#technically i should not have had the time today but that sort of thing doesn't count in the middle of the night
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Mann 1 nəəd M0r,,,,,, of shed THERES L1TERALLY NAWTHING ON U MASTERLIST U NEED TO CHANGE DAT!!!!/hj but uuu pls can b L1KE ANYTH1NG of h1m, iwanttokissthismansmiNEEDtokissthisman♡

``A God's Solitude.``
Telamon x GN! Reader
CW: NONE! (But this isn't heavily proofread)
Notes: I know you requested Shedletsky, but I didn't have any ideas for him so I hope me writing Telamon instead isn't too disappointing... and also im being so fr when I say that this is the closest thing I can get to a shedletsky fic for like another month, sooo...
One of the only sounds that could be heard was the faint dripping of rain from outside that old, stained glass window.
You watch silently as the drops trail down the textured glass, eventually reaching the stone window sill and pooling off of it.
The glass on the inside, however, was dusty. So much so that you could hardly even tell that the gold soldering holding each pane together was ever gold in the first place.
The other sound audible in the room was the constant, rhythmic clicking of that grandfather clock in the corner of Telamon's chamber.
The hands read 4:27 in the morning.
You would have been in your own room, asleep, had it not been for Telamon specifically requesting your presence today.
He always tried to play it off as a sort of possessiveness. That he simply wanted to keep you around because you were his, in a way.
That you belonged by his side simply because he was your god.
And while that may have been somewhat true, you knew the real reason.
Telamon was lonely.
It was the kind of loneliness that would stick to a person like a stain, unable to be washed away.
It was different from being alone.
There were many nights where you'd ask him how his day was, and he'd simply respond, "I was alone most of the day."
And while technically true, it's not what he meant.
What he meant to say was that he was lonely.
He sits on the bed, by the window; not even pretending to be asleep. His wings are wrapped around himself, though only slightly.
And yet, despite this, you'd always wonder why he kept you so close, but so far at the same time.
Physically, he'd keep you near. A hand wrapped around your waist whenever you were in public.
But emotionally, he'd be so distant. Hardly talking to you.
Perhaps in private, he just wasn't very talkative.
Or at least, you hoped so.
You really
really
hoped so...
Not enough to act as full on comforting, but enough to show how he yearned for it.
How he always yearned for it.
"Telamon, I know something is bothering you," you'd say.
Sometimes he'd ignore you, or pretend not to hear.
Tonight was one of those sometimes.
"Come on, don't ignore me..."
He sighs, wings drooping behind him.
You are constantly looking at those wings. At the brown feathers that fade into the faintest of golds. You can't help but admire them.
Admire him.
Sometimes, when the night is still and it's just the two of you, he'll hold you close and wrap those wings around you, whispering small thank yous and I love yous.
You say sometimes, but it has only ever happened once before and never again.
"You needn't dote on me so. I am a god, in case you've forgotten."
Most likely, he was pretending to be annoyed again.
To appear as if he doesn't need you.
To prove to you that he is strong and capable and independent and all the things a god should be.
But you hardly care.
All you care about is loving him.
And so you begin to crawl closer to him, and he stares at you with that signature, almost owl-like golden gaze.
"I didn't forget. But please, won't you just let me take care of you? If only for tonight?"
You see his shoulders untense a little, and he lets out a sigh he wasn't even aware he was holding. "I suppose... since you are asking so earnestly. It would be.. rude of me to deny such a request."
You smile at his acceptance.
"You must have felt so lonely," you'd murmur, eyes soft as you gaze at him.
And despite how the words seem to pierce him in a way he never thought was possible, he still finds the words amusing. Almost laughable.
Loneliness is a given for the divine.
"You don't always have to exist in solitude, you know. You have me.." you'd say, almost silently.
Yet the words hold volume regardless.
You know Telamon has a reason for acting so distant with you, whatever reason that may be.
But oh how you wished he'd let you in a little more.
"Yes.." he starts, words trailing off a bit as he fails to hold your gaze. It's unusal; how unsure he seems now.
Telamon was always a very confident god.
"but for how long?" he finally asks.
And it hits you now more than ever why he always seemed so distant.
Why, despite appearing to be carefree and unbothered, he'd always return to you in silence.
Because despite loving you, and adoring you, he was constantly in a state of bracing for your death.
In a state of preparing to never see you again.
In a state that was somewhere between experiencing and cherishing and mourning; all at the same time.
You were mortal, after all.
"So that's what's been bothering you..." you'd sigh, looking into his eyes solemnly. "You'll have me for my whole life, Telamon."
You place yourself before him, taking his hands in yours.
"I know to you, that won't be very long," you'd start, gently running your fingers over his knuckles. "But... please... let me love you for the entirety of it. I want to love you properly, Telamon."
Silence befalls the both of you like a veil, and for a moment, nobody speaks. It remains that way until you see a shift in Telamon's expression.
He smiles, though it's less one of joy and more one of musing.
"You really are foolish..." he'd mutter before leaning closer to your face. He presses his lips to yours, a chaste kiss forming between the two of you.
"Loving me for the entirety of your life... Aren't you afraid of wasting it?"
You feel his arms wrapping around your waist, his head pressing into the crook of your neck.
You shake your head almost instantly. "I won't be wasting it if I spend it all with you..."
You see his wings twitch behind him, and he scoffs. Yet you don't miss how he pulls you closer to him.
"Still foolish. But admirable. You always are."
Telamon speaks once more. "Just for tonight... let me remain by your side.." his voice is.. softer than usual. Quiet. Vulnerable. As if the words themselves would shatter if spoken any louder.
His clawed hands desperately dig into your skin, and he holds his breath waiting for your response.
"I'll stay by your side every night, if that's what you want," you respond, your arms moving to hold him close as he does to you.
You feel his wings encased the both of you, holding you closer to him.
The feathers are warm as they brush over your skin, and you feel an overwhelming sense of calm wash over you.
"I do want that."
He presses another kiss to your lips. This one his deeper, more desperate.
It leaves you breathless.
"And more than that... I want you."
You feel his grip on you tighten, as if he's afraid you'd be gone as soon as he lets go.
"I will always want you.." he says, once again failing to hold your gaze.
You smile at him, before cupping the side of his face and tilting it up slightly.
"I love you, Telamon."
You see his breath hitch slightly at your words, before he regains his composure to respond.
"I love you too."
#Telamon x reader#telamon x reader forsaken#shedletsky x reader forsaken#shedletsky x reader#telamon x reader oneshot#telamon x you#shedletsky x you#telamon x yn#shedletsky x yn#im not sure if this#is good..#but i thought the concept#was interesting
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What We Want - Chpt. 6 - Round Two. Fight!
In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe
(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!
SUMMARY
Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.
Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?
As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.
And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.
Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?
(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)
PREV - NEXT
Damn. Your indulgent TV stalking of the Wayne’s really doesn’t hit the same once you technically knew them. And you were hiding inside one of their bedrooms, inside one of their clothes, using their TV subscription. It just didn’t feel right. Morally, of course, but that wasn’t what you were talking about. No, you were just pissy your favourite pastime was basically ruined. You shovel another spoonful of cookie dough ice cream into your mouth, glaring through tired eyes at the screen.
There’s an up-close shot of Dick Grayson’s abs. The presenter ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ over his physical form, and you have to agree. You wish you had abs like that. Unfortunately, you did respond to most unwanted experiences with stress eating. As always with these celebrity figures, you can’t really tell if you want to be Dick or be with Dick. Your butt is nowhere near the level his is at.
While you hadn’t really set out today looking for shirtless pictures of the Waynes, it wasn’t like you were going to say no to them. So, when the gossip channel had switched from the reactions of the Waynes to last night’s fiasco to… this… you’d just kept watching.
You wonder if you should stop doing this. It’s definitely kind of creepy, and now you’d technically once been his… step-sister. What a mind fuck. You’ve been crushing on these dudes for a while, and now they were your ex-step siblings. This was like the start of a bad porno, but you knew you were not that lucky. And it wasn’t like you were going to start thinking of him as a brother any time soon. You hadn’t even met the guy. No, he was still firmly in the ‘celebrity crush’ section of your mind. Pretty and untouchable. The way things are supposed to be.
Which was also bad because you would probably have to meet and interact with him at some point. Probably in the near future. God knows you’d absolutely humiliated yourself in front of the fucking Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne,. Twice, in fact. You didn’t even want to think about the display you’d shown for Bruce Wayne or Damian Wayne.
You didn’t really know what to do with your slightly obsessive crushes. And you could see it definitely being a problem in the near future.
…You decide that what you do in your private time is absolutely nobody but your business, and keep watching. It’s a mix of bitter spite and genuine mental breakdown levels of desperation that leads you to that decision. You feel like you’re a child with their toy being taken away, and it’s making you mad. And sad too. Even if you shouldn’t do this anymore, you still want to keep the habit. You’d mentioned before your creature comforts were one of the few things that kept you going. And while you were mostly very good at not being the jealous, heinous creature you really are, you knew you wouldn’t be giving this up.
They’d have to tear your gossip channels from your cold dead palms. You weren’t giving them up, not without a fight at least. Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed determined to wrestle away literally everything you loved.
Guilt’s for tomorrow. Today is for ice cream and purposefully ignoring everything. Speaking of which, you can not remember the last time you had a good Ben & Jerry’s. They were so expensive these days, as all groceries were. You simply couldn’t afford it. The Waynes, of course, had multiple tubs in multiple different options. Alfred had seemed delighted that you’d taken the ice cream, for which reasons you could not perceive.
Oh, yeah! His name was Alfred. Very butler-y. You’d remember it this time, he was a very nice man. And he called you ‘young miss’ which earned him points. He also didn’t seem to hate you on sight or treat you like a two-headed freak, like some of the other people in this household. Not naming names. Yeah, fuck that noise, Damian Wayne obviously has issues and it’s much less attractive in real life.
The woman drones on, and your eyes flick to your phone. Yup, she’s still yapping. It’s not like you don’t appreciate Dick’s abs or anything, it’s just that you think she might’ve been talking about this one specific photo for over half an hour now. Lady should get a hobby. Wait, wait, this is her job. Maybe you should start a podcast where you rant about the Wayne’s exercise regimes. It seems to be quite a lucrative field.
You shriek when the door slams open, nearly tumbling backwards off the bed. Hands manage to grip the bedcovers before you tip over, not making a complete fool of yourself. As it goes, you lose your spoon to the carpet. Bits of cookie dough spread over the floor in a divine sacrifice. And you lose your sanity to the man standing in the doorway. To be fair, he looks just as confused as you feel.
You blink at the physically perfect form of Dick Grayson and then turn your head to the TV to look at the other physically perfect form of Dick Grayson.
…You really wish you had a good explanation for this.
He mutters out your name, lips parted. Dick Grayson seems absolutely shocked to find you here. His eyes flick around the room and eventually land on the TV. Said baby blues widen to the size of saucers when the reporter makes a really, really unnecessary comment.
“And in news that broke the hearts of both ladies and gentlemen everywhere in Bludhaven, Dick Grayson has announced he will be returning to Gotham to assist his family in this difficult time. My cousin in the Blud is probably crying right now. There’s no ass out there quite like his, and there’s no replacement for Bludhaven’s favourite young rich bachelor,” she winks at the camera, and then the shot of his toned stomach phases forward to take up the entire screen.
Well, there’s a lot to say about that. First of all, fuck. Second of all, shit. Third of all, she really couldn’t have said that part about Dick coming back to Gotham sooner? Perchance, before you’d found yourself in this situation?
You said you weren’t that lucky, you meant it.
“But still, ain’t that lucky for us Gothamites? I myself have spent a lot of time on Dick’s Tiktok and Instagram, and his acrobatic videos have been used in a lot of my personal-”
You snatch the remote from the sheets and pause it right there. The silence is tense. You wait for him to say something, but he just stares at you. Completely stunned, mouth-catching flies. You want to pull the covers up and hide under them, but you don’t think that’d make him leave.
“I couldn’t find my room,” you finally manage to say. It’s the worst excuse you’ve ever heard, sounds like a complete lie. And yet, unfortunately, it is the truth.
Dick’s eyes drift to the TV, which you still haven’t unpaused. You can’t tell if it would be worth it, just to get rid of his golden brown abs staring at you judgementally, even if you’d have to deal with the extra embarrassment of the dialogue over them. Maybe if you muted the TV? It wouldn’t make up for the insult of his paparazzi photos on a widescreen.
It takes you even longer to come up with an excuse for… that.
“I was checking the news about last night,” you continue, the panic in you rising like a tea kettle left on the stove for too long. You might start shrieking like one too.
You don’t think he believes you. He looks down at the Beatles shirt you’re wearing. You know what he’s going to say before he does, but you still dread it.
“You’re wearing my clothes,” he mutters, his voice awed.
You want to say, ‘Nooo! No, no, no! Don’t do this to me, damn it! Not anymore! No more, please! It’s enough, enough suffering! This is genuinely ridiculous, damn you!’ but instead you reply with a shaky, “…Didn’t have any of mine.”
Also, you’ve been huffing Eau de Dick Grayson? That’s definitely in character for you. You want to beat your own head in with a stick.
“And I couldn’t find my room, and uh, thought this one wasn’t being used,” you continue, daring a glance back at him. He still looks completely stumped.
“It wasn’t,” he answers, but it sounds like he’s a thousand miles away.
You know, Dick Grayson was supposed to be a lot more charming than this. You’re almost proud you managed to stun the man into near speechlessness. Almost, almost. Almost not going to kill yourself once he leaves.
If he leaves. He doesn’t look like he’s getting up. You eye the gap between you and the door. Your animal brain is telling you to just run for it. But Dick has Olympic level athletics, and you don’t doubt he could catch you if you ran. Would he try though? That’s the deciding factor here.
He doesn’t seem like he’s actually going to fucking do anything though. He just keeps staring, like if he looks for long enough, it’ll all start to make sense. Which, you wish.
“Do you know where my room is? I couldn’t… remember…”
He nods, instead staring at his own abs on the TV.
“Can you take me to my room?”
He nods again. Still doesn’t look back at you.
“…Mr. Grayson?” you say, and almost immediately regret it. ‘You’ wouldn’t have used his last name, even though you might’ve. ‘You’ had been a casual person, as far as you could tell. That was the kindest way you could say it, at least.
His head snaps to you. He somehow looks more confused. You wonder if you should pinch him or something, god knows you’ve done your fair share of pinching yourself recently.
“Yes, right, sorry. Let’s… go,” he gives you a cheery smile, shaking his head, but it seems quite strained. You’re probably matching. This is the most humiliating moment of your life, and of course, it’s with the most beautiful man on earth right beside you.
A break. You want a break.
The two of you quietly shuffle out of the room, and when he guides you forward, you follow him obediently. Your head naturally bows, shame making it hard to look at him. You stare at the wooden floors as you walk. Watching it shine in the morning light that filters through the windows.
Eventually, he comes to a stop in front of a door that has obviously been avoided. Though it’s as clean as every other inch of this house, there are no marks in the rug from the door opening and closing. And even then, it seems… well, it sounds silly, but the door seems sad to you. Too many things seem sad to you these days.
Your thoughts must show on your face because Dick clears his throat and gives you a worried look. Is it rude to say you’re sick of those sorts of looks? That they just make you feel sick and burdened these days? It’s not like you could bring your family back from the dead, or convince your cheating boyfriend to not be a piece of shit. It was out of your hands.
“…Are you alright?” he asks you, blue eyes sincere. You tilt your head to the side.
“No?” you say, but it sounds more like a question. No, you are not alright. Yes, you will be okay. It’s the only option. It’s one of your rules. You have to be okay. You just have to.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
You almost laugh.
“No,” this time your voice is firm, confident. Dick seems like he’s going to push it, but something in your eyes makes him stop. You give him a forced smile and say goodbye, closing the door gently in his face. Once you do, you crouch down and once again, press your face to your knees. Then you press your hands to your mouth and let out a scream that had been bubbling up for a while. After that, you feel you can live with the humiliation that is your existence without jumping out the three-story-height window.
You stand up, turning to the room. The first thing you notice about it is that there’s dust in here. Same as Dick’s old room. Now that you think about it, Alfred doesn’t seem the type who’d randomly leave certain rooms uncleaned, so it must be something he does out of respect for the tenants of Wayne Manor. Or maybe the old you requested it? God knows.
Sitting down on the old bed, your eyes rove around the room. It’s well decorated, as the rest of the manor is, but you can’t see anything that would make it your room. There’s none of the novels you’d collected from the used books store, no dorky little items you impulse bought, no pictures of your family. The apartment hadn’t had those either.
‘You’- she- seemed like a ghost to you. While you’d often felt like you’d barely been alive, simply going through the motions, this girl seemed like she hadn’t even been conscious half the time she was doing it. It made your stomach swim, your face pulls taught.
While you’d had few things holding you afloat, it’d been enough to keep you alive. Molly, your co-workers, the need to work so as to not starve to death. She hadn’t had anything like that. No liferaft. You’d been sputtering and gasping your way through life, and she’d been drowning. Maybe already dead, at the bottom of the sea, hair tangling with the seaweed.
This room feels like a coffin, and this manor like a cemetery. It makes you physically sick.
Showing off your fickle-mindedness, you realise that despite this being the Wayne manor filled with all your idols, you actually don’t want to fucking be here. You need space to clear your head, and the creaking floorboards that echo down the creepy hallways just don’t offer that. The atmosphere at your too-modern, too-minimalist apartment is leagues better than the atmosphere at this gorgeous old house which you’d usually love spending hours getting lost in.
Usually. Unfortunately, this place was more suffocating than the workplace when you knew you were about to get fired again. And you weren’t getting paid to stay here, so why the fuck would you?
Once you realise you’ve decided to run, you’re quick to pack up your shit. There’s not much in the room you need. A pair of sneakers, because you would rather die than put those heels on again. And you’ll grab some shirts because they’re comfy and remind you of home. Hopefully, it’ll make everything… grate… a little less. All of this is thrown in an old ratty backpack, which is then tossed over your shoulder. Shoes slipped on, and tapped against the floor so they’re on comfortably. And then you’re ready. Ready as you’ll ever be. With one hand on your phone, you take a peek outside the door. Coast is clear.
You press call for ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’. Jeanine picks up on the third ring.
“Hello, Jeanine Ryans here,” she says, her voice all business.
“Jeanine, I need an evac, stat,” you whisper to her, creeping down the hallway of the manor. The floor is unbelievably creeky, so it’s pretty fucking difficult to be stealthy about it.
“…What?”
“Get me out of this fucking manor, please,” you beg, now going down the stairs. Almost out, almost out.
“Right, on it. I’ll have a car outside in ten minutes if that’s alright?” Jeanine replies, immediately on the case. It almost makes you cry. You know she’s being paid for this, and very desperate for the job for some reason, but it’s still a hail mary that you are so grateful for.
“Thank you, thank you so much,” you say, turning a corner and-
Oh, fuck. Damian Wayne glares down at you, green eyes cataloguing every single guilty piece of you in existence. He sees your hand tighten around your backpack, hears Jeanine telling you not to worry through your phone, and probably notices the way your eyes desperately flicker behind him to the door. To your goal, to the exit to this labyrinth.
You can practically hear the wind blowing, see the tumbleweed drift by.
And then, he moves past you, twisting his body so no part of it touches you. There’s a moment where your brain freezes, something spicy smelling (cinnamon, maybe?) flowing past you, and by the time you turn around, he’s gone. Your deer-in-headlights tensed-shoulders look falls, leaving you confused in the foyer. He didn’t even say a word to you. You felt like you just got passed over by a boss from a Dark Souls game.
…Well, you’ll take the wins where you can find them! Quickly, you hurry out the front door, skittering down the steps like some sort of rat. It’s a long walk to the gates, and you don’t really know how to open them to let the car in, so you decide to take your time and enjoy the walk. The early morning dew apon the clean-cut blades of grass glint and sparkle, the gravel on the road crunches under your technically-not-stolen sneakers, and even if it’s a miserable life, it’s a pretty day. From the hill the manor lives upon, you can see Gotham’s tall skyline, cloaked in its characteristic fog.
Eventually, you find yourself in front of the gate, where you can see Jeanine waiting with a black car on the otherside. There’s a big green button next to the side gate, which you press, and it clicks open. There’s a moment where your neck tingles, and you glance up at the camera pointed down at you. The red flickering light beside it holds your attention. You can see your bedraggled reflection in its lense.
Shaking your head, you move on, greeting Jeanine. She gives you a quick bow of the head and opens the door for you. You hike the bag over your shoulder, give the Wayne manor one final, lingering look and then you step into the car. Jeanine starts speaking to you about some future appointments you have, and you’re too tired to understand a word of what she says. She realises you’re not processing anything she says, and hands you a pair of headphones with a wire adapter.
You could kiss her right then and there. You don’t because that’d be weird, but you definitely think about it. Headphones on, you watch the rolling hills and luxurious manors turn into highways and honking traffic, to finally the upside part of town which was now apparently where you lived.
Eventually you find yourself being delivered in front of your swanky new apartment. With a passing goodbye, Jeanine tells you that she’ll be busy for the rest fo the day so if you need anything to call the number on the card she hands you. You tuck it in your pocket, certain you’ll lose it like every other business card you’ve ever been handed.
The elevator ride up to your room is contemplative. The music is boring, your reflection is bedraggled and tired, and the gentle feeling of gravity under your feet tugs at you. You rock slightly when you finally reach your floor. The doors open, but you don’t make any move to leave. They shut again, and you’re left staring daggers at your mirrored self.
You’d woken up, still here. It wasn’t a dream. It was reality. And more than that, it seemed more and more like you’d be staying in this reality. You didn’t think you could go home. Sure you were rich but… but your home. Your few things you’d managed to save. Your meagre group of friends and your hard-sought job. It made you nauseous. Where had you lost it all? Why were you here now? Why did you keep having to lose everything?
You manage to snap yourself out of it before someone else calls the elevator. Striding out of the space, you look to the right where you remember your apartment coming from. It’s not hard to find the unit, as there are only three on the entire floor. Rich people.
The door closes with a satisfying thud behind you, and you nearly melt with exhaustion.
This apartment is the ninth circle of hell for you. Scrambling around on your knees, you’re desperate to find the damn phone that won’t stop ringing. You can’t understand where the sound is coming from.
Under your bed? You shine your other’s phone’s light under it. Nope. Behind the dresser? Nada. You search inside the drawers and then peek inside the fancy lamp. Absolutely nothing. You’re ready to tear your hair out when you spot something… odd.
There’s… You think there’s something stuck in your floorboards. You dig at the space with your fingernails and the piece of wood pops open. Inside is… a cardboard box. An awfully familiar cardboard box, actually. The sight of your Mum’s old keepsake box makes you cry out with joy, lifting it from its little enclave. You’d lost a lot in the past few days but at least the old you knew how to keep your family’s stuff safe.
This apartment looks brand new. And apparently the past you dug into it to hide her stuff. You can’t really judge, you have a hidey-hole back at your apartment. It was a brick that had already been loose in the wall, so it didn’t feel quite as criminal as this.
The ringing is coming from inside the box. When you pull the lid up, you find a keepsake box a little different from yours. While yours only ever had your family’s old passports and photo albums, this one had a sleek phone sitting on top of all the mementos. It’s an exact copy of the phone on your bed- or well, it would be, if you hadn’t dropped it.
Two phones? This bitch was greedy. And so are you, eagerly sweeping the expensive item into your gremlin hands. Your thieving high is instantly quashed when you see who’s calling.
Of all fucking… George.
You roll your eyes before hanging up, tossing the phone to the side as you start rifling through the old keepsake box. You flip through family photo albums and lovingly cradle old stuffies. The phone buzzes. You ignore it. You find one of your mother’s old necklaces, and because you’re desperate for anything that can ground you, slip it over your head. The cool heart locket rests just under your collarbone, and you clutch it with one hand as you keep exploring. The phone keeps buzzing. It’s only almost half an hour later when you realise something about this is strange.
Why is George… not blocked? You glance down at the vibrating object like it’s radioactive, a despairing frown pulling at your face. Cautiously, you pick it up, making sure not to open the notifications lest it tell George you read any of his messages.
He’s… apologising for not being there for your birthday. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. And it’s not even a proper apology, it’s one of those ‘I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings’ bullcrap. He keeps spamming you, and eventually, you realise that he’s not going to just stop.
You decide to nip this in the bud quickly because even remembering his cheating face makes you feel like throwing up.
‘You’: Why are you contacting me?
‘George <3’: Seriously? Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there yesterday. I was busy, you know that.
Stupidly, you reply:
‘You’: ‘No, seriously, why are you contacting me? I’m done with you.’
You wonder how you ever loved this jackass. Even if he was obviously more of a jackass here, than where you’d come from. He was just better at pretending there. You keep scrolling, ignoring the new texts that pop up. Your stomach sours at the number of texts he himself had ignored, of the amount of ‘sorry baby, can’t come tonight’, the begging, the pleading.
No, he wasn’t worse at pretending. He just didn’t care.
You wonder if this could have been you, further along down the line. Abuse happens slowly, right? Like a frog in a pot. You’d have forgiven and forgotten, written away his worse behaviours till you couldn’t anymore. Till you couldn’t leave, till you were trapped.
You think George Lancaster would’ve tried to. He would’ve isolated you from everyone you had left if he hadn’t screwed up and got caught.
You realise now there were a lot of red flags in your relationship with George. Molly always hated him and he hated her. He’d constantly complain about how much time you spent with her, spamming you with texts when you went out.
You were only… only two days since you’d actually broken up with him. Which was sort of crazy to think about. You feel like you’ve lived eons since then. Like that one traumatic incident aged you thirty years. Anyway, you still hadn’t processed the whole George thing. You’d been sort of busy fighting for your life.
‘George’: I’m here, can you at least open the door so we can talk face to face?
Freeze. A knock sounds, and your head snaps up to the front door. You don’t move. You just wish it away. The knocking only gets louder and louder.
You feel like a dumb girl in a horror movie as you walk towards the door, unlocking it and creaking the knob open. George Lancaster stands on the other side, and before you can slam it in his face, he grabs you by the arm and yanks you out of the door. And then he’s pulling you to the elevator, even as you try and get your bearings, get yourself away from him.
“You can’t just ignore me like this,” George says, pissed off to high hell, “We’re going to miss the reservation I booked specifically for you. I told you it was happening today and-”
There’s white noise between your ears, you can’t hear what he’s saying. Told you? It wasn’t in any of the texts. He’s still talking even as the elevator dings, even as he shoves you in a white sports car that’s half parked on the curb. Even as he drives his way through Gotham’s streets, he won’t fucking shut up.
Why are you letting this happen to you? Why aren't you fighting back, wrenching yourself from his grasp? He takes you into a restaurant, one so upscale that normally you wouldn’t be able to get in for months, and your head snaps from staring socialites to watching politicians to gawking celebrities. You have the eyes of the world on you right now, and they’re all watching George yell at you.
And you can’t find your voice.
It's like a scab you can't stop picking at. Like you think this is what you deserve or something. And it's not. You know it's not. And yet you follow obediently, chastised and embarrassed, as he pulls you through the restaurant. When he picks a table in the centre of the room, you don’t protest. When he chooses your meal for you, even though it’s not to your taste, you don’t protest.
Looking at George, scrolling lazily on his phone, your hands clench against the table. They’re sweating, shaking, nails digging into your palms.
You… you didn’t have to break up with him again, did you? You realised it earlier, but you didn’t- it didn’t really sink in. Your first breakup with George Lancaster was a miserable traumatic experience, and it had been in the solitary streets of Gotham’s Narrows. This one, this one would be seen by literally everyone.
Nauseous. You feel so damn nauseous, your mouth dry as you swallow down bile. This was ridiculous. You couldn’t stand seeing his face. Was he texting her right now? God, did she even know? You’d just stormed out that night, running from what you’d seen.
George had chased after you. Had he left her there? Your stomach churned at the idea. You had to hate her on principle but, well, you also had to sympathise with her. Contradictions, that was the average you. You didn’t want to help this random girl. Didn’t want to have to ever think of her again.
…Staring at George, a definitively awful person, you can’t do it. Can’t just leave her to it.
“I’m breaking up with you,” you say.
“What?” George replies, not even looking up from his phone.
“I’m breaking up with you!” you shout. It’s not even intentional, just a result of being pushed too far, of breaking too easily.
The restaurant goes quiet. Guess you’re up for another scandal then. Whatever, it wasn’t like you would’ve lasted much longer anyway. This was all too complicated for your recently traumatised mind to handle. And it was just too damn stupid to bother with anyway. All of this was fucking stupid.
You included.
Just pull the bandaid off, right? You could already see how this version of you had so many scandals to her name. You probably should start giving a shit. Or at least trying to. You don’t think you want to, though.
George puts his phone down face down on the tablecloth, giving you a calm look. That slightly pitying stare activates something in your brain you didn’t really know was there. It’s a type of rage you haven’t known since you were a kindergartner and one of the other girls said you couldn’t play princesses. Since your first service job where your manager felt you up. Just pure, petty, anger. The type of anger ready to burn the world down as long as it burns whoever pissed you off as well. He opens his mouth, probably to say something condescending, and your hand whips out and snatches his phone.
“Hey!” George says instead, his eyes widening.
You turn the phone back on. Hm, passcode. You flip it around and use facial recognition to open it. Despite the fact that George wears the most comically shocked expression, with saucer-wide eyes and a mouth open to catch flies, it unlocks. Nice.
“Hey! What are you doing?” George demands, reaching over the table for his phone.
You twist away from his reach. Password. You flip the phone, and despite George’s comically shocked expression, it still unlocks. He shouts again when it does, probably realising that you might be taking this seriously. That he might actually be in trouble. That his sugar mummy might not take too kindly to the numerous texts to other women on his phone.
…You really can’t believe you’re a sugar mummy. And for George of all people. What a horrendous waste of money, it’s fucking tragic.
He’s got the texts with someone known as ‘Pizza Hut’ pulled up, with some very flirtatious messages. You scroll up furiously, ducking under George as he gets up from the table and tries to get the phone. Still, backing up, the sight of a very poorly shot dick pic of George’s has you grimacing. Your focus on the picture, trying to decide whether his penis looked so unappealing before you’d learnt of his betrayal, has you distracted when one of the servers come around.
And, well, shirt, meet soup. Very, very hot soup. Everyone? Meet a screeching, klutzy moron.
George takes the chance to advance on you, snatching his phone from you. He doesn’t even seem to care you’re currently getting third-degree burns. The sting scorches through the thin fabric of your dress shirt, burning your skin. George grabs you again, his grip harsh enough this time you know it will bruise, and you can’t really say why you do what you do at that moment.
Your aunt used to have a chihuahua. It was an ugly, grumpy thing. She’d rescued it late into its life, and it had been treated poorly beforehand. It didn’t like to be touched at all and used to run from anyone who tried. And if you tried to touch it? Cornered it?
Well, of course, it started biting.
George’s howl is the most satisfying thing you’ve ever heard. His squeal of “bitch!” might be even more so. He slaps you away from him, and the sound echoes in the restaurant. Your face stings. When you land ass first in the puddle of still-too-hot soup, you wonder if you might try and bite him again. You don’t think you even broke the skin, considering you can’t taste blood. The other patrons stare on in genuine horror, like they’ve never seen a messy breakup before. One woman raises a hand to her mouth, and gasps-
You find yourself staring up at a furious George, one with a menace in his eyes you’ve never seen before. You wonder, idly, if he’s ever hit you before. Well, not you, but ‘you’. You realise now that he has the capacity for it, that he probably always did.
“What the fuck!?” he hisses, angry eyes darting from side to side, “Biting me?! In fucking public?! Have you lost it, you crazy bitch?! And you got my phone fucking soaked in soup!”
“Did you buy it?” you ask, wiping your mouth with your sleeve to get George’s dirty taste out of your mouth.
He blinks, confused, thrown off by your question, “Huh?”
“Did you buy that phone?” you repeat, your staring starting to turn into a furious glare.
You don’t think he did. Your George had never been able to afford those sorts of things, he’d been as broke as you were. Of course, you’d seen him lust over those items, but you’d always managed to convince him not to go into debt over silly things like sports cars and fancy phones. And even then, you’d been the one to buy him a PS5.
He looks down at the phone and back at you, and you can see his jaw tick.
“I bought it. That’s mine.”
“It was a gift. You’re going to be such a bitter bitch to take back everything you gave me? Gonna leave me out on the fucking street?” he says, spittle flying with angry words.
This was escalating fast. Maybe before you’d have been cowed by his words, but you were genuinely off your rocker by now and were very much willing to tango with this bastard. Like yes, he did terrify you, but so did everything else. You could handle this much at least. You weren’t ready to back down.
“And if I did? What then George? What could you even fucking do?” you throw back, voice rising to match his.
“It’s not your money either, it’s theirs, you little leech!” says the pot.
“Does it matter?” replies the kettle.
Pushing to your feet, you find George without another answer. He stands between you and the exit. With the plain murderous rage on his face, you think he’ll try to grab you again if you run past. He wouldn’t bite you back, but he might slap you or something. So instead, like any good coward does, you run straight to the girl’s bathroom. It hasn’t failed you yet, and you doubt it will today.
You shove into the bathroom, past a woman doing her makeup. Her head bobs up and down as she takes in your seemingly infamous face, and your stained shirt. You stride as far away from her as possible, darting into the last bathroom stall and sitting on the closed toilet lid. You pull your knees to your chest and hiss out a sound of frustration when that presses the sticky liquid against your chest and pants. Not your brightest idea, but you were sort of running on fumes right now.
The bathroom stall is extremely clean. One thing you were quickly realising about rich people is they didn’t have to suffer shitty public bathrooms. You didn’t think they deserved it. Like customer service jobs, and traffic, they built character.
What were you doing? Right, trying not to cry. You’re doing much better than yesterday. Still, sitting on top of the toilet’s closed lid, your phone pressed to your face, you wouldn’t say you’re doing ‘good’.
But because you knew George was too much of a pussy to ever enter the woman’s bathrooms, you refuse to move a single inch. You don’t want to go out there. At all. At all, at all. You’d tried to call Jeanine, but she hadn’t answered. Some P.A. she was. You still weren’t going to fire her. Then you remember that she told you she was going out later, and that she’d left a card with you. Digging through your pocket, you decide it’s finally time to die when you realise you lost the card somewhere along the line.
So, she wasn’t going to come save you as your knight in shining armour.
You can’t remember Molly’s number. Who did these days? That was your phone’s job. So you were left with… this. You were left with this. Four blocked numbers and a third had sent an automatic reply because he was driving. Alfred was probably busy. Weren’t butlers always very busy?
…Rich people weren’t often very busy. They had butlers and assistants to do all their chores. You unblock all four of the Waynes that you have on your phone.
The first thing you notice is the amount of texts between ‘you’ and Dick. Scrolling and scrolling, you find most of them are him checking up on you and one-word replies from the old you. He’s friendly and accepting, even when you respond in cruel and aggressive tones. The further back you scroll, the kinder your replies are. At one point it seems like the two of you had a good relationship.
You check the other chats. Tim’s message log is filled with coffee requests sent back and forth between you, Damian’s is completely empty, and Bruce’s has had no response from your phone in years. But eventually, you scroll back far enough that you find an actual conversation instead of just ‘Call Alfred’ repeated every few days.
‘You’: I miss them.
‘Bruce Wayne’: I know. I miss them too.
You press the back button, sighing. That felt like you’d seen something you shouldn’t have, like you’d peeked into someone’s diary. Which was unbelievably stupid. All of this is unbelievably stupid. You should just leave, you should just be brave. Two days ago you faced off against one of your worst fears, but today you couldn’t even handle George Lancaster.
You want someone to rescue you. You know no one will unless you ask. It makes you choke on your own self-disgust. This is the second time in one day. God, maybe you should just do it yourself. It’s not like you couldn’t pay for your own Uber.
And still, you find yourself clicking on a name and begging. Skin crawling, you type and retype the text probably a hundred times. You go from long apologies to begging to rants you never intended to send in the first place. Tap, tap, tap, and then you delete, delete, delete.
What you settle on is simple.
‘You’: hey. can you come pick me up? thx
Maybe a bit too simple. You cross your arms and tuck yourself in the good ol’ fetal position. You feel like you’ve spent half your time holding yourself like this the past three days.
‘Dick Grayson’: I’ll be there in five.
MASTERLIST - NEXT
#Series:WWW#yandere batfam#batfam x reader#yandere dc#yandere batfamily#yandere x reader#dick grayson x reader#nightwing x reader#jason todd x reader#red hood x reader#tim drake x reader#red robin x reader#damian wayne x reader#robin x reader
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Was wondering with all your excellent thoughts on creator's boundaries and keeping fan things in fan spaces, do you have any thoughts on the opposite happening, as in creators going into fan only spaces?
I was thinking about this because I have seen multiple streamers read fanfic on camera that had "if you're the streamer please just ignore this" written on them and that always feels like it's slightly icky to the boundaries of the fanfic writer but I can also see the argument that it has the streamers name on it, therefore they can do what they want with it.
Also felt a bit weird with Wilbur posting something he intended to be canon for the dsmp on ao3, a fandom space explicitly for fan creations, but that's a slightly different can of worms
Would love to hear your thoughts if you have the time!
Right. So, my formless thoughts after having written an essay for most of the day.
I do not— love— creators in fandom spaces. I have not seen any specific instances of creators reading fic that has "if you're the streamer please ignore this", but I have seen multiple instances of creators reading fic specifically with the intention of finding fic that's weird/funny/bad and making fun of it. They always seem to end up on self-insert fic obviously written by some 16 year old with a crush, too, and read that out to thousands of people to make fun of it, and man. It doesn't feel great!
However, I do see the argument that if has their name on it they can do what they want with it, but especially if you're talking about fic with "streamer don't interact" on it, like, I feel like creators are misunderstanding the purpose of that story. That's not intended for them to look at it, the writer is probably mortified that they saw it. It is not the same thing but the emotional equivalent is approximately aligned with my friend comes over, I say "make yourself at home", and my friend starts going through my embarrassing medical devices. Like I did say make yourself at home but why are you sorting my meds and googling what they're prescribed for? You were technically invited but idk man. I kind of thought that you weren't going to go through my medicine cabinet??? Now you know that I have some serious medical issues which I have not been talking about, and that's hovering in the air between us? I just wanted to discuss video games with you?
Okay like, I see the argument that creators should be able to look at anything that has their names on it and do whatever. But I feel like creators just baseline do not get fandom, a lot of the time, which is fair! Fandom is a bunch of people getting way too fucking into a creator/concept/story and then displaying their thoughts for the edification of other people who are also distinctly abnormal about that idea. And if creators walk into a fandom space with 'fandom" above the door, nobody's going to enjoy what happens. I was DMing with a friend today and we were talking about emduo trusting each other enough to fall asleep together and then we just spammed crying emojis at each other for a while because oh my god character feelings. I don't want Philza to see that! That's for my friends who I have my "instead of brain there is emduo" feelings with. I don't even do that in front of my normal friends who I discuss life goals with. Fandom is for people who have decided to go absolutely around the twist about their blorbos, and like if you are a normal person, and especially if you are a normal person who shares a username with the guy I'm torturing, you are going to find this space weird.
And so you get creators who walk into a space, and then it's weird, and then they are uncomfortable and say hahahah these guys are weird, and nobody profits! Nobody is having a good time! This sucks for everyone involved!
I feel like if creators are in a place where they go "If I google my name I will see shit but that's on me" and then they google their name anyways, that's one thing. But most of the time they don't even have that framework, it's just walking up to someone you don't know and going "huh huh huh are you talking about me what are you saying can I see" but in this case the people you're talking too are kind of obsessed with the ongoing roleplay at lunch you have with your friends where you're playing out betrayals and bloody deaths over the mashed potatoes, and nobody is going to be happy if those people detail the extended bloody death scene they wrote for you, much less the alternative happy ending where platonic arranged marriage stops the war.
There's a thing where like the saying is "eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves" and like, it's not the same thing here, but it holds. If they wanted you to know, they would have TOLD you. And they're not telling you cause they know the aging down a character into a sad baby to be kidnapped is not going to hit the same to the guy whose name it is. They're keeping that over here, archive locked, where only the other freaks obsessed with the lunch roleplay are sharing notes. Drags hands down face. Like the thing is I do understand on a baseline if people want to see what other people are saying about them, but the thing is, it does not ever go well. I do see the argument of well I should see what you're doing to my persona, but like— fandom is weird. If you have a fandom of any sort, and you are aware you have a fandom, you should know that even if entirely platonic, the fandom is doing horrible things to your character. War crimes are just the start. You either need to be prepared to see the war crimes, or know how to filter and bounce your eyes, or you— and I think we would all be much happier— can just stay away. Like let the weirdos in their discords talk about giving your character a mental breakdown, they're just following the honourable tradition of putting blorbo in a hydraulic press, but if THEY know that it would be weird to show it to you, why are YOU breaking into their house to find the weird stuff? This doesn't sound like a winning social activity for anyone involved.
Anyways yeah. I don't love creators in fan spaces. Click the box to make your fic not googleable and consider archive locking. Can we PLEASE keep fandom space and creators separate.
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Feeling Fangs Part 4
Title: Feeling Fangs Part 4
Pairing: Husband!Katakuri x Wife!Reader
Word Count: 8.9k
Master List Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
Summary: Your husband is a bit disappointed that your closet is empty, so he takes you on a date to get more clothes. However, things never go as planned, especially since neither of you know how dating actually works.
A/N: This took forever! I’m sorry! Part of it is that I’m cheap and hating shopping so why did I making a shopping date story? The other part is that life really hates when I start to get in the groove and will nerf me. Also you should know that putting this here and formatting took like my whole lunch.
You frown at the idea. It's not like you're opposed to it, you just don't need a repeat of every single time he's come shopping with you. After three years, you had to finally go through and empty out things you had never imagined going through. Who needs to get rid of socks because they never wore them?
"It's empty." He states, standing in front of your open closet. "What's wrong with getting you more things?"
"Because you buy me too much stuff. This is still more stuff than I had when we got married."
Katakuri frowns. "This is barely anything compared to what my sisters have. How is this more?"
You shrug. "Not sure. I never had a lot given to me, nor did I get to experience a lot of normal things. I grew up knowing I would end up married to someone I didn't know, so I never dated either."
"Then let's date," he states matter-of-factly. "If you want to, we can."
"That's not how that works. We can't date each other if we're already married." You look at the floor. "I mean we can go on dates, it just wouldn't be dating because we're already married. Plus dating is meant to like fall in love and stuff and I already love you."
"So you don't want to date me?"
You throw your hands in the air and huff. "Is that all you got out of that?"
"No," he doesn't meet your eyes as he responds. "Do you want to go on a date then?"
Your face flushes at the idea. "Like an actual date? What do you want to do?"
"What do people normally do on a date?"
You rock back and forth on your feet, trying to come up with some sort of answer. The other shopping trips technically count as dates, though you don't really think of them as dates. They weren't romantic in any sense, and that's what makes it a date, right?
"I guess we can figure it out as we go. Neither of us know how this works so we'll spend too much time standing around thinking," you decide. "Better to get stuff done and see what works."
Katakuri bends down and gives you a kiss. "Whatever you want. I'm yours for today."
"Then I guess we could go get breakfast. It would be nice to spend the whole day out together." You think for a moment. "Though you'll probably wear the scarf, so can I have another kiss?"
He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You don't know how he never expects you to flirt with him, but it's adorable. It's far too cute to see the almost unbeatable man get flustered at you telling him you want a kiss.
"I don't know if I can go a whole day being by you and not getting kisses," you reason, batting your eyelashes. "Not when I know that you're just so pretty."
"If I give you a kiss, you can't say things like that while we're out."
Despite the fact that it's unfair, you nod. Agreeing doesn't stop you from pouting though, a tactic that usually works in getting you what you want. Instead, Katakuri closes his eyes.
"That's cheating."
You pout even more. "You're being childish. You can't even look at me."
"I wouldn't have to do this if you weren't so cute."
"Oh? What did you say? I didn't catch that."
He kisses you once more. "I said we should go."
You chuckle but restrain your urge to keep going. Your poor husband looks like he might combust if you keep messing with him, and you know he'll file away your teasing to get back at you. No matter how fun it is, he always gets you back, making you far more flustered than you think you've ever made him.
Slipping on a pair of shoes, you make sure you have everything you need. You tuck sunglasses, chapstick, and a handkerchief into your bag. Reaching for your bag of berries, you decide to try to be independent and pay for your own stuff. Even if it's technically Karakuri's money. He doesn't even protest, which makes you feel like he's already got a plan to make sure he can spoil you.
You gesture for him to follow and open the door. Thankfully, you have the way to the cafe memorized, or you'd feel a little silly. It's become your favorite spot to get breakfast, so you're actually excited to share it. Though you aren't sure if they'll be prepared to serve you today. You're sure that no place you could go to would be able to feed both of you.
"Ah, I'm not sure how long we'll have to wait for them to make something for you. Are you okay with that?"
"Anything you want, you get to have today. If that's where you want to eat, we'll eat there."
You wave him off, flustered at his words. He's too honest and kind to you. He'd probably do almost anything you ask of him. It makes you feel far too spoiled, and you aren't used to it. You don't think you'll ever be.
"I typically get a dish that allows me to have a little of everything since I can't ever pick, but this place is known for crepes! They've got both sweet and savory."
"Just order whatever you want to eat. I'll carry leftovers."
"Don't say that. I'll eat what I normally do. I know how much I can eat. I'm just worried you won't be eating enough."
You reach for the door, but he holds it open for you. "Then I'll eat your leftovers."
"That's worse. Just order what you want, this place is usually fast enough with simple dishes so if you keep it simple, we'll be fine."
The hostess gives you a smile and starts her spiel. "Welcome, will that be a table for two?"
Her face goes pale upon looking at Katakuri. She looks like she might fall over, so you ring the bell in the desk. You adore the waitstaff here, but you never actually mentioned who your husband is.
"Can we get a manger to take our order please? I'm afraid the poor hostess is a bit startled," you shout towards the back. "I don't mean to be a bother today, it's just something different."
The manager's irritated face pokes from around a corner, before going even paler than the hostess. "Of course! I'd be delighted to be of service to you today!"
In fact, the manager seems to be more eager to help you today than any other day. You know why, and it irritates you more than usual. You'll have to put in a word against him at some point, and today seems like the best time.
"Take your time with the order, no need to rush it. We'll eat outside, but I can bring the plates back in since I know you don't have actual outdoor seating."
After ordering, you notice that the two of you have attracted quite the crowd. It's nice to know that it's because of Katakuri being with you, but that doesn't get rid of the anxiety. Now that people know he's wandering around, everyone's going to come and stare.
"Am I allowed to eat with you, or are you going to eat alone?" you ask. "We are in public and you still don't really eat when I'm around. Don't push yourself to do anything just for me, okay?"
He turns his attention away from sculpting a little shrine to eat in and looks at you. "We'll eat together. Today is about doing everything you want."
"So if I say that I really want you to be comfortable, you'll do that?"
"I don't feel uncomfortable with you around. I mainly eat alone due to habit."
You shrug but don't press it further. "Then I'll join you."
Katakuri grabs the tray of food from the waiter and holds the door for you. You don't know how the space is lit, but you aren't going to question that. There's weirder things in the world than having a little mochi shrine lit up inside.
The table sits surrounded by a monstrous amount of pillows. One side of the pillow circle towers over you, so you let yourself fall into the other side. Almost immediately, you bounce back to your feet, a testament to just how bouncy the mochi really is. It's more surprising that you didn't get stuck given the fact that it's usually sticky.
You watch as he gently sets the food on the table before falling back into the pillows. He's barely propped up enough to eat without choking on the food, and his face is pure bliss. It's a little silly to see him like this. He's normally imposing even when he's not trying to be, so to see him so relaxed and almost childish is unordinary.
Your ability to hold in your giggles goes away as you watch him practically unhinge his jaw and eat a crepe in one bite. Covering your mouth, you try to stifle your laughter as fast as possible. It's not even about how he looks, it's just your expectations seem so silly now.
"What's so funny?" he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I just wasn't expecting any of this and I feel silly. I didn't think you could act so," you gesture vaguely, "so innocent I guess. I also thought you had scars, not that your mouth opens that wide. It's refreshing to see this side of you."
"So it's not because of how I look? Or the fact that I want to relax?"
You shake your head, letting your giggles subside. "Not at all. The only issue is your manners. You should use a napkin not your hands. You better not do this in front of our kids. They'll think it's okay."
"In front of what now?"
"Kids. Don't teach any kid bad manners."
You quickly shove food in your mouth. Are you an idiot? Why would you say that? It's only been five months since the Straw Hats were here and now you're mentioning kids. Someone should smack some sense into you.
The silence is unbearable. You regret opening your mouth and just continue to eat in silence. Every time you pause, you think about saying something, but you get the feeling it will be just as ridiculous. You should just try to figure out what the next move is. Maybe just looking around and window shopping would be nice.
"Do you mind if we walk by the beach? Not now, later tonight when the sand isn't hot. I've heard it can be romantic. Though, what do you want to do?"
There's a pause while he thinks. "I've never thought about it."
"Then just tell me if you don't want to do something I suggest. For now, we can just look at the shops."
Katakuri nods, stacking all of his empty plates together. You're more surprised than you should be that he ate it all that fast. You've barely managed to eat all of your food in the time he polished off several plates of food. At least he won't be hungry. You hope.
Adding your plate to the pile, you take the stack to the waiter. Despite your effort to catch the manager before your husband pays, you watch the manager fawn over the bag of berries that gets dropped in his hands. He's clearly making a big deal out of this, and you scowl. You'll come in tomorrow on your own to get this all sorted out.
"You should've let me pay, it's not fair if you pay for everything." You do your best to look stern. "I brought berries with me."
Katakuri narrows his eyes and crosses his arms. To normal people, he'd be terrifying. Sharp purple eyes that study people with intensity of the sun and bulging muscles that could crack a skull without any effort all add up to a scary image. To you, he's barely intimidating. You've seen him do silly things and find him too cute to be scary.
"I'll have you know I don't find you particularly scary."
You don't think he blinks as he watches you. Now you think he's being ridiculous. Is he going to give you the silent treatment until you cave and let him spoil you? That's too much, even for him.
"Fine, we can talk about it later. Let's go."
You check both ways before marching across the street. The shop you're headed is catered towards a more feminine audience. Everything has frills, lace, and bows. It's cute, but not stuff you'd wear in your day to day life. That doesn't stop you from looking in the window at one particular dress.
You already know by looking at it, it's not your color. The collar looks stiff and uncomfortable, not to mention the ruffles on the sleeves. The skirt flares out from the waist, stuffed with petticoats. It reminds you of a cupcake, but maybe you've just seen far too many cupcakes. Sure, it's cute, but it's too over the top for you to like.
"Do you want to try it on?"
You shake your head. "I feel bad going into a store and not buying anything. Not to mention, I know it won't look good on me. I'll do it if you want to see me try things on, but you have to give me your honest opinion."
You know that he always does. It's just that his honest opinion is that you always look good no matter how bad the clothes look. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he's just that much taller than you and can't make out all the details on the clothes. Maybe he's just a little blind. Who really knows.
"I do. I never lie to you."
You raise an eyebrow. "You may not lie to me, but you do forget to say things. You'll forget to tell me that the dress is hideous and just tell me I look nice. But that's fine, it's nice to know you think I look nice no matter what I wear."
You push the door open, hearing the bell jingle. The air smells like fresh peonies and magnolias, definitely playing into a more feminine style. The walls are decorated in ribbons and portraits of petite women in frilly dresses. They seem to portray some of the more popular styles, each one is flanked by the style of dress that's in the portrait.
There's a few other ladies in the shop, most of them sifting through dresses at a speed you can't fathom moving. You watch as one lady in particular is whipping through the racks and tossing dresses onto a sales lady. The muscles on the sales lady must be impressive since she's able to hold the heap steady.
Thankfully no one pays the two of you much mind. There's some staring, but all of the sales ladies are already with customers so they can't swarm you. In fact, the person who's paying the most attention to you is definitely Katakuri. It's amazing he fits in the store.
You flip through the dresses casually looking for your size. There's no need to rush. You don't even want the dress, but who are you to say no to dressing up for your husband? He's far too pretty for you to say no to him.
You manage to find your size and take the dress to the fitting rooms. The doors are locked, but a stout woman sits at a little desk with the keys behind her. She doesn't look up from her book, which based on the title is some erotic piece, so you ring the old looking bell. She barely glances at you before reaching behind her and grabbing a key.
"Room Six, sweetheart. Make sure you go in alone and if ya need help press the red button and I'll come in." She sounds like she smokes several packs a day. "Don't leave a mess either."
You take the key from the desk. "I wasn't planning on either of those."
She grunts, but doesn't respond any further. There's no way that "The Greatest Pirate's Booty" is so thought provoking that she can't do her job. The cover doesn't even hide what the book contains, with a pair of tight leather pants suctioned in on a models tush. This book can't actually be real and has to be something she made.
You give your head a quick shake, trying to get rid of the idea of the book. If you really wanted to focus dirty thoughts on a pirate in leather, it wouldn't be hard. You have one. He's waiting for you to get changed.
The door to the fitting room slides open with ease. The whole room is sweets themed. The ottoman resembles a macaroon, half of it a pastel pink with the other half a soft mint. The walls are painted the same mint color, with a scalloped edge on the bottom. Even the little hooks look like they have little chocolate truffles on the ends.
The room makes you feel a little sick just by looking around, so you quickly pull off your clothes and slip the dress over your head. The lace tickles the back of your knees, and you resist the urge to scratch. You look over your shoulder in the mirror, and try to cinch the bodice on your own. It starts off easy, but by the time you have to tie it, your arms hurt. It's better to just give up and leave it be so you can take it off.
You step out of the room and keep your back to the door. You watch as another woman uses the little platform in front of a three way mirror to check out the dress she's wearing. It looks great on her. She looks like she could be a doll. On the other hand, you feel like a child dressing up in whatever they think looks nice without any regard for if it actually does.
"So," you drag the word out. "What do you think?"
You lightly pick at one of the frills, already knowing his answer. He gives you a nod of approval, but you know it's just because he thinks you look nice all the time. Unfortunately for Katakuri, he has a tell. Whenever something actually flatters you, he gets flustered. Even when he's wearing his scarf, the tips of his ears get red. Currently, he's fine.
"You're lying to me. I know this doesn't look good."
The color washes you out. If it wasn't for the color, it would probably look nice. The shape is relatively flattering, and it's not overly complicated. It's just that the color makes you look like you'll be sick any second now. Looking at the color up close, you wonder if it flatters anyone.
"It's just a bad color. The dress isn't that bad."
You give up on getting to stand in front of the three way mirror. The lady is still adjusting everything on the dress, currently working on a bow that you can't even see. Instead, you pinch the fabric of the dress and give a small curtsy. The movement feels weird and stiff since you're so used to bowing instead. However, you don't mind the cute look.
"I think there's too many people around wearing things like this, but it's not that bad. Maybe I'll end up wearing something like this at some point."
It's not hard to tell that he's a little disappointed that you won't let him spoil you right off the bat. It makes you feel just a little guilty that the one thing he was really wanting to do today won't happen because you're so stubborn. In fact, you start to feel so bad about it that you cave just a little.
"You can buy me something from here, but I still get to pick it out," you say while avoiding eye contact. "Just one thing."
You can tell he's giving you that look. The one that makes him look intimidating. Not that you've found Katakuri to be intimidating in months. Now when he gives you that look, you think it's more of him throwing a bit of a fit. You'll never voice that thought, but at least it makes you giggle.
After a moment, he grumbles in agreement. You don't even hear what he says, you just know that he finds you too stubborn to fight right now. Despite his image, he's actually just a big softie.
It doesn't take you long to change back into your original outfit. It makes you feel far more relaxed than the dress does, and you breathe a sigh of relief. You even make sure that the dress is put perfectly back on the hanger.
The lady at the desk gives you a dirty look as you put the dress on the rack next to her. You only feel bad for her when a young woman dumps an armful of clothes onto the rack. The sympathy quickly disappears as she gives the girl the same dirty look and asks if she's stupid. It's not even her fault, whoever came with her is currently dumping clothes in a pile on the ottoman. It's a miracle that none of it is on the floor.
"Hey, that's no way to talk to other people," you snap, slamming the key on the desk. "Just because your job sucks and it'll be annoying to put this all on hangers again, doesn't mean you straight up ask people if they're stupid. Can you not see that her friend is dumping all of this in a pile taller than the two of them combined?"
The lady closes her book and sneers. "You think you're so important don't you? Let me guess, you'd like to talk to the manager too?"
"No, but I can guarantee that your boss is nicer than I was ever raised to be. So we can do this the easy way, where you just apologize to her and I'll pretend this never happened. Or we can do this the hard way and I'll make you wish I'd asked for the manager."
She gives an evil grin. "You don't scare me. Why would I listen to you?"
You hear shuffling behind you, but wave your hand dismissively. You know that while he's most likely getting irritated, he's not there to fix your problems all of the time. As much as you know you could rely on him, you'd rather not have Katakturi feel like he needs to save you everytime something goes wrong.
"Because I'll ruin your life. I may normally be nice enough to let you be rude to me, but today's a special day." You look her up and down. "But everyday seems like it's special for you. I know that someone who works in this place doesn't make enough to be living the lifestyle you seem to be living.
"Now what would I know about how much you make? Believe it or not, I find that being a spoiled bitch can be a bit boring so I have scouted around places to see if it's worth working anywhere. I hate to say it, but this place wasn't really worth it. I don't think I could stand to be frustrated both at home and at a job. But I do know that the only way you could afford those shoes is if you were given them as a gift or they were on clearance. They came out less than a month ago, and while they are hideous, they haven't been on sale yet.
"No, you stole them. I can tell they aren't fake because the glitter on them was made specifically for these shoes and is too expensive to replicate for a pair of fakes. Not to mention, while it wasn't major news, I do happen to know that a pair of those went missing. In fact, I'd be willing to be that every piece of clothing you're wearing is not only real designer, it's also all stolen. You're too busy spending money on signed erotic novels anyway."
The lady behind the desk is red in the face with anger. If you weren't already one hundred percent confident, her reaction would have been enough to tell you you're right.
You give a smile. "I also happen to know that they're putting a prize for whoever can find them. I'm not sure what it is, but I'm always willing to find out."
She looks at the ground and mumbles an apology. You fake a look of confusion and tilt your head. Cupping your hand around your ear, you mimic being unable to hear.
"Oh no, what was that?"
She clears her throat before speaking again. "I said I'm sorry for being rude to you."
Putting your hand over your chest, you frown. "Oh no no no. The time for apologizing to me has long since passed. It's the other woman you owe an apology."
By now, a line has formed to get access to the fitting rooms. You don't particularly care right now. If there's a line, management will show up, and you don't mind that. Your revenge was just getting the woman embarrassed. The rest can be left up to the other woman.
"Alright. I'm sorry I asked if you were stupid."
You turn to the other woman. "Is that enough for you? If not, I can get you want you need to feel better about this."
She shakes her head. "No this is fine. I don't need anything."
You've probably freaked her out, but at least she got an apology. You've never really been good with doing good deeds. Too many people are scared that you have other intentions. After all, your dad had been part of the underground market and now you've been married to a pirate. Oh well. What's done is done.
Slowly browsing the accessories, you're aware of people watching you. You pretend that you can't tell. You're already in a bad mood now, no sense in making it worse by indulging other people and paying more attention to them than you have to.
After a few minutes of blankly staring at a display, you just grab something. You want to leave. Maybe this was all a bad idea. The two of you attract way too much attention, and you hate the feeling of being watched. A nighttime stroll on the beach or in the garden would've been better, but it's too late to go back and change that.
Once you get outside, you're able to breathe better. You hear the bell ring again as Katakuri follows you. You can feel the worry in his eyes, but you can't bring yourself to look at him. It's not even shame, you're just still irritated. You've worked hard to keep yourself where you are, and people keep trying to walk all over you.
"You know what, I could go for some coffee. We might as well try to get as many date things as we can in." You give a tense smile. "I know the cutest bakery that has good enough coffee."
He's still giving you that look. It's the same one he gives you when you're sick. The one where you know he just wants you to relax and let him take care of you. You wish you could, but you know he's not always around when you need that. It's hard to convey just how much you need to be able to stick up for yourself. If you don't, you'll find yourself drowning in the expectations of the marriage.
"We should get some of the baked goods too. We can eat them later, I just really enjoy their raspberry tarts and want you to try them."
"Are you sure?" It's difficult to hear him, so you turn to face him.
"Yeah. I'm used to this sort of thing."
At your words, he narrows his eyes, and your stomach drops. It only lasts a split second, gone before you can even blink again. You've never seen that look on him, but you know you've seen that look before. A look of pure rage that would destroy everything in its path to destroy what it wants to. It's not a look you like.
"Don't worry about it too much. I don't like that face on you." You give him a soft smile. "I can handle myself just fine."
You're sure he'd argue with you if he could, but he doesn't. Instead, there's a moment of intense eye contact. Katakuri isn't that intimidating to you, so you have no idea why he tries to get you to back down like this. He'd have better luck offering you a kiss.
He sighs, "Alright. Shall we?"
If you could, you'd hold his hand as you walk. Unfortunately, he's far too tall for such a cute thing. He too tall for a lot of couples things now that you think about it. Anything like a Ferris wheel would be super difficult. You'll have to cross that off your romantic bucket list.
It's not a far walk, though even if it was it wouldn't matter. The weather is beautiful today. Sunny with a slight breeze at the optimal temperature. You even get to spend a whole day going on a date with your husband. So why does your gut tell you something's going to go wrong?
"What's the plan?" Katakuri asks, snapping you from your thoughts.
"Oh, well, I have a few ideas. After the bakery, there was this fancy place that I wanted to check out, and then maybe we could go to this noodle stand. There's usually a line, so I don't see a big deal in being there a bit before lunch time."
You nervously bite your lip. There's no reason to be nervous, he'll tell you yes no matter what the question is. It's just that it feels like a silly thing to ask.
"There's also this high end jewelry shop that's now in business. I was thinking that we could finally pick out our wedding rings. I know we technically have wedding rings, but mine doesn't even fit so I don't wear it."
"I noticed."
You frown. "You could've said something about it."
His ears are flushed again. "I didn't want to pressure you into it. It's better that you brought it up."
You can't believe you never noticed how in love with you he is. To be fair, now that you've been paying attention, it's easy. To other people, he probably seems to tolerate you. He's got his arms folded across his chest, and he won't even look at you. You understand why though, since every time you look at him like this, it makes you want to kiss him.
"This place closes earlier than other places, so if we want to take some home, we need to get it now. Is that alright?"
You've already made a mental list of all of the things you want to get. It's mainly your favorite things, but there's a few things you really wanted to try and never did. Which leads you to one of the sillier parts of your husband. All you have to do is tell him to say ah, and he'll let you feed him. Sometimes you can't help yourself from sharing your dessert. There's something so flustering about having a man like him be so willing to eat something you offer.
He nods. "Of course. Today you can have anything you want."
"What if I want you to enjoy today?" you ask with a little pout. "What then?
Katakuri lowers his voice. "I enjoy any time I get to spend with you."
You feel your face get hot and look away. "If you weren't so honest, I'd think you're just saying things to fluster me."
You leave it at that and enter the shop. It's hard to ignore the burning feeling of his gaze, but you do your best. It's not fair. He's pretty, smart, strong, and so sweet. You want to kiss him right now, but you don't see that happening any time soon. It's a shame.
"Welcome! What can I get for you today?"
You drum your fingers on the counter, reciting off everything you've wanted to share with Katakuri. It's far more than you'd normally order for yourself for a few days, but that's okay. You're just so excited to have him try some of this stuff, even if it's not quite his size.
By the time you're holding the pastry laden boxes, you're really craving your favorite dessert that this place makes. They're known for their mini tarts, and you can't help but crave them. If only you had grabbed extra of them, you only bought two of each flavor.
"I got you donuts for later," you say, taking a seat in front of the cafe. "None of the flavors are the same, so hopefully they'll all be good. I've never actually had their donuts."
You unbox one of the tarts and take a bite, relishing in the taste. There's something nice about the perfect blend of fruity sweetness and light cream. It's not an overly sweet dessert which makes it a much welcome break from the sometimes overly sweet desserts back at the chateau.
"I could eat these every day and not get sick of them. It would be wonderful if the head chef would make things that weren't just overly sweet."
You lick your lips, savoring the flavor as you finish it. The treat makes you feel so much better, and you let out a sigh. Maybe you're just taking everything much harder than you need to today. You have no idea what could be causing you to be high strung today, but at least you have the most important person.
You lean against Katakuri and sigh. He's soft, warm, and comforting. The most important thing you could be doing is relaxing. Instead you're stressing about something that probably won't happen.
Katakuri gently rubs your back as you try to think of what to do. You want to do the most important things first, that way if something bad happens you can just go home and get spoiled in kisses. Nothing makes you more relaxed and happier than lying on Katakuri's chest as he loves on you.
"Can we go to the jewelry place next? I've just got this feeling something bad will happen and getting rings is more important to me than getting clothes," you explain, looking up at him. "If something bad happens I think I'll just want to go home."
"We can do whatever you want." He gently cups your cheek. "I'll make sure nothing bad happens."
You rub your face into the palm of his hand, holding onto his wrist as you do. "I know you'll do your best, but you can't guarantee that. Life is unpredictable."
He just shakes his head. You don't want him to admit just how far he'd go for you in case you can't handle the answer. It's probably more than you'd ever ask of him, but that would make the risk of losing him greater. There are somethings that you'd rather him never admit.
"But I know you'll do whatever you can." Your smile is soft. "That's why I'll never leave."
The tips of his ears go red, and he breaks eye contact. You don't normally make promises like that, so he tends to lose his composure. You don't know if you ever expected him to be like this, but you consider yourself lucky that you're the one who gets to see him like this so often. It's like his only weakness is you. He never fails to make you feel special.
"Well," you pause for dramatic effect, "it's time. We'll officially have rings and I can officially tell all the men who don't believe I have a husband that my husband is clearly better than they are."
You stand up and start walking towards the jewelry store.
"Does that mean you have men asking you out?" He sounds angry. "Is that what you're saying?"
You hum in thought. "That's not not what I'm saying. Is that what you think I'm saying? Are you jealous?"
It doesn't take much to imagine him scowling at your back. There are times when you can be annoying and get away with it. Now isn't one of those times. You should be more careful, but you'll accept whatever consequences come later.
"I have no reason to be jealous."
"Oh? If you aren't jealous, what are you?"
Katakuri stops you in your tracks. He tilts your head to one side, bending down to somehow whisper in your ear.
"I'm possessive."
He doesn't elaborate anymore than that. You feel flustered and warm, wondering if this is his way of getting back at you for messing with him. You've never actually seen him get possessive, but the idea of him acting in such a way leaves you with wandering thoughts. You aren't scared of him, but the public sure is.
Besides all of the new dirty thoughts, the only other thought in your head is just as bad. If he's so possessive could you convince him to leave bite marks? Not just the normal ones that he occasionally leaves that no one can see. You want him to leave ones that would make even standard pervs blush. You'll have to ask him the next time things get heated.
"Well!" You start walking again, a bit faster this time. "Since those pieces I have at home were custom made, I wonder if they'd have records of them. I'll have to ask when we get there."
"Wouldn't they need to see the pieces to tell? Or perhaps a receipt?"
You wave your hand dismissively. "If you won't tell me, I'll ask them. I've been known to be so persuasive that I get what I want. I did get you after all."
"Does that mean I'm someone you wanted?" Katakuri asks, his voice laced with something like hope. "That is what that would imply."
"If only you would admit to that," you pretend to pout as you tease him. "Then I wouldn't have to go around asking."
"If I agree to tell you who got them for you when we get home, will you avoid asking the people there?"
You debate on telling him that your guess is he bought them. It feels a little mean to make him talk. Maybe he's just embarrassed about it. You probably should've admitted it a while ago, but you didn't want to make him uncomfortable. Now it feels like you're just being manipulative towards him.
"Don't make that face."
You look at your shoes. "What face?"
"The one that makes you look sad. Like you did something wrong." He's speaking softly like he's worried you might think he's scolding you. "You've done nothing wrong."
He's far too nice to you. With the way he treats you now, you could probably do something terrible and he'd still take your side. You have no intention of doing something horrific, you just don't doubt that he would stop loving you. It makes you flustered that he views you as someone who can do no wrong.
"Are you sure? What if I told you that I already looked at some rings for us to try?" You kick a candy pebble down the street. "And what if I said I'd be a little sad if you didn't like the ones I picked?"
Katakuri's eyes narrow, but you can tell he's amused. "Did you pick some out?"
You shrug and smile. "Maybe. You'll have to take a look."
There was something that you had picked out that you hope he likes. To be fair, you already bought it so it's less of an option for him to pick from and more of a gift. The only problem is you hope it fits. It's a custom piece, so it's not like you'd be able to return it or sell it to someone else.
Despite having been here before, the building still shocks you. It's distinctly elegant compared to the confectionery shaped buildings surrounding it. The smooth marble shines in the sun and the windows sparkle as if they've just been cleaned. Even though you have both the money and status, you still feel a bit nervous about going in.
The woman behind the counter greets you with a warm smile. "Ah! You came just in time, I've got everything you were looking at all set up."
"That was fast. I only called earlier today," you say with fake surprise. "I'm glad you're so efficient."
"Anything for such an esteemed guest. I've even taken the liberty of having the store closed for the duration of your time here."
You know. You already paid to have the place closed for about an hour so that way people wouldn't stare. It was a better deal than you could've bargained for, and you're once again reminded about the privilege of being rich. Money can buy a lot of things.
"Do you happen to have the piece I ordered last time?"
She waves over a man in a suit. "Of course. I'll have it brought out right now. In the meantime, just off to your right, you'll see the ones that you picked out last time."
With what little confidence you have, you walk over to open display. You had specified that you'd prefer silver colored rings, but that more unusual metals such as black would also be okay. However, you couldn't rule out a traditional yellow gold either. Part of you just wants to make sure they match and pick whatever you think looks the best. Though maybe that's how this should work and you're overthinking it.
"Feel free to let me know if there's one you really like. Most are ones that I picked out so I won't be upset with your choice." You pick up a delicate looking band, scattered with diamonds. "Though I'm not sure I want something extravagant."
The box you ordered makes a soft thud as it is placed on the table. You trace the intricate design on the wood, lost in thought. Maybe it's too much. You love him, and have for longer than you've known, but what if you're smothering him? Maybe it's too little. What if he leaves for something and he doesn't come back?
You're torn from your thoughts as Katakuri brushes your hair behind your ear. You wish you could just stay here in the simple little moments. The soft, romantic times where you're safe and happy are where you wish you could stay. So for now, you'll try to enjoy this.
"You look sad again."
You give a weak smile. "I'm just thinking. I think I've been more stressed since the tea party. Either way, that's not important right now."
"How you feel is important. You deserve to be happy." His voice is gentle. "That's what I the most."
Your face flushes. "Here's the gift I got you. It may not be much, but I just wanted to get you something. You can open it when we get home though. It's a little sappy."
Katakuri nods and holds out a small ring. It's definitely the one that would fit on your finger, and it looks so tiny in his hand. However, there's something sweet about the fact that he's trying to put it on your finger. You never got to have that magical proposal that some people get.
"This one is the one I prefer."
You let him slide it on your finger, admiring the shine. It's not overly fancy, a simple gold band with a smokey inlay that goes around the whole thing. It's pretty and simple, something that you would choose. For some reason, it really does make everything feel complete.
"It's pretty. What made you choose this one?" you ask, trying to be nonchalant.
He brushes his finger along the back of your hand. "It matches your eyes. I wouldn't need to go a single day without seeing the color."
His words make you momentarily forget that there's other people around. Despite how he looks and holds himself, Katakuri is surprisingly sweet and gentle with you. There's times where even you can't believe it, though you suppose it's nice to have a man so deeply in love with you.
"Then," you stammer trying to get the words out, "then I suppose this is the one we should get."
The sales woman pops up at your arm. "How's the fit? Does it feel loose, or maybe it's too tight? Are you able to slide it off again?"
You slide it off and then back on. The fit seems perfect, though you had originally given them your ring size to prepare for this. Minus the fact that you aren't used to wearing a ring, you can barely feel that there's one in your finger. The only issue is that you're unsure if they have a matching one for your husband. Sure, you told them in advance that you'd prefer to purchase the rings at the same time, but that doesn't mean it's easy to acquire, or store, rings that fit him.
"Yes! It fits perfectly."
"Perfect." She turns towards Katakuri. "We do have one and the same size as the piece ordered for the gentleman if you'd like to try that on."
You watch from the corner of your eye as he picks up the matching ring and puts it on his finger. For the first time in three years, you feel content with your status. You’re happy and in love. It’s hard not to feel content about your relationship with just how much you care about Katakuri.
“This is fine.”
You try to avoid watching him flex his hand as he gauges how it feels. Who gave him the right to be so pretty? It’s when he does simple things like this that make you realize just how much of a pervert you are, and how much you’d like to bite him in return.
You settle the check as Katakuri grabs the bag from the poor salesman. The fancy boxes with their plush velvet coatings must weigh more than you’d be able to carry. Not to mention the sheer size of them. As much as being strong and independent are things you pride yourself as being, you know when to leave things to your husband.
“Don’t forget to come back for any of your jewelry needs. If you need the rings resized or polished, just come back, and we’ll take care of it. Have a wonderful day.”
You smile and nod. She’s not pushy this time, but like the average salesperson usually is, she was pushy when you first came in. Are they just able to tell when someone isn’t too sure of what they want? Like bloodthirsty sharks looking for a large commission, they snap up every customer that’s on the edge of decision making.
Once outside, you sigh in relief. Normally, you try not to be too passive about things, but for some reason you still get uncomfortable around high-end salespeople. You have no reason to be that nervous. How many powerful people have you stood in front of and made demands to? Your nerves must be getting the better of you, leaving you unable to enjoy your time.
Before you can even get a word out, a group of chefs run towards you. They’re screaming and crying, tears all over the place. Behind them, a cart rattles back and forth across the cobblestones. It’s somehow already three o’clock. It’s time for tea.
“You can leave me with the bags, I don’t mind. It’s your tea time, I’m not going to make you miss that,” you say with a reaffirming smile. “I won’t go anywhere.”
You won’t go anywhere willingly. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a group of people. One looks very familiar, but you don’t want to mention it. It’s better to leave it be and deal with it on your own.
Katakuri barely spares a glance to what he’s building. It only takes a moment, but he watches you the whole time. It’s like he knows something might happen, and he doesn’t want to leave you alone. Instead, he follows your lead and goes inside as you wave him away.
They come out not long after the door closes. There's more people than you thought, but it's not an issue. This is too public of a place for them to attack you physically, but they'll certainly try to get you to make the first move.
"You ruined everything! What did you do? I can't even remember what you did to ruin everything I had planned!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about.
She sneers. "You think you're so special just because he pretends to care. You'll never be more than his wife in name."
You dig your fingernails into your palm, trying to stay calm. She wants you to get riled up and make a mistake. That's the whole goal. The second you say the wrong thing is the second she'll run to her mom and get you in trouble.
"You're free to believe what you like, but don't voice such opinions about my husband in front of me," you say with a frown. "I don't need to hear such nonsense."
"It won't be long before you're disposed of. You've almost lived out your usefulness and when that happens, I'll swoop in and be the best little sister there to comfort what little sadness he'll have."
The pain in your hand disappears as anger rises in you. "What makes you think I've outlived my usefulness? Maybe you're just projecting your fears."
"You just don't get it, do you?" She throws her head back and laughs. "My big brother is strong, collected, and amazing. He's perfect. He needs to be surrounded by people who understand that. He doesn't need someone like you."
You feel something inside of you snap, and for the first time in over three years, you can't control yourself. Three years boiled over into this mess of rage that you feel.
"You disgust me." Your voice is just below a murmur. "Words can't even begin to describe it."
Her smile falters. "What?"
"I can't believe I have to say this." You step closer so she can actually hear you. "Katakuri is not a doll to be collected or an animal in cage for you to look at. He is capable of his own choices. He has no need to have someone try to control what he does like he's a puppet. So I will tell you this just once. Leave him alone or I will take matters into my own hands. Do you understand that?"
Her face is a mixture of fear and anger. "You're a lunatic! I'll make you regret ever speaking to me today!"
You watch as her entourage follows her as she storms off. As much as she says she'll make you regret your words, you can't be bothered to care. In fact, you can't focus on anything besides your breathing. You're trembling from the rage, and you know you need to calm down.
Once your breathing is steady, you unclench your fist. The skin is red with little half moons indented into it. You give your fingers a good stretch, rubbing the skin of your palm to try to smooth out the indents. As soon as your skin clears up, it'll be like it never happened. Maybe you'll be able to forget about it in a few days.
"Are you alright?" Katakuri startles you out of your thoughts
You compose your face into a smile before turning around. "Yeah, I think I'm just getting tired. I can't remember the last time I did this much in one day. Tomorrow will probably be more exhausting though."
"Then we'll go home." Katakuri picks up the bags. "What do you mean tomorrow will be exhausting?"
"Just a hunch. I had an interesting talk with a sibling of yours. Everything will be fine, I'll just be a bit stressed."
"You should let me take care of it," he says earnestly. "I can deal with whatever it is."
This time, your smile is genuine. "I know you can deal with it, but I need to. So just promise me that no matter what happens tomorrow, you'll let me deal with it."
He looks unhappy with what you're asking. You can't blame him, but you wish he'd worry just a little less. As if that will ever happen.
"I promise, but if I think you'll be killed, I'll take you away."
"It won't come to that, I'm smarter than you realize. There's very little I can't get out of."
“That doesn’t mean I have to like you dealing with problems on your own.” He hoists you onto his shoulder. “One day, I’ll make sure no one can touch you.”
You press a kiss against his temple. “I know. One day, you’ll make sure that I’m safe and happy. We’ll live far away from here, just the two of us.”
#charlotte katakuri#reader insert#charlotte katakuri x reader#katakuri x reader#katakuri one piece#one piece katakuri#katakuri#one piece x reader#one piece
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[Post-Canon, Mu Qing dies and Feng Xin has to go through his belonging. Yes today I chose suffering.]
Death isn't pretty, no matter how beautiful the victim is. Feng Xin learned that the hard way the day Mu Qing died.
-
"I'm glad it's you," his breathing was laboured, he had to stop every few words and Feng Xin could see how each gulp of air was more painful than the last. "I'm glad because I can't trust anyone but you to see me like that."
“I had so much, so much,” Feng Xin wanted to tell him to stop talking, he wanted to tell him to keep his strength, to not use it in something as futile as talking. But no words left his mouth, even he could feel his breath hitch. “I had so much to tell you.”
"I wish we had more time."
-
After Mu Qing's death, a lot changed. More prayers, more deputies, more responsibilities, more work... But somehow all of these are minor changes for Feng Xin.
What truly makes him sick to the stomach is the silence. He walks in the Heavenly Capital and no one screams after him, no one trains with him every week, no one stands near him during meetings. One day he even tried to contact him through the Communication Array, needless to say it was fruitless.
As they say, you only know what you have when you lose it.
He's not surprised when Ling Wen asks him to sort through Mu Qing belongings. He didn't had many friends after all, and since he also took in his palace Mu Qing's deputies, it seems only normal for them to do this task.
It doesn't mean it's an easy task.
As Feng Xin's standing in his rival's bedchamber, he has to fight the will to vomit. Nothing has changed but everything's different.
His weapon no longer harbours his spiritual energy, the ink on his desk has dried... Even his bed, despite still smelling like him, a new layer of dust has settled on the blanket.
It's odd being in a space where it feels like Mu Qing could furiously enter the room at any moment while seeing proof he should have arrived days ago.
He feels defeated, he feels angry.
Eventually he tries opening the drawer on his bedside table and finds two things: a letter folded in half and a neatly wrapped package.
It seems to be something private and precious, maybe he should leave it alone, let Mu Qing have his secret even in death. Unfortunately no one is here to stop him so Feng Xin grabs the letter.
The first realisation is that it's not a letter. It's a draft at most, maybe a draft for a speech, covered in crossed-out sentences and ink puddles.
The second one is that it's written for Feng Xin. It seems like Mu Qing was looking for ways to speak his mind to him.
Feng Xin,
We've known each other for 820 years now, we haven't tried to kill each other lately we've been somewhat civil to each other for about 5 and I like you even number so I felt like it would be nice to celebrate it a bit.
Today is your birthday. I know we haven't given presents to each other since we were mortal but I believe it's what friends should do. I want to be your friend Don't worry, I'm not expecting you to give me anything for my birthday, it was just important for me to give it to you. Sorry I was too much of a coward to give it to you last year
I love sparring with you
There's a place I'd like to show you in the Southwest
Happy birthday
Feng Xin would nearly laugh if he didn't feel like crying already. If he's honest, he thought about getting a birthday gift for Mu Qing, but he too had been a coward. He was afraid he would somehow find a way to take it wrongly.
He grabbed the package. Technically it's not his birthday, but technically Mu Qing wasn't supposed to die before giving it to him, so maybe it's only fair to open it today, right?
It's neatly wrapped and quite light and small, it fits easily in Feng Xin's hand. He carefully opened it, trying to not tear the wrapping: it's also a part of Mu Qing, he can't destroy it.
In his hand is a long yellow band of silk. It takes him a second to understand what it is. It's a ribbon, a hair ribbon. More precisely, it looks like the one that broke during a fight years ago. But it had been mended, a silver thread was piercing both parts together. Mu Qing had also added some silver embroidery to compliment the golden ones already there.
Feng Xin hasn't cried since the day Mu Qing died in his arms. But here, surrounded by his smell and his belongings, Feng Xin felt the first tears fall and soon enough he’s sobbing on the golden and silver ribbon.
He can’t even say he hates Mu Qing.
-
Mu Qing was crying. It was quite a rare sight. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw that.
“I-” Feng Xin carefully removed his hair from his eyes, when he looked at them, he could see fear, pain and something else, something warm and tender. His voice was barely above a whisper now. “I always thought you looked amazing while shooting arrows, even when-” His next words are cut off as he coughs more blood.
“Hi, don’t talk,” his voice sounded weak and broken and Feng Xin wanted to laugh. In his last moment, that’s what he chose to say. “You’re also amazing with your saber. You always are, no matter what you’re doing.” He carefully brings his hand to his face and lets his thump stroke his cheek in a gesture that he hopes is reassuring. “Now, don’t say anything anymore Mu Qing.”
Obviously, he’s too stubborn to listen, even as his voice grows weaker, he continues talking.
“Even when we were mortals I-” he’s coughing more blood, his face contorted in pain. Yet the next moment their eyes meet, that tender feeling is back. “I always liked you a lot.”
#tgcf#fengqing#feng xin#mu qing#tian guan ci fu#fengqing fic#AU where Mu Qing dies#I don't want to write happy stuff today#that text 1K+ word long and maybe it's too long for a post but anyway
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Could you do office sex with claude? Love the way you write his character!
Ohh that's an intriguing one. Who let Claude be the boss of anything in a corporate setting is one question, but we don't have to sweat the particulars when there's smut to be had.
THAT SAID, can y'all believe this is the first smut fic I'm posting in like... actual months lmao. I needed to do a quick and simple drabble to get my brain working on writing again, I think- since the other things I'm working on are much longer fics that are taking a lot out of me. Anyway, I had fun with it, so hopefully it's a fun read :3
CWs for office romance and sort of fucking your boss!
Claude (FE3H) x Reader (AFAB)
Kink prompts list #5 - Office Sex
NSFW 18+
You're the last one still lingering at the office today- or, second-to-last, and you'd made sure of it. The door to Claude's newly bestowed and highly coveted corner office shuts quietly behind you as you enter and take stock of the place. It's still fairly sparse, with only his work laptop and a few essential files having been moved here from his old desk. He stands facing the window opposite from you, one hand in his pocket and the other holding the suit jacket slung over his shoulder. Those trousers and white dress shirt fit him almost too well, and it's impossible not to notice with him silhouetted against the lowering sun over the city outside. He glances back at you as you step toward his desk, but you're the one to speak first,
"Congrats on the promotion, Mr. Riegan," he doesn't miss the sarcasm in your tone, and it shows. His lips slant into a smile as he turns toward you, dropping the jacket across his chair on the way.
"You sound thrilled," he says as he rounds the desk toward you, "Let me guess- you were gunning for the position yourself."
"Maybe," you say with a shrug and a smile, "Though to be honest, I'm not sure I'd want to get bogged down in this department anyway. Been thinking of a transfer."
Claude's arms are crossed as he leans back against his desk. His posture is at-ease, relaxed, but you know him well enough to recognize the more serious tenor of his voice as he speaks.
"Seriously? First time I'm hearing about that. Care to fill me in?"
"Claude, in case you haven't realized it yet, this promotion technically makes you my boss," you're facing him, and frankly, closer than you should be- but you struggle to meet those brilliant green eyes as they silently pry at your defenses. You'd think you'd be used to it by now.
"On paper, sure," his hand trails around the small of your back, his arm at your waist tugging you towards him. You're between his legs and flush against his warm frame, and at last, you rally yourself and meet his gaze.
"So... we really shouldn't be doing this anymore. We shouldn't have been doing it to begin with," you sigh in your frustration, but despite your words, your heart is already racing at the feeling of his body near yours. At first, Claude doesn't respond. His arm holds you more firmly to him, and delicately, he brings his lips to the side of your neck. You feel them brush you gently, the heat of his breath seeming to sink beneath your skin and warm through your entire body.
"Do you want to stop?"
You know he means the question sincerely- he'd stop if you asked, you know this. But the low rumble of his voice and the graze of his lips is setting your heart pounding up through your chest, and your thoughts are so scrambled that your answer rushes past your lips before you can consider it,
"Of course not," your voice is soft but certain, and you feel Claude's lips smiling as he kisses down your throat.
"Good answer."
He stands upright and, without warning, turns you around to face his desk. His body presses to your back, and already you can feel the pressure of his hardening cock against your ass behind layers of clothing. You bite back your voice, not sure if you're holding in a gasp of surprise or a moan of pleasure. Soon, his hands are running up your hips and along your waist, and his lips are teasing the shell of your ear,
"How about this... I'll promise to behave during work hours, and you promise that you'll come see me after work any day you like so we can... review your performance."
"Claude..." you can't help the breathy, heated tone of your voice, and you find yourself arching your body against him, your hand coming to cradle his face while the other steadies you against his desk. His hands cup your breasts, savoring the feeling of them in his palms, and you know he can feel the way you're surrendering to him already.
"Don't ask for that transfer, Y/N," he murmurs as his hands fondle and caress you all over, "Please," there's a disarming sincerity in his voice for a moment, "You know as well as I do that I can't do this job without you. You're the only reason I've gotten this far- you're brilliant," he kisses the corner of your jaw, "and I need you."
It takes an agonizing extra few moments to put your thoughts together enough to respond. Your heart is fluttering erratically, and the rest of your body isn't making it any easier to think straight. His hands feel far too good holding you to him, adoring your curves while his cock twitches conspicuously against your ass.
"You... you really think you can behave during work?" you say at last, "The stakes are way higher if we get caught now."
"Hmm," he places a firmer kiss to the top of your neck, just below your ear, and you know he hears the stifled whimper that sneaks past your lips, "You know, come to think of it, I'm not sure. Will you have to punish me if I'm bad?"
You're about to tease him back- or at least try to -but then his teeth nip at your ear as one skillful hand travels down the front of your body, and whatever clever quip you'd had in mind evaporates. With his hips very subtly pressing his erect length against your body, he sneaks the hem of your skirt upward, his hand trailing up your leg along the way. You whine his name as his fingers dip between the plush softness of your thighs, stroking across your dampened panties.
"Damn, you're wet," he says in a heated whisper, "Maybe you're the one we have to worry about misbehaving."
"Damnit Claude, fuck me already," the words rush out without a thought, and now you find yourself pressing yourself back against him, your fingers dragging up the side of his neck and into thick brown hair. He utters a raw and lustful groan against your neck, and now his kisses are deeper, more forceful, and his fingers are rubbing against your clit from atop your soaked panties.
"That should be 'Mr. Riegan' now, shouldn't it? You said it before- I kinda liked it."
As he speaks now, he's unbuckling his belt and opening the front of his trousers. He pushes you forward gently, just a bit, and tugs your panties down your thighs. Before you can answer him, you feel the hot, stiff cock head press between your lower lips, and you let out a needy whimper.
"P- Please..." you arch yourself against him, spreading your legs wider, desperate to feel him enter you.
"Come on, you know what I want from you," you can hear his smirk in his voice, but where ordinarily you'd match his attitude with some of your own, right now you can't be bothered to fight back. He strokes the tip of his member along your slit, letting your overflowing arousal coat him as he rubs against your entrance, but refuses to give you what you need.
"Please, Mr. Riegan..!"
"That's it, good job Y/N," Claude groans once more as he begins to drive his length into you, his size stretching you around him as he pushes deeper and deeper until your lower body is flush against his hips. With an appreciative hum, he runs a hand over your backside, fondling and groping it against him, perhaps admiring where he can see your tight cunt clinging around the thick base of his cock. His hips sway just a little, rubbing himself into you in a way that makes your knees tremble. Then, his hand slaps against your ass- not hard enough to hurt, but certainly hard enough to enjoy watching the way it jiggles against him.
Slowly, he draws his hips back, then plunges back into you, forcing a gasping moan from your lips. He begins to buck his hips, quickly establishing a firm and steady rhythm that has you clinging to his desk. His hands at your hips guide you back against him with each thrust, ensuring that you feel every single inch of him as he fills your body and empties your thoughts; yet through the daze of pleasure, you manage to focus enough to hear him say,
"Mmgh, having my own office will be nice. Can't wait to spoil my favorite employee every single day..."
#claude von riegan#claude fire emblem#claude x reader#fire emblem x reader#fe3h#few3h#fe3h x reader#x reader#fire emblem smut#office smut#kink prompts#fire emblem three houses#not sfw
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places down a really trashy andypop drawing accompanied by some writing

now playing: Whatsername — Green Day ♪
★ ramble under the cut!
thinking about them again apparently, and tagging @stewdoesthings because i know you love them dearly !
i was mostly thinking today about little things that lead them both to figuring out that they wanted to transition. the real small things, though. not the obvious "i don't think my body is right" sort of stuff.
for soda, i think some things for her may have been just:
watching her mom put on makeup and constantly wanting to help and then get her own done, because it just looked so pretty on her mama. she wanted to look pretty too !
other ways she loved feeling pretty was helping her mom put on new outfits, she loved going shopping with her before ponyboy started joining in on the fun after he was born. (not that she didn't enjoy pony's prescence, because she absolutely did. she had fun dressing him too. just that it felt like really nice mother/daughter bonding time.)
picking at cars and action figurines and never really understanding them. she was a horse girl anyways, horses were cool. they were still technically for boys, but it wasn't exactly something she considered boyish. it was soda-ish. she didn't need to worry about oils and superheros and all that. she had her ponies
soda was always considered a softie, she just didn't know that being soft was something considered feminine. it really mixed up her emotions about it. because even though she didn't hate the idea of being feminine, she also didn't know how nice she felt about being teased for it. it created conflict of wanting to stay cis for the meaner people, or leaning into it for the confused people.
living with two brothers left soda with a lot of complex emotions too. she knew how fun it was to be a boy, but sometimes everything always just felt off. she was a real sensitive kid, needing to play nice. but she also loved playing rough too, always pushing her limits.
she tried her best to really stay a boy for people for as long as she could. but she always knew it wasn't for her.
for andy, his stuff always came a bit rough.
andy hated his name, hated everything. dysphoria naturally came a lot more harsh for him compared to soda in my eyes. i imagine he really liked to dirty himself up so he didn't feel so "clean and girly." all the time.
the dirt was a layer of protection for andy, he loved having florida sand stuck in his hair as any other person on family trips. but when in tulsa, he needed the flinging dirt of the fields on him all the time. it made him feel nicer about himself being dirty.
andy probably always took the stuff that soda didn't want in regards of masculine items. clothes, accessories, sometimes even toys when they were younger, he stole every opportunity and ran with whatever he got from soda.
andy didn't enjoy skirts whatsoever, but on a really good day he loved dresses. long or short, but never too short. he never really thought much into why he didn't like skirts over dresses, but it was better to have something over nothing because then he didn't feel like such an embarrassment for wearing slacks at a controversial family event.
andy was an aggressive kid when it came to gender roles. whether it be in a school play he participated in, or a general "girl/boy" divison, it always made him mad that andy had to be on the girls side, or play as the sister or mom during family. andy wanted to be the brother, the best player on the boy's side. he always thought maybe his ego for his strength got the best of him in those moments, and he should just leave it be.
andy doesn't like having been born a girl at all. but he's not exactly gonna whine and complain about it. maybe not crying over it could be a boy thing too. just another thing to add to the list, right ?
i dunno, i just really love these two despite how far out from canon they really are 💀 sometimes it's fun to divulge in the headcanons !!!
these two spin around in my head more frequently than necessary, i just love them to bits ...
#i did a lot of rambling here#I'm assuming the @ wasn't unwanted because stew seems to not mind when it comes to sandypop#either way I'm still sat here like “ewewewe... sorrryyyy...” hehehe#love these two so much#this pose was so awkward but ykw it's fine i still love them who cares about the shitty anatomy#peep andy being larger than soda (it's because soda's slouched and curling in on herself to seem tinier) (she likes being tiny in my eyes)#sodapop curtis#sandy the outsiders#transfem sodapop curtis#transmasc sandy#andypop#t4t sandypop#the outsiders headcanons#the outsiders
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Hils Watches Pit Babe - Ep 5
Love that Charlie somehow made it from inside to Babe before anyone else who was actually on the track
Okay, I don't know why I'm expecting realism in a live action omegaverse drama but I was surprised that they carried on with the race after Babe's car exploded. Checked in with a friend who follows F1 (thank you @kthxrawr) and apparently they would stop for a bit but then carry on. The more you know.
If this drama gives me magical healing cock I will forgive it anything
I have many weaknesses and one of them is characters who repeatedly put themselves in danger to save the other
LOL Babe pretending to be asleep while Charlie gives him a sponge bath, but then peeking when Charlie isn't looking
I don't know why I was totally fine with Charlie giving Babe a sponge bath but as soon as he kissed his hand while Babe was 'asleep' I was like 'dude, consent is a thing'
I mean it's fine Babe clearly doesn't mind but technically they are still broken up
I did wonder if they were brothers when they were being all touchy with each other. I should have said something then I would look all smart now
Being an introvert isn't suspicious behavious, Alan. Stop victim blaming.
I think Jeff might actually be my favourite. He raises so many valid points. I love that he didn't accept Alan's bullshit and just sarcastically agreed
I can't believe they decided that at the end of a tense and emotional scene, when Jeff is crying in his car, that this is a good time to do some car product placement
Well you told him Jeff and Charlie were having an affair and he didn't say 'don't be stupid Jeff is Charlie's brother' so of course he didn't know.
Well, I guess they're back together now
I still lowkey ship them
Way needs a nice boyfriend so he stops pining over Babe. What about Pete, the handsome CEO
Bro, you really need to get away from your abusive dad. Also, today one of my kpop kids pointed out that Garfield looks quite a lot like Hongjoong's brother and I can't unsee it now.
Omg Pete the handsome CEO actually is one of Tony's adopted children? Is literally everyone in this an alpha?
Oh my god did the accident make him lose his alpha powers? Is that a thing that can happen???
Right. Again, I know I'm stupid for trying to apply logic to a live action omegaverse drama, but if this is a world where alphas exist and everyone knows about them are there not doctors that specialise in this sort of thing?
Dude, you have never raced before in your life
I mean he's right. I'd be so pissed off if I had the opportunity to race in the big league and instead they picked the boyfriend of the best racer, who has never raced before and crashes when using a simulator
Wait, I thought Babe can't drive. Isn't that why they need a replacement in the first place?
Right this will probably be the last liveblog for a while. I'm heading up to Scotland for a week to visit my parents and they'll expect me to do things like socialise instead of yelling about a live action omegaverse drama.
So, back in a week or so!
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i'm working on my second bird painting on a wood chip. it started really roughly, which is an okay way for it to start because you're sort of mapping out base colors and placement. But I went to work with it and it was looking really mediocre. Painting in general is something where you have to decide where to stop and when you're done. I thought my prior bird painting came out pretty good and the second one was not going nearly as well. I had to sit there and look at how it wasn't that good when I finished the session and I was trying to imagine how I could work it to look better.
Part of the reason I'm working on these is to try to sharpen my ability to create small details. And also to know how to properly and continuously thin the paint as it dries out on the palette, to paint quickly so as not to have to keep mixing paint, to mix the paint properly to get the right colors, to use a paintbrush that I'm comfortable with, to keep the bristles in the necessary shape, and to apply the paint in the way I want it. It's really challenging, and while it seems like acrylic is forgiving in that you can just cover up mistakes, the paint builds up and you can only do it so much.
So by some convergence of occurrences, after resenting my work for a few days, I managed to get a really good night's sleep. Like really really good. My focus was super sharp the following day and I worked on the painting again. I think I did some of my best work, technically. I noticed it was easier to compare my reference to my painting and see where I was at. I struggled with that before. One really surprising thing though is that my intuition was really sharp too. Like whatever I did just happened to work out the way I wanted it to. It was kind of eerie.
So after I finished the session, I compared it to the previous bird I painted and it makes the first one look like shit by comparison. So now I'm thinking I may go back and try to rework the first one a bit later on.
This all flies in the face of my desire to paint every day. I did do that for a week or so but it didn't really go well. I guess I should leave off if I can't focus. My typical approach is to just keep trying to do it anyway and hope it gets better, or build some kind of cumulative trial-and-error skill but I dunno. Sometimes it eventually shakes out and sometimes it doesn't.
My sharp work pertained to the bird only. I had also started painting some flowers in the background during my crappy early session. So then the bird looked good and the flowers looked like shit. So after my sharp session, I had that inevitable "WHAT IF I FUCK IT UP NOW" dread. I knew there was no way I was leaving it unfinished though. Making art is harrowing because you're always risking fucking up something you like and you just have to do it anyway.
So I felt pretty sharp today and I gave it a shot. I feel like I vastly improved the flowers. Part of it was that I didn't really stick too closely to reference the first time, and made all the flowers too samey and not really realistic in their dimension. So I painted over them all and stuck more to the reference. Also, during the first session I was trying to mix paint colors and it did not go well. I did a lot better this time. I'll post a pic sometime soon.
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WIP whenever
because @heylittleriotact uno reverse'd me lmfao
bc grading essays is overrated, so here’s a lil’ something from the ridiculous fic I’m forcing my keyboard to suffer through. Plot? Absolutely none. Just Emmrook going on “dates” (and like also… smutty dates) suggested by the other clowns haunting the Lighthouse. This one’s SUPPOSED to end in a coffee date—because Lucanis—but I haven't written that yet lol
Honestly, it’s like… smut-crackfic with necromancy puns that should be punishable by law. I keep saying I’ll write a serious Emmrich one day, but let’s be real, that day isn’t today
Anyway, title? Don’t have one. I'm just throwing a bunch of dashes and slapping a read-more right before it gets too long so it doesn't invade anyone's dash
--------------
It’s the most absurd scene. Like, truly bonkers.
She hovers in the doorway, conveniently camouflaged by shadows, because though the cringe levels are searing her soul, she simply cannot look away. It’s like watching a runaway cart barreling downhill, if said cart was cobbled together with blissful ignorance and top-tier ineptitude.
There, crammed onto Harding and Neve’s favorite tiny sofa, are Lucanis and Emmrich. And they’re... talking? Sort of? It’s the most agonizing conversation she’s ever been subjected to, and that’s saying something. Lucanis is flailing his hands around, using them more than words, trying to drive home whatever point he’s failing spectacularly to make. Meanwhile, Emmrich, ever the dignified one, has one leg crossed so neatly over the other that it creates this little triangle of space that she suddenly wants to crawl into and hide from the embarrassment radiating off both of them.
"You see," Lucanis laments, his fingers forming that universal gesture of the confused and the desperate, “we went for coffee. But she, well, threw it back. Like a shot of spirits. It was not just any brew. This was from the frost-bitten slopes of the Vimmark Mountains. A dark roast with notes of juniper and just a hint of wild honey. You don’t just drink something like that—you experience it.” He shakes his head. “Her focus was all on that new case file, instead. And fish. Fried fish."
Emmrich nods along thoughtfully. “I understand. However, if I may be so bold, Lucanis, have you perhaps thought of discussing something besides coffee? A change of topic might open new avenues.”
"I did offer to sharpen her knives."
“Knives,” Emmrich repeats, as though weighing the term’s philosophical import. “And… Neve is known to possess a significant collection of blades?”
“No,” says Lucanis, flat as a pancake.
“Ah,” Emmrich replies, offering a sage nod. A wise and knowing “ah,” as if that somehow clarified things. "An unusual approach, then."
Desperate to claw himself out of this conversational pit, Lucanis asks, “Well, what is it you and Rook… do?” He stumbles over the words, as though simply asking has exhausted his entire social skill set for the year.
And now, it’s Emmrich’s turn to squirm. She can almost see his moustache twitching, wishing it could detach itself from his face and make a run for the hills. He looks away, frowning slightly, as though consulting some vast internal library.
They don’t go on dates. Please. Not even the hilariously doomed sort that Lucanis somehow subjected Neve to. For one, neither of them has the time for candlelit strolls with the world about to be ripped apart by blighted elven gods strutting around like they own the place.
Usually, she just pops into his room and fucks him while he pontificates about the finer points of romance. Oh, she always lets him go on for a hot minute, but once her lips are on his throat and her hands start wandering further south, he finally gets the hint, and that highbrow nonsense about “dignified courtship” goes straight out the window.
Emmrich, after clearing his throat, finally answers, "We discuss books."
From her shadow, she snorts. He's not wrong, technically. Just the other night, she had perched in his lap while he was reading some dry treatise on Fade energy attunement and the properties of dawnstone. He’d even launched into a detailed explanation while she kissed her way down his jaw and neck, hardly deterred by the lecture. Finally, when her hand wandered beneath his shirt, Emmrich, after a brief struggle to finish his monologue, allowed the tome to tumble from his grip.
So yes, “discussing books” might be accurate, but it’s hardly the whole story. And yet here sits Emmrich, steadfast in his scholarly pride, while Lucanis looks ready to take a long walk off a very short pier. She’s not sure which of them is more tragic.
“Hm,” says Lucanis, apparently having reached the absolute zenith of his conversational abilities.
“Ah,” Emmrich replies, with all the enthusiasm of someone describing mildew yet also, somehow, managing to sound very polite about it.
She saunters over to break this pathetic monotony of wall-staring both are currently engaged in.
“My dear,” Emmrich perks up, relief flooding his face as though she’s just rescued him from the depths of some social hell. His voice is full of that charming lilt he uses when he’s desperate to salvage his dignity.
He makes a half-hearted attempt to stand, all dignified and well-bred, but she waves him off with a lazy hand, signalling him to stay seated. And stay he does. Without missing a beat, she slides into his lap, practically draping herself sideways over him, arms winding around his neck. He tenses for a moment, exhales in resignation, but eventually gives in, one hand resting at the small of her back, fingers just barely grazing the line between respectable and… well, decidedly not.
“I hate when you do that,” Lucanis snarls from across the sofa, jabbing a finger at her.
“Yes, it’s not very proper,” Emmrich says with solemnity, though he’s showing absolutely zero signs of protest about her whole backside pressing against him.
With a serene, mischievous grin, she stretches her legs, casually extending them until they’re firmly invading Lucanis’ personal space.
“Mierda,” he grumbles, swatting at her ankle with all the fervor of a cat being swiped at by an annoying feather. “Rook.”
She just grins that beautifully infuriating grin. “Go back to your pantry, Lucanis,” she says sweetly, her tone one of pure, serene malice. “The gouda is getting lonely.”
Lucanis stalks off, glowering as if he’d chuck a knife at her head if he had one in hand. And she’s fairly sure he would.
She blows him a kiss. He shows her the middle finger. They’ll have coffee in the morning.
Meanwhile, Emmrich, ever the portrait of indulgent patience, looks up at her from his cozy place beneath her with a satisfied hum. “How was your day, darling?”
“Good,” she sighs, stretching further until her legs are practically colonizing whatever’s left of Lucanis’ side of the sofa. “Yours?”
Emmrich raises an eyebrow. Makes a contemplative sound deep in his throat. “Enlightening. Lucanis and I were just having… an intriguing discussion.”
“Oh?” she purrs, eyes glinting. “About what, pray tell?”
“Courtship,” he says, savoring the word as though it were some priceless artifact he’s just dusted off from an ancient shelf.
She smirks. “I’m sure you gave him absolutely riveting advice.”
“I certainly tried.” He heaves a great sigh, even rolls a shoulder in a semblance of a shrug. “Though, I fear our preferred methods diverge.”
“‘Preferred methods’?” she echoes, giving his thigh a playful squeeze. “Do enlighten me.”
Emmrich gives her a look that’s half-scholar, half-sufferer. “Well, I fancy a touch of romance, some… sentimentality, if you will. And Lucanis…”
“And Lucanis?” she goads.
“His idea of a grand romantic gesture involves… knives,” he finishes with a sigh of pure exasperation.
She can’t hold back the snort that escapes. “I mean, yeah, it’s Lucanis. Did you expect anything different?” She presses a little closer, trouble dancing in her eyes. “But for what it’s worth, I do love talking about books with you… so very much.”
Emmrich doesn’t miss a beat, a hint of sarcasm curling his lips. “So I’ve gathered.”
“Tell me more about your books, Emmrich,” she coos, batting her eyelashes with all the enthusiasm of a third-rate actress in a chintzy Orlesian play.
“If you’re genuinely interested, I would gladly oblige.”
“Oh, I’m interested,” she purrs, lowering her voice to a husky whisper. “In you talking… while you bend me over your desk.”
Emmrich rolls his eyes, his facade of feigned innocence dissolving in an instant. “There it is,” he says, shaking his head, fully resigned, and yet absolutely, unflinchingly unbothered. “Right on schedule.”
She giggles, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips, laughing against his skin as his mouth curves into a smile. His hand moves down her back, rubbing a little more insistently, as if he’s grounding himself—or maybe just unable to resist the urge to keep her right there.
And she doesn’t make it easy for him. She drags her legs back, swings one over his lap, and settles herself down, straddling him. For a moment, she just studies him, tracing her fingers through his hair, brushing little gray strands back, pressing featherlight kisses along his cheekbones. She moves to his jaw, his forehead, then teases at the edge of that absurdly high collar he insists on wearing like he’s hiding some grand secret rather than just a very biteable throat.
He is fine, she muses, is he not? So impossibly precise, so painfully detailed. He’s all sharp angles and sleek lines, with those maddeningly long fingers that look like they could carve through a mountain if they set their mind to it, and legs that seem to go on for days. Tall, lean, graceful, and—she smirks—a touch too verbose for his own good.
There’s a tragic elegance to him, too, a sort of quiet, melancholic dignity wrapped up in age and maturity, like a bottle of rare, finely aged wine that’s only gotten more complex with the years. A shame, really, that he’s about to be thoroughly enjoyed by someone who wouldn’t know a fine vintage from a spoiled ale.
She’ll savor him all the same, every last bit.
When she takes his hands, winding her fingers through his, she feels him smile—a real, soft thing, so she leans down and steals it right off his mouth. She licks along the seam of his lips, teasing, before he finally gives in and parts them, letting her kiss him in earnest.
“I like your rings,” she murmurs as she pulls back, letting their mouths part with a wet pop, a little string of saliva snapping between them. “They make you look expensive.”
“Not too expensive, I hope,” Emmrich teases. “Otherwise, I fear I’ll meet the same fate as every artifact your merry Lords of Fortune collect. Pilfered in the night, sold to the highest bidder. One moment here, the next—poof. Gone.”
She makes a show of sighing, voice deadly serious. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’d rig the auction, slip in a pretty penny or two, then plant an inside man to bid on you. Coin in one hand, you smuggled back to me in the other. All in one night.”
He laughs, that rich, throaty sound she loves, and she can feel it rumbling up through his chest. “All that trouble just for me?”
She leans in, lips brushing his ear. “Consider it my own little courtship ritual,” she whispers, nipping at his earlobe. “Better than dinner and a walk, don’t you think?”
He chuckles, his hands slipping to her hips, holding her close as if he’s half-tempted to test just how well she could pull off that heist. “Dangerously persuasive, as usual.”
For a while, she stays just as she is, savoring the closeness, every slow inhale filled with the scent of him, the warmth of his body against hers. She steals little kisses, grazing his jaw, breathing her laughter against his skin each time he starts to smile. She loves the quiet, the intimacy of it all, though she loves his voice just as much. Sometimes, she asks him to read aloud, not for the content, but for that smooth, careful cadence that rolls through her and makes her feel so, so good. She’ll rest her head in his lap, fingers idly tracing patterns on his hands, kissing his knuckles, his fingertips, watching his face as he reads.
Now, there’s nothing for him to read, but she leans into him all the same, letting his quiet words fill the space. He murmurs, babbles, whispers soft nonsense as he unlaces her hair, fingers brushing through the waves, watching as they fall in gentle cascades over his lap. She exhales, content, her eyes half-closed, perfectly happy just to listen as his voice drifts around her, soothing and familiar.
She simply listens, resting her head on his thigh, gazing up at the ceiling, fingers trailing over his hands, kissing his fingers one by one, lingering on each touch. Her teeth gently scrape along his skin, letting her tongue follow in a slow, winding path. She feels his breath hitch, hears him stumble over his words as she nibbles down each finger, tracing her tongue along the edge before she takes it into her mouth, sucking just enough to leave him squirming. She lets each finger slip from her lips with a wet pop, savoring the way his composure falters, how he tries—and fails—to keep his voice steady as she drags her mouth over the center of his palm, kissing, licking, leaving nothing untouched.
He’s given up on this one-sided dialogue entirely, his gaze drifting from her to the room around them—the door, the table, the empty corners where nothing but dust bunnies, or perhaps a few stray Fade bunnies, lurk in silence.
“Dear,” he murmurs, glancing down at her. “We ought to move.” He gives her a gentle nudge, even tries to rise himself, but she’s not having it.
“Oh, but you look so good here,” she protests, her voice dripping with mock innocence. “They’re all asleep, Emmrich. Even Lucanis, that kitchen rat, is probably curled up in his pantry right now, snuggling his precious wheel of parmesan.”
Emmrich lets out a long, put-upon sigh, like he’s reaching deep into his reserve of patience, maybe for some scolding remark, but he finds none. His shoulders drop as he finally relents, letting her kisses chip away at his restraint. She leans in, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper, detailing exactly what she wants him to do with those hands of his—where she wants those fingers, how she wants them stroking, filling, plunging, curling…
“Well then,” he manages, and she laughs, a short, wicked little sound, straight into his mouth.
She slips down his body, her hands already at his waist, working his trousers loose with a grin that says she knows exactly how flushed he’s become. She murmurs something obscene, barely a whisper and almost incoherent, her smirk widening as she leans in closer, taunting, “Come on, Emmrich, don’t tell me no bone was ever… poked… in that crypt of yours, right out in the open for all to see.”
“It’s the Grand Necropolis,” he corrects, like that’ll somehow keep his dignity intact, “and we most certainly do not… poke.”
She undoes the last of the many - too many - buttons on his trousers before freeing him just enough to take him in hand. And oh, would you look at that, for all of his posturing he's already hard. All that wriggling on top of him certainly led to something, she thinks.
“Oh?” she hums, tracing her fingertips over his bare skin, savoring the way he stiffens under her touch. She leans forward, her lips brushing against his length as she murmurs, “Not even a quick tumble between the tombs? Not a single bone used for inspiration?”
His restraint crumbles as she flicks her tongue over him, taking her time, drawing out each little shiver, each catch in his breath, making sure he’s utterly undone before she finally lets her mouth close around him, her gaze locked on his as she starts to take him deeper, her mouth warm, wet, greedy. And as she feels him sink back, his hands clenching in her hair, she knows she’s finally broken that perfect composure, and she couldn’t be more pleased.
Then she pulls back just enough to speak. “So, tell me, is this what you meant by reanimation techniques?”
Emmrich sighs, dragging his free hand over his face as if he could somehow block out the utter cringe tumbling out of her mouth, his fingers twitching, though she doesn’t give him a moment’s peace. She lowers her head again, sucking him in, hollowing her cheeks, before releasing him yet again, his cock slipping past her lips with an obscene, wet pop. “You know," she muses, "I’d say you’re looking rather stiff.”
A sharp exhale escapes him, a half-laugh, half-moan that only encourages her further. She picks up her pace, taking him deeper, her hands braced against his hips as she moves with a steady rhythm, doing that little thing with her tongue she knows he likes, she knows that everyone likes, a talent truly, swirling all the way around, pressing it flat on the underside of his cock, only to suck her way up, breathe hot air against him, before swallowing him again.
Between every few breaths, she pulls back just enough to taunt him, her voice syrupy with mock innocence. She can barely hold back the laughter as she watches him react, his hips bucking ever so slightly with each tease, like clockwork, so deliciously predictable. “Come on, love. I thought resurrection was your specialty?”
“Blasphemy,” he mutters above her, though there’s no real heat in his voice.
“No, no.” She rests her cheek against his thigh, stroking him instead with a slow, deliberate touch, her palm warm and slick, her grip firm. “Think of it as… a rather intensive course in raising the dead.”
The absurdity of it hits her right as she says it—her last attempt at an erotic pun officially surpassed—and she breaks, a snort escaping as she buries her face against his leg, her shoulders shaking with laughter.
But then she feels his hands shift, pulling her up by her arms, and she yelps, startled, before giggling as he hauls her up, settling her right back on top of him.
“That’s quite enough of that,” Emmrich whispers.
As he catches his breath, she wipes her mouth, grinning at him with all the smug satisfaction of someone who’s just completely dismantled a man who prides himself on his restraint. She feels his fingers on her chin as he angles her face back towards his so he can kiss her and she's not shy, she tangles her tongue with his immediately, tasting as much of him as she can reach, even tracing the edge of one canine before retreating for breath.
“Think you could, I don’t know…” She waves a hand around aimlessly. “Necromance my pants away?”
He smiles, curling her hair around his fingers where it frames her face. “No, dear. I’m afraid that is not in my skill set.”
#my rook is a chaos goblin in case you haven't noticed#emmrich is emmrich idk what to say#emmrich volkarin#emmrich x rook#wip whenever#the fact that we don't get to make inappropriate necromancy jokes is a tragedy#emmrook
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Today I'm more than usually annoyed with a pop science article, so I'm going to talk about reading these sorts of articles, why you should always be skeptical of claims in them, and some of the ways you can tell the article's author didn't understand what they were reading and told you the wrong thing.
I clicked on an article in Eating Well about low bone density and dementia, because my mother has both. There's not a lot we can do for her now, but I am a curious person. I know Eating Well isn't great at science interpretation and communication, so I'm anticipating that I'm going to need to read the original study already, going in. (How do I know Eating Well isn't a great source usually? Well, I have read it before, and it has some really clear biases if you read a few articles that aren't science communication, and so you get to know a source over time like that. Regardless of how, I'm already suspicious they're not going to do a great job.)
The article is talking about research that shows low bone density may be predictive of dementia risk. It is written by a journalist and reviewed by a dietician. Now, I don't know what review the dietician did, but she did a bad job, and also, so did the journalist, because THE FIRST red flag that goes up is pretty quick: the math is very, very clearly wrong.
This says there are 3651 participants, and that over 11 years, 688 of them developed dementia. This is 18.8% and the article calls it 19%. That's fair! Not a red flag so far, just rounding. Then it says that of the 1211 people with lowest bone density at the start, 90 people (7.4%) developed dementia, and of the 1211 with highest bone density, only 57 (4.7%) did.
This IS a red flag. It's a GIANT red flag. This red flag can be seen from SPACE by anyone who knows how percentages work.
Here's how: You have 3651 people. 1211 of them are in the low bone density group, 1211 of them are in the high bone density group, leaving 1249 people. You have 688 total dementia cases, but your high and low groups account for only 147 of them, leaving 541 cases for that middle group. That's a LOT of cases. That middle tertile, just eyeballing it, has to have about 40% of its people with dementia -- that makes low bone density look like it predicts LOWER dementia risk relative to the middle group.
I can write out the equations for you two ways:
3651 - 1211 - 1211 = 1249 688 - 90 - 57 = 541 541/1249 = 0.433 0.433(100) = 43.3%
Because I am someone who does a fair amount of stats for a living, though, what I noticed was pretty much this equation:
0.074(1211) + x(1249) + 0.047(1211) = 0.19(3651) and I knew immediately that x had to be MUCH bigger than it should, which indeed the math bears out: x(1249) = 0.19(3651) - 0.074(1211) - 0.047(1211) x(1249) = 694 - 90 - 57 x = 547/1249 = 0.438 0.438(100) = 43.8%
That 694 is because the authors rounded 18.8 to 19 earlier, not because I can't math. So, due to rounding, you get slightly different answers -- but BOTH of them point to something SERIOUSLY WRONG with the reporting. What is actually going on in that middle tertile? Where do these numbers come from? Well, lucky us, they mention the name of an author, a journal, and a date. Always be wary of pop sci articles that don't give you a way to track down the original, but giving you that way to track things down doesn't mean they aren't still doing a crummy job with their reporting, as we see here.
The original paper is Association of Bone Mineral Density and Dementia: The Rotterdam Study, published March 2023 in Neurology. This is a pretty technical article with a fair amount of math and things in parens etc. etc. and tables and lots of measurements. The table captions are often not the greatest, which makes it a bit harder to read and interpret. For example, in Table 1, items are listed as number(number) and this can be any of:
count (percent) -- this one's usually labeled in the table itself
mean (standard deviation)
median (interquartile range) -- these last two are NOT labeled in the table, so we don't know which set of numbers is which.
Great. Thanks guys. Assuming what's called a "normal distribution" mean (SD) and median (IQR) numbers will be similar, but they're not the same and I'm irritated they're conflated but OK. Soldiering on!
The original study looked at several different measures of bone density, and found only ONE of them to show predictive ability for dementia: the density of the femoral neck. This means that for their article, Eating Well should have looked at the results for femoral neck bone density, which we find in Table 2:
You have the actual numbers for 5 years, 10 years, and study end, as well as the hazard risk (HR) for each bone density tertile, with the highest tertile set as the standard. Numbers in the HR column have 1 as a reference point -- lower than 1 is lower risk than the highest tertile, and higher than 1 is higher risk.
The first thing I noticed is that neither 57 nor 90 occur in the femoral neck section at ALL. Those numbers from the Eating Well article are just not there. I also notice that the other numbers don't align even one little bit -- the number of total cases of dementia is different, for example. I do notice that the column with the 10 year followup has numbers in it close to 57 and 90 (49, 67, 86, totaled to 202) and that the overall numbers for the total study are much higher -- 201, 236, 229. Interesting.
At this point, I just straight-up search the paper for "90", and I find it in Table 2....in the total bone density section, which the paper's authors have said is NOT the section that showed possible predictive results. I search for "57", and also find that in total bone density, and also....wow the EW author straight up failed to read. This is actually worse than I thought.
Read across, these are the 5 year followup numbers (first 2 columns - count and HR), 10 year (middle 2 columns), and total followup numbers (last 2 columns).
We see our friends 57 and 90 in the 10 year columns. 90 is, as described in the EW article, in the lowest bone density tertile, but 57 is NOT in the highest bone density tertile. It's in the middle tertile. The actual number for the highest tertile is 68. Additionally, the total cases for 10 years is nowhere near that 688 number -- it's 215. We only get total case numbers close to 688 when we look at the study end numbers: it's 686, in this particular group. If we look at the study end case numbers for highest, middle, and lowest tertiles, we see WHY this particular measure can't be used to predict anything: they are 227 (highest), 227 (middle), and 232 (lowest) -- not significantly different from each other.
We can also see here that this group of people -- people who had total bone density measurements -- is not 3651, but 3633, which is listed across the bottom row. The overall STUDY had 3651, but not all of them had total bone density recorded.
Now we know that the author of the EW article did all of the following:
read the wrong part of Table 2
mixed up middle and high tertile results
reported 10 year results mixed with total followup results (this resulted in the weird math that alerted me something was very very wrong in the first place).
and the person who was supposed to review the article didn't have even the basic math skills to catch the problem -- which she absolutely should have, as a registered dietician. For giggles, I looked up program requirements for a BS in Dietetics. Programs require things like statistics and precalc -- not math heavy, but the math that alerted me to this problem is VERY basic statistical knowledge, like the kind they teach in 6th grade level statistics, which I know because it was literally in my 6th grader's curriculum this past school year. So a registered dietician DEFINITELY had enough math to catch this problem, and should have, and Eating Well should be ashamed of itself.
SO. What can we learn from this?
Well, science communication is a skill set. Some people have worked very hard to develop that skill set and are excellent at it -- but lots of people do not have it, and even those who do can make mistakes. Many, many pop sci articles are not written by trained science communicators, or people with any education in how to read scientific articles, or people with good reading comprehension, even. It's very common for pop sci articles to have these sorts of errors in them. Therefore:
Always read pop sci articles with a skeptical eye. Ask yourself:
Do these numbers line up? Usually the math in pop sci articles is not very complex -- you can often do some basic arithmetic to make sure it even makes sense, as was the case here.
Does one part of the article seem to contradict another part of the article?
Do I feel confused about what exactly I'm being told? What's not clear about it?
Am I being told about HOW something works or WHY it works or both? Are those two things being conflated somehow?
Is there a link or way to find the original research? If not, my advice is to throw the whole article away. If yes, you can go check it out -- often just looking at the abstract or results section will be enough, and abstracts usually aren't paywalled even if the rest of the article is. You would be surprised how many times the abstract says "we found X" and the pop sci article says "the researchers found Y".
Could I explain this article to someone and have it make sense? If not, why not?
Is the article confusing correlation (these things happen together) with causation (one of these things causes the other)?
Pop sci articles, like other journalistic articles, are extremely subject to bias issues from the publication they're in. A lot of people tend to read pop sci articles as neutral, factual reporting, but they aren't! I mentioned EW's biases earlier -- the one I think is most relevant to how their article is written is a pervasive belief that if you just eat the right things in the right amounts you will be thin and healthy and stave off all kinds of problems. They close their article by mentioning that, although the study's authors are clear that this connection is unlikely to be causative, and that risk factors for low bone density and dementia have substantial overlap, readers should act like it might be causitive with diet and exercise choices that promote bone health. They were so excited to get to their point about fixing your diet that they didn't pay attention to the actual science they were reporting on. (Sidenote: actual scientific journal articles are supposed to be neutral, factual reporting. They also aren't actually that, but there are some measures in place around this to try to prevent the worst effects of bias.)
It's worth brushing up some basic math skills. You don't need to know a lot! Very basic information will help you better understand a lot of articles -- both ones that are accurate and well-written, and ones that are shoddy and should not have been published. I really like Larry Gonick's The Cartoon Guide to Statistics but if your grasp of percentages is shaky, it will be too advanced. A good option might be something like The I Hate Mathematics! Book, which is pretty old but really accessible, but there's probably some newer great ones out there that I just don't know about.
#science#pop sci#reading comprehension#how dare you say we piss on the poor#math#statistics#eating well#bad science communication#neurology#dementia#bone density
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[BAD DECISION #30] Evaluating the Meaning of Home

warnings: to busan we go!!! kook is driving, yummy <3 , v fluffy, jk using the birds as an excuse!!! i spy with my little eye something beginning with.... b!!! ends in 'is jealous! and territorial!' !!!
a/n: this header was almost lost to the void, but I had a screenshot of the chapter to put on insta when I first published it lol, so it's a screenshot of a screenshot of a screenshot (of a screenshot?? (technically)). but it also mean I know the exact date of this og upload--31 march 2023. waaaa so long ago
wc: 6k
bd total wc: 540k (ongoing)
AO3 | MASTERLIST | MINORS DNI
You're rushing around your apartment by the time Jeongguk shows up at your place again a few hours later.
He'd given you time to get packed and ready, but also had taken the time to get his things together, too. His visit to your place the night before had been unplanned, so he'd lost the morning to get ready. He's like the white rabbit today - late, late, late - but it's inconsequential. Doesn't matter. It's a piss-easy drive, even with rush-hour traffic.
A quick call to his mum had been made, just to let her know you'd be joining him. She offered to make up his brother's room with fresh sheets before Jeongguk had even asked.
"It's fine," Jeongguk had said. "I can sort it when I get there-"
"It's no bother," she had assured him. "I don't want her thinking I can't keep my house in order! You'll sleep in your room, yes? Or would it be better if you were in Jeongmin's room? Might be strange, considering they don't know one another."
"Mum, he moved out a decade ago," Jeongguk laughed. "It's just a spare room."
"It's still your brothers!" His mother had reprimanded him. Fiercely proud of both her boys, she never wanted either of them to think they didn't have a place to call home. "Just like your room is still yours. Still has your little Spiderman posters up and those Girls Generation pictures next to your bed-"
"Put her in Jeongmin's room," Jeongguk had cringed. Knows it's full of baseball memorabilia, but would rather you be overwhelmed by his older brother's Lotte Giants obsession than his teenage girl crushes.
"Suit yourself," his mother had laughed. "What time should I expect you? What would you like for dinner? What did you say your friend's name is again?"
A million and one questions were asked, so Jeongguk's 'quick' call had taken far longer than he'd intended.
When he arrives at your place, he apologises. You simply shake your head. Invite him in.
"Just give me a minute," you say. "I'm running late, too."
He doesn't oppose. Notices your bags by the door, so offers to take them down to his car - of which you gladly accept, until you glance over to him and notice, well, him.
In jeans again, partially inspired by the pair of yours he'd stolen that morning to go to the shops, the shirt he's wearing is white. Isn't as baggy as his usual style is. Tucked into his jeans, a belt secures everything in place. You're reminded, again, of why Jeon Jeongguk is a menace.
But the white of the shirt against his tan skin is so heavenly, it's impossible not to stare; tattoos out, as if it isn't still chilly outside. Coat must be left in the car, you assume.
"Hey, hey," you call after him, hand outstretched to beckon him back. Nod toward his neck when he turns around. Your admiration for his appearance had drawn your attention to the marks left by your lips. "Can't be going home with your neck looking like that. Let me sort it out before we head off."
"My neck?" Jeongguk questions, reaching up to hold it, pressing his palm down to try and figure out what you mean - and then he remembers. Gets a little bashful. Giggles. "Ohhh."
And so he traipses back to your apartment and hops up onto the kitchen counter, bags on the floor. Dangles his feet as you rummage around for your concealer and pigment corrector in your room. You've only packed essentials with you to go to Busan. Think it will be better for your skin if you let the ocean air get well-acquainted with your pores.
Silence takes place of your usual banter as you come to stand between his legs and get to work fixing the mess you made on his skin. There's a neutral calmness to the way you both like to exist together; without pressure to perform, or appear likeable, or personable.
Hair down, Jeongguk toys with it just to give him something to do. Has a hairband on his wrist - one of yours - so decided to annoy you a little. Pulls all your hair to one side and starts to tie it up in a ponytail.
"Stop," you hum, a little smile on your lips as you dab product onto his skin. "I'm trying to focus."
"I'm helping," he says. "Getting your hair out of the way."
"Was never in the way," you grumble.
"Was," he objects.
Pulling away from the task at hand, you stand a little straighter. Raise your eyebrows, your hair making you look like an awkward singer from the 80's. Teeth on show, dimple etched into his cheek, Jeongguk looks far too pleased with himself. Reaches for your wrist, and pulls your spare hairband off it. Has another idea, now.
"Back to work," he says. "Haven't got all day. Chop chop."
Scoffing, you're about to refuse - but Jeongguk knows this. Knows he's being a cheeky bastard just to get a reaction, and now that he has? Kinda regrets it. Hooks his dangling legs behind yours. Hairband hooked over his thumb, his hands sink around your throat. Pulls you closer.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he grins. "Don't go. Please fix my neck."
Narrowing your eyes, you ignore how pouty your lips feel; how much they wanna close the gap between you and him.
"I'll fix your hair," he promises.
"Fine," you say, purely because the way he's holding you close is unbearable . You need to be out of his grasp immediately. Focus. "But not because you want me to. I'm only doing this because I don't want your parents to think poorly of me."
"My parents are gonna love you," he mutters as you get back to work, his hands gently prizing the hairband from your hair and letting it fall loose. "And who cares, anyways? Not like you're my girlfriend. Don't need to impress them."
"Doesn't matter," you say as you tap out the half-dried concealer on his throat. "Still want them to like me."
"Like I said," he shrugs, tying your hair up again, this time splitting it down the middle. Left side first, then right. Two cute little buns. "They will. Already told them a friend is coming with me. Had to really reinforce the fact you're just a friend. Should have heard mum when I said you were a girl-"
"Oh, God," you grimace.
"Honestly, I thought she was gonna get my entire family on a group call just to tell them her little boy is growing up," he laughs. "Was bitterly disappointed when I said you were just a friend. Had to tell her you used to have a thing with Jimin-"
"You told her what?!"
"Calm down!" He laughs. "Said you dated, not that you fucked him and went back for round two even though he didn't make you-"
"Jeongguk!"
"Sorry," he lies. He's not sorry at all. The smirk on his pretty lips attests to this. "Easier for us both if she thinks that there's like... nothing."
"There is nothing," you remind him.
Jeongguk's dreamily dark eyes roll. Head shakes. "Careful. Your nose will start growing, Pinocchio."
Looking down at you with a fondness reserved for only... well, you , Jeongguk thinks you look so silly with your hair in little lopsided space buns. Glitter in the corner of your eyes, there's a charming quality to the way you present yourself to the world. Cute . Your appearance is quite different from your personality, and yet they go hand in hand.
A My Melody girlie, yes, but there's a reason you seem to get on so well with a Kuromi boy. You and him are cut from the same cloth; different and yet so similar.
"Big noses are hot," you shrug.
Jeongguk fights a smile. Knows his isn't huge , but that it's been noted as 'well-proportioned' a few times by girls he's dated. Been a selling point. Wonders if maybe this is your way of giving him a compliment without directly saying as such. Chooses not to press, just in case it isn't.
Neck fixed as well as it ever will be, you're quite pleased with your work.
"Let's go," you encourage, not caring to change your hair. Will just fix it in his car. Haven't worn your hair like this in ages and it's always cute - even if you know he was trying to make it look ridiculous.
He lets you walk ahead. Grabs the recycling that needs to be put in the little trash pile on the corner of your street, not thinking much of it. Just saves you a job when you get back.
His car smells just like it always does; leathery and a little musky. Manly. You'd be lying if you said you didn't like it, but you figure he's not to thank for it.
It takes you less than five seconds to notice the origami birds up on the dash, where you both know your feet will end up within half an hour.
"Oh?" You sound, not really asking anything, yet Jeongguk knows what you mean.
"Been on my desk for ages now," he says - and he's right. They fell weeks ago. Have been cluttering up his space. "Figure we may as well do them seeing as we have some time together."
You laugh a little, shaking your head.
"I've not forgotten earlier," you tell him. "You ain't getting fuck all from me when it comes to the birds."
Jeongguk just grins, sinking his key into the ignition and starting the car up. He glances over to make sure your seatbelt is on, before knocking it into first and setting off down the sideroad your apartment is up.
"Read it," he says.
"Which is yours?"
"Not even gonna give you an answer for that one, B," he deadpans, flicking up his indicator to merge onto the main road. "Use your eyes."
Cringing, you hum out a small " ah ."
The birds are like yin and yang; complementary and yet entirely different. One is pristine, folded perfectly, still holding its shape. The other? Well... the other is yours. A little lopsided, and definitely not your finest work, it even has a few specks of glitter that dance in the light cascading through Jeongguk's windshield.
"Fair enough," you admit, reaching out for his.
Unfolding it, you can't help but feel a little apprehensive. Nervous. It's a while since any of the birds have been done, and you -
"Oh, you mother fucker," you laugh as soon as you open it. "You got me here under false pretences!"
Written in his handwriting is an oh-so-convenient fear:
Take a girl to meet my parents.
"No, I didn't!" He protests, voice a little whiney. "I didn't! I swear. I genuinely do think you need some clean air, you little goblin - but like, two birds, one stone."
"I've been bamboozled," you whine.
"No, you haven't!" Jeongguk chuckles, finding your little faux tantrum all very endearing.
"I have," you insist.
"I'd forgotten all about it when I asked," he admits, knowing that you'll likely think it's bullshit.
Is proven right when you scoff a very bratty, " bollocks ."
"It's not bollocks," he says, almost choking on his sweet little laughs. "Honestly, B. I saw them when I was getting my stuff together and figured if we do them now, it will be one less bird to worry about in the future. We do have lives to live, yanno. Can't be doing birds forever."
"Why not?" You retort a little too quickly. "Actually, yeah, no. You're right."
"Exaaaaactly," he hums, smug in your confirmation that he'd made the right choice. "Haven't looked at your bird yet, so whatever that is? Yeah. Don't blame me."
Part of you doesn't want to open it. It feels sort of embarrassing, knowing how sweet all of Jeongguk's birds are compared to yours. No matter how endearing his are, yours always seem to be vulgar - and while you know Jeongguk would never oppose them, it makes you feel a little insecure.
You do all of the things with him because you wrote them down. They're your desires.
But Jeongguk has proven time and time again that there's nothing to be embarrassed about.
So you open it.
Read it in your head.
Smile .
Feel your heart flutter like the petals of falling cherry blossom in early spring.
"What?" Jeongguk says softly, noticing the curve of your lips as he glances to the side. "What is it, B?"
"Cute," you admit. "It's really cute."
"Okay..." he waits for clarification.
"It's like, the nicest one I wrote," you say, secretly pleased with yourself.
"Which is...?"
"Holding hands," you simplify the bird. Don't shout it like it's written down, all caps, and an abundance of exclamation marks. "Just like... Down the street, I guess. Publically."
"Holding hands?" Jeongguk questions, completely confused by everything you are. "Sorry, holding hands ? What happened to mutual masturbation? Showering toge-"
"Shut up," you cringe, holding the now flat paper up over your face. Mortifying .
Jeongguk's playful nature doesn't relent, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching over to you. His long fingers wrap around your wrist, pulling the cover from your rosy cheeks. The energy between you is electric, yet entirely calm; a contradiction. So perfectly you .
"Holding hands," he chuckles to himself quietly, shaking his head with such fondness it's hard to remember a time when interacting like this wasn't normal for you both.
A friendship formed in the dizzying haze of Dionysus, nurtured over iced coffees and acrylic paint; there's something good between you and Jeongguk. Something rare. Something worth protecting.
And when Jeongguk slides his fingers between yours, setting your hands down on his thigh, you can't help but feel safe. He'll guard your deepest fears like the fiercest companion you ever imagine, yet softly encourage you to face them with Midas' hands. You'll become golden where you once felt brittle, and Jeongguk will be the one to blame.
When you glisten, and men unworthy of you see the beauty of your restoration, they'll pillage. Take what he's fixed; rob you of your worth. Perhaps you should be angry at him. Perhaps he's setting you up for destruction.
But how lovely it is to feel somewhat whole, again, even if just for a while.
"It's not what the bird meant," you say softly, pretending as if your heart isn't beating a mile a minute. Perhaps it does scare you more than you realised.
"It's what it says," Jeongguk replies just as sweetly.
He's not wrong, granted, but there are layers to this. There always is. He knows this. Just sort of wanted to hold your hand.
"I know," you nod. He holds your hand a little tighter. Anticipates an explanation. Doesn't think you need to explain it at all, but knows you will regardless. "It's just that -"
God, Jeongguk thinks. Know you so well.
"- My ex, like, would never hold my hand. Or at least, he did, but then he sort of used it like a punishment. When he was pissed off with me, he'd refuse to hold it, and like - I'm not a baby ," you quickly interrupt your story to downplay just how hurtful it always was. "I just... It was different, you know? I was so used to holding the hands of the people I loved, and then it was like 'oh, I got a little too much glitter on his new tie' and my hand wouldn't get held for the rest of the weekend."
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. You're starting to understand why Seokjin hated your glitter so much. It's the same reason Jeongguk loves it so much. It's your calling card. I WAS HERE carved into wooden benches as a teenager; love locks secured to bridges around the world. To see glitter on their skin is to see evidence of you. Your existence. Your role in their lives.
The glitter must have made it hard to cheat.
It's a devastating realisation. One you wish you hadn't made. One you'll never be able to forget.
Jeongguk's grip on your dainty, ring-clad fingers tightens.
"Your ex needs fuckin' therapy," he growls. "Had no right making you feel like that."
You just shrug. Jeongguk's grip loosens, thinking you're trying to pull away, but is comforted when you don't. He strokes his thumb over yours, soothing your woes.
"Think we all need a little therapy," you offer a small, sincere smile.
"You're probably right," Jeongguk admits.
"Anyways, let's not think about that," you say, pulling your hand back now, folding your bird back up into its original pattern. "Road trips are made for forgetting exes, not thinking about them."
And with that, Jeongguk presses no more on the topic. Lets you connect your phone to his aux. Is thankful he dragged you along, 'cause you really do need a break, maybe even more than he does. Your life has been go-go-go since the moment he met you. It's partially his fault, but he hopes he can make up for it, now.
Thankfully for him, if there's one thing you enjoy about being Jeongguk's friend, it's riding shotgun in his car.
He handles it so well that you wouldn't be surprised to discover he's the son of a racecar driver, or maybe had been on in a past life. There's an ease to how he manoeuvres - and even though car guys are pretty high up on your list of boys you never wanna date, he does make you reconsider this. Never before has a man reversing ever gotten your panties wet - but a hand behind your headrest, the other flat against his steering wheel as he ignores the automatic sensors and drives according to what feels right?
Mhhhm. Has you thinking maybe the passenger princess girlies know something you don't. You always assume guys with nice cars are overcompensating for having a small dick, but Jeongguk has already proven this theory wrong.
Still a little frustrated from the way Jeongguk had worked you up a few hours earlier without giving you a release of any kind, you squeeze your legs together. Sink further down into your seat. Decide that thinking about his dick in any capacity is a bad decision. A distraction is needed.
"I spy with my little eye," you sigh, looking out the window for inspiration. The world passes by in such a blur that it's hard to pinpoint something. Everything is a rush of brown and beige, winter killing off the lush greens of the mountains that you miss dearly. It's been like this for months, and will remain this way until March, at the very earliest.
"Something beginning with?" He asks, entertaining you without a second thought.
"Something beginning with... R."
"Really sexy boy?" He asks without missing a beat.
"Ddaeng."
"Hmmm," he hums. "That's the only obvious answer."
"I can't see any sexy boys, though," you pout. "Let alone really sexy."
"Okay, firstly, that's rude," he tells you with a small huff. "And secondly, give me a clue. Inside the car or outside?"
"Inside."
"So... A really sexy boy?"
Laughing, you shake your head. "Really big idiot, more like."
"Is that the answer?!"
"No," you giggle. "Think smarter, Koo."
"I am thinking smart," he insists. "And what have I told you about calling me that?"
"That it will give you a raging boner?"
"Well... True, but no. Don't do it."
"Because it will give you a raging boner?"
"Oh my God," he exclaims. "R! Raging boner!"
"Do you have a boner?"
Jeongguk shrugs. "Meh. Bit of a semi."
"Fucking hell, are you ever not horny?"
"Rarely."
"Such a boy," you laugh. "But no. Not raging boner. C'mon, Gguk. It's easy! Think!"
Jeongguk spends almost 8 minutes guessing. Eventually, you have to tell him.
"Radio?!" He shrieks when you reveal it as the answer. "You can't see the radio!"
"It's right there!" You point towards the screen displaying what's currently playing on his aux.
"That's a screen!"
"Oh don't be so pedantic," you laugh. "Okay, okay. Redo. Your go."
"Fuckin' radio," he mutters, shaking his head. "Okay. I spy with my little eye..."
Feet up on Jeongguk's dash, you ignore him every time he tells you to take them down. Sometimes he reaches over and forces them down. You always just put them back up ten seconds later. Let him think that maybe this time you'll follow his orders - but you're still reeling from his little power play in bed this morning.
Like fuck you'll do anything he says. Not today.
"If I crash, your legs will impact your chest," he warns. "Knees'll go right through your ribs."
"So don't crash," you say, knowing that such a comment will only earn a defensive take from Jeongguk - and you're proven right.
"I know how to drive," he asserts, and he kind of reminds you of your own father, and how much he hated your mother's backseat driving. "But it's other fuckers! There are some idiots on the road!"
You snort a little laugh. "Yeah. You're right about that."
"Maybe I will just crash my car," Jeongguk mutters, but it's all in good fun.
You're both smiling; both pleased for things to be feeling normal between you again. You may bicker about the tiny things, but it's only because you feel so secure in the big things. How lovely it is to have a friend like him.
"You'll do no such thing," you tell him with absolute certainty. "You love this car too much."
Jeongguk doesn't reply. Hums a small indication of agreement, but chooses not to elaborate. Given the choice between you or the car? He'd crash it a hundred times over if it was the only way to keep you safe. Cares so much more for the girl in his passenger seat than he does for the vehicle she's in.
It's not a long drive - only about an hour - but Jeongguk takes the scenic route. It's been a while since he's had you here, and he likes it. Likes the subtle notes of your perfume filling the car, and the way you quietly hum along to songs on his playlists.
When he fills up the gas halfway along the journey, you grab the snacks. Ask him what he wants, and roll your eyes when he says, "surprise me."
The service station is a little dated; white walls peeling, display signs relics from better days. A small complex, there are just a handful of food stalls and a small CU. The sweet scent of fresh pastries wafts through the air, thanks to a small tent out the front where a man easily three times your age is using a wooden skewer to turn hodu-gwaja in their mould.
As far as you're concerned, it's not a road trip (no matter how short the distance) without a paper bag full of red bean-filled, walnut-shaped bread. Jeongguk always seems to go for the saltier snacks when you're together, though, so you head inside first. Scope out the options. Spot a small stall frying tornado potatoes and trust your intuition when it compels you to pick up one for Jeongguk.
Returning to the forecourt, the skewer with a spiralled potato in one hand and your brown paper bag full of pastries in the other, you wait for him to notice you.
A hand on the nozzle of the pump, he's nearly finished filling the tank. Goosebumps are on his arms, the regret of not tossing on his coat written all over his face. The nozzle clicks, diverting Jeongguk's attention from the distant mountains he'd been gazing over towards, realigning his thoughts and focusing him in on the world around him.
Takes no more than half a second for his eyes to find you; black padded jacket keeping you warm, your smile peeking just above the top of the fastening. Hair up in a couple of space buns, your eyes are the focal point of your face, all glittery and gorgeous.
Yet it's the food he focuses on, tummy rumbling.
"For me?" He mouths in your direction.
Nodding enthusiastically, you crouch down to take a seat on the steps that lead up to the food complex as happiness blooms over his features. Jeongguk raises a fist in the air, and shakes it. Bites down on his bottom lip; closes his eyes. Silently cheers. Makes you giggle.
Across the forecourt, there's a small group of girls. Around your age, you think. Eyes on Jeongguk, they're muttering to one another; no doubt enthusing about the fact he looks like daydream in this dreary service station. Radiates gold in a town of chalk.
As he heads towards you, you can't help but think about how you'll be perceived. Know that it's incredibly easy to incorrectly judge a friendship like yours. It's a tale as old as time, how a guy and a girl can never be 'just friends'. The girls will see you and will assume you're a couple.
Your smile widens as he approaches. You hold out the tornado potato before he reaches you. It's deliberate.
It's me, you think. I'm the one he's walking towards. Not you.
A strange thought, for someone who is just a friend.
Curious, and pathetic, and a little juvenile. The gossiping continues.
They're pretty girls. Probably lovely, too. Personalities to magic their magic-perms.
You've no reason to be thinking harshly, and yet when Jeongguk is close enough to take the snack from you, and you use your now free hand to pat the ground beside you. Indicating that he should sit, you deliberately choose the side away from the girls.
"Legend," he says, chowing down without much thought. Would usually check the temperature with his hand, but has just filled his tank. Hands are probably filthy. "Ah, fuck," he hisses as he breathes in a little air to cool the red-hot potato he's already got in his mouth. "Hot."
Laughing, you apologise.
"Sorry. The lady running the stall fried me a fresh one," you explain.
The rest of the potatoes had been sitting out for a little while, or so you had been told by the sweet lady. Her actions were benevolent; a small kindness bestowed upon a shooting star. Karma is very real, and it'd be foolish not to treat a cosmic entity with such generosity. Wise in her years, she wasn't about to let you pass her by without wishing for a little goodwill.
Jeongguk shakes his head, swallowing that first bite. "Nah, it's fine. It's good. Hit the spot," he says, then holds it over for you. "Want some?"
The answer is no - all you really want is the hodu-gwaja - but the girls are still looking at him, so you accept his offer like the petty little bitch you are. Bite straight from his stick. Rip off a little more than you intend to, and get Jeongguk laughing.
"Save me some!" He jokes, but you simply shake your head.
Cheeks rosy, you struggle to get it all down in one bite. "I paid for it."
"You're getting a free ride," he reminds you, to which you can't argue against.
Speaking of nothing much, just whatever comes to mind, the small break from the journey is welcome. You remain seated on the stairs even after you finish your food. The girls depart before you do.
"Think they were in love with me," Jeongguk says almost as soon as they leave. You choke on your pastry. "Wow, really that unbelievable, huh?"
He's just joking, but is no stranger to stares. Works in a bar. Knows that he's desired, even if he has no desire to act upon it most of the time. It's all superficial shit he doesn't care for.
"Got an ego on you today, don't you?" You laugh.
"Had a girl calling me Daddy in bed this morning," he teases you, nudging against your shoulder with his own.
"Fuck off."
"So yeah," he admits, ignoring your curse. "The ego got a good stroking."
He kinda wishes it was something else that had gotten a good stroking instead, but he's trying to behave himself. Nearly fucked things up all because he fucked you when he shouldn't have. Is trying to fix things.
"Your ego will be your downfall, Jeon," you assure him, getting to your feet, taking his empty skewer from his hand to toss everything in the bin together. "No one likes a cocky bastard."
"So why are you walking away, then?" He teases. "Can't control yourself when you're around me, huh?"
"I'm telling your mum," you warn, as Jeongguk gets to his feet also, patting down the crumbs from his thighs.
"Oh yeah?" He indulges in the flirt. "Whatcha gonna tell her?"
"That her son is acting like a little fuck boy," you assert. "She'll be disappointed."
"She'll also know it's bullshit, B," he shrugs, toying with his lip ring. He'd make the perfect fuck boy, you think, if only he was an asshole. "My brother is the one that fucks around. I've always been an angel."
"Is your brother single?" you joke.
"You can't tell me off for speaking like a tool and then expect me to set you up with one," he laughs. "Stay the fuck away from my brother."
"He's older right?" You ask, ignoring his warning.
"Right."
"I love an older man," you dreamily sigh as you head back to Jeongguk's car.
"I don't care," Jeongguk says, voice stern, but you pay it no notice as you reach his car. He was gonna open the door for you, but when you're being like this? No chance.
Instead, he tugs on your wrist to turn you around. Gets you facing him. Walks forwards, still. Stops only when your back meets the side of his car.
He traps you in place; hands on the roof, one on either side of you. He looks down. Looks dead centre in your eyes. Looks like sin.
"You can't go around collecting up the people I care about like Pokemon cards, B," he husks. "You've already had my housemate."
"Had your housemate twice," you correct, just to wind him up a little more. He's too easy when he's like this. Easy to wind up; easy to please. All you'd have to do is say 'I won't', and he'd accept it - but where's the fun in that?
He rolls his eyes. Shakes his head. Lets his nose nudge up against yours.
"You can't have my best friend and my brother."
"Why not?" You whisper against his lips.
"'Cause I told you earlier, B," he whispers. "I get jealous."
"That's a ' you' problem."
"You'll destroy a family," he tells you with such conviction you believe him. He's learnt to never lie to you. His jealousy? It's as honest as it gets.
"So I can't fuck your dad either?" You tease, just because you enjoy Jeongguk showing his true colours. You might like an older man, but not so old he could be your own dad. Already know you'll have nightmares from Jeongguk making you call him Daddy that morning.
"Gonna be in my city, B," he reminds you, ignoring the threat because, honestly, the idea of it repulses him. "Ain't no way you're gonna fuck anyone that isn't me in my own goddamn hometown."
"No?"
"No," he whispers as he nudges his nose up against yours. Lets his lips brush yours. Doesn't push down. Wants to so badly. That semi of his from earlier? Yeah. It's hard, now - and he does let that press against your tummy. Lets you know that he's thinking about fucking you, then has the audacity to say, "Behave yourself."
"Fine," you smirk with casual arrogance. Jeon Jeongguk has buttons, or so it would appear. Pushing on them is just as fun as you'd imagine. "Won't fuck your dad."
"Thank you," he breathes out a small laugh. Pulls away a little to press a kiss to your nose. "My brother is out of town, anyways. Couldn't even if you wanted to."
Shrugging your shoulders, you turn to face the door, and let him linger for a moment. The parking lot is virtually empty, but this is still far too heated for such a location. The proximity of his positioning is sinful; his hardness digging into your lower back.
It's not like you didn't know this would be the case. You did it deliberately.
He deserves it, after the little stunt he pulled earlier.
Hair still up in little space buns, Jeongguk decides he needs to compliment you more often when your hair is up. Likes your neck. Or having easy access to it, at least.
His lips press a chaste kiss to the curve of your neck before he pulls away.
Watching as he gets around to the driver's side, bulge in his jeans painfully obvious, you voice a theory that you know is gonna soften him right up.
He can thank me later, you think. Doing the duty of a good friend!
"Shagged you, anyways," you hum. "You're all related so you probably have, like, identical dicks. No point in me fucking them, too."
Fingers hooked beneath his door handle, Jeongguk looks over to you, disgust written all over his face. "What is wrong with you?"
You just smile. Shrug. Pop open the car door, and get in. Call to him, "Shall we get going?"
Jeongguk thinks of the conversation you had earlier about crashing his car. Doesn't seem like such a bad idea now.
"We're turning around," he assures you. "There's no way I'm letting you meet my fucking parents."
"What was it you said?" you giggle, thinking of his stupid little insult from earlier. "That if your mum meets me, then she'll stop begging you to bring a girlfriend home? You're welcome!"
The rest of the drive is marred by stupid bickering and playful conversation. There's no need for discussions of anything hard, nor heavy. Hayun feels like a distant memory, and you're yet to reply to the message that pinged through from Seojoon as you were getting ready to leave your place.
It's just you and your best friend; an open road with the ocean on the horizon.
Jeongguk spots the sea first. Doesn't mention it, 'cause he wants to let you 'win' the unspoken game of 'first to see the sea wins'.
"Gguk!" you gasp when you do eventually see the cerulean beauty of Busan. "The sea! Look!"
Worth it, he thinks.
His parents live a little further inland, but he'd deliberately taken you further down towards the seafront just for this moment.
"Home sweet home," he muses, knocking his indicator to signal he's turning off. The streets are always so crowded down by the coast, so as much as he'd like to stay close, he knows he's already running late. His mum is probably worried. "We can come back this evening. I'll show you my old haunts."
It's a simple invitation, much like the initial invite for you to come with him. Jeongguk doesn't think too hard about things like this. Decides what he wants to do, and offers you the chance to join him.
"Please," you enthuse. "I've never been here in the evening."
"Oh, it's the best," Jeongguk smiles. "Forget our city - Busan is so much better."
It's not. His opinion is driven by nostalgia. Hasn't had a night out in Busan since before he met you. Doesn't realise how much he'd miss you, if you weren't with him.
The roads he takes become increasingly less crowded. Closer to home.
It's strange, Jeongguk thinks. He normally feels a giddy excitement whenever he reaches this part of town; an appreciation for the place he grew up. It's that classic 'coming home' sensation that bubbles in your stomach whenever you first greet your mother during the holidays - and yet Jeongguk's giddiness makes no hike. Doesn't rise like he thinks it will.
At least it doesn't until he parks up, just down the street from his parent's place, and glances over to you.
That's when it hits .
And that's also when he knows he's absolutely fucked.
AO3 | MASTERLIST | MINORS DNI
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I played some Victoria 2 today (a Japan campaign ofc, and admittedly with the Historical Flavor Mod), to sort of reflect on it in relation to Vicky 3. It is rough going back to the economy of Vicky 2 after playing 3, let me tell you - you knew intellectually it was "bad" system before, but you loved it anyway because of the full package. But now you can see the alternatives and remove the quotations, it is just bad! Building an ammunition factory that requires sulfur, having domestic RGO sources for sulfur but they are not producing enough to supply even one factory, and just not being able to do anything about it that isn't drastic or long-term because the world market is feeling fucky today is unacceptable once you have played a game where that isn't true. My industrialization strat should not waffle between "build a railroad for a 5% bump in output" and "invade Indonesia", give me a middle ground here guys! And it does not stop there - capitalists are useless, "build factory on RGO and expand forever" is optimal 99% of the time, key technologies will like double your output making them forced decisions, etc.
And, if you are can't build factories because you aren't civlizied yet...you have no econ game at all. You just do virtually nothing. Now that you see how that isn't required, the mechanics are ruthlessly bad in key ways.
But! But but but! I think Vicky 2 is a still a better game. The funny thing about that "I don't have enough sulfur" thing is that I didn't even care. I built the factory "for the future", subsidized it, it outputted zero bullets, and I barely notice because you make so much money anyway you can generally ignore it. I build the factories primarily so I can have clerks staffing them and generating research points! Is that insane game design? Yeah, it is! But it is insane game design that doesn't get in the way. Nothing stops me from building a factory, it just isn't very good. Wanna build a huge military? Encourage some soldiers with your national focuses and go to town. Want to declare war on someone? You can just do that! And then I take the army I built, click it on enemy, and it fights them - revolutionary new approaches to game design folks.
Even politics, where Vicky 2 definitely does get in the way a lot and is actively not-good, it is at least more permissive and more importantly simple. If you have elections you get events to shift voter ideology, and national focuses to boost party support that work exactly the way you would expect. If you are autocratic you can just swap who is in power! Liberals support political reforms, socialists support economic reforms, if you have a majority support for a law click a button and it passes. Done. Putting socialists in power in 1870 Japan might result in a revolution, sure, but it works, you can try it, and try to beat the militant tide.
Meanwhile in Vicky 3 if you are autocratic putting a "minority" faction in power literally breaks your government and prevents you from passing any laws. You can technically do it but you just die immediately. Wanna build a coalition then, where conservatives & agrarians ally together? You technically can again, but the penalty for "non-compatible" coalition partners is so high it 90% of the time crashes you into 0 anyway. So you have the "option" of switching parties, but...you can't. You just have to appoint the landowners every time or you die. So what is the point? Why have the option? Let me play the game!! Let me try reforming things and face a revolution I have 40% odds of losing to! That sounds fun, why are you rigging the game against that?
I tried an Iran run in Vicky 3 earlier, and I had a revolution against the landlords, who had ~50% of the "faction" points in government. I won, and so their points got knocked down to ~0%, how that works. So I made a new government, right? Well, no! Every faction left was "incompatible" with each other and none of them alone could even muster like 30%. I had literally no government capable of passing laws. So I fucking quit the game? Because this was the product of winning a revolution, why would I continue?
In Vicky 2 fascists win a revolution and they coup the government and it's fascist now. You get the fascist laws and can pass reforms they like. There ya go. Done. Is it interesting? No, not really. But it works! It doesn't literally stop you from playing the game.
My Japan game actually started as Satsuma, since in HPM Tokugawa Japan is split into substate Daimyo. I modernized via encouraging intellectuals, took military & railroad reforms, built a modern land army, and built up relations with the other domains. I launched the Meiji Restoration, got 60% of the Daimyo on my side, won the civil war. Began building factories everywhere, built up my industry, built up my research output. Used the new tech & money to build a larger army, fought the Qing in a tough war but got Korea & Taiwan, allied with the UK & built up a steamer industry to get a modern navy. Then Russia got into a crisis with Greece and so the UK and I backed Greece and broke Russia, with me claiming some territories around Manchuria in the process. Later I invaded China proper to annex Manchuria itself and get some treaty ports, easily now because my military was much more advanced. From all that my infamy was high so I coasted into the endgame and pivoted to culture techs to trigger "decisions" around modernizing Japan that gave me bonuses while having nice historical flavor to them.
And generally the game just didn't get in my way on doing all that. I could "tell the story", which for an easy game like Vicky is normally what you are here to do. Vicky 3 is a much better economy simulator, but telling the story beyond that is such a chore, and often impossible. On politics, diplomacy, and especially military, it is philosophically a step backwards such that its more "developed" mechanics cannot compensate for the mistake.
(I think it is funny how much better a gameplay experience the "narrative via decisions" of Vicky 2 w/ HPM is. They give flavor to the nations with a ton of bespoke, scripted events. Which...just works because they are straightforward. Vicky 3 wants to be "emergent" and so limited such events, but missed the forest for the trees there)
I find this sad because honestly there is a "blended" version of these two games that is amazing. Vicky 3's econ system (with tweaks ofc like making trade valuable) and philosophical commitment to minimal military micro (SO finicky in Vicky 2 to replenish armies where individual brigades die off, ugh), with a system that understood storytelling is first. Let players do things, and then give them consequences that are manageable in response. Get out of the way of the stories your sandbox game is built to tell.
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Signs and Portents Deleted Dialogue
In Entropy’s Grasp: Banter
Dialogue is sorted in scene order to the best of my ability.
Bellara Masterpost Signs and Portents Masterpost About Deleted Dialogue
—
Harding: So what're you doing out here?
Neve: So, what brings you to these woods?
Bellara: I'm looking for something. Specifically, the artifact making this bubble. Though it just started doing that.
Rook: Why that one?
Bellara: Because it has a weird resonance. One I haven't seen before. And so it doesn't tear reality apart. 'Cause that would be bad.
—
Harding: More demons. Great.
Neve: Oh, good. More demons.
Rook: Yeah, but no Venatori. That's something, at least.
—
Rook: Two.
Harding: What's that?
Neve: "Two" what?
Rook: Just counting the number of times I've been sucked into the Fade today.
Bellara: We're not in the Fade. We're beside it. Technically.
Rook: Got it. So one-and-a-half, then.
—
Rook: What is all this?
Bellara: It focuses magic. Big rings to the little rings, and little rings to the building. Less magic used. But same amount of power.
Rook: And the things you could do with that kind of power…
Rook: First time I've seen something like this.
Rook: You know, I almost understood that.
—
Rook: So whose temple was this?
Bellara: Oh! Did I say temple? Less a temple, more a workshop. Kind of.
Rook: What kind of workshop?
Bellara: Not sure. But we'll see when we go inside! Isn't it exciting?
Harding: That's one way to look at it.
Neve: Not the word I'd have chosen.
—
Rook: How does this work?
Bellara: There should be… something. Some way to make a bridge. Keep an eye out for artifacts.
—
Bellara: Okay! Give me a minute. Gotta deactivate this. Keep the demons off me! Should be okay.
Harding: I definitely like her optimism.
Neve: She’s certainly optimistic.
—
Bellara: Shit. That's not good.
Rook: What's wrong?
Bellara: Oh, this artifact. It's not working. Broken.
Harding: So, what now?
Neve: All right. So what now?
Bellara: We look for the next artifact. There's always a next one.
—
Rook: Another one of those things.
Harding: Same dance as before?
Neve: Same deal as last time?
Bellara: Yep! Almost certainly more demons.
Rook: Who doesn't love a routine?
—
Bellara: Damn. Broken.
Rook: On to the next one?
Bellara: Yep! Let's hope enough of them are still working.
—
Rook: And another one.
Harding: I'd like to be done with demons.
Neve: Fingers crossed. We've had enough demons for one day.
Bellara: Believe me, I hear you.
—
Harding: We're pretty high up, aren't we?
Neve: We're some ways off the ground, aren't we?
Bellara: Hard to tell. In a reality distortion, I mean. Up and down don't mean as much.
Rook: So if one of us falls off…
Bellara: You might fall forever! Or immediately hit the ground at full speed.
Harding: Oh. Good.
Neve: Now there's a fun coin toss.
—
Bellara: One time, I fought an ogre in a reality distortion. It charged me. Missed. Then fell right off a cliff.
Harding: Oof. Did it…?
Neve: Lucky break for you.
Bellara: It stopped falling. Then it exploded. Pretty violently. Lots—and I mean lots—of little pieces. All over the place.
Harding: Mmm. Wonderful.
Neve: Well, that's… dramatic.
—
Bellara: Good idea. Otherwise it'll spoil.
Rook: Sorry, what was that?
Bellara: Right. Other people. I'm used to talking to myself. Not a lot of company.
Harding: What did you think was a good idea?
Neve: Fair enough. So what was the good idea?
Bellara: Oh! Supper. I decided I was going to have the smoked fish tonight.
—
Bellara: Almost there. Should be the last one.
Harding: Oh, thank goodness. I'm not designed for climbing. At least, not this kind.
Neve: Good. More than enough climbing for one day.
—
Rook: Another eluvian.
Bellara: This one's broken, though. Completely. Looks like it was smashed on purpose.
Harding: Why would anyone do that?
Neve: So the question is why.
Bellara: Keep people from coming in? Or from getting out.
—
Neve: That armor. What was it for?
Harding: What was that armor for?
Bellara: Not sure. But it was infused with spirit magic of some kind. Still a little bit left. Reminds me of the Sentinels. At least a little bit.
—
Bellara: And… there we go! Oh! And it worked. Good.
Neve: So there was a chance it wouldn't. Bellara: Oh, always. No one really knows how all of this works. We're just guessing.
Harding: Wait, you weren't sure? Bellara: With this stuff? Never. At least, not completely sure.
—
Bellara: There we go. It's fixed! Hmm… Not doing anything, though. Guess we need an energy source.
Rook: And where do we find that?
Bellara: Thought I saw one? Nearby, I mean. Let's go looking.
—
Bellara: Okay. This one's missing an energy source, too.
Rook: So let's go find one. Should be nearby, right?
Harding: I've been keeping an eye out, but I haven't seen one. Bellara: Well, it has to be somewhere. I hope. Let's go looking for it.
Neve: Can't be the worst odds, given the number we've seen to this point. Bellara: I hope so! We'll go looking. I bet we find it right away.
—
Bellara: And there we go! Easy. Okay. On to the next one!
—
Bellara: Done. Took a while, but we did it! Let's keep going!
—
Bellara: I don't know. Things have been bad here for a while, but… something's changed. The magic's stronger.
Harding: How?
Neve: You don't say. Any theories about why?
Bellara: One of the Evanuris, maybe? They'd be powerful enough to cause those ripples. But they're supposed to be locked up. I mean, you hear talk of Fen'Harel, but still.
Rook: Right. Locked up. Definitely.
—
Rook: So… this is awkward, but we might know why the magic's stronger.
Harding: Uh, short version: We ruined Fen'Harel's ritual, and now the Evanuris are out.
Neve: The Evanuris have escaped. Or so we're told.
Bellara: Oh! Okay. That makes sense.
Rook: You aren't surprised? Even a little bit?
Bellara: Things have been weird for a while. I figured something was changing. Now I know what. Or, I guess, "who."
—
Bellara: Hard to say! Everything the ancient elves built was fancy.
—
Bellara: Hmm. We'll need to find a way to the center.
—
Bellara: Damn! Sentinels! We'll have to fight our way through them.
Harding: Good thing I brought spare arrows, huh?
Neve: Oh, sure! Ready if you are.
—
Harding: That looks like a Grey Warden ballista.
Neve: Is that a Grey Warden ballista? ㅤㅤ ㅤ
Grey Warden Rook: It is. Reasonably new one, too.
Rook: I think it is.
Bellara: Sometimes things just… show up in these Veil bubbles.
—
Bellara: First barrier down! Two more to go.
—
Bellara: Try using that ballista against the demons!
—
Rook: Is this wobbling? I feel like it's wobbling.
Bellara: Ooh! I'm getting that tingly feeling in my legs.
Rook: This seems a little unsafe!
Bellara: Definitely, definitely, do not look down!
—
Bellara: More sentinels! Let's take care of them quickly.
—
Harding: So is it normal for ruins to float in Arlathan?
Neve: Huh. So the ruins here float.
Bellara: Oh, no. This is new.
Harding: So you're saying they could stop floating?
Neve: Ah. And if they stop floating?
Bellara: Umm. Well…
Rook: Oh, good.
—
Bellara: Okay! That's the second one. One more to go.
—
Bellara: That's the last one. Should be clear to the artifact.
—
Harding: Oh, look at that stained glass. It's beautiful!
Neve: The stained glass—now that's pretty.
Bellara: It is! But it's not glass.
Rook: How can you tell?
Bellara: Doesn't break when you hit it. Trust me.
—
Rook: So how exactly do we shut down that artifact?
Bellara: Gotta make it to the center first. Which means disabling the rings.
Harding: How do we do that?
Neve: Right. And how do we do that?
Bellara: The resonance amplifiers keep the rings spinning. Shut those down, and the rings should shut down, too.
—
Bellara: Oh! No, we can make a bridge. See that artifact? Bring that crystal over here and slot it in!
—
Bellara: There. Exactly what we needed. Once I change the polarity, the rings should stop moving.
Harding: But…?
Neve: Right. And the part we won't like?
Bellara: It's going to attract demons. A lot of them. So. Be ready for that!
—
Rook: Oh, good—giant wolf statues. Like we haven't seen enough wolves today.
Bellara: What's wrong with wolves?
Rook: Wolves, generally? No problem. Just not really a fan of this specific wolf.
—
Bellara: Hmm. Door needs a second energy source to open. Look around. It has to be here somewhere.
—
Bellara: Okay. This bridge is going to be a little trickier. We'll need to move some crystals around. Get two on the bridge. Gotta be a way to make it work…
#dragon age the veilguard#dragon age#datv#dragon age the veilguard transcripts#dragon age the veilguard dialogue#dragon age dialogue#dragon age transcripts#datv transcripts#datv dialogue#datv spoilers#long post#in entropy's grasp#deleted dialogue#dragon age veilguard#dav transcripts#dav dialogue#dragon age veilguard dialogue#dragon age veilguard transcripts
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Sending 🔥🔥🔥
"Bad" fan content (art, fics, videos, rambles, etc.) is actually more important to fandom and a better indication of the health of a fandom than the professional grade internet darling stuff.
More below the break, because I got longwinded and don't want to wall of text people who don't want to read my takes.
First of all, purity culture is bullshit. Liking and engaging with only the most popular/top tier in terms of 'quality' (used here in the strictest technical sense, i.e. perfect adherence to grammatical rules and formatting guides for fics, a high degree of technical skill in drawing/painting/whatever your artistic medium, a borderline PhD dissertation level of lit analysis going into each and every headcanon) is the same as deciding you can't rewatch your favorite movie/reread your favorite book from middle school because you're an adult now and can only like mature things, is the same as deciding that you can't like certain ships because they aren't canon compliant. And it all comes down to this need we've all developed to curate our lives perfectly to present ourselves as the best and most perfect people to ever exist on the internet. Which is also bullshit.
Fandom is and always was a deeply nerdy, cringe space at its very best. It was where you could subtly ask people at a con if they watch Star Trek for 'the Premise' and once confirmed they were safe launch into your hottest Spirk takes, or where you can scroll past someone's New York Times Bestseller quality 400,000 word magnum opus on the complex inner life of a character with no spoken lines of dialogue in canon in the same mouse drag as a 400 word crack fic about the main character in a fandom centered on a horrific dystopia going to the beach. So not only does the closet cosplayer who looks more like your local emo 7-11 clerk than the character they're tagged as belong here just as much as the professional costumer who hand wove the cloth for their undershirt out of flax they grew themselves in their back garden, but I think they're actually more important to a healthy fandom. First, a brief defense of cringe:
We all suck at some point. Maybe you (general) didn't start posting anything until you could do it perfectly, but that doesn't mean you emerged from the womb flawlessly gifted at writing complex worldbuilding and painting masterpieces. That just means you didn't show anyone until you could, and that's kind of sad. Writing/making art/doing textual analysis/making gifs or song edits/costuming/any of it, all of it takes practice to be any good at it, and while none of it is 100% guaranteed to be a good time had by all involved, if you weren't having some fun along the way why bother? You shouldn't have to feel like you need to wait to be perfect to be excited and show people what you're doing just because curation culture says it's only worthy if it's perfect.
We are all inherently cringe. You didn't stop being cringe when you pulled out the cheap neon clip in hair extensions from Claire's and start saying that your favorite cartoon was for babies, you just became a different sort of cringe. That's fine, it's a right of passage, we all go through that phase, but part of growing as a person is learning that it's okay to like what you like, to embrace all the parts of you and your passions, whether it's the big mature official adult interests that people can understand and are socially accepted like prestige TV and whatever self-help book is telling you all the ways you should feel miserable today or the silly youtube videos that made you laugh in middle school or the cheesiest pop songs imaginable. It isn't morally superior to only acknowledge your love for the former, or an essential part of growing up.
Fandom has also always been middle aged suburban moms rambling about the two characters they want to shove into a closet and make kiss, just as much as it has always been the middle schoolers doing the exact same thing, just as much as it has always been people spending hours researching every detail of the latest episode to perfectly justify why Character X is actually a closet fan of doritos. There is nothing wrong with wanting to do a massive formal analysis on the magic systems present in the world of whatever and how they have to work in relation to real world physics, or explore serious themes in a work of fiction, or whatever else either. One set of those things isn't any inherently better than the other, and we all do both when we are being honest with ourselves, even if we don't share one (and more often than not it's the former). Learning fictional languages is an inherently dorky thing to do, no matter how many awards the show or book it's from wins. Dressing up as your favorite imaginary friend is an inherently dorky thing to do, no matter how perfect the costume is. Writing about a made up person going on adventures is an inherently dorky thing to do, whether it's grimdark serious or the crackiest AU imaginable. Spending hours getting the shading just right on the book not the show version of your favorite character is inherently dorky, even if you're the Michaelangelo of old man Yaoi (as though Michaelangelo himself wouldn't rise from the grave to fight you on that). Embrace it.
Anyway, why does this matter? Because purity culture and curation culture are actually what's killing fandom. Like I ramble about the death of community in fandom, the death of comment culture, the loss of old fandom rules/etiquette, etc., fandoms dying too quickly, all the time, but those are symptoms. The bigger problem is, we've all convinced ourselves that we have to be perfect on the internet.
A breakdown:
Fandoms die too quickly. - Because we don't nurture them. Sure, dwindling attention spans do contribute, but we don't give fandoms (or shows, but that's a different rant) time to get good anymore. If we are all refusing point blank to interact with any fanworks that aren't complete works, at the highest quality, that are already popular/have certain ratios of hits to kudos to comments, or aren't at a certain word count, then we're killing it before it starts. Like it or not, by the highest standards we hold this stuff to, 90% of just about everything is a bit shit. It's going to be bad grammar and unfinished wips and 'cringe' AUs and self-insert whathaveyou. That's fandom baby. And if that 90% has no interaction, you can bet those wips will never be finished and those fics with good ideas and bad formatting will never bother to edit it or find a beta and you'll never know that the author writing that 'cringe' was sitting on a draft of your perfect fic that scratches every itch your brain has ever had for your OTP. Because we can sit here all we like and say we write/draw/create for ourselves, but we all know we publish it because we want to exist in interaction with others.
Nobody comments/interacts anymore. - Yeah, because we're all a little bit afraid of someone seeing our AO3 username popping up in the comments/kudos and being found out for enjoying that deeply self-indulgent smut fic or the random 'murder hobo left the child death arena to get froyo' fluff stick figure comic or whatever else we're so afraid of somehow being called out for liking. We've all had it drilled into us that every moment of our existence on the internet has to be curated perfectly to match our official image, so if we want to be serious and mature and proper we can't be seen enjoying the same 'cringe' as everyone else. But if we all feel it, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy where nobody interacts with any of it, and it all just goes away because as much as we liked it, the creators never found out and stopped sharing with the class.
Fandom etiquette is dead. - Purity culture and curation culture strike again. In the olden times, we had a little policy called 'Don't Yuck My Yum' (it does have other names, this is just the one I use, though 'Don't Like, Don't Read' is the more fic specific one). That isn't to say there was never negativity and flame wars and the like, because oh boy was there, but the point stands. Demanding updates like clockwork because you want more? Anon hate because an author writes a ship you don't like/engages with clearly tagged subject matter that isn't for you/doesn't write a character how you see them? They come from the same place. We need everything we interact with to match our perfectly curated internet persona, and part of that is being seen defending that perfectly curated internet persona's rules. So none of your mutuals can possibly disagree on your headcanons, and nobody can ship anyone else with the members of your officially stated OTP, and nobody can ever find out that you liked that one Dead Dove fic when all your bookmarks are the fluffiest of fluff, and inversely, your favorite author must be a bad person if they wrote a dark fic, or isn't doing fandom right if they don't have a firm update schedule or only publish once the work is fully complete, etc. etc. That's not how any of that actually works in the real world. Why would it be how it works in fandom?
Death of community in fandom. - No shit. Given everything above, why would you bother building that community? Why would you become a regular commenter on a wip you like if it's probably just going to be abandoned anyway and your inbox will be flooded with people telling you that one time at 5:02 PM Pacific Standard Time on August 27th, a fan artist who did the cover for the fic you just commented on once said that they don't like relish on hot dogs and are therefore evil incarnate? Why would you risk putting yourself out there with your craziest takes that have no support but are pure vibes if you're just going to get 'well actually'-ed out of your entire online presence because you had the audacity to say 'fuck it, this is just for fun, I don't care if it's a bit out of character or unsupported by canon'? Why would you bother publishing your art/videos/gifs/fics/whatever else until they were so perfect they couldn't possibly be critiqued at all? The answer is, you wouldn't. So, nobody talks to anybody, unless you've known them for years already before everything got so closed off and perfectionistic, nobody builds those communities, fandom disappears off to little insular discord servers where the creators never find out anyone cares and only people with your exact same takes are let in, and it all slowly goes away because eventually people stop investing their time in putting themselves out there to receive none of the positive interaction and all of the negative.
In short: perfect is the enemy of good, and the best thing your creativity can be is 'in existence'. Make the 'bad' thing and share it, not because anyone else will necessarily love it right away but because it deserves to exist. Maybe one day it gets better. Maybe it never does. Either way, it exists. Inversely, show love to the 'bad' things, because fuck it we all enjoy these things anyway in our own ways so why be ashamed of it? Watch your 'childish' cartoon and rant about it on main, publish the crack AU 'Evil Dictator Spends 20 Minutes Wondering How You Milk an Almond on Their First Grocery Store Trip in 25 Years', draw the stick figure comic and the jerky animation for your fan music video set to the schlockiest pop song imaginable. The only reason we aren't all doing it, is because we're all stuck in these little shame bubbles that can only be popped if we start poking at them. And that's how you save fandom.
Because healthy fandoms, they have lots of 'cringe'. They have lots of 'bad' art and fics and gifs and videos, because they've been around long enough for people to start off bad and get better in a technical sense, or because they haven't lost that community spirit and willingness to admit they're inherently dorky that makes fandom great and have no shame in admitting they read the reader insert smut or the crack drabbles or the badly formatted and unedited fic that might not consistently be able to spell 'orange' correctly but damn it if the story isn't good. Sometimes both. Usually both. If we want to actually fix the issues we all rant about all the time in fandom, we need to start by embracing the fact that we are all doing fundamentally dorky, cringey, things by engaging with fandom at all and there is no inherent moral or personal superiority to be had in acting otherwise.
If we're all irredeemable dorks with questionable taste, then who gives a shit that you saw the author of that fandom darling masterpiece of high-grade wordsmithery's name pop up in the kudos or comment section of that smutfic or darkfic or crackfic or whatever else we're ashamed to admit we read this week? You're both there, you're both reading it, if anything, that's an endorsement that you'll probably enjoy what they're doing since you're both enjoying the same other stuff. If none of us are perfect, maybe we can finally get back to just letting ourselves have fun.
Send me 🔥
#asks answered#RaganaThinksThings#fandom spaces#fandom thoughts#i am cringe but i am free#you should be too
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I've already seen a good english translation for this (though I would have no idea where to find it now, since tumblr is the only social media I use) but I thought I'd take an amateur swing at it anyhow. it's my birthday and all
translation is mine, comic is not
TW for throwing up, probably just general depressiveness, it's not too bad
smakelijk!!



email: CONGRATULATIONS!! Dear [customer name], super duper happy birthday to our favorite customer! 😘😘😘


disembodied voice: look who's birthday it is...

disembodied voices: I don't even know her name...
that boring girl?
isn't that coco and mymy's sister?
should we still congratulate her?
why should we?
she should show interest in people besides herself first
remember when she had to join a group because she couldn't find a partner for herself?
why does she have to make everything awkward?
don't remind me...
never mind her, she's just a shut-in
I always stay away from her, too
wait, isn't she having a party?
she probably doesn't have anyone to invite
that's what you get when you don't make friends
it's her own fault, right?

disembodied voices: what is she doing now?
I don't think she likes all the attention...
then she should have skipped school today
maybe she can do it at home
as if there is something to celebrate...
...



coco: ready, mymy? three... two... one... happy birthday to- au

mrs schoppenboer: sorry, girls, no party today. maya is sick

coco: sick on her birthday?
mymy: but we have stroopwafel cake for her...
mrs schoppenboer: she threw up a lot last night, so she has no appetite
mrs schoppenboer: maya needs some sleep now, so you guys go get ready for school. don't forget to report her [absent] to the reception


coco: hey, sissy, I just wanted to say-
...
coco: happy birthday.


TN: halloooo allemaal, longer comic + more complicated translations, I'm here to highlight what I changed in translation. firstly, didn't write the full email because that felt like a lot of time wasted on nothing since the point is there, maybe I'll go back and do that later though
"aso" is a sort of... mean way to say an antisocial person, it's derogatory, so I used "shut-in" because that felt a bit meaner than "anti-social" in english?
the next is that coco starts singing "lang zal ze leven", which is a dutch birthday song, I just translated that to "happy birthday to you" even though they're not the same thing
"sussie" is afrikaans, not dutch, though "sus" is close 'nough to "zus" anyone could guess what it meant
the tone of "fijne" here is a little less enthusiastic (at least that's how it reads to me) tried to carry that across with a period. it's a more literal translation of happy birthday, though
and one for analysis, since this comic seems to confuse people a lot: the first thing I want people to notice is that "dream maya" is a much younger version of herself. I think that implies that the disembodied voices are not her own thoughts/perceptions about herself, but things that people have said to her in real life. the loneliness of each panel is well presented. the second (and perhaps most confusing thing) is how it ends. maya awake and eating after saying she was sick (though technically true) repeats a pattern that we see more and more later on, of maya avoiding and rejecting any attempts from her family at trying to help her. the way she self-isolates is impulsive and she does it to cope, but it still obviously hurts the people around her, and it DOES come off as selfish, even if it really isn't (and she doesn't mean it to). I think that's why coco is mad. and maya's guilt for being, uh, herself, is a recurring theme too. it's really noticeable here
gelukkige verjaardag to me and all :P
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