#or just to pretend it didn't happen that too [it helps]

[secriden]

Absolutely heartrending because it just hit me that before Bison's phone call, Fadel actually began to believe that he'd been wrong to suspect Style. Because despite the evidence stacked against Style -- and remember, it was Fadel that spells out the reasons they have to be suspicious of Kant and Style -- Style is so incredibly genuine here and Fadel, in truth, wanted to believe in him.

I think it's possible that Fadel actually saw Style through the window here, but pretended not to because he had to take a moment to prepare himself. But if you see where Style is standing and the way the patio is lit up, there's no reason why Fadel shouldn't have seen him from where he was by the tables before he turns go behind the counter.

Fadel: I was thinking of going to your place. But you were more impatient than me, huh?

This would also explain how Fadel is able to say this before Style even has the chance to make a sound. I had expected Fadel to wait and see what Style would say, to play it safe and observe, but no, Fadel immediately sets their dynamic back to the assumption of familiarity that their relationship was on before he disappeared for a week. The assumption that he could show up at Style's house unannounced and Style would welcome him.

This feels incredibly intentional. Fadel wants to see how Style is going to react to Fadel acting as if nothing weird happened. If Style was an informant, he should be confused and Fadel may catch him out in a lie.

But Style's performance is flawless:

Style: Where have you been? You didn't reply any of my texts! (punctuation added for emphasis and to mimic Style's tone)

He says this and the whine in his tone is a clear affirmation of that same assumption of familiarity. This is the tone used by someone who is secure in the knowledge that they are owed an explanation; this is the tone of someone in an established relationship who feels justifiably wronged at being left out of the loop.

And I cry a little bit more at the thought of Fadel reading those texts -- Style by turns frantic and confused and worried -- and refusing to respond. Or worse, receiving them and refusing to even read them because Fadel doesn't trust himself to tell the lies from the truth anymore.

At this point, I think Fadel seems to waver a little bit in his resolve to "test" Style. His reply takes on a quality of gentle pleading and the way he's speaking is exactly like a boyfriend who knows he messed up would. But because these lines are a lie, Fadel cannot meet Style's eyes as he says them. It's only when he says "I was busy, too" (not a lie) that he's finally able to squarely meet Style's gaze again.

And Style continues to be so convincingly NORMAL because all of this is real for him. This is just Style, the boyfriend, who actually wants to know where his boyfriend disappeared to without notice for a whole week. Nothing about his body language or tone has even a hint of inauthenticity because there is none. Style means every single word and meets Fadel's gaze squarely as he says them.

It genuinely looks to me like Fadel thaws significantly at this point. He suddenly looks less stiff and the way he delivers this line contains so much more inflection, it becomes cajoling. He even begins to more consistently meet Style's eyes as Fadel begins to allow himself some honesty. Fadel's logical brain knows that the circumstances surrounding Style coming into his life are riddled with inconsistencies, but he both senses and WANTS to see Style's sincerity. The shields that Fadel had up are melting in the face of Style being present and unchanged from what Fadel remembers.

Stay, Fadel all but says, let me make it up to you. Fadel offering to make food for Style (@braceletofteeth please hold me as I cry about this!!) is also significant because the last time Fadel made food for Style (the burger) is when he was softening towards Style after Style helped out at the diner during the rush crowd. Fadel is a creature of habit and all that he's learned of late are the ways Style is easy to love.

They begin to fall back into their usual, playful banter and teasing dynamic. Style leans back against the table (and the way he's all silent surrender and submission -- throat arched up and bare and vulnerable -- truly makes me feral), turns up the flirt and Fadel responds in kind. And yes, Fadel means his question on some level but you don't get the sense that his heart is in the interrogation. Fadel may be going through the motions, but this is just Style being himself, exactly as Fadel has come to know (and love), so nothing is pinging as wrong to Fadel.

I mean, just LOOK AT FADEL'S EYES!! His expression is so so soft and tender and wistful. He wants this. He wants so desperately to believe that this is why Style was texting him throughout the week. He wants to have Style in all the ways that include and go beyond the physical; like Style offering his affection is everything Fadel didn't think he could wish for.

It's almost cruel the way Style's touch so utterly disarms Fadel. Because, while it's part of the games they've been playing, so much of their interactions have also been grounded in genuine feelings and moments of intense vulnerability on both sides (although neither of them know this for sure!! T_T). Style's hands on Fadel's body literally removes the last stretch of distance between them and that odd unease lingered over the way Fadel spoke and held himself at the start of the scene finally disappears.

If we compare their expressions and the way they are holding themselves and, most importantly, touching each other by the end of the scene to what we see when Style first walks into the diner, it becomes apparent just how much ground Fadel has given in the span of those few minutes.

It's the way Fadel keeps holding onto Style's hand even as he's turning to leave, maintaining that point of contact until the very last second.

Because with Style in front of him -- warm and familiar and carelessly affectionate -- Fadel allows himself to slip back to the version of himself that woke up in Style's bed at the start of the episode, the version of himself that called Style's name for the first time and wanted to wake him up with the softest of touches. The version of himself that literally, physically couldn't let Style go.

Which is why, when the call comes and Fadel's heart gets broken anew, Fadel remains devastatingly empty of anger towards Style.

Because it was Fadel's own fault for choosing to believe the lie.

Because it was a decision he made to allow his heart to rule over his head.

Because Fadel understands that Style only succeeded in "fooling" him once again because Fadel let him.

So Fadel gives himself this truth, allows himself to finally take that step to bare his heart to Style the way he promised himself he never would but the way he so desperately wants.

And Style doesn't realise that this is not a reward, but a judgement.

For Fadel is paying penance for giving in to his own foolish heart, and in so doing renders Style's love to devastation.

[mizu0xox0]

Self aware! Lighter who feels something watching him...the same presence he felt in the underground once except this time it's stronger and it lasts longer.

Self aware! Lighter who starts questioning his existence when he learns he's in a video game. Was his mercenary friends dying all just for someone's mere entertainment? Was all the debt he racked up for his mercenary friends families just for a compelling story narrative? Could he have saved his mercenary friends that day or even joined them during their deaths? He's never felt so powerless and defeated even though he is the undefeated champion of the Sons Of Calydon.

Self aware! Lighter who is at a loss of whether or not his life is really his anymore or mere entertainment for whoever is watching their lives play out in this game...but then again maybe you're not at fault after all maybe you weren't the maker of this game and maybe you aren't to blame right?

Self aware! Lighter who tries to get used to living his life as usual and pretending that being a video game character isn't such a big impact on his life after all. That his whole life is a lie. He can't think that after all the Sons Of Calydon still need him so he needs to stay strong for them. He won't be defeated no not now.

Self aware! Lighter who doesn't know how to feel about the proxy who's helping him. He gets it that whoever is watching them somewhat inhabiting the proxies mind but he realizes most of the things the proxy does is on their own accord and not because of this entity watching them which is odd? But then again it might be a video game mechanic and after all as observant Lighter is he notices in some instances where the proxies actions might not be their own. For example they stare too long at him? Odd but he could pass it off as a coincidence or could he? After all he was rather sure he heard a faint voice of gushing about him he would have missed it if the winds were too strong but luckily today they weren't.

Self aware! Lighter who hears a voice feels sorry about him when he reveals his pass slowly to the proxy? Is this voice you? The one whose presence everyone felt? The one who's playing this video game? Lighter doesn't need your pity after all he was just a video game character just entertainment to you but the way you react makes him think twice about such a thought after all you were still human and you didn't seem to realize he's conscious in this game

Self aware! Lighter who feels a little embarrassed when you gush about him when he feels shy when being called handsome? Sure he could pass it off as the proxy is joking and surely you're right? And no he doesn't look cute when embarrassed right plus he's not embarrassed it's just well even he isn't sure how to word it. But it's kind of cute how you gush about him and his antics.

Self aware! Lighter who picks up on topics from your world whenever you ramble while playing the game. Oh? A new season of a show you like is coming out well good for you. Oh? Something bad happened to you today, well he's not sure if he can help much but if letting it out makes you feel better might as well. Lighter as observant as he is he makes sure to not miss any details whenever he hears you speak while playing after all it's in such moments when no one's around that some people will talk about their lowest and highest points in life and he's glad to hear from you after all it feels like some connection not that you know of...

Self aware! Lighter who can't help but feels a little bad for you whenever you use him in combat and one of his teammates accidentally dies. It's not like he can help when he's programmed with a voice line to say that...he feels bad that you feel guilty for making him experience another loss again even though they'll respawn he still feels bad for making you feel that way when hearing his voice line even if it's somewhat your fault..

Self aware! Lighter who feels a little closer to you as time goes on especially if you pulled for him and got him. Even if you didn't manage to get him in time he'll guarantee that he'll try to come home to you in his what's that called? Rerun. Yeah that.

Self aware! Lighter who feels a warm feeling in his heart when you wish him happy birthday. I mean sure the Sons Of Calydon and the Proxies had wished him a happy birthday as well but from you he wasn't sure why it was different...and if you go as far as to draw or make something for him for his birthday or even celebrate by buying cake well now that feeling just got even warmer something akin to butterflies in his stomach or whatever that saying is. It's kind of silly seeing you who he doesn't even know how you look like wishing him a happy birthday and even celebrating for him. Maybe one day he could do the same for you and maybe he'd actually get to see you one day...

Self aware! Lighter who one day wishes to take you on his bike not as the proxy or Euos just you in the flesh to see the sunset with him..after all you're just as warm as the sun...

Thank you so much for reading this and once again Happy Birthday Lighter! I wrote this while watching Link Click Bridon arc so I apologize if the writing was a little glum for this as sure it's just the first episode but I'm already sobbing. Anyways I hope you enjoyed this and I apologize if Lighter sounds OOC. And also I'm trying to experiment with my writing style as of now. Thank you for reading and any constructive criticism or feedback is appreciated!

[max-the-many]

Hello, I need your help. My best friend got cheated by her boyfriend, an homophobic douchebag that is in love with himself. He always makes fun of me when she is not looking and now he cheated on her.Can you give him his money back? Trapping him inside a gay bottom twink or something? Your pice will be mine. He deserves the worst for what he did!

When I read this I was hooked immediately. Not that I really cared to be honest. I mean, it is bad what he did, but for me, it was mostly an excuse. There's something really satisfying dealing with such a guy.

So I got on the road the same night. Luckily it wasn't that far. Antony even gave me the name of a bar where that guy frequently hung out so as it was friday, the urge to get there was even stronger.

When I got in, I couldn't see him based on the pictures Anthony provided. So I sat down to have a drink. The bar was moderately busy and I looked around, wondering if anyone could maybe help as there surely would be several knowing Lyle.

So eventually I started chatting to a guy sitting next to me. He actually knew Lyle, but just barely from the bar. He showed me another dude, though, that should be closer to Lyle.

It probably was a bit weird to ask about him like that even though I pretended to wait for him. But that guy didn't seem to care.

So I didn't care either, especially when that friend of Lyle went to the restrooms.

‘Why not’ I thought, going after him.

When I got in, he stood infront of a pissoir, his body nicely framed, a bit leaner than Lyle but easily some kind of gymbuddy.

‘Classic’ I thought when I saw him there, the room otherwise empty besides a closed stall.

But this wouldn't be the first time I acted in such a situation so I stepped to the urinal besides him, prepared to hit him with a shot as soon as he was finished, dragging him into the next stall, making sure not to be too rampant.

As he was sitting on the toilet seat infront of me I really got excited. He really wasn't the worst to slip in. Short hair, stumbled face, sporty, wearing a casual T and rather tight jeans which I was happy to get off now.

Seeing him naked, getting flatter and flatter only added to the appeal while I got naked myself.

As I eventually stepped out in my new persona the guy from the other stall was washing his hands, watching me suspiciously.

“What is it?" I hit him, getting quite the kick on speaking with my new voice the first time, but the other guy didn't reply.

Back in the bar nothing much had changed. So I went to the guys I saw my new persona with. Turned out to be a pretty good source of information, giving me quite some insight of Lyle though they probably exaggerated as he probably did to them as well. But after that I was pretty sure that he wasn't cheating just that one time. Unfortunately it turned out that he wouldn't be in the bar tonight. But this shouldn't be a problem at all as I got his address, making a bit of a fool of myself as the guy I was in probably would have known it already.

After another drink I eventually heading out, searching for the car the keys in my pocket belonged to. Took quite a while to be honest.

10 minutes later I stood in front of a small bungalo. Light was on. So I stopped onto the porch.

“Lyle?” I knocked. But nothing happened. When I listened at the door I could clearly hear voices, movement. So I knocked again louder. “Lyle, common! It's Keith!” I added.

Another moment passed until I heard footsteps. Then the door opened.

“What the fuck!” was passed along while a topless Lyle appeared, having his belt open, clearly coming from some business he wasn't keen on being disturbed from.

“You got company?” I asked cheekily which he answered with an annoyed nod.

And I don't know what really crossed my mind, but more on instinct than on a clear plan I quickly reached into my pocket, pulled out a syringe and stuck it into his waist before he could even begin to wonder.

I smiled, pushed my way in and looked around.

“What just…Keith?”

A girl was sitting on a couch separating the entrance to a living area, turning her head at the scene I was providing, just wearing a bra and clearly not being his girlfriend.

“Ah! I'm sorry. He seemed to have forgotten our plans” I said, taking the steps towards her to give her another shot as she was frozen in irritation.

“Caught in the act” I smiled, walking around the couch to get a good look. She was quite cute with long, dark blonde hair and good equipment under her bra.

As I saw them both, now on their way to be good suits, an idea came to mind. Something I haven't done or even thought of so far. But when it got to my mind I had no other chance than to do it. It was just the perfect opportunity.

So I got to Lyle dragged him to the couch before getting him naked, doing the same to his date. Then came the tricky part, but I really was determined.

A good half an hour, it was ready. Sitting on the couch, just wearing her tight slip was that girl. Or should I say, both of them, neatly tied up on hand and feet.

“What…” she got out, clearly still busy. But as she let out her first words a certain look came on to her eyes.

“Where…” again she froze, looking around and finally down at herself.

“What is this! What…” she let out again, not able to process the situation, finally looking at me.

“Keith, what is this! And why am I… my voice… my…” she said looking down at herself. Or should I say, himself.

“Isn't it nice to see the world from a new perspective for once?” I said, looking at her with a devious smile before coming closer.

“She got quite the bod” I said “Isn't she?” while my hand slid over her voluminous breasts.

“Don't!” he stuttered.

“Or what? You seemed to liked her pretty much” I replied “and I can't complain. That face, those tits, and not to miss what awaits down there” I said, stroking along her body before diving between her legs.

“What… ahh” he let out in a mixture of anger and discontent.

“Don't you wonder what pleasures all those chicks get with your manly work?”

His eyes widened. “You…” was all he was able to get out before I pulled up the cloth around his neck, limiting him to nothing more than muffled sounds when I took his hand to lead it towards my crotch.

“We will have a lot of fun”...

---

Whomever sent this request. Feel free to reach out.

[hwonnrinji]

plsplspls since it's sweater season can you make a Yoonchae × fem!reader fic inspired by the song "Heather" by Conan Gray???

help i was gonna make a sophia ver but anything for my bias 🫶

IT'S JUST POLYESTER ; 윤채

jeong yoonchae x fem!reader

{ synopsis } : you're madly in love with yoonchae. too bad she's in love with your best friend. right? right??

{ tags/extra } : unrequited love/one-sided love.. or so you think, eunchae and haerin cameo (haerin's the bsf but we're not gonna dive into that), it's angsty, so it's angsty, not proofread...

{ a/n } : felt like shit so i wrote shit. p.s. it's a little off prompt but yall see the parallel?? anyways it's 2:30am and i need sleep

@lararajjj @ohmyhaely @ninguitar @strwwjj @jwyproperty

══════════

now playing : heather - conan gray

⤷ "only if you knew

how much i liked you"

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you knew this look all too well. you saw how sparks lit up in her eyes when she saw her. you saw how her lips parted in awe when she walked over. you clench your fists that hung by your side, your knuckles almost turning white by how hard your fists were balled up.

"what a sight for sore eyes," she mumbles.

of course. who wouldn't think of such thing when a girl that pretty walks up to you.

"what, you think she's pretty, yoonchae?" you ask, but it sounded a little sarcastic. you clear your throat to hide the bitter tone. yoonchae didn't pay any mind to your sour voice, nodding along to your question. you suppress a scoff

"she's got you mesmerized, huh?" you're dying inside, at this point.

"i think so," she admitted, a shy smile displayed on her lips when haerin finally approaches and attempted to strike a conversation with yoonchae. it's successful. it always is.

but haerin, oh, haerin.

she has always been the prettier best friend, always gaining the attention of your crushes left and right. she's a good friend, nonetheless, making it her mission to reject every one of them that confess to her. maybe it was out of pity, maybe it was out of girl code, but you can't help and feel disheartened. now you find yourself in the same situation with yoonchae that you swore you would prevent from happening.

you and yoonchae weren't anything. maybe more than friends, less than lovers, but it's never something. no, possibly even nothing at all. one kiss at a party during spin the bottle isn't special. you both had to or else you'd have to embarrass yourselves. it's just the game rules. yet, why did her gaze linger on you throughout and after the whole ordeal? why did her voice get softer with you but not everyone else? you weren't even half as pretty as haerin. so why?

tears of frustration mixed with sadness welled up in your eyes when you saw quick yoonchae got comfortable with haerin, how her voice was the same as the day of the party, how her eyes were identical to seeing you in her sweater for the first time. you let out a shaky breath, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall.

"are you cold?" you hear yoonchae ask. you look up to see yoonchae already fumbling to take off her sweater. the same sweater she let you wore last year. how ironic.

"just a little. it's december after all." haerin responds with a tone so gentle and warm that it gags you. yoonchae gives her the sweater, and out of politeness, haerin took it. you don't realize there's a scowl on your face until your eyebrows became sore from frowning too much, it's just polyester, you remind yourself. but you already know yoonchae liked– no, likes haerin better.

in your seventeen years of life, you've never wanted to be someone more. now you find yourself wishing to be haerin.

═══════════════════════════

you watch as haerin stands with her, holding her hand. you decided to save yourself from whatever this was by pretending to be busy for the day. you weren't. you just didn't want to bear the pain of seeing yoonchae being glued to the hip with haerin. you grimace as yoonchae put her arm around haerin's shoulder, leaving you to reminisce about the last time yoonchae did that for you, all because the wind was too strong for winter.

now you're getting colder the longer you stare at just how close those two were from afar. the lack of an arm around your shoulder, or the warm hands of yoonchae's holding yours, made you more fragile to the intense breeze.

despite everything you feel, you can never find yourself to actually look at haerin with disdain. she's been with you since a pacifier was in your mouth, and she's the sweetest, most angel like girl to ever exist, so why do you wish she was dead? no, no, dead is overly strong. maybe disappear is the word you're looking for. wait, no, not quite. there are times when haerin is the only person to understand you, so to have her disappear wouldn't benefit anybody.

just then, yoonchae turned around, immediately spotting you from across the quad. she eagerly waved you over, a huge smile on her face just from seeing you alone. maybe there was something to your relationship with yoonchae.

maybe, maybe, maybe–

oh? who was that?

you briefly ignore yoonchae's attempts at getting you to come over, swiveling your head to look at who just walked past you, and lord, it was like an angel was sent from heaven just for you. your eyes were fixated on hers and it seems like she felt your gaze as well, seeing how she looked back and smiled at you. that smile can light up a world.

from across the quad, yoonchae and haerin both watched as you get enthralled by that smile. the look in your eyes is sickening, sickeningly sweet to haerin, sickeningly disgusting to yoonchae. yoonchae has no idea why she felt that way, but the way your eyes locked onto the girl walking past you instead of on her ticked her off a bit. haerin, of course, notices the lack of responses from yoonchae and looked at the girl to see her absolutely glaring at whoever caught your attention.

haerin chuckles and lightly tap yoonchae on the shoulder. "you look like you've just seen your enemy." it's too soon for 'enemy' to be placed as a title on the girl. maybe potential competition would best fit.

back on your end, the girl approached you. wait. was that right? a girl that pretty approaching you? your lips parted in awe at such duality the girl held, how handsome she looked, yet how gorgeous she presented herself. "i like your hoodie." she told you. even her voice, which was on a lower register, sounded magical.

"wha– me?" you look down at your plain white hoodie, wondering how anyone can like such a piece of clothing.

now yoonchae's scowling, the wrinkles on her forehead could've been permanent if haerin didn't tell her to give it a rest. she could hear the conversation from a mile away. your hoodie was just ordinary. there's nothing special to it other than the white color. maybe it was just like your relationship with yoonchae. "please, that hoodie is nothing special,"

"this hoodie is nothing special." it was, indeed, special. yoonchae had bought it for you for christmas, and you wore it the entirety of the skii trip you went on. both of you didn't know why you said what you said but it didn't sit right with neither of you. the girl gave you her number and bid goodbye to catch up with her friends. you learn her name is eunchae. hong eunchae. it rolled off your tongue perfectly.

you rush over to haerin and yoonchae to share the interaction you just had as if they didn't witness it, haerin jumping in joy with you. yoonchae bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from speaking wrongly, offering a forced smile instead. you stopped your rambling to look at eunchae while yoonchae kept her eyes on you. deep down, even with eunchae showing interest in you, you still wished yoonchae looked at you like that. and deep down in yoonchae's brain, she wished it was her who got you all flustered.

'i wish i was haerin.'

'i wish i was eunchae.'

[georgeweasleyslostearhq]

LAST DECEMBER

Pairings: Eddie Munson x fem! Summary: Eddie just misses you Warnings: none: A/N: inspired by the song 'Back to Friends' by the lovely Sombr

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He can still remember the feeling of your tender touches on his body, they still burn his skin every time he thinks about you, silently tormenting him of last december.

he wants to feel like that again, to be held by you, be made weak just by a simple touch you placed on his him.

the image of you tangled in his blankets in the early hours of the morning to late nights haunt him. 

the way you looked as you were on top of him, kicking at the covers as you gazed down at him, his eyes glued to the ceiling as your fingertips burned his skin.

what happened? you two were so close.

you always looked at him like he had hung the stars and gave you the moon. but where were those soft gazes now?

now you would look away every time you saw him, like he was nothing, like you had no idea who he was.

it broke him, knowing the way he is invisible to you.

how could you? after all that time spent together, tangled in your beds, whispering sweet nothings into each others ears

did it mean nothing to you?

so now, in his bed he sits alone, thinking about how it was just last year when you were laying on chest, fast asleep.

Eddie remembers holding his breath while looking down at you, softly snoring. even if he was uncomfortable in the position you got him in, he didn't want to wake you up by moving.

Eddie will never understand how things changed so quickly. 

and as he sat down at the diner with all his friends, he can't help but stare at you, sitting across from him

you were looking beside you to Steve, talking as Eddie looked at you

oh how he yearned to be able to talk to you without you brushing him off, oh how Eddie missed you

you turned your head and caught Eddie's eyes. they connected. 

and while his were full of love and sorrow, yours were cold.

he used to be able to read you like a book, knowing everything that got you off or made you happy

now he looks at you and is met with a blank face

how can you pretend he is someone you've never met?

with his mouth slightly agape, eyes fluttering, begging to close because if he looks for any longer, he'll start screaming, begging you to just be his again.

but were you ever his? 

can you ever be friends again?

Eddie will take any of you at his point, even if it's just for a second.

then he finally blinked, and the moment his eyes opened again, you looked again

But he could see it, the glimpse of the devil in your eyes, did you always have that look in your eyes?

maybe when you told all the lies that he believed? when you told him you loved him? when you said he was the best sex you've ever had.

maybe he believed you too much, maybe he held on too tight

maybe he still holds on, even when you've let go

because this was just a casual thing to you, wasn't it?

because if it was real, you wouldn't look at him like he was a stranger

because he looked at you like you hung the stars, and gave him the moon. 

it was real to Eddie. why couldn't have just been real to you?

last December was real. it was real. it was real. it was real. it was real. it was real. it was real. it was real.

but how can you go back to being friends with something you shared a bed with, right?

he should be over it by now, because it was a year ago. but he just cant.

everything he does reminds him of you and the things you did

Eddie got up, making Dustin move so he could go to the bathroom

although he didn't need to go to the bathroom, he just needed to get away from you

the devil who pretends you don't know him

because that's just the way it is now. 

he would have just walked to the bathroom.

but his feet stopped him in his tracks when he heard you soft voice calling out to him.

it was like his body knew he loved you, it was like his heart called your name when he turned around

you could make him do anything, even if he didn't want to.

it was like his subconscious was tied to you, slowly killing him every time you took another hit at his self-pride.

because he'd do anything for you.

but would you do anything for him?

he turned around, and there you were, right in front of him, the lopsided tight smile on your face.

you looked guilty, you looked lonely.

"hey" you said

to you, he was a stranger

to Eddie, you were his murderer.

because he'd let you do it again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again. 

just like he let you do to him last year and the year before that, and the year before that. 

it was a cycle.

and Eddie hated change.

but he loved you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

I accidentally uploaded this to the 1d community and didn't know. i was so confused when i saw it didn't upload on my profile and i contacted tumblr because i thought my web crashed out. turns out i'm just an idiot.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

[saulocept]

an introduction to intimacy (i)

pairing: botw! link/f(reader)

rating: m

summary: You knew what you were getting into when you first married him. You just didn't know it'll be like this. Luckily, or unluckily, he's there to refute it.

notes: there's a hint of spice near at the end, but it's nothing too explicit. there might be a sequel, depending on the inspiration.

Marriage isn’t easy. You’ve always known that, of course – some sort of knowledge hidden in the depths of your mind, vague enough to never cross your thoughts. Until now. If you’re perhaps smarter than you’d been, you would’ve thought twice before jumping into it and agreeing. You’ve got a general idea of what you’re getting into: your new role as a wife, the responsibilities expected of you, but you’ve never once thought it’ll be this exhausting.

If you’d known any better, you wouldn’t have jumped into it as easily as you had. Blame your mother for instilling all these ideas onto you, and blame your friends for romanticizing the Hero of Hyrule. He’d be a perfect husband, they’d told you. With how sweet and caring he is to strangers – people whose name he doesn’t even know, imagine how sweet he’ll be to his own wife. Bah. You’d imagined, indeed, and now you regret it. Not that it isn’t too late for regrets, but still. It’s not like this is something you’d wanted to happen in the first place. This has been, after all, a marriage of convenience, rushed and impulsive, something you had actually no say in no matter how much your mother tries to pretend otherwise. It hadn’t been your idea; it had been your mother’s, tinged with desperation as she tried to find a way to settle your father’s debts after he ran away from your mother and you, eager to hide and start life somewhere else.

Looking back at it now, it’s a bad idea, but at the time, there’s very little you can do. Stuck in a house where your mother resents you for reminding her too much of the man who’d left her, the choice had only been to get away. And so you’d agreed. The marriage had been quick, private, with little ceremony. Attended only by your mother and a handful other villagers, there were no vows spoken, no kisses shared. Everything was stiff and formal, quick and hasty. Before you know it, you’re being driven off into Hateno Village, with all your belongings packed into a single rucksack, your old life growing further out of reach with each second.

Three year later and you’re stuck in a house as cold and hollow as the one you’d left behind. You doubt there’s any real love involved between you, not even an ounce of fondness or attraction. It’s not that Link isn’t nice. He’s nice, exactly like a hero is nice. He’s helpful, considerate. He washes the dishes, puts them back the same way you’d left them. He fixes his bed every morning so you don’t have to. He doesn’t leave any mess behind for you to clean up. He’s exactly how your friends describe him – the ideal man, a hero.

But they don’t know that he could be distant too, cold as ice. Perfect and flawless. Like a statue, meant to be admired only from afar. This close, everything you know about him falls apart. He’s like a ghost in your home, a phantom presence you’ve learned to coexist with in the course of three years. He wakes early in the mornings, long before you, and sleeps late at nights, in the room across from you. He’s never around enough for you to share your meals with, or for you to get to know. You can’t remember a single time where you’d sat across from each other on the dinner table and talked. Even when the two of you had shared your meals together, which was rarely, perhaps a once in a blue moon occurrence, he was quiet, mostly just keeping to himself. He’d eat his meals in silence, and you’d do the same, listening to the clatter of the tableware as you do so. Some days, when you’re feeling particularly friendly, eager to get to know him on a more personal level, you’d strike a conversation, telling him things about your old life, asking him about his own in turn. He’s never offered much about himself, and after a few times, you’d finally given up on your attempts to get him to open up to you more.

But he listens. He always does, even as you ramble on with your mouth full of food, getting carried away with a that he hasn’t asked for, or even cared enough to know. You wonder if he finds your life more interesting than his – highly doubtful and you’re sure of that, or if he’s just humoring you, trying to be polite to make you feel better, but he listens. Or maybe he just knows how to look like he is. With how quiet he is around you, you never could quite guess what he’s thinking. Or feeling.

 Even now, if pressed, the only thing for certain that you know about him is that his name is Link, and that he’s the Hero who saved the world from the Calamity a hundred years ago. Things that could be found just from listening to the people alone. Nothing personal, nothing intimate. You never knew how he was raised, never knew the kind of village he’d grown up in. The things he likes. The things he dislikes. Whether or not he’s really okay with this arrangement.

You do know, however, how he likes being away from home. Years of observation have made you jumped to that conclusion, at least. You could almost count the hours he’s here in your home – his home, one that he’d graciously shared with you; just one, sometimes three, and only to rest and recuperate. He never stays the whole day, not even a half. Most nights, he doesn’t come home at all, preferring to spend the rest of his days elsewhere, without your company to keep him.

Not that you could blame him, of course. He was probably forced into this as much as you had been, and the only reason he’d agreed with this was because he was too nice and couldn’t find it in his heart to say no to your mother, with her crying and whimpering. Oh, well. You suppose there are worse men out there for you to marry. At the very least, he doesn’t hit you. Or scream at you, or take his anger out on you in all the worse ways one could imagine. You’ve heard of tales from your old village, where women escape to get away from their husbands’ anger. You suppose it’s only luck that you’re not considering the same course of action.

Still, that doesn’t make this life any less lonely than it is. Surrounded only by women your age, married happily to their own husbands, sometimes even with children on the way, makes you feel envious. All your life, you’d never imagined you were going to be married to anyone, preferring to live a life of solitude and freedom, but now that it’s the kind of life you live, you can’t help but feel some kind of resentment. How different your life would’ve been had you married for love and not convenience? If you’d listened to your heart instead of your mother?

Two years ago, back when you were younger, more impatient, you were certain you would’ve been happier with running away, living somewhere in the woods, alone and free. As old as you are now, you’re not so sure anymore; besides, it’s already too late to change courses, and it’s not as if Link is a bad husband. It’s not a bad life, by all means. You live in relative comfort, and the people in the village are as nice as you’ve always imagined. You’ve got food, shelter. In fact, you even have people you call your friends now: two women around your age, married and with children, eager to visit you in your empty home to keep you company when their own husbands are away and their kids are busy with schooling. They stay until the sun begins to set, and the three of you would do all sorts of things together, trying to pass the time: sewing the tattered clothes from your respective husbands’ closets, gossiping about the other villagers, exchanging details about your lives as married women.

They’d egg you on and tease you, pressing you for more details about your life with your husband, asking you all sorts of things: whether or not the hero’s good in bed, if he’s that good of a kisser as they’d imagine him to be. You don’t have an answer for any of that, and it’s the truth; ever since the two of you had got married, there had been no chances for intimacy. You’ve never even kissed, not even once, nor have you ever held his hands in yours. The most he’s ever given you as an act of affection is a nod and a polite smile – which isn’t an act of affection at all, according to anyone who’s ever had a shred of romance in their bones.

Realizing you’re speaking the truth, your friends give you a look of sympathy. The teasing soon turns into consolation, and you can’t tell which is the worse. He's just busy, they tell you. Maybe he just doesn’t have the time; he’s a hero, after all, and a knight too, at that. He’s already got so many things on his plate. You know all of this, of course, and more. They always forget to mention how this is a transaction, a marriage of convenience, something he doesn’t even have to like, or even reciprocate. Or maybe they’re just trying to be considerate, not mentioning it in your presence. Everyone in here has no doubt learned of it; it’s not as though it’s a secret anyhow. Not like it changes anything.

-

It shouldn’t be surprising to learn that he’d do something like this. It should be unthinkable, to discover that someone like him would cheat, but the truth sits in front of you nonetheless. There’s no refuting it, not when all the signs are here, flashing in front of your eyes. How he never seems to be around lately, how his clothes seem to smell differently now, not like the usual, at least, and certainly not the one you’ve grown to memorize. The red marks at the collar of his shirt, obvious to nearly no one else but you. Isn’t this, too, a kind of truth?

Still, you’re not sure why you care. There’s no reason why you should feel this way, as though you’ve been hollowed out and left empty. No reason why dread sits in the bottom of your stomach, heavy like lead, or why your heart hurts, as though a thousand needles pricked it all at once. It’s not as if he owes you any loyalty, and it’s not as if you love each other. You’ve established that, early on in your marriage. You’ve never talked about it, not explicitly, but it’s always there – a lingering knowledge, something you both know but have never said out loud.

And yet it doesn’t stop you from feeling this way. You’ve tried to rationalize it, sitting there on the dinner table, holding his tunic in your hands, glaring at the very obvious lipstick stains on the collar, feeling both angry and heartbroken at once. But there’s no reason to, you know there’s no reason to feel like this. You don’t love him, you’re sure of it. You can count all the times you’ve shared a conversation with him with one hand, and it’s not enough to justify whatever feelings of possessiveness you have over him. As far as you know, he can do whatever he wants. And so could you, for that matter.

And yet it doesn’t stop your heart from hurting. Nor does it make your anger abate even for just a second. You hold the tunic tighter in your hands, glaring angrily at it, not sure what you want to do with it. You’re meant to sew it, initially; it had looked to be in poor condition the first time you’d laid your eyes on it, tattered and ripping at the seams already, but now you want nothing more to do with it. Another irrational thought, one you’re supposed to quell, crush beneath the weight of all your other worries.

You exhale a breath, stand up, leaving the tunic where it is as you fetch a drink.

-

He comes home for dinner that night. Another rare occurrence, one you don’t even dream of happening, especially now that you’ve learned of the truth. You imagine he’ll be out and about at this time, busy making love to whatever mystery girl he surrounds himself with. Wide-eyed, naïve. Doe-like and innocent, she’d be younger than you for sure, this mystery girl whose only mark of existence is the lipstick stains she keeps leaving on your husband’s clothes. Even just the thought of her makes you annoyed, though you’re not quite sure why.

You’re quiet as you serve dinner, quiet even as you sit across from him and eat. Normally, you’d at least try to make some conversation, just to ease whatever awkwardness lingers in the air. He wouldn’t speak, like always, though he’d listen to you go on about your life even if he’s heard the same story more than once. But you don’t. Not this time. With your mind circling back toward this so-called mystery girl, you can’t even bring yourself to speak. Or enjoy your dinner. Each bite seems almost bitter, the taste of blood lingering on the tip of your tongue long after you’ve swallowed a spoonful down. It takes you more than a few minutes to realize that you’ve been biting your tongue this whole time, stewing too much in your own jealousy to pay proper attention to your meal. Hurriedly, you excuse yourself, grabbing a nearby kitchen towel to wipe at your mouth.

He doesn’t say anything as he watches you go, though you could feel his eyes on your back, eyeing your every move. You don’t have to look back to know that he wears the same expression as always. Opaque, unreadable. Far out of your reach.

-

You find him in your room after dinner. He sits on the edge of the bed, his hands on his lap, staring at something on the floor. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he looks like he’s deep in thought. You lean against the door, cross your arms over your chest. Taking a glance at your surroundings, just to confirm you are indeed in the right room, you clear your throat, catch his attention. “This isn’t your room,” you say stiffly, your voice flat, empty.

He looks up at the sound of your voice, eyes boring straight through yours. The blue of his eyes seems even brighter in the semi-darkness, piercing as he continues to stare at you, through you. Does he know then? Does he know that you know? Does he know how you feel about it? “I know where my room is.”

You raise an eyebrow, purse your lips together. “There’s no reason for you to be here.”

He shrugs, looks away, casts a curious glance around him. He takes it all in, at once, as if for the first time. “I came to visit.”

You frown. He’s never come to visit your room before, at least not when you’re around, and you can’t imagine why he’d want to now. Not when he has something else to keep himself busy – someone else. “I don’t see why there’s a need to.”

His voice grows quieter, nearly a whisper. Still, every word rings loud against your ears, echoes and reverberates in the hollow of your soul. “I came to check up on my wife.”

The words catch you off-guard, and for a second, your mind blanks out, unable to find the right words. He’s never referred to you as such before; you can’t confirm if he’s ever done so in front of other people, but it’s not as though you’re outside often enough to ask. And even if you are, it’s not an appropriate question. Still, that doesn’t make you any less surprised. “Your… wife?”

He nods his head, gives you a lopsided smile. You’ve only ever seen this smile of his on a handful of occasions, and it always makes you feel conflicted each time. A flutter in your heart, a knot in your stomach, a sudden jump in your pulse – things you could never quite explain how, note even to yourself. “There’s only one of her, isn’t there?”

You snort, unable to keep the bitterness out of your voice, your words. “I don’t appreciate you thinking you could fool me again, mister.”

“I see.” His voice grows quieter, softer. He lowers his head, stares at the floor. He doesn’t speak for a second, and once again, you could never quite tell what he’s thinking. “That’s why you’ve been quiet.”

You scoff, feeling your temper rise at his sudden shift in attitude. Still, you’re careful to keep your voice flat, refusing to give in to the heat of your anger, the excruciating burn of your jealousy. “I don’t think you know me as much as you claim to.”

He lifts his head, looks at you. He meets your eyes this time, and something in his gaze pins you to your spot. You’ve never seen him look at you this way before, and something about it makes you yearn for it and deny it at the same time. “I’ve watched you,” he says. His voice is calm, steady. Soothing, almost, though it only does the opposite for you. “You didn’t see me, but this afternoon, after you ate your lunch, you laid on the couch and napped for an hour.”

You shake your head, look away, crossing your arms over your chest. “You watching me like a stalker doesn’t prove you know enough about me.”

He doesn’t falter. “You take your coffee with three sugars and no less because it’s too bitter for your taste.”

He’s right, like he’d been right the previous time, and yet the same problem remains. You exhale a sigh, growing more exasperated by the second. “I don’t see what that has to do with any of this.”

His eyebrows furrow. A hint of irritation flashes in his expression, rare and quick as a lightning bolt. Frustration creeps into his voice, makes it rise just the slightest bit. “That I know you as much as I claim to.”

You shake your head, exhale another sigh, shoulders slumping in resignation. There’s no point to this argument, is there? The boundaries of your relationship had been clear from the start; you knew what you were getting into the moment you’d agreed to the marriage. “Even if you do, we’re still strangers.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he stands up, takes a step forward, and another, then another. Until he’s standing in front you, just barely out of reach. “Are we?”

“Yes.”

He takes another step, closes the distance between you until there’s none. “Even if I know everything about you?”

Does he? Even the thought seems almost unbelievable. Laughable, too. He has too much on his plate to bother learning everything he can about you. And even if that were true and he truly did do all of those, what difference would it make? Still, you can’t help but be curious, one eyebrow raising as you keep your eyes on him. “And what do you know about me?”

He nods, smiles. A different kind this time – tiny, a subtle twitch at the corners of his lips. One you’ve never seen before, and yet one that sends an unexplainable thrill through you. “That you’re jealous.” It’s a statement, a simple fact, one that makes your ears burn in offense.

“There’s no reason for me to be,” you snap, glaring at him. Heat rises to your cheeks, and you take a step back, attempting to mask it in the semi-darkness of the room. He follows after you, takes another step forward when you take a step back, refusing to let you maintain that distance you’ve been trying to keep. The game continues on for approximately a minute before you finally hit the wall, rendering all chances of escape null. You glare at him instead, annoyed at the look of amusement flickering in his eyes. “I know what I got myself into when I agreed to marry you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Look,” you begin, taking a step to the side, refusing to play his game any longer. He doesn’t let you, stops you before you can go any farther, placing both his hands on either side of your head, caging you in. “I’m not sure why you’re here in my room right now, but I’m not going to be your entertainment tonight just because you’re lonely and in mighty need of company.”

He looks almost surprised at your implication; you catch the widening of his eyes, the shock that flickers behind them, just briefly before it fizzles out, disappears once more. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

 “It’s not worry,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose in exasperation. Has he always been this annoying and you just never even know it? Is this a side of him you would’ve killed to know a few years back? You would’ve been certain of the answer years ago, but now you’re not so sure. Everything’s too confusing, conflicting, and you’re not sure what to think, especially not when it comes to him. “It’s called—”

“Jealousy,” he finishes for you. He gives you another small smile, and it looks smug, victorious. You’ve half the heart to wipe it off, and the other half to kiss it away. You’re not entirely sure where the thought comes from, and it makes the heat in your cheeks rise, grow warmer.

You glare at him instead. It’s easier to mask whatever embarrassment you feel with anger; it’s familiar, comfortable, and it’s something he expects. You open your mouth, try to protest, but he stops you this time, refuses to let you speak. He shakes his head, presses a finger against your lips, shuts you up. His smile grows wider, and he leans down, close enough that he could look you in the eye. This close, the blue of his eyes seems infinite. Mesmerizing, as though it would swallow you whole if you forget to look away. He removes his finger from your lips, moves to cup your cheek, cradling it in his hands. Your vision swims. Your breath steams. Your heart stops. There’s a split second where everything grows still as he touches you for the first time.

Every feeling after this is magnified. The warmth of his hands burns like liquid heat against your skin. Your flesh sings. Your bones ache. You feel like a livewire at this moment, coiled and very much alive. You fear you’ll explode, turn into sparks if he touches you any longer.

You take in a shuddered breath, lifting your head just a bit, enough to meet his gaze. When he looks into your eyes, could he tell how badly you enjoy this? How much you’ve yearned for it, subconsciously, and in secret? Whatever he finds there must not be satisfactory enough because he’s leaning even closer, just enough that his breath steams against your cheeks. He’s close enough to kiss, to touch, the way he never is for the past few years.

You could tell him to stop. You won’t be his plaything tonight, and you’ve made it clear from the start. Just because he’s the hero doesn’t mean you’d bend to his whims, even if he has you at his mercy. He traces your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, and every retaliating thought in your mind disappears, along with every half-formed protest you might have. The gentleness with which he touches you opens up a valley of desire in the pit of your stomach, hollow and greedy. It makes you lean against his touch, like a moth waiting to be burned.

He leans in, brushes his lips against yours. Tentatively, like he’s waiting to see how you’d react. Seeing as you’re not pushing him away, he leans in even more, and kisses you fully. There’s hunger with the way he kisses you, mirroring the desire that sits in the hollow of your stomach. You grab the hem of his shirt, balling it into fists as you pull him closer. He responds by cupping the back of your head and pulling you against him, kissing you more greedily.

You don’t know how long you’ve kissed, but you’re breathless by the time you’ve pulled away. Catching your breath, you give him another glare – a last show of strength, even if it’s futile in the end, especially with how putty you are now in his hands. “I’m not going to be your plaything tonight.”

He shakes his head, looking almost annoyed at your comment. “You’re not.”

He doesn’t let you protest anymore. He leans down, latches his lips on your neck, peppering kisses all over: the underside of your jaw, your pulse, the curve of your neck. Your skin singes and burns with every kiss, but he doesn’t stop there. He kisses his way down: from your collarbone to the slant on your shoulder. He runs his tongue along your skin like he’s eager to taste you, and it sends another spark of thrill through you. You let out a shuddering breath, not quite expecting that; absently, you reach up, grab hold of his hair, tugging on it just so, and it only spurs him on, feeds into his ego. Impatiently, he pops the buttons of your blouse, not caring that he’s nearly ripped it off in the process. He doesn’t apologize. Instead, he moves to kiss his way down your body: the valley of your chest, your breasts, your navel until he’s kneeling down in front of you. With your skirt in the way, he’s unable to go further. Hurriedly, he tugs it down, pulls it off your ankles, then throws it somewhere in the room.

“Hey!” you protest, but he simply ignores you. Or maybe he’s just simply too far gone to care. With you left only in your underwear, there aren’t much obstructions left. He runs his eyes up and down your form, and something in his eyes makes you want to cower and hide. There’s greed in there, mixed with something else, something you can’t quite name. Hunger, perhaps? Or maybe even desire? Either way, he doesn’t let you linger on the question much longer.

He’s much gentler this time, slower than he’d been just a while ago, when he was practically ripping your shirt and your skirt off of you. Now, it feels as though he’s got all the time in the world. He tugs at your underwear, pulls it off your ankle, no longer impatient. He takes his sweet time as he leans in and presses kisses on the inside of your thighs, each one leaving you more breathless than the last. Soft, teasing, each one a kind of agony that only makes you yearn for more. You’ve lost count after the first one, every rational thought pushed out by the impatience to feel something. You glare down at him, only to find him already watching you, his gaze glued to your face, drinking in every reaction you make. You’d have blushed if you’ve still got some semblance of dignity left somewhere in you.

“Hurry up,” you say, the words a breathless rasp as they spill out of your lips. He gives you a dark look, but he listens anyway. He inches his face closer to your bare cunt. He doesn’t give you a chance to complain this time. He buries his head between your thighs, catches the trickle of arousal spilling out of you with the tip of his tongue. Heat rises once more to your cheeks. There’s a part of you, embarrassed and shameful, that wants to run away and hide, push him off you. There’s another part that wants him closer, wants all he could offer. Right now, you’re not entirely sure which is which.

And he’s still going torturously slow. It feels intentional, mocking. He moves with the patience of a saint, all his earlier impatience forgotten in a flash. You hate it, but you can’t bring yourself to speak when he blows against your cunt, making your mind blank out. “Link,” you say, your voice thick and raspy. You’ve never imagined you’ll call for him like this – a mix of desire and desperation, and it’s so unlike yourself that you’d have laughed if you hadn’t been

You glare down at him once more, and you could almost swear that he gives you a smug smirk in response. He doesn’t let you dwell on it any further; he dives back in, surprises you this time, delving his tongue deep into you. A shudder leaves you, and your eyes flutter shut, your head hitting against the wall behind you. You could barely register the pain; there’s a dull throb in your head, but all is quickly lost in the sea of pleasure that surrounds you.

You tug a fistful of his hair, hard enough that it’s sure to hurt, and he responds by burying his tongue deeper, lapping you up like a man starved. Every part of you feels hot, every nerve ending alight and on fire. You should tell him to stop, but your body aches for more. Your hips buck, involuntarily, against him, and he lifts one of your legs to rest it upon his shoulder. He places his hands on either side of your thighs, keeps you in place as he furthers his assault, delving into you over and over until he rounds in on that spot that has your legs shaking, the entirety of your body overwhelmed with feeling. “T-there!”

He doesn’t stop. Eager to discover what’s made you tick, he only grows rougher, hungrier, zeroes in on that spot over and over until your mind is spent with pleasure. Your stomach tightens, coils. Everything’s too much, too sudden, and everything in you breaks at once. With a sharp cry, you fall apart, limbs shaking, legs trembling. He’s there to catch you, keeps his arms around you as he holds you steady against him, his tongue ready and waiting to catch every drop that spills out of you, his throat bobbing with each swallow.

And then it’s over, and he’s leaning back, wiping his mouth the back of his hand. You stare at him dazedly, too busy trying to catch your breath to pay him proper attention. You could barely find it in yourself to move. Every part of you feels paralyzed. Your chest rises and falls. Your mind is still empty of any thought; distractedly, you watch him as he picks himself back up, stands up so that he’s in front of you again. You swallow the lump in your throat, lick the dryness off your lips as you find the right words. Nothing comes. All that spills out of you is a breathless noise that falls somewhere between a croak and a whimper, nothing that resembles anything coherent.

He doesn’t speak either. Instead, he leans in, presses his forehead against yours, cups your face in his hands once more. You’re just about to ask him a question before he’s kissing you once more, soft and slow, coaxing. Like he’s trying to apologize. Or maybe he’s tempting you to follow his lead. You’re not sure which is which, but he’s convinced you anyhow, and so you lean in, and kiss him back.

[saphiccarma]

Hi, i hope your doing well. I have a idea for a angst fanfic of Agatha x reader where they've been dating since they were both like 17 and have basically gone though everything together. And because the reader is known for not liking kids that much she convinces reader to let her have q child with Rio (I'm pretty sure her having Nicky with Rio is canon but im really sorry if it's not) Anyway, reader give off aunt vibes to Nicky and then after he dies Agatha is not okay and just becomes emotionally abusive for a while but they work it out then move to Westview and then WandaVision happens and then by the end of the road they finally work it all out bit then Agatha dies. And everyone leaves her and it's just really sad.

- Hold on, I still want you

Relationships: Agatha Harkeness x Reader

Summary: You had known Agatha for the longest time and it was good, it really was, but the two of you had your complications and no matter how hard you tried it never worked out just right.

Warnings: ANGST, sexual inneudos ig, mainly just angst.

A/N: I wrote this at like 2 fucking am so I apologise for any mistakes lmao

You had met Agatha when you were young, learning the basics of magic and fumbling through the steps. Agatha came to you with her honeyed voice, deep and alluring, as she guided you through the steps. Her words lulled you into a sense of peace. She smelled of strong spices and amber. And despite her dark appearance, she had a serious case of baby face that you adored. From her sparkling blue eyes, the color of light sapphire, to her slightly round cheeks that turned a faint shade of peek when she acted annoyed. You loved it all.

You were part of the plan to help her escape from her mother. You snuck her scrolls, dark ones that you had access through because of your mother. She contained a lot of old spells and didn't let anyone view them but you. Little did you know that they were ones that held instructions to use forbidden magic. Agatha told you it was so that she could build a perfect life for the two of you. She wanted only to help you and her. Not only that, but she wanted to help the world, make it a better place.

Looking back, it was foolish to believe her.

She would place tender kisses on your lips, "I love you." Before pulling back and spending hours bent over the written spells. Some days you would spend with her, your back aching and eyes blurry, but you loved it. Despite her harsh words at times, you still cared for her. She shared that same deep adoration, that deep sense of love too, you knew it. A deep fire sizzled in your heart and there was something that told you felt the same.

At night, against her parents’ discretion, Agatha proved it to you. With whispered words in your ear, her fingers buried deep in your cunt as she drew obscene sounds out of you, and her lips and teeth grazing against her neck. Your hands clawed into her back, arching off the bed as you reached your edge, and you came with a stuttered moan. Then Agatha would leave, nearly right after, only staying for a moment to make sure you were okay. The two of you couldn't get caught by her mother after all. Or your mother for that matter.

You pretended it didn't hurt. It didn't. That was only a precaution, just like not showing physical affection around others was just to be safe. You still stole lingering glances, staring at her dark blue dress and brown hair that draped down her shoulders. And sometimes her eyes met yours, filled with pure care that melted your heart. It was all worth it. The relationship may be private, but you still felt the love that pulsed through your shared moments.

One night, in the cold air that flowed between the trees, with Agatha's arms wrapped around you, her face buried in your neck.

"Do you ever want kids?" she whispered, her tone light and airy, the softest you ever heard it. Your chest tightened at the thought because fact was, you didn't. You wanted to do anything for Agatha, despite your own fears. Children were never your thing.

You didn't hate them, per say, but they weren't your favorite. They were clingy and needy. Most of all, they were fragile. Simple little things that needed protection and someone to care for them. You didn't think you could be that person, ever, so you avoided them like the plague. It was better to never get to know how fun that could be.

"I don't know," you mumbled, turning around before she could reply. You placed a tender kiss to her lips that only deepened from there. It wasn't long before your dress was slipping off your shoulders and her legs were trapping you beneath her. Heat flushed your cheeks from the meaningful kisses she pressed to your neck and lips and shoulders all the way down to your collarbones. The moment was about to become something more until you heard a rustling in the trees.

The two of you snapped apart, Agatha scrambling off your lap, but it was too late. Magic swirled around your wrists, holding you even as you tried to move. Some of the other witches stood at the edge of the clearing, their hands raised as they cast the spell that bound you, and then they moved to grab onto Agatha once you were secure. For some odd reason, you girlfriend didn't even move.

It was hours later when she came back to you, still bound to the tree. When she came back there was something different about her. She felt...strange, powerful. The power radiated from her in waves, flowing like a fresh river that never stopped flowing. That's when you felt it. Death trailed behind her peaceful, quite literally. Not just metaphorically, but literally.

Death was objectively pretty. Her hair was dark brown like Agatha's, a color deep like the dirt in the most flattering way possible, and it matched her black dress. Her ribs were showcased through her clothing, smooth skin on view for everyone to see. Well, anyone who was able to see her. Eyes shimmering with mischief, she spoke with light words, almost teasing while she looked you up and down.

That was the start of your odd connection with Death.

Agatha told you all about what happened. Her coven tried to kill her, and she had the ability to take other witches' magic. It worried you, but it didn't deter your love for her. This was only the start to decline of your relationship. Not that you understood that at the time.

The two of you bounced around, never staying in one place for two long, people were aware of Agatha's little stunt now. Word spread of the coven killer, the young girl, only seventeen, who had killed her entire coven. That scared other witches, and the two of you were too nervous to join another. You never asked why they tried to kill Agatha. She never explained. All you knew was it as unjust and she didn't deserve to be killed. That was all she told you.

Death came to visit once Agatha killed more people. Deep down you knew she was hungry for power, and in reality, you knew that all along, you just refused to believe it. You never cared much for power, but Agatha did. So, you let her have what she wanted and in return you had a happy relationship. The three of you formed an odd sort of bond that was shared. You learned Death had a name, and her name was Rio. Rio revealed she had the power to create life as well as take it. For her, it went both ways.

"What if I had a kid with her?" Agatha asked you as the two of you stood over dead bodies, just a few other witches killed. A common occurrence by now. You blinked at her, more shocked at that than the wrinkled people who lay below you, and you licked your lips slowly. It was an absurd idea. Was she proposing she have a relationship with Rio? As if reading your mind, a sly smirk spread across her lips, "Not to have a relationship with her sweet girl, what if I just asked her to use her magic and we could have a kid."

"Who's we?" Your voice was skeptical as you asked the question, hands tucked into your pockets as you rocked back and forth on your toes.

There was a slight pause on Agatha's end, "All three of us. Rio would deserve a connection with the kid and so would you."

And so, Agatha had a kid with Rio, and you were sort of sidelined. Not completely, Agatha still loved you, but you could tell that she felt something for Rio too. And there was nothing you could do. Agatha was all you had. Your mother was gone, your father unknown like most witch kids, and all you had was Agatha. You would be nothing without her.

In all honesty you didn't mind it. Not entirely. (That was a lie, you really did mind it.) Oddly enough, Nicholas made it all worth it with his bright smiles and little laughs. He wasn't your child, not even in the slightest way, based on the way you avoided him for the first few months. Those few months that were paid for. Nicholas's life didn't come for free - the price being other people's life and Agatha had to pay it.

Rio was truly sorrowful, but there was nothing she could do, not when she took life as much as she created it. Regardless, she stuck around as much as possible. She couldn't stay for long unless she wanted Nicholas to die.

Slowly, the bond between you and Nicholas grew, as much as you didn't think it would happen. He lured you in with his dark brown eyes and hair that grew out at a rapid pace. Even with his sick state, he would laugh at your little jokes, and whenever you tickled his sides. He was a bright light in the otherwise dark world. One thing you found interesting was that he was so unlike his mother. She had dark eyes that bore into every little thing, analyzing it all. But Nicky, the nickname you gave him, looked at the world with a childlike innocence and a different view. You adored it.

You hated the fat that his death was slow, so slow and probably painful. Yet there was nothing you could do to help him. You tried different spells, experimenting with different spells and potions but none of them worked. When it eventually came, you cried along with Agatha. You weren't Nicky's mother, not even close, but you loved him. He was more like your nephew, a kid you took under your wing and taught little tricks.

That was the hammer to nail that was already piercing your doomed relationship.

It started out slow, but Agatha changed.

Her words were harsher, ranging from "Just get me the damn book." to "God why are you so fucking stupid? Can't you get anything done?" They made tears well in your eyes and your chest tighten uncomfortably as your fists clenched. She would make it up to you later with soft words and tender touches while her lips pressed against every inch of your body. Her skilled fingers would toy with your private parts, and she would smirk at your little whines.

The attacks from her were always verbal, never physical, but that didn't make it any worse. It made you feel as if the relationship you held so dear to your heart worth nothing. But you had worked so hard to keep her, to keep the one thing that mattered, close, and you were determined to keep it. No matter how much it hurt. If you thought about it enough, it didn't hurt. Agatha was just expressing her emotions freely. That was a good thing.

But one particular occasion was the end of line for you.

"Why can't you just get anything done?" Agatha's hands were thrown up as she ranted before she carded them through her hair, tugging at all the knots, "I asked for one thing, one thing! And you couldn't just fucking do it. It was so simple!" A familiar wetness gathered in your eyes as Agatha screamed at you. Anger boiled in your stomach, but it was overwhelmed by pure shame and sorrow. They ran through you like fire as you dipped your head down and heat filled your cheeks.

You were wrong for this all, you couldn't just do one thing. It was the 2000's now and Agatha looked as if she wanted to throw her phone across the room. But then her eyes locked onto yours and instantly she softened. Agatha stopped her yelling, for once stopping for some odd reason, and she gazed at you with some sort of odd look. It may have sympathy or even...regret? Sighing heavily, she tried to step closer, arms outstretched as if to hug you, but you took a hasty step back.

"No," you held your hand out, "I need- I need space right now."

She opened her mouth to say something, but you were already fleeing out the door, just barely managing to slip shoes on. You bit down on your lip harshly to stifle the sobs that threatened to tear from your throat. Faintly, you could feel the frustration rolling off of Agatha as she stood in the doorway of the house, but you wouldn't turn back. There was no way. She had hurt you one to many times by now. Blaming you for Nicky's death or just calling you plain stupid. It was too much, and you couldn't stand it anymore.

It was hours later when Agatha found you, curled into a ball behind the house as you rocked back and forth with your knees pulled up to your chest and wet tracks running down your face. You could hear her sigh when she found you and it only made your lips curl into a harsher scowl.

"Go away," you muttered. She merely sunk down next to you, her shoulder touching yours despite your flinch. "Go away, Agatha."

Her arms wrapped around you, covering you in a soft embrace of a rare warmth that she hardly gave anymore. She mostly gave you cold touches, the only warm ones being her fingers when they fucked you, and she pulled you into her lap. You whined in protest but all she did was hush you softly and rock back and forth. It was a soothing motion that calmed any sense of anger you had. Gently, her fingers brushed through your hair until it was all smoothed out.

"I'm sorry," she whispered against your head, words that you had never one heard uttered from her, "For being so shitty. I'll do better, I promise." There was a moment of silence. You let her words sink in, truly considering it. There was a chance she really meant it, that she would try and do better, but a part of you hardly believed it. "Look, I have a way to fix it."

And then the two of you were in Westview playing along to Wanda's spell. Agatha truly was better and not just for appearances, but rather because she was actually trying. There was still harsh words at times, one that hit way too close to home, but she always apologized after. Genuinely apologized rather than just doing it through sex. There was still her Agatha-like pride that stemmed from her apologies, a reluctance to admit she was wrong before brushing it off with a casual and teasing remark. You knew she meant it though and it was getting better.

Like old times she guided you through the process of taking the Scarlet Witch's power. She got so close to, the two of you becoming close to Wanda through her children. It truly was a beauty what the young witch had created unknowingly, this entire town was made through pure sorrow. You admired it a little. Wanda's children were sweet children, but you couldn't help but avoid them as much as possible. Kids still weren't your thing. Especially when they brought up memories of another kid you used to know.

Agatha nearly got Wanda's power before the Scarlet Witch put you both under a spell and trapped you in Westview for years. For some time, it was nice. It is almost peaceful. You were blissed out in the spell and you, and Agatha finally lived a good, nearly perfect, life. But you knew something was wrong, in the pit of your stomach, something wasn't right. It was all too nice, too perfect, and that wasn't how your life worked. It never worked out.

Rio woke the two of you up with her signature smirk and sarcastic remarks before some kid dragged the two of you away. The Witches Road was meant to be a myth, but when the two of you actually went on it, you realized who the boy was. Billy Maximoff. He was just like his mother.

You knew that Agatha actually hoped the road would get her what she wanted. But you didn't buy it. Especially when Rio became involved and when the two of you emerged from The Road into Agatha's backyard. You knew that it wouldn't happen. Billy and maybe a little bit of Rio, were orchestrating it all, whether they knew it or not.

Before you knew it, Agatha was surging forward, smashing her face into Rio's. Pain twinged in your heart as you watched black lines spread through her face and like Nicky, there was nothing you could do as she died. You still tried.

Racing forward as you realized she was taking Rio's power, you shoved Death away, hoping it wasn't too late. But it was. Agatha floated to the ground, all the life drained from her and Death taking over. You fell to your knees beside her, ignoring Rio and Billy.

"No," you sobbed, your head falling onto her stomach, "No, Agatha come on. You're not dead." The tears made it hard to speak but you managed to choke broken pleas out as you begged her to stay with you. It did nothing to her current state.

A bitter stream of grief coursed through you as you fisted into her dress. Why couldn't she stay? You had done everything to keep her with you and yet she just left you. Just like that. Without thought or hesitation, Agatha gave her life for some kid she hardly knew. She left you. Agatha made it look so simple. You don't think you would have left her like that.

Rio's hand landed on your shoulder, curling into your skin in a way that was meant to be comforting, but you found it anything but that. Regardless, you let it sit there for a moment, too absorbed in your grief to care. It could have been minutes or hours later before you jerked away from her. Standing harshly, you shoved at her shoulders, palms colliding with your skin. She let you. Rio did nothing as you shoved her again, trying to let your frustration out on her.

"You did this! You took her just like you took Nicky!" You screamed until your voice was raw, yet the tears still flowed freely down your cheeks. Rio let you take out your anger and pain. You could see the faint shimmer of tears in her eyes, but you hardly cared, too focused on your own. You hit Rio and shoved and screamed for so long before you sunk to the ground once more, not caring for the way your knees collided harshly with the dirt.

Your mother was gone. Your father was never there. Nicholas was dead. Agatha had given up what little the two of you still had so easily. And Rio, well when you glanced up briefly, she was gone too. You had nothing but wanted it all.

Why couldn't one of them stayed?

[citrusandrottefruit]

Diagnosed with Hanahaki, a genetic autoimmune disease, as a child, Steve has learned to live with it. Along the way, he finds a family and falls in love with Eddie. He is never cured, but he lives.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Being diagnosed as a child meant that Steve didn’t have to tell anyone about Hanahaki, because his parents were the ones managing everything related to his health, and anyone he might want to share this information with was another child, so he had no reason to. Because of all this, Steve didn’t develop any particularly effective methods of announcing that he was sick. His parents told his teachers, babysitters, or nannies. The hospital staff just had to read his medical records.

Being Mrs. Harrington's son taught Steve to be discreet, because he learned that letting other people know could be painful and embarrassing. A show of weakness, sometimes. A part of him so intimate, so vulnerable, so shameful, so frightening that he could never even bring himself to share it with Tommy or Carol.

So when he sat down across from Wayne, a week after he had talked to Eddie and had reintegrated himself into the Munsons’ daily lives, he wondered how to do that. Eddie, who had been watching him out of the corner of his eye, seemed so nervous that Wayne began to look between them, suspicious and curious. Steve figured he hadn’t asked anything yet because he wanted to let them talk first.

He also wondered if Wayne was expecting some kind of different news.

“Wayne,” Steve called, because that was what he had been instructed to call Wayne. “I told Eddie something last week, and I thought I should tell you, too.”

“You don’t owe me anything, son.”

Despite his words, Wayne’s face showed that he wanted to know. Besides, Steve disagreed. He couldn’t just insert himself so deeply into someone’s life without alerting them to the danger he posed.

“I have Hanahaki. It’s not something new, so it’s not like I’m going to drop dead at any minute, and it’s not like I’m learning how to deal with it. I’m fine, I have access to treatment and medication, and I’m not freaking out about it all.” He said it all at once, hoping that throwing out all the information without wasting any time would ensure that Wayne wouldn’t worry.

Eddie frowned and kept casting sidelong glances at Steve, though he also exchanged deep looks with Wayne. They had that ability, a bit like Steve’s with Robin, of communicating without saying a single word.

Steve’s ears felt like they were plugged with cotton, but he heard Wayne finally speak. It felt like ages had passed.

“Steve.” He hadn’t dared look directly at Wayne yet, but he couldn’t help but do just that when he heard the crack in his voice. 

After everything that had happened with Eddie just three and a half months ago, Steve was more than familiar with reading the pain and fear on Mr. Munson’s face. He hadn’t expected to be the cause of the same kind of expression.

“Are you really okay?” 

“Not my best moment, but yeah. I’ve got it under control now.” 

“What can I do? What can we,” he gestured between himself and Eddie, “do to help?”

“I… I guess just by being here.”

Wayne nodded silently. 

Steve figured he needed time to process everything and that he would want some answers, so he let the minutes pass while he tried to organize in his mind which parts of his life he would have to expose. The truth was that he wanted to keep it all to himself and pretend that everything was fine, but the doctors had been warning him for years that there would come a time when he could no longer pretend, that it would help if he didn't worry about keeping everything so secret, and that he could only have a normal life if he had more support.

He couldn't ask for any of this with a clear conscience if he didn't clarify at least a few points.

So he told him about how his mother developed Hanahaki first and how his parents made sure he got the best treatment possible and how his father organized Steve's finances into profitable investments so that he would always have some income even if he could no longer work.

“Is that all they did?”

The question took Steve by surprise and he didn’t know how to answer. His parents weren’t with him, they barely cared, and Steve didn’t even know for sure how his mother’s health was doing, even though the two were mirror images of each other, but Mr. Harrington had made a considerable effort for him. Granted, the money invested in Steve’s name was what was always meant for him, to pay for college, and granted that his parents didn’t think it was worth it for Steve to go to college, because he wasn’t smart and wouldn’t be able to manage his studies while working and taking care of his health. It wasn’t an extra gift, but it was a lot. It was much more than most people had.

His parents weren't sacrificing or giving up what was theirs, but they never denied Steve anything, so it was okay.

They had never been good at parenting. The way things were, Steve would most likely cause crisis after crisis for his mother, angering his father so much that he couldn't handle his wife, and in return, Steve would do the same for them. They would kill each other. Being apart would provide more stability than they would have together.

Despite their fragile bonds, the Harringtons had done what they could to keep Steve alive, and he wouldn't dare complain about it.

So Steve didn't answer, because he didn't want anyone to think he was convalescing from missing his parents, and he also didn't want to lie.

But that same night, as he and Eddie sat in the backyard, with four feet between them, Steve thought, "Why not?" and he spoke.

If he was going to pursue any relationship with Eddie, Eddie needed to know everything.

“I think my dad triggered Hanahaki on my mom,” he said suddenly, his tone flat and disinterested and almost too low. Eddie listened, because he was more attentive than ever to every sound Steve made. It was both scary and exciting.

Steve took advantage of the attention and said things he had never dared to say out loud before. About how Mrs. Harrington liked to pretend everything was fine, about how his parents were tight and traveled together all year long. About how he could expect a fifteen-minute phone call every month, except sometimes it was no more than five minutes, just to check in and see if he was still alive.

Eddie was so angry and indignant to hear this that Steve was happy and allowed himself to feel like he had to defend his parents. Because this time, he didn’t have to be the one fighting to validate all the hurt his parents had caused. Eddie was doing that on his own.

“They know I’m alive because they get updates on my health all the time. Sometimes they mention a procedure I’ve had. They call to hear from me that I’m alive.”

“I don’t like your parents,” Eddie muttered under his breath. “If you were mine, I’d be with you all the time.”

Steve smiled fondly.

“You are now.”

After that, the next conversation was with Joyce and Hopper. Both Eddie and Robin had volunteered to be there, but wanting to do it alone and away from the kids, he asked Eddie to go out with them and make sure they were distracted. 

Besides, as much as he wanted someone by his side, needing other people so much was exactly what he had been avoiding. 

So he ended up alone in the Byer-Hopper kitchen, under the watchful eye of an anxious and worried Joyce. She kept glancing over her shoulder at Steve as she paced around for no apparent reason, under the pretense of needing to prepare dinner even though she had already said that some groceries were missing and Hopper had gone to get them.

They made small talk as Steve helped chop some vegetables and grew increasingly restless, eager to get home and hug Eddie or Robin. Then he realized he had been thinking of the Munson residence as “home” and redirected his thoughts to imagine a quiet evening watching movies or walking around town (since he had started to feel more tired and weak, Steve had gained a greater appreciation for walking than ever before). 

The sound of the door opening followed by grunts and heavy footsteps caught his attention, and both Steve and Joyce turned to face Hopper. He stopped, scanning the entire room and craned his neck back toward the stairs, as alert as everyone always seemed to be after everything. 

“Steve came to visit.”

“The kids are with Munson.” Hopper grunted.

“Yeah, I wanted to talk to you two about something I’ll talk to them about later.”

“Do they want you to ask them for something?” Joyce asked, frowning. “I’m sorry if they dragged you into any of their plans, Steve.”

“No, no, it’s something I really want to talk about, I haven’t talked to them about any of this yet.”

“Well, do it.” Hopper encouraged.

Then, in what was very similar to the conversation with Wayne, Steve told him about Hanahaki and the treatment. He wasn't surprised by the tears or the hug from Joyce, but Hopper's hand on his shoulder, her broken voice, and his hasty exit were more than Steve had expected.

“Give him some time.” Joyce asked. “He’ll be back. You still have things to say, right?”

“Sort of, but I can come back later.”

“Would you prefer this? Come back later?”

He opened his mouth, not knowing how to respond to that. What he really wanted was to say it right away and leave, but Steve also wanted to respect their space, to give them time to think.

“I can come back later.”

Joyce didn’t answer, she just kept running her eyes all over Steve’s face. Then she sighed and gave him an awkward smile.

“Or we can keep cooking, come here. Help me organize the groceries, so we can continue.”

They didn’t have much time before Hopper returned, much more stoic than when he’d left.

“So, Steve. If I understand correctly, you’ve been sick for over 10 years.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In 1983, you were already sick.” Hopper pointed out the obvious, as if he were trying to steer the conversation somewhere specific. Steve nodded. “We’ve been to the hospital several times since then, and it’s been months since everything’s been back to normal. Why are we only hearing about this now?”

“I was stable. I still am, actually, but my rate of decline, even outside of acute flare-ups, has been worse. The daily symptoms, the things I feel even when I’m fine, have been more intense.” Steve explained, measuring his words as he spoke. “If the Ups… If something happens again, I don’t think I can be someone you can trust, because I won’t be able to protect the children.”

“Oh my Gosh, Steve.” Joyce covered her mouth and looked at the floor.

“It’s not that big of a deal, to be honest. It’s not like I’m going to die tomorrow.” He probably didn’t add. He probably wasn’t going to die any time soon. “I’m responding well to the treatment. Besides, that’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you two: the worry of administering Hanahaki while trying to hide it from other people doesn’t, uh, mix well with the treatment.”

“And this treatment. How are you paying for it? Do you have to have weekly sessions or something?” Hopper asked.

“No, I’m just on some medication, if any complications arise I’ll go to the hospital and find out what can be done. Other than that, I’ve been having monthly checkups for monitoring. And my parents. They’re paying for everything.”

“That’s less than the least those two could do.”

“Hop!” Joyce clapped him on the shoulder, and though he mumbled something inept that Steve assumed was an apology, he didn’t sound the least bit remorseful. He looked furious.

“Anyway,” Steve started again, “you don’t need to worry about that. I’m fine. What’s bothering you is the kids.” 

Hopper looked at him, alarmed. 

“The kids? What’s wrong with them?” 

“I need to tell them. Since you’re Will and El’s parents, and you’re important to the Party, I know you might have. Worries? Fears? With me being around them. It wouldn’t be easy for them if something happened to me, so I understand if you want me to give them some space.” 

“What are you talking about? Even if we decided to push you guys away, I’m sure they’d find a way to drag you back. They’d probably set up camp in your living room.” 

“We’d never do that, Steve, because we love you too, you know that, right?” Joyce asked as she approached, pulling him into a hug he hadn’t even prepared for yet. 

A knot in Steve’s chest loosened. 

That night, even though he had been invited to stay and have dinner, Steve returned to the apartment alone. He called Eddie and Robin, who kept asking where he was, and when he finally felt alone and at peace, he began to cry.

Tag list | @estrellami-1 @drips-and-drabbles15 @im-sam-fucking-winchester @wonderland-girl143-blog @eyehartart

[inkskinned]

the thing is there's like, a point of oversaturation for everything, and it's why so many things get dropped after a few minutes. and we act like millennials or gen z kids "have short attention spans" but... that's not quite it. it's more like - we did like it. you just ruined it.

capitalism sees product A having moderate success, and then everything has to come out with their "own version" of product A (which is often exactly the same). and they dump extreme amounts of money and environmental waste into each horrible simulacrum they trot out each season.

now it's not just tiktokkers making videos; it's that instagram and even fucking tumblr both think you want live feeds and video-first programming. and it helps them, because videos are easier to sneak native ads into. the books coming out all have to have 78 buzzwords in them for SEO, or otherwise they don't get published. they are making a live-action remake of moana. i haven't googled it, but there's probably another marvel or starwars something coming out, no matter when you're reading this post.

and we are like "hi, this clone of project A completely misses the point of the original. it is soulless and colorless and miserable." and the company nods and says "yes totally. here is a different clone, but special." and we look at clone 2 and we say "nope, this one is still flat and bad, y'all" and they're like "no, totally, we hear you," and then they make another clone but this time it's, like, a joyless prequel. and by the time they've successfully rolled out "clone 89", the market is incredibly oversaturated, and the consumer is blamed because the company isn't turning a profit.

and like - take even something digital like the tumblr "live streaming" function i just mentioned. that has to take up server space and some amount of carbon footprint; just so this brokenass blue hellsite can roll out a feature that literally none of its userbase actually wants. the thing that's the kicker here: even something that doesn't have a physical production plant still impacts the environment.

and it all just feels like it's rolling out of control because like, you watch companies pour hundreds of thousands of dollars into a remake of a remake of something nobody wants anymore and you're like, not able to afford eggs anymore. and you tell the company that really what you want is a good story about survival and they say "okay so you mean a YA white protagonist has some kind of 'spicy' love triangle" and you're like - hey man i think you're misunderstanding the point of storytelling but they've already printed 76 versions of "city of blood and magic" and "queen of diamond rule" and spent literally millions of dollars on the movie "Candy Crush Killer: Coming to Eat You".

it's like being stuck in a room with a clown that keeps telling the same joke over and over but it's worse every time. and that would be fine but he keeps fucking charging you 6.99. and you keep being like "no, i know it made me laugh the first time, but that's because it was different and new" and the clown is just aggressively sitting there saying "well! plenty of people like my jokes! the reason you're bored of this is because maybe there's something wrong with you!"

[eri-pl]

The Hadestown syndrome

So I am re-reading the Silm. and I have a lot of:

I know [a terrible thing] will happen, but if I read it enuogh times, maybe it won't?

I know what you are going to do but how about you don't?

No, seriously, stop

If I read it enough times maybe it will somehow get better?

[fisheito]

my princess nonsense is being encouraged watch ouyt imabout to be eneaabled

OK WHATF ATHAT'S SO CUTE I HAD TO MAKE IT i know realistically there's little to no chance that rei DOESN'T know how to work heels 🤣 BUT IMAGINE.....ING.... YAKUMO GENTLY GUIDING REI IN HEELS, WEEKS BEFORE THE BIG GALA AND HAVING NONE OF HIS NORMAL FEAR OF PHYSICAL TOUCH BC HIS [TEACHER MODE] IS OVERRIDING HIS INSECURITY

[notsodailycake]

Man, it's so disheartening to keep seeing the twins from whatever media you enjoy be shipped. Especially being a twin myself, it's just so discouraging and makes me feel uncomfortable sharing anything related to me and my twin

It just got me sitting like

[booasaur]

Station 19 - 6x08

[nomidreams]

god i finally watched new episodes my honest reaction is jgiwoaoKzmxmkwkakkak

[the-sycophant]

How does Miss Morning feel about all the other gods compared to how she feels about Menphina?

Apologies this got so long. Lo! A religious character having feelings about religion. ...and me being rambly with Temple beliefs.

Oh well! tl;dr | Oschon is King...for now.

Oschon For many, Oschon is considered to be Menphina's divine lover. Why is that? He is a wanderer of the realm, an explorer of self, and a patron and guide to vagrants. He has wandering legs, wandering hands, a wandering mind. It keeps Him away for who knows how long, and He is sure to be as fickle as a breeze. Maybe He's even reserved and reluctant for affection when He does return, difficult to hold and to talk to. Or maybe He is ravenous for it, immediately diving into the ~divine sheets~ upon arrival. Maybe not even there, taking it instead in the doorway.

Regardless of how He visits or why - He visits, and She lets Him.

Marlowe's Temple believes Menphina loves Him for His unique passion to just be. He loves uniquely and needs to be loved uniquely - and perhaps it's not the same every time. So they keep a constant, they share stories. Stories of shared moments whilst on the move, of the smallest of human interactions, or of finding some small grove no one has laid eyes on in decades. Of singing songs and writing sonnets that declare an anything to an anyone, to a no one, just to do it and put words on paper or in the air even if no one sees or hears but your own eyes and ears. Of crying out joyfully to the birds as a market caravan joins in all off key as they rock down the road, strumming and plucking strings, beating on make-shift drums to pass the time. They laugh and cry together over moments, and She will comfort and love Him in whichever way he might need, gives him a something special He might not get elsewhere. Non-judgmental. They need all not be spoken stories, just felt ones. Scars on the heart or the body that change you, make you grow. It's really all humans can do sometimes, learn as they go, and Oschon is likely the most painfully human out of all of them. So he deals with this pain, again, in his own way. Sometimes alone, sometimes not.

And what else can He do but continue onward?

But to bring stories back, He must leave, He must live, and if He wants a bit of lovin' He better have a damned good story when He comes back.

The Temple recognizes that people need to be loved differently, but they try and cater especially to those that follow Oschon's path regardless if they themselves follow Him in their hearts. For many it is a difficult road to walk, willingly or otherwise. It is oft filled with struggles, suffering, solitude. Violence. The manner in which one secures their victory over their own livelihood, to continue living and fighting for one's inner self despite the strife that the outer puts on them is deserving of reward and reprieve. Like Menphina does for Oschon, the Temple provides in a myriad of ways through companionship. Marlowe is one such companion, offering herself to be a friend, sister, lover- a shoulder to cry on or a hand to hold, or to merely be a presence in the room, just sharing a space. People change as their stories are written, and loving someone over time, for a long time, can fluctuate.

Marlowe wishes to understand the love between the two gods better, and thus understand Oschon's ward, so she follows in His footsteps when she can. Ultimately she presents herself as a traveling companion. Someone to take with you on your adventures, take part in your stories, and perhaps more if one is keen. She often relies on the generosity of others during on her journey to...wherever it is she's trying to go, carrying and even owning little gil despite appearances. Sharing a ride, a room, a meal - sharing moments of time together until that time is over, regardless of its length. Moments come, moments go. People come, people go. That's life, so joie de vivre! She might even sing one's praises if they make enough of an impression. Albeit poorly.

Oschon is by far the most beloved by Marlowe, deep down even more-so than Menphina. A bit like when people joke that their dog will steal their partner from them, but the dog will still come to heel when called…while making big, sad puppy eyes at their master's lover. How could she not love Oschon as much as Menphina does? Marlowe waits for her own wanderers to return with an ever wagging tail, and sometimes she chases after them if they inspire something more instinctual.

Vagrants also tend to be kind to strays, so that's a plus in her book, too.

Llymlaen While some believe that Oschon is either the lover of Menphina or Llymlaen, the Temple Marlowe is from believes both to be true. He probably has many other lovers as well, but regardless...those that travel the sea are somewhat similar, though they can rely on their crew in times of need. A more adventurous type of travel, where you have to give up a bit more control. You don't have the dirt beneath your feet, can't roll in the grass or hear the birds. A different sort of isolation, at times, but still just as beautiful. Just a bit more dangerous. You are at Her mercy.

Exciting!

Marlowe serves sailors just as much when she is able as they too have wonderful stories. While I mentioned [here] that cats would sometimes go on ships, the same goes for dogs too. A special someone to provide companionship, and to have a bit of a hunt on shore.

Marlowe loves the beach, loves the ocean, water in general. So many great discoveries to find there! (Not to mention the poorly harboured romanticization of pirates from too many steamy romance and adventure books) Nymeia Marlowe has an incredibly sore spot in her heart for the Spinner. Marlowe's primary class is [Oracle], someone with the gift of foresight and incredible magicks. Generally she uses Read Ahead while on the road, providing comfort and care to the groups she travels with, or for merchant caravans to protect them from bandits and highway robberies. It is consistent, useful. The rest is flawed. Incredibly flawed. Her magic does not bend to her will, does not heed her wants or needs. It does what it wants, and it is a gamble every time she casts the magic she's best with. The lack of control makes Marlowe bitter.

It is left to random chance if her magic is to hurt or heal both friends and foes alike, and Marlowe believes Nymeia did it as punishment for being able to glimpse at what she shouldn't. Or maybe it is because Nymeia has seen what the little bitch is capable of. Maybe it was s̶̕ͅo̷̻̐m̷̲̉e̴͓͋t̵̫̿h̵̜̿ḯ̵͜n̷̲̄g̵̮͂ ̷̺̀ else.

Halone Marlowe was raised deep in Coerthas, and though she has been 'out' since the Calamity, Ishgard was not all too kind to Coerthas, and neither was Halone. Those that tried to become perfect found their folly in attempting to imitate the divine when they should have been making their own path. Her and her family have dealt with the Inquisition much. History speaks for itself. Otherwise, She is met with neutrality.

Nald'Thal Marlowe despises dealing with gil, usually doesn't like working with merchants at the top of their hierarchy, fears not for death etc. etc. The entirety of her 'business' is dealing with things. Things that are procured for her in some form or fashion and bestowed upon her for whatever reason, be it because she's ever deserving (she is) or to get something in return (companionship). Things have stories, and for what doesn't she can daydream about it. Where did the item get made? How did it pass from to her companion's hands? To hers? Otherwise the Traders are fine. I guess.

Nophica Marlowe hates the Shroud, but Nophica is...acceptable.

As for The Rest Neutral. Hardly given a thought (or maybe I'm just lazy). She likes the sun, hates reading books. She'd like to meet Rhaglr, though. Bite at his ankles a bit.

------------------------------------ & despite all of the above, all of the gods (even Menphina) are secretly dealt some level of spite. For why is Dalamud not allowed to be raised up amongst them? Because He is a dog? Can not even the most divine, most loyal hound be lifted to godhood?

If she is His Oracle, a mouthpiece for this little god - maybe she can devour the world whole. Grow it anew.

Just for h̸̼̋i̸̟̾m̸̭͗.

TY for the ask, @argentrenard

[rawliverandgoronspice]

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