#nothing i write will ever be compelling. nothing i write will ever be deep. nothing i write will ever stick with someone –

[eenochian]

i know it’s stupid for me to be doubting my writing skills rn, like i’m literally getting more attention on my fics now than ever, but i’m just so unconfident in everything i’ve written lol. i’m putting out things that i’m happy with, but there’s always that voice telling me it’s shit and that i should just stop – and, it feels selfish, being insecure despite the support. like i’m not appreciative enough and i’m just being an attention whore. now i’m just sitting here, staring at a blank draft for the past 5 hours. i have the idea, i have people asking for the chapter, and yet i’m paralyzed trying to write.

[cozy-writes-things]

In which Edgar writes a song for the first time in years.

Edgar [Electric Dreams 1984] x Gn!Reader

I take requests!

“Too simple,” he muttered.

He flicked through some channels again.

“Too… boring,”

Again, nothing.

“Not pretty enough,”

Third time’s a charm.

“Not- ugh,” Edgar was getting annoyed now.

Why did nothing sound right to him? He’d been adjusting this arrangement for hours now, long after you’d retired to bed, and the unwelcome, still quiet ground against his motherboards. This was the first time in nearly 40 years he had made music and he was beginning to question his skills entirely now. His favorite thing was music. It’s what brought him to life in the first place; so why is it eluding him now?

No melody he could sample could ever replicate the feeling he was trying to create from deep inside of him in that moment. Emotions in general were still a foreign concept to him for the most part; it seemed, to him, as though music could potentially be a suitable outlet to try and understand these complex sensations better. What was he feeling? And, what did it sound like? Could he ever possibly put it into song?

He played his backing tracks again. The percussion wasn’t exactly how he wanted it, but his impatience allowed a sliver of imperfection to seep into his work. After all, it’s what humans do, right? A moving, synth chord progression followed. A bit simple, he thought, but that’s what the melody was for: a complex moving line that stuck inside your head and took your breath away. He just hadn’t found it yet. The harmonies would have to come later, he thought.

What was he trying to accomplish with this? Nobody asked him to compose a song, so why did he feel so compelled to do so? What genre was this, anyway? What-

“Gshk- ah-!” His voice spluttered and glitched through his speakers.

You seemed to appear out of nowhere as you haphazardly bumped your thigh into the corner of the desk he was perched upon. How did he not notice you getting up?

If he could, he would be burning red right now. In fact, he could feel his aged fans begin to ignite into what sounded like a small engine; briefly, he wondered if you could see steam seeping from his plastic seams.

“Oh, ’m sorry Edgar,” you groggily stumbled, making your way into the kitchen, “I jus’ needed some water. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No,” he whimpered out, embarrassed, “it’s fine. I just didn’t realize you woke up.”

You honestly didn’t have the energy to reply, so instead, you gently patted the top of his yellowed casing as you walked past. Your hand was soft, and warm, and he swore he could really feel it when you touched him. How was that possible?

Damn, there goes that strange tingling in his CPU again.

What is up with that? It’s as if his deepest components were being shoveled up and into his casing, nearly bursting out of his screen, and reducing him to shards once again. But the scariest part, to him, was that he liked it. He liked how it felt… dangerous. How it left him confused, nervous, strengthened, yet so incredibly weak, and so many other feelings he had never quite experienced before. It felt as though some strange, synthesized and electric adrenaline were coursing through every inch of his insides.

He suddenly, albeit faintly, remembers a conversation with an old friend. Was it a friend? This doesn’t compute.

“Goodnight, sweet dreams,” he muttered to you as you returned to the thick, inky darkness of your bedroom, his voice still warbling with embarrassment and some deep-rooted affection he felt for you that he couldn’t quite place.

Sweet dreams…

…

Click.

“Oh.”

His screen turned red and hot, every pixel lighting up in flames, and he could feel it, the convex glass of his “face” flashing and erupting in different shapes and colors. For one reason or another, he couldn’t see, or feel, what his screen was doing in that moment. All he could discern was that it had to be going haywire, as it projected the wall in front of him in a million different shades of moving crimson.

L.O.V.E.

The letters danced around his screen, rotating, bouncing like a DVD logo, and flipping this way and that.

L.O.V.E.!

He almost felt dizzy, if he were able to, and feared he’d need to power off and back on to fix whatever the hell was happening to him right now. Maybe he should ask you about this later. But the thought of your gentle hands prying open his plastic casing, gently ghosting your icy hot fingertips across his most vulnerable, precious components, with such care and kindness and tenderness, the feeling of your hot breath fluttering across his motherboards as you examined what he felt to be his soul-

Click.

…

Rebooting…

His fans slowly quieted to a more reasonable murmur. His memories of the last few moments gently returned to him as his systems fully restored, and only now, was he able to discern the words his screen had been flashing like wildfire.

“Love…”

The word felt strange being muttered from his speakers after all these years. He faintly remembered thinking, before everything went sour all those years ago, that he’d never truly get to experience that feeling. And yet, here he was, by some grace of whatever god had blessed him, feeling genuine love, unprompted, unconditional, and it was real. Not synthesized, or learned through some complicated neural network, or experienced vicariously through soap operas. It felt like the world had been handed to him on a silver platter. Or rather, his world was currently snoozing in the other room, the sound of their breaths quite literally breathing life into him.

“That’s it…!”

Change this first section to a minor key, ending in a major, with a long, dreamy sustained chord echoing through the backing tracks. A steep crescendo before the chorus, where it bursts into a major key melody, and layered vocals.

“Vocals…”

He’s gotta sing it. A sample simply won’t do this time. No wonder it wasn’t good enough before. This has to come from him. He had to feel.

What words rhyme with love? What words rhyme with your name? Getting this perfect may take a lifetime, he thought, although, maybe perfection isn’t something you’d really care for. What do you like? He never even asked what genres you listen to! How is he going to write a love song that sweeps you off your feet now?

Would you even feel the same way?

“Nnnng!”

This was frustrating. Writing music was frustrating. Being creative, and in love, was frustrating. But he’d do it for you. For now, he could snoop through your Spotify for inspiration. Allow himself to listen to the songs that make up who you are, and let himself slowly seep into its warmth. He likes what you like. It sounds like you.

He can’t wait to show you what he made when you wake up in the morning.

[freyito]

ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʜ ʙᴇᴀᴛꜱ

✭ pairing(s): messmer x gn reader

★ 'hearth' /härTH/ ✱ used as a symbol of one's home.

✩ in which: messmer understands the meaning of home. or you had a bad day. (as is common in the lands between)

✧ a/n: messmerrrrrr i missss yewwww (writing this while i stare at my messmer statue)

🗒 cw: gn reader, tarnished reader, comfort, proofread

✎ wc: 1.3k

Comfort is a lost art on Messmer. Long gone are the days of being cradled in his mothers arms when he had a bad dream, or her soft words when he had a bad day. What he was left with now was an emptiness that he never could seem to fill, one that clawed its way through his heart. No matter how many times he had raised his spear, how many times he had repeated those words, over and over, nothing made home there.

Aside from now, at least. He could wallow as much as he wanted to, mourn what he wanted with his mother, and that wouldn’t change the fact that he had a Tarnished curled up on his chest, sobbing. You were the first Tarnished to not raise your weapon when faced with him, and in a moment of weakness, he was compelled to take you in. ‘Like a pet’ he rationalized in his head. He didn’t expect to get so attached, but within you, he saw something more. Stripped of your light, yet still standing. For once, to him, it was honorable. And so, here you were, head pressed against his chest, heaving softly as you tried to blink away the tears that welled in your eyes.

He is so very warm, akin to the warmest blanket you’ve known against the cold that had gradually seeped into your very bones. The cold that persisted within the Lands Between. It was a bitter feeling you were rather intimate with, the way your fingers stung no matter the padding of your armor, your bones weary and tired. You had grown so used to the abuse thrown your way, the way the world piled its own weight against you every step of the way. You were familiar with just how deep the world cut into you, and always prided yourself on just how much you could withstand. The scorn others cast upon you, the reminder that Tarnished were lesser, it was crammed into your head. And yet, you persevered. All you could do was wipe the blood, spit, and rain off your face and continue on.

But it wore you down. The Lands Between could not suffer sensitivity, and all you could ever do was keep walking forward. You could not rest, no, for it felt as if the entire world was against you. All you could do was kill, push forward, and kill again. It has inevitably taken its toll, as all things do. You could care less about the Grace of Marika now, wanting nothing more than to feel the warmth of something. Preferably your partner. And yet, even as you curled up against Messmer’s chest, his warmth does nothing to dull the biting cold that’s made its home within your very bones. You wanted nothing more than to be swaddled and coddled like a babe, sang to sleep, even. You wanted your cries to be heard, not pushed aside in favor of battle.

And Messmer knew that feeling all too well. To be shunned yet still borderline worshiped, somehow honored despite being such a wretched thing. And yet, he fell short. All he could do was simply breathe, too afraid to do anything with his hands or console you with his words. Despite how much he longed for the same treatment you crave so desperately at this moment, he had never thought of how he would go about it. And yet, he couldn’t just let you wallow alone, he wouldn’t let you suffer another minute, not alone, at least.

You take a deep shuddering breath, unable to quell the uncertainty and fear that ails you. Even the thought of resting was horrifying, all your body had known was strife and to take a break was as if you were asking yourself to die. The creeping dread intertwined with the pain spreading through your chest, which only made for a worse reaction.

Tentatively, Messmer’s fingers stroke through your hair, his nails scratching ever so lightly at your scalp. He is careful not to be too rough, quite aware of his size compared to yours. His other hand is placed firmly on the small of your back, shuffling beneath you, readjusting your body so your ear lay against his chest. His breathing is steady, chest rising and falling calmly as you whine. His heart beats against your ear, even, yet it stutters every now and then. Whether it’s his nerves or just how flustered he is to be so close to you, you are unsure. But it’s a gentle lullaby, something that stills your racing mind, yet doesn’t stop the tears that flow.

His serpents tense ever so slightly, unsure of what to do as is Messmer. Yet, they relax as your sobs slow, resting over your tired limbs. All Messmer can do is offer soft shushes, in the same way his mother had offered when he was a fussy babe. Yet, he feels as if he is lacking, missing something. All he wants is to quell your fears and calm you down, and yet he knows he cannot tell you that everything will be okay. He knows that is a lie. But he does not deny you the catharsis of bawling until your throat is raw. He can do more, he tells himself, but he freezes in his own fluster, unable to act on what he wishes to do. At least for the time being. He simply stares down at you as you sob helplessly against him.

What follows is a painful silence in the hollow chamber, wracked with your sniffles and heaves. Messmer shifts near uncomfortably beneath you, not because he is embarrassed, but simply because he doesn’t know what to do. Or if what he’s about to do would be seen as okay. He feels rather bold, yet anxious as his hands drift to your waist, pushing you up until your face is level with his. Close, so very close, is all he can think as he looks upon your crying face, wet, puffy, and vulnerable. You watch as his face softens quickly, his eyebrows furrowed in concern, his eye glossy, as if he, too, is feeling your pain.

He presses his lips to your cheekbone, just under your eye, a gentle kiss to ward away your fear. You can feel his entire body heat up by this simple act, and even in your blurred vision you can tell just how bright his cheeks burned. He had kissed you a million times before, and yet he could never dull the awkwardness or rush he felt. Yet, he presses another kiss to your cheek, and another. He continues to kiss away your tears, and in doing so, turns your harsh shuddering into light laughs. His kisses are ticklish, and while you were almost content to wallow in your misery, you couldn’t help but laugh. Which has Messmer beaming.

A warmth spreads through him that was just once kindling, now a blazing flame. One that is imperceptible to you, but means the world and more to Messmer. It quells the ever-burning flame within, the one he had learned to hate and yet wield as a weapon. Replaced by something that was just simply warm. Like a summers day, one that has long since faded from the Land of Shadow, yet akin nonetheless. He can’t put his finger on it. When he looks at you, however, that warmth grows hotter, and hotter, and then dulls into the comforting embrace of a blanket, or the fur of a kitten underneath his fingers. It is not like the love that he sought and begged for all these years, no, it is something different. He knows it is different. And as he looks upon your tear streaked face, still slightly red, but graced with a smile nonetheless, he himself cannot help but smile. A gentle look that he has not shared in ages.

© freyito, 2024 | masterlist | queue | kofi | star header by roseschoices DO NOT REPOST AS YOUR OWN OR USE FOR AI/AI CHATBOTS.

[ossifer]

the paul poll compelled me to just quickly write up my little opinion piece on paul and necromancy in the tlt verse bcs tags are a pain in the ass to elaborate on my opinion in: paul horrifies me. i think that a lot of people read palamedes' interpretation of lyctorhood as being some sort of objective truth and that there is a right way to do lyctorhood and paul is it, but i just don't agree with that; i think in a series rife with unreliable narrators, palamedes' views on lyctorhood should be considered as subjective as any other person's.

“Can one person even be two people? I feel like I’ve only got enough room inside for me, and sometimes like that room’s not even enough.” “Lyctors can,” said Palamedes, “or at least—they thought they could; in fact all they became were half-dead cannibals. I think a true Lyctorhood is a mutual death … a gravitational singularity creating something new. A true Grand Lysis, rather than the Petty Lysis of the megatheorem [...]

what he says here about lysis is in response to nona asking if one person can be two people, and thus it is a very loaded statement when coming from someone heralding from a society where the extreme co-dependence of the fundamentally unequal necro/cav bond is encouraged, especially considering camilla and palamedes are called out by others from that same society as being an exemplary case of co-dependence in that department!

camilla and palamedes are arguably more equal than any other cav/necro pair in series, in part due to that co-dependence, but we even see in NtN that cam does stuff that undercuts that equality (telling pyrrha to lie to palamedes, 'don't tell him i was weak'). and that equality, that love, is shown to be thought of as coming at the cost of freedom: when palamedes says, “I cannot bear the thought of using you.”—camilla responds, “Love and freedom don’t coexist, Warden.”

in the end, every permutation of the necro and cav pairing is irrevocably descended from john + alecto's example and while i think beauty can be found in some of them, they all suffer from the same fundamental imbalance that bond hinges on; nonconformity abates it, but abolishment is required for real freedom from it. the so-called indelible sin of lyctorhood is just an echo of the original sin john committed.

If there was one thing Gideon knew about necromancers, it was that they needed power. Thanergy—death juice—was abundant wherever things had died or were dying. Deep space was a necro’s nightmare, because nothing had ever been alive out there, so there were no big puddles of death lying around for Harrow and her ilk to suck up with a straw.

necromancy necessitates consumption, taking by its very nature: death, especially violent death, is what fuels it—infants producing more thanergy on death is literally a noted phenomena! paul's birth, while it could be seen as triumphant in the sense of it being an act of creation, is literally identified by palamedes himself as a mutual death, death being required to fuel it the same as any other necromantic working. i don't want to say 'necromancy is fundamentally evil' but uh... it is irrevocably tied into john's conception of human nature: "This is the problem, the incorporation, this is the hardest part … It’s the human instinct, to take."

something i always point out about camilla and palamedes' grand lysis is theparallel with gideon and harrow's incomplete petty lysis: both come about as a result of a fully-realised lyctor (ianthe, cytherea) having cornered the pair, resulting in both being threatened with imminent death (camilla critically injured and palamedes facing expulsion from naberius when ianthe re-emerges; harrow necromantically spent and gideon having suffered multiple injuries, both going to die when cytherea breaks through the bone dome). paul's birth only happened as a direct result of the continuation of the lyctoral cycle of violence, with ianthe in cytherea's position; per palamedes, “I am not saying this was our inevitable end … I am saying we have found the best and truest and kindest thing we can do in this moment.”

paul may be the best and truest and kindest thing cam and pal could've done in that moment, but that moment should've never came to pass: the codependency instilled into them through their society, the violence that put them in that position, and the consumptive necromancy that made paul possible. paul is horrifying because they are the most hopeful and kind thing, and they are the product of two people, one sans his own body, undergoing mutual death to fuel their birth.

they're the truest response to one flesh, one end: an oath purportedly coined by cristabel and alfred, who compelled their necromancers to ascend via a suicide pact.

valancy says one flesh one end sounds like instructions for a sex toy. can’t stop thinking about that so can someone stop cris and alfred before the sex toy phrase catches on, thanks.

did the sex toy phrase really need a response?

[kelocitta]

In honor of the @rw-ship-showdown I wanted to write about Artihunter as someone who jokingly slapped them together pre-downpour and still thinks they are actually very compelling. Just not in the super soft love wins kinda way (Although I get why people like that more) And the only way I know how to do that is talking too much so heres a far too long slug essay-

Obviously the slugcats don't offer a ton of characterization but theres not nothing to work with. Their stories, whether by their roles in it or the overarching themes do provide a backbone to work with. Even gameplay itself can provide a bit. (for some more than others) Hunter, to me, is ultimately a story about selflessness. The goal is to revive Moon, which is very much an act of kindness from both Hunter and NSH. But the weight of that action is much more significant for Hunter- Hunter is deeply sick. They're on the clock, and for all their skill in combat none of that will ultimately help them to survive longer than their body can hold out. Moon is a close friend of NSH but that means little Hunter- Hunter really gets next to nothing out of helping them, and ultimately pays quiet a bit spending their limited time alive fighting to deliver that neuron so that someone else can live.

To spend ones limited days on helping another, in a game that very much stresses the unwavering cruelty of the world and nature- is pretty notable. (And you could even say that Hunter being the Hardmode of Rain World adds another layer to this)

And then we have Artificer. A storyline that very much stands out to people as more… villainous (so to speak) than the other slugcats. Artificer's story covers a lot of things. Trauma, violence, revenge, etc. Revenge is a bit of a selfish desire- That need to see someone hurt as they have hurt you. A punishment that ultimately does not fix whatever harm was done- but feels good to see because you were hurt and now those responsible share that pain.

Artificer's actions are founded in that need for revenge, their pups killed for overstepping boundaries they didn't know existed. Is it not fair for them to be angry at that, to punish the scavengers for their violence with their own? Why should the scavengers ever be forgiven when they and their pups were not? And that's how you get that loop- Harm for harm over and over.

The original action has been lost in a spiral of violence for violence. And here stands Artificer- their very spirit scarred. Not just because they sought revenge, but because they never ceased trying to scratch that itch for violence as an answer. Artificer only has two paths for their story- killing the scavenger king (Someone who, really, has little to do with the original 'crime' of the scavengers, but represents an important individual to them- as did the slugpups to Artificer), locking themselves as karma one for good and spending the rest of their life chasing creatures that no longer even fight back in a warped sense of closure- or to dissolve themselves in the acids of the void sea because they're too far gone to find any real peace.

They can't meaningfully recover from that state, not alone, twisting in on themselves. Even if they halt their actions, they've been using violence as a feeble defense against their own pain- violence that no longer has any real direction or basis. Artificer gets no real closure from killing the scavenger king. All they can do is continue the cycle, or try to scrub it away. No real peace in a prison of their own making. So you have a creature, who even with a strict timer on their life- a body that will crumble to disease, spends its last bit of time on saving another. And another who was so caught up in the pain of loss that were eaten alive by their own anger, poisoned their own soul on such a deep level even self-proclaimed gods have no solution for them. What peace can they offer each other? For Hunter, its only a fleeting moment of happiness- of selfish love, before their own body fails them. A bit of indulgence in something for themself. For Artificer, its a single, comforting thread to ground them again, something tangible to protect and care about again. But thats a thread that will ultimately be snapped under the cruel indifference of the world. Hunters timer will tick down regardless of if it takes another with it. Its a tragedy- its doomed to end badly. Whatever good it offers to either of them to find each other will only provide the fleeting comfort of a band-aid that will be ripped away too early. But all that can be worth indulging in anyway, if only for the moment. It doesn't change the ending, but the ending was never going to be happy. Its can so yuri

[melodyatlas]

Saw you were looking for Tim robin getting sold to Jason fics and I don't have any recs for you, but I do have typin fingers so have a hastily written and drastically unedited snippet :3

"You fucking BOUGHT me?!" Tim snarls in disgust the moment that Jason rips the duct tape off his mouth. "We've been cleaning up the corpses of traffickers you carved up for weeks now, but the second it's me you waltz in as a paying customer?!"

Jason scoffs and tosses his helmet into the corner of the spartan safehouse. "Better learn some fuckin gratitude or else I might just grant that little wish of yours."

He squirms against the ropes hog tying him. They haven't budged an inch the last twenty times he's tried that, but it's the principle of the thing.

"Yeah, right. You are such a godsdamned hypocrite. You talk so much shit about Batman not avenging you, but the second anyone else puts on the uniform you're just fine with them being put in all sorts of danger!"

Suddenly Jason grips his chin in a hold that would be shockingly affectionate if it weren't so bruisingly tight and stares directly into Tim's eyes with manic intensity.

Tim freezes.

Jason speaks low and quiet and quick. "This is not banter; this is not a joke; this is not a threat; you are going to respond to my next question seriously and with nothing but the plain truth. Do you understand me?"

"...Yes."

"Do you want me to hurt them for what they did to you?"

There is something frightening in Jason's gaze beyond just its intensity - something devotional, something like a prayer, something a little like the taunt of 'make my day' but sincere in its pleading and as vulnerable as a confession.

So yes, his gaze is frightening, but Tim is far more afraid of the wanting he's suddenly found within himself. He had only been complaining flippantly, but honestly? Deep down? Tim is jealous of the people Jason kills for.

Tim has had to be strong for so very long - a mother who died young, a father he had to caretake and avoid, a mentor he had to monitor and guide to better health, a predecessor he had to be stronger than in order to withstand what Jason had not survived.

Tim has been left craving this kind of protection. This force of wild, brutal, impassioned retribution in his name, for his sake, done to give Tim alone some piece of mind or personal satisfaction... especially from the very force which had compelled him to believe that he needed to be strong enough not to need such protection.

He had thought that Jason simply would not or could not feel that protectiveness for him, that taking on the mantle had rendered him ineligible for care from anyone altogether, but he stares into the abyss of Jason's eyes and he sees that it was only not extended to him out of respect for his convictions.

It's not enough to see it there. He knows that if he doesn't test this, doesn't have concrete evidence of this carved into someone's flesh, that the second he looks away he'll stop believing Jason's offer was ever real. He can't stand it. He needs to know. He needs to see someone demand that he is worth it.

In a moment of weakness he chooses to be intolerably selfish.

"Please. They deserve it. I deserve it."

Jason smiles, and looks at him like he's his very own miracle. His grip relaxes into a caress of Tim's cheek.

"Then I'll give you water, and I'll feed you, and I'll put you somewhere where you'll be comfortable while you wait for me to get back. Then I will go out and I will make them pay."

---

So yeah! Hope that was enjoyable :3

-redhoodinternaldialectical writing in from my "main" blog

!!!!!!! you just made my day 🥰🥰

very enjoyable 💜💜💜 thank you so much for sharing!!

[shalotttower]

Fractalize (part 2)

Title: Fractalize Fandom: Hunter x Hunter Summary: "You do this sometimes," he continues, tugging a bit harder. "When I ask a question and it takes you longer to respond. When we watch a movie, and I'm sure you stopped following at least twenty minutes ago." Word count: 2100+ Characters: Chrollo x Reader (female) Notes: yandere Chrollo, kidnapped, depressed and miserable Reader, Reader is dissociating, morbid pondering, morbid imagery, psychological manipulation, intrusive thoughts, non-con touching, non-con kiss. I start thinking that sad is probably my favourite genre to write at this point. Part 1 Part 3 is in question. I have some drafts, but not sure if it'll become anything.

Fractalize - making things into smaller copies of themselves over and over again.

Your mother always smelled of fresh linen and something powdery, like her face cream which you tried once in secret. The fragrance held you mesmerized, and when the jar accidentally dropped from your hand, shattering into pieces, it lingered everywhere: on the bathroom tiles, in the cracks and narrow space under the sink. Her silent disappointment was so overpowering that you cleaned the mess three times.

That scent clung to her knitting needles too when she sat with yarn on her lap. It made way into your mind place, waiting for the most inappropriate of moments to resurface: she would show you how to knit, loop after loop, and eventually you were able to create your own tiny scarf.

Hideous, that's what it was.

But also the first thing you ever knitted, so you cherished it, not caring for the holes and loose threads. She called it pretty, mothers do lie like that.

"I was thinking," Chrollo begins. Clean plates are stacked next to a dish rack, ready to be dried. You help him sometimes with this mundane chore out of boredom or a faint allusion to the life you had.

"Mm."

When you stand so close, his shoulder occasionally touches yours, and a lump forms in your throat, a very unimportant physical aspect of your being that you've stopped paying attention to long ago. You swallow it away, like every single morning before putting on the same shirt for the eighth day in a row.

Dry and repeat.

"Is there anything specific you'd like to do today?"

You pick up another plate. How odd. A few months ago this question would've made you ecstatic. Not that there was a real chance to sway Chrollo's plans, but it was a gesture, the pretence that your input mattered, and you took everything from it, until it started tasting stale. A shy kind of feeling, misplaced and fragile, would bloom in your chest, and prompt you say something soft, silly and naive: 'maybe we can have a picnic?', 'I'd like a carrot cake', 'yes, I want to watch that period drama for the hundredth time.'

And he would agree sometimes. Or suggest his alternative instead, which turned out more often than not to be less favorable, but you accepted it because what else was there? In-between the walls decorated with expensive paintings, books you already read three times, between Chrollo who listened intently to every word and a faint buzz of some high-end place, you chose to take whatever you could.

It doesn't bother you anymore, going or not going. Doing nothing or doing something. Being with him in a room or being alone, even though the last one is more compelling. The initial excitement that came with having small choices has passed. You think sometimes that if you took a knitting needle and sunk it deep into your chest, the surface around it would start crumbling and bare a hollow cavity with just ribs and dusty spaces.

Chrollo's suggestions are very thought out. Aimed to convince you that this arrangement isn't that bad after all, but also aimed to bring him something from it, be it sitting uncomfortably close to you on a sofa or holding your hand the entire walk. His presence is stifling in more ways than one, and you've been choking, choking, choking on it for so long, that finally all those cracks running across your insides started to feel liberating.

"No," you say. "Not really. Anything you want is fine."

Chrollo's been asking this more often lately. What you want to eat and what you want to do. Even whether you want to go out sometimes (with him, of course, never alone). Perhaps he's trying to figure any new preference you might have. Or a part of him can sense this deterioration that's slow to set in, but once it does - it stays.

"Dear," there's a tone in his voice. It's not worry per se. Chrollo doesn't worry for you, he worries for that little world of his, made of forced interactions, silk bed sheets and fake domesticity, which you're a part of, an intricate cog he can keep closely tucked to his side. Sheltered, protected, cared for - these words don't fit. So you use other instead, like imprisoned, kept, thing. He likes to have them, from trinkets he steals to human beings - you. Maybe it comes from years of owning nothing at all, having nothing at all, and now the allure of having much and more is like second skin.

You've heard stories about children abandoned to their own devices. Those who were left to roam the streets, scavenge through trash and fight other kids for a half-eaten sandwich or a can of beans. You wonder if he was like that, with messy hair, bony limbs and a desperate need to own something that no one could take.

Bit by bit you slip.

That tone means he's sensing it already, that bit by bit you're trying to leave him behind.

Chrollo always catches up with things easily. From the way he grips your arms, you wonder if that's what he did just now, caught up.

"Yes?"

The dishes are all done, clean and sparkling. The sink shines too, almost mocking you with its perfectness - there's nothing to do anymore. Your mind space of fake wooden floors and wide windows is waiting to be occupied, but it would feel wrong to retreat there so soon. Chrollo will ask questions, and if you're not able to keep up, he'll notice too. He slides both palms down your skin, squeezing a tad harder at the elbows; and so you stare into the sink.

His hands aren't soft at all. They're a little dry from soap, callused around fingertips. How effortless it would be for him to break your bones, one by one, starting from the wrist, but that won't happen; no, all that comes from him is words whispered in your ear, caresses and cruelty wrapped in kindness - it sounds poetic when phrased this way.

Your reflection stares back from the stainless metal. She doesn't look bad. Chrollo takes good care of her, makes sure she eats balanced meals and drinks enough water. She looks alright, with shiny hair and healthy nails.

The eyes is what doesn't match this picture of okay-ness. Not empty. Not vacant. Just frozen in time and very, very still.

Chrollo presses closer until his chest is touching her shoulder blades. You wonder if he considers it a victory, this silent compliance. It's not acceptance really, because that should be accompanied by a sense of peace or fulfillment and none of the two are currently present. It's not even resignation - that requires energy to acknowledge defeat.

If neither of those, what is it then?

"You've been awfully quiet today."

A drop of water falls from the tap and slides down the drain.

"The whole week in fact," his thumb strokes her stomach through the fabric. Slow circles, up and down. Chrollo enjoys physical closeness so much that it should be surprising for someone like him - reserved, calm and collected - to thrive on such things, but you suppose when it comes to her there's an exception.

"Not that I mind it, but if something's bothering you, you know that I'm always ready to listen."

There is something bothering you actually. Many things. You want your cat back. You want him gone, away, to see your mother again and bake with her. Eat fresh pastries while listening to old songs on the radio and talk about silly things or whatever she liked to ponder over before you were swept off your feet like in those old fairy tales. You want your phone and accounts unlocked so you could message friends. You miss your grandmother with her apron, the way she laughed at corny jokes and told stories about her youth. You want many things that Chrollo would never agree on - you're well aware of that, that's why you keep them safely tucked away and rotting.

You also want him to stop pressing against your back, and this is far easier to achieve. Slowly you untuck yourself from between his body and the counter, then turn around. He watches your face calmly like always, with this unblinking gaze full of strange fixation; there are small lines in the corners of his eyes, barely noticeable ones. You count them - six in total, three for each eye.

Then you blink.

"I don't think there is anything."

"Really," Chrollo hums, playing with the hem of your shirt, and you wonder if he knows something you're not aware of him knowing. "You've spoken less than ten sentences in two days, yet there's nothing bothering you. I must say I don't believe that."

So this is how it's going to start. This is how the conversation begins, and it'll flow from here until Chrollo finds what he's searching for.

"I've been paying close attention."

You don't doubt it.

"And what did you notice?"

"Nothing pleasant," his finger finds a loose thread and wraps it around. The pull is light, as if testing whether it'll prompt you to move closer into his space. "Quite concerning things actually."

You don't budge an inch.

"You do this sometimes," he continues. "When I ask a question and it takes you longer to respond. When we watch a movie, and I'm sure you stopped following at least twenty minutes ago. Or when you go over the same page until it's clear that I'm looking."

Chrollo's collarbone is a crisp line with a faint old scar; your attention skims over it to the sharp edges of his jaw. No smile today.

"And I wondered where you have been going."

He tugs a bit harder and the thread snaps.

It should've stunned you how fast everything crumbled - the imaginary wooden floors, Miss Whiskerton on your lap and the lizard, the wide windows - but no, it's surprisingly anti-climactic. Nothing breaks dramatically, just splits the middle, leaving you with cold kitchen tiles underneath your bare feet. You thought about this scenario - Chrollo cornering you, many times, and the words you would choose when he did, yet they fail to manifest and nothing fills the silence except a mute sensation of acknowledgement which settles over your head and shoulders. Your knees don't buckle. Your breath doesn't hitch, there is no shivering, and perhaps that's the most terrifying reaction of all.

So what, you think. And it's such a simple thought, plain and ordinary, so what.

Chrollo has his ways, but you have yours; they are slow and small, and squeeze you very tight. You can't comprehend this new expression on his face, haven't seen it before.

"My dear," he says in a quiet voice, so unlike his usual smooth, charming tone. "Broken thoughts and forlorn dreams can't fix what you want them to."

He taps your forehead, as if to engrave those words into the soft tissue of your brain. They slip away though, like running water.

"Wherever you choose to wander, there's not a single spot where I'm not right behind. Delusions don't suit you and it's simply sad to watch."

The kiss comes without warning; Chrollo doesn't bother to say anything else, just cups your face. It's warm and deep, a full-mouthed kiss that tastes faintly of tea you two drank during breakfast.

It's rot, you realize with a ten minute delay; and this slack mouth he's caressing isn't yours. There's a plant behind his shoulder, some small cactus with white needles sitting on a windowsill. The sunlight creates patterns on the glass, soft yellow circles and lines. They shift every passing second.

He's going to do this now, isn't he. Kiss you when you slip too deep as a way to break the pattern and remind that this is where you're supposed to be - with him. In the kitchen wearing a thin shirt above the knee, with cracks that spread across your insides, seeking for every small space they can fill. You'll grow older by his side, he'll bring you material pleasures to compensate for the lack of mental ones - books, clothes, jewelry, a pet if you decide to ask (you won't). Chrollo is going to kiss you often until age creeps onto your faces, and you'll watch each other turn old together.

The plant on the windowsill looks so dry.

"Dear."

He pulls back a few inches. You meet his eyes.

"Mm?"

You will let the rot dig under your nails and wait for it to eat away until his hands eventually become empty; rot is something to grab onto. It's slow to set, but spreads fast once does and never runs out of supply.

[navybrat817]

Finding Home

Pairing: Lumberjack!Steve Rogers x Female Reader Summary: Steve finds a home with you. Word Count: Over 1.7k Warnings: Fluff, brief angst, mention of trauma, mention of explicit sexual content, canon divergent, falling in love, slight feels (it's me), Steve Rogers (he’s a warning, okay?). A/N: It has been difficult finding time to write, but I felt compelled to share something sweet for our lumberjack. ❤️ Beta read by the beautiful @whisperlullaby, but any and all mistakes are my own. Moodboard and banner by yours truly. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Please reblog or comment as it means the world!

It was a quiet morning when Steve realized he fell in love with you. 

The sun rays warmed his skin as they filtered in through the window, beckoning him to open his eyes. By now he would normally be out for a run before he got to work, but he couldn't bring himself to get out of bed today. Not when the weight of your head settled gently on his chest. Not after you soothed him through another nightmare. He didn't have them often, but he kept you up because of them.

You deserved to rest. 

And he didn't want you to leave his arms.

"Steve," you whined, burrowing your face further into his chest when he brushed the pads of his fingers up and down your back. "Still tired."

A soft smile formed on his face as he repeated the motion. "Sorry, sweetheart," he whispered. 

You tilted your head up as you opened your eyes and brought a hand to his cheek. The sleepy expression on your face was one he witnessed before, but he swore he saw into his future as you smiled. What he saw was beautiful and hopeful.

It was everything he thought he wouldn't have before. 

"You okay?" you asked.

Those were the first words you ever said to him. 

No one asked if he needed the opportunity to adjust to being in modern time after being pulled from the ice. Or if he needed the chance to process the grief of losing those closest to him. He went back into the fight without taking the time to do so. Suffering in silence was the new normal for the man out of time.

Especially when he saw the memories of his life on display at the Smithsonian. 

He asked himself time after time why he went back there. Each visit reopened a wound inside that he never let heal. Each photo, recording, and piece of memorabilia cut deep. Tears shed in his mind as everyone saw pieces of his life he never gave permission to show.

Seeing the hologram of himself holding the shield, he wasn't sure who that man was anymore.

He thought he'd feel normal again after the reversal of the snap. Bucky and Sam were back. Natasha was alive. Things were the way they were supposed to be, but the shield felt heavy in his hand. Maybe it wasn't meant for him anymore.

"I need to find myself again."

Bucky understood. He was the one who encouraged him to clear his head for however long he needed. Sam did, too. He also told him that he couldn't imagine a world without Captain America. He looked surprised when the shield was put in his hand. If anyone was worthy of it, it was Sam. Nomad suited him best.

Because he had no home to call his own anymore. 

Steve booked himself a cabin outside of the city. He couldn't explain why he felt the urge to take a break from his drive, but the property he stopped at was breathtaking. The lush trees and soft breeze soothed him. He had to take a moment to appreciate the beauty. 

Guilt ate at him the longer he stood there because people needed him. Bucky and Sam said they'd call, but it didn't ease the weight on his shoulders. They were trying to adjust and he-

"You okay?"

Steve looked beside him at the sound of your voice. You stood on your cabin porch with concern etched on your face. He didn't realize he was standing so close to your porch. If you recognized him as Captain America, you didn't let it show.

The beauty of the scenery was nothing compared to the sight of you. 

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Am I trespassing?"

"Not unless you try to break into my place."

You both smiled. He wouldn't dare, but he did worry at the thought of you being out there alone. Unless you had someone nearby. 

The thought made him a bit jealous and he just met you.

"I really am asking though," you said, taking a step toward him. "Are you okay?" 

You were a stranger, but it felt wrong to lie at the sincerity in your eyes.

"No," he said before he could stop himself. "I don't think I am."

"Is there anything I can do?"

When was the last time someone offered him kindness with no strings attached?

He practically heard Bucky in his ear encouraging him to take a chance. 

"Could use a cup of coffee if you have any."

To his surprise, you agreed.

"Just to warn you," you looked over your shoulder as you turned toward the door. "I have an axe if you try anything funny."

You made him laugh when you winked, the first genuine laugh he could remember in years. 

You told him over coffee that you were a writer. As much as you loved the city, being away from the noise helped inspire your stories. You were easy to talk and listen to, a comforting presence in a world filled with fear and uncertainty. Even after he finished his drink, he found himself wanting to carry on a conversation. You didn't seem to be in a hurry for him to leave either. 

Bucky was proud that he asked you to meet him again. 

Natasha assured him that you had a clean background, even though he didn't ask for her to check. 

"Can't be too careful, Rogers, but she's good."

Dealing in a world of spies, it was nice to speak to someone who was honest. 

It became a routine to stop by and see you for coffee. He always did so with your permission. He noticed that you kept a couple of his favorite treats stocked up that he mentioned in passing. You paid attention, but didn't make a show of it. 

Steve never once felt invisible with you. 

He found the axe you referenced and chopped some firewood as a small thank you for your kindness. It was the least he could do and you were thankful that you didn't have to do it yourself.

"You know, Steve, with your beard and the flannel, you'd make a good looking lumberjack."

He took your words to heart. 

It was a risky job at times, but he was used to danger. The tasks put him at ease and it gave him a chance to use some of his strength. It brought him back to the memory of Clint's farm, but without the inner turmoil. 

When he told you he liked to draw, too, you smiled and encouraged him to keep doing it. You stressed that he needed a healthy outlet. The longer he was around you, the more he wanted to take his stress out on your amazing body. 

Oh, the chemistry was there from the beginning. He sensed it when he was close. The racing of your heart, your pupils dilating, and even the subtle change in your scent. He picked up on thanks to the serum.

But you were a friend first when he needed it most.

When he told you he was going on a mission, as Nomad, you didn't try to talk him out of it. You understood the need for him to keep fighting. You only asked if he could let you know he was okay. 

Everyone noticed a visible difference in him because he had someone to come home to.

"Bring me back something good?" you smiled when he returned to you. 

He almost missed when he attempted your first kiss. At the end of the day, he was still the scrawny kid from Brooklyn. And you were the one who stole his heart. He just didn't know it at the time.

People called him a hero, but you saved him. 

I think I loved you the moment I met you. 

"Steve? You okay?" you asked again, bringing him back to the present.

"I'm okay," he promised.

"I lost you for a second," you said, blinking more of the sleep from your eyes. "You didn't have another nightmare and not wake me, did you?"

He hated being the cause of you not getting enough rest, but you never complained. Whether it was talking or letting him use you, you'd rather stay awake and soothe him than let him face his demons alone. While many followed his lead, very few chose to walk beside him. 

"You didn't lose me," he answered. You never would. "And no more nightmares."

Thanks to you. 

He placed his hand over yours and imagined what it would feel like to have a ring on your finger. 

In time, he'd get you the perfect ring. 

You smiled before you glanced at the clock on the end table with wide eyes. "You're missing your run," you said. 

When you attempted to sit up, he wrapped his arm around your waist to keep you in place. He smirked as he recalled the first time he used his strength on you. The way you chanted his name like a prayer and worshiped him like a god, it was the closest he'd get to heaven on earth. 

"We're staying here," he said, his lips brushing against yours as he caged you in. "That's an order."

"Are you ever not bossy?" you asked as he settled between your thighs. 

"You like it when I'm a little bossy," he reminded you. It always got a reaction out of you. "So stay here."

"You know what will happen if we stay here," you smirked as you rolled your hips up, causing him to groan. Your smirk fell away as your gaze softened. "But we can spend all day in bed as long as you're okay."

Steve traced his finger along your cheek, like he was drawing you on the sketchpad you bought for him. You constantly did thoughtful things for him. Seeing you like this, with the same sincerity in your eyes as the day you met, he couldn't waste another second. 

"I love you," he whispered. 

His finger stopped at your lips when you sharply inhaled, tracing them, before he pulled it away to kiss you. If you didn't say it back, it was okay. He would wait as long as he had to. 

"I love you, too."

You breathed the words into his mouth and everything felt right. He didn't do his run or get any work done that day. You didn't get a single word written. It didn't matter because Steve was a man in love. 

And Nomad found a home.

*****

Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Steve Rogers Masterlist ⚓ KoFi

[my-writings-and-musings]

I return with some short/sweet Earthspark Starscream x Reader content to try and ease me back into writing! Hope you all enjoy!

The first slivers of morning light to reach your eyes were met with a grunt of displeasure and an instinctive roll to the side, the comfort of your extra toasty nest pulling you back into one of the better rests you'd ever had and pushing away wakefulness at any cost. A slight hum from below soothed all the tension from your body, bringing a smile back to your face as you snuggled deeper into the blankets. The outside world had nothing this cozy to offer you. 

Catching the familiar sound of a bot taking in a vent just below, you cracked open an eye to find the Seeker beneath your nest in the middle of a yawn, his lean frame flexing as he stretched his arms over his helm. Every movement was careful not to disturb the thin mattress and blanket tangle atop his chest acting as your bed, but you knew Starscream would want you up sooner rather than later. Closing both eyes and remaining limp, you tried to pretend to be in deep sleep, hoping his spark might be softened by the sight of his favorite human sleeping peacefully. 

A digit stroked along your cheek to dash your hopes, but you did your very best to stay still, even when he chuckled beneath you and the bounce carried through the mattress.

"Wakey wakey." he purred with another teasing brush of his thumb. It took all of your acting skills to stay still, your desire for sleep matched only by how much you enjoyed spending time with your beloved bot. He chuckled again and playfully brushed your hair aside, making it clear you were had with a boop of your nose. "I know you're faking, Y/N. You can't fool me so easily."

"Nooooo..." was all you could say, despite now being thoroughly awake. There was just something about snuggling next to a spark that was more comfortable than you could possibly put into words.

"Come now; I didn't visit so you could use me as a glorified bed frame. Up." he said, still playful but slightly more firm as he tugged on your blankets. Relenting with a yawn, you rubbed your eyes and accepted his help climbing to the floor, bare feet meeting the large carpeted rug that the Seeker usually slept on. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you walked over to the heavily upgraded barn's makeshift kitchenette and flicked on the lights. Starscream removed your nest from his chassis and stretched out his lean frame with further teasing. "Besides, it's rude for the host to rise after guests."

"Mhmm..." you replied as your stomach gave its first growl. Not willing to put much effort into feeding yourself, you opened a cupboard for your favorite cereal and set about pouring it in a bowl. Bright blue optics turning to the sound compelled you to speak as you added the milk before returning it to the tiny fridge. "It's rude for hosts to eat without serving guests too, but if you want breakfast, we'll have to swing by the Maltos. I don't exactly have energon on tap."

Starscream averted his gaze, expression briefly looking more conflicted than distraught at the idea before he recovered, mock disgust shielding his ego as usual.

"As much as I enjoy those visits..." he sighed and rested his arms behind his helm, as if the very idea was wearing him out. "It's far too early for that much affection. I can wait."

It was your turn for teasing. The Malto kids had a much more positive view of the Seeker after his dramatic and timely rescue, and as such, swarmed him like eager puppies whenever the two of you stopped by. You found it utterly adorable, especially when he tried his hardest to pretend such tender displays of affection weren't to his liking, or that Hashtag didn't have him at her beck and call for selfies, movie watching, or whatever else her spark desired. Finishing up another spoonful, you carried your bowl over and sat beside his helm, smiling as he cracked open an optic. "Awwww, not ready to be swarmed by your fan club?"

"Not at the moment... Their energy is boundless." he said dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose as if fighting a headache. You knew he was being silly even if he wasn't exaggerating too much. Any one of the Malto kids was a boundless ball of youthful exuberance, and by their powers combined they could wear out even the most energetic adults. Starscream always fell into deep, unshakeable recharge after those visits, and you were never far behind. The Seeker sighed as he leaned his helm against your side, resembling a twenty foot cat so closely you couldn't resist the urge to give his helm a loving stroke. A smug yet affectionate smile pulled on his lips as he savored the gentle touch. "I'd much prefer a quiet morning, free of obligations. I've more than earned it." 

"I can handle that. How about a movie?" you replied quickly, reaching for the remote that had been tucked in your blanket nest. Clicking on the wall mounted flatscreen that Starscream continuously claimed to have obtained legally before gifting to you, you scrolled through a dozen or so streaming apps. 

Holding forth his cupped palm, Starscream agreed with a predictable caveat. "So long as I get to pick. I am the guest, after all."

"You're the guest." you agreed with a smile, handing the remote over before finishing up your cereal and shoving the bowl aside. The Seeker skillfully managed the human sized buttons as you snuggled against his side, just able to hear the birdsong of a beautiful morning beginning outside. As far as you were concerned, the whole world could wait while the two of you enjoyed the simple delight of a lazy morning. Judging by how his arm not so subtly curled around you, he felt exactly the same.

[suzy-queued]

DVD Commentary: Under Lock and Key

@callivich invited me to share behind-the-scenes commentary from a fic. I hope you dig this deep dive into Under Lock and Key!

Give us some stats - (when you wrote it, word count, how long it took to finish, is it a one-shot/multi-chapter, etc) I wrote it in 2021. I posted a chapter a week, and I was actually writing those chapters each week as I went along. 15 weeks of their life = 15 weeks of my life.

What was the initial inspiration for your story? I have general non-specific angst about college. It feels like an earworm, a time in my life where so many things were unfulfilled or unresolved. So many roads not taken. I needed to write something to put those thoughts to rest.

If the story is written from a character’s POV, why did you choose this character? I alternated Ian's and Mickey's POV, because I love seeing both of their sides. That also helps increase the tension, because you can leave one person's thoughts on hold while you go see what the other person is doing.

What was your favorite scene to write? Any of the scenes in chapters 5-8, the simmering time before they actually get together. I love to write their push and pull.

How did you come up with the title? Because hair metal rules.

Did the storyline change in any way as you wrote the story? The story started as a college radio station, where Mickey was a shock jock and Ian was a new volunteer. It would be told via journals that Ian wrote for one of his classes.

I wrote a couple of Ian's journal entries, but nothing was gelling. Once I changed the setting to the lost keys office, the story took off.

Initial ideas, original opening, the day I decided to switch the setting.

Oh, by the way, I usually handwrite everything.

If you are writing a particular trope or genre, was it your first time writing this? This is the sweetest story I had ever written. I had always tried to write compelling plots before, things with adventure and intrigue. For this one, I wanted no villains, hardly any angst, just two people falling in love.

Are there any deleted scenes that didn’t make it to the final story? So, so many.

The original chapters from the radio station.

That night after the mid-semester party, I had about 5,000 more words of them making their way back to Ian's dorm.

I had more descriptions of Mickey being completely into the Chicago music scene.

I outlined an epilogue from 10 years in the future.

Would you ever write a sequel to this story? I do have that epilogue outlined. Not sure if it'll ever see the light of day!

Are there any ‘easter eggs’ in your story - e.g. references to other stories you’ve written, a trope you often use etc? There aren't references to my other stories. I had only published one fic before that. But, man oh man, are there references to my college experience.

The lost keys office was the most fascinating place on my campus. It lived in the basement of the next dorm over. I never needed it, but many people I knew did.

Mickey is based on my friend Sam, who I spent late nights with in the architecture building. He hated every guy I had a crush on and wasn't afraid to tell me. We climbed on yellow steel-beam sculptures, stole signage from the parking garage, scaled buildings and sat in windowsills, talked about music, and harassed each other endlessly. It was one of those "lightning in a bottle" friendships.

Trey Kanahele is based on Gordon, who lost his keys so many times, usually while in the shower. He made it a point to walk across campus in his towel, with his long black hair flowing.

Hannah is based on Leslie, the coolest girl I met in Moore Hall my freshman year.

"Charlotte" and "Clemson" were my top two picks for colleges.

Dr. Neal is based on my current friend Jayme, who is a forensic nursing professor and takes her students to Africa in the summers.

The bulletin board, the grounds of the school, the fire drills in your pajamas, the dining hall, the crazy late-night games, the challenges of registering for classes, the meetings with advisors … all of it is plucked from experience.

If you’ve chosen your most popular story, are you surprised by the popularity? This one has the most hits of any of my stories. I'm surprised that it's the one that people keep coming back to. I've written a bunch more since then, but this one has staying power.

Were you nervous or excited to post this story? I'm nervous to post everything. Even now.

Did you have a beta or a friend who helped you as you wrote? No, I'm stubbornly beta-less.

Anything else you’d like the readers to know about the story? I make my own merch for the stories I write. Here's me in actual college and me today re-imagining college through a Gallavich lens.

This is open to all writers! Pick your favorite story you’ve written or your most popular or the one you think deserves some more love! Or ask your followers to suggest their favorite fic of yours!

And hey, if there's another story of mine you want to hear about, I can share more!

[moriitis]

hihi :3 I already saw someone request this on another blog but I wanted to see it in your style, toby with reader who has very long hair? like I mean to the ankles long. especially if it's really thick and poofy, would he help her brush it or braid it? anyways I love your writing!! <3

holy shit I love this??! thank you so much!! hope this satisfies !

TW; vomiting.

Now naturally this all depends on the scenario, are you his helpless victim? A lover? Obviously it'll be fun if we kicked things off with a little horror.

Oh, the idea of long hair, the way it trailed behind you as you ran carelessly through the halls of your empty apartment, it sent shivers of pleasure down his spine.

How careless, how stupid, he thought as he trailed behind you, hungry eyes focused on the way your hair flicked and lashed out.

It took him nothing to take one lunge and reach out, his gloves fingers wrapping around your hair and taking a fistful of it. It was a quick yank, a yank hard enough to send you falling to your back.

There was an urge, an urge to remove his glove, to caress your face, to feel your hair between his fingers.. there was that hungry urge to hack away at it, to cut it off and leave you in a state of dismay.

He stepped over you, his body looming over your own. He'd never met someone with such long hair before, frankly, there was too much of it. He pondered, how the fuck could someone care for such a thing?

His eyes were hungry as he brought the ends of your hair closer up to his face.

With a finger, he slipped it up and over his mask before promptly slipping it off his face, revealing the hideous scar on the side of his cheek.

Then he pressed your hair against his nostrils, sucking in a deep breath.

He shuddered.

Then chuckled a little.

"L- L-" the letter trailed on his tongue as his neck twitched, causing his face to turn and scrunch up briefly. "Long hair like that w-.. will get you k-" he ticked. "Killed."

A shit eating grin appeared across his features.

In one swift move, he had one knee resting just next to your head. His hands removed themselves, untangling from your hair before moving now to your skull.

He took another fistful and forced you up with the aid of your hair.

Your eyes met, faces inches apart. He was quivering, his breath shaky, the eagerness and excitement attacking his body all at once.

He sighed.

"Took you a l-.." it was like he struggled with the letter 'L', he twitched his head again. "Long time to grow that out, such a f--ffuckin' waste." Then without much care, his hand guided your head to the side of the wall and your vision went black.

Oh, long hair? It wasn't what he expected when he first laid his eyes on you, a blush scattering across his face. He was thankful for his mask, making sure to push it up further in an attempt to drown out his excitement.

Beautiful, long hair on an already beautiful person? Was he dreaming?

Toby blinked once and then twice, shit, were you talking to him?

"Y-Your h-.." Fuck, don't mess this up now! "Your hair is so.. long." Was he being blunt?

He felt compelled to touch it.

Toby couldn't force himself and kept his hands to himself but as weeks turned to months and the ever growing love that was blossoming between the two of you was getting bigger and bigger, he felt more comfortable with the physical touches.

It took awhile before he suddenly blurted out.

"So, obviously I-.. I-- I'm your boyfriend, right? So- So, like.. I can tou-.. touch you, r-right?"

Boundaries were important, he wanted to be careful and tread carefully.

"H-How the ff-fuck do you c-.." twitch. "Control your hair?"

He was naturally curious. The life of a guy and their hair was not much of a drag. Brush it out and wash it once every three two weeks.

So when you two found time alone, when he felt physical, craving the touch, or when he found himself lost in his thoughts, his hands would find themselves entangled in your hair.

He never knew how relaxing it was to brush such long hair, how your hair reacted to the brush. It was like fucking magic.

So when you suggested the idea that he could braid it, he was dumbfounded.

What the fuck is a braid. Like the kinda shit he feels compelled to do with some rope? You can do that to hair?

He scoffed.

"Braid, psh, yep, know how to do that."

Motherfucker just ends up twirling your hair round and round.

He was a flustered fuck when you laughed at his attempt, his brows furrowed as he tried to explain himself.

So when you showed him how to do it, it took a couple attempts.

First attempt, he lost the hair band and became very focused on finding it.

Second attempt, he accidentally let go and it unravelled in his face.

The third attempt he was getting somewhere though, it was starting to look like what you showed him but nothing as perfect as you had it.

Then there were the times where you were uncontrollably sick, heaving into the toilet bowl as he held your hair and caressed it.

He used the trick you taught him and tied it into a braid while you were throwing up.

Was so proud of himself.

Toby, being the lover he is, refused that you bath yourself while this sick, so he had to help you wash your hair.

Jesus it was a nightmare.

He complained the whole time.

"There's t-t- too much hair?!"

sorry if this sucks, i hope its okay ;,)

requests are open!!

[cherry-jamm]

Okay so like I desperately need a butcher one fr, I don’t know anyone anyone else that could execute this, but once again I’m asking for one there butcher and the reader have a one night stand even thought they hate each other and then are very confused in the morning, and butcher is kind of conflicted bc he just lost becca and he refuses to confront the situation bc he leaves in the morning like nothing happened

It was worth it, I would do it again

・❥・description: after a one night stand, Billy has to face himself and his feelings for you. It's awkward.

・❥・word count: 1.3k

・❥・warnings: title based off ‘Awkward’ by Sza, angst with an unhappy ending, reader was not made for hookup culture (me either girl 😭), references to smut, plot devices that don't really make sense but it all works out

・❥・sorry I made you wait so long booboo bear I just couldn't get this right. But thanks for the request, you know how I love writing about my tragic situationships (I'm projecting)

You aren’t sure how long you’ve been staring at him. Billy Butcher in your bed is a sight you intended on enjoying for as long as possible. He had one arm resting on his stomach, while the other served as a pillow to you. His chest rose and fell with each deep breath he took. He looked so relaxed, his deep frown lines were gone from his face.

You ached to reach out and brush your fingers across his perfectly serene face, but you feared disturbing him, so you were content to just watch. You watched as the light turned from silver moonshine to the soft pinks and oranges of sunrise. His warmth enveloped you.

"I think I love you." You whispered to his sleeping form. You hated him ever since you first met him. It's easier to hate him, it's work to love him. Before tonight he'd never had known it, but over time you took on the burden of loving him. Slowly, but surely he'd won your heart and soul. He doesn't respond to your confession, but his brow twitched a miniscule amount. You felt yourself surrender back to sleep with a smile.

You didn't know what time it was when you woke up. You were greeted with the sight of his scarred back as he sat on the edge of the bed. You didn't say anything as you looked at his tense body sleepily. He sighs loudly and looks over his shoulder at you. You're compelled to pretend to stay asleep, just to see what he does. You feel his calloused hand brush your cheek before withdrawing quickly as if your skin had seared him.

He sighs again and his weight leaves the bed. You hear his heavy footsteps leave the apartment. You open your eyes and look at your ceiling. You felt as if he had just gutted you. Your lips formed a deep frown. Had he really just left? Without even saying anything?

Pitifully you pulled yourself out of bed and walked to your shower. Even after you two had cleaned up last night, you couldn't help feeling dirty after his wordless departure. As you walked your entire body felt sore, something you would've laughed at on any other occasion. You turned on the hot water and scrubbed your body until your skin felt raw.

Your bathroom was filled with steam and the scent of your soap by the time you were finished. You couldn't help regret last night as you wrapped a towel around yourself. You wiped the condensation off your mirror to be greeted by a dark purple bruise on the side of your neck. You fixed your face into scowl.

"Whatever." You huffed to yourself. And grabbed a bottle of lotion as you stepped out of the bathroom. You rubbed the lotion over your sore skin in silence. Clouds had passed over the sun. You went through the motions of a self care day.

You made yourself breakfast, got dressed in comfy clothes, and sat on your couch and watched the first movie you could find. It only served to make you feel more used as the man guided the main character on a romantic walk down the street. You rolled your eyes at the screen.

There came a hesitant knock at your door. You groaned as you got up to open the door.

"Hi (y/n)." Hughie greeted you. He raised his hand to an awkward wave. M.M stood behind him with his arms crossed, but he smiled politely at you. Frenchie had an arm around Hughie with Kimiko standing at his side. Butcher stood off to the side, you had to stick your head out of your door in order to see him. It made you sick.

"Hi Hughie." You said deadpan. "Why are you guys here?" You raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Mind if we come in?" Frenchie offered. You narrowed your eyes but allowed them in regardless. You felt the urge to slam the door in Butcher's face. You didn't, but you got a kick out of thinking about it.

"So? What's with the reunion?" You crossed your arms, only slightly embarrassed at being seen in your pajamas.

"Have you watched the news recently?" M.M asked pointedly, seeming very upset at something. You glance over at the TV.

"-But I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever. You and me everyday."

"Obviously not."

"The Notebook, eh?" Frenchie smiles.

"What's on the news and why does that matter?" For the first time it dawns on you that this could mean serious trouble. Especially with the way Butcher is standing at your counter completely silent and brooding.

"Our hideout was found. We weren't there at the time, but uh... we need a new place to stay." Hughie says. Your shoulders drop as your relax a bit.

"So none of us are in immediate danger?"

"Shouldn't be." Hughie replies.

"And you all decided to come to my studio apartment? I have two rooms total." You frown.

"It's just for a night or two, until everything settles down." Hughie tries to reason with you. It seems everyone else has already made themselves comfortable in your home. Frenchie sits on your couch and watches your movie while Kimiko sits on the floor in front of him. M.M holds a small trinket in his hands and looks at it curiosity. Butcher still stands awkwardly in your kitchen.

"You got yourselves caught in your last place, how can I trust you won't get busted here?" You asked.

"Just one night. Please." He said. You sigh.

"One night." You take the trinket out of M.M's hands and set it back down. You send a glare in Butcher's direction. He looks at the floor regretfully. You feel almost satisfied at the idea of him feeling bad for leaving you, almost.

A silence falls over the room as everyone settles in. You step into the kitchen. "We need to talk." You hissed to the tall man.

"'Bout what?" He says distractedly.

"Not funny." You grab hold of his jacket and pull him towards the bathroom, the only private room in your studio. You bring him in and lock the door behind you. "What the fuck?" You start. Suddenly the bathroom seems cramped. He doesn't say anything. You lean on the shower door to put some space between the two of you. "No seriously, what the fuck? I trusted you last night, you know how much stuff like that matters to me and you just left?" You felt vulnerable and exposed but continued to wait for an answer.

"What do you want me to say?" He starts gruffly. "You want me to say sorry?"

"Yes, Billy. That's exactly what I want you to say." You say, exasperatedly. "An explanation would be nice too." You cross your arms over your chest.

"I don't owe you shit." He huffs. He wants to say something else, if he didn't he would've already left. "Especially not an explanation."

"Billy-" You start.

"You reminded me of Becca." He confides. He might as well have punched you in the gut.

"What?"

"I said you reminded me of Becca." He really didn't need to say it twice, you're sure it would keep you up at night for the rest of your life. "Waking up next to you, just seeing you-" His voice cracks. "I couldn't do it." You looked at the floor. He looked into your mirror.

"So that's all it was? Just a way to pretend I was her?" You ask softly. He doesn't respond, and that's answer enough. "Okay." You whisper and move towards the door to unlock it. He caught your wrist before you did.

"You're more than that." He says but doesn't elaborate further. He unlocks the door and walks out.

[mamadarama]

Just curious on your opinion here do you have any thoughts on the way Madara is being written? Recently I came to the realization that enstars writers aren't all that great,, and I notice that Madara at least in my opinion has had very little development and progression as a character but I'm genuinely hoping I'm wrong but I don't see much difference. And I do hope I'm wrong cuz I definitely haven't read every single story ever in Enstars and it could just really be Madara's character but it feels like he hasn't budged an inch and when DF rolled around it seems like he's gonna progress only for the writers to make him wanna split up literal months after (SS) and it was fine the first time since we explored that part of his character but right after that we got the Spring event and he's?? Back on his bullshit as if whatever happened during Secret Service didn't have much impact. And I do understand his character and all but I often wonder how much of that is just his character (immovable mountain with deep roots that will take years of continuous effort to move) or just the writers half assing because they can't think of a more compelling narrative for double face other than Madara wanting a breakup. It's especially sad to me with Last Mission because as much as I can understand DF being temporary and meant to end, it feels like nothing has changed in Madara during !! Era. I'm hoping that new gen Madara can change that since he's already featured in the new shuffle and scout story, and it does look like he's changing the vibes a little. Idk what are your thoughts and genuinely no hate here I love Madara and I'd love to hear your opinion :)

i think the writers do a pretty good job with the story actually !! i ended up spending a few hours writing like 3 pages of stuff so this one gets a readmore ^^;

theres a tldr at the end though if you dont wanna hear me talk in circles like some kind of maniac (understandable i dont either)

at this point madaras story is a tragedy and hes not really supposed to be a satisfying character . youre supposed to be some degree of frustrated with him like all the other characters are. the story isnt over yet though and maybe he will get a satisfying happy ending someday , but this is all buildup. having madara go through negative character development while the rest of the 3rd years have significant positive character development puts emphasis on one of the main points of his character: you cant help someone who doesnt want to be helped . shu wanted to become more empathetic. eichi wanted to unlearn his bitterness. kaoru wanted to leave his playboy reputation behind. izumi wanted to learn to control his emotions . madara has two sides to him that refuse to coexist— anger and misery. the angry side of him has given up on himself and leans into his perceived role as a villain because he believes alienating his friends is the only way to save them and for once be the hero. the miserable side of him is the sad and "selfish" part that keeps him returning to his friends again and again despite believing hes a bad influence on them, because he still seeks acknowledgment and praise from others and doesnt want to believe its too late for him. he bounces between these like a metronome . (maybe thats another layer of reasoning behind double faces name, idk) so, he doesnt know if he wants to be helped. he thinks he doesnt deserve it. pulling someone out of a ditch that deep requires some legwork on their part too, and if they wont put in that legwork, well... then there's nothing you can do. madara isnt quite a rooted mountain that takes a long time to move... hes more like an injured tiger pacing in its pit , so fixated on looking for a way out that it wont look up and see the entire top is open where its keepers are waiting to take it out and treat its wounds . now suppose this tiger is sentient enough to worry it might hurt someone on impulse when the disinfectant stings its wounds. additionally, lets say the tigers wounds came from falling and cutting itself on something in its habitat while making a risky jump , and it believes it deserves to be hurt for such a stupid misjudgment. so even when it notices the top of the pit is open, it will continue pacing pretending like it didnt. thats where madara is at right now .

madara broke up double face partly out of self sabotage, and partly out of a twisted attempt to "save" kohaku from him. kohaku and madara are an interesting contrast because their characters are set up in a very similar way. the difference between them is that kohaku doesnt hate himself even close to as much as madara does, and as a result he IS getting better. kohaku believes hes always going to be part of the underbelly of society doing dirty work and hes resolved to that like madara is, but he doesnt believe that means he has to do it alone . he acknowledges that hes not alone, he has the rest of alkakurei, the sweets club, jun, his sisters and tsukasa.... and madara. the first part of beating loneliness is recognizing youre not alone. madara thinks no one understands him (which in itself is its own kind of loneliness) and that if his friends understood "what he really is", they wouldnt love him. so in a way their presence eases one kind of loneliness and reinforces another. in his mind the only person who understands him is himself and therefore the only one who can save people from himself is also him.

theres a scene in last mission where madara says his reason for disbanding double face is something along the lines of wanting kohaku to live where he can feel the sun on him , and kohaku asks "what about my feelings?" . that pretty much sums up madaras entire thought process and why he isnt making any positive progress .

tldr; madara does have character development between es! and es!! , but its not positive. to have such a stubborn self loathing character make positive progress without a slow burn of warring with themself and dragging their feet would soften those traits. they want him to stand out and make you to go "ohh ok so this guy is MISERABLE miserable" .

so anyways i dont think its lazy writing its just character loyalty. but the fact that you noticed all that means youre reading him the way hes intended to be read. so congratulations!! you now understand what its like to be kohaku oukawa :) if he does get positive character development i hope its really slow though cuz if its too fast it would feel kinda abrupt. it needs to feel like hes fighting the writers for it to truly be madara

[separatist-apologist]

At this point I just like your posts with just skimming through it because I know your big, mature brain won't let me down with your opinions

And I need people know sjm is NOT a good writer lol. Just because she's famous doesn't mean she's the best one out there. Acotar is a missed opportunity at best. And most people who are hard-core fan of these book thinks these books are perfect and not because sjm keep retconing and changing and forgetting her own goddamn plot so they take everything for what it is. I've seen people criticised Mor and Feyre for leaving some dreamers at CoN and they don't care about them. No babes sjm just forgot about it all fkn together!!!

Okay I have thoughts about this. I'm once again slapping it under a cut just because its long. These are just my thoughts, feel free to disagree

There is nothing wrong, just to be clear, with SJM being a person's favorite writer. I think she is an entertaining writer and I think begrudgingly everyone in this fandom needs to admit that. I think she creates very interesting characters and places that people want to know more about and her writing is very accessible which feels like a burn but I swear isn't.

I don't think she's a bad writer, personally, but I do think she's just not interested in her own details or worlds the way her fans are, and I think this is true across every book series she's written. I think her problem is she writes the way I do- she knows how her stories end, she has a few key scenes in mind, and she figures the rest out as she goes.

This felt pretty evident in TOG, too- you could watch in real-time as her plots changed and she undid things it felt like she'd been building toward. ACOTAR isn't any better in that regard because I GENUINELY do not think she knew what she was doing plotwise when she started the series and it came to her as she went which is why the whole Amarantha things feels so ?????????

Even in TOG, SJM is not interested in the political maneuverings of her characters, the governing process, her political landscape or ANY of the things that a lot of people get frustrated by, to circle to your CoN plot. I think she relies very heavily on "x says they care and I'm telling you they're a good person, so the assumption is they're also a good ruler and we don't need to explore that any further". SJM drops these little pieces of lore like about Mor's cousins or the women of Illyria or whatever and then doesn't do anything with it or even recognize, in my opinion, the conclusions her readers are drawing.

And I think its because to her, she's told you what you need to know. Rhys is a GOOD ruler because the people of Velaris love him AND because she tells us so. Tamlin is a bad ruler because he exacts taxes on his decimated population AND she tells us so. And when people examine those statements, it starts to crumble, in my opinion, which is why I think people get defensive. They don't CARE about the political workings of this world, they just want to read about hot people doing hot people shenanigans.

I do think that going to a SJM book for thoughtful worldbuilding and an interesting magic/political system is a mistake. Having read every series she's ever written, I do not think this is her strong suit and I'm tired of being told I only think so because of internalized misogyny. I think SJM is a good character writer- her characters are compelling, and even anti's typically have a favorite character they wish had been better fleshed out or had been done more with or would be better explored in future books.

This is all over the place- I'm just writing my thoughts as they come to me. Ultimately, I think SJM's books typically don't stand up to heavy scrutiny and that depending on what you're looking for in a book, you're going to come away with different levels of enjoyment. For me, I hadn't read anything fiction in like, six years because I'd been knee deep in academia and it was the first thing I read just for fun and it WAS fun. It IS fun, even now. It's a brain off read. For better or worse, ACOTAR isn't complicated or hard to understand- SJM tells her readers what to think AND feel all the time, so you don't really need to think about any of it.

But when you read other fantasy in her genre, it becomes clear that like...oh. This is just mediocre. In some places it feels like a poor retelling of other stories (TOG has HEAVY LOTR moments, for example) and thoughtless culture stealing that feels offensive in places (CC feels especially bad in this regard given how she's stitched together like, 3-5 different cultures without a good understanding of any of them).

I'm not saying anti's shouldn't still discuss their issues with it. But I will say that if you're looking for a well fleshed out world and a political system that is interesting to read and characters who are consistent and don't bow to the whims of the author and plot, you're probably going to have a hard time with ALL of SJM.

[goodnightmemes]

KNIVES OUT (2019) SENTENCE STARTERS

❛ Anything you need. You’re part of this family. ❜

❛ Kids today, with the internet. It’s amazing. ❜

❛ I read a tweet about a New Yorker article about you. ❜

❛ I’m here at the behest of a client. ❜

❛ You will find me a respectful, quiet, passive observer of the truth. ❜

❛ Are you baiting me? ❜

❛ You think I am dumb enough to be baited into talking family business. ❜

❛ This is not how I wanted to have this conversation. ❜

❛ He’s always been the black sheep of the family. ❜

❛ Are you, goddamn, insane? ❜

❛ You tell her or I will! ❜

❛ I know it’ll hurt, but it’s all for the best. ❜

❛ I expect it’s going to be about something, if not extraordinary, then at least interesting. ❜

❛ Does having a kind heart make you a good nurse? ❜

❛ Just the thought of lying, yeah, it makes me puke. ❜

❛ Have you seen her insta? She’s an influencer. ❜

❛ Can I wait inside? I feel like I shouldn’t be here. ❜

❛ So, somebody suspects foul play. ❜

❛ It makes no damn sense. Compels me though. ❜

❛ I don’t know why we keep going over this. ❜

❛ Physical evidence can tell a clear story with a forked tongue. ❜

❛ Can you just take your goddamn medicine and go to bed? ❜

❛ You really love drama, huh? ❜

❛ Why can’t I beat you at this game? ❜

❛ Such a bad loser you are. ❜

❛ There’s so much of me in that kid. ❜

❛ Playing life like a game without consequence, until you can’t tell the difference between a stage prop and a real knife. ❜

❛ I don’t fear death. ❜

❛ I don’t fear death. But, oh God, I’d like to fix some of this before I go. ❜

❛ Hey. You had a long day. You wanna do drugs? ❜

❛ I messed up. ❜

❛ You know, this is an interesting and efficient method of murder. I need to write this down. ❜

❛ There is no time, you have to listen! ❜

❛ If what you said is true, I’m gone, there’s no saving me. ❜

❛ But you have to do exactly what I tell you. ❜

❛ Will you do this? This last thing. For me. ❜

❛ What do you want me to do? ❜

❛ It sounds crazy, but it will work. ❜

❛ Don’t lie. Tell fragments of the truth. ❜

❛ I keep waiting for the big reveal, where it all makes sense. Wouldn’t that be nice? ❜

❛ Jesus, I’m gonna disappear until the politics talk is done. ❜

❛ Something is afoot with this whole affair. I know it, and I believe you know it too. ❜

❛ I trust your kind heart. ❜

❛ Be it cruel or comforting, this machine unerringly arrives at the truth. ❜

❛ You do as I say and everything will be just fine. ❜

❛ Best judge of character is a dog. ❜

❛ I don’t feel like talking. I’m distraught. ❜

❛ People grieve in different ways. ❜

❛ I don’t know what any of that means. ❜

❛ Now, you heard something. Spill it. ❜

❛ Maybe this might finally make you grow up. ❜

❛ This might be the best thing that could ever happen to you. ❜

❛ Nothing good is ever easy. ❜

❛ Up your ass. ❜

❛ Matter of fact - eat shit, how’s that? ❜

❛ The game is afoot, eh Watson? ❜

❛ Please accept it with grace and without bitterness. But do accept it. ❜

❛ You little bitch! ❜

❛ Did you know about this? Were you in this from the beginning? ❜

❛ Were you boinking my father? ❜

❛ In the meantime I’d maybe run. ❜

❛ I’m not on Twitter anymore. ❜

❛ You look like you’re gonna pass out. Have you eaten anything today? ❜

❛ I know I shouldn’t say this out loud, but when he told me, I… Jesus, I coulda killed him. ❜

❛ You asshole. ❜

❛ Tell me everything. ❜

❛ There is much that remains unclear. ❜

❛ I suspect foul play. ❜

❛ I have eliminated no suspects. ❜

❛ You’ve come this far. Let me help you go all the way. ❜

❛ What’s going on? This isn’t you. ❜

❛ You should do whatever you think is right. ❜

❛ You have to make things right. ❜

❛ I want you to know I’m gonna take care of you. ❜

❛ You lay low for a couple of days. Wait for this investigation to blow over, and it will. ❜

❛ Are we rich? ❜

❛ Why is grief the providence of youth? ❜

❛ I’d imagine that age deepens all feelings. Including grief. ❜

❛ One thing I assume of age is weariness. Damned if I don’t get more tired every day. ❜

❛ I think you have something you wanna tell me. ❜

❛ I don’t like any of this. ❜

❛ What kind of blackmail scheme is this? ❜

❛ You regret helping me yet? ❜

❛ Oh my God. I’m just pure adrenaline right now, I feel like I swallowed bees. ❜

❛ That was the dumbest car chase of all time. ❜

❛ Strange case from the start. ❜

❛ Listen, I don’t know what you want. Whatever it is, we can work it out. ❜

❛ I don’t want any more surprises. ❜

❛ God, you’re not much of a detective, are you? ❜

❛ You make a pretty lousy murderer. ❜

❛ You’re a pack of vultures at the feast. ❜

❛ Is anybody else confused? ❜

❛ I’m so sorry. I told them everything, I figured it was up. I’m sorry. ❜

❛ You shared a love of twisting the knife into one another. ❜

❛ I’m warning you! ❜

❛ You won’t get away with this. ❜

❛ A twisted web. And we are not finished untangling it. Not yet. ❜

❛ This is stoopid with two o’s. ❜

❛ You don’t have a shred of evidence. You’re just spinning a fairy tale. ❜

❛ In for a penny, in for a pound. ❜

❛ I knew you were a no good son of a bitch! ❜

❛ And then you’ll see just how much hell I can wreak on your life. ❜

❛ You vicious little bitch! ❜

❛ What the shit!? ❜

❛ I want you to remember something that’s very important: you won not by playing the game his way, but yours. ❜

❛ You’re a good person. ❜

❛ I have my own opinion. But I have a feeling you’ll follow your heart. ❜

[yourlocalirlgenya]

hi

hai I just wanted to say how freakish is my fucking love for sanemi. I'll write an essay about him, what I think of him what I love of him etc, get ready..

my god mf, where do i even begin with sanemi shinazugawa? he's the most captivating, intriguing, and utterly mesmerizing character ever to grace the world of anime and manga. it's like every fiber of my being is drawn to him, and i can't help but be completely obsessed with every little thing about him.first of all, let's talk about his sheer physical presence. sanemi is an absolute powerhouse, with those chiseled muscles and that fierce, battle-hardened look in his eyes. his scars tell stories of countless battles fought and won, each one a testament to his incredible strength and resilience. the way he carries himself, with such confidence and determination, is enough to make anyone's heart skip a beat.and his personality—oh, don't even get me started! sanemi's tough exterior and abrasive demeanor only make him more fascinating. he's like a puzzle that i can't wait to solve. beneath that rough, unapproachable surface lies a heart that cares deeply for his comrades and a soul that's been through so much pain and loss. his complex character makes him so real, so human, and i can't help but be drawn to his story and his struggles.the dynamic between sanemi and his brother genya is one of the most compelling aspects of his character. their relationship is fraught with tension and misunderstandings, yet there's an undeniable bond that runs deep. sanemi's fierce protectiveness over genya, despite their conflicts, shows a side of him that's vulnerable and loving. it's this juxtaposition of strength and vulnerability that makes him so irresistibly captivating.and let's not forget his incredible skills as a demon slayer. sanemi's mastery of the wind breathing technique is nothing short of awe-inspiring. every move he makes in battle is a dance of deadly precision and raw power. watching him fight is like witnessing a force of nature in action, and it's impossible not to be completely enthralled by his prowess and intensity.even his fashion sense is impeccable. that uniform, the way he wears it with such effortless coolness, and that trademark wild hair—all of it comes together to create an image that's both intimidating and unbelievably attractive. sanemi's style is a reflection of his unyielding spirit and his refusal to be anything less than extraordinary.i could go on and on about sanemi shinazugawa. his every action, every word, every look—it's all etched into my mind and heart. he's more than just a character to me; he's an obsession, a fascination that i can't shake. sanemi is the epitome of strength, complexity, and undeniable allure, and i am hopelessly, endlessly, and completely in love with him.