#mostly just tagging so i can find it later

[steddieas-shegoes]

slowly, then all at once

for @steddielovemonth inspired by the quote "as he read, i fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, then all at once." from the fault in our stars by john green

rated t | 731 words | cw: nightmares | tags: pre-relationship, feelings realization, literal sleeping together, cuddling

📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖

Steve’s nightmares aren’t a secret. The severity of them, along with the frequency, and how shitty he feels after, those are all secrets. Not even Robin quite knows how bad it gets sometimes.

The summer is worse: the memories of the Russians, the way the pool reflects off his window at night, the humidity clinging to his skin reminding him too much of the way dust and ash and mud clings in the Upside Down.

He feels stupid after spring break, that he should even still have traumatic memories when Eddie almost died. But he does. They’re worse now. He isn’t being tortured, Robin isn’t even in these ones. It’s always Eddie.

Eddie bleeding.

Eddie’s broken body.

Eddie not breathing.

Eddie dying.

It’s weird how quickly he took over Steve’s brain, how he went from being someone Steve barely knew from school to being one of his closest friends. Near-death experiences tended to do that, he supposes.

But it’s almost every night, and he rarely gets more than a couple hours of sleep before they hit, so he’s in a constant state of exhaustion these days. It’s not great for all the volunteering he does, and the usual taking the kids where they need to go, and trying to find a new job, and trying to convince Robin he’s fine. The bags under his eyes and the constant slump of his shoulders says everything.

She worries, but she knows he just has to get over the hump.

They all do.

Eddie stays with him late into the night a lot. It’s like he senses that being alone is the catalyst.

He finds excuses, tries to make it seem like he’s the one who doesn’t wanna be alone. Steve appreciates it, but he’s far past the point of feeling any shame for being afraid of being alone.

He doesn’t turn him away, though. Eddie sticks around for hours most nights, well past the point he should. Sometimes they watch movies, sometimes they just turn music on and sit quietly in the living room. Eddie is always moving a little, fingers tapping, leg jiggling, head bobbing. It’s good, though. It’s nice.

And sometimes he lays down in Steve’s bed with him until he falls asleep. He doesn’t touch him, or really do anything more than just exist in the space while Steve closes his eyes and drifts off. He’s always gone when Steve wakes up.

Tonight, he’s got a book open and Steve’s curled up under his blankets. His bones ache from how tired he is, and he wonders if his body will ever get to the point where exhaustion keeps the nightmares away. Steve’s eyes are closed, but he’s not asleep. Not yet.

Eddie’s voice is soft, accents coming through for some characters, colorful inflections describing the scenery. Steve smiles to himself as his eyes start to feel heavy.

It’s nice to be read to. He doesn’t know which book this is, but it sounds like a dream.

Maybe he’ll dream about this instead of bats circling a body he loves.

Oh.

His eyes open and he looks up at Eddie, who doesn’t stop reading, even when Steve knows he can feel his eyes on him. It’s a beautiful thing, to see Eddie so enraptured in a story that he’s probably read before, to see him still putting the effort into giving Steve a show even though Steve was mostly asleep.

He loves him.

Steve loves Eddie.

Not the way he loves Robin, or the kids. Maybe closer to how he loved Nancy, but even that didn’t feel quite like this.

This feels like a later sunset after a long winter, a fresh breath of air after being stuck in the Upside Down, a glass of cold water in the middle of summer.

It’s refreshing, and waves of calm take over his body.

He settles.

He reaches out, places his arm over Eddie’s stomach, curls his fingers into his shirt. He buries his face into Eddie’s side.

Eddie pauses for a moment, just long enough that Steve worries he shouldn’t have done this. But then one arm covers Steve’s body and he continues, voice softer but no less enthusiastic.

Steve closes his eyes and falls into a deep sleep.

When he wakes, it’s calm. There’s no crying or screaming, no thrashing, no fighting.

Eddie’s there, holding Steve against him.

He loves him.

[hivemuthur]

Nothing's New - Ch.5.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit!

AU modern era, lovers to enemies to lovers, getting back together, angst & smut present

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.6.

word count: 6,2K

warnings: angst, unsafe sex, dacryphilia, orgasm denial/forced orgasm, d/s undertones

tag: #nothings new

author's note: The next update will be on Sunday. Other than trigger warnings, I can only say that this chapter is mostly conversation and 'conversation'. @rennethen beta read 🖤

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You stay. And the longer you do, the more awkwardness seeps in. At first, it’s all tender—Viktor bathes you with hesitant hands, silent until you gasp at his fingers between your legs.

“Sore?” he asks, his expression a mix of worry and fascination.

You nod, and he nods back, placing a kiss on your temple. “It’s okay,” he murmurs constantly as your fingers clutch his arm.

You get dressed in his boxer shorts and sweater. The further the two of you move from what just happened, the more alien everything becomes. His smiles grow more rehearsed. His touch turns hesitant. Your hands fidget as the familiar feeling of being a guest creeps in. You want to say so many things, but none of them will pass the barrier of your mouth.

By the time you both sit on the couch, the distance between you feels vast, every grunt and uncomfortable cough echoing within it. You hug your knees and pull his sweater over them. Viktor winces, knowing this will stretch it into a shapeless rug, and passes you a blanket instead.

You glance around, but the empty shelves glare back at you, so you keep your eyes low. Viktor exhales slowly, rubbing his fingers together as if debating whether to speak at all. When he finally does, his voice is quieter than you expected.

“I don’t really know where to begin.” The sentence sounds pointless to his ears, but he needs it to hear his own voice and confirm it’s still present in his throat. You watch him carefully, searching for any sign of certainty in his expression, but all you find is measured restraint.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For everything,” he says, avoiding your eyes.

Your chest tightens, but you force yourself to keep your voice steady. “That sounds very finite.”

His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “That’s not what I was intending it to sound like.” He shifts slightly, fingers tightening where they rest on his knee. “But if I were to apologize for every single thing, you wouldn’t get out of here for a week. So… I’m sorry for making you feel like you had to run. And for making you uncomfortable… later.”

Your stomach knots. There’s something unsettling about how carefully he chooses his words, how he holds himself so still, as if afraid of what he might do if he lets go. A stark contrast to what was barely an hour ago. God, I love you, falling from him, unfiltered and unguarded already feeling like a stranger.

“Are you apologizing for dating Julia?” you ask, forcing yourself to look at him.

He doesn’t flinch. “No. It felt natural when it happened. So I’m only sorry for being a… dick about it.”

You press your lips together, your fingers curling into the fabric of the blanket. His tone is frustratingly even, revealing nothing beyond what he wants you to hear.

“Is that why you broke up?” you ask, your voice quieter now. “Because it stopped feeling natural?”

His reaction is small but noticeable—a brief clench of his jaw, the subtle shift of his fingers as if suppressing an impulse. He hesitates, his silence stretching long enough that your heart starts beating harder against your ribs.

“Yes,” he finally says, but there’s something else there. His throat bobs, his poise wobbles and you could swear you saw something. Having your eyes drilled into him, he adds, “And… I technically cheated on her.” His voice doesn’t waver. “With you.”

Your breath hitches, but Viktor doesn’t move. He’s watching you now, studying every flicker of emotion that crosses your face.

“And?” you press, barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he does nothing. His fingers twitch, his lips part, and then he exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly—as if at himself, as if he already knows that you know, but it has to be said anyways. “And… it felt like the right thing to do.”

Your pulse stumbles. “Breaking up with her or cheating?” You wince at yourself, so fucking needy and stupid you have to get everything spelled out for you. But the moment is so cramped, you cannot pack it with a bunch of half-truths, there has to be one, honest-to-God truth or you will burst.

His eyes lock onto yours, and this time, he doesn’t hesitate. “Both,” he says. His voice is quiet, but firm, like a confession that for once he isn’t ashamed of. “Both felt right when they happened.”

You tear up, but will your eyelids to hold the wetness in. Your hand shoots up to rub your face in a weak attempt to disguise how your feelings are threatening to overspill again. Viktor takes notice but continues, his voice measured, deliberate.

“How did it feel for you? To break up with him?” He will not say that name again, he decides.

“Awful. But necessary,” you admit, the words scraping your throat. Then, before you can stop yourself, you add, “You hate him, don’t you?”

Viktor exhales, his fingers pressing briefly into his knee. “Oh, I hate him, yes,” he says without hesitation, his eyes flick to yours, sharp with intent. “But would I be wrong if I said you hate Julia too?”

Your breath stutters. The air inside you compresses into a void. “N-no,” you manage, your voice smaller now. “I suppose not.” And it’s not rational nor fair but hating her allows you to not hate Viktor.

He shifts, just barely, like he’s testing the distance between you. His gaze lingers, dark and unreadable, before he speaks again—softer this time, uncertain. “So… it means we still care about each other then?” Lots of breaths taken between the words and Viktor settles on one, unsteady inhale at the end.

You swallow, hard. If the kissing and the sex and all the crying hasn’t been enough of a testament to your shared sentiment, then this definitely gives it a final weight that tips the scales. You nod, and with the movement, a tear slips out of its prison and rolls down your cheek, to your chin, falls onto your hand.

“Why are you holding back?” Viktor asks, his gaze following the tear to where you try to hide it. Eyes glimmer and his expression falls apart from composure to wonder. He will have to check it a million times before it’s confirmed, but the feeling is undeniable. A sharp pang, there, where his cock grows out from his groin and the cramp low under his stomach and it’s so uncanny that the sensation of being cried for wakes it, he almost scolds himself. But his gaze doesn’t waver, and his fingers grip his knee tighter.

“W-what?” A hiccup distorts your voice, as the fear of being seen creeps back in. Your breath stumbles, hands tightening on the blanket. Your body tenses as Viktor’s relaxes. There’s a shift in his posture, a quiet but undeniable pull in the way he looks at you now. His expression isn’t one of pity, nor discomfort. His breathing slows, his eyes—sharp, fixated—drink in every trace of wetness clinging to your lashes, every twitch of your mouth as you try to keep it from trembling.

“You want to cry, I can see that. Why are you holding back?” His voice is gentle, but his question digs deep with genuine curiosity.

“Oh, I… I don’t know, I just… I’ve cried so much today already,” you murmur, blinking rapidly as if that alone could chase away the evidence. You sniffle, wipe at your cheeks with the sleeve of his sweater and look anywhere but at him. You feel stupid, falling apart again.

“It doesn’t matter. If crying will make you speak, then cry.” He says too fast and winces. Too much. Too revealing. His stomach knots, his chest tightens with something weightless and hot that makes his head feel lighter than it should. He doesn’t move, but he feels it, the way his breath shudders through his ribs, the way warmth pools at the base of his spine.

“Oh, Viktor,” you sigh, voice fragile, burying your face in your hands.

He moves before he can think better of it. A slow drag across the couch, the hesitant pull of his body closing the space between you. He reaches out—not to comfort, not exactly—but to uncover, to claim. His hands slip over yours, peeling them gently away from your face, and before you can protest, he leans in. His forehead brushes yours, then the damp curve of your cheek. His breath is warm, uneven, as he nuzzles into you, his skin meeting the slick, salty trails of your tears. A sigh leaves him, quiet, almost relieved, like something inside him has settled. In a whisper, sounding dangerously close to hopeful, he asks, “Are you crying for me?”

Your lips part, a sharp inhale caught in your throat. “I’m… scared that I will blow this somehow,” you admit, the honest-to-God truth slipping free. “I miss you. Every day I miss you and chase you away and then miss you again.”

He’s so close you can whisper now. So you do and each one of those confessions gets progressively quieter, progressively bigger as these are the truths you wouldn’t say out loud even to yourself. “I am… so lonely without you.”

“Do you want to try again?” Viktor asks between heavy breaths. His face doesn’t leave yours as he bathes in your tears and his cheeks are warm and hands already grab your neck with thumbs pushing into your throat gently. His lips catch against yours and brows knot and he knows that he is begging but he doesn’t care.

“What if it doesn’t work again?” You say, nodding and your eyes squeeze shut at the thought of what it would feel like to be there again. Chests ripped. Hands scratched, stomachs aching.

“We will survive,” Viktor lies through his fucking teeth. “We will be better,” he vows. “I will be better, you will be better. Promise me, we will be better and that we will try harder, because I can’t—” he cuts as he takes a breath.

His lust confuses his sadness. The simple act of being cried for makes him feel so clean. As if he is not replaceable. As if the fact that he is difficult to love won’t stop you from loving him anyway. As if choosing him means your truly are choosing him over something secure, something easy and comfortable and it makes him grow a little taller, a little broader, a little better.

“I will be better,” you say quietly, even as your insides are crying, screaming, kicking for him.

“I missed you,” Viktor sighs, pulling you closer to his chest. Your legs swing over his, and your arms cradle his waist. His palm rests on your thigh, while the other snakes beneath your hair, fingers wrapping around the back of your neck. He breathes in deep, measured breaths, trying to calm himself.

You let your tears dry as you rise and fall with the steady rhythm of his chest. “I’m sorry too,” you finally say, and Viktor squeezes your neck in recognition.

“Hmm, whatever for?” he asks, brazen. His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging gently, coaxing the tension from your forehead in a familiar gesture.

“God, I’ve missed this,” you hum, and Viktor takes the cue, pressing his thumb between your brows and tracing a firm line across your arch to your temple. He repeats the motion on the other side, and slowly, you feel the tightness in your face and throat begin to ease.

“I’m sorry for being such a coward,” you confess, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your voice doesn’t waver. You feel safer. “For disappearing. And I mean before I actually disappeared.”

“And what else?”

You swallow and blink. “What else?” you echo, hesitant. “What else do you want me to say?”

Viktor exhales sharply through his nose. “Anything that you are holding back.” His voice is steady, rawness lingering beneath it as if he is asking for something he is not exactly ready to hear.

You bite your lip, shaking your head. “I thought leaving was the only way to make you see me. To make you care enough to stop shutting me out.”

His fingers tighten slightly at the base of your neck. “So you left to punish me?”

“No,” you whisper, but you don’t sound convinced. “I—I left because I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t let me in, Viktor.” Your breath catches as you force yourself to meet his eyes. “I was always waiting. For you to look at me, to see me. And when you finally did, I—” You huff out a bitter laugh, pressing your forehead against his chest. “I didn’t want to hear it. I was so angry. I wanted you to feel how I felt.”

“And did it—” he asks, low and measured. “Did it make you feel better?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “No,” you admit. “It didn’t. It just made me feel alone.”

Viktor is quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing absently against the back of your neck. Then, finally, he speaks. “I was selfish.”

Your head snaps up, startled. “What?”

“I was selfish,” he repeats, a mirthless smile tugging at his lips. “Not because I shut you out—I did that out of habit and complacency. But because I still expected you to wait.” His hand slides from your neck, settling against your cheek. “I thought you’d understand. That you’d know without me having to say anything.” His thumb ghosts over your skin. “But that is not how love works, is it?”

Your breath shakes. “No,” you whisper.

He nods, and you feel the need to trade one confession for another. “Sometimes... I was so angry with you that I would make you start a fight,” you offer quietly. His fingers still, a silent question painted on his face. “I would go out of my way to piss you off. Just so you would interact with me. And so it would be your fault that we had a fight in the first place.” You recoil as you hear yourself saying it.

“Was it intentional?” He gives you a window. And he sounds so hopeful that it twists your guts.

“Not really. I realised it once I did it to… Paul,” you mutter, cringing at the admission. Pieces fall into place as you uncover something about yourself, and Viktor is the first person to witness it. “God, that’s just awful, isn’t it?” you sigh, clasping a hand to your face.

“Eh, a little awful, yes,” Viktor chuckles, trying to uncover your face. “But also weirdly insightful of you.”

For a moment, he looks like he wants to say something more. He wants to tell you about the note but bites his tongue—too much in one sitting. He speaks your name softly and sinks down a bit. “I’ve done awful things to forget you as well.”

“Like what? Save for the obvious, like changing the locks,” you shift, grateful for the change in attention.

“Ah, that,” Viktor sucks in a breath and scratches his head. “I… haven’t changed the locks exactly. Just made a new set—” He trails off as your eyes drill into him in disbelief. You shake your head, but a smile tugs at your lips.

“And what else?”

“Well, you already know I sold our bed.” Your heart jumps at our. “What you don’t know is that I might have ended up burning a first edition of Naked Lunch in the whole process of the bed exchange,” he blurts in one breath, bracing himself for a smack. But you only stare, your mouth hanging open as you sit up to kneel next to him.

“Viktor—” you speak more to yourself, disbelief colouring your voice as you search his face for any sign that he’s joking. He’s not.

“I’m so sorry,” he says with a small, embarrassed smile, his brows knitting together in apology, hands reaching for your face.

You seize them and kiss his knuckles, startling him. He doesn’t realise what he’s just admitted yet—a confession worth more than any I love you. “Please, forgive me. I had no idea,” you whisper against his skin.

Viktor laughs, trying to cup your face, but you don’t let him. To do something so desperate, so romantic—to try and rid himself of you in such a way—makes you ache with shame.

You climb onto his lap and kiss his face, over and over, murmuring I’m so sorry between the pecks.

Viktor laughs through it, startled, embarrassed by the sudden surge of affection, yet something blooms in his chest at the familiarity of the gesture. “Are you not angry?” he asks, bewildered.

“No,” you half-chuckle, half-sigh. “I love you so, so much,” you breathe out, and it’s the first time you’ve said it out loud.

Viktor’s face does something utterly strange—like he’s about to cry—but in the end, he doesn’t. Instead, he kisses you. Grateful. Deep. Full of breaths and tongue. And it feels like coming home.

And you sit there for a while. Kissing, laughing, fetishizing each other’s flaws until your stomach gives away a loud growl and Viktor chuckles straight into your mouth. “Food, yes?”

“Such thing was promised,” you smile and allow him to take your hand. And he keeps it in his as he abandons his cane on the sofa and leads you into the kitchen, his thumb absently stroking over your knuckles. The warmth of it lingers even when he lets go, moving toward the counter. The space looks the same, mostly—same chipped tiles, same half-broken cupboard door that never quite shuts—but the air feels different. Lived in, but not by you.

You hesitate near the fridge, gaze flicking over the notes tacked haphazardly to its surface. His scrawled handwriting crowds the scraps of paper—grocery lists, half-legible reminders, a date circled twice with no explanation. Your stomach clenches when you skim over them, hunting for something, anything. Another Miláček meant for someone else. A new name creeping in where yours used to be. But there's nothing. No Julia. No stranger. Just Viktor’s usual chaos.

“Tea?” he asks, already filling the kettle.

You nod, slipping onto a stool, watching him move. He retrieves bread, some cheese, and a tomato from the counter, methodical but oddly cautious, as if remembering how to exist in this rhythm with you. It should be simple—slicing, assembling, waiting for water to boil—but something about it feels… off. The gaps of silence stretch too long. His hand hesitates on the knife.

You rub at the edge of the counter, feeling the grain of the wood beneath your fingertips. “You eat like a student,” you remark, a weak attempt at normalcy.

Viktor huffs a small laugh, shaking his head as he plates the food. “I am a student.” He sets a mug in front of you. “Still. Always.”

The steam curls between you. You should reach for his hand again. You don’t. It’s awkward. He passes you the sandwiches and a cup and you both eat in silence.

Once your plate is clean, the weirdness settles deeper in you—there is nothing left to do, at least not for now. The wise thing would be to bid Viktor goodnight and go home. And as if reading the thought, watching it write itself across your forehead in glaring letters, Viktor beats you to it.

“Will you stay?” he asks.

“The night,” he adds, in case you thought he was already pleading for forever. “Will you stay the night?” His voice is steady, like he’s just confirming something he already knows the answer to.

You nod, and he smiles, muttering okay under his breath, again and again. Then Viktor limps toward you, takes your hand, and gently urges you to stand. When you do, he wraps his arm around your shoulders, leaning into you like a secondary cane as you walk together to the bedroom. A tiny flutter of fear stirs in your chest at the thought of what’s in there—what has replaced your beloved, cursed bed. The empty shelves, the hollow spaces in the cabinets where your things used to be—little signs of your absence foreshadowing the dread.

As if he feels it too, Viktor’s hand tightens around your shoulder as you step through the door, stopping you when he sees your eyes wide and wandering.

“Is this alright?” he asks quietly.

You study the bed before answering. The words aren’t fully formed until you take in the dark wooden frame, the still-crisp mattress, the sheer size of it making the room feel significantly smaller. It’s just an object, you tell yourself. It’s probably not worth mourning every single bit of the past, playing a game of sentimentality.

“What do you think?” Viktor prompts, and your bubble bursts. This is all very silly, but his anticipation warms you—his silliness matches yours.

“It’s just a bed. It’s all good, Viktor,” you say.

He exhales, visibly relieved. His chest sags, and his fingers loosen their grip on your shoulder. He presses a kiss to your temple, then walks you gently to the edge. Your calves meet the frame, and you sit before he presses his hands on your shoulders, urging you to lie down.

Then he clumsily crawls on top of you—needy, grateful—his keen fingers tracing your skin, his sharp hip bone digging into your side until you wince. But the awkwardness is gone. It’s almost as if your bodies speak better than your mouths, and your mouths are only useful for kissing apologies and remorse into each other’s throats. The wound keeps sealing and opening, each next rip smaller and smaller, the scar uglier and uglier. But still, a testament to healing.

Viktor mumbles a lot of sweet things to you—half-words, all of them cut off by your mouth invading his. His voice grows harsh, dropping into a breathy whisper as he repeats your name over and over. His lips grow impatient, wandering down your throat. His hands slip beneath the sweater you’re wearing, tracing your stomach, cupping your breasts—so full of wanting that it clouds your mind.

And soon, it’s only Viktor there.

His toes tickling the soles of your feet, his thighs between yours, one pressing there where you are already soaking through his briefs, stomach bellowing into your ribs, breaths catching against each other in stutters, his drool leaking into your mouth with a lewd sound of wetness spreading around the room. And his fingers, hooking beneath your waistband and yanking the underwear down with one hand, other resting firmly around your neck. Keeping you in place, as he disconnects from your mouth with a loud smack and the string of saliva stretching between you finally breaks off, once his head hovers over your stomach to place a kiss there. And then lower, on your hip bone. And then a lick across your navel, as he shimmies himself down to splay his chest flat between your spread thighs, knees bent, his ankles playfully bumping against each other. He flattens his palms on your abdomen and gently kisses your clit.

Your body jolts, you almost kick him in the head, but he catches your shin, bites it and licks it before throwing it back in its place. His tongue parts you lazily and you feel yourself buzzing, the urge to grab a fistful of his hair and guide him overwhelming, but Viktor is faster again. When he notices your fingers creeping toward his face, he grabs them, entwines them with his and pushes your palms into your lower belly, making a soft sound of, “Mm-mm” to scold you.

And to know that this man’s worship of you ever became doubtful in your heart—it’s unthinkable. Having him here, now, completely devoted, quite literally kissing your feet and your cunt, humming in appreciation, makes everything else feel distant. And you wonder—had you only imagined the distance between you? Or is it a fluke that you found your way back to each other with so little sacrifice?

Which, of course, was anything but little. And yet, compared to how monumentally your love swells in your chest right now, it seems like nothing but dust.

It’s strange, sharing something so grand with only one other person—one who also recognises it as grand. Both of you are just specks in the vast web of the universe. And yet, there is nobody else to witness this.

Only you and Viktor know how this feels—to be like this, with each other.

Your own thoughts distract you, when Viktor is torturing you with the slow pace of his flat tongue, his mouth occasionally sucking, his soft lips easing your sore and you feel yourself gradually melting, dripping straight into his throat. He murmurs and chuckles into your core when you give him strangled whimpers and he finally allows your fingers to tug at his hair when he sees you need to hold onto something. And when you can almost touch it, when the cramp in your guts is an inch from release you curse yourself for all the corny thoughts that swept through your mind a moment ago. Because Viktor retreats. And you whine, the sound stretching your neck, close to ripping it in half.

“Fuck, why?” you almost growl, and he dares to smile like a five-year-old.

“Just… trying something out,” Viktor says, resting his chin on your pubic bone, an innocent grin tugging the corner of his lips down. It’s an experiment. Well, of course.

“Now? You’re trying something out now?” Completely exasperated you glare daggers at him. Having your orgasm dangled in front of you only to be snatched away at the last minute is, to say the least, a dick move.

“Shh, lásko, patience,” he tuts, placing a peck on your clit. “Can you trust me?” he coos, throwing you the bedroom eyes to die for. That look from under his lashes—no bad bone in his body—the let me love you plea that leaves you with your mouth hanging open.

So you groan and nod obediently.

“Good girl,” he hums, eager, and your skin prickles at all the pet names. Amongst the hums in your head, you’re thankful he hasn’t dropped the one that was tainted.

And then his mouth is back on you again. Hot breath washing over you as his tongue resumes the work and soon he joins one finger to tease you from the inside. So delicate, to keep you there on the edge of pleasure, he drags it and curls it to explore every crevice. A bunch of pretty whimpers drip from your lips when you try to push your hips lower to meet his hand, but he holds you tight. He whispers sounds of appraise into your flesh: so wet, so good for me, good girl, trust me. And when you finally do and let your hands fist the sheet and your head fall back, eyes squeeze shut as your breath hitches and stomach curls into another cramp, Viktor fucking stops.

“Viktor, I hate you!” An undignified cry escapes you as your body jolts upright, eyes wide in disbelief, tears prickling in the corners.

“Ah, and whatever happened to trust?” He fixes you with a glare.

“This… this is cruel.” You gasp for breath, almost hyperventilating at the audacity of his behaviour. Something crestfallen flickers across Viktor’s face—like he’s disappointed you didn’t trust him blindly.

“No, my heart. This,” he murmurs, crawling back up until his face is level with yours. You feel his cock pressing against your entrance, his breath tickling your cheek.

“This is mercy," he says, voice low. "Because I really want to fuck you again, and I don’t want to hurt your poor pussy further. So you see how important it was for me to prepare you.”

And just like that, shame washes over you. What kindness was that, that you so eagerly discredited.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, the words spilling out faster than you can think. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, trying to pull him into a kiss of apology. But Viktor tilts his head just enough that your lips land on his chin.

“We’ll see about that now, won’t we?” he murmurs, dipping lower. His whisper fans over the shell of your ear, his breath burning. “Because as far as I’m concerned, I don’t have to make you cum tonight,” he chuckles darkly as the head of his cock slides inside you with ease, and indeed, you are so wet it doesn’t hurt.

“Viktor, I’m sorry, ah—” you gasp, as his cock hits the spot, a tear rolls down from the corner of your eye, and you catch something in Viktor’s expression. As soon as it happens, he presses his sweat-slicked forehead to yours and begins licking into your mouth. His tongue pushes past your lips so greedily you could choke, hips roll into yours, making a lewd sticky sound each time he retreats to push back again, and again.

Viktor’s arms cage around your face, his fingers anchor into your hair as he tilts your head up to lo look at him, his eyes draw up to yours with a gaze full of intent.

“Will you behave now?” He states more than asks. The world becomes soft at the edges, when he looks at you like that. When he fucks you like that. When his fingers curl around your hair and his thumbs press gently into your temples.

“Yes,” you breathe, voice nearly absent. Your eyebrows knit together more and more with each slow slam of his hips between your legs and the tightening in your stomach comes back, stronger than before. You spread your legs further apart, lifting your pelvis to meet his, your toes curl and muscles tense up around him.

“And will you do as you are told?” he asks, and his voice gives way to something hopeful and needy.

“Yes,” you reply, this time audibly with a full vocal moan and try to snake your hands between the two of you to cradle his neck, cup his face. He keeps the angles fixed, slapping your clit with his pubis in a steady rhythm.

“Good,” Viktor coos, giving you a wet drooling kiss. And then another, before he thinks for a bit. His lips brush yours, when he whispers, “Be my good girl and cum on my cock.”

And if that wouldn’t break you completely, the bite on your neck would and it does. You feel it down to you marrow, surging through, as your cunt clenches around him and Viktor pants and grunts into your skin. You come pressing your nose against his with a loud fuck, knuckles paling on his arms. Tears start pushing themselves through the corners of your eyes again and when you think he will come too and stop, he doesn’t.

He sucks his stomach in and snakes a hand between your sticky navels, fingers finding your clit when he rasps, “Again.” You yelp, startled, your cunt going numb before you feel his touch and you try to jolt away, hypersensitive and swollen. “One more time, for me,” Viktor mutters into your ear, voice dripping heavily from his tongue. You can feel he is close too in every little spasm of his cock, but he holds back. He batters your lips with his, swallows the heedless sounds you make. Like a reward for your struggle, he caresses a hollow of your cheek and whispers quiet praise in between kisses.

And when you regain the feeling in your womb, a new tension builds itself on top of the previous one, ready to snap you in half. You clasp your thighs around him, fingers still digging into his flesh to the point of bruising and when you cum again your vision goes blurry from all the tears welling down your cheeks, and Viktor, oh, he rubs his face against yours, purring, as if you have just given him the most precious of all gifts. The orgasm lasts forever, fucks you out completely, breath rips out of your lungs when you finally find a way to grab his neck and moan everything straight into his wet mouth.

He swallows all of it and seconds later gives it back with his own completion—a couple of ragged hard snaps against you, while he spills himself inside you with a strangled groan falling from his lips. Before you can say or think of anything, he jams his tongue back into your mouth and kisses you deeply, gratefully, moaning and whimpering at the last twitches of your cunt milking him dry.

Then he nuzzles into your neck and takes a deep breath, his belly pressing against yours. In this soul-crushing moment, all words feel like strangers to you, and Viktor grants you another little mercy when he asks, “How are you?”

You swallow before replying. You have no idea. Fucked numb? Sad? Happy? Full? Empty? All those things at once? In the spirit of trust, you say quietly, “I don’t know.”

A warm chuckle reaches you as he pulls out and up to cradle you. You look at his face, convinced the exact opposite of his expression is painted on yours, when he tries to soothe you with a quiet, “It’s alright.”

Gentle hands bring you closer, and he places a kiss on your temple, breathing in deeply. “Just tell me if anything aches.”

“It doesn’t,” you say quickly. And then a stupid question pops into your head, bounces around, and rolls out through your mouth. “Did you plan for this?” This could mean so many things, but Viktor, by some uncanny intuition, knows.

“To sleep with you? Oh no,” he laughs, shaking his head. “My nearly perfect plan to really tell you and then see you out failed miserably.” Viktor murmurs while stroking your hair, and you wrap your arms around him tighter—both happy and sad. Happy that his plan failed, sad that he had one in the first place, and it wasn’t about winning you back.

“But that’s not new,” he sighs, and you raise your eyebrows in question. “We haven’t done the best job keeping away from each other.”

“Viktor,” you start, disbelieving the sound of your voice. “I am terrible at keeping away from you. I think if I have to do this again, I’ll die of cancer. I won’t survive if we do this again, I swear,” you mumble, wincing at how pathetic your first words sound. But you maintain, reinforcing your confession with a nuzzle into his touch. At least it’s not awkward anymore.

Viktor’s fingers trace absent-minded shapes on your shoulder. His voice is soft when he finally says, “Some things will need to change.”

You shift slightly, tucking your face closer to his neck. His warmth is comforting, but the words sting a bit. “What do you mean?”

His hand stills. “We cannot fall back into the same rut. We have to—” He exhales, shaking his head like he’s unwilling to phrase it too neatly. “Do better.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. It’s the answer you expected, but still, something in you balks at the finality of it. The If not, then nothing feels heavy. “Do you want to forgive me?” you ask, your voice quieter than intended.

Viktor hums, considering. “I already have.”

Relief floods you—but before you can lean into it fully, he adds, “That does not mean I trust you.”

Your breath catches, and you lift your head to look at him. His expression is unreadable, and you search his eyes for something that might tell you how deep the wound still runs.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, gaze steady.

You open your mouth, then hesitate. You do. But not fully. Not in the way you used to. Not in the way that feels effortless. The hesitation speaks louder than words.

Viktor smiles, not unkindly. “Exactly.”

A prickle of shame rises in your throat. But he doesn’t pull away. His hand finds your back, rubbing slow circles as if he knows you need reassurance.

“It’s good,” he murmurs, as if it’s a promise rather than a question. “We’ll take it bit by bit.”

You nod, pressing your forehead to his. It’s terrifying, starting over like this—unsure, tentative—but then again, when have either of you ever done things the easy way?

So you take a breath. “Alright,” you whisper. Things have already changed, and Viktor is already someone else compared to a mere week ago. So far, so good. Your mind swells with thoughts of the last four hours, and you catch yourself staring at him, searching his face for answers to questions you haven’t yet put into words.

He opens one eye and cocks a brow. “You’re still trying to figure me out,” he murmurs, more amused than accusatory.

“Yeah,” you admit.

He huffs a quiet laugh and closes his eyes again. “Good.”

And he holds you closer.

[incorrect-rangers-quotes]

okay i got 20 tags in on a reblog of this before i thought i might as well bite the bullet and just write normal hahah. there are so many angles to look from here that i want to find and think about this later :)

someone in the tags said "he's calm when he wants to be" and i think that's pretty well-phrased. i personally would put it like this - halt is very level-headed when it comes to things like danger and combat and strategy, because when you do as much Danger and Combat and Strategy as rangers do, it's either you develop that, or you & the lads Get Deaded. i think that's mostly what's being referred to when he's described as calm and in control. he's a great presence to have when you're going into fight or flight because in terms of personal danger he hasn't panicked once in his life (exaggeration) and gets actively mad when someone's worried about him (not an exaggeration) LMAO. an anger outburst will rarely win you a fight.

op alluded to it already, but, you can also certainly have different amounts of patience when it comes to different things. halt especially, i think, is more prone to answering violence with violence no matter if it's proportionate or not than, i dunno, will? older crowley? pauline? diplomats are a far more emotionally adept authority i feel like. LOL. either way, yeah, sure, he can be patient, even in situations where he might deck someone otherwise, but i think to sympathize and thus be patient with you he's got to understand/relate to you. and obviously he's more likely to do that if he actively gives a shit about you, which he doesn't for most, so. Violent Tendencies.

i'll be honest my kneejerk reaction to the post was to joke about the fact that There Be Men Like That Sometimes, but really you can think about it that way! some of these things - corporal punishment, reacting to disrespect with violence, etc etc - aren't necessarily "i'm mad and not thinking about what i'm doing", they're just his normal responses that aren't always expressed angrily at all. it's just what he - read, people - do. it's what isn't necessarily universally accepted, but it is accepted by him and arguably the people around him.

to add; how much do you reckon there can be violence without anger? i don't think some of these were him running out of patience necessarily, or getting angry with Homicidal Flavour. i think halt is absolutely capable of looking at a situation, assessing it with a fairly neutral line of thought, and deciding that violence should be the answer. it's not a reaction, it's a response, if that makes sense. of course that doesn't mean he doesn't get angry, i'm sure he does plenty, but i feel like little of it is Uncontrolled violence. it's what he sees as Deserved violence, and let's admit there's seldom any punishment in it for him. iirc even his arguably Biggest L - the whole banishment thing, which was also exactly what he wanted out of the situation mind - wasn't over the threat of violence which was very much there, it was over calling duncan a daft wee piss cunt or whatever and it's illegal to be mean to the king. tragic.

and of course you, reading, can see the violence as uncalled for, or you can see the times he uses it as him being cruel. if that's your interpretation, then there's really not much going against it. i mean, it's my interpretation too, lmao. i think halt is a largely a hard and unpleasant man. it's just that we're seeing him from the perspectives of the people that mostly like him, so we get to see all the moments when he's patient, or kind, or loyal too. which makes for an overall rather nice character, if you're willing to get your hands a little dirty.

and, you know, childrens' literature and all. our faves can do a little prisoner slavery i guess. why not.

I've been thinking about this for a long time, but it's so fucking funny to me how Halt is the guy that everyone is like "yeah he can stay calm, he's always in control and has great patience when it comes to certain things, he's has great control over his emotions" but at the same time that guy has has bet up more than one teenage apprentice in the span of two books, thrown two guys out a window in the span of one book, made Will sleep outside in the cold, not even in the ground but in a fucking tree for singing a song and having a bit of whimsy in his life, threw a guy off his horse by putting his bowstring around his neck, knocking him out (and then wanted to punch him again when he woke up) for being a bit of a dick, and at one point in The Emporer of Nihon-Ja, Will was sure Halt was gonna deck a dude or something along those lines for knocking his hood back off his face. And thats just the stuff actually in the books, there's probably way more we don't know about.

I'm trying to think of any more shit he's done now.

It's just funny how he can apparently be the most calm and in control man but also get super easily pissed off and ready to kill in an instant at the same time.

[berryispunk]

What I Didn't Say

pairing: Frankie Morales x gn! reader

tags: mention of mental health struggles, depression, inner turmoil, comfort, fluff, Frankie being the best boyfriend ever, soft! Frankie

notes: This was written mostly for myself but if even one person finds comfort in this too, my job is done. unbeta'd

word count: 1,9 k

It is a regular Tuesday. Same process at work. The same dumb questions, the same people. But something is off, something inside of you. Something buried so deep you almost forgot yourself it was there. But it crawled onto the surface slowly and gradually over the last days, tinting everything darker, muting the colors around you. 

The signs were there for a while now, building up one by one. You should have known better, but you decided to ignore them all instead.

Throwing yourself into work, listening to music on your earphones constantly, never a minute alone with your own thoughts, too afraid of what they might reveal.  

It makes you feel heavy, slowed down and every day feels endless. 

Tasks you’re usually able to solve in minutes dragged on for hours. 

You feel numb, dissociated and irritated and after a while you weren’t able to lie to yourself anymore. 

Your unpleasant visitor inside your mind unpacked its baggage once again, making himself comfortable in your brain and wouldn’t check out any time soon.

When it is finally time to go home after work you feel particularly drained and still the thought of returning home into your tiny apartment, which mirrored your inner mess perfectly at the moment, makes you feel even more uneasy.

So you drive around the city for a while with no real destination in mind. 

Your window pulled down, the cool evening air a welcoming distraction of your whirlwind of thoughts. Your mind wandering around, not able to form one clear thought, too many voices but still you feel utterly alone. 

As alone as ever. Isolated even if you’re not. You have friends, colleagues, a loving boyfriend but you feel miles apart from all of them. Nobody is able to understand your pain and you are too tired to explain. It’s not that you didn’t think about opening up to someone, you did. But how can you explain this big sadness inside of you when you don’t know how to put it into words?

After a while your bluetooth speakerphone ringing brings you back into the present and without even knowing, or caring, who’s on the other end of the line you pick up. 

“Hello ?”

“Hey, beautiful” the voice on the other end is rich and warm, making you smile for the first time today. It was your boyfriend Frankie. 

“Hey… sorry I didn’t call you earlier,I-uh…was busy” you try to lie, masking your inner turmoil. But he does know you better or at least he knows something is off.

“You’re not at home, are you?” he asks, a hint of doubt in his tone.

“No, I'm still driving. Why?”

There’s a deep rumbling laugh on the other end.

“Well, I am in front of your apartment door and nobody’s opening, so safe to say no one’s home…”

Your first instinct is to ask why the hell he’s standing at your apartment door without telling you first, but then you remembered that’s just who Frankie is. He always let actions speak louder than words. Showing up when you least expect it is just one part of the Morales package. He’s a rare gem in the world of macho-dickheads. Sometimes you still wonder what he sees in you out of all people he possibly could’ve be with ? But you count your blessings every day. 

“I’ll come home now. Give me about…” you glance at the digital clock in your car dashboard “15 minutes” you add and he hums in agreement before you hang up. 

Honestly you’re not really in the mood for small talk or any other form of human interactions in general, but you’ve been avoiding Frankie for a few days now. Mostly for selfish reasons but also because you don’t want to drag him down into your abyss so you decide to dive in head first.

15 minutes later on the dot you kill the motor in front of your apartment complex, making your way up to the third floor with heavy steps. 

You can’t shake the tiredness off, it still lingers even when your heart flutters in your chest as soon as you spot Frankie leaning against the wall next to your front door. 

His signature cap worn deep, his arms crossed over his chest, making him look as broad as ever and whistling some melody to himself. 

The moment he spots you his whole face lights up, his eyes crinkling and his face so full of genuine joy by just seeing you it makes you feel incredibly guilty for not wanting to see him just seconds ago. 

He steps towards you, his smile only widening and making your stomach do somersaults.  

He wraps his arms around your waist and dips his head to kiss your cheek, the visor of his cap touching your temple. 

“Sorry you had to wait for so long… I–” you contemplate telling him the whole truth, but decide against it, not wanting to drag his mood down too. 

“Work was a lot”, you lie again and he just shakes his head. 

“‘s alright, I don’t mind. I mean, I could’ve at least texted you beforehand, but where’s the surprise in that?” he laughs as you fumble with your keys to let you both inside. 

It just dawned on you that your place isn’t particularly tidy right now and you feel heat creeping up at your cheeks in embarrassment. 

“Sorry.. didn’t have time to tidy up. I know it’s a mess…” you sigh as you let your bag slump  to the ground and kick off your shoes, trying hard to not let him feel how disappointed you are about yourself, but Frankie doesn’t say a thing. 

He just kicks off his shoes as well and places the plastic back he was holding onto the kitchen counter. 

“I brought some Chinese take-out” he says, making it sound like the most obvious thing to do when in reality it is not. You’re not used to this kind of attention and it makes you feel all kinds of emotions. Mostly good of course, but it also makes you question if you’re able to give him the same amount back or if you’re losing in the partner department, especially the last few weeks.

“Why did you do that?” you ask, the words coming out quicker than your mind has time to process it.

“Do what?”

“This” you point onto the bag of food he’s just about to unpack and he stills his movement.

“I thought you like chinese…” he says, his brows furrowed in confusion. 

“I do, it’s just.. you could’ve texted first,you know” you say irritated, regretting your harsh voice immediately as you see his shoulders sag slightly.

“I am sorry, it’s just–” he trails off, rubbing his neck sheepishly. 

“I had the feeling something was off and you’re kinda short and snippy the last few days. I just wanted to check on you and… “ a short breath “I’m sorry if I overstepped or anything I’m just, argh, i don’t know… worried?”

His rumbling leaves you speechless for a moment. Too much to unpack for your depressed mind. You slump onto the stool next to your kitchen counter, running a hand through your hair. You should’ve known he notices your change, he’s a really attentive person after all.

“I am sorry, Frankie” you simply say and you mean it but the words have greater meaning than just an apology for your behavior.

“You have nothing to be sorry for” he assures you and it doesn’t ease your mind in the slightest instead it makes you feel even worse. 

You don’t know how to bring this up because you’re not good at communicating your feelings, you never learned how. So you say nothing in return and the silence is deafening. 

You feel his big hands gently caressing your arms and it almost causes you to sob, the gentleness of his touch unlike everything else. 

“Please, talk to me” he pleads, his soft brown eyes searching yours and you can’t stand it any longer so you rise up from your seat and wrap your arms around his midsection, burying your face against his chest. 

“I’m not good at this, Frankie… I wish I would be but I am not. I am a mess, simple as that” you mumble against his shirt, your voice muffled by the fabric. 

He stays silent for a moment, his hand crawling the back of your head before he murmurs against your hair “It’s okay… you don’t have to explain anything if you don’t want to. I am here, even if you don’t wanna talk at all that’s also fine with me” 

The tears prick hot in corners of your eyes, his voice like a balm for your troubled mind but it doesn’t stop your inner world from colliding. He should run as long as he has the chance, find someone better that isn’t as broken and as complicated as you are. The next words start to bubble up before you have the chance to stop them.

“I’m sorry for pushing you away the last few weeks, it’s just my default response, you know. Didn’t want to burden you with my shit.”

“You don’t burden me with this, lemme’ carry some of that weight with you, okay?” he reasons softly with you, his hand still cradling the back of your head gently, placing a soft kiss on the top of your hair. 

“I don’t know how.. everytime I tried to share my darkness with someone, they left. I’m scared to lose you too, because you–” the following words are chocked “You are the best thing I ever had and I really don’t wanna fuck this up” you admit. 

“You won’t lose me just because you have some demons to face, beautiful. We all have, believe me I do too. It’s getting easier once you’re able to talk about it, I promise. I am here to stay, okay?” he lifts your head gently from his chest, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones and the honesty of his words written all over his face. 

You nod as he kisses your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment on your skin. 

“Let me in, okay? That’s all I ask. We figure the rest out as we go…” 

“Okay” you ultimately answer, your voice strained with barely contained emotions. 

“But don’t say I didn’t warn you, yeah?” 

“I served in the army. Nothing scares me off that easily anymore, trust me” he chuckles deeply before he lets go of your head to get some silverware. “Let’s eat something okay? And afterwards we can watch some movie you like.” 

“Even a cheesy romance movie?” you retort with a smirk as you take a seat on the kitchen stool once again. 

“Even a cheesy, cringey romance movie if that lifts your spirits, but you have to at least let me make some comments…” he grins as he places some fried chicken and noodles on your plate first like it’s the most natural thing to do. Which for him it might be. 

“Deal” you say as you start munching on some of the food, watching him putting some Chinese food on his own plate. “Thank you” you murmur and words aren’t enough to express the extend of your gratitude.

“It’s nothing” he shrugs off while taking a seat next to you. 

“Wrong, it’s everything”, you correct and he holds your gaze for a long moment before he smiles warmly and starts eating.

And for the first time in a while you feel like maybe happiness is in reach again. 

[tumblweeds-omegaverse]

random omegaverse thought:

There must be people who experience specific instinct things with indifference or boredom.

Procreative cycle coming up? "Crap, I've got plans this weekend...stupid skip weeks."

Caught an intriguing scent while walking? "But I need to get to work! Shut up brain."

Had a snap response to a distressed sound? "Who was it?! ...right, it's my day off, I can go back to sleep."

Somebody growled at them? "Kid, I'm not a rival, that's my sibling."

Super cozy cuddle session happening nearby? "I'm gonna pass tonight guys, no social battery left, maybe next time."

Group of friends heading out to flirt and check out other singles? "I'm coming with you but only to make sure you all get home safe."

Setting where fated mates or soul bonds or permanent marks are a thing? "Meh. I don't really want one or care if I ever get one."

People in the actual omegaverse would get as bored of their stuff, as we do of ours, you know? It could be interesting to see that kind of vibe in fics. Biological demands faced with all the excitement of paying bills or doing laundry or tying your shoes.

Even if that kind of energy might not drive a plot, it could be interesting to have as a contrast to the people who do have big feelings about them - good or bad.

There's the friends who can't wait til they have a pack of their own, and the one friend who isn't against it but couldn't care less. There's the group in the office who are all about scent compatibility tests and figuring out one's best match and what sprays most highlight it, and the coworker who has no intentions on putting that much effort in. There are parents who hover and protect their offspring by scenting them multiple times a day, and others who don't see what the fuss is as long as it's done in the morning.

...also: packs with introverts who show care by giving each other space. So often, closeness is depicted through physical touch and tactile affection, but comfortable silence is meaningful too. Knowing people are near, but not having to interact until you're ready. Sitting in the same room doing different things, knowing that all it takes is a "hey, look at this" to share what you're up to. People understanding and accepting each other's differing or fluctuating needs for how and when to recharge. Seeing somebody reaching out or sharing space, beyond what's their norm, as a signal of the fact that they care.

[localhypnofruit]

Hey DST fans. Here are multiple paragraphs about WX-78 as a system because I cannot contain myself any longer.

When it comes to WX-78, there are three parts. WX (current host and protector), Woodrow (trauma holder and ex-host), and Waggy (caretaker?). WX and Woodrow are very hard to tell apart since they act very similarly and sometimes even blend together. Waggy acts the most different out of the three, but only shows up when the system (bodily and/or mentally) is running on empty and neither of the other two are around.

How to tell Woodrow apart from WX: Woodrow speaks with fewer robot terms than WX does. They still have a distaste for organic life but still calls things by their names (which includes survivors, though still calling them organic as an insult- Ex. "fleshling Wilson"). They also move less rigidly than WX despite the body not being fully accommodating for those types of movements. Woodrow also can occasionally be found sitting for long periods looking at themself or "brooding" due to thinking on/re-experiencing past events, and taking less care of the body than WX would. Some survivors even call them reckless or irresponsible for lacking "their" usual self-sufficiency. When it's just Woodrow piloting, they tend to have trouble seeing far-away things. Along with this, they can rarely be seen with a square light inside one of their usually empty eye sockets.

More about WX: WX is obviously more rigid in movement and (usually) speech. They use nicknames for animals and survivors in a typically demeaning way, and holds themself with pride over organic life. They think more on self-preservation than Woodrow. Though they do attempt to take care of themself, they often forget or don't do things they should for their pride. They're also capable of understanding what's best for the group better than the other two, even if they don't like caring for organics. WX also holds a fascination for the moon that Woodrow doesn't have.

Waggy... Not Exactly Wagstaff: Waggy shares a fascination with the moon like WX, but doesn't respond to the body's name. He typically goes off on his own endeavors, but has the most friendly demeanor compared to the other two. He's unaware of his own predicament and just winds up being curious about all that's around him and how he can benefit from it. Waggy takes the most care of the body to a selfish degree, even tricking others into giving him more than he needs. If the demeanor wasn't obvious enough, he causes the body's optics to form a large white pupil in one eye socket. This abnormal amount of light makes him practically blind to things not in front of his face. Thankfully, again, Waggy rarely shows himself unless there are specific circumstances with the system.

Memory Issues, Huh: None of these three are aware of being a system, nor do they know of each other's existence. The only way they'd figure that out is if another survivor were to point it out to them, and even then they likely wouldn't acknowledge it. Woodrow and WX share most of their memories with each other (aside from the ones of the past that Woodrow holds), so most gaps in memory are from when/if Waggy shows up- as Waggy shares no memories with the other two.

There are still plenty of thoughts I'm thinking about this but this post is already too long and this is just a general explanation of the system on its own.

[lucktv]

OMS HIII!!!! Thank you @star-lights-up For tagging me!! I had honestly seen this before and thought "Oms Id love to participate in this" AND HERE I AM. I will mention that Im very new to tumblr so Im sorry if I'm doing stuff wrong and please tell cuz I will never learn if I never know (;

Now Get to know your mutuals!!

What's the origin of your blog title? Well... Long story but basically my real name is pronounced differently than whats written down (Because native language just pronounce the letters differently) And so I was quickly like; 'hmmm I need to find something thats still pretty close to my own name, but also everyone knows how to pronounce' And quickly I came up with the name 'Luka' Which is only once letter removed from my own. And then I just kinda wanted to have a cool username for it, so I had thought of many different things until I came up with "Luckalot" And that just kinda stuck. However, people I met online started calling me "Luck" Because of it, and honestly I have grown very fond of that name!!! SO anyways I might change my name to 'luckalot' on here because its 'lucktv' rn cuz I just kinda quickly made this account not knowing I'd be X-Men obsessed 2 months later. But its lucktv becuase (Taylor's Version) for those wondering!! :D

OTP(s) + Shipname: Honestlyyyy I dont really get obsessed over more ships than one at the same time soooo right now it's really just Charles/Erik - Cherik :3

But I also have been obessed with Sylvie/Loki - Sylki for a while (Some people get so mad about that But I just love em)

But that's about it when it comes to marvel, there's not many marvel ships I have actually been obsessed with for some reason...

Big Remus Lupin/Sirius Black - Wolfstar Shipper too tho!! My marauders phase was long ago but Id love to go back to it any moment :D

Favourite colour: Yellowww!!! Mostly just like the yellow yellow yk, like the chrome logo yellow, basically the yellow used whenever yellow needs to be used :3

Favourite game: I play lots of Minecraft!!! aaannnd Im one of those roblox players :3 I play little word games to improve my english on there and also Royale High because I LOVE Fashion and I played DTI for a bit but after all the updates I kinda stopped idk

Song stuck in your head:

The entire soundtrack of Wicked

Weirdest habit/trait? Good question! I do a lot of weird stuff that Im just kinda not aware of actually. But one I can think of right now is that I always lipsync to my music and its not only my lips but Im very expressive with my eyebrows so I kinda weirdly move my eyebrows with my singing... and yes this happens in public too, I can't help it (,:

Hobbies: Drawing, quite literally any type of art; writing, painting, graphic design, fashion and the list goes on

Im also OBSESSED with reading, but most specifically Fanfics and RN Cherik fanfics (Like literally I just finished a 180k fanfic in 2 weeks AND IM DYSLEXIC) I sometimes get a little too obsessed and just sit in my room ALL DAY reading fanfics in the weekend (If I even have time) And Im a big music listener! Music is very important to me and I love to listen to my playlists every moment of the day C:

If you work, what's your profession? Im a full time Media Design Student :3 But I have done a painters study for one year so I do lots of little painting side quests for family and friends (And they pay me (sometimes))

If you could have any job you wish, what would it be? Realistically? I would LOVE to be just an overall illustrator, for like Book covers but also comics and storyboards, I would love to do something like that and just switch it up from time to time!

Something you're good at: Painting and drawing!! I enjoy it A LOT and I think I'm pretty good at it!! I'm also getting into shirt designs and so far I am quite proud of my creations :D

Something you're bad at: staying calm, I stress about quite literally EVERYTHING, Im a very anxious person from nature and am almost chronically stressed (,: I also have social anxiety which is big reason for my awkwardness most of the time... Idk Im just low-key a loser but Im a somewhat happy loser :p

Something you love:

X-MENNNNN< Specifically CHERIKKK!!!

And also very much Taylor Swift!! Her music is everything to me and Im a Proud swiftie

Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: ANY and I say ANY of my hyperfixations; Cherik, Taylor swift, Arcane And also about deep life stuff, idk if it's with the right person I could talk HOURS about life and everything around it C:

Something you hate: People who hate and judge others for being excited about things they like???? Like huh??

Something you collect: rocks, rings, necklaces, earrings, more rocks, shells, literal trash, stickers, erasers??, just lots of useless stuff really...

Something you forget: everything... no but like; art ideas, writing ideas, where I left my shoes, where I left my phone (Its in my hand), what class I have first, What my teacher is called, when I promised my friend to hang out, texting people back, homework.... Everything BUT that one time I accidentally said "you too" To a person working at a cinema telling me "Enjoy the movie"

What's your love language? Quality Time and Physical touch both recieving and giving :D People always associate physical touch with weird stuff for some reason?? but I just REALLY like hugs and shoulder pats and pokes and tickles and elbow bumps and high fives and CUDDLLESSS :D

Favourite movie/show: X-Men First Class, Beauty and the Beast, Miss Americana, Arcane and The Amazing Spider-Man

Favourite food: I really enjoy Watermelon and tuna! But I like lots of foods!!

Favourite animal: Tigers, theyre absolutely adorable cute little big cats and they have STRIPES!

What were you like as a child? Overall very energetic (With my friend and family)! I was very shy and anxious as a child too, thats kinda always been like that XD I was also very good at being very very dramatic :3

Favourite subject at school? I have this little extra class I chose to do because I like painting so much, and it's basically just 2 hours of painting :D So that's deff my favourite

Least favourite subject: Maths.

What's your best character trait? I am very empathetic! I often understand others better than I understand myself

What's your worst character trait? Im a 24/7 stressed overthinker :p

If you could change any detail of your life right now, what would it be? anything that would gain me more time for the stuff I actually like doing, making cherik art, writing cherik fanfics... you know it

If you could travel in time, who would you like to meet? Idk if this is weird but Im just gonna pull a Charles Xavier and I'd say my past self? I just have so much I wish I could say to her <:

Tagging some of my mutuals! You don't have to respond if you dont want to :D (Or if u already did) @swiftie-as-a-coursing-river @faerlycertain @veevil @vvividlyy

Get to know your mutuals! Thank you to @joyful-soul-collector for tagging.

What's the origin of your blog title? I have a bunch of sideblogs dedicated to my most active fandoms and I am an insomniac. My first ever fandom sideblog started the trend as a joke and I just carried on the tradition!

OTP(s) + Shipname: Jayce and Viktor is the main one right now. I also love Ed and Stede from Our Flag Means Death.

Favourite colour: Iridescent white

Favourite game: Dungeons and Dragons for sure! I also like playing Jackbox games with friends.

Song stuck in your head: To Be Seen - Searows

Weirdest habit/trait? Sitting and doing things in the dark. I just prefer existing in dim light because lights can be overwhelming and the darkness keeps my mind calm. Doesn't help I'm stuck in fluorescent lighting all day haha!

Hobbies: Writing, Singing, Crafting, and Baking

If you work, what's your profession? I'm a medical laboratory technician in blood sciences!

If you could have any job you wish, what would it be? Realistically? Since it specifies realistic, I'd like to be a biomedical scientist in immunology. It would mean getting another degree but I don't mind that too much.

Something you're good at: I'm good at writing! I recently wrote my first children's book and intend to write more when the inspiration comes back. A poetic style of writing is my favourite to do.

Something you're bad at: Socialising. I'm quite awkward but I still like chatting to people.

Something you love: Snails! I adore snails, I used to have pet giant African land snails for a few years.

Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: The immune system, pathogenic disease, my fifty million apocalypse stories, etc.

Something you hate: Willful ignorance and anti vaxxers. Both suck very much.

Something you collect: Pins! I have so many. They're on my lanyard, my dunagrees, my pinboard, and my ita bag.

Something you forget: The thing I was meant to be doing.

What's your love language? Gift giving and quality time. Also words of affirmation.

Favourite movie/show: Arcane for sure at the moment. I also love The Walking Dead, Good Omens, Our Flag Means Death, and a bunch of apocalypse/zombie shows.

Favourite food: Pizza

Favourite animal: Snails! 🐌

What were you like as a child? Strange is the best way to describe it honestly.

Favourite subject at school? Science! All the science.

Least favourite subject: Religious Education. No thanks.

What's your best character trait? I'm very passionate about the things and people I love.

What's your worst character trait? I tend to keep things bottled up inside until they come out all at once, I'm still working on not doing that.

If you could change any detail of your life right now, what would it be? Being able to sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow! That would be amazing.

If you could travel in time, who would you like to meet? I'm not sure, I'm not particularly enamoured by anyone in the past. Maybe Oscar Wilde.

Tagging anyone who wants to!

[pineappical]

actually yknow what heres what ive been working on in roblox for the past 2 days

[carnelianwings]

Since I'm not sure if I'll ever get the chance to properly touch on this in a fic because it's more character analysis than something I can properly include in dialogue/exposition without it being very awkwardly out of place and telling not showing, I figured I'd just dump it here. It's something I think about a lot whenever I write for post-Seed Destiny Athrun in a fic, because in so many ways, this is actually something of a non-magical "Ideal (Fake) Reality" situation that Durandal very nearly succeeded in pulling off, but ultimately failed at because Durandal overplayed his hand and underestimated Athrun's loyalty to his friends Kira, who was pulling triple duty opposing Athrun because Kira himself didn't agree with what Athrun was doing, protecting Cagalli, and supporting Cagalli at a time when she was powerless.

It's a trope I very much love in magical/sci-fi settings because it says a lot about the character and the lengths they'll go to get what they want (the willingness and determination to take the longer, harder path to make the dream reality vs the instant gratification option even if it's fake), and also just gives me so much to work with when I write when it comes to character motivation/dialogue/actions.

I feel like a lot of this gets missed in all the memes that he's (somewhat deservedly) suddenly a part of after Seed Freedom, because while Seed Freedom Athrun is very self-assured and confident in his course of action, he definitely took a long hard road (with more downs than ups, in my opinion) between Seed and Seed Destiny to get there.

(Rest behind the cut because there's a reason Athrun Zala is my favorite Seed character, and not just because he's got a lovely voice - thank you Ishida-san for that - and is easy on the eyes.)

When Athrun re-enlists in ZAFT and "continues" his life again as himself, he's given a choice thanks to Durandal's string-pulling: Resume the life that was planned for him by his parents and PLANT (his "destined" life, if you will), or find his way back to the life that he's chosen for himself (with Cagalli and Orb).

If he chose his "old" life, he would've had it all - the glory of being a decorated war veteran, a post as a FAITH member (resuming the role he'd previously gotten thanks to his father), a "Lacus Clyne" for his fiance, and the honor of being the pilot of the Legend (while being something of a "legend" himself). Durandal saw to it Athrun would've seamlessly resumed that life to all external appearances, even if it would've been an absolute sham behind closed doors. Athrun might be a decorated war veteran, but that came with a lot of trauma and grief - trauma from having to fight and kill at such a young age, grief at being the one to survive when those he'd called friends die around him, plus all the unresolved emotional turmoil and grief of having never been able to properly resolve things with his father and his genocidal ideals (because Patrick Zala, too, was a man who never got over his grief at losing Lenore during the Bloody Valentine Incident, and only became the way he did because of that). He might've had a highly coveted position within FAITH, but that power would ultimately be in service to Durandal (a head of state Athrun alternates between wanting to agree with and being directly at odds against). Durandal needed more capable "Yes men" ace pilots like Shinn Asuka to spread and enforce his plans, not people capable of thinking for themselves like Athrun (at least, Athrun got there after Operation Angel Down). The "Lacus Clyne", is, of course, Meer under the best cosmetic surgery money could buy, but she is nothing like Lacus Athrun knows and cares for as a friend and whose cause he had once lent his power to (and would again at the end of the Second War).

And the Legend? It might fit Athrun in name only (in the sense that he's the "legendary pilot who helped end the first Earth-PLANT War) but the entire suit (even if it had an updated OS for the DRAGOON system) doesn't even play to Athrun's core strengths as a pilot. It's almost comedic how Durandal didn't even bother tailoring the Legend to Athrun - the Saviour is more Athrun's style both as a spiritual successor to the Aegis and weapons load out, yet it's coincidental that it would end up in Athrun's hands. There's no way Durandal could've known and planned for the Saviour to go to Athrun, but Durandal arguably had that time with the Legend. In the episode where both the Destiny and Legend are revealed, Durandal made a point of telling Shinn the Destiny was fine tuned to him, but neglects to tell Athrun much about the Legend beyond the DRAGOON system and the updated OS for it (the closest Athrun arguably ever came to a DRAGOON system was flying right past Kira and Rau's duel in front of Genesis at the end of Seed).

On the flip side of that, there's the life Athrun had chosen for himself after the first Earth-PLANT War. It's not an ideal life, not by any means - the fact he's essentially a powerless civilian with no means to reach for his ultimate goal chafes him to no end, especially when there's the ever-looming threat of Cagalli getting taken away from him due to circumstances neither of them want nor are able to deal with. Cagalli can't get out of the arranged marriage, Athrun as "Alex Dino" has no claim to power and as "Athrun Zala" would only invite larger scale international problems - even if Athrun himself has no political ties to PLANT, his family name says plenty. Athrun is patient, yes, but even his patience has a limit, and seemingly losing Cagalli to someone he doesn't respect and she doesn't love (in a reversal of Athrun's situation with Lacus and Kira) pushes him to action out of desperation. And while it puts him at odds with Kira and Cagalli (including lashing out at both of them when Cagalli finally breaks down and gives in and gets coerced into going through with the arranged marriage), it does also get him to realize that he's not the same person he was before the war - he's no longer capable of living that same life he had before, where he would fight where his country tells him because that's the fastest way to end the war. The easy (destined, if you will) option is no longer an acceptable choice for him, because it's not the one that ultimately leaves him fulfilled and truly happy with the one he loves in the end.

And it's this that ultimately brings him back to Cagalli and the (Infinite) Justice, metaphorically reclaiming his sense of justice (ha ha). He's always going to be looking for a cause to serve, and a just cause by his own terms, because he's dedicated far too much of his life serving in the military to just stop doing that and he's spent too much time around Lacus to just mindlessly follow whatever the higher ups say, anymore. So this leaves the only way forward: serve under a head of state whose ideals he can agree with, with the freedom of choice to act according to his own sense of justice, and to that end, there's only one choice for him - return to Orb and Cagalli.

[thorntopieces]

i think the conclusion i've come to regarding writing nico's age is that: considering everything he's been through one year doesn't matter all that much.

when looking at thalia and the time she spent as a tree, she wakes up at the end of SoM feeling 12 mentally, being 17 chronologically but being judged as 15 by apollo at the start of TTC. so she's aged physically while being a tree, but slower, and since she was entirely unconscious, didn't feel like she aged. i think a similar logic can be applied to nico and bianca

being trapped in the lotus casino for ~7 decades seems to have felt like "a while", though not a year - because i think bianca would have been more worried about time passing. their bodies would not have physically aged there, but with the breadth of experiences in there (especially after the lethe), the sheer amount of input, some of it from the passing outside world, it makes sense to me that nico would develop mentally, perhaps by about "a year" in terms of intellectual/emotional development

so by the time he leaves the lotus casino he's still 10 years old biologically, 70/80-something chronologically and around 11 mentally/in actually lived years. at the end of BoO, physically 13 years and 7 months (assuming a birthday of 1932/01/28) but in lived years about a year older, therefore identifying himself as "around fourteen"

i think it's a nice balance between what the books actually say and rick riordan's claim of nico being 15 in tsats (which is probably just a mistake on account of him being allergic to calendars and consistency)

[cathymee]

maybe it's to maintain a sense of tension & turmoil that would eventually reach an explosive peak, a sense of tug-of-war, a back-and-forth to hammer home the ideals they want to deliver and for the viewers to chew on, but although these arguments regarding hiroshi & his stance as a man torn between his loyalty for his country & the loyalty for his Filipino friends and lover is of course important, how they write these scenes & the points they present from this week alone is getting too repetitive...? literally the argument scenes from last night & tonight between adelina & hiroshi is basically the same; the ideas were the same, the dynamics were the same: the aggressive, radical adelina, bristling rage and fear over the injustices she's seen thus far, and the cautious, inspiriting hiroshi, all hopefulness and reassurance one moment as a lover, defensiveness and sternness as a japanese soldier in another. this debate will be ever-present ofc, it is one of the series' biggest conflicts, but it is unfortunately so easy to tell when it is a.) being pulled up as a main topic to move the plot along / be a necessary conflict for character development/introspection / be the conflict to deliver the morals & messages the writers want to send to their viewers, or b.) when it is being pulled up only for the drama and filler to pass the time. like watching the characters sit down to argue for 10 minutes, do other things for the plot for 2 minutes, then sit down again to argue for the next 20 minutes. lol.

[fishyartist]

So mad about me just realizing the color pallet despite being in Sonic mode for the past like week

[icewindandboringhorror]

Misc. photos from the past year or so ~

[amrv-5]

survived Badly (argh) but going to work on fic for as long as I continue to enjoy doing so then switch over -- see if I can find somewhere to watch The 400 Blows and probably cry forever and dehydrate and feel soooo sad and then feel better after. Thank you French New Wave

[cherryblossomshadow]

https://youtu.be/7oFu2pNnRIc

Where did you think Top Cop Harris come from

Hey, I'm not the most knowledgeable on this subject, but yes, I have heard that Kamala called herself Top Cop while she was District Attorney.

The only two posts on my blog that address this have imo pretty nuanced takes on this, which boil down to:

Kamala is not perfect, but we can't wait for a perfect candidate to magically appear

Therefore, you can absolutely criticize her for things she did, things she contributed to, things that happened on her watch

But you should criticize her for what really happened. People may not know that she wasn't a uniformed officer who physically arrested people. She got into law to protect women and children from abuse

Yes, she was upholding a corrupt and racist system. But criticize her for that. Not for lies

We can talk about the nuances of what she WAS, but we first have to correct the mistaken impression of what she WASNT

.

Additionally, I think it should be allowed to feel hope for a candidate that isn't as bad as you thought. It's allowed to correct some misinformation around you

I'm not looking at this election like she's some savior who will fix the world just bc she's not really a cop. I'm hoping that ppl won't write her off based on inaccurate information, only accurate information. Bc the only other alternative is That Guy

.

Again, I'm not an expert on this. But the takes that I elevate aren't only the ones that I like or agree with; they're the takes that I think make a good point or are worth chewing on.

Some greatest hits from this post:

Be careful what you read, always be critical of how facts are presented to you, and don't be afraid to admit when you're wrong.

There's no such thing as a good cop, but there do exist naive cops with good intentions who think they can change the system from within

The real nuance is that the position of "top cop" or whatever can't be left empty. When you're filling out the ballot and get to sheriffs and prosecutors, every candidate is an acab. There are no right choices simply by what the nature of the job is. But there are candidates who will attempt that incremental change, and ones who can make things much worse.

She gets my vote at least, she's definitely better than trump or biden, but I'm still hesitant to give my absolute full support.

And from this post:

It didn’t hit me until recently that people genuinely think Kamala Harris was a police officer because of all the people who call her a cop online.

We can discuss how related that is to police work and how tied she is to the carceral system etc etc (but for fairness would have to include her record of pushing for lowering incarceration rates through programs helping former prisoners + her office refusing to jail folks for low level weed offense). But she was never a police officer. 

I think it’s important to note she learned and grew over time, as well.

What drives me crazy about the prosecutor/district attorney = cop common line of leftist thinking is that. People always talk about when a progressive DA is appointed, and how important that is, because the DA literally can just decide not to prosecute certain offenses.

I’d also like to add that if you look at her record in a timeline she has gotten progressively more liberal!

#some ppl will call it pandering but uhhhh we literally want our politicians to listen to our concerns and change their policies based on it

We vote for the weakest adversary. The weakest adversary is always the politician who mostly agrees with you but got where they are by compromising with an unjust system. Elect that person and mush their face in the compromises they’ve made and we can undo the fucked up laws and practices !!!! Or you can let someone who can never be convinced because they hold opposite views on criminalization, incarceration, police brutality and immunity, etc. If you don’t understand or care that voting works this way, where’s your pipe bombs and guerilla fighter cells? Cause that or complacency with fascist takeover is all you’re eating 

Don’t let perfect be the enemy of good.

#youre not gonna budge trump #but if youre not happy with kamala #nudge her left! #dont let perfect be the enemy of good #or progress #we're still on the wrong side of the line #but how are we going to get to the right side without taking a single step?

[snowangeldotmp3]

going to be a bit busy today. trying to finish up the first rebel robin: surviving the upside down chapter AND fix a scene in kas max + write more of the second chapter but i leave you with a deleted Will POV from the rebel robin au:

Will tries to take a deep breath, tries to steel his nerves, his shaking hands, but coughs instead. The air is thin, but suffocating. Like you’ve been taken to the top of a mountain, and then had a stone lying on top of you. His eyes finally begin to adjust to the cool blue atmosphere around him, the flakes that dance in the air, some stagnant, some drift slowly, like snow, or falling leaves. Distantly, he remembers his fourth grade class pet, Wilbur the goldfish, and the falling flakes remind him of the fish food. “Asbestos,” says the girl, breaking him from his memories as she inspects the floating specks, moving to the vines and tentacles that cover the floor and walls. Will tries to take a step, but her hand shoots out to stop him. “Careful. I think…I think these vines are alive.” Will watches as she gets her face close to one, hovering over it as it begins to pulse and wriggle, like a heart, or like it’s breathing. “You step on one,” she says, trailing off. Will gets the idea, he answers softly. “You hurt them. Which brings the monster back to us.”