#so i try to handle that to keep from fucking up again

[crimsonxe]

Like seriously certain people can absolutely fuck off with the very clear ignorance-based bullshit. Refusing to see that Ambessa is the one that did all the things and Cait was for a time without Vi as her heart-shield swallowed into her bullshit. And to the one crowd out there, no that isn't putting her conscience or whatever bullshit on her as some form of abuse, every goddamn person has that one person who more times than not is their SO but not always that can bring them calm and reach them through even the worst of emotional storms; one that can ground them. Though even then Cait didn't do certain things that people are trying to lay on her. She wasn't out brutalizing people, she wasn't torturing people, she wasn't doing most of the fascist shit. Which I'm fucking GLAD for damn it, cause ngl I worried she might at the end of 2x06. She again did as Ambessa orchestrated in hyper-focusing on Jinx which Maddie as per reveal of her being the spy and a honeypot furthers. Like Cait got run over by all the things that suddenly came into view when the heart-shield was re-instated blowing away the blinders & clouded vision, which means pre-I know up to it; all the things that happened due to Ambessa but technically under Cait's name/watch hit her like a freight train. She's very much in an ocean of regret, guilt, anger at self, etc. Further reinforced by your mention of the jail scene with Jinx, like that's both Cait and the narrative once again lining the two up. BOTH Jinx and Cait deserve their chance at new paths, not having their damn faces shoved in shit they did or in Cait's case done with her forged name stamped on them so to speak. Funny how this same shit isn't dragged up for Jinx, only Cait. People truly can't fucking handle complex situations and complex characters. But getting back to things, demanding her to apologize in my eyes is like blaming the girl that wore a short skirt, instead of the damn dude the that couldn't keep his libido in check. Cait is as much a victim of Ambessa as anyone else, so people demanding an apology from her can absolutely go fuck themselves.

Why I think Caitlyn didn’t ask Vi for forgiveness

(Thank 'anons' for your messages. I’ll try to respond to you through this text: )

The importance of Caitlyn’s “I know”

A key moment in Caitlyn’s character narrative is her “I know”—both its content and delivery.

The content: When Caitlyn says, “I know,” it doesn’t just mean “You’re right.” It means, “I’ve taken the time to think about this.” And thinking is what Caitlyn does best. Her “I know” conveys that she has already had this conversation with herself, over and over in her head. She’s thought about it constantly, she’s already told herself these things, and she’s already blamed herself for them.

The delivery: She screams it with violence, and we can see this represented by the boat falling apart. It’s not just that she has thought about it; it’s tormenting her. Her “I know” is incredibly powerful because it’s filled with suffering.

To me, this is as valid as an apology because asking for forgiveness is outward-facing—focused on the other person. "Asking for forgiveness" says, “Whether I’ve forgiven myself or not, whether I feel guilty or not, it’s on you to decide to forgive me.”

But here, Caitlyn’s “I know” is inward-facing. It means, “I’m not asking you to forgive me because I can’t even forgive myself.”

She knows everything you’re saying, and it torments her.

This is followed by:

"I didn’t even have time to think before they hauled her off."

This line is so telling. Everything about Caitlyn is tied to thinking and reflection.

Being a sniper means aiming and shooting. Aiming is the equivalent of thinking, and shooting is the equivalent of speaking. Everything Caitlyn does is deliberate and thought through.

This is why some people dislike her: as I’ve said before, unlike other characters, Caitlyn’s actions can’t be forgiven easily because she doesn’t do anything by accident.

Then we get to:

"We can’t erase our mistakes. None of us."

Caitlyn speak in “we.”

In the prison scene with Jinx:

"No amount of good deeds can undo our crimes."

This scene mirrors the rage she felt when she threw the boat. In this moment, she’s speaking to Jinx, but also to herself.

Caitlyn and Jinx are paralleled so many times throughout the show. Caitlyn quickly realized that, in some ways, she had become like Jinx. And so, in order to forgive Jinx, she would first have to forgive herself.

At this point in the episode, the person Caitlyn hates the most is herself.

But she no longer has the "energy" to hate, neither Jinx nor herself.

Energy comes from fuel. What she perceives as a lack of strength to keep fighting is simply the fact that the fuel that powered her hatred has disappeared. And when you stop feeding a fire, it eventually dies out. She has no energy left; she has no fuel to sustain her hatred.

It's a particular way of saying, I don’t hate you anymore, and I don’t want to hate myself anymore either, because in the end, that hatred corrupts us/everything .

In her own unique way, Jinx also says, I didn’t know your mother was there, even if it wouldn’t have changed anything. And this too is a strange way of taking a step toward the other.

We have two brilliant and intelligent women who express their emotions in unconventional ways. ----------

There’s also a whole analysis that could be done about her concept of justice and rules, "but I don’t have the energy" to dive into that here. Still, it would only lead back to the fact that Caitlyn doesn’t see herself as the right person to free Jinx (and therefore to forgive her) because she believes she herself is beyond forgiveness.

[thesacrificialdove]

THE BITCHING PROJECT

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— it's like you were secretly asking for this !! degration kink, rough sex, dubious consent, deflowering, light dumbification, semi-public sex, manipulation ✧ ft.: yandere student council ✧ cast: nerd f!reader

His hand grasps your hair as you choke around his girth. There's tears brimming in your eyes. Anxiety and confusion are washed away by the growing arousal in your stomach—this isn't normal. You've never been treated like this before. He's using your mouth like a ragdoll.

"Fuck," he moans, obsessing over the way your unexperienced tongue lays flat on the underside of his cock. "Such a good fucking bitch. How does it feel with your nose buried in my cock and not some books, huh?"

Nothing prepared you for the way this man is in the dim light: he's unlike his smile like a warm setting sun, hands tender to the brief passing touch, and voice an echo of hope and cheer.

He's fucking your throat like it's his newest assignment. Studiously, he memorises the plump of your lips and the heat in your throat. There's something primal yet meticulous about how he thrusts into your mouth. It's like he's thought this over and over again.

Your hands struggle for grip on his hips; he won't relent in his pace. Dizziness presents as you can't think straight—his cock the only thing that you can think of.

A guttural moan leaves him. "Can't believe you'd fall for some s-stupid shit like this. Now you're all fucking mine—" he pulls out, the head of his cock on your lips—"you like that, huh? Like belonging to me? I'll make you forget about your classes and I'll keep your cunt strapped on my cock instead."

There's a string of saliva that connects his cock to your lips. He plays with it, having fun smearing it all over your chin. The humiliation is tattooed in your brain.

You agreed to meet him because the Dean planned to give you the scholarsip—something you've been working so hard for. It's a lie. How could you have known someone from the student council would lie to you just to get their dick wet?

"Hey, hey," he pulls you up, sitting you on a desk. "What are you thinking about, baby? You're thinking too hard. Come on, I know you feel good."

And you do. Because after all of this, you still got a big fucking crush on him.

"S-stop it, please," you try to say. "I'm... I'm sorry if I did anything wrong but—"

He laughs. "You did nothing wrong. I love you, I do. But you're just to gullible. You have to know how adorable you look when you think everything you want is going to be handed over to you on a plate."

Red paints your face. Your heart churns at his words but he's standing between your legs with his cock wetting the inside of your thighs. Your cunt is being exposed with an easy pull of your panties to the side. The conflict of arousal and humiliation is too much to handle.

"How about this, hm? I'm going to fuck you better and tomorrow, let's see you beg for the Dean's cock to get that scholarship?"

There's contradictions on your tongue. It's taken out of you when he pulls your hips—his cock sliding between your folds and fucking you raw.

"F-fuck!" You cry. It's too big. His cock stretches you more than your fingers ever had, easily breaking the littlest resistence your hymen had. It makes you cry. Your heart hammers against your ears. It pulses in time with your cunt convulsing around him.

He's breathing against your cheeks; with the way he's out of breath, it's like he's enjoying taking your virginity like this. "Holy... fuck—did you never have a guy in here before?" he asks, as if he needs confirmation. "You're so fucking tight. I need you to loosen up for me, babe."

Not a single effort was made to get you to relax. He pulls back and fucks you right in, ignoring your pained little whimpers as it's being overshadowed by your moans. You're conflicted but he's so assured. Though your brain runs wild, your pussy sucks him in and is getting wetter by the second.

"So fucking good," he moans. "Tight fucking slut for me."

"I've never—agh! Never... had—!"

He chuckles as he bruises your hips with his hold. "I can fucking tell, baby. Shit. I can feel your cute little pussy hug my cock so tight. You love it so bad, don't you? I bet you fucking waited to be defiled by a cock this big."

You can barely muster a breath, nonetheless a word to deny him. It’s cruel how he pistons his hips. Your legs are in the air, toes clenching as half of his cock barely breaches inside of you. You’re gripping him with a vice, the pain dulling with the hot moans he breathes through your skin.

“God, that’s it,” his mouth instinctively opens as he spreads your folds open. Your pussy is spread. on the girth, his eyes trained onto where his cock disappears inside of you. You can tell he’s lost himself in the sensation when he has to swallow down his own spit.

He’s moaning, a growl emitting from him when you squeeze him. “Loosen the fuck up!” His hand presses against your stomach, trapping you on the wooden desk. “God, shit. For someone eager to take a cock in you’re so not prepared.”

The new angle just rubs your g-spot. A strangled moan involuntarily leaves you, his response being a dark grin spreading on his face. Knowing now, he continues to rubs up that spot. You want to pull your legs together but it’s tightly locked in his grasp. Toes curling, you tense up as he thrusts faster inside of you.

“S-so…” you gasp, hands gripping the edge of the table as you move with the force of his thrusts. “So fucking—so fucking good, haaah..!”

With each thrust, you lose yourself to the pleasure. Your cunt perfectly welcomes him in, even sucking him inside just to keep it rubbing against those nerves. You don’t remember a time feeling this good. The stretch is almost gone. Broken cries of pleasure are being punched out of you. He’s merciless and chases his own high, yet you’re being dragged along as you feel yourself soak and leak.

“Fuck,” he mutters, “I knew you’d love being fucked by me. I’ve been…. shit! I’ve been seeing you shake your cute little ass since you came. here. Knew you were so desperate to be claimed by me.”

He groans low in his throat. Swiftly, he throws your legs together on one side of his shoulders, fucking his cock deep inside of you. The new angle reaches further, your legs shaking from the intense feeling of being used like a toy for him. Your pleasure is undeniable. If you could see yourself, you would see your wet cunt drooling as your face is molded into a face of intoxication.

You can’t help it anymore. The slow yet deep thrusts spreads tingles from your pussy to the rest of your body. “‘m close…” you mutter, struggling to find diction. “So close—hng!”

“I didn’t hear you, “ he pulls on your hair from the roots, tugging it with enough force to electrocute your nerves there. “I can’t fucking hear you with your pussy gushing all over me.”

Cheeks turning a bright red, you try to cover yourself as he thrusts deep and short for emphasis. You can hear yourself make wet sounds with each movement. His words only make you wetter.

Trying to gather yourself, you take a deep breath with a hand over head your head. “I wanna cum, I need it so bad please… Need to cum on. your cock so b-bad!” You cry, surprised you could even form words when all you can think. about is that hot rod inside of you.

He’s forgiving. “Good fucking girl,” he sighs in relief as he continues his animalistic thrusts. The desk creaks each time and you would be worried for its durability if not for his hand lowering to play with your clit.

“Cum for me, cum for your new owner.”

The cock breaching your once-virgin pussy and the your clit being fondled only ushers you closer and closer to an orgasm. You couldn���t even warn him. With both hands reaching for his shoulders, a moan leaves you so loud you’re so everyone in the hallway could hear you.

You’re shivering. Your body is worn out and his cock pulls out of you—your orgasm flowing out as his own spurts on your face to your neck. He had clumsily aimed at your face, the angle awkward with your body half sat on the table. But the liquid splashed to your a bit of your lips, the taste of his release odd yet so erotic.

“Shit,” he mutters, the relief washing over him. You can see the satisfaction in his face; the slight upward tilt of his smile, the heavy breathing, his eyes examining every part of your body, all of it a testament to his amusement to having just defiled you.

There’s no need to speak. Finally, for the first time, he pushes his lips against yours.

In your years living, you haven’t given away your first kiss. In this moment, he had successfully taken two first times with you. His kiss reflects his previous desire to make his mark in your cunt. Breath hot, he pushes his tongue inside your mouth and is determined to lick every part of it.

You’re weak in his grasp. Every limb is numb and your pussy is still tingling. He’s kissing you how he wants as you simply struggle to breathe correctly. Your head is dizzy. There’s a cloud within your thoughts, simply unable to comprehend anything that is happening.

With a bite to your lower lip, that grounds you back to reality. He laughs into the kiss before placing his lips on your neck.

“So fucking dumb now,” he laughs, “don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure you’ll get a reward for servicing my cock.”

Being his broken-in slut doesn’t seem so bad.

UPDATE ! 📢 @wiltedpoison @elloredef @alureasoley

@ 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐃𝐎𝐕𝐄 this story is original and is not allowed to be shared without credits. do not plagiarise, feed to ai, or claim as yours.

[xoxochb]

okay okay hold on hear me out- guitarist percy :0 like.... sitting on his lap while he tunes/fixes his guitar (his hands AHHHHHHH-) and it turns into y'all doing things idk go wild also if ur taking emoji anons can I be 🪐 or 🐾 anon? ty lovely! :D

you can be whichever emoji, I don’t have either of them yet :)

cw: fingering, overstimulation-ish, thigh riding, swearing, percy is mean and teases reader, n this might be the longest smut fic I’ve ever written tbh…

——— ౨ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

you’re pretty sure he’s aware of what he’s doing to you. it’s utterly tantalizing watching percy tune his guitar so deliberately with his calloused fingers, at the mere thought you feel a rush of pooling heat in your core. your arms tighten around his shoulders at this— yet he does nothing to stop his movements with the stupid guitar. It makes you jealous that an inanimate object is receiving more attention than you are, and that he’s handling it with care. you grow father frustrated.

though you don’t say anything in hopes he’ll realize himself. but you’re pretty sure he’s far to oblivious to notice that you’re internally fighting your hormone demons. you shift your position on his lap so one of his thighs rests between your legs, the sudden patting of your own thighs having you realize the wetness of your poor panties. percy adjusts his arm around your waist with your new position, still keeping you close to him while his eyes never leave the instrument.

slowly, you begin to grind your hips, barely, but just enough for you to feel even a tad bit of friction. with your sudden movements, percy at last looks up to you.

“you alright, sweet girl?”

you nod. “‘m fine. continue.”

he knows that’s a lie. for first, your cheeks flush a pink hue and he can feel the progressive ragged rate of your breathing growing faster with every thrust of your hips along his thigh. you watch as his fingers still toy around with the guitar, having your hips move at a faster pace the more you look. you can’t help the soft whimper that escapes your lips at this point. it’s growing unbearable for you to handle.

“perce… can- will you-”

what you’re trying to say is beyond your capacity of understanding at the moment. the words quickly diminish off your tongue as soon as they come out. percy understands what you’re trying to get at, however, laughing and tossing (placing— whatever) his guitar to the side, placing both of his hands now on your waist as you continue grinding along him.

teasingly, he begins pecking along your neck, only adding onto the heat between your thighs. bitch. and you’re sure he’s aware of what he’s doing to you because at this point your intentions are entirely obvious and blatant. you manage to ask him once again to do something. he obliges to your advances and tugs down the zipper of your denim shorts, yet this isn’t enough, you plead for him to hurry his pace.

when he eventually manages to slip your shorts off, his hand instantly finds itself running along your clothed clit— and not to his surprise your lacy panties are drenched.

“gods, you’re soaked.”

“no fucking shit. I wonder why.”

percy laughs again at your clear frustration with him, kissing your jaw now. at a second slow rate he slides those off now too, shoving them into his pocket. you shudder at this. his finger trails from your waist, your hip, and down to your inner thigh, tormenting you with a light brush over your clit.

“percy… please.”

“have patience, sweet girl.”

you dig your nails into his skin in retaliation. he doesn’t react and goes on with his movements. absentmindedly, you whisper quiet begs into his ear until he gives into you and plugs a singular finger into you. you moan from pure pleasure, dipping your head onto his shoulder. your brain grows fuzzy like television static— you practically hear it too.

“perce- fuck- I…”

you’re not entirely sure what you were trying to say. but regardless of this, percy plugs a second finger into you, curling them in a way that makes your tummy twist into knots. you clench around his fingers and in return feel his smile against the skin of your neck. you grind into them as they reach a deeper portion of your insides, trying to reach your climax as you feel it creeping upon you. and percy doesn’t stop for a second, it makes your whole body burn with the sensation of utter pleasure.

your legs nearly give out from the trouble of holding yourself up with them. you’re sure they’ll hurt tomorrow. and not only are your legs a problem, you can’t fucking breathe, concentrate, function properly, do anything in fact, if you’re being completely honest. not until, mocking the trolly problem, like they conductor— in this case percy— had chose to hit you instead of five other people, your orgasm hits you.

you fist a handful of his shirt sleeves into your palms as you ride out the feeling— trying to prolong it as long as you possibly can before his fingers leave you (wanting more, ultimately). panting, you lift your head up to see percy who licks his fingers clean, you let out a quiet moan at the mere idea of that. his hands return, now, back around your waist to steady you as you come down from your high.

“doin’ alright, sweet girl?”

actually, no, you’re entirely wrecked. but it’s better to know that he chose to finger you instead of the damn guitar.

[revelboo]

I've never been so sucked into a Megatron fic as I have been by your Broken Arrow series. I'm really interested to see if y/n will break and how Megatron would handle it if they did! It's very exciting!

I do love playing with tension. 18+ mass displaced mech 🌶️

Broken Arrow Pt 12

TFP Megatron x Reader

• “Don’t,” you growl the word at him, shoving at his arm as he drags you back into him so he can curl around your much smaller form. Hating that you don’t hate this contact. Especially as he slowly wraps the length of your leash around his palm and vents against the back of your neck. Knowing you’re not getting away from him until he lets you and trying not to think about what you’d done with him or that you’d enjoyed it. Because nothing about this should be okay to you, but there’s still that part of you that had actually been scared for him when he’d been injured. That had warmed at his teasing and taunts despite yourself. That knew he could have hurt you so many times, but no matter what he says, those sharp claws are always so gentle like he’s afraid of breaking you. Despite biting you.

• Finally, you relax against him, your back to his front. Giving up after realizing he’s not letting go. Maybe biding your time hoping he’ll slip into recharge and turn you loose. Still not realizing that he’s never letting you go now. “We don’t need to be enemies,” he murmurs, servos sliding down over your hip and you grab his wrist when he slides lower to cup you. “As lovely as your anger is, I like the way you look out of control, too.” Stroking you, he feels your fingers tighten on him, but not even trying to pull his hand away. Enjoying his touch no matter how you balk at it, as you rock yourself against his palm. Wanting to hate him, but you can’t, can you?

• Those sharp denta brush the shell of your ear, nip at the lobe and those awful servos keep playing with you, lazily exploring. And when you shift against him more on your hip and lift your thigh, he immediately tunnels a servo inside you, mindful of those claws. Out of control? He has no idea. You’re still clinging to his wrist as he slowly fucks you with that servo, pressing your head back against him as you go taut. Hating when you begin rocking your hips against his hand, needing more friction and he chuckles against your hair. He’s still got your leash and you can feel that breathless pull that he’s bound you with when he’d forced your fingers into contact with his spark. But if he has your leash, you have his, too. He’s growling against you, servos petting as you slicken for him. You can feel his spike against your butt, pulsing and hot as a brand. As affected as you are. “More,” you whimper, straining against his hand and swearing when he pulls it away in response. Denying you. Teasing.

• Laughing at your frustration, he shifts your thigh up enough that he can find you and bury himself inside you, groaning against your neck at how tight you are like this, listening to your breathy little noise of pleasure. Feeling you grip his spike. “Patience,” he growls, lips brushing your cheek. “Isn’t this better than fighting me every step of the way?” Moving deliberately to rock himself slowly against you and stroking deep. Palm sliding up to rest against your chest, against the frantic beat of your heart.

• This is a new form of torture, thrusting almost lazily against you in no real hurry when you just want to reach that peak again. But his words twist through you, because you could submit and enjoy this. Enjoy him. Because even if he grumbles about it, he listens to you, seems to care about your opinion. Would it be so bad to surrender and sit by his side? Spend your nights in his berth and your days pulling at his leash, trying to curb his worst impulses? “Make me,” you whisper and his servos tighten on you as he snarls.

• Stubborn brat. Rolling you partially under him, he begins to move faster against you, driving deep again and again. Because that rebelliousness unravels his control. Make you? Those little noises of need you make spurring him on as he ruts against you. “You’re mine.” If it takes all night, he’s going to get that through your head. You come undone against him, crying out his name as you fist his spike in wet, silken heat. And he keeps moving against you until he’s sheathing himself deep to release inside you. Hips rocking to drag it out for both of you. “Say it.”

Previous

[burningcheese-merchant]

PLEASE FEED US MORE JUST AS DOWN BAD GOLDEN CHEESE. PLEASE MORE YANDERE CHEESE

Did you send two asks in a row screaming for more Accidental Yandere Golden Cheese lol. Calm down brotato, Merchant is here. Merchant sees you (and everyone else in my inbox I swear to God Almighty I will address you all eventually). Let me see what I've got in my noodle for you

Under the cut because this is fucked and gets a little extra graphic at one particular point lol

Golden Cheese actually has tried to gather the identities of those Burning Spice has murdered. What she wasn't able to glean on her own, from her own personal knowledge of other lands and peoples (i.e. noticing certain traits she knows to be endemic to certain cultures, like a hair accessory or something), she found in books and scrolls in her kingdom's library that gave her a better idea. Whatever she couldn't find in those, she found via sending cheesebirds to travel far and wide in search of any kingdoms, cities, villages, families and friend groups with confirmed missing persons. They would report back to her and, with all the knowledge she's gathered, she's able to find a name, which she then wrote onto a label and placed under the person it belonged to. She's managed to eventually give all the heads their identities/personhood back, at least to some degree. And now, knowing who these people are/were, she can get them back to their loved ones easier. Right? ...Right? (She tries not to progress beyond being proud of herself for going that extra mile, because it just leads back to "ok so why are the heads still here, why haven't you returned them". In trying to do the right thing, she ultimately just does the WRONG thing again and reinforces her preexisting guilt and shame, because... she knows exactly why she hasn't returned them...)

Golden has started... experimenting with Spice, for lack of a better term. After she was proven correct about him paying attention when she mentions someone she doesn't like and later killing that specific person for her, she starts testing him in other ways. She makes subtle suggestions about how he ought to kill people, to see how he responds in the moment and if he actually ends up doing it later. She tries to coax him into going into detail about how the killing went, just to see if and how he does so (turns out he really does like to brag about his crimes, especially to her). She tries to hint at him giving her other things besides body parts, like certain trinkets (it... sort of works. If she asks for a watch, he... brings her a severed arm with a watch attached to it still, for example). She's observing how far he'll go and in which direction he's willing to travel in at her suggestion. (...And she revels in how much power it turns out she has over him. She really does have him at her beck and call. It's lovely.)

When her friends ask her how she's been managing her Beast (they are aware that hers is still actively targeting her, but that's it), she acts as nonchalant as possible. Burning Spice is nothing. He's just a fly buzzing around her head. She handles him just fine. When they ask her how they can help, she tells them she doesn't need it, because she doesn't want them anywhere near him she really is fine. It's fine. She's fine. When they suggest going after him themselves... thank goodness she's a good actress and a quick thinker, because her very first REAL reaction was seething fury that she had to keep under control until she was alone again - but then, when she finally is, she just has another crisis of conscience, because now she has to confront the fact that she can no longer tolerate the notion of him being harmed by anyone besides herself. She used to want him dead or imprisoned by any means necessary, but now... now, she lies about his whereabouts to everyone who asks (and she always knows where he is, she snuck a tracking device onto him), because she doesn't want anyone coming near him for any reason anymore, least of all to harm him. Because only SHE can harm him now. He still comes to fight her, not just to give her things. And she obliges him, albeit begrudgingly (never mind the sick satisfaction she feels when she hurts him or takes him down. She wonders if this feeling is what he's referring to in those letters about him reveling in their battles and how he enjoys her suffering). She... she won't let that end. She won't let anyone get in the way. In his way. In THEIR way. She can handle him by herself. Everyone else can stay home. They won't take him away from her. She cannot guarantee their safety if they try.

She once idly wondered about his past. About the people he likely once had in his life. About... if he'd ever been fond of any other women. She could hardly fathom the hatred that utterly overwhelmed her senses when the thought entered her mind. So angry was she that she broke the glass of water in her hand in said anger and injured herself. So haunted by this notion did she end up, that she tried to ask him about it the next time they met (as subtly as possible; she understands the implications of asking such a thing). He just shrugged and said he didn't recall; the only woman that mattered to him was her. She hated how relieved she felt when he told her that...

...but after that day, and for a good while, he only targeted women. He kept killing adult women and bringing their heads to her, and no one else's. She quickly surmised that he might have noticed her jealousy (or at least imagined she was jealous) and immediately set out to prove his devotion to her further than before by destroying those she feels threatened by - even if the threat does not exist, for she is all he ever wanted. He never told her directly, but she figured that's what it was. And she allowed herself to believe it. Because it made her happy.

(When the women-only killing spree eventually ended, she was struck with morbid curiosity and asked him about the men he killed. Was there anything behind the ones he chose? He revealed to her that, though his targets were mostly random, he would go out of his way to kill any man that he thought she might find attractive. He was capable of feeling threatened, just like she was. It was quite the surprise... a surprise she welcomed, a surprise she found deeply amusing. Because really, what was left for her to find attractive in anyone anymore, when no one went as far as he did to earn her favor?)

She actually does find him handsome. She always has, from the beginning. It was something she considered to be a great shame; such good looks squandered on such a horrible man. But now... with her greed slowly spiraling out of control thanks to him constantly overfeeding it the way he does with his violent extremism... she's starting to dare to find that extremism handsome, too. She's slowly but surely ceasing to find any shame in the circumstance. She's starting to think he's handsome... and that's it, that's the end of the thought. He's handsome, with all of that blood coating his face and body. He's handsome, puffing his chest out and beaming with such sick pride at the handiwork he performed for her. He's handsome, in his maddened, unwavering dedication to her. He's handsome... no asterisk, no addendum, no ifs ands or buts. He's handsome. Burning Spice is handsome. It weighs on her like a stone. And it only gets heavier each time he sees him and his handsome face again.

Sometimes... just sometimes... she'll reread those letters that are particularly... steamy. There's something rather fascinating about them, in a different way than the others. They're so... uniquely visceral. She believes him when he tells her he's starving; his hunger practically lunges at her from the page, claws at her, sinks its teeth into her, sets her body alight. Pure, unashamed, blistering hot lust and sexuality, with some of that same addiction to violence mixed in (he's a sadomasochist, go figure). People have flirted with Golden before... but not like this. No one on earth has ever dared to speak to her so brazenly, not even after several pints of liquid courage. He talks about wanting to break her bed as well as she herself. He tells her how often he touches himself to the thought of her. He details exactly where he wants to put his hands. Where he wants to put his mouth. What he intends to say straight into her ears as they go, and what he wants her to say back to him. How he doesn't want to stop until they both collapse with exhaustion. Just neverending feverish rants about he wishes to destroy her in more ways than one, and how he expects her to scream and beg either way. She won't admit it, not even to herself, the thought tried to make itself known inside of her head once and she shoved it down and tried to bury it under concrete instantly, but... she's almost... intrigued. She's flattered, of course. She relishes this aspect of his insatiable appetite for her alongside all the others. (She likes being told she's pretty. He does that and then some.) But... some small part of her is... curious. Curious about... if he really would follow through on what he says he wants to do, if he really had the chance. How it would feel. How HE would feel. What the difference would really be between him overpowering her to win a fight and him overpowering her to... to...

...there are nights where she lays awake, drilling holes into the ceiling with her bloodshot eyes, wondering where it all went wrong. There are nights where all that succeeds in putting her to sleep are the warm, bitter tears that stream down her face when the guilt and shame grow too powerful. There are nights where she just gets up and leaves, throws herself out of her own window and flies off somewhere, anywhere, it doesn't matter - it just had to be somewhere she couldn't feel dozens of empty, lifeless eyes watching her through the walls. Judging her. Condemning her. Damning her to Hell, where she and the monster who ended their lives belonged.

...and then, there are nights where she feels... strange. Where she notices how... big her bed really is, and how small she feels laying in it. She wonders how it would feel if he was there. If she could nest in his thick, strong arms instead of thin bedsheets. How much more comfortable his chest would feel, compared to her pillow. If his hair was as soft as it looked. How he'd react if she started tracing his tattoos with her fingertips. If sharing a tender moment like that would awaken something in him. If it would somehow help him realize how wrong all of this is.

...Or maybe it would just make it worse.

Maybe she doesn't care anymore.

[chuuyaspinkmotorcycle16]

Day 21: Arcade

Chuuya watches the blinking red ‘Game Over’ screen in front him, the feeling of defeat infesting his insides once again as Dazai cackles from the other side of the gaming machine. 

Hands fisting with rage-induced tremors, he springs up, knocking his stool aside and looking over the top at the brunet. “Rematch, you cheating bastard!”

Dazai giggles, a smirk on his lips as he meets Chuuya’s eyes. “But Chuuya, that’s what you said last time. And the time before that and the time before–”

Chuuya screeches, dropping his head onto the machine and groaning out the rest of his frustrations. It is true, much to his derision, he has lost the last… four (?) matches. All he knows is that the score is 1-to-5 in Dazai’s favor, meaning the mackerel is the winner of this versus session.

After venting his not-so-kind thoughts into Dazai and the machine, he stands straight to cross his arms as narrows his eyes at Dazai. “Alright, what’ll it be this time?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. Let me think about it,” Dazai says, getting up himself.

“What?! You had this whole time to think about it, are you shitting–”

Dazai grabs Chuuya’s hand suddenly, pointing across the arcade to something that Chuuya can’t even see thanks to a different machine in his way. Stupid beanpole and his stupid height.

“I want that! Chuuya has to get it for me as punishment!” Dazai does a little hop, whining more as he keeps pointing.

Of course he couldn’t clarify what it is. Chuuya doesn’t know if he’s about to agree to paying for a dumb trinket or the whole arcade.

“Stop that,” Chuuya starts, grabbing Dazai’s outstretched arm to reel it in before he smacks some unsuspecting person. “Tell me exactly what it is and what you want me to do. I’m not being forced to do extra work again because you didn’t specify the rules.”

Dazai rolls his eyes, snatching Chuuya’s wrist and practically dragging him to his destination before Chuuya can even react.

As they keep twisting and turning, Chuuya’s beginning to wonder how the bastard even saw whatever he’s aiming for.

And then he sees it.

It’s in one of the claw machines on the top shelf where people with no self-control are supposed to stick the claw’s handle through an itty-bitty hole.

Chuuya does have to admit, though – it IS cute. Very much so. And fluffy enough to have those blankets stores only bring out for the holiday season fucking jealous. 

Staring back at Chuuya with beady, shining eyes is one ginger, stuffed-plush cat big enough to fill Dazai’s greedy arms.

He’ll give it to Dazai – this is nowhere near the worst punishment he’s given. That doesn’t mean Chuuya has to be happy about it as he yanks out his wallet, though.

With even more grumbles, he inserts his first bill of the night, watching with the most deadpan expression he can make as the machine lights up, LEDs going wild in front of them at the prospect of another sucker.

Unfortunately, Chuuya knows how this part of the game goes. Dazai’s grip is tight on him, eyes laser-pointed at the item of his desire. 

Chuuya takes a breath, trying to focus as he feels the heat of Dazai’s hands seeping through his clothes. With a blink, he moves the stick controller, bringing the key towards the little hole on the other side of the glass. He pauses.

Behind him, he hears Dazai sniff, the judgement of it clear to Chuuya. The redhead whirls around.

“Bastard, fix it yourself–” and from the corner of his eye, he sees the key start to move forward, the timer having run out.

It misses by a centimeter. Chuuya growls, getting ready to insert the next bill.

Dazai continues his hold on him, this time going so far as to wrap his arms around his shoulders from behind and lean his head against the side of Chuuya’s.

The electric lights do their silly little dance again, and this time Chuuya makes sure to concentrate. This machine will. not. beat. him.

He lines it up, taking a moment to think. Dazai taps his chest twice, and Chuuya shifts the stick to the right the smallest amount he possibly can.

Just as he’s about to hit the button to get it to move, something bumps into Dazai and thus him, pushing him forward enough to hit the stick and the timer goes off.

Chuuya watches as the handle misses by more than just a centimeter.

And then a chill goes down his spine. He shifts in Dazai’s hold, glancing up and over his shoulder to see those black hole eyes pinpointed on a kid who didn’t even bother to apologize. Before the Demon Prodigy can cause anyone, child or not, to piss themselves, Chuuya shrugs him off.

He inserts one more bill. Just as Dazai moves to go back to his perch, Chuuya sticks his hand out to stop him.

The machine whirls to life again, this time with a red glow barely enveloping it. Chuuya brings the handle to where it was before using the actual stick, then from here he lets the machine do its thing.

As the key moves forward, he forces the machine to line itself up in the correct position, feeling the mechanics trying to go against him but they’re no use against the power of gravity.

The key fits perfectly, unlocking the glass box holding the plush and releasing it into a hole beneath it. A thunk near their feet alerts them to its delivery, and Dazai is quick to snatch it up and into his waiting arms, any traces of the Demon Prodigy long gone as he beams at Chuuya.

“Thanks, Chibi!” He squeezes the cat against his chest, and Chuuya tries to ignore the small thrill of butterflies flying around his stomach.

He frowns, looking away and crossing his arms. “Tch, whatever.”

He opens his eyes again. There, across from them in a corner of the store he couldn’t see earlier, is one of those shooting carnival games, this time with nerf darts to avoid any liabilities.

And above it, hanging from a little loop connected to the roof, is a black cat plush — reminiscent of Dazai’s new one to the point it could be from the same brand, a matching set.

He only spends a second staring at it, debating, before turning away. He’s got better things to spend his money on. It doesn’t matter how soft it looks or how cute. He’s not a kid like Dazai.

He makes a move for the exit, intent on getting out before he can rethink his decisions.

A foot to his shins has him almost hitting the floor. He knows exactly who did it as he catches himself. He couldn’t use his ability just then, after all.

“Dazai, what the fu–”

“Shh, there’s children in here,” Dazai admonishes, his trademark fake gasp popping out, albeit a little less dramatic. Before Chuuya can question it, Dazai’s twirling around to face the carnival-esque shooting game and marching forward, one of his hands wrapped around Chuuya’s wrist much like before.

“One round, please,” the brunet says, taking out his own wallet that Chuuya’s never actually seen until now and handing the cash over to the employee. With the nerf gun equipped, he glances at Chuuya for a split second and sends him a smirk. “Watch and learn, Chuuya.”

Chuuya really can only watch and learn as Dazai effortlessly hits five different targets in their bullseyes, one after the other. The electronics connected to them flash over and over with each hit.

And once a moment has passed for both the employee and Chuuya to pick up their jaws – mostly the employee, though – Dazai sets the gun back down and merely points up at the black cat plush.

The employee gets it down, leaving it on the counter for them to take.

Chuuya doesn’t immediately reach for it. Why would Dazai do this? It doesn’t make sense to him.

Dazai nudges his shoulder and he hesitantly reaches out to grab the plush.

Today is one of the few days he decided to forgo his gloves; the cat’s fur is just as soft as it looked. From here, he can tell that this one is a black version of Dazai’s, a duo set.

He’s never had a plush of his own.

“Why?” he asks, avoiding Dazai’s eyes as he stares into the black fur. Something in his chest is warming up. What, he doesn’t know.

“Chuuya wanted him,” Dazai says, shifting on his feet to sway from his toes to the balls of his feet. “And a thank-you for Slug.”

/That/ causes Chuuya to look up. “Hah?”

“What? He looks like chibi, doesn’t he?” Dazai shoves the orange plush into Chuuya’s face. “See, see?”

Chuuya scoffs, shoving ‘Slug’ out of the way. He sticks his tongue out. “If he’s Slug, then this one’s Mackerel.”

Dazai laughs then, high and airy – genuine – and Chuuya can only attempt to hide his reddening cheeks behind Mackerel’s head. He follows as the brunet leads them outside where the sun has begun to set.

And once they’re a few blocks away, when their lighthearted jabs fade into a comfortable silence, Chuuya gives his own thanks, earning the endearing sight of Dazai’s widened eyes and tinged cheeks before the other tries to wave it away.

[f1-disaster-bi]

Writing Prompt List

"For once in your life, do what you want! Be selfish!" Norstappen

-💖

"They're my team, Max" Lando wouldn't look at him as he spoke. His tired eyes were fixed on the ground next to the bags that were packed and ready to go. He looked pale and small, bundled into a hoodie and jacket. To Max, he looked miserable and exhuasted but yet here he was, ready to hop on a plane during his vacation because McLaren said jump and Lando didn't even hesitate. "I know they are Lando, but it's winter break", Max argued back, trying to hold back his anger at the situation because he never wanted Lando to think it was aimed at him, "No one else is being called into the factory. Everyone else is enjoying a break. Why is it so important you go in?" Lando just shrugged his shoulders. He looked defeated and Max wanted to shake it out of him. He wanted Lando to put his foot down and take the break he clearly needed. Max wanted to bundle him in blankets and keep him here, away from the world that had tried to break him this season. "Is Oscar being asked to give up part of his Christmas break for sim work?", Max asked but he already knew the answer. There was no way Oscar was going to be at the factory. Zak and Andrea wouldn't have even thought to ask him, because they had Lando. They had Lando who was still trying to prove himself to the team as if it was his rookie year. Lando never questioned them or pushed back. He simply nodded and went where he was told because that was how he had always been. He was the driver that did everything and more. Lando bled for McLaren and Max wished he wouldn't. "No", Lando finally looked up at him, frowning, "Oscar is in Australia with his family and girlfriend. They uh, they didn't want to drag him back" "But it's okay to drag you back from Monaco a few days before Christmas?", Max pointed out, crossing his arms to stop him from shaking some sense into Lando. "I....", Lando started but he looked away again as he tried to find the words. His hands reached for one of his bags and his shoulders slumped, "I'll be back before Christmas" Max sighed and shook his head. He considered the other for a moment before moving to stand in front of him. He covered Lando's hand with his, easing the bag handle out of his grip. Lando let him. He let Max pull him into his arms, shaking a little as Max rubbed a hand down his back over his hoodie. "For once in your life, Lando, do what you want. Be selfish. Say no", Max begged, knowing that either way, Lando was propably getting on that plane. He expected him to let go and whisper a sorry but Lando didn't. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Max tightly, fingers knotted in his sweater and face burrying into his shoulder. "I won't go. I don't want to go", Lando whispered softly, so softly that Max almost missed it. "Then don't", Max whispered back, kissing his curls softly, "Tell them to fuck off until Janurary. Until then you're all mine, Liefje"

[carmyberzattosjournal]

S2 Entry 2: Soothe the Goosebumps

Image credit: @neverscreens

Summary: Carmy’s girlfriend (who he calls Darling) soothes him down from an impending panic attack with apple cubes. (1346 Words) FLUFF.

Warnings: Swearing, hurt, comfort, fem reader/lass who is a trauma surgeon, she/her pronouns, finger sucking (light), impending panic attack (panic attack doesn’t happen), praise kink, feeding kink?, subby!Carmy. Mentions of Donna Berzatto.

Notes: Thank you for reading and sharing! This is a work in CB Journals Season 2 and will be tagged with #cb journals s2.

Sideblog for commentary and social stuff: @m-z-shoroi

Prompt: String Lights

“Do you not decorate for Christmas?” she asked. “Not even string lights or a mini tree?”

No. Fuck Christmas.

The silence, and the subsequent recoil evident on her face when I looked up from the apple I was dicing, is what told me I’d said that aloud. My stomach flipped. Hands abruptly turned cold for some reason. Heat flooded into my face.

I can’t even begin to explain to you the biblical level of shit I was in that week. That whole month, honestly. The review didn’t go well—we weren’t given our star, which meant that not only did all my bullshit that I pulled in the restaurant after having that mental fucking breakdown after the walk-in incident severely strain all my interpersonal relationships, it also did fuck all to give us any sort of results. If we’d gotten the star, then maybe, maybe, it would’ve stung just a little less. The wounds haven’t gone away—the repeated flare-ups of fighting between Sugar, Richie, Syd, and me are evidence of that—but the star would’ve been salve on the cuts. Maybe taken away some of the burn. No, it just redoubled everyone’s rage at me (including my own. I was getting dangerously close to hating myself more than I hate the fucking Devil at this point). So, the burst of fighting at the top of November turned into all-out war for the rest of the month. We’d found something of a balance before—minus the flare-ups—where I’d do a new menu every month using seasonal ingredients. I’d be mindful of what the kitchen staff could do, Syd and I would actually properly collaborate on them, so she didn’t feel voiceless (even if working with another person drove me fucking insane sometimes), and Richie and I would, generally, as much as we both could corral our familial trauma, try to stay out of each other’s way. Sometimes even get along a bit.

“Carmy?”

Now? Now I lost all fucking control of my restaurant. Syd and I were battling over the menu because even when accounting for her notes, she wanted to scrap whatever I did. Richie was so far out of my grasp that Sugar maintained a demilitarized zone between us, acting as the Secretary of State—or I don’t know, a fucking messenger pigeon—bringing things back and forth, all while trying not to (and failing on multiple occasions) explode at either of us for our bullshit. And it was bullshit. We’re fucking adults, I keep trying to act like a fucking adult and get a handle on myself so this doesn’t fucking happen again—I’m in therapy, for fuck’s sake!—and yet Richie and Syd insist on being fucking children about it.

In retrospect, I don’t blame Syd. If your coworker spiraled off the fucking deep end, and all you got out of that was the trauma of surviving that spiral, would you even want to fucking look at them again? She worked her ass off to make The Bear what it is, she put stock in her own identity as a chef, and wants, more than anything, to be able to take pride in her work.

I said I wouldn’t stand by and let her do to herself what I did to me, right?

Am I not her Devil?

So here we are, December three days away, still without a fucking menu.

“Baby? Sweetheart? Hey.”

Shit. Shit. Fuck. I dropped the knife onto the cutting board. “S-sorry. Sorry, I-I should explain—”

“I just wasn’t expecting such a strong reaction.” She held her hands up, palms out towards me. “It’s okay. It just caught me by surprise is all.”

“Christmas-Christmas is fucking traumatizing.” Why did it come out like a question? It’s a fact. It was fucking traumatizing. I closed my eyes, trying to retreat to the quiet dark, where it’s stable, where it’s safe. “My-my mom, she would, uh, she would do this-this big feast. Seven Fishes... And it was-it was always such a fucking disaster. And-and she would always explode at the tiniest thing. I-I hate fucking Christmas and New Years a-a-and-and fucking birthdays. Fuck birthdays.”

Something burned in my chest. A deep sort of fiery sting that took me two heartbeats to recognize as stomach acid bubbling into my esophagus. I grasped at the pain as if I could somehow get ahold of it and remove it from me, could toss it away like a wet paper towel, but all I found was the front of my apron.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay.” Oh no, Darling sounded worried. I fucking hate when I worry her. I pried my eyes open and found her expression contorted in concern, eyebrows scrunched together, corners of her mouth turned down. “What’s wrong? Pain? Nausea?”

I tried talking, but I couldn’t produce sound past the hot iron burning my insides. Blindly reached for the quart of water and chugged a few sips down. It provided some relief initially, but the flames came right back.

“Hold on.” She rifled around the cabinet above my head and pried off the lid of the baking soda container. Put two pinches in the quart. Swirled it. “It’ll taste weird, but it should help.”

Metallic. Metallic, bitter, kind of salty? Like I licked a dirty penny or something. Weird doesn’t sum it up, it’s fucking disgusting. She rubbed up and down my sternum as I gulped this vile concoction down.

“It’s a base, it’ll help neutralize the acid,” she explained. “Just take little sips until the burning stops.” I’m sure she knew I understood the logic, but I appreciated her talking to me anyway. It was comforting. Something to focus on. Something to drown out the memories of ma’s yelling bubbling away in the back of my head.

Goosebumps exploded on my arms when I took another gulp of the baking soda water. It just kept getting worse. Now the weird taste was lingering on my tongue well after the water was gone, but my chest still burned like a brand was on it. Darling rubbed her hands up and down my forearm, trying to soothe the goosebumps away.

“I’m-I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

I responded too slowly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” Not even giving me this horrible shit; it was helping the heartburn.

“No, about the whole…” she gestured in a wide circle. Ah. About Christmas and shit. Got it. “It’s gotta be tough. With. How much those things are engrained in society and all.”

I shrugged a shoulder. Grimaced and got another wave of chills on the next sip of baking soda water. She picked up an apple cube and pressed it to my lips. It wasn’t meant to be an intimate gesture—I’m getting better at reading her face and knowing what the intention behind anything she does is—but something deep in my core tightened and warmed when she fed me the morsel of apple, when the tip of her finger rested just a second too long on my lips. I must’ve had a certain look on my face because she made the cute little cooing sound that meant she figured something out. Cupped my face with her other hand. Stroked my cheek.

“That better, pretty boy?”

She brought another apple cube to my lips, kept her eyes locked on mine—this piercing gaze halfway between interrogative and fascinated, like she was a cat observing a new toy, trying to figure out how to pounce on it. My navel flooded with heat, dick twitched in my sweats. Half of me wanted to shrink in place, become tiny and insignificant, small enough to fit in her pocket like a pathetic but endearing pet. The other half of me got lost in her eyes, in those shimmering river stones, in the perfect architecture of her eyelashes, as if admiring a fine work in some pretentious fucking museum somewhere. She let me suck the tip of her thumb clean. Dragged it slowly over my tongue.

I nodded. Yes. Yes, it’s better.

The fuck was I even stressing about before?

Tags: @carmenberzattosgf @jess248 @catharticconsolation @persymons @morgthemagpie @glitch0o0 @nox-is-thename @forgechildofheph @leminjelly @fridavacado @lumoslemon @cyarskj1899

[whorrorbvby]

an update:

hey friends a lot of people have been asking where ive been on other socials and im sorry for being m.i.a and ignoring everyone’s worries. im not getting into it right now and i dont know if i want to talk about the details publicly. 

i deleted tumblr from my phone about two and a half weeks ago and ive had a friend keeping a queue going on main for me. it might be that way permanently now i don’t know. I don’t know that I want to come back to tumblr if im being honest. a lot of things happened and i just can’t handle seeing certain people anymore so i’ve been hanging out on two of the more safer socials where tumblr people people generally leave me alone. not that im upset with you any of you or anything it’s more of a personal relationship and it just turned me off of basically everything and i just can’t handle a lot right now.  

i didn’t want to stop posting my own content for obvious reasons but i really can’t bring myself to come back it’s too hard and my heart can’t handle it right now. i also haven’t taken any new photos or anything and as of right now i don’t really feel super comfortable in sharing my body in that way. situations have made me feel disgusting as a person and i can’t look at myself. im trying to post more on ig to boost myself back up but i don’t know my self image is kind of ruined now. plus i’ve lost 15lbs from stress and inability to eat because of it and with how many people already harass and bully me for how scrawny i am i don’t want to subject myself in my current mental state to even the possibility of anyone saying anything. 

but like i said i have a friend running main for me and i might have them run this account too and my pepper page just because i do want to go back to making content i just dont know if i can handle posting or being in certain spaces right now. 

on top of what im currently dealing with in my personal life this is just a really hard time for me in general because of the holiday season and close to the anniversary of my best friends death so i tend to shut down a little anyway it’s just my entire world came crashing down again and im honestly starting to give up on even existing. i know im being melodramatic and i need to suck it up and just go back to status quo it’s just really hard this time and i cant force myself into a positive headspace like i used to even for a second. i have honestly never felt this empty and i barely know who i am or what my worth is anymore. 

i dont know if i’ll turn my asks back on. my friend offered to answer anything for me but its better for my mental health if i dont because i know people will ask questions and i dont trust myself to not completely go off on a tangent. im sorry i know im rambling but i feel like a proper update with zero room for misunderstanding is needed and i dont want to sugarcoat or lie to any of you to make myself seem or feel better cuz i respect the hell out of you guys and you deserve honesty if for nothing else. and i appreciate so fucking much you all continuing to support me and hype me up through all the bullshit life keeps throwing at me. 

im mostly on ig and threads right now and on threads im talking about games and movies with new people im meeting and it’s been really helping through shit. if you follow me on snap you saw me say im thinking about deleting everything. my accounts are still up and as long as my friend still wants to help me out i’ll at least have a queue running on main but i’ve deleted every social app other than ig and threads. i wholeheartedly planned on deleting snap last night but it’s the only way some of you get any updates from me so for now i wont delete it but i might make a new one instead just to get away from situations that are bringing me down. we’ll see. if I make a new snap i’ll post it everywhere n put it in my bios. that being said i don’t have a private/nsfw snap and i wont make one im sorry. i still wont sell content outside of what i post on peppers and i wont do customs im sorry. maybe in the future but right now i need to focus on myself and getting out of this headspace before i do anything else. 

but truly thank you for sticking with me and just genuinely being the best crew around. i promise to try my best to get out of this mess of a headspace im in as quickly as possible and im really sorry for basically abandoning everything again but i really am hopeful for the future and just trying to focus on myself and my happiness at the moment 🙏🏻🧡

[the-woman-upstairs]

Really fucked up that, when they’re young, Patrick and Art are SO tactile with each other, so comfortable sharing the same space. Art lets Patrick touch him and move him and physically overwhelm him and easily acquiesces to it, if not outright enjoys it.

Then in the present, they’ve been so far out of each other’s orbit for so long, held such animosity that when they have their moment alone in the sauna, Art physically recoils from Patrick’s close proximity! It’s so painful to watch because even as Patrick’s goading him, it’s so obvious he wants to be able to get back into Art’s space. But Art has erected all these walls around himself, he refuses to give Patrick an inch or even admit to missing how close they used to be!

AND THEN we see Art and Tashi later and he wants her to hold him, to be gentle with him, and just TOUCH him. Like, he does miss that kind of close physical contact! He either doesn’t know how to ask for it or is uncomfortable being that openly vulnerable. Worth noting that he pretty much always defers to Tashi in regard to initiating physical intimacy (with their first kiss, though he does state his desire, SHE has to be the one to make the first move). And it seems pretty obvious that Tashi herself isn’t comfortable providing that intimacy, whereas Patrick actively seeks to provide it (the hug/forehead kiss after their win together in the early years, dragging the stool closer to him).

Art has tried very hard to act like he doesn’t need physical affection and even though his discipline and devotion to Tashi has made him a stronger tennis player, it’s made him a hollow person, which, in turn, has kept him from becoming a GREAT tennis player.

All of this, of course, is why the ending hits so damn hard.

[tariah23]

Noooo…… first it’s Yuuta and Shoko, now they’re yo-yoing back around to Megumi.

[saintedbythestorm]

I tell dad I'm already overly tired, to the point I've struggled to get myself into bed to sleep.

And he picks this moment to ask me a question, and then just as I start answering it... he asks me another question.

I struggle with handling stuff like that normally, so when I'm overly tired??? Ooooof...

My brain instantly froze and I almost went straight into a meltdown. 🥲 real helpful.

[princessmyriad]

.

[orcelito]

ok i am actually so very angry and there's literally nothing i can do to fix it. life keeps going on. she might even be happy. and fuck dude, i'll make sure im happy too, i was a fully developed person before she was in my life and i'll continue to be one without her. but God Damn, the fact that she can just do something so blatantly awful and unfair to me and then run off without any actual repercussions is just so fucking rankling to me.

like perhaps she feels guilty. she said she did when it was all going down. but it was just something she "needed to do". so obviously she didn't feel guilty enough or she wouldnt have done it like that lmaoooo

i really did deserve to have a good solid yell at her. but unfortunately, by the time i did see her in person i just wanted her out of my fucking life. so. no yelling was done, unfortunately.

[izzy-b-hands]

im ngl i had a lil breakdown before my shower (which i took just before i went to bed to chill and watch the new eps) abt some thought-id-already-worked-all-thru-it irl stuff that resurfaced on me like trauma tends to and i just

it made everything in the show so. I don't know how to say it right. but i feel seen and understood and emotionally overwhelmed in a safe yet weird way, just like i did with a lot of s1 and I am Feeling So Much akdnfkgb (i cannot stress enough that this is a Good Thing and I'm absolutely thrilled and happy with the new eps and like. Going to be fine mentally I just gotta wrangle this like i have the times before.)

[oc-cinematic-universe]

i LOOOVE thinking about fantasy disabilities!!!! i love figuring out what people would have to do to accommodate them! it's literally awesome!