#please let me know if I need to tag this as something else.

[theriu]

OP here! Please let me assure you that I am aware of The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals. I looked it up the first day I posted this when people began tagging it.

They have not stopped tagging it. I am adrift in a sea of TGWDLM recommendations and "OP doesn't know about" and "What youre looking for is" and the simple tragedy is that after watching the first few minutes of the musical and reading a plot synopsis I knew it is not for me as I don't like horror (yes even comedic horror). Also the aliens communicate by singing and not just dance so it does not quite fit my original vision.

Thank you all for sharing my post, I'm happy this made you smile and reminded me of something you love, but please by all that is merciful know that no one else need inform me of the existence of TGWDLM because you've done your job well and I could not be more aware if Starkid came and performed in my very house 🫠 OKAY THANKS LOVE YOU

For as popular as the idea of a "hivemind" is we never talk about how it doesn't exist in nature. There's no animal colony that connects and controls all its members through a psychic connection. Even bees, the eponimous hivemind, communicate by pheremones and, more importantly, interpretive dance. My point is when are we going to get a movie about an intensely organized alien race that mainly communicates via sick dance moves, why are we sleeping on this.

[satorella]

“𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮”

𝐑𝐞𝐨 has been coming into the coffee shop you worked at, at least twice a day. You thought he either really loved your shop’s coffee beans… or he was just a caffeine addict.

But unbeknownst to you, he really only comes to see you…

“Good morning, Mr. Mikage! The usual?” You smiled up at him. His heart skipped a beat when you said his name. For the past month he had been coming into the shop, he had never actually heard you say it. It was always one of the other barista’s who would call out for his order. He nodded, “Yes please. And whatever scone flavor you guys have today.” He pulls out his wallet. “Sure thing!” You rang up his order and handed him his receipt. He took the receipt, and just stared at it. He should just ask you out on a date already… or at least ask for your number. He fidgeted with the receipt nervously for a moment. You smiled politely, “Need anything else?” After a moment of contemplating, he opened his mouth to speak, “Um… I don’t mean to bother, but… could I ask you something?” “Of course!” He had to at least TRY to ask you out. He was a soccer player after all, wasn’t he supposed to be fearless? Plus, he was the heir of the Mikage Corporation. A billionaire. He should be able to ask a pretty girl out and not be afraid of rejection. “Would you… give me your phone number?” You blinked up at him, a light shade of pink coloring your cheeks. “M-My number?” Reo immediately started to internally panic. He swallowed down his anxiety, and managed to stay calm. “Yeah… I-I mean, only if you want. I just… um… I go here a lot because I… I really like the coffee. But also because I…” Fuck fuck fuck. His palms were starting to sweat. What was so hard about confessing that he thought you were pretty? That he wanted to get to know you? Luckily for him, you got the hint and chuckled. “Say no more. Here…” You printed out a plain piece of receipt paper and wrote your number down.

Weeks turned into a couple of months, and before you knew it, the two of you had become an official couple. Neither of you had ever been in a relationship you could genuinely call “healthy”, but things with you were different. They were perfect.

Currently, he was at your apartment. He cooked you dinner earlier, (he learned how to cook just for you), and now the two of you were cuddling on the couch watching a horror movie. He smiled and planted a kiss on top of your head as you snuggled up to him; pulling you closer and wrapping an arm around you. For a moment, he tried paying attention to the movie… but he just couldn’t. Not when your scent was filling his nostrils and he could feel your skin against his. You curled into him more, and tilted your head back to look up at him with soft eyes. Reo looked down at you, and the moment your eyes met, a tingle of electricity shot through him. You two have been dating for months now, yet he still couldn’t get enough of the way you looked at him. He lifted a hand to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear, and then his thumb gently caressed your cheek. “I love you, Reo.” You said in a low voice, full of contentment. He smiled, and his heart leapt in his chest. He still couldn’t believe such a perfect, beautiful girl like you could genuinely love someone as spoiled as him. But that was a thought for later. Right now… he was in the moment with you, and there was nothing else in the world he cared about. “I love you too.” He whispered back to you, leaning down to pepper gentle kisses on your lips, cheeks, jawline, and down your neck; making you giggle and squeal.

“Let me show you just how much.”

You were, without a doubt, his new dream…

© 𝐬𝐚𝐭��𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒-𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓. 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.

Join my tag list here!

[gullemec]

Deep Blue

Golden Cage - Chapter Eight

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: You do your best to return to the life you knew before the Boys. Spoiler alert: it doesn't work.

Warnings: alcohol consumption, drunkenness

Please let me know if I missed any tags! <3

WC: 5.4k

A/N: The beginning of the end my friends, next chapter is the last in this series!! There will be an epilogue too :)

Stuff it down. Keep it inside. Just get through the day.

You arrive at the office on Monday dressed in a simple, comfortable turtleneck and slacks, the kind of outfit you used to wear every day back at Cambridge when you were a student trying to impress your classmates and appear effortlessly intellectual. It’s cozy, functional, and a marked improvement from the leather and frills Monica deemed appropriate for business casual, but there’s something about it now that feels a little too constricting. It’s as though you’ve been swallowed by the corporate machine, and the longer you wear this uniform, the more it starts to feel like you’re becoming the very thing you swore you never would.

Stepping into the lab, you slip on the standard issue lab coat like all the other interns. It’s a sea of white in here. Sterile, impersonal, and oddly comforting in its predictability. The sharp scent of chemicals, the quiet hum of machines, the click-clack of keyboards, it all feels like the backdrop to a new life. Safe, neat, and clinical. You also make sure your shoes are sensible, a modest pair of loafers. Flat, comfortable, and as unremarkable as possible. You don’t need to be noticed here. Not by anyone. Not right now.

You stay long after the sun sets, the office lighting flickering faintly as your fingers blur over your keyboard, typing emails, drafting reports, revising presentations. You dive into every team meeting, even when the topics bore you to tears, volunteering for the projects no one else wants. You’re determined to be indispensable, to blend in, to prove you belong. But each task, each hour spent at that desk, feels like one more stitch in the fabric of a life you know you don’t want.

Then there’s Adam.

You’ve known him for a while, but now you see him differently, less as a begrudging ally and more as a distraction. He tries to take over tasks from you, attempts to save you from the workload. It makes you bristle. You don’t need him to rescue you, not when you’re perfectly capable of handling it on your own. You push back hard, asserting yourself in a way that surprises you as much as it does him.

“I’ve got this,” you remind him, voice steady despite the tension creeping up your spine. “You’re more than welcome to watch, though.”

Adam seems genuinely impressed by the newfound confidence you’re exuding, and you notice how his gaze lingers a little longer than it should. It’s that moment when you realize he’s seeing you in a different light, not just as a colleague, but as something more.

He surprises you even further when, at the end of the week, he asks you out for drinks. For a moment, you hesitate, unsure of how to respond. But then,  you surprise yourself, agreeing. It’s a small rebellion, a fleeting decision that feels more like a reflex than a choice.

It’s easier to fill the void than it is to feel its emptiness, you think, as you step into the world of after-work drinks and small talk. It’s something to do. Someone to be.

The next month drifts by in a fog. Think tanks, board meetings, and endless brainstorming sessions. You read emails three, four, five times before their meaning finally sinks in, your mind too foggy to absorb the words the first few times around. The words seem to slide off your brain, slipping into that place where the unimportant things go, things you’ll deal with later. Your father’s daily lunch visits become a constant, his chatter a background noise that’s easy to tune out. He’s talking about Vought deals, ad campaigns, and erectile dysfunction pill ad campaigns with The Deep as the spokesperson. It all sounds like white noise, a cacophony of things you’re supposed to care about but simply... don’t.

Slowly, like a drop of water sinking into a sponge, you start to blend into this world. Inch by inch, you learn the insider language—the jargon of stock prices and product launches, of investor meetings and quarterly reports. You smile at the right moments, nod when necessary, and pretend to care about things that mean absolutely nothing to you. You even go on coffee dates with Monica and Ashley, who are seemingly best friends again after their rocky patch. You let Adam take you out on a second date. You don't put out. 

Your phone becomes a constant source of anxiety. It buzzes almost daily with phone calls, usually from Hughie or Frenchie or Annie, but some from MM too. Never from Butcher, and you’re not sure how you feel about that. You can't bring yourself to silence the calls, choosing instead to stare the screen down until the vibrations die, a Missed Call notification popping up. You don't feel good about ignoring them but, truth be told, you don't know what you would say to them. You don't know what they might say, what Butcher told them to explain your sudden absence. You're angry and hurt and confused. You figure if it's important they'll come find you. 

The hours blend together as you move through this charade, a ghost moving on autopilot. At the end of the day, you retreat to your office, a small space you had cleared on the twentieth floor of the CytoGenix headquarters. It’s not the penthouse suite, but it’s a far cry from the cramped, open-concept, hot-desking hellhole you’d been relegated to on the sixth floor with the other interns. You had half expected a fight with your father over it—he’s protective, maybe even territorial about office spaces—but when you asked for the office, he grinned and agreed without hesitation, as though he knew this day was coming.

“I knew you’d come around eventually," he'd said. You just nodded absently, feeling nothing.

It hadn't initially been your intention to become more like your father when you'd asked for the office, but it seemed to happen that way anyway. In truth, you'd wanted the office so you could conduct V2 research in privacy, away from the prying eyes of other interns. But now you find yourself more comfortable hunched over your desk than you do curled in your bed.  There’s something oddly soothing about being surrounded by papers, lab reports, and research data. It’s productive. It’s linear. It makes sense in a way your personal life never has.

The thought of Billy Butcher lurks in the back of your mind like a bruise that won’t heal, but you push it away. Focus. Research. That’s what matters now.

Another month passes, the days slipping by unnoticed. The office becomes your home. You don’t go as far as installing a bed, but you do get a comfy couch. It becomes your refuge, the place where you lie after long, soul-sucking nights in the lab. And after one particularly late night spent celebrating a completed project, you allow Adam to touch you on it, hands roaming freely under the guise of post-scotch intimacy. You want his touch to erase your hurt. You endure his too-polite kisses and the hesitant way his hand gestures around your skirt’s hemline. Not because you enjoy them, but because you want to feel something other than numb.

It doesn’t work. It never does.

You try to keep up with the location of the remaining V2 vials, through good old-fashioned eavesdropping and snooping, but without access to the bugs it's difficult. Everyone is understandably tight-lipped now, like even uttering the name of the substance is forbidden. All you know is that the vials are inside of the CytoGenix highrise, and that they're under constant surveillance. In a building this large and complex, they could be anywhere. This doesn't stop you from spending every night looking for them. 

It's on a night like this that you find yourself falling asleep at your desk, eyelids impossibly heavy as you pore over yet another lab report, computer monitor displaying old security footage from the lab. More wasted hours accruing useless information. 

Frustrated and exhausted, you shuffle to the ensuite bathroom.

You shake yourself awake, the cool water splashing across your face doing little to revive you. But when you look into the mirror, you don’t recognize the woman staring back at you. The tight bun, the purpled circles under your eyes, the dullness in your gaze. 

You decide to call it a night, the lure of your bed too strong to resist. The prospect of collapsing into your memory foam mattress, soft in all the ways the office couch isn’t, feels like a small blessing. You’re exhausted enough to think you might fall asleep instantly, no risk of being left alone with your thoughts.

You lean against the cold metal of the elevator wall as it descends twenty floors. The hum of the cables is oddly comforting, a steady rhythm beneath your thoughts, guiding you down to the underground parking lot.

The feeling of being watched hits you before your eyes land on him. You’re not surprised to see him. Your body tenses, but your steps don’t falter. He stands there, a dark figure leaning casually against your car, the yellow overhead lights casting sharp shadows over his face.

You should have been expecting this.

“MM,” you greet him, your voice flat, drained. You can’t hide the bitterness in your tone. You want to feel some excitement, to run and throw your arms around him like you would have before all this. Still, he hurt you too. There's no way he didn't know about the bugs. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He doesn’t flinch, but his eyes are searching you in that way he does when he knows something's off. He pushes off the car and takes a step toward you.

“You haven’t been answering anyone’s calls,” he says, his tone clipped but not angry. “Anyone’s, including mine.”

You don’t have the energy to pretend anymore. “I’m not up for this, MM. Not right now.” You pull your keys from your pocket and start unlocking the driver’s side. “I have nothing new to report, despite my best efforts. Sorry to disappoint.”

“I don’t care about that,” MM says, stepping closer. His voice softens just a little. “We were worried about you.”

The laugh that escapes you is sharp and bitter. “Worried? Who’s worried, MM? The guy who bugged my apartment, or the people I thought were my friends but never bothered to tell me I was being watched?”

His eyes fall, a flash of regret crossing his face. He looks almost guilty. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. It made sense at the time. But… You’ve proven yourself. I trust you.”

The words hit you in a soft place you thought for sure had become unreachable. A lump forms in your throat, and you fight it down, furious that you’re about to break in front of him. Anger floods your chest to mask the hurt, and you force it out through gritted teeth.

“Thanks, but I can't say I reciprocate the feeling. You can let Butcher know I'm still making myself useful.”

MM’s gaze sharpens at your words, but he doesn’t argue. “Butcher doesn’t know I’m here.”

You blink, taken off guard. He sees it in your eyes and adds quickly, “He didn't want me to involve you.”

The mention of Butcher stabs at you, even more so that he's still trying to protect you from this. Like he has any right. MM doesn’t let you dwell on it.

“He’s not doing well, just so you know.”

Your stomach drops, the cold anxiety crawling up your spine. You nod, keeping your face a mask.

“Okay.”

Good, you want to say. Neither am I.

You chew the inside of your cheek, biting back any sign of weakness.

MM steps forward, his tone changing—more earnest now, but still carefully guarded. “I’m sorry. I can’t change what happened. But you’ve proven yourself. We all trust you now. And as long as you want it, there’ll always be a place for you with the Boys.”

His words hit like a sharp pang in your chest. You exhale slowly, holding yourself together as the weight of it settles. You’ve proven yourself. The words mean more than he could know, but they also come with their own pain.

You finally speak, the air thick with emotions you don’t want to feel. “I appreciate that, but... I just can’t go there right now. I can’t be around him.”

He takes a moment before responding, his voice low and careful. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you and Butcher. But right now, the Boys need you. We need you.”

You shake your head, tears welling at the edge of your eyes as you struggle to keep your voice steady. You can’t let him see how much this cuts. “I’m sure you guys have it under control.”

You climb into the driver's seat, ready to end the conversation. But before you can slam the door shut, MM’s voice cuts through the quiet night, commanding and sharp.

“We know where the vials are.”

You freeze, your heart thudding loudly in your chest. You turn back to him, disbelief clouding your thoughts. “What?”

MM steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leans in. “They’re in your dad’s office.”

Silence.

A beat passes, then another. Your breath hitches in your throat, and without thinking, you reach over the center console and unlock the passenger door.

“Get in.”

~~~

An hour later you're across from MM in a booth at a diner overlooking the Hudson. He’s got a plate piled high with pancakes, and you watch him shovel them into his mouth with the enthusiasm of a man who hasn't seen food in days. Meanwhile, you nurse your mug of coffee, the warmth washing over your face as the steam rises.

He looks up at you like he’s just remembered you're there. “You sure you don't want any?” he asks, gesturing to the half-eaten stack. His voice is a bit muffled by the pancakes.

“No, I'm fine,” you respond, dryly. The sight of him devouring food like it’s the last meal on Earth doesn’t really amuse you right now.

You sip the last of the hot black liquid before the exhausted looking waitress offers you a refill. 

“Sorry,” MM says through the final bites of his pancakes, his voice more apologetic than usual. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Why not?” you ask, genuinely curious.

He rolls his eyes. “Butcher’s got us running circles, following every goddamn CytoGenix van out of their HQ. He’s convinced the vials are being moved somewhere. Hell, I’ve been chasing vans all day.”

He’s exasperated. “Do you know how many goddamn vans leave that place?!”

You can’t help but agree. Butcher's being reckless. This isn't good. 

MM continues, his tone darker now. “And it’s not just the vans. He was this close to breaking into your dad’s office before we stopped him.”

The mention of your dad sends a jolt of anxiety straight to your gut. A confrontation between Butcher and your father would not end well, and you’re not sure which side you're more furious with at the moment.

“I followed one of those vans all the way to Albany today,” MM continues, his voice tinged with frustration. “And what did I find? They were just illegally dumping medical waste. You know what that shit smells like?” He pauses, grimacing as he recalls the smell of decomposition. “When I got back, Butcher was losing his mind, ranting about hearing your dad say the vials were in his office.”

You feel a little dizzy. Is Butcher really doing as badly as you? Has his head been as cloudy as yours since you parted ways?

He's not spiraling because he misses you. He's going crazy because he’s losing control over the one thing he could still manage, his best piece of spyware. 

MM’s voice pulls you back. “Is there any way you could sneak into the office and get them out? Do you know where your dad would keep them?”

The question hangs in the air, and you’re painfully aware of how little you actually know about your dad's routine. Perhaps if you'd spent more time in his presence, more time nestled under his wing like he'd wanted all along, you would know things like this. Instead you feel like a stranger to everyone you've ever known.

What do you know? You know he's in there all the fucking time. He lives there, for Christ's sake. If you're going to get in there and tear things apart it'll have to wait for a night when he's out and you can bribe the underpaid security to look the other way. 

“It's almost the end of the fiscal quarter,” you murmur, already forming a plan in your head. “He’s gonna be working in there day and night for the next couple of weeks. He won’t leave until then. So, we just wait him out until I can sneak in there while he’s gone.”

But MM’s face darkens. He shakes his head, biting his lip. “That ain't gonna work. Vought’s pissed at your dad, and they’re not gonna wait that long. They’re moving the vials to a lab in Russia in a week.”

Your stomach drops. Vought’s lost patience, and it’s worse than you imagined. This is bad. A heavy darkness swirls in your gut. 

“W–why can't you guys just intercept it again? Like Butcher and I did with the rest of the vials?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

MM rubs the back of his neck, clearly frustrated. “Vought security’s a hell of a lot better than your dad’s. They’re not moving those vials between Manhattan and JFK without someone noticing. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but taking a car off the road is one thing. Trying to take down a fucking plane?” He leans forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s terrorism, alright?”

You hate to admit it but he's right. Taking down a plane is way out of your wheelhouse. Who do you think you are, Homelander?

MM’s expression turns grim as he leans in further. “Once those vials hit Russia, it’s game over. Vought’s gonna have a lobotomized Supe army, and we’re gonna be fuckin’ cooked.”

Your mind conjures the image of you sneaking into your father's fortress like a cartoon cat burglar, prowling and somersaulting around until you find what you're looking for. A much younger and prettier Indiana Jones expertly replacing the golden idol, only the golden idol is a few test tubes filled with a multi-billion dollar mutation drug. 

You'd be caught, surely, probably killed on the spot. But you'd have done it. You would have finally accomplished something to really be proud of, something your mother would be proud of. She would have wanted you to do this. She would have wanted you to fight. 

“I'll do it,” your voice is firm and unwavering. You hold MM's gaze. “But not for you guys, and not for Butcher, okay? And not for me, either.” You swallow. “I'm doing this for my mom. And for Robin and Becca and whoever else that's dead because of Vought and never got justice.” 

The words are out before you can stop them, and you can feel the weight of them, heavy on your chest. It feels… final.

Maybe it was all leading toward this. Maybe all of the pain and emptiness and anger and apathy was preparing you for this. To undertake a mission only you could, sacrificing yourself for the greater good. You can handle being disowned by your only surviving parent. You can survive criminal charges. 

But would they let you survive at all?

MM nods, silent for a moment, but the weight of his stare speaks volumes. He gets it. You can see that much in his eyes.

He's right. Either you do this, accepting whatever consequences may come, or you let Vought win. You think of the two security guards in the van, their cold and unseeing eyes. Your fault. It can't have been for nothing. 

“I'll do it this week, on Thursday.” Your voice is clear, resolute. “It's our family dinner. I'll make sure they both drink enough wine to put them out for the night.”

He lets out a sigh. “Just promise me you’ll pick up the damn phone if we call you, yeah? We’ll get you a wire, an earpiece. We’ll be in your ear the whole time, just in case.”

You remember Butcher's voice in your ear, losing his shit when Homelander cornered you. It tripped you up, unfocused your thoughts. The last thing you need for this mission is to be distracted. Whatever happens happens. No safety nets or precautions or contingency plans. You're picking a plan and committing. You don’t want anyone else in danger because of you. It briefly crosses your mind that this must be the mindset of Kamikaze pilots. 

I will go down with this ship. 

“No.” 

“No?”

“No,” you say, voice firm. “No wire. No earpiece. No safety nets. I’m doing this alone. I don’t want anyone else dying for this.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but you hold up your hand, cutting him off. “I would be doing this with or without your help, MM. Just let me do it my way.”

He protests a little more, but you stand your ground. You’ll go in, and you’ll deal with the consequences. No one else.

You eventually compromise that you'll let them drive you to the headquarters on Thursdays night and fit you with a wire, but only to gather intel should a standoff occur. You figure that, on the off chance you make it out of there in one piece, you'll need a getaway car. You'll take what you can get. 

MM senses that something is different about you now. The anxious abductee he met a few months ago has been replaced by someone colder, jaded. The determination is clear in your eyes. You’re ready for this. Still, he feels the need to comfort you. 

“Focus. Don’t rush it. You’ll know what to do when you feel it,” he offers, his voice soft but full of belief. It’s both terrifying and reassuring how much faith he has in you.

Once you iron out the details of the plan you stand to leave, lingering by the booth. For what exactly you're not sure. MM senses this. 

“I know you don’t want to see Butcher right now,” he says carefully, his gaze dropping to the table. “But what about the others?”

You raise an eyebrow. He nods toward the window, where a white van is parked under a streetlamp, unnoticed by you until now.

“They’re here?” you exclaim, the excitement catching you off guard.

MM just nods. You jump out of your seat and race toward the van, tossing a crisp fifty onto the table as you go.

The doors of the van swing open, and you’re met with the familiar faces of your friends. Annie, Kimiko, Hughie, and Frenchie pour out, and without thinking, you throw your arms around Annie first. Kimiko follows, wrapping herself around you. Then Hughie and Frenchie pull you into a tight embrace, all of you tangled together.

You close your eyes, committing the moment to memory. For once, you feel right— you feel home.

As the hug breaks apart, you point an accusing finger at them all. “Don’t think I’m not pissed at you guys. You knew my apartment was bugged, and you didn’t say anything.”

Guilt falls across their faces like a shadow. 

You decide that it's enough. 

“But goddamn did I miss you.”

The guilt fades, replaced by genuine smiles. And just like that, you’re together again.

You all pile into the van, talking plans and strategies.

The plan is risky. The plan has a million ways it could go wrong. But right now, you’re all in.

You'll go to dinner on Thursday like usual and you'll ply your dad with wine until he's three sheets to the wind and dead to the world, leaving him defenceless against your thievery. You'll enter like a shadow in the night, pilfering the vials and stealing away, silent and unnoticed. You'll be revered amongst the Boys, earning their respect and a sincere apology from Butcher. 

Okay, the last part may be a little too lofty of a goal. 

Frenchie provides you with a lock picking kit, promising to show you how to use it in case the vials are in a safe. 

“Do you feel safe going in there?” Hughie asks. “Are you worried about being caught?”

You take a deep breath. “The thought has crossed my mind,” you admit. You'd imagined how you might respond, rehearsing excuses about looking for a file or wanting to talk about logistics at three in the morning. 

Ultimately you wave Hughie off, assuring him it'll be fine. He doesn't need to worry about anything, you've got it covered. 

Silently, secretly, you do wonder if this might be the last night you spend amongst friends, together like this. Scheming and planning and laughing.

There is a weight on your shoulders, heavy layers like sediment settling in your heart. There's a flavour in the air that tells you something permanent and significant is shifting. Like maybe nothing will be the same again. 

As the van starts moving, the weight of what’s ahead presses down on you, but for the first time in a long time, it feels just a little bit lighter.

~~~

You meet with Frenchie a few times so he can teach you how to pick locks. You don't get particularly good, but he figures you'll do just fine. He says something about bringing dynamite just in case, but you're really relying on it not coming to that. It'd be a real shame to damage the mahogany. 

Annie runs through basic self defense with you, instructing you on how to punch steadily and dodge attacks. The two of you run through Vought's files on all registered Supes, looking for ones with the ability to liquefy a person. It turns out there are quite a few, but none of them jump up off the page to you, none have any tie back to your family. You put them all in a pile to look through later. 

Later. 

Later doesn't feel quite real. You ground yourself in every moment with them, suddenly nostalgic for the smell of laundry detergent and the distant din of a dozen dryers shaking in tandem. You're really not trying to jinx the mission and doom it to failure but it's just that there's an inexplicable finality about this. It's like some internal radar is going haywire but you have no idea how to interpret what it's for. 

All you know is that whatever happens when you creep into that office is going to change everything. 

~~~

It's Wednesday evening. There's a chill in the air that is h characteristically cool for this time of year, promising an early winter. You brace yourself against the whipping wind, pulling your cardigan around your body as you make your way across the lawn of the Lakehouse. 

You'd insisted on taking the dinner here instead of at Monica's apartment or at headquarters. You knew there was no chance your father would stay the night at the Lakehouse, not having spent a night here since he became a widower, but you also knew that all his best wines were in the cellar here. 

Your consciousness feels unreal, like it's blurred at the edges. You overthink every word you say, the cadence of your forced laughter. The fork and knife in your hand feel foreign as you cut into the braised lamb. You barely taste the rosemary seasoned polenta, everything turning acrid in your mouth. The shadows on your father's face darken as he mumbles about Russian labs undercutting him. Your voice is hollow and far-away when you ask benign questions about quarterly projections.

Other questions cloud your mind. 

What will happen tonight? Where will we stand tomorrow? Will you find out who I really am? Will I find out what you really are?

The first bottle of wine goes down quickly, as is customary for the Morgans. You suggest another, not completely out of the ordinary. You swirl your glass around as you feel the edge of reality soften. The second one is finished just as supper is being cleared out. It would be odd to suggest a third bottle without good reason. So you give a good reason.

“Dad, there's something I wanted to talk you you about,” you begin, glass of wine held contemplatingly in your hand. “I've been thinking about it and… you're right. I want to get more serious about the company.”

That's all you really had to say, a pleased grin already spreading across his face. You continue. 

“I think I should be the one to take over one day. I should start learning the ropes from you. I was thinking maybe it's time for me to join the board of directors.”

His reaction is only marginally less excited than it would be if you had just announced that Jesus had risen and appointed him president. 

He leaps from his seat, surprisingly spry for a man of his age, running around the table to squeeze you. The second bottle of wine clearly hit him like a truck. For a brief moment you wonder why you have to ply him with obedience and alcohol to receive affection. 

You tuck that one right back where it came from. 

“Another bottle of wine to celebrate?” you suggest. Your father goes to the wine cellar himself, procuring a bottle of red from the year you were born. 

Drink up. 

As he excitedly rambles in your ear about incentives and managerial styles and investor relationships your eyes wander over to Monica. 

Her mouth is set in a straight line, eyes intense and fixed on you. She is absolutely seething. She makes no apologies for her contempt as it practically explodes from her like sparks. Her mouth settles into a flat scowl, eyes narrowed and refusing to tear away. 

It occurs to you now, suddenly, that Monica had far more ill will toward you than initially anticipated. You consider her overbearing interest in your wardrobe, her insistence that you dress and behave in bizarrely specific ways. You'd obeyed, desperate for any motherly attention. Only, now your focus has shifted. Instead of misplaced loving concern, you see manipulation, deceit. The ridiculously embellished designer brands were a humiliation ritual, a method for othering you amongst those who might endeavour to befriend you. You recall the way that family dinners had become a dreaded biweekly exercise in condescension and frustration, how a beloved tradition had so quickly soured. Every ounce of anxiety and self-doubt you'd entertained since that woman walked into your life comes to the fore. 

Monica had hazed you, and you'd been too blind to see it. 

Perhaps she had been aiming higher than you'd thought this whole time. No, she wasn't seeking half of his company once he died and left it to her. She wanted all of it. 

You raise a glass to her, warmly toasting her name. You smile wholeheartedly, giddily. To you, Monica. 

Her rage can hardly mask itself beneath her plastered joy. She clinks her wine glass against yours and your father. 

Don't worry, sweetie, you think. You can have whatever's left after I'm done. After you're the one left on the hook for billions in lost profit. 

You try not to falter with her simmering across the table, forcing your smile to stay in place every time your eyes lock with hers. You just need to keep this act up a little longer. 

You toast to the future, to lofty goals, to renewed connections. You pitch ideas to your dad that he's just drunk enough to entertain. The personal chef brings out a tray of chocolate truffles, placing them in front of you. You indulge until your fingers are coated in cocoa powder and your stomach feels ready to burst. 

It occurs to you that you're treating this like a last meal of sorts, and in many ways it is. An end to something.

To everything.

Taglist

@bluemerakis

@mystic-writings

@imherefordeanandbones

[nipotazzi]

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. - Chapter 1

"C’mon, Lusk! It's just a little jump!”

“We’ll be here to grab you in case something goes wrong, sweetie!”

The little child looked all the way up there: his mothers were just ahead, he only needed to make a smooth super jump to reach them. He tries to calculate the distance and necessary strength for it, but for some reason, the results are utterly inconclusive.

“No silly math! You just have to do it!”

Silly? Math isn't silly. Still, maybe momma Pearl was right: he just had to try it, if he wanted to succeed.

Lusk takes a deep breath, one of the first behavioral lessons given him by the creator to ease himself to calm… and begins to run, faster and faster with each consecutive step! 

Halfway through, he quickly changes into his very small swim form, then charges the tentacles like a spring… and jumps!

He makes sure to not use his floating abilities in this form to cheat, and while taking this precaution Lusk realizes that he's already far, far high in the air: He's so much faster than gravity! He can do it! He can reach them!! 

He's… slowing down.

He can't do it.

That shouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t have happened if…

No. Take a deep breath.

Smollusk knows that they will just say something along the lines of “better than nothing at all,” and that he’ll “get better at it in no time, you just need to try it more.” 

Disheartened, but resigned to such a result, like always, he begins to float towards them in order to avoid the fall.

But something tugs his tentacles.

He looks down, and sees a chain, as long as his sight can go, attached to his body. 

Lusk immediately tries to slip away from it, but nothing happens. His small size cannot handle the sudden extreme weight brought upon it. He searches upwards, starting to grow scared, but the only thing that exchanges his pleading eyes… are the disappointed and clearly annoyed looks on the faces of his mothers.

“C-creator! CREATOR!! HELP ME!”

“...why?”

“W-what?”

“Yeah, why should we?”

Lusk freezes, terrified of the cold tone of her creator.

“Look, Marina! Little kid can't even make a jump this easy. I'm soooo embarrassed to think that we’ve been taking care of such a monstrous failure.”

“Oh, Pearlie, no need to be so rude. We all know that this… mistake… is just one delusion after the other.”

“N-no! No!! I'm not a mistake! I-I’ll be better, I promise! Please!!”

“Are you crying now? Tsk-tsk… how pathetic. Let's go, Rina, don't even look at it.”

“Make way… I don’t want to stay a millisecond longer than I need to.”

“NO! WAIT! WAAIIIITTT!!!”

Lusk falls down, the chain trapping him tighter. It's a bottomless fall, where his screams could echo for eternity. There is nothing else, but the weight of his failures, bringing him down.

Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/F

Gen

Fandom:

Splatoon (Video Games)

Relationship:

Marina/Pearl (Splatoon)

Characters:

Agent 8 (Splatoon)

Dedf1sh | Acht (Splatoon)

Pearl (Splatoon)

Marina (Splatoon)

Order | Smollusk (Splatoon)

The Heavenly Melody (Splatoon)

Additional Tags:

Christ(squid)mas special

half wholesome half angst with a good ending

self trauma due to personal delusions

Angst with a Happy Ending

Family Feels

Family Bonding

Family Drama

Family Dynamics

first time moms

Post-Splatoon 3: Side Order

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Language: English

Summary: Pearl and Marina are always trying to be the best moms a kid could ever wish for, and if there is something that they really don't want to mess up… is their Lusk's first experience of the most wonderful time of the year! But will the family be able to help him work trough his own fears at the strongest that they have ever been?

Happy New Year everyone! As always, comments, reblogs, and feedback are appreciated. Have a good day!

[frozenjokes]

the devil fosters kittens and hires exorbitantly expensive prostitution

ao3 link - this fic is rated mature on ao3. please mind the ao3 tags

Grian stood hunched over the door knob, grip tight enough to crack the handle, shaking, veins bulging. This couldn’t be happening. This could not be happening. Left alone for months- Why now?

Mumbo’s fingers were curled over Grian’s shoulder, grabbing him, shaking him, he was speaking, yelling, but it was long before the words came into focus.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!? Grian!”

Did he see it? Did Mumbo understand when Grian turned his head, looked up, did he know Grian’s fear? Had he ever seen Grian this way, petrified, moved to action by fear deeper than instinct, locked in horrible, hopeless infatuation. Grian could not name the feeling; to say romantic felt shallow, not enough, his obsession rooted further in Mumbo’s potential, his creativity, his prowess, the unrelenting love he had to give for the world in which they lived; did no one understand just how much was at stake here? Devastating could not scratch the surface of this loss, Grian could not let Mumbo be surrendered to his heritage, not when it was so clear that every person touched by Mumbo’s light was better for it.

Grian was better for it. Mumbo made him better.

“I’m afraid,” he said, and of course it was true. Because this was a battle Grian was not sure he could win. For all his willpower, he could not make Mumbo reject the call to blood. For all his longing to cover Mumbo’s eyes, take it all away, and bear it himself, this was not Grian’s burden to carry. Mumbo had to make the choice. No amount of setting him up for success could save him from the wrong path.

Grian did not want to kill him. He didn’t believe Mumbo was beyond saving, not yet, but he- he wouldn’t let Mumbo become a puppet, either. If anyone was going to snuff the light, there would be no unnecessary pain. Mumbo was a good man, and that legacy would be preserved.

“I- I know you don’t like the assassination business coming home, Grian,” Mumbo tried, and he was really trying, his own frustrations aside. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to come home to that, but it really wasn’t what it looked like. Cub wasn’t- I was trying to make him leave, I didn’t want him here either, and I promise I have no idea how he found our address, but he was- I don’t know, intoxicated? He was saying all sorts of crazy shit, he was really distressed, and I think I offended him and I couldn’t just send him away. I.. Maybe I should have done it anyway. I kind of panicked. He was genuinely hurt, I think so at least. He asked me to cut his hair and I- I panicked, like I said I just.. did it. I still don’t really know what he wanted, but he wasn’t here to hurt me or you. I really believe that.”

Grian didn’t believe it. He didn’t believe it for a second, not when Cub’s will was tied intrinsically to Scar’s, whether Cub was aware of it or not. Cub was a victim, but not anyone that could be saved, not anymore. The fact that he was here at all was- it was-

But Mumbo didn’t know. There was no way he could have known, and maybe the worst part was that Mumbo was only acting so unapologetically himself, Grian had nothing to blame him for. He took in a stranger. Cut his hair.

If this had not been an act, if a victim was still in there, then this was just another life Mumbo had touched, a life far more unfortunate than his own.

“I’m sorry,” Grian breathed, air coming scarce from his lungs, “I didn’t know. You did a good thing.”

Mumbo released a long breath, one Grian suspected he’d been holding in the lengthy pause between his own words and Grian’s answer. “Is he still there?”

Grian tensed, hand sweating on the handle, but after a few moments hesitation he pulled the door back regardless, just a crack. No one was there. He did not have to report; Mumbo saw it too. Grian closed the door.

“There’s something else I need to tell you. To explain this. I should have told you a lot sooner, but you were really hurt, and the amnesia was so bad for weeks, even with treatment and I-“

“Grian, what is it?” Mumbo’s brow was tight, and Grian pursed his lips in recognition.

“There was another man at the hospital, he came to pick Cub up, insisted he introduce himself to you, do you remember? It’s alright if you don’t.”

Mumbo thought for a moment, but seemed to recognize quickly there was no point. “I don’t really remember anything until a few weeks later.”

“I know,” Grian mumbled, if for no other reason but to acknowledge. Those were.. a really frightening first few days, better in the following weeks, but even now, Mumbo still struggled with his short term memory, and it’s likely he’d carry that for the rest of his life. It hurt, fuck it hurt, that Grian couldn’t prevent an injury so severe so young. It wasn’t fair, not fair to Mumbo, but it took all of Grian’s strength just to keep Mumbo from chasing this horrific assassin fixation. At least five concussions put a stop to that.. for now.

“Well, when I was waiting for you, the man who came for Cub was next to me, and apparently Cub had texted him, told him everything, and he was- I don’t even know if he was angry, but he must have a part in the hits Cub is assigned, because he kept threatening me, threatening you, and I was afraid to move, I thought he might just shoot me right there, I don’t know, I was so scared and he was so quiet, I couldn’t do anything. It’s been such a long time, I just assumed things had blown over, but.. I just freaked out, seeing Cub. I’m still- I’m really freaking out, Mumbo.”

Mumbo blinked a few times in rapid succession, mouth slightly agape. “Oh, fuck. Oh my god, Grian, you should have told me- I’m not mad, I- of course not-“ Mumbo stopped, pulling Grian away from the door and into a firm hug. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t know. You did a good thing, Mumbo.”

“I’ll keep a better eye. I promise. I didn’t.. I’m sorry you got dragged into this. I wish- I wanted this to be separate, but I know that’s.. stupid.”

A heavy sadness weighed on Grian’s chest, and he pushed his head into Mumbo’s shoulder, zeroing his focus on his friend’s still-beating heart. “You were upfront with me. I knew what I was getting into.” And he did. God, Mumbo had no idea the extent of it.

“I know,” Mumbo mumbled, resting his chin on Grian’s head. “Guess I just want it all.”

“We’ll get through it, Mumbo. We’ll make it through.” Grian hoped he managed to push an ounce of confidence through, though no facade could keep himself from wavering. Really, he wasn’t fooling anyone. Mumbo knew Grian’s misery as well as his own.

///

Cub thought the couch was a good addition to the cat room in the clownvent; sure, all the fostered kittens were just going to destroy it, but now Cub could experience his depression spiral in new and improved comfort, while Scar went about seeing how many four week old kittens he could stack on Cub’s back. Previous record was twelve, and Scar had set himself up for success by feeding the little bastards before putting them to bed on top of Cub, really coaxing them into sleep after a nice meal. So far, Scar had managed nine; there were fourteen current fosters at the clownvent, so the record was well within reach.

Scar crossed his legs, readjusting the kitten he was bottle feeding in his lap. It didn’t seem to mind at all, much more focused on the bottle it was affixed to and kneading into Scar’s pants.

“You know, the orphans at this age can be such a pain in the ass, especially when there’s this many, but when they’re all grown up, I find myself missing it, you know? I mean look at their itty bitty ears, Cub, they’re so damn cute I just can’t even stand it. Even when it’s the middle of the night and I have a bottle-baby shift and I’m ready to end it all. Good thing Skizz has a thing for clowns, or I think we’d all give up taking in the little ones who can’t eat yet. It gets to you! These little cretins have been a delight though, a delight. Are you sure you don’t want to feed the next one? It’s healing, it really is. You don’t even need two hands, they just sit here like angels!”

“No thanks,” Cub mumbled, turning back to lay face down into the pillow. He kinda wanted to roll over, but then Scar would lose progress on his stacking endeavors. And suddenly, like a divine reminder floating down from the heavens, Cub remembered he did not care.

Scar’s screech was immaculate, the kitten avalanche even better, all nine of them tumbling off him with startled mews and flailing paws. He felt the pinpricks of a set of claws through his shirt, and leaned back to grab it, pulling the startled kitten back into the cave of his body against the back couch cushions. It squirmed a little, alarmed, but by now these things had been manhandled to hell and back, and being scooped up by massive human paws was just a matter of life. It settled on Cub’s new cast, purring.

“Cuuuub! What have you done! They were sound asleep, you monster!”

“So sad..”

“You act like you have no control over yourself! Oohhhh you’re lucky I’ve got a kitten in my lap right now or I’d really be angry. This little monster is having the best meal of his life, and I will not take that away from him.”

“Capital punishment for whoever shat all over the wall. This is what they get.”

“Noooo! You didn’t even have to clean that up, you don’t get a say. I only sent you that picture because I have no idea how they managed it, I’m imagining kitten handstands and diarrhea explosions. They have done nothing wrong.”

“I have a fundamental problem with any shit from any creature being smeared on a perfectly good wall.”

“Well I have a fundamental problem with you!”

“Ditto.”

Scar paused, quiet enough that Cub could hear the kitten in his lap sucking the last dregs of milk from its bottle. “You don’t really mean that though, do you?”

Cub rolled his eyes. “With you being what you are, I never wouldn’t have guessed you to be sensitive.”

“Well I’m just saying, you having a fundamental problem with me would basically be the same as you having a fundamental problem with yourself, so.. checkmate!” Scar released the kitten he was feeding in favor for the next in line, and only noticed Cub craning his neck to Look at him belatedly. Scar’s whole expression dropped, a clear sign he’d gotten the memo, so Cub turned back around.

“Noooo! Cub! Noooooooo!” Suddenly there were a lot more kittens being piled on Cub’s side, crawling all over the place, which, to Scar’s credit, was mildly delightful. “Cub, you’ve always had this grand capacity to care about other people, and it’s a lovely look on you, really, but it makes you so, so sad!”

Cub felt Scar’s hand on his shoulder, and the touch was not unwelcome, but sometimes Cub wondered if this was only a result of their connection. Would he still crave Scar so wholly if he had never descended those stairs?

“It’s a curse, isn’t it. To be human. I wish I could take it away from you, but that’s life, isn’t it.. It’s been a rough couple months, I know, but my hope is that it’ll only be a few more before you’re raring to go again, right? I mean, retirement is an option as well, and maybe you’d thrive away from the action, but in my experience.. Well, you all don’t do so well. Try as I might, humans are just so temporary. I’d just hate to lose you like this. Maybe I’m speaking too soon- concussions are just nasty business! I’ve seen far too many never bounce back. You’ve got alright resistance to going stir crazy though, you might be alright.”

“That’s not what’s bothering me.” Cub couldn’t help but interrupt before he went on and on, he didn’t care, and he didn’t need Scar pretending he did either. “Why- I want to know what you are. What you’re doing here, where you come from. I want to go there.”

Scar was quiet, and Cub could feel the gears in his mind churning, wondering just how many times he could dance around this topic before he finally answered the damn questions.

“I don’t understand your fixation on specific, concrete, concepts. It’s a human impulse, I understand, but you have no need to hold on to it. You have blood to drink and skin to tear, your most important needs are met.”

“Where do you come from?”

“This has always been my home.”

“What are you!?”

Over Cub’s shoulder, he saw the shadow of a cocked head, “I’m Scar.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I’ve always been Scar. I don’t know what else to say. There are other scars, I know that to be true, but they are not me. A symptom of life.”

“If you actually cared, then why’d you let me break myself when you knew I’d escape. I hurt myself, when you could have just told me you wanted me to go to Mumbo’s fucking house and I would have done it. For you. Instead you fucked with my head. You made me go under the guise I had a choice.”

“Ah.” Scar considered Cub for a long moment, eyes boring into his back. Cub said nothing, only curling tighter around his kitten. “Well, I didn’t want you to gallivant off on my behalf. I wanted you to go on yours. It’s no fun being a puppet master, Cub, and you’re not a goon. I can be a guiding thought, but I don’t control where you go with it. Part of the appeal is watching what happens. So no, I did not know you would break your wrist to slip the chain. But I didn’t reinforce the locks on the door. And I did hope you’d act. I did not have to steer you very far, if it’s any reassurance. Just a few nights in your head, and your subconscious did the rest. You may have even gotten there alone with time, but I’m tired of waiting. Aren’t you? Besides, the worst of this break should heal in line with your concussions, you haven’t been set back.”

Scar did not hide himself, he never did, not even when Cub was waiting for him to deny what he’d done, poised to snap on his silver tongue and rip it clean off. Scar did not feel shame, or at the very least, Cub didn’t think so. He had less of a semblance of right and wrong and more of a feel for whether or not the thing he was planning on doing was going to piss all his friends off, which, had no impact on Scar’s decision making, only how he reacted to the clapback.

It still. Hurt. Somehow, after eight years of this, it still hurt.

“What’s your endgame. With Mumbo. How do you get your way.”

Scar readjusted, the chair creaking as he leaned back. As far as Scar was concerned, Cub’s outburst was over. The resistance was dealt with. Maybe he was right, too; it’s not like Cub was going to act against him, even now. Especially now.

Scar answered civilly.

“Mumbo is more put together than most. His anchor keeps a short leash, but that’s not necessarily the worst case. Mumbo is deprived. He takes what he wants despite outside influence, which is very good, but whatever charm is keeping him shackled is the biggest problem. That’s not an easy spell to upkeep mind you, and that Grian is weak. He’s tired. Doubt I’d even have to kill the body to break it, I can’t see how Grian has enough energy to maintain himself and control Mumbo as it is- but I don’t want to.”

Scar paused, waiting for input, validation. Cub gave him nothing.

“I want Mumbo to do it! Obviously! I want them both in the ring, and I want Mumbo to rip Grian’s head off his shoulders.” Scar sighed, long and forlorn, “Fuck, he’d have to really snap though, wouldn’t he. I mean, I could push anyone to the brink of madness and let them topple off the edge themselves, but I don’t know if I’m looking to house a berserker right now. Lately, I’ve really been enjoying the company of friends! But I’m not married to any happy ending. Personally, I’d fly to the sun and back to get my claws in that prude. We’ll see.”

“Maybe I want your claws in me instead.” Cub couldn’t help but lift his head, Scar’s eyes meeting his, piercing and smug.

“Can’t stand to hear me yapping so much about anyone else, hm? I see you.”

“You owe me this.”

Scar snorted a short laugh, lurching forward in the next movement, grabbing Cub’s cheek and chin and wrenching his neck painfully to one side. “Someone’s getting a little ahead of himself, isn’t he. I own you. Now I’m going to finish up with these cats, and we can get a move on.”

///

The water was beautiful and endless, dark and blue and infinitely peaceful. Sometimes Grian saw coral reefs, endless fish and color, sometimes he saw orcas or dolphins, sometimes he swam with penguins, blinded by schools of silver fish. He never felt scared here, even when his movements were sluggish, or he couldn’t quite see. He remembered being frustrated, absolutely, but never scared.

It was a little disconcerting when with each passing breath, Grian took in less air. It wasn’t quite noticeable at first, but there was a point where his lungs just weren’t quite full, where the oxygen wasn’t being stolen, just crushed away, little by little. Grian had never drowned before. He pondered that as he floated here, suspended in endless blue. He didn’t particularly want to. He still wasn’t afraid.

Not until he opened his mouth, and the water forced its way in.

Grian gagged, jerking violently into its force when he couldn’t go backward, he couldn’t escape, his eyes shot open, face to face with a looming, dark silhouette. Grian coughed and hacked as the force withdrew, he could have thrown up and wouldn’t have known, spittle and drool coating the hand that clamped over his mouth.

“Shh, shhh, you’re fine. You’re fine, you’re fine, Gri, take a moment won’t you? Breathe. Just breathe.”

Grian tried to scream, but the pressure on his chest was too much, the grip over his mouth too tight. He thrashed, and was not nearly strong enough. Too tired, too disoriented, too weak. This was it. Everything he’d worked for; over.

“Maybe this was my fault..” Scar mused, Grian recognized the thing above him now, his terror only multiplying, “I was just trying to see if I could spot you down there, y’know, I’ve never seen one of you inside your host until I cut you open, and, well, there’s only so many holes you could be hiding! Please calm down, you’re hurting my feelings.”

He hated the whimper that ripped through his sore throat, as well as the pain that followed. Scar’s shape was coming into clearer form as Grian’s eyes adjusted to the dark, strong, calm, and unworried. Mumbo was sleeping in the room across the hall. Had he heard? Grian wished he was here, he needed someone, anyone to take this away. Scar did not move. He never looked away, his attention wholly captured by Grian’s utter terror.

“Can I trust you to be quiet, now? I’d like to let you go, but I don’t want anyone walking in on us, right? You don’t need Mumbo to run to your aid, only for him to find an empty room. Gosh, he’d think you’re crazy!” Scar let him sit with that for a moment, then loosened his grip, a test, before letting Grian’s face go completely.

Grian wiped his mouth. Scar smiled, hard to see, but there, perfectly innocent. How was it he managed to look so kind?

“You are not welcome in this house. You- You stay away. There is nothing for you here.”

“You know, I just don’t agree!” Scar mused, his exclamation whispered. He rocked on Grian’s chest, but stopped when Grian wheezed, as if that had been unintentional. “Such a big bark for someone your size. Does it make you feel better? Like you have more control?”

“I know what you want. Taunt me all you like, but I won’t just roll over and let you take it.”

“I’d hope not!” Scar unfolded his legs, nearly kicking Grian in the face as he rolled off his chest, settling instead beside him and stretching in an exaggerated yawn. “But I think I could really surprise you, y’know. I don’t want you to be so scared, not when we’re just talking, hanging out. I’ve had a thousand Mumbos over my time, and I’ll have a thousand more. You, on the other hand.. Now if we’re talking about things I want..”

“I have terms. What are yours.”

Scar blinked, sitting up as if Grian had zapped him. “What? Seriously?”

“What are your terms.” Grian lurched up, throwing his weight over Scar to straddle his stomach, and pushing the rest of him back down.

“Oh my,” Scar wouldn’t stop blinking, like he wasn’t certain the man above him was real. “You know, this is not what I was talking about, but I’m not uninterested,” Scar hummed, his fingers beginning to trail Grian’s thighs until he slapped them away.

“Keep your fucking hands to yourself.”

Scar shrank away, but Grian did not miss the small, astonished smile. “Yes, sir.”

“Since you’re so unwilling to tell me what you want, here’s what I’m after. You leave us alone. Forever. And you can have me any way you like. Any time you like, but never here.”

“My, my, you’re expensive, aren’t you? From where I’m sitting, it looks like you want me far too much to be making those high demands.”

Grian scoffed, and he might’ve spat in Scar’s face if he wasn’t so sure Scar would like it, “Nothing would bring me greater pleasure than imagining you waddling home with blue balls and your tail between your legs, rest assured, I’d see more stars than anyone else could punch out of me.”

Scar closed his eyes, relaxing against Grian’s bed with his chin ever so slightly inclined, “You’re not what I expected.”

“Can’t say I feel any differently. You can fidget all you want, I’ll only think you more desperate. Do you really get so little?”

“Not much like you.”

“Then let’s make this exchange final, why don’t we?”

Scar rolled his shoulders, eyes narrowed. “I’ll give you a month. No Scar, no anything.”

“A year.”

“Two months.”

“Six months is my final offer; suggest anything else, and I’ll leave you where you’re sat.”

“You drive a devilish bargain.”

“I’d choose my next words very carefully if I were you.”

“Go on, then. Just like this. But for six months I don’t expect this to be the only time I’ll be seeing you.”

Grian grabbed Scar’s face, fingers landing hard like a slap, thumb curling around his chin. Grian imagined it sinking inside, just as Scar had done to him, and ripping off his entire jaw. “Be good, and I’ll come find you.”

“I expect you’ll have me screaming.”

“With Mumbo in the next room over, you’d better not.”

“You sure he wouldn’t like to watch?”

“Shut up.” Grian wrenched Scar’s head to the side, his fantasies swirling visions of Scar limp, neck broken and bruised. “You won’t speak unless you’re prompted, and any noise you make will be choked out of you, understand?”

“Please.”

Grian withdrew his hand from Scar’s face only to rid himself of his own shirt, but he quite enjoyed the marks left by his nails. Here’s to many more.

[morrigan-sims]

Don't Blink

or, the image of an Angel becomes an Angel.

(still frames of the three renders under the cut)

[teenagenutant]

a fic that has made me laugh and has very, very much made me cry just updated... so i drew about it! power up by @pickledcarrotsandradish!! wahoo!!!

[savesavva]

I love hanahaki aus but somehow if i draw characters like that its always yellow/blue forget-me-nots/daffodils parallels

just wanted a nice picture of them with a bit of angst, as usual?

[butterflysonnets]

yes i'm rooting for m*leven breakup because byler is neat but mostly? i'm rooting for m*leven breakup for the sake of el and mike.

to me, their romance was always a puppy love born out of a combination of social pressures, naïve curiosity, and a lack of true understanding regarding intimacy and romantic love and what it really is. it was real in that they do truly, deeply care about each other and they are close friends, maybe even shared an attraction, but a maturing romance is so much more than that. they've grown up and out of being boyfriend/girlfriend, and that's okay! i think television/film needs to show more often that most of us don't have definite "soulmates" or first childhood loves that we spend our whole lives with. it doesn't mean these relationships meant nothing and didn't impact us, it just means they've run their course and that something else is in the cards, and this is part of life!

i've always felt el was at her best and most confident self when broken up with mike, discovering who she was and what she liked alongside another girl her age instead of just relying on mike for mentorship on how to live in the real world. she deserves more of an opportunity to find herself, her autonomy, and her independence, and to love who she is, and she's made it clear she's felt insecure in the relationship with mike because she isn't being loved and understood the way she wants, needs, and deserves from someone who is her partner.

also, it's okay if mike doesn't love her in "the way he should". he is not obligated to love her romantically and stay in a relationship with her just because she's a girl, because she "needed someone", or because he cares about her a lot. he shouldn't be pressured into a romance if it's not truly coming from his heart. he deserves freedom to find out and honour who he is, too, instead of just staying in his non-functional first relationship — one he got into as a child, essentially — and defining himself that way because it's what's expected when a boy and a girl are close. he loves her in some way, yes, but it's okay if he doesn't feel comfortable or secure being her boyfriend anymore, for whatever reason that is. he's felt insecure too, and that's valid and it matters.

they are their own people and are steadily growing and changing every day. they need time to figure out who those people are, and it's become clear (at least in my opinion) that those people aren't meant to be a couple at this stage.

they deserve freedom. they deserve to grow up and be authentic to themselves and not feel like they need to lie for the sake of a relationship. they deserve to move on from this version of their relationship that isn't making them happy and rekindle the best part of their bond: their strong, beautiful friendship. they don't have to be a couple if it doesn't make them stronger and better and happier people.

i think it would be healthy and wonderful for a show, especially one consumed frequently by young adults, to show a relationship starting, progressing, and ending on good terms in this way. sometimes things don't work out, and that is okay.

[hollymacycomic]

Holly & Macy and Everyone Else

Chapter 4: Page 26

Start at the Beginning | About the comic | Tip-jar 

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[impostorsshow]

I'm actually so obsessed with him it's not even funny if i'm not listening to a TikTok or music directly related to him I can't focus free me free me

This is @/cherubpuppet's OC for a object show [au? pitch? wip show? How do I categorize this] and I've been destroyed by the fact that ruler art is infinitely superior [and 10x longer] and i don't have a good enough grasp on lip gloss's personality to make fanfiction so I am frozen in "want make fanart but fanart takes effort :["

[thatonecrookedsmile]

"Henry? So soon? I didn't expect you for another hour yet. Now you're just trying to impress me. I know... I know... you have questions. You always do! The only important question is this:

Who are we,Henry?"

-Creator-

-----

The protagonist of BATIM is a creator,based on a creator,and who was created by the creator's friend who is actually not a creator,and who thought he was the real creator. Never expected to use such phrase one day. (but it's the truth, tho)

Wanted to do something with canon Henry Stein. Because I like him a lot. This won't be the only drawing with him,that's for sure.

I had to change 1 thing from the original idea I had in mind while drawing this,but hey,it worked out anyway.

(let me know if I need to tag anything else please)

[formula-fun]

there's been lots of plagiarism happening in lestappen fandom lately so can you please provide evidence you wrote your fics?

Hi! i was waiting to get this since it seems like all my friends have been getting it in the last 2 minutes as well!

i recently found out that someone i thought was a fellow writer and a personal friend is in fact just a plagiarist and was lying to my face for a few weeks, so believe me when I know this issue is extremely common right now and hurts everyone, especially writers. That being said, as a writer it's pretty hurtful to just throw accusations around, and especially to mass-send them to writers' inboxes the way that you're doing. We're the ones who are the most hurt by plagiarism in communities that we trust with our work, so it's a bit ridiculous to decide we're all guilty until proven innocent, don't you think?

I would love for you to look through my fics and find anything that would suggest they've been copied from somewhere else. Given the time I put into researching irl events to include them into fics, the energy I spend on interpreting these people's personalities into fictional characterizations, and the attention to detail of settings and timelines, I think it would be pretty difficult to copy anything from another fandom. The same goes for the sole fic I've written that's a true au, and even that has enough connection to the canon (real life) that I think it's pretty obvious it wasn't copied.

That being said, you're welcome to use a plagiarism checker if you're still concerned. Believe me, I use them all the time on my own fics to make sure nobody is plagiarizing me. So far I haven't found any cases of that, but if you decide to check them and find that they've been copied to somewhere else I'll be more than happy to prove that I was the original author. It will help you, you know, actually catch a plagiarist, too, rather than just throwing accusations around left and right.

Thanks!

[capt-sievert]

Ok since I'm getting more in the mouthwashing fandom I want to make my views clear in case someone's interested and elaborate a bit about a few things (I've made a comment under a post but I want to explain myself on here too);

I'm not a proshipper, nor do I really like them. I believe that fiction does indeed impact reality and normalizing/ romanticizing certain tropes is harmful and potentially really dangerous to victims and all people alike.

However, i believe that harassing or straight up doxxing a creator for it is stupid and unnecessary no matter what.

Do I get a potent ick upon seeing someone shipping a victim with their abuser or a child with an adult? Yeah. Of course. Do I believe typing their full address and posting it to the internet is a just "punishment"? No, absolutely not.

I believe the least someone can do is blocking the creator making you uncomfortable. And, if they're making something illegal (like creating child pornography as an example) report them.

Doxxing or harassing doesn't fix anything, and it potentially makes you get in trouble too. If you believe someone needs to get their hard drive checked send a ticket to the platform they're on or potentially an authority such as the cops.

Now I'm largely indifferent to romance/sexual stuff, so I might miss the various nuances that's in human attraction, but I still believe what I've typed above.

Regarding my blog; I'm fine with the whole "toxic yaoi/ yuri" stuff, as it's mainly a joke and sometimes it has some interesting dynamics for its characters, but I draw the line at illegality (such as sexual assault, pedophilia, zoophilia, necrophilia etc.). If you support these things please block me.

Sorry for my bad English, but I hope I've made myself clear. If you have any questions feel free to type it in the comments. I'm up for a (CIVIL) discussion.

Anyway harassing is dumb. Love loses anyway, go eat some toasted bread with a bit of olive oil and salt on it instead.

[hachama]

I'm as down for a good "compost the rich" joke as anyone, and I've made/shared my fair share of jokes and memes about the missing submersible.

I've also seen some takes that... well.

There are jokes that I think walk up to the line, look at it, back up, get a running start, and fucking pole vault over the line and into the Atlantic ocean. There are also jokes that walk up to the line, examine it closely, and aggressively tap-dance at it, staying just barely on the "good taste" side.

The reality is, they're almost certainly dead. They were almost certainly doomed as soon as the sub lost communication with the surface.

The reality is, most of the people in that sub were disgustingly wealthy and thought that spending a quarter of a million dollars to be able to say they visited the final resting place of the Titanic, a mass grave over 2 miles below the surface of a famously cold part of the ocean, was worth it. That's "change someone's life" money. That's "make a real difference" money. And they spent it for a little boat ride and clout. And that says something.

For their sakes, I hope the sub suffered a catastrophic structural failure. I hope it was fast. Because the alternatives are bleak. Multiple days in a claustrophobic tube, not even enough space to sit comfortably, no food, no water, no way to know if anyone is coming, no way to know if anyone will get there before either the cold or the lack of oxygen brings the torment to an end.

[hauntingblue]

Episode 8 I am so scared....