#romance mention cw

[multi-lefaiye]

hghghgh i think i'm gonna head to bed here in a little bit, but before i do. a cudaas thought in exchange for the wip thoughts being fed to me rn <3

so the two main romantic relationships in cudaas book one are alekto/hekate and then icarus/heracles. i don't think i've been subtle about that.

BUT i think it's very funny how different the vibes are with those two pairs. because alekto and hekate are very soft and sweet and all about protection and devotion and it's nice. and then heracles and icarus is just [HIGH PITCHED SCREAMING]

[stil-lindigo]

patchwork canary.

a comic about two girls, fate, and a powerful man who felt entitled to something that wasn’t his to own.

support me on patreon (if you’d like to see more comics like this one)

[killrisma]

I don’t understand the concept of sex as the natural progression of romance. I understand having sex, I understand how it can be romantic, I just don’t understand how it is seen as the only course that romance takes.

Like love confessions immediately turning to sex is always so ???????? to me. Like ok get it I guess but how did we get here???

[agrebel18]

"we need more wlw pairings where the characters dislike each other at first" you guys couldn't even handle lumity

[beebisbeeble]

"would you kiss any of your friends for a million dollars" dude I would fucking do it for free if they asked. I love my friends. they could tell me to do a little jig and I would!!!!!!!!

[mjrtaurus]

Not me re-watching the end of Alabasta, looking at those massive royal baths and going "Crocodile being invited to accompany Cobra to the royal baths and not being pressured to bathe but when he sees Cobra washing himself it's the most he's ever been tempted to get into the water in who knows how long" ndshbfvhdbvfhjd

Cobra, of course, offers for him to join in. He is an honored guest, after all.

And Crocodile… accepts. Not only would turning the offer down come across as rude (which would hurt his rapport with the Cobra’s trusted people), and it would make him seem weak (running away will only make people think that he is nothing without his devil fruit, and that is something his pride will not abide by).

Iva’s miracle working gave him the body to match his heart and soul, but it didn’t- couldn’t- erase scar tissue. So, if Cobra or any of his guards have anything to say about the crescent marks beneath his pecs, they are wise to hold their silence.

He does have to admit, the water is nice… clear, warm, and with a hint of lavender perfume. It melts the tension right out of him.

And perhaps that lack of tension is why- whilst he was going about the task of washing himself with one hand- he let Cobra help. At least with his hair.

And maybe that’s when Crocodile realizes that he’s been more than a little touch-starved for the last twenty or so years…

[crispy-dib]

Hi so I’ve been seeing loads of aroposting lately, and I just wanted to come in with my own experiences, because my identity is complex to many people.

Ranting abt being aroace under the cut, it includes mentions of sex and romance so if you’re uncomfortable with that just keep scrolling

Hi, I’m a polyam romance favorable sex unfavorable aroace. This may confuse the shit out of you if you’ve seen me rant in detail about hyper specific fictional characters…but that’s part of it.

The only strong instances of sexual attraction I have ever had was towards a partner (rare occurrence, no fault of theirs at all) or a fictional character I have hyper fixated on and know almost everything there is to know about them. I believe this directly ties into my aceness. I like the idea of sex. I don’t think I like actual sex.

There seems to also be confusion when I say Im both polyamorous and aromantic when I really don’t think it’s that hard to understand.

When I do feel romantic attraction, it can take a couple months or, more commonly for me, years to build up. It’s such a few amount that while I may have 5 romantic partners right now, Ive only ever fallen in love and felt romantic love a few times - more often it’s what I thought was love because it was fed to me by television and alloromantic society.

I am still aroace even if it is demi-demi. I am still aroace even if it is grayro-gray.

In fact I don’t know what to even call my orientations, and I think aroace suits me just fine. The complexities of my identity can simply just be a variation of aroace because I do experience little romantic and almost no sexual attraction.

Also shoutout to my queerplatonic partner who is probably reading this, you should play red dead redemption 2 on stream so I can watch you play!!

Uh yea think thats it, if you made it this far have a cookie 🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪

[future-crab]

Given the shift from “all the good times, they give you cancer” to “all the good times gimme…” I’m surprised that I haven’t seen any interpretations of Party Poison as terminally ill.* I’m not saying I think this is what they’re going for with that lyric, but “character whose reckless bravery is secretly fueled by the knowledge that they’re dying” IS a well-worn character type, and as someone who loves nothing more than upbeat songs with angsty lyrics, the idea that the “gimme gimme” section represents Party Poison almost saying what’s weighing on their mind but then stopping themself is an interesting one.

*tbf i haven’t read either the comics or any danger days fanfic, it’s possible that this is either a popular hc or straight-up canon

[ipromiseimawriter]

november prompt challenge (day 2-on-day 4)

for @nosebleedclub's november prompt challenge; i'm seeing where i can get some inspo in. a little unconventional to start, but lisa frankenstein is constantly at the front of my mind tysm

2. afterword (cws listed in tags; non-graphic; always lmk if i mistagged/missed something)

elegy for lisa swallows-frankenstein

miss outcast masquerade, the light that pours in from your tragedy is brighter than all the stars in the sky and the flashing neons of the high school party  where you tripped up,  had your drink spiked, someone  touched you where they  shouldn’t –

because lightning struck over your beloved’s grave and  you gave him life and he  woke up knowing he loved you long before you knew you loved him, and maybe you knew already, because love is a funny fickle thing when you’re seventeen and waiting for the world to end or the lightning to strike you directly in the face you know, the face that you shared with your mom before she was murdered in cold blood,  yes that one, it’s the face your monster fell in love with and it’s the one splattered with blood and the danse macabre you were always meant to perform arrives –

cool uncool girl of the century, we have waited for you for a long time.

[bitchycunt]

People who think that it's fine to take advantage of 'people pleasers' needs to be stabbed till their blood splatters on the floor like artsy painting, it would make a great perfect death art in my opinion

[aracnidaarmagedon]

I hate the fact that a horrible man was responsible for one of the best pieces of toxic yaoi to ever exist.

Like, why could you not be a decent fucking person?

You literally could have had it all and ruined it by being a disgusting ass man

[agrebel18]

i didn't ship Lokius or see them as romantic in season 1, but even i knew Something Was Up when Mobius was the only person who was visibly disgusted (rightfully) and straight up jealous of Loki and Sylvie interacting or mentioning each other and got all petty, like damn dude, you're TERRIBLE at hiding that you want Loki to kiss you and spend time with you instead

[tacticalhimbo]

PALE STATIC EXCHANGE... 2! Posting this a bit early, but I'm very excited to have been able to dip my toes into @palestaticexchange this time around! It's very cool to see how alive the Disco Elysium fandom is.

That said, this piece is for @glitch-critter , who asked for "stuff relating to HDB's experience/psyche, especially with regards to electrochemistry/addiction".

WORDS: 2.3K

I really liked the prompts provided, and I thought it would be cool to kind of explore how relapse and recovery can manifest in forms different than the baseline addiction. As such, it would seem Harry has found himself over-correcting himself in regard to his work...

I hope you do enjoy it <3

Also, let me know if you’d like a more permanent copy of this, too! I’m always happy to provide a PDF version of the writings I do :3

Coastal winds were much tamer as they rolled through the densely packed buildings of Central Jamrock, only just able to sustain themselves as they lapped around the perimeter of Precinct 41. Harry wouldn't be here, if not for Kim. It was he who'd defended him to Vicquemare. He who'd attested to the idea that Harry could get better, with a little guidance and a lot of patience. He who'd truly believed in him, despite everything they faced. Creeping along his senses was the smell of blood shed by belief and held together by vengeance. Remnants of a decades' long war, and its lasting effects on the human psyche—both those that were in tact, and those that were already fragmented—as the world evolved around them. The stillness of the air was dry, just as was the mouth of the disco detective who'd found himself falling into familiar habit. Eat, sleep, work, party—

[LOGIC] No, not anymore. You've given that up now.

[VOLITION] You are a changed man. Or so you would like to have others believe.

Harry is a changed man, or so he would like others to believe. He would like to believe it.

Yet the familiar dryness that consumed Harry did not feel changed. Nor did the aching that settled into his musculature, drawing the thickened fibers back like that of a bowstring, arming them—arming him—to snap at a moment's notice. His stomach felt a familiar sickness. One that had consumed him during the infancy stages of the Martinaise investigation. A horrific hangover, but this one was different. It was dry. He was dry. And that irritated him. Thick brows knitted as his psyche wandered to the idea, briefly leaning into the comforting embrace of familiarity of outrage. It was easier, after all, to be mad at the circumstance than to navigate it. But… It didn't feel right. No, he wasn't angry about it. Perhaps a part of him was. But Harry? Him? He was uncertain. Afraid. Every time he wet his lips in consideration, he knew he would not be able to stop himself. Not when—

[ELECTROCHEMISTRY] It's a miracle you even lasted this long. It's like something has snapped in you—a nerve ending. You've lost yourself, Harry. Truly, lost yourself. And god knows how long it will take you to come back this time.

The subtle emphasis makes his skin crawl as his head shakes, hands pausing to linger under the chilled water pouring forth into the sink basin. He sighed, looking to the dingy mirror before him.

Through the speckles of old debris and matted dust, and past the droplets of dew that form with the arterial spray of the sink's faucet (a sign that the mechanism, much like the rest of the restroom, is in need of repair; it has been for as long as one can remember), the visage that greets Harry is… healthier. It invokes a sense of pride not too dissimilar to when he'd first whispered his name—the one he had chosen, not the one he was given—and truly seen himself for the first time. Like the waves, it swelled briefly before crashing down. Fell upon the invariable signs of his past habits. Like looking through the bottom of a liquor-filled glass, it was hazy; a deluge of desperation and need encapsulated by bloatedness and swollenness. Sat neatly among the discolored planes. Pallid skin darkened and reddened as the blood vessels beneath the skin remained agape, prepared for consumption.

[ENCYCLOPEDIA] Telangiectasia. Small blood vessels sat near the skin's surface. It is natural for them to sit so high, but normally they remain unseen until there is an increase in blood flow.

[INLAND EMPIRE] Recall how one's features become rosy when hearts begin to flutter, or how the sun's warmth seems to sit upon the apples of one's cheeks like a comforting blanket.

[DRAMA] There is an art to this.

[LOGIC] There is not. This is a different sort of happenstance. The events that have led to your flushed appearance are not a simple point of life, nor something to be proud of.

But it is, a simple point of life. Accentuation of Harry's simple existence. It is not something he can change, especially as that nausea begins to grow in his gut. His mouth feels full of cotton; his body so writhe with tension that he begins to tremble and grow dizzy. His nose feels like a small balloon in the middle of his face. His tongue feels swollen and snail-like, floundering about amidst tainted teeth as trembling hands cusp beneath the faucet and draw splashes of water toward his lips.

[ELECTROCHEMISTRY] Drink, but it will not replace what you need. No, this is nothing, brother. The best cure for a disease like this is indulgence. Morphine, cigarettes, rum… You need them again. You will not survive without them. This? This is—

[COMPOSURE] Embarrassing.

[AUTHORITY] Weak. How do you expect anybody to take you seriously? Nobody would listen to someone so pathetic.

The taunts were met with the sound of the door slamming; a minute signal in the grand scheme of things. It went unnoticed by those in the wing's hallway. To them, it was business as usual. If not Harry, then Satellite-Officer Vicquemare. If not Vicquemare, then Captain Pryce.

[RHETORIC] The police aren't there to mess up; the police are there to preserve the mess.

[ENCYCLOPEDIA] Says the professor of Ecole Normale de Revachol. Someone has been reading in his spare time.

[LOGIC] Or simply observing with a clear mind.

[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] This is a dangerous line of thinking to be falling down. Your past airing of grievances with the RCM has earned you several stern talkings to. In his office, Captain Pryce grimaces at the clutched papers in his aging hands.

[RHETORIC] It was addiction that saved you. Easier to blame the abstract than to examine the system.

A shiver. Harry wasn't the only one struggling. He knew that, even before his days of total sobriety. This sort of culture was normalized; expected of its officers. Many of his habits he fell into through the hands of his coworkers, even if they were not his introduction to the idea. Of course, things were different now. After his outburst, and the disaster in Martinaise, the RCM began cracking down on the use of substances among its officers. Many, like Harry, suddenly found themselves thrust into the true responsibility of duty. Conscious and aware to the severity of their workloads. Many quit. Many more fell into old habits and were systemically demoted until the work no longer supported their needs. And those, like Harry, leaned into the work. Buried themselves in mountains of paperwork chasing that adrenaline-fueled high by doing something—anything—to feel alive.

Yet they never did. Harry never did.

Time blurred past and he was, effectively, the same old corpse he always was. A puppet of the RCM's agenda. The failed Dick Mullen. The swaying body strung from the rafters, dancing along to the fluttering shimmer of the disco ball.

Then, there is nothing. Only warm, primordial blackness. An inordinate amount of time passes, not even measurable by the distant, rhythmic technological beeps.

[PERCEPTION] Hospital monitors? No. Alarms. An alarm.

[LOGIC] It must be morning. We should get up.

[VOLITION] We shouldn't. We can't. It's much too difficult.

The soft rustling of sheets.

[PAIN THRESHOLD] Easy…

Muscles ache and the silence is inevitably broken by a low groan. Sunlight filters in through dusted curtains, particles coming to fill the air as a heavy hand finds itself upon the alarm clock beside him. Equally heavy feet find the floor, though remain unable to hold the body above them. In a quick sequence, Harry finds himself on the floor, slumped and slouched in an all too familiar position. The aches stop, albeit briefly. Like a fly to the ointment, his conscience sticks to it. Chases it as the limbed and headed machine of pain and undignified suffering awakens itself once more. He is on his feet again, cotton cloth sliding across the floor as his body wills itself to the bathroom.

A mirror hangs above a bent, not broken, sink. Languid hands find themselves upon the faucet, though are gentler in the way they manipulate it. Hot water sprays from the stem and steam covers the mirror. Harry cannot see himself, just the outline of a man.

[CONCEPTUALIZATION] There is an irony in seeing the image. It was not always like this.

[VOLITION] Those days are long gone, now.

Cloth falls from the man's frame, though it remains obscured by the apparatus before him. He slowly reaches his hand toward the surface of the mirror…

[INLAND EMPIRE] You're certain you wish to do this? You may not like what you see there.

[HARRY] I don't care.

A deft motion. The condensation on the reflective surface gives under the palm that wipes it, leaving in its path a clear view to the tired visage that stares back. To the naked, pallid flesh that rolls from a slumped frame. Hair highlights various pathways, traveling down between taped and tucked mounds and rolling along the rumbling stomach, and continuing through the fog and beyond the sink's barrier. It traverses the adhesive edges of Harry's binding (he's still thankful he has learned this alternative; not only does it keep his natural form, but it allows him to wear his shirts open with pride) and over his shoulders. Down thick arms to the bruised knuckles that hold the porcelain lip of the sink. It flutters out, then reappears upon his rounded jaw, mutton chops growing thickened around his lips. He's due for a shave, but a part of him enjoys this rugged look. It's… different. He's different.

He's happy.

[COMPOSURE] You're exhausted.

[SAVOIR FAIRE] You've dropped the toothbrush. Again. Your hands feel foreign to your own body.

His eyes follow dirt-stained grout lines down to the floor, only to find that sad little toothbrush dried beside the trash bin. He's exhausted. Creaking and groaning, Harry bends to discard the brush; opts to simply swish some mouthwash and try not to think of the burning sensation that draws his nose to scrunch and his eyes to water. He does it twice. Perhaps to mask the fact he has not properly brushed and will have to save that act for after his shift. Perhaps because he feels he deserves the ache; it invigorates him. Begins to bring him back to life and pull him from the vice grip weariness holds on him.

But it isn't enough.

Not as he washes himself in the shower, nearly tripping over the tub's lip as he climbs out afterward. Nor as he finds himself slumped against the wardrobe door, idly flipping through his clothing options and looking for his RCM jacket.

[PERCEPTION] It… should be here. Why isn't it here? Don't tell me we've lost it again.

[LOGIC] Nonsense. We brought it home. It is here, just not put away.

It's not enough as he waits for the toast to pop from its apparatus, where the sudden click and ding nearly makes him crawl out of his skin. Coffee spills on his shirt, bringing him back to the wardrobe once more, digging around for a new shirt and tie. Back to the kitchen. New coffee in his cup. Butter and jam on cooling bread. Crumbs dust his facial hair, only unsettled from their rest when he reaches to scratch a persistent itch. It is then when the realization clicks.

He's exhausted. He is unmoving. Those early morning aches have not been shaken, and have in fact only worsened with his moving through the morning routine. His mind has been quieter; nearly absent. He can barely recall what he's done and what he hasn't, with the only clues being the visible changes in his appearance that signify—at the very least—that he's done the basics and cleaned himself. But that's just it. If he can't even recall this, how in the world could he find himself responsible for the safety of others. How could he find himself amidst the greater world around him, with dozens of eyes on him—some pleading, some scrutinizing?

He'd done it before, under worse circumstances… but he wasn't that kind of animal anymore. He didn't want to be that kind of animal anymore.

Which is why, with a swaying physique and a hoarseness in his voice, he found himself on the phone with whichever unfortunate soul would find themselves on the other end of the line. Unfortunate, not for taking in his call-in, but for having to present it to Vicquemare and Pryce.

[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] Early morning ire. Slender knuckles knock on the door to ask permission to enter; it is granted. From his throne, Pryce sneers at the individual before him. His brow twitches, his posture stiffens.

[CAPTAIN PRYCE] What the hell do you mean he called out?

[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] A pregnant pause. The avoidance of eye contact.

[UNKNOWN] He just did… Said something about feeling under the weather.

[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] The response was faint. Nearly whispered as the other end of the reigning duo entered with a stack of papers.

[JEAN VICQUEMARE] Who called out?

[CAPTAIN PRYCE] Your star pupil.

[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] Jean's posture slackens and he sneers. It's evident the sarcastic jab was more than enough to clue him in. Yet there is a subtleness in his eyes that almost suggests concern. He sets the papers on Pryce's desk then walks out without another word.

Shoulders slump and a ragged sigh escapes as Harry undoes his tie and discards it, absentmindedly tossing it to the coffee table. His shirt follows as he sinks into the comfortable contour of the couch. Tired eyes slip shut, coaxing the surrounding musculature to relax and begin a rippling effect. He melts, and for once he can feel the day passing.

And for once, he does not care. He deserves this rest, and nothing can convince him otherwise.

[normystical]

Anyone else out there who understands both romantic and sexual attraction to any degree, but can't quite see them as COMBINED?

Like, for me for instance, it might be because I only had one crush pre-puberty, and post-puberty he wasn't in my life anymore. So there was an era of romance without sexual desire and then there was an era of sexual desire without romance.

Whether or not that's the reason; I like sex, I'm definitely not romance-repulsed, but the phrase "making love" disgusts me.

Is that just me???

[dilemma-danger]

so yk irl its "kms"? in danger days would it be "dms" or "gms"

idk my thoughts r everywhere rn

[townofcadence]

Headcanon about Artair and relationships-- CW for mentions of sexual things, though it's just alluded to, mostly.

Artair is complex when it comes to relationships. He's very easy to befriend, and once he's met you, he probably considers you a friend. He loves very very easily, and is constantly looking for the good in people. Even some of the worst people he's met have been given his care and attention, and in some cases, it has swayed them because someone listened and acknowledged their hurt, despite every attempt they made to keep their distance. He loves hard in this way that's both closed off about himself, but so vulnerable about the other, and opens himself up to be hurt, in order to reach someone who-- maybe just needs someone willing to do that.

The area that gets a little different from what might be considered the usual is romance and sex. Artair is a sex-positive ace, maybe demi but it's nebulous, and demi-romantic. He likes people, but he doesn't necessarily think about them in a way that's sexual. He's usually thinking about hobbies or random things or something he wants to do later, or how much he loves spending time with someone he cares about. But the thing is, he likes making people feel happy, and sees sex as a more normal, non-taboo thing where it's something he can do to make someone else feel good. So if a friend or someone he cares about expresses interest-- he'll probably do things with them, however they want and with a focus on their desires and needs, to make them happy and feel good. He doesn't mind doing so, and honestly the way they feel is its own reward for him, for making them feel that way. He doesn't need to know you well, though of course your mileage may vary based on how things go and chemistry. But usually, if they have a good rapport and show interest in him, and consent is there, he's happy to oblige, and center his current partner.

Romance is--- almost impossible, by contrast. It isn't that he doesn't feel it at all-- in fact he has the capacity to end up being interested in someone he's emotionally connected to. But he'll seldom if ever act on it. He loves people, he can be in love with them and yearn for them, but also, he....can't allow himself or them to be committed to one another.

For one, he can't allow himself to move on, while he's still looking for his friends who vanished. Everyone in town is sure they're gone after seven years, but he can't let go, and finding someone to be happy with and commit to... feels like giving up on them, or moving on. Being happy feels like taking away from his role in their loss. So he can't allow himself to move past it, until he finds what he needs.

Additionally, he can't let the other person end up in a relationship with him. He's bad luck, misfortune if it was a little guy, and while he's fine being friends, even friends who do things together of that nature--- he doesn't want them to have any tying commitments to him. He wants them to have the space that if they ever realize they don't care about him, or if they're done with him, or if they find someone who makes them happier (which they will, he's sure) or if he ends up being too much like he's been told, or they grow into much better people and realize how terrible he's always been--- then he's left the door open so they can walk away without needing to say anything at all, and without needing to sever things. They are free, and without any commitment which requires anything of them when it comes to him, regardless of his feelings since-- they're less important in the grand scheme.

Already touched on, of course, but in addition to knowing he's a monstrous thing--- most people who he meets either are just too kind and too good for him from the get-go, or if they're not, they grow, and he sees them become better versions of themselves that are happier and then-- he doesn't deserve them. Not that it's his choice who they decide on, but.... they're too good for him. And he doesn't know how to allow himself to be a choice, when he knows deep down they'd be so much happier with someone else. He will do anything he can to give them support, a shoulder to lean on, what they need, and try to help them find happiness.... but it can't be with him, because he will eventually ruin everything. And if they find better, they'll be so much happier in the long run. Especially if you consider the dangers of what he does and-- ultimately, how dangerous this unknown version of himself he's learning to navigate could end up being.

The closest muses to get to a relationship with him have been-- mildly to sometimes quite worrisome. He's kind of revealed himself to be a masochist in that way. He prefers people who treat him less than ideally, because either it's what he feels he deserves, or because he's broken and flawed, he feels more okay with another person who is broken and flawed and isn't a good person who just thinks that about themself but can be so much more (the fucking hypocrite). But in most cases, those people begin to improve with the right support network and kindness, and then-- he doesn't deserve them either.

It's a super ridiculous and self-sacrificing for no good reason mentality, and few to no one has really gotten past it. Most just end up being romances in everything but name and admittance, a product of the mental gymnastics Artair performs.