrary and turn on notifications.

[lucyandthepen]

(give me that) can't sleep love | cyj

you’ve been managing yeonjun flawlessly for a few good years now, but there are just some things you can’t keep under control. the obvious solution? a blind date that skews towards the unexpected.

pairing: solo idol!yeonjun x reader rating: T genre: romance warnings: none! like the narrative has a swear word like idk once? word count: 3.5k 

author’s notes: yeah it’s not actually valentine’s day but we write for a completely new fandom because we simply have no restraint !! just kidding, i’ve actually been hoping to extend my writing for other groups, but i haven’t yet because i’m extremely slow and a bit fickle. this is my first time writing for anything txt, but i hope to do so a bit more in the future! 

if you like it, please consider reblogging to help spread the word!

Maybe your mom was right. Maybe the entertainment industry just isn’t for you.

She’d actively warned you against dedicating your time to, well, anything involving the glitz and glam, but you just hadn’t listened. There had been good opportunities, great experiences you’d never get anywhere else. For the most part, your choices had helped that expectation become that reality; you’d met people not just anyone got to meet, and you’d definitely had a substantial amount of unique encounters.

Still, you were aware that the only reason you’d ever gotten the chance to taste a little bit of the high life was because you had Yeonjun on your side. Choi Yeonjun — the rising star of the idol world, with a better career trajectory than the guy who owned Apple, it seemed. His job was the access pass to everything you enjoyed. Unfortunately, your ticket to all the good things was also the key to your prolonged misery.

As his manager, you have a ton of roles to play — logistics coordinator, scheduler, alarm clock, wardrobe checker, and, on one unfortunate incident, last-minute make-up artist when the original girl had been a no-show. You were supposed to be busy at every turn, but Yeonjun on the job was something of a well-oiled machine, learning how to feed himself while you were on the phone and follow the line-up to the letter as long as he was awake enough to do it. It’s possible you could blame him for all the downtime you got that had led to the bulk of the problem.

Actually, you aren’t sure when it started or even how. Maybe it had happened somewhere in the middle of all his showcases and shows, sandwiched between the constant fever of communication and movement. Maybe it had come up in those hectic car rides where you’d spent a ton of time reminding him of what to do and what to expect. Or maybe it had grown with every time you had to wake him up in one of many lonely hotel rooms, with his head half-buried in the pillow to muffle the sleepy groans he’d use to respond to your soft voice.

Whenever it was, all you could be sure of was that you liked him. A lot. Maybe even with the time you’d come to know him, after all these years, a part of you was ready to say you loved him.

But that was the biggest barrier in the job, wasn’t it? Managers are supposed to stop their idols from dating, not want to do it with them. For the most part, you’ve been successful in holding yourself back from doing something stupid, which is technically the bare minimum for you. These days, though, you aren’t sure what it is; maybe you’re just on edge from all the work in this year’s promotional stint, and that kind of contributes to a weakened mentality, or some kind of wack explanation like that, but you find yourself more often losing your train of thought when you’re with him. Even without detailing the specifics to your friends and co-workers, they’ve noticed something was bothering you. They’d urged you to relieve yourself of your duties a little, maybe hire a co-manager to do all the menial stuff, but you know that’s not really the issue. Only one person — Sunyoung, Yeonjun’s wardrobe stylist — had managed to hit the nail on the head semi-accurately.  

“Look, I get it,” she’d said one evening, after she’d shooed Yeonjun out of the dressing room so he could strap on his in-ear piece and prepare for the stage. You were supposed to be running around like a headless chicken, making sure everything was in check, but you were just slumped on the couch in the dressing room playing some dumb shark game your nephew had downloaded onto your phone. “You’re tired. You’re lonely. You can’t even go out for a cup of coffee without worrying about Yeonjun. But he’s fine. You can relax a little.”

“I’m totally relaxed,” you’d mumbled, watching your shark devour a poor surfer on your screen. “I’m fine.”

“Then you should get out more. Leave all of this behind and meet new people. Go on a date. Listen,” she’d covered your phone with her palm, and you heard the telltale music of your game coming to a bitter end. “Do something fun. Go on a date, seriously. I can set you up. It doesn’t even have to be anything serious, ____________! Just do something not work-related for once next week, and get this toxicity or whatever out of your system.”

You didn’t have the heart to say no or the courage to admit that nothing really would happen if that date wasn’t with Yeonjun, considering how far gone you were, so you’d just agreed.

Sunyoung had set you up for a Valentine’s Day date. Ironically, while the point was supposedly to get your mind off of Yeonjun on that day, he had a scheduled fan sign in Sinchon that you couldn’t miss out on. You had to pack an extra set of nicer clothes and a make-up bag that Yeonjun had eyed questioningly but silently as you’d entered the van.

“So how long is this fan sign?” He’d asked instead, immediately turning his attention to his phone the moment the van had started moving.

“Until six.”

“Then I don’t have another schedule, right?”

“No.” You don’t really ask why he’s curious; Yeonjun enjoys his personal time, as any celebrity does. “You’re free after. The van can take you home, or wherever else you need to be.”

He’d hummed appreciatively, fixated on his phone, and the rest of the ride is consumed in silence until you’d arrive at the venue.  

Yeonjun is whisked immediately into hair and make-up, and Sunyoung emerges from his dressing tent a few moments after he disappears inside, portable clothes steamer in hand. “Hey; did you get my text?”

You shake your head; you’d spent the car ride irresponsibly ignoring your phone, opting to gnaw on one of your nails instead.  

“I sent you the details of a reservation slot in this nice Italian place near Dongdaemun. Just drop my name and they’ll lead you to the table.”

“Look, I don’t really know if I want to do this,” you mumble sheepishly. “Blind dating isn’t my speed.”  

“Just go. It’ll be fine. If you don’t like him, you don’t like him. Just give it a shot. If all else fails, just enjoy the pasta,” she’d said with finality, bopping the nozzle of the steamer on your shoulder as she walks away.  

Yeonjun is out of the dressing room in twenty minutes, and even then, you’re not sure why it takes that long. You’ve consistently held the belief that Yeonjun doesn’t need make-up to look good, and you can hardly tell when he has it on, anyway. Still, it’s nice to see his stylist pushing his hair up into a neat, tiny quiff, and he’s changed from his standard white tee and jeans to something that resembles a casual suit. You guessed they did it for Valentine’s Day — emulating the coveted boyfriend look, and all that.  

“How do I look?” He asks you, right before you lead him onstage. His eyes follow your hand as you fix the front of his jacket quickly.  

“Great,” you reply. “As usual.”

“So until six, right?” His mouth is lifting into a grin that you can’t really understand.  

“Until six,” you confirm, now a little curious. “You got somewhere to be?”  

“Not sure,” he looks down at you enigmatically. “It’s my off time, so we’ll see what happens.”  

“Don’t do anything stupid,” you warn him, even though there’s no heat in your words. You know he’s not dumb enough to gallivant around doing things that will get him on Dispatch’s radar.  

He just laughs, giving you a small wink before he hops onstage, taking two steps at a time. The voices around you are drowned out by the screams that ensue once his fans see him.  

From then on, it’s just the same pattern for the next two hours — you, standing on one corner of the stage beside a guy from security, watching hundreds of girls in a line titter and scream and fall to their knees in front of the table where Yeonjun is seated at. They’ve all got albums in their hands, offering them to him reverently for a signature, and he takes them all good-naturedly, scrawling his name and some short, practically unreadable message somewhere around it while chatting with them about food he likes and what movies he’s into these days.  

Since it’s Valentine’s Day, a ton of girls come with romantic gifts — flowers, chocolates, goodies baskets. One girl even brings a large teddy bear, plopping it down in front of him unceremoniously and scaring Yeonjun into accidentally miswriting his signature. You and the rest of his management team aren’t really strict about prohibiting gifts, but Yeonjun refuses all of them — nicely, of course, but to the disappointment of many fans. Every time he says no, he glances at you, like he’s worried you’re going to tell him off if he says yes. You’d wondered once before if he was just trying to pin the blame on you, but you know he’s not cruel like that. Today doesn’t make a difference; he rejects people with apologetic looks as he gives their albums back, and you can see their dejection as they trod off the stage. The teddy bear girl had left the toy by the stairs in her disappointment.  

Yeonjun starts his closing ment at a quarter to six, and you tap the security guy next to you to remind him to bring him straight backstage after he’s finished before dashing off and ducking into the dressing room to change. You hear deafening cheers coupled with Yeonjun’s cute little goodbye! that signal the end of the fan sign, and you’ve just finished combing your hair back when Yeonjun walks in, idly patting his hair to see if everything is still in place.

“You look nice,” he observes casually, shrugging off his jacket. You try to avoid looking at him, even if his shoulders are so impossibly broad that you can’t really ever keep them out of your peripheral vision. “Do you have plans?”  

“As a matter of fact, I do,” you admit, unsure as to why you feel so guilty for saying so. You’re not dating, you have to remind yourself. And you’re allowed to go out after work.

“Meeting someone special?”  

“I’m not sure. Could be. I don’t know who I’m meeting, if I’m being honest.”  

His expression is unreadable; his fingers are twirling his marker in quick, hypnotizing circles.  

“Well, have fun,” he finally says, moving to hang his jacket on the back of a chair. “You should take the subway or something. Rush hour, and all that.”  

“Thanks for the tip.” His words sound pretty dismissive, but you’re not sure why you don’t just leave right away. Maybe you’re expecting him to say something, although it’s really more about what you wish he would rather than what he reasonably would, and he just continues to stare quietly, still toying with the Sharpie. “If you… need anything, just call. You know?”  

“I know,” he replies simply. “But I won’t bother you on a date. That’s just plain rude.”

“I’ll still answer. You know you’re more important than a blind date.”  

“Am I?” He looks amused. “Sounds like you take this job too seriously. Don’t worry about me. I’ll probably just go home after all. There’s a wildlife documentary I’m dying to catch.”  

You’re pretty sure you hadn’t meant the job, but you don’t correct him considering how that would out you. “Okay. See you bright and early tomorrow. Remember you’ve got a radio interview at nine, so can you please not stop by Starbucks before you go home? Please?”  

“Sure, sure,” he waves you and your nagging off, and you bolt out of the door, feeling kind of stupid and a little flushed.  

You take Yeonjun’s advice and get on the subway, except the first two trains Dongdaemun-bound are full to the brim and you have to squeeze yourself into the car of the third train by elbowing a couple of annoying teenage boys. The other problem you run into is that the train station exits are a fair way away from your destination, and you aren’t used to running in heels. You clip-clop your way down the sidewalk and hit every red light for the pedestrian crossings, much to your ire. At one point, you stop in the middle of the crossing and consider just storming back to the opposite end of the road and going home, but the subway station is too far away for that choice to make sense at that point anyway.  

By the time you get to the restaurant, you’re about fifteen minutes late and have to sit on the chairs for walk-in customers to give your feet a break. The guy at the front of the house has the decency to wait for you to catch your breath and even quietly point out that a lock of hair is stuck to your lip gloss before he asks if you have a reservation.  

You nervously pick at your dress and comb the ends of your hair as you follow him. You notice someone is already seated at the table, back to you and looking over the menu. You think about all the things that you want to say — sorry for being late, have you been waiting long?, I totally understand if you want to just leave — but there’s a weird nagging in the back of your mind that grows as you approach the table.  

Maybe Sunyoung had known you had a type, so to speak —lean, sharp, nicely dressed. Technically, that wasn’t such a difficult set of characteristics to find, but the fact that they were all rolled up into one package seated at your table, so similar to the guy you’ve pinned as ideal, was just kind of spooky. Even the fact that your blind date was laughing to himself at God knows what, alongside the fact that the way his angular shoulders moved up and down comically the way his would, isjust weird.

That, or…  

All thoughts of apologizing fly out the window once you reach the table. All you can do is stare, your ears ringing and your fingers clutching your wallet tightly. Your mind has completely disconnected from reality, and the first thing that tumbles out of your mouth is loud and a little crude.  

“Literally, what the hell?”  

All the guy at your table can do is laugh harder, clearly because he’s Lee Freaking Yeonjun, and he’s finding this situation sidesplittingly hilarious.  

“Yeonjun,” you hiss, your hand flying up and curling into a fist in an attempt to restrain yourself from grabbing him by the collar. “What are you doing here?”  

It takes him another half-minute to sober down, and he’s still chuckling a little as he answers. “Waiting for my date, obviously.”  

“Explain,” you demand, pointedly ignoring the looks couples from another table are giving you.

“Okay, but you have to sit down first,” he motions to the seat across from him. You pull it back and plop down onto it, gaze unwavering. He pauses, kind of dramatically, before continuing. “So there’s a set course meal, but I know you don’t like shellfish, so I thought—”

“I don’t want an explanation of the menu!” You shut your eyes, trying to block out the scene for a second. This can’t be happening. It makes no sense. “I want to know — wait, is this a prank?” 

“What? No, of course not.”  

“How are you here?”  

“I took the van here,” he says, once again elusive. “I actually thought you’d get here before me, but then I realized you probably had to walk a long way. Sorry.” He has the decency to look sheepish at this point.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m on a date?” He shakes his head. “What’s not clicking, ____________?”

“Don’t sass me. Please. Do me that one courtesy, if nothing else.” He watches you down your water in one go, still looking politely amused. “Did Sunyoung put you up to this?”  

“Actually, I asked her to rope you in.”

“Because?”  

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” He looks incredulous. “Because I like you. I thought that was kind of obvious from the get-go.”

Nothing is making sense to you. Your head is starting to hurt a little, maybe from the situation, maybe from the cold water you’d drunk too fast. “How was it obvious?” You thought you had been kind of obvious, which was why you had attempted to stay distant and pretty aloof for the past few months.  

“I listen to everything you say.”

“You have to,” you point out wearily. “That’s literally supposed to be our professional relationship.”  

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have done it so well and so frequently if it were anyone else who were my manager,” he tries to reason, then continues when you look unconvinced. “And the gifts. I don’t take them.”  

“So?”  

“So, I don’t have a reason to not take them, technically. I just don’t because I don’t want you to think I’m accepting other people’s affections.”  

“That makes no sense. They’re your fans, so that has nothing to do with personal affections. You’re terrible at this.”  

“Okay, fine — but so are you!” His voice transitions into something a little accusing. “It’s not like you’ve been good at showing me you like me either.”  

He pauses, and for the first time in your life, you see something cross his face — uncertainty, maybe, or anxiety.  

“You do like me, don’t you?”  

The fire of indignant anger fueled by your initial shock dies down, and you’re left feeling a little embarrassed now. The entire walk here, you’d been torturing yourself with the fantasy that you could be somewhere else with Yeonjun on a date, but now that he’s seated across you in the flesh, you have no clue what to do or how to react properly. You toy with your napkin, but you feel his eyes burning into you.  

“Fine. I do, but,” you raise your voice a little at the conjunction; he doesn’t even take you seriously, choosing to look relieved instead. “But I’m not supposed to, Yeonjun. This is bad.”  

“Why? We’re at an old people restaurant. No one’s going to recognize us.”  

“Because I’m not supposed to go on dates with the idol I’m managing.”

“Be honest,” his bottom lip juts out. “Is that all you think of me?”  

Your lips thin out into a tight line; it’s easy to say no if you’re cheeky like him, but you’re pretty sure it’s easier to fire a manager for dating off-bounds than it is to cut off an idol’s career for the same reason.  

“Can’t we be, you know,” he points between the two of you. “Just us? Not manager and idol. Just you and me. Just for tonight. And we can see how it goes.”  

You hate that you cave so easily. You hate that you know you do because you like him so much. Your hand comes up to your face, trying to rub the ache away from your temples. A small, triumphant grin is growing on Yeonjun, like he already knows what you’re going to say. It occurs to you that after all this time you’ve come to know him well, he may have reached the same level of familiarity with you as well.

“Fine,” you mumble, and he doesn’t even contain his joy, pumping his fist into the air embarrassingly. “Fine. Just for tonight.”  

“Just for tonight,” he agrees. “Then we can see how it goes.”  

When you finally decide to meet his eye, you can’t help but laugh softly. He’s looking a little smug, and you want to smack him, or maybe just kiss him a little, but you just nudge his foot under the table. It doesn’t do anything to faze that little shit-eating expression on his face.  

“Don’t think this gets you off of waking up early,” you warn, but you never do get to threaten him effectively with just how soft your words are. “I’m still hauling you out of bed at seven.”

“As long as it’s you,” he grins. “And no one else.”  

“Shut up,” you try to bite back your smile, ducking your head instead to look at the menu when you feel it growing anyway. “Order your food.”  

You know he’s not looking at the menu even as you pretend to peruse it. Still, he falls quiet, eerily so, and you think he’s just staring until you feel something soft land on top of your hand.

Your eyes lift again to his face, and he’s still smiling, albeit a little more serenely, without that joking expression he’s practically trademarked. His hand squeezes yours tightly, and even when he loosens his hold, his palm never leaves yours.  

“You really do look beautiful tonight,” he says softly. “Happy Valentine’s Day, _______________.”  

[infinitevacancy]

Was looking through some tags and I saw you reblogged a picture of Jill Valentine and you basically gave some meta about the catsuit and why Wesker did it, and I just wanted to let you know that your observation/meta was spot on and I like the way you think. Hope you’re having a very good week.

ty! idk how long ago this was but for anyone reading this after the fact:

i hate jill's design in resident evil 5 because it's so anathema to her character - the devs of the time pretty blatantly said that they wanted to make her look sexy, which is also why the P30 control device is on her chest - and it's generally, from a doylist perspective, the worst thing that can ever happen to a person's favourite character.

however.

however.

if you take Jill's change of hair, outfit, and general presentation as a direct result of Wesker now having complete control over her... it all makes a lot more sense.

Wesker is an egomaniac with a god complex who sees everyone else as inferior to him - so to have two regular people - jill valentine and chris redfield - continually pop up to ruin his plans and by extension contradict his worldview must be maddening.

then Lost in Nightmares happens, and despite once again failing to kill chris thanks to jill, wesker now has her in his clutches. the in-game documents shed some light on what happens next, so i'll just focus on the fact that now the bad guy with a god complex now has one half of the biggest obstacle to his supremacy over the human race under his control.

Wesker is arrogant. you could consider it his fatal flaw - he has a lot of those, but his arrogance proves to be his downfall by the end of the game... because he doesn't just kill Jill. he wants to break her and Chris, psychologically and emotionally, and let's face it he might not even want to kill them then. i think it'd be perfectly in character for Wesker's projected endgame plan to involve having both Chris and Jill as unwilling thralls, unable to resist and screaming silently the whole time as he forces them to help him destroy the planet and watch.

so what Wesker does is he puts Jill in a torturous situation - it's not expanded upon much but he forces her to infect civilians with bioweapons; which is absolutely going to fuck up someone who has dedicated their life to preventing such a thing, and also gives some insight to how Wesker views said civilians - as tools to further his own twiated ends. he even further assaults her mental state with the aforementioned catsuit and blonde hair, the superficial changes that act to remind Jill that her life and body are no longer her own to control - that's Wesker's territory now. you could extrapolate a deeper meaning from this about how patriarchal society views women's bodies, but RE5's dev team already proved me right.

so Wesker dehumanises and degrades Jill for three years, files off every sign of autonomy he can find and forces her to commit atrocities in his name. and then he pits her against Chris in a fight to the death, knowing that the only way it's going to end is with at least one of them dead - if not both - and the survivor wracked with guilt and misery.

but he doesn't count on Sheva. Wesker practically ignores her at every turn in dialogue, and i think he only refers to her once ("don't you two ever tire of failing your mission?") and i think it's another case of accidental brilliance by capcom where they want to make the game a big Chris vs Wesker showdown, but have to reckon with the fact it's a 2-player co-op game. Sheva helps Chris in disarming and freeing Jill, and then they work in tandem to exploit a weakness (that they only know about because of Jill! because they were able to save her because Wesker didn't just kill her!) and then finally they kill Wesker together, as partners and equals.

i don't really have a conclusion to this post, it was a lot of rambling, but my read of RE5 is that Wesker is very much aggrieved by Jill having the audacity to interfere with his plans and then putting her down in every way possible as punishment - and does this in big ways (P30 mind control shenanigans) and small ways (putting her in sexualised outfits) in order to cause her as much trauma as possible.

[thegeminisage]

i'm having a logistics fic problem. i don't normally Ask The Audience for fic help but this is making me crazy so if you have thoughts please weigh in. MAJOR SPOILER WARNING for lucanis's quests.

how does the vial of lucanis's blood work to control him and/or spite? the entirety of lucanis's explanation about it is "they have a vial of my blood, they can use it to control me" and then "it's for blood magic to control me and the demon, and until it's gone i can't touch calivan." but that doesn't make any god damn sense

for lucanis:

you don't need to use someone's blood specifically to control people with blood magic, do you? don't we see it happen in dragon age all the time? like templars use phylacteries - vials of a mage's blood - to track them down if they escape the circles, but they can't use the phylacteries CONTROL mages. and also, lucanis isn't a mage. so why does it require his blood specifically?

for spite:

you don't need blood to bind demons, either, do you? in inquisition, some mages fleeing from kirkwall bind the spirit of wisdom that solas was friends with and turn it into a demon because they force it to do things that go against its nature. and presumably it did not have blood at the time because it wasn't like. inside a person. spirits are just like. magical energy, right? even if the vial of blood is part of that binding ritual, if zara or whoever could bind a demon the way those mages did in da:i, why dosn't she just order spite to take lucanis over like she wants instead of having calivan unsuccessfully torture him for a year? furthermore, is spite not already bound in some way because he can't leave lucanis (and by extension, the ossuary itself) even if he wants to?

there is the implication in a note you can find in one of the...labs? that the reason that what zara does in the ossuary is special because it PRODUCES demons instead of SUMMONS them (hence getting the more "complex" emotions like spite, rapacity, passivity, misery, etc), and i thought maybe that difference had something to do with it, but in that same lab lucanis outright says "zara can SUMMON (not produce) all the demons she wants but they don't have to obey her." but...don't they?? is that not specifically what the vial is for? isn't that why lucanis can't attack calivan? why can't a tevinter magister do what a bunch of chucklefucks from kirkwall can?

and finally, there's illario, who managed to control spite (or at least get him to back off) with blood magic but WITHOUT a vial of lucanis's blood specifically. granted, he was not able to do this once lucanis and spite both resisted him (it only worked when both he and lucanis were trying to overpower spite), but STILL. if you can do that with your own blood why the FUCK do the venatori need a vial of lucanis's?

for both:

evidence suggests that the dead guards rook & co find upon their arrival to the ossuary are lucanis and spite's handiwork. if the vial of blood prevents the two of them from attacking calivan, why didn't it prevent them from killing all those Venatori? why doesn't it prevent lucanis and spite killing their way through the ossuary with you to get TO the vial?? is there not the minor implication that the existence of this vial is the ONLY reason lucanis, TRAINED ASSASSIN WHO SPECIALIZES IN KILLING MAGES, did not rip his way out of the ossuary on day one??

i would like to hear from everyone whose answer is not "the writing in datv is flawed and its lore is just too wildly inconsistent with the rest of the series." i know that and i definitely agree with that assessment, but it's not going to help me get my fanfic written 😭 if you want to reblog this that's fine too!! i really really don't want to have to go ask reddit lol

[mylittleredgirl]

20 questions for fic writers

thanks @annerbhp for the tag! i really enjoyed reading her answers too!

1. How many works do you have on ao3?

215

2. What’s your total ao3 word count?

646,705 (average of 3k per fic, which sounds about right)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

stargate atlantis most often, followed by sg-1, various star treks, and the x-files (with other miscellaneous fandoms on demand for exchanges and gifts).

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

No Sooner Met (voyager, janeway/chakotay)

Career Day (sg-1, mini!otp)

Next Chapter (the good place, chidi/eleanor)

First Date (voyager, janeway/chakotay) editor's note: man my title game was weak in my voyager era

Occupational Hazards (the good place, chidi/eleanor)

it's so funny to spend my online time in small or inactive fandoms and look at statistics because i'm like yeah... i'm kind of a big deal... people know me... i have many leather-bound volumes... and not a single one of my fics crack 300 kudos (& very few over 100). the person i reblogged from topped out over 9,000! what's it like to write long fics for popular fandoms? is it cool?

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

i do now! and it's awesome! for a long time i was intimidated by praise and had a hard time responding, but my brain works now and i really enjoy exchanging comments that turn into long threads of headcanon back-and-forth and sometimes new friends.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

oh god PLEASE let me unburden my soul about Twilight (sga, john/elizabeth). it's so uncharacteristically hopeless for me -- far future fic, complicated family dynamics, elizabeth has dementia and john is estranged from their son... really no one is having a good time. i think it's interesting and a cool departure from my usual writing style, but it's also a big sad mess.

i still feel sooooo guilty about these two thousand words of misery that i REGULARLY think about writing a sequel where john and his son fix it with time travel and mend fences. like i lie awake at night worrying about these characters because one time in 2007 i didn't give them a happy ending and suggested john might not break the bad father generational cycle. normal fic writer behavior.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Weaving Loose Ends (sg-1, sam/jack)! i love happy and hopeful endings but i think of all of them, this one is the most resolved and least complicated.

8. Do you get hate on fic?

nope. oh!!!! there was the one time when i caused Big Drama in a corner of the Dancing With The Stars fandom by turning people's headcanons into rpf, which everyone liked until one included porn. people got so heated with each other over this one smut fic (doxing! splinter factions! a fandom schism!) but somehow no one was ever actually mean to me. i didn't even get blocked or banned for my rpf transgressions, i was just standing there at the eye of the storm. so... i guess the answer is still no??

9. Do you write smut?

yes! i should probably write more, though. it has been all slow and gauzy the past few years, somebody should really get railed pretty soon.

10. Do you write crossovers?

nope.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

i don't think so. happily toiling in obscurity.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

back in the x-files days i think someone translated some of my doggett/reyes fics for a spanish archive, so those might still be out there.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

no i haven't!! i am really not doing well collecting my fic writer girl scout badges here!!

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

john sheppard/elizabeth weir my beloved.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but probably won’t?

i have 10k of an sg-1 episode-by-episode soulmate fic that started really strong and i would love to share someday, but i lack staying power so it will surely just go to seed in my dropbox forever!!

16. What are your writing strengths?

hopefully character complexity and dialogue. dialogue is interesting in fanfic, because the dialogue on many TV shows is really different than how real humans speak (it's scripted to be clearer, more concise and direct, uninterrupted, etc), so it's a fun challenge to balance that and get something that sounds both in-character and realistic.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

long fics!

the big related weakness is that i find it incredibly difficult to keep writing on a fic after i show it to anyone (as a sneak peek, or because i want feedback / encouragement / brainstorming help). i lose steam on my own, but posting or inviting other people into the process is like pouring sugar in the gas tank. why is that!! how do i fix this!!!

and i don't know if this is a "writing weakness" or an "egregious personal character flaw" but i sure did finish an exchange fic this year literally forty seconds before reveals, so that's... pretty bad.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

SO SCARY aughhhh my fear of Being Wrong really nukes me here. it doesn't even have to be a real language. it's like the ghost of JRR Tolkein himself is standing over my shoulder telling me that if i don't backwards engineer an entire proto-latinate space language instead of just chucking words into google translate and calling it Ancient i'm committing unpardonable sins.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

star trek! first internet-published fics were x-files, but first limited-print-edition fics were xeroxed hand-bound voyager stories my sister and i would give as "gifts" to family friends (and then stand there staring at them while they read the first few pages and told us how clever and creative we were and promised to "read the rest later").

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

new answer! i have always answered this before with ain't no sunshine (sga, john/elizabeth) or career day (sg-1, mini!otp), but i think i really stuck the landing this year on pieces (sga, john/elizabeth). which, incidentally, is the one i finished forty seconds before reveals so i'm definitely not going to learn anything from that narrow escape.

tagging @ussjellyfish if you haven't already done this one, @coraclavia, @havocthecat, @lonesomehighways, and anyone else who made it through this long post and would like to do it!

[iamstuckinthevoid]

Shitty art I did rn!! If it's shit it's because it's 10 to 1 and I'm motherfucking tired

Text cos my handwriting is SHIT:

Pick Your Influence!

BLEAGH

Encourages self harm and unironically tells people to kill themselves

Feeds off misery, doesnt need it but enjoys it anways

Intrusive thoughts personified as a lamb

Greatly dislikes Shush

Shush

Would rather you hurt other people and is quick to suggest it

Gets slightly manic when they win as most people don't choose the angel on their shoulder

The voice in your head that tells you not to

Argumentative

Hates BLEAGH

Please don't just like, they don't do anything. Reblog or don't interact.

[denybunnyforgood]

Taking D-type affirmation requests

In the spirit of that one aftercare appreciation post it made, it will now on a whim offer affirmation for dom(me)s, sadists, mxtresses, owners, r@pists, and so on.

it remembers when it first gave up all of its orgasms. it had met this person and after a day of flirting it eventually popped the big question: if we got closer how often would she like it to cum? she initially sheepishly said twice a month.

it asked her for her reasoning and she explained how she did find not letting it cum hot but it wouldn't be fair to let it go from cumming like semidaily to anything too extreme like once a month.

the next day it offered her a deal. she'd get to choose which cosplay it wore at every party we went to, but in exchange she would go further and never let it cum again and do what she could to make sure it never enjoyed sex with her.

this may seem questionable or paternalistic, but it gave her room to back out of that deal and the way she talked abt how it was fairness that was holding her back did give it good reason to think she wanted more. later on she did reflect on this and said its intuition was right and she just kinda felt guilty abt what she really wanted, and her being the only one who ever enjoyed sex between us was ideal for her, and it brought her a lot of meaning and genuine joy that she had made its life so much worse and it was miserable from having met her.

there is genuinely a really huge problem with d-types not getting enough affirmation, appreciation, and praise, particularly among marginalized groups who are often demonized or made out to be disgusting for having any sexuality at all, let alone feelings of sadism and desires for domination. so even in cases where it's not just permissible but morally above and beyond the call of duty, praiseworthy, heroic to pursue their needs they feel guilt, shame, trepidation.

that person it met it was frequently astounded by, full of admiration for, and it never tired of telling her. she had reached this point where she genuinely didn't care about its well-being at all. it had become so so miserable with our sex life and despite it looking like a person, despite deeply entrenched empathy instincts urging her to feel smth, she just found it amusing, cute, sometimes funny. it could too, sometimes, but even then it felt the misery and it cared and it wanted to enjoy sex again and it wished desperately it could, and she was born with the talent of being able to escape that sensation. it could never being itself to not care, no matter how much it understood it was an object. but she could. she could see and internalize reality for what it was and understand the worthlessness of its well-being on a level it never truly could.

today it has more than one domme who is like this and telling them every day how much it appreciates this part of them and why isn't enough to make up for all they've contributed to its life being miserable.

anyway...

all of that to say, if you're a D-type and want to be affirmed, to be appreciated, it loves you and it will endeavor to affirm as many of those who need it as it can. so if you see this feel free to dm it or send it an ask or reblog or comment and if you want you can list your boundaries and needs and so on, and it will try to provide whatever affirmation you need. and if you're not the target of this post but know some folks who need this you can indicate somehow you're blogging for visibility, and if in the end nobody ends up asking for direct affirmation let it just say broadly:

it loves you dom(me)s who violate us

it loves you mxtresses who change us deeply as an experiment on a whim

it loves you sadists who genuinely place no intrinsic worth on our feelings or well-being

it loves you owners who genuinely have to suppress your laughter cos you feel like it's inappropriate when we're having a panic attack and saying genuinely funny things

it loves you it loves you it loves you and it hopes you find a thing that can make it up to you all you've done to ensure things like it are miserable and owned 🌸

[kharmii]

Someone posted more garbage blaming male isolation on 'white guy culture' and 'capitalism', and then, like a coward, they made it so a person couldn't reblog. I still wrote something in reply:

No, it's not the usual bullshit sheltered left-wing college kids want to blame it on. No, everything isn't the fault of 'capitalism' or 'eeebul white guys'. Again, secular progressivism has caused more death and misery worldwide than all religious wars combined. If anything, leftwing culture has made everything more effed up for men with screw around culture creating an environment where we now have the greatest percentage of unmarried men in recorded history. For sure, it's not healthy for men to treat their SO as their only source of emotional support, but now they don't even have that.

Everything started going wrong during the Carter and then Reagan administrations in the 70/80's. Before then, men could get good paying jobs in a factory near where they lived and make enough money to support a wife being a stay-at-home mother and a couple of kids. Pushing women to enter the workforce 'for independence' is a huge scam foisted on us, because now we have a culture where both parents often have to work to barely afford a couple of kids and a mortgage. Women find it more noble to be cogs in the machine. Some people can't even manage the kids, (or they are lazy and selfish) so they end up with a butt-licking poop-eating stanky dog-child to get extra weird about.

Next thing you know; they're leaving rude comments about Kristi Noem shooting a damn dog (it's a fucking dog, calm down weirdos) while gushing, "I love my dog so much! Look at my shit-breath baby that just got done eating its own ass and is now licking off my ice-cream cone! Isn't that cuuuuute!"

Anyway, another problem we have (that goes along with the point about men in social clubs) is that we don't have close knit communities anymore. We don't have neighborhoods where everybody knows each other. How many people live in isolation on social media and don't even know their neighbors? How often do you see block parties or guys inviting the other guys on the street over for a cookout? Less people have children, so you don't meet new people having other peoples' kids knocking on your door asking if your child can play. (I suppose theoretically you could meet new people letting your stank-beast 'child' run around a dog-park).

-So then you have isolated men who have to meet other male friends through work. How would that work out for me if I was a male? It sure didn't work out for me being a female. I married and had children with a man from the other side of the goddamn planet while the losers I worked with labeled me as no fun because I wasn't into the Dem voting blue state party culture.

If you are a man in my place of employment, you have to be into the casino boats, betting pools, smoking pot jokes, telling the same stupid stories about getting drunk at bars and ballgames during your long-ago youth....and it's no wonder half of them ended up childless, unmarried weirdos in their forties and fifties. There was the one lowlife into fuck-and-dump culture, (and even he lived with his mom until age 40) but most of them are incels who are getting fatter and balder. None of them have grown into mature role-models with great character. None of them are the elders at the church or the guy you'd go to if you needed advice.

Side note: The guy they've talked into stalking me doesn't fit in with the culture. Under better circumstances, (like if he wasn't a misogynistic patronizing asshole who isn't even attracted to me, and I'm not really sure what the deal is.....) I might be into him, because for an older man, he's physically fit. He's into one of those Sierra Club type groups full of people doing outdoorsy shit, such as camping, hiking, canoeing..etc. He belongs to a lot of co-ed social clubs where they play cards on Thursdays or whathaveya...

Meanwhile, the flabby lowlife goobers complain that 'there's nothing to do in a small town! This is why so many men are dying of fentanyl!'

I've taken the piss about this so much. The Kharmii be like.......you mean there's not enough lowlife shit for low lives to do in a small town? Low lives have to OD on fentanyl out of boredom because there's not enough for dirty rotten low life scumbags to do? You have to drive all the way up to the suburbs for strip clubs and casino boats, and the Biden economy has made gas over $4/gallon?

[bleue-flora]

*depending on subject, asks might be answered on my other blog - @rouge-fauna (just to kinda keep things organized)*

Hello, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m here for the c!Dream angst. So, you know there is going to be plenty of good old prison arc and mature content though I’ll try to be mindful of profanity if not in dialogue. Obviously, I’m a c!Dream apologist. And not that you need to know but I am also autistic, as well as an artist and an alliteration addict. ;) I was previously a poet before I very recently started writing fan fiction so I’m a sucker for flowery writing and analysis, even though I’m actually a transportation engineer. [other things to note]

Things You Will See Here: Angst, Insanity, DSMP Memes, Analysis, Fanfiction, Art, Lore, AUs, Essays, Ellipses… and some other things :)

Spotify — AO3 — Twitter(X)

Works

Hell in a Box - Scrapped lore: c!Dream gets c!Sam to free him and then has a deep chat with c!Punz.

Misery Loves Another Idiot With A Jukebox Where His Soul Should Be (short hand: misery loves an idiot)- c!Quackity gets creative in his daily visits with c!Dream.

Dreamcatcher - c!Punz gets caught in a nightmare c!Dream has.

Good Cop ‘Bad’ Cop - c!Bad is a prison guard who takes pity on a mistreated c!Dream.

If The Crown Fits, Wear It - c!Techno upgrades c!Dream’s look with a crown.

Crow’s Nest - c!Dream haunts c!Techno’s house (co-authored with @error-dream-was-found).

B is for Betrayal - c!Punz helps c!Dream through a medical emergency.

Musical Chairs - Scrapped lore following the events of Crows Nest + c!Punz, c!Techno, c!Dream and a chair... need I say more?

A Gravel Mistake - c!Quackity acts sus so c!Foolish visits the prison

Tags

#sandwich label - graphics for each Good Cop 'Bad' Cop chapter

#flora does art apparently - my dsmp themed digital art

#this is fine - thoughts and stuff that give me brain rot :)

#did someone order an essay? - lengthy analysis and discussions

#on the house - reblog add ons and replies

#dishing up lore - interesting lore discoveries

#leftovers - bloopers/alternate scenes for my fics

#fanfic snack - other people's tumblr fanfics I enjoy

#shall we play a game? - reblog and ask games

#hello there - answers and responses to asks

#dsmp memes - dsmp gifs and memes

#let me cook - theories, hypotheticals, aus

#autistic c!dream- reasons why I think c!dream is canonically autistic

#flora fanfiction - my fanfiction & things related to it

Post Index

[turtleybeachin]

I posted 1,325 times in 2022

That's 1,109 more posts than 2021!

85 posts created (6%)

1,240 posts reblogged (94%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@property-of-diavolo

@kannra21

@eternallydaydreaming2015

@devildomditzy

@incendiak

I tagged 1,269 of my posts in 2022

Only 4% of my posts had no tags

#obey me - 885 posts

#obey me lucifer - 209 posts

#obey me mammon - 158 posts

#obey me diavolo - 88 posts

#obey me leviathan - 87 posts

#obey me simeon - 79 posts

#obey me barbatos - 77 posts

#obey me satan - 76 posts

#obey me solomon - 68 posts

#halloween - 53 posts

Longest Tag: 111 characters

#you know lucifer somewhere just violently sneezed and then glared suspiciously in whatever direction simeon was

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Somehow I’m losing my mind over Raphael’s bedroom. The partially eaten GIGANTIC apple just hanging out, the books and papers on the floor, the not-quite-made bed with the dangle blanket. I don’t know what I expected of him but this was not it and yet I’m loving it.

159 notes - Posted November 7, 2022

#4

so we all have a dark sense of humor in this fandom right? if that's not you, scroll past this, it's not going to hit your funny bone. (spoiler warning for lesson 16!)

okay so the way we have anniversaries in the devildom, what if MC has yearly anniversaries of the day they died?

like hear me out. i like belphie now, but i also feel like it's my diavolo-given right to remind him he's a little shit on a regular basis.

the boys wake up one morning to MC laying in the foyer with a banner hung over them "HAPPY ONE YEAR SINCE I DIED DAY!" we give belphie a sparkly birthday-style hat that says "I'M AN ASSHOLE" and pin a lil badge to his chest that says "MURDERER" and he has to wear it all day.

"it's been one year since belphie murdered me mid-hug and laughed about it!"

"it's been two years since the day belphie strangled me to death and then cackled maniacally in the foyer over my corpse!"

"happy three years since he brutally slaughtered me and then dragged my body through the house like a cat showing off its kill!"

but i feel like we would have to text mammon first to warn/remind him of the holiday i don't wanna traumatize my first man.

227 notes - Posted November 9, 2022

#3

Crying About Season 2 Episode 3

Putting everything under cuts because I don't want to spoil for people who haven't seen it yet.

I CONTINUE TO INSIST MC BE ALLOWED TO ABSOLUTELY ENCOURAGE LEVI'S NERDING OUT. As someone somewhere on the neurodivergent spectrum, I hyperfixate and obsess and nerd out hard on shows and games too. And I know how much it hurts when your friends and family mock you or tune you out or walk away from your excitement. And I know how much it means when they listen and get excited too and even if they don't care or understand they're happy just to see you happy.

And every time in the game when Levi starts getting excited and we're forced to like, not care or shut him down? NO. NO I REFUSE.

Anyway, specifically in this episode, I will admit Simeon's entirely un-subtle escape made me cackle

Followed by Luke's misery crawl after both his dads abandoned him like that

See the full post

260 notes - Posted August 12, 2022

#2

Cold Hands

Lucifer x MC (gender neutral)

Fluff, hand holding, fall vibes

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

It's a chilly night in the Devildom, the breeze cutting straight through your clothes. Lucifer beside you doesn't even twitch, the breeze ruffling his hair so prettily you can't help but wonder if he's using magic for that effect. Maybe it's his sin reflecting onto you, but you tense your muscles stubbornly and refuse the shiver that arcs along your spine.

He glimpses you from the corner of his eye, watching you clench your jaw against the chattering. You don't seem to realize how you're squeezing his fingers, your bare skin prickling in his grasp, the leather gloves denying you any shared heat. He could tease you, comment on your fragile human flesh, your trademark stubbornness in refusing to ask for his jacket.

Or he could unfurl his wings, stretch them wide and then let them settle in a way that just so happens to curl loosely around you and block the worst of the wind. "Oh, you don't mind, do you?" he drawls, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "The breeze feels pleasant on them." He slips his hand from your grasp long enough to pluck off his gloves and tuck them gently into his pockets, then entwines your fingers with his.

The heat from his hand seeps to your bones and up your arm. "Not at all," you reply, biting back your smile. You know he's caught your chills, and more than that, your attempt to hide them from him. "And your hands? Do you like the feel of the breeze on those, too?"

He lifts your hand in his so he can press his lips to the back of it. His gaze remains locked with yours as he lingers, the warmth of his breath on your skin erasing any memory of cold. "I prefer the feel of you."

312 notes - Posted October 6, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Sometimes I think about how the other sorcerers must get BIG MAD at MC because they're the first and only human to have a pact with all seven sins, all seven lords of hell.

They should be wealthy beyond understanding, have limitless power, be everything good boys and girls fear about deals with the devil.

And instead they only call upon the pacts for like, stupid shit.

"I heard they summoned Lucifer yesterday???" "Yeah, don't get excited. They didn't want to have to call the cable company to cancel service so they asked him to do it for them."

"Yo, the new kid used their pact to call Satan here! Who died? I didn't see any wild death tolls on the news--" "I saw on Instagram they went to Barnes & Noble and then a shelter to pet cats."

"Did you see they had Beelzebub here last night? And he looked pissed." "I have a friend who works at Olive Garden. Apparently he found the limit to the unlimited salad and breadsticks."

"Was I seeing things or was Asmodeus in town? With Solomon, I assume?" "Nah, with his apprentice." "Oh, were they trying to seduce their way--" "They were trying out those new nail polish robots at Target."

"Ugh, did they summon Mammon? Why??" "Apparently they couldn't reach some of the spell components on a top shelf and didn't want to go get the step stool."

"The new kid is outside with Leviathan, and they're standing real close talking animatedly. You don't think he's scouting ahead for the Navy, do you?" "Nope, walked by them earlier. They're playing Pokemon Go."

"I'm pretty sure that's Belphegor in the lounge near the fireplace." "Yep. Apparently the new kid likes to shove their bare feet under him while he naps, says he's 'the perfect temperature'."

5,496 notes - Posted October 18, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[ctrlemis]

I posted 1,086 times in 2022

That's 1,086 more posts than 2021!

914 posts created (84%)

172 posts reblogged (16%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@ctrlemis

@jungwonize

@jangwonie

@seungstarss

@maiverie

I tagged 1,078 of my posts in 2022

Only 1% of my posts had no tags

#ctrlemis - 824 posts

#art's answers 🎨 - 585 posts

#//↷favs of all time - 453 posts

#artemis's hunters - 345 posts

#//↷ art talks - 289 posts

#//↷ misery business asks - 236 posts

#✦ ˚ . nonnies - 210 posts

#𓆩 hunter ♡ anons 𓆪 - 156 posts

#//↷ fault line asks - 110 posts

#art's reblogs 🖼️ - 73 posts

Longest Tag: 138 characters

#especially because people struggle with their idenity and pronouns for so fucking long and that's completely disregarding their experience

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒. i know what you are

See the full post

161 notes - Posted May 17, 2022

#4

𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 ⎯ MASTERLIST.

SYNOPSIS. Life has always been complicated for monster hunter Nishimura Riki. Especially when he comes to the conclusion that he no longer wants to carry out his family legacy. Things only get harder when he finds an exiled vampire bleeding out in his friend's tub.

PAIRING. Monster Hunter! Nishimura Riki x Vampire! Gender Neutral! Reader

GENRE. different worlds troupe, opposites attact, fluff, angst, vampire! au, mythical! au, written fic/series

WARNINGS. strong language, homosexuality, mentions of dissociation, mentions of anxiety, mental issues/illnesses, fighting, sex jokes, blood, gore, murder, mentions of stabbing, injuries, in depth descriptions of the listed above.

STATUS. COMING SOON (?? - ???)

FEATURING. members of enhypen, itzy, txt, bts, blackswan, skz, ive.

NOTE. "omg art's back with another fic?" yep!! first off, this is a fic ive had in the drafts of my google docs since january 29th( exactly 5:26pm i had decided to make it) and im finally publishing it!! chapter names are subjected to change at will. i probably won't start this till after misery business but yolo!!!

See the full post

192 notes - Posted July 9, 2022

#3

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒. Get a fucking grip.

word count. 0.687k. warning. profanity.

See the full post

205 notes - Posted July 6, 2022

#2

𝐅𝐀𝐔𝐋𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 ⁀ MASTERLIST

SYNOPSIS. Wonyoung & Jungwon are more alike then people think. Besides the basics, like being the same age and both being idols, they both enough the same types of music, stan the same groups, and they both have a crush on ETERNIA’s maknae. Only two problems. The world is convinced they’re secretly dating and they both don't know that the other likes Y/N L/N

PAIRING. jang wonyoung x gender neutral! idol!reader x yang jungwon

GENRE. idol au, crack/my attempts at humor, strangers to friends to lovers, angst, fluff, friends to lovers.

WARNINGS. strong language, drama, sexual jokes/references, dumb kids being dumb kids, idol drama, mentions of depression, cheating fighting, minor toxicity, bi wonyoung, bi jungwon.

FEATURING. enhypen, ive, some members of le sserafim, blackswan, p1harmony, seventeen, fromis_9, kard, bts, vevila, skz.

NOTE. WE BACK🤭first and foremost, full credits to @seungstarss for making this amazing banner for the fic!!! im so excited for this especially because this time its a co-ed group!! also, because vevila is featured in this, i will be giving y/n a name!! not sure what it is yet but yeah? also like before and like usually in my smaus, y/n doesn’t have a set face claim! and they are gender neutral so sometimes ill sure a fem fc and sometimes a masc fc and yeah. UPDATE: fault lines is now discontinued.

See the full post

310 notes - Posted July 23, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 - MASTERLIST

SYNOPSIS. Y/N never considered once after she debuted that she would get the chance to (fake)date Park Sunghoon, the boy she had a crush on since he debuted. Sunghoon on the other had never thought he would get the chance to date the newly debuted idol from VEVILA. Both feel as though they are on cloud nine, until Sunghoon has to MC with his ex, who can't catch a hint.

PAIRING. idol! park sunghoon x idol! fem! reader

GENRE. idol au, fake dating, crack/my attempts at humor, fake lovers to lovers, angst, fluff

WARNINGS. strong language, drama, sexual jokes/references, dumb kids being dumb kids, idol drama, mentions of depression, cheating fighting, minor toxicity, tba.

STATUS. FINISHED. (March 10th - July 21st)

FEATURING. enhypen, felix & hyunjin of skz(mentioned), bahiyyih of kep1er, beomgyu of txt(mentioned), wonyoung of ive, eunchae of le sserafim, jongseob of p1h, sriya of blackswan

NOTE. back with another smau!! ik i said i would publish one until i finished fault lines but😍🤭 anyways i hope you guys like this!! updates will be iffy because i still will be prioritizing fault lines, but i definitely will be updating!! credits to @wonvelvet for my amazing ass cover im still not over how gorgeous it is. dont take this shit seriously, yk? this in no way reflects how idols act in real life so dont be that person and take it too seriously

See the full post

867 notes - Posted May 10, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[just-some-random-blogger]

SPIRALLING

The universe - in all of its grandiose schemes and of its intricate woven tales of fate - had ultimately put you on a path of misery.

ONCE AGAIN starts off so beautifully well written

It all began with work - a simple retail job[...]

Lemme stop you right there 🫡🫡🫡🫡🫡 press f to pay respect.

Stumbling with groceries, you unlocked your apartment and fumbled inside. A few bags slipped from your grasp, and tumbled all of its contents out onto the once clean floor. Apples bruised, cans dented, and a bottle of soap busted leaking all over the floor.

Damn babes just cannot get a break 😭

1 teaspoons, 1 ½ tablespoons, and okay -

Ok but its on u for not just eyeballing everything like the rest of us maksjsjsjsjsjjsjs

“No, no,” you sighed, rubbing your face. “I lashed out. I was frustrated and you popped in, so I unintentionally took it out on you.”

Honestly that was quick good for yn for being able to admit that on the get go HAHAHAH

Morpheus smiled softly, slightly amused by your statement. He knew how to fix this now. He took both of your hands, and brought them to his lips. He gently kissed your knuckles - soft butterfly kisses. His eyes flickered up, watching you intensely with those vast twinkling baby blue eyes. “Have I broken, love?”

NO BUY I HAVE

“No, I have not,” he assured you. He maneuvered your hands, showing your palms to him. He bent down, kissing them. “You, my love, are not cursed. My dear sibling has simply destined you for minor inconveniences for a short while. Nothing more, nothing less, and most definitely not a curse.”

NAKSJJSJSHSJJSJS 😭😭😭😭😭😭 IN OTHER WORDS ATTACK DESTINY or destruction? Wait which one KSKSJSJSJSBS ??? DESPAIR Nkkjndjsjsj i get it is that why you used sibling you dont know either huh HAHAHAHAH

Also

You grumbled a bit to yourself, but a smile started to tug on your lips. With each of his kisses, your anger and sorrow melted away. The tension in your jaw vanished and the tears started to dry up. Oh, how simple gestures from him could render you into a puddle. Oh, how easy he could make you forget all your worries.

Morpheus leaned in towards you, staring deeply into your eyes. “They have healed me.”

I WOULD DO THAT TOO IF U JUST GIVE ME A CHANCE 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

“It’s true.” He cut you off. He grabbed your hand, laying it on his chest - on his beating heart. “You know the misery I have endured, you know of my past, and yet you welcomed all those broken pieces.”

Morpheus delicately grabbed your chin with his thumb and forefinger, guiding your attention back to him. “You are capable of many things, more so than you can imagine. Please, forgive yourself for your mistakes and allow yourself to breathe.”

No but he's so real for that you gotta forgive yourself

You paused, considering it for a moment. However, you shook your head. You twisted around, pressing your back into his chest. You tugged his arms and wrapped them around you. Sighing in relief, you snuggled into his chest, grateful for his warmth. “In a minute. I just need a moment.”

Me

Also my beloved author, as someone who writes fics as well, i know i run and comfort myself with my stories after a crummy day so i hope my memey reblog and these short words cheer you up cos i love your writing and they make me happy. Regardless of whether my hunch is right or not i hope you have a wonderful day wherever you are 🥰🫶

(Not) Cursed

Summary: After a rough week of nothing going right, Dream pays you a visit tries to cheer you up

Word Count: ~1.8k

Reader: Gender Neutral

Warning: Minor angst (general inconveniences and small outburst), mostly fluff

Requested by anon

The universe - in all of its grandiose schemes and of its intricate woven tales of fate - had ultimately put you on a path of misery.

Or at least, it seemed to be.

You were destined for a week, a tortuous long week, of the world completely set against you.

It all began with work - a simple retail job in a local clothing shop. Of course, like all jobs, there were ups and downs, however, this week was unbearably stressful. Firstly, the most volatile and rude customers seemed to have rallied together bombarding the shop and made it near impossible to help them or get a word in otherwise. So while other coworkers tried their best with customers, you decided to try to restock and reorganize the display shelves, which ended in more agony. You only succeeded in tripping and sending all the clothes all over the floor, and also managed to knock over a mannequin thus breaking one of its arms. After cleaning up said mess, you moved to work at the cash register. But, tragedy struck again. You were simply scanning in items, pressed a button okay a credit card, and the system completely crashed on you. It wouldn’t work no matter how much you pleaded, and your manager had to take over to complete the transaction.

You swore a curse was inflicted upon you. Whatever you touched would be ruined.

And your theory only proved to be more and more correct.

After a draining week at work and other unfortunate mishaps you encountered - traffic jams, spilled drinks, torn clothes, etc, you had to do some grocery shopping and decided to splurge a bit. You saw a tasty new recipe and bought all the necessary ingredients, along with a few other things to treat yourself with. But, the curse had already decided your next victim: your dinner.

Stumbling with groceries, you unlocked your apartment and fumbled inside. A few bags slipped from your grasp, and tumbled all of its contents out onto the once clean floor. Apples bruised, cans dented, and a bottle of soap busted leaking all over the floor.

You let out a frustrated groan. Setting the other bags onto the counter, you begrudgingly started to clean another mess added to this miserable, terrible week. You mumbled every curse under the sun as you cleaned up.

Damn this.

Damn everything.

After cleaning up the mess - and nearly slipping in the soapy bubbles - you put away everything and prepared to make dinner. But, your curse continued. A few more items were dropped and spilled in the process, which furthered your growing white hot anger. You gritted your teeth as your throat squeezed as you pushed back the need to cry and scream.

Fuck, it’s okay. I’m okay.

You chopped vegetables and began to cook them in a pan. You haphazardly moved around the kitchen collecting spices and seasoning while trying to put in the correct measurements.

Shit, what else? What am I missing?

You glanced over to your phone on the counter, rereading the recipe for the umpteenth time. You practically knew it by heart at this point, but you had to double check.

1 teaspoons, 1 ½ tablespoons, and okay -

You scrunched up your nose in disgust. You tilted your head back, inhaling deeply. An awful aroma filled the air, assaulting your senses. You wanted to choke. It was an awful aroma you knew well. Your eyes widened as you whipped around. Smoke clouded the air. The vegetables - your poor vegetables - were burning.

You scrambled over, turning off the stove and rushed the pan to the sink. The resound clang of the pan banging into the sink was your final straw. You numbly stared down to see your burnt diced vegetables. Burnt and ruined.

Ruined just like this week.

You sniffled then quickly squeezed your eyes shut.

Why? Why is everything going wrong?

You were so focused on drowning in your misery and distress, you failed to notice a peculiar thing happening in the living room behind you. Shadows stretched from underneath furniture and out of corners, pooling together. It swirled and swirled until it formed a mass. Stepping out of the shadows, with the sound sand pinging on the ground, a man appeared.

A man you knew dearly, and loved more than anything: Dream of the Endless, your loving Morphues.

Morpheus cocked his head, seeing your hunched figure in front of the sink. Your hands white knuckled the rim, nearly cutting into your palms. A faint scent of smoke filled his nose, but he thought nothing of it. There was no fire. So, his attention was solely on you - you and the dark cloud looming above your head.

“(Y/N)?”

“Fuck! What the hell do you want?” You hissed. But, you instantly froze. You blinked, realizing the source of the voice. You slowly spun around to see Morpheus now in your home. His eyebrows knitted together slightly given your outburst. Your eyes widened. “Oh my god, Morpheus, I am so sorry about that, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Morpheus’s expression subtly returned back to its typical neutral state. “It’s okay. I startled you, I should have called before arriving.”

“No, no,” you sighed, rubbing your face. “I lashed out. I was frustrated and you popped in, so I unintentionally took it out on you.”

Morpheus strolled forward. His eyes casually peered around you to see the sink littered with charred ingredients. There was one explanation for your outburst. His eyes moved back to you. You still held your hands over your face as if blocking out the world. But, there had to be another reason. One mistake usually did not elicit such a response.

He reached up, and gently curled his fingers over your wrists. He slowly dragged your hands down so he could see your face. Tears prickled in your eyes. He frowned, a twitch of his lips. With his thumb, he carefully brushed away the tears that slid down your face.

“What bothers you?” He spoke softly, trying to comfort you.

You immediately leaned into his kind touch. “It … it has just been a rough week.”

“Tell me.” Taking your hands, he guided you over to the couch. He sat down first - measured and precise - while you flopped down in a huff. His hands, however, never left yours. His thumbs rubbed soothing circles on the back of your hands. “What has happened?”

You scoffed, a breathy sarcastic laugh. “What hasn’t happened? For starters, work has been awful. I swear everything I touched broke, not to mention all the rude customers that came through the shop.”

You sniffled, your throat constricted as you fought ferociously against the wave of tears. Morpheus - your sweet Morpheus - said not a word, listening intently and watching as your expression slowly fell.

“Then - then I had a list of chores I needed to do. But, the dishwasher - the stupid thing - broke and I hand-washed everything only to break more plates and bowls.” You dropped your head, and gripped Morpheus’s hands tighter. Fuck. Don’t cry, don’t cry. “Then I tried to make dinner only to burn it and - fuck.”

It truly all sounded idiotic and childish out loud.

Morpheus cupped your cheek with one hand, delicately tipping your head back. Seeing your red rimmed eyes, his heart clenched. How can he fix this? “It’s okay,” he repeated the same words from earlier, although it tasted sour on his tongue. It held no true weight. “Mistakes happen.”

“But, it feels like I can’t do anything right,” you mumbled bitterly. “It’s like I’m cursed, everything I touch breaks.”

Morpheus smiled softly, slightly amused by your statement. He knew how to fix this now. He took both of your hands, and brought them to his lips. He gently kissed your knuckles - soft butterfly kisses. His eyes flickered up, watching you intensely with those vast twinkling baby blue eyes. “Have I broken, love?”

Your heart skipped at his piercing gaze; yet as love and adoration flowed through, it was quickly followed by confusion as his odd question ran through your head. “Well, no, I guess -“

“No, I have not,” he assured you. He maneuvered your hands, showing your palms to him. He bent down, kissing them. “You, my love, are not cursed. My dear sibling has simply destined you for minor inconveniences for a short while. Nothing more, nothing less, and most definitely not a curse.”

You grumbled a bit to yourself, but a smile started to tug on your lips. With each of his kisses, your anger and sorrow melted away. The tension in your jaw vanished and the tears started to dry up. Oh, how simple gestures from him could render you into a puddle. Oh, how easy he could make you forget all your worries.

“In fact,” he kissed your inner wrist, “I would say these hands have the capability of healing and fixing, not breaking.”

Your eyebrows scrunched together. “What do you mean?”

Morpheus leaned in towards you, staring deeply into your eyes. “They have healed me.”

Your cheeks warmed under his gaze. “Morpheus -“

“It’s true.” He cut you off. He grabbed your hand, laying it on his chest - on his beating heart. “You know the misery I have endured, you know of my past, and yet you welcomed all those broken pieces.”

His words warmed your heart, such a dizzying and absolutely wonderous feeling. You turned your head, beginning to feel bashful.

Morpheus delicately grabbed your chin with his thumb and forefinger, guiding your attention back to him. “You are capable of many things, more so than you can imagine. Please, forgive yourself for your mistakes and allow yourself to breathe.”

He leaned in slowly, kissing you softly. You hummed, falling apart at his touch. Short, but oh so sweet and all-consuming. He pulled away from the brief kiss, smiling at you. His thumb gently ran over your bottom lip then moved up your face as he cupped your cheek again. Your eyes were filled with love, the same love reflected in his endless eyes.

Morpheus kissed the tip of your nose, and pressed his forehead to yours. “I will be here whenever you need help.”

You smiled at him, a bright and full smile. A smile you had not shown in over a week. “Thank you.”

Morpheus’s heart swelled at such a beautiful sight. His love who pulled him from a dark time, his love he would greatly return the favor. He kissed your forehead.

“Anytime, my love.” Any frustration you held was gone, only love stayed. Your tears now long dried, and if they ever returned he would wipe them away as always. “Do you want my help in making dinner?” He offered.

You paused, considering it for a moment. However, you shook your head. You twisted around, pressing your back into his chest. You tugged his arms and wrapped them around you. Sighing in relief, you snuggled into his chest, grateful for his warmth. “In a minute. I just need a moment.”

Morpheus smiled, leaning back into the couch with you safe in his arms. His love, the one who holds his heart. He kissed the top of your head. “Of course, take all the time you need.”

You closed your eyes with a smile on your lips. Maybe this week has finally turned around.

[kugawing]

gooberous intensity

>_ Kugawing

+ Fulzanin, Kuga, Fulz

>_ she/her + they/them

>_ demiromantic asexual

+ part of a polyamory relationship

>_ Fandoms

+ Kirby, Rain World, Splatoon, Pikmin, Hollow Knight

>_ Tags

+ #kugrambles for all non-fandom related gibberish

+ #kugadraws for all my art, both fandom and original

>_ Main Works Currently

+ Fill Up Your Lungs and Feel Better [A Rainworld story featuring the Rivulet being sent back in time]

+ Amnesia Was Her Name [Rainworld, Saint versus Inv - Not Published]

+ Misery Loves Company [Moonelle from CoS goes on a murder rampage - Not Published]

>_ Other

+ DM's are open. Reblog and like as you please

+ DNI includes TERFs, ANTIs, MAPs, aphobes, prolife, and all other garbage human beings. If you think you fall under this umbrella; I'm not important, so you're not missing out.

-- If something I reblog is from one such entity, please let me know. I'll look into it myself before deciding to remove it.

+ I am extremely anxious and hate to talk to people first. If you want to talk to me I am 100% cool with you making the first move otherwise i'll be staring at you from my enclosure, gnawing at the walls + Stay hydrated!