#that I do not remember happening in the anime

[prettyboykatsuki]

please you can’t mix a/b/o and LaDS. i’ll actually keel over and die. 

i can’t stop thinking about it ….

cw for dubcon kinda and rough sex. fem reader. psuedocest (gege. once shfjsjfj)

caleb in a rut. he grew up pretending to be a beta for your sake, taking as much suppressant medication and as many scent blockers as possible to make sure it was concealed. he wanted you to feel safe, to feel more at ease to the point he suppressed his own body completely

and then everything happens between you and caleb strictly forbids you entering his apartment during his rut. you don’t know it at the time, but they’re still permanently irregular from the whole soup of medications he took during his adolescence. so he has these crazy ruts like once or twice a year where he’s completely not himself.

you only found out he was an alpha recently, as in when he came back as a memeber of the fleet. but you’re partners now, you’re supposed to be equals so you want to help him thru his rut

caleb vehemently rejects you. of course he does. he’s not himself and he never wants to do something you do like.

but you’re stubborn and don’t listen so you go over to his apartment anyway. his scent is so thick it permeates from behind the front door of his place. when he answers it after your persistent yelling - he opens the door and it immediately assaults your senses. he’s shirtless, sweaty, pupils completely dilated. his voice is shot.

“go home. now”

he turns you away at the door. you get in each others face until you finally step on the right nerve and caleb yanks you inside and locks you in. cages your body against his front door with this terrifying look in his eyes, his hand gripping your jaw and making you look up at him “so fucking stubborn,”

you underestimate him when he says it’s bad. you dont realize how bad it is until you’re getting fucked over every surface of the house with little to no prep other that the left over, sticky spit from him trying to lick you open. he takes you first right by the door, your pants barely to your knees while your face is against the floor.

“wish you’d be a good girl and listen but you never do. maybe it’ll be a good lesson for you. remember it carefully”

caleb is always so gentle, so careful and kind but he’s forcing your pussy open like it’s nothing. splitting you on his cock as you cry. and he fucks you so deeply and so intense right from the jump, doesn’t ease you into it at all. he takes you on the floor before he helps you up and bends you over the kitchen counter, the back of the couch, pressed into missionary on the coffee table in his living room, on all fours on the stairs.

he’s being mean about it too. every time your pussy tightens up or clenches around him when he smacks it lightly or when he tortures your clit - he has this laugh that borders on callous. loving but humiliating at the same time

“no matter how much i stretch you open it feels like you’re trying to snap my dick off. do you want it so bad, hm?”

he’s merciless. he’s not himself. he makes sure you don’t hurt yourself when repositioning but you’re so full of cum and so sore you can barely move without limping. covered in these deep bite marks as he just goes again and again. mating like you’re animals until he comes out the haze

“how much cum do you think you have in here?” as he smacks your hip. “stay upright. don’t let it spill okay? since gege was so kind and gave it to you.”

he has moments of sobriety. you can always tell bc he becomes worried and affectionate- lapping at your wounds like an oversized dog. but it’s shortlived. the cycle starts again and your pussys wrapped around him like a sleeve for him to fuck.

you don’t get away from him for three days. it feels like your cunt is gonna stay stretched forever and caleb looks so sad and apologetic after. like a kicked dog

and as crazy as he is during - it’s also kind of . nice to feel how deeply he really desires you. the things he says during his ruts are demeaning but still somehow so lovesick and you kind of like seeing him let loose.

[iamhereforfunnzies]

Chapter 1: I see you

Bruce overlooking his paperwork and plans of capturing crimminals and crime rates, he felt his stomach grumble. Seeing the grandfather clock tick a 11:15 p.m. he smiled “Just in time for Lunch.” He felt a bit sad knowing he is eating alone today, Dick being Bludhaven, Jason never really visiting, Tim out somewhere with Conner, and Damian out doing voluntary work in a animal shelter. What a lonely time to be in the manor.

    Scratch   

              Heavy breathing was on the otherside of the door he saw you , (Name) how different you were usually … out? But it’s better than eating alone and it would be nice to converse with you , he called you but why do you look at him like that. You arm is bleeding from your intensive scratching , eyes forcing itself not to cry what happened? Why do you look like you died?  “(Name), what are you doing?” you turn to him. “OH- um… Just anxious that’s all” Bruce narrowed his eyes as you look down slowing down on the scratching. “About what?” He sat next to you ,why is he so tall?!

              “Just…I had a nightmare.” GREAT (NAME) (MIDDLENAME) WAYNE , he’s gonna think you’re a huge incompetent baby. Nice going , idiot your mind screams at you. Bruce blinks he feels so amused , how adorable he just wants to pinch your cheeks and coax you to sleep. He chuckled lightly “What happened in your nightmare?” he can’t believe he is having a normal parent to child conversation.  Honestly, your not sure if you can tell him , since it wasn’t a dream you died and then you just time travel back 2 weeks before your death. “ I was walking back to the manor after work.” Bruce hid his shock as you mentioned having a job. “There was a man …” your head throbbed as you try to see your memory clear. “He touched , choke, then…No, No it was choke , someone else touched me, then  a gun was shoved in my mouth.” Your head throbbed harder as your heart was trying to break out your ribs. “Something happened , c’mon remember” you hit your stupid head trying to make your death clear as you start mumbling curse words.

                Bruce stood still not knowing how to respond , he held your hands. “Don’t . Stop. Just don’t think about it.” He was comforting you , now that he had a good look at you. When did you get so tall? Weren’t you just a seedling a month ago? (Name) when did you get your nails done? Why are your eyes so tired? Weren’t you trailing Dick and Tim to play with you? When did your hair changed? Alfred eyes widen as he see’s Bruce hugging you with what looks like a panic attack.  “Lunch is here”

What is wrong with you? Why the hell did you cry infront of him! Never once did Bruce took the time with you. He always seemed so occupied with his little only boys squad doing who know’s what! It’s so weird they are always fighting at the gym with Dick , Tim , and Damian (Rarely Jason), they are so secretive that you just stopped asking questions. Pacing in your quaint room with all this awards from last place to gold , you stare at them how much you lost and won over the years. Yet, you held every lost with pride because you tried well that’s what Alfred tells you.

              A sudden text came in your phone as you see your manager asking you if your free in 2 weeks in Tuesday. You stared at your phone , you died at Tuesday. A normal Tuesday nothing special about the date but you died. You died, you left the message seen.  Staring at yourself in the mirror you said to the mirror. “Am I doing enough to worth living?” Years , hours , days and seconds of awards in your room but not one moment of them stood out. All of this rewards weren’t for you , they were for them.

                             You look at the photo stand of your family I the gala, you were always the one who they claim to protect you but they never tell you anything . Laughing among their little group never explaining to you or care to want you to join in. Even in movie nights it feels like your watching them instead of the movie. Game nights were just you being some extra player they never needed. You grimace as you hid the photo frame of your table. Your childhood was dedicated to appease their eyes , your life to make interesting so they can be interested in your welbecoming but you died. Dead with nothing to remember.

                            A robin in a tree chirping in the trees as the gotham sky in a rare moment glows gold  like heavens gate, the sun shinning, the air crisp and fresh . The robin turns it’s head to you tilting it’s head but flies away with the other birds in the sky. “Fucking heavens , God if this a sign I am not gonna take this second chance for granted.” You muster a trembling smile. “I am gonna lived.” You took your phone.

(Name), are you free the week after this at Tuesday 8:00 a.m.?

Today 12:05 p.m.

                                                                                                                        

   I quit. Thank you for the experience.

                                                                                                                                    Today 12:15 p.m.

I genuinely hope this is readable

[scoutofmymind]

Momma I request a prompt inspired by a song of your choosing (: I L Y

Couldn’t Make It Any Harder — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: mental health issues, mentions of past trauma, TorturedArtist!Reader, Empath!Luigi, Luigi says “go birds” after flipping off a woman, confused feelings, situationship, reader is just Very Confused in general, angst, eventual romance.

Wc: 5,107

I couldn't make it

Any harder to love me

Oh, one day, believe me

You’ll want someone who makes it easy

This has been floating around in my asks for awhile, and I wasn’t feeling practically inspired by any songs lately until Sabrina released Couldn’t Make It Any Harder and I couldn’t stop thinking about writing it.

This work was done quickly between my other ongoing Luigi projects, so I apologize for any inconsistencies or skipped backstory (you know I’m a backstory bitch) but I simply needed to get this out of my system, and remembered that an anon had asked me to write something based off of a song quite awhile ago!

Also, how could I leave you hanging on Valentine’s Day? Even if I’m posting this at 2 AM….

It's 8:30 AM at your usual coffee spot — that tiny café two blocks from Luigi's apartment where the barista always draws terrible attempts at latte art, and you’re still wearing yesterday's mascara, not because you've been crying, but because you spent the night in your studio, channeling your frustration into a new piece that's all sharp edges and bold strokes.

"I mean, we had a great time!" You're gesturing with your coffee cup, nearly spilling it. "We went to that new gallery opening, and he actually understood my rant about contemporary minimalism. Then dinner, drinks, great conversation — and now? Radio silence. Three days of nothing."

Luigi, sitting across from you, is trying not to smile at how animated you are, his laptop open beside him — he's probably got a Slack channel blowing up with messages from his dev team, but he rushed to meet you for this emergency coffee session, anyway.

The startup's dress code might be casual, but he always manages to look put-together in that effortless way that makes other tech bros look like they're not trying hard enough.

"Maybe I'm just-“ you pause, stirring your coffee aggressively, "too much, you know? Too loud, too passionate, too-"

"Stop," Luigi cuts in, closing his laptop and fixing his gaze on you again, "You're not too anything. You're exactly enough. So don’t even go there with me.” He massages his temples, “Too early for it.”

"I know that," you say firmly, because you do. "That's the thing — I like who I am. I like that I can talk about art for hours. I like that I get excited about things. I like that I feel everything so intensely. I'm not going to make myself smaller just because some guy can't handle it."

"Then don't," Luigi says, and there's something in his voice that makes you look up from the foam disappearing from your cappuccino. "The right person won't want you to."

"Exactly! And you know what? If Jake can't handle a woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to say it-“ you trail off, reaching for your sketchbook. You start absent-mindedly drawing on a corner of the page.

“Ugh,” Luigi’s face screws in mock disgust, “His name was Jake?”

Putting down your pen, you lean back in your chair with a frustrated sigh. "But then again, if I'm so great, why does this keep happening? Three first dates in two months, Lu. Three. And they all end the same way."

"You mean with guys who can't handle someone who actually has opinions?" Luigi takes a sip of his coffee, his fingers tapping absently on his closed laptop. A notification buzzes on his phone — probably his team wondering where he is — but he doesn't even glance at it.

"No, see, that's just it," you lean forward, your hands moving expressively as you talk. "They love it at first. They think it's so fascinating and refreshing that I'm 'not like other girls', or whatever." You roll your eyes at the phrase, hating the taste of the words in your mouth. "But then it's like they realize I'm actually serious. That I'm not just putting on some manic pixie dream girl act for their entertainment."

Luigi's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Heaven forbid you be a real person with actual thoughts and feelings."

"Right? And I know — I know I'm not too much," you say, but your voice wavers slightly. You start fidgeting with your rings, a habit Luigi's seen a thousand times when you're wrestling with something in your head. "But sometimes I wonder if-"

"If what?"

"If maybe I should just- you know.. tone it down? Just a little? Just at first?" The words sound wrong coming out of your mouth, and you can see from Luigi's expression that he knows it, too. "No, you're right, forget I said that. That's stupid."

"It is stupid," he agrees, but gently. His eyes catch yours across the table again, his gaze steady and genuine. "Remember that installation you did last month? The one about authenticity?"

"Yeah?"

"What did you tell that bag of bones professor who said it was 'overwhelmingly honest'?"

A smile starts to spread across your face. "I told him that was the whole damn point."

"Exactly." Luigi checks his watch and starts gathering his things — he's definitely late now. "So maybe the problem isn't that you're too overwhelming,” he pats the top of your head, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “maybe they're just underwhelming."

•

You're standing in front of your last piece, forcing a smile that feels like it's splitting your face in half, as another guest explains to you what your own art means.

Behind you, you can hear snippets of conversations that make your skin crawl.

It's a bit... aggressive, isn't it?

Not quite gallery standard... these nepo kids..

Experimental, but perhaps too experimental..

Your hands are shaking, so you clasp them behind your back. You've been doing this grim waltz for two hours — nodding, smiling, explaining yourself over and over to people who look through you rather than at you, and the gallery owner keeps shooting you these looks, these little disappointed glances that make you feel about two inches tall.

You catch Luigi's eye across the room.

He's been watching, you realize, while pretending to be deeply invested in a conversation with some tech entrepreneur who probably thinks art is a good investment opportunity, and he tilts his head slightly — a question.

You shake yours — you’re not okay.

"The brushstrokes here," the current patron is saying, pointing at your most vulnerable piece, "they're rather — well, chaotic. Unorganized. Muddy. It’s strange to see. Was that intentional?"

Something inside you splinters.

"Excuse me," you manage, your voice surprisingly steady for how the room is tunneling, how your fingers begin to tingle, how your lungs have lost the ability to draw in a full breath. "I need some air."

You make it through the gallery, past the whispers and the stares, past the owner who starts to say something about maintaining appearances, past the front desk and around the corner to the back alley.

Then your legs give out.

You're gasping, trying to remember how breathing works, your back against the cold brick wall. The dress — that stupid yellow dress that Luigi said was his favorite — feels too tight. Everything feels too tight.

You tear at your collar, needing air, needing space, needing- "Hey." Luigi's voice, close but not too close. "I'm here."

"I can't-" you choke out. "I can't breathe, I can't-"

"Yes, you can." He moves slowly into your space, hands hovering but not touching. "Look at me. Just look at me. I’m right here. It’s all good.”

You shake your head violently, sliding down the wall. "They're right. They're all right. I'm not- this- This isn't-" Each word feels like it's being ripped from your throat, bloody and raw and dishonest and horrific. They aren’t right. You know they aren’t.

"Bullshit." The sharpness in his voice makes you look up. He's crouched in front of you now, his tie completely undone, his eyes fierce. "They're not right. They're not even close to right. They're looking at fireworks and complaining about the noise. Old fuckin’ bunch’a assholes.”

A sob catches in your throat, half laugh, half cry. "That's a terrible metaphor."

"Made you look at me, though." His voice softens, his hands resting on your clammy shoulders. "Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe."

You try to match his exaggerated breathing, your hands still shaking. "I put everything into this show," you whisper after your second deep breath. "Everything."

"I know."

"And they just- they- they just-“

"I know." He shifts, sitting beside you against the wall, careful to leave space, but still your shoulders bump together. "But. Want to know what I think?"

You turn your head to look at him, makeup probably ruined, dress definitely stained from the alley ground, but you’ve already abandoned ship, you’ve waved your white flag — there’s no use in pretending you haven’t crumbled in a New York alleyway now. "What?"

"I think they're terrified of you."

That startles a real laugh out of you, “What?"

"You heard me." He's looking straight ahead, but there's something fierce in his profile. "You walked in there with your soul on full display, unapologetic and raw and real, and they don't know what to do with that. People like that, they're comfortable with art they can hang in their dining rooms and forget about.” You watch him blink, gathering the words, “Your shit doesn't let them forget. It makes them feel things they don't want to feel."

You nudge him gently, a laugh flaring your nostrils. "That's a lot better than the fireworks metaphor."

Now he does look at you, a small smile playing at his lips, his cheeks blushed crimson from the wine he’d gulped down just to make himself a bit more sociable. "Yeah, well, I've had three glasses of their overpriced wine. I'm feeling poetic."

Another laugh bubbles up, watery but real. You let your head fall against his shoulder, just for a moment. "I don't want to go back in there."

"So we won’t." He doesn't move, letting you lean on him, his head leaning atop yours. "Let's go get real drinks instead. You can tell me all the things you wanted to say to that guy who tried to explain color theory to you."

"God, he was the worst." You straighten up slowly, wiping at your eyes. "Did you see his socks?"

"I was trying not to."

•

You're standing at the open bar, counting the minutes until it's socially acceptable to leave, when Madison — a college friend you haven't seen in years, who always seemed to help herself to open bars beyond her means — sways over.

Her champagne sloshes dangerously close to your dress, but for some reason, you don’t step back.

"Oh my god, it really is you!" Her voice carries just a bit too loud, and you can feel a few heads turning in your direction. "I almost didn't recognize you without, you know-“ she gestures vaguely at all of you, that sick smile still on her blush pink lips. "All the paint and shit all over you.”

You take a long sip of your drink, hoping it would wash away the rising tide of anxiety in your core. "Good to see you too, Mads.”

"So,” She leans in conspiratorially, her breath smelling of booze and mid-tier champagne. “I heard about your gallery show last month. The one at The Maxwell? God, that must have been-“ She trails off, eyes wide with what looks like concern but feels like something else entirely.

Your hand tightens around your glass. "Must have been what?" Your lips tighten into a line, “It was an- an honor to have the opportunity.”

Words your father had always said to you growing up echo in the far depths of your mind; Honor and Integrity.

There’s a humility in it, in accepting such a nightmare as privilege.

"Well, I mean — I saw that article that was going around Instagram. About how you just up and left? In the middle of opening night?" She takes another sip of champagne, watching you over the rim with her big, stupid brown eyes. "Is that true? That you didn't even come back to collect your pieces? God, that's crazy!"

The word crazy hits like a slap, and you can still feel the panic from that night, the walls closing in as people whispered, pointed, discussed your work like it was a car crash they couldn't look away from and did nothing to aid.

"It's not exactly-"

"And after everything with Matt, and then Jason- ugh,” She shakes her head. "I mean, I get it. Using art as therapy. But maybe actual therapy would be — I dunno — you know, beneficial?”

"Madison-"

"I'm just worried about you," she continues, reaching for your arm and her fingers feel like serpents, coiling around your skin, suffocating you. "We all are. First the whole thing with your poor father — god, remember how he used to say you were just too-"

"Don't." Your voice comes out sharper than intended, your brows furrowed at her like she’d backhanded you. “Don’t you fucking say another word.”

Madison almost gasps, clutching her necklace. “See? This is what I mean. All this reactionary stuff. The anger. The intensity. Have you thought about getting help? My therapist says sometimes when we've been through things-"

The garden somehow feels too small, the fairy lights too bright, the music too loud. Across the room, Luigi is trapped in conversation with the bride's uncle, but somehow he must sense something because his eyes find yours, his head tilted at you, his usual question.

Everything okay?

This time, you look away from him.

"I’m going to leave this conversation before-“

"No, wait, listen." Madison's grip on your arm tightens, slithering, sneering, hissing. Fangs, poison. “That show — people were talking about it for weeks. How raw it was. How fucking uncomfortable it made everyone. One of the pieces — the one with all the broken mirrors? Someone said it looked like a cry for help."

You can feel your pulse in your throat. "It wasn't a fucking-“

"And then you just disappeared! Like, who does that, girl? Just leaves their own show? The curator had to pack up your pieces himself. That's what the article said. Is that true?" She may as well have a microphone beneath your trembling lips, taking on the role of some cheap reporter for a local shittalking magazine.

Of course she read the article.

Everyone read the article.

The one that called your work a disturbing glimpse into a clearly troubled mind. The one that suggested your artistic breakdown was inevitable given your history of emotional instability.

It was laughable, truly, and anyone that knew you well enough had known so much to be so very far from the truth.

"I had my reasons," you manage, but your voice sounds distant even to yourself. “I had reason for leaving the way I did.”

"Obviously you did. That's what I'm saying. Maybe if you got some help, you know, dealt with all this and found ways to properly cope-“ She waves her hand vaguely again, like swatting away a pesky fly. "Then maybe you could make art that's more you know.. accessible. Enjoyable. Less-“

"Less me?" The words come out before you can stop them. “Bullshit. You wouldn’t know, Madison. You haven’t seen a single one of my shows, haven’t shown yourself at any of my gallery openings-“ your cheeks burn red hot, your glass of wine discarded and your hands balled into fists. “You’re lucky I don’t fucking pop that smirk right off your-“

"That's not what I-"

“It is exactly what you fucking-“

“No, it’s not! Look at yourself!”

"Hey!” Luigi's voice cuts through the rising panic. He's suddenly there, solid and real. "Sorry to interrupt, but we have that thing that we have to get to-“ he loops his arm around yours, and he swears he can feel the heat radiating off of you, hot and quivering like a volcano deciding if it’s time to erupt just yet or not.

Madison blinks at him, her nostrils flared at the sudden interruption. It seems as though this is exactly the reaction she wanted, and was pissed the show had called curtains so quickly. "What thing?"

"That very important thing," Luigi says firmly, already guiding you away. "Great catching up. Green is not your color. Go Birds.” As he turns you both, he raises his middle finger behind your back — not because you needed defending, but because that's who Luigi is; all sharp edges and fierce loyalty, a guard dog with his teeth bared in your honor, though, you catch the gesture in a reflection, and something warm unfurls in your chest.

Not because you needed saving, but because he'd always take your side, no matter the circumstances. He didn’t need to know why you were barking at this girl he’d never met before — he already knew you had good reason to do it.

You make it to the venue's back garden before your legs give out, and the fairy lights blur through tears you refuse to let fall. "Did you— fuck,” Your voice shakes as you reach to wipe away the tears before they even get the chance to glide down your cheeks. "Did you actually hear what she was saying or just see it?”

"Caught the greatest hits." His jaw is tight, his hand resting on your lower back as he hunches forward, clearly concerned but approaching all of it carefully.

You can’t help but wonder then how many times you’ll find yourselves like this — Luigi rescuing you from yet another mishap, and that alone could become a new reason to feel sorry for yourself.

And him.

"The article." You wrap your arms around yourself. "She read the fucking article."

Ironically, you had originally taken the article well.

Too well, in fact.

You'd invited them all over — Luigi, Anna, Theo — for what you called A Reading of My Professional Obituary. You'd spent all day in the kitchen, channeling your grandmother's stress-cooking legacy; bouillabaisse simmering for hours, Tarte Tatin caramelizing to golden perfection.

The good wine came out, the kind you'd been saving for a real occasion.

Perched in your chair like it was a throne, wine glass dangling from your fingers, you'd performed dramatic readings of the choicest quotes. "Sources close to the artist describe a history of emotional instability," you'd intoned, affecting a pompous art critic voice that had Luigi choking on his wine. "An unsettling collection that seemed less like art and more like a cry for help.”

The evening devolved into a tipsy game of "Guess the Snitch" — everyone taking turns suggesting increasingly ridiculous candidates for the mysterious source. "It was Gabby, in the gallery, with the emotional manipulation!" Theo had declared, wielding his bouillabaisse spoon like a gavel.

But Luigi had watched you through it all — the way your hand shook slightly when pouring wine, how your laugh got a little too loud to be genuine, and how you'd spent three hours making a perfect French dessert like your life depended on proving you weren't falling apart.

"We all did." Luigi reminds you, his voice gentle but firm. "Christ, we turned it into dinner theater. Remember how Anna did that dramatic interpretation of ' the unsettling collection'?" His hand finds your knee, squeezing. "And it was shit. Not only was it shit — it was cowardly. Didn't even have the spine to name you."

You tilt your head back, using the stars as gravity's help against the tears threatening to spill. The fairy lights from the wedding garden blur into little halos. "I know, but — these people, Lu." Your voice catches, and you hate how it betrays you. "They believe it. They're all walking around thinking I'm some unhinged artist who needs to be sedated and locked away from sharp objects." A laugh escapes, but it's wet and hollow. "God, I wish I'd understood what that article would do. I wish-"

But there's no point in wishing.

The damage was done with surgical precision.

They hadn't needed to use your name — everyone knew exactly whose exhibition had opened at Maxwell Gallery on August fifteenth.

Yours.

•

The hotel room feels smaller with each passing hour.

You've mastered a careful choreography — sliding past each other in the narrow spaces, maintaining precise distances on the king bed as you both pretend to watch some mindless cooking show. But sometimes, despite your best efforts, you slip. His hand brushes yours as you both reach for the room service menu, your feet touch under the shared blanket; each accidental contact sends you recoiling like a startled cat, though you used to fall asleep during movie nights without a second thought.

When your knee accidentally bumps his as you shift position, you jerk away so violently you nearly fall off the bed.

"Okay." Luigi mutes the TV, turning to face you. "We need to talk about this."

"About what?" But you know exactly what, can feel heat creeping up your neck and it makes you want to run.

"About how we used to share my twin bed during college when you crashed at my place, but now you act like my skin is fucking toxic." His voice is gentle, but there's an undercurrent of hurt that makes your core ache. "Remember that road trip to Detroit? You slept on my chest the whole way back because the car heater was broken.“ he looks desperate, grasping at the last straws of you. “I feel like we hardly look each other in the eyes now.”

You stare hard at the geometric pattern on the duvet, picking at a loose thread. "Things were different then."

"Were they?" He shifts closer, and you fight the urge to move away. "Or are you just scared they weren't?"

You get up abruptly, needing to put physical space between you and that question, the Chicago night spreading out beyond the window, a constellation of lights blurring through unshed tears; each one feels like a witness to this moment, to your cowardice.

"You know what changed," you say finally, arms crossed tight against your chest like armor. "After Maxwell, after the article, after everything became public consumption — I can't be that person anymore.”

"Why not?" His voice is closer now — he's moved to the edge of the bed, but he doesn't approach further. Giving you space while refusing to let you run.

Very classic Luigi.

A laugh escapes you, bitter and dry. "Because now everyone's watching. Waiting for the next shoe to drop. And you-“ You turn just enough to catch his reflection in the window, superimposed over the city lights. "You're too important to me, Lu.”

"So you'd rather just — what? Keep pretending?" There's frustration in his voice now, raw and real. "We both know that's not sustainable. Not when we used to-“ He trails off, and you recall the many countless nights on his cramped couch, your head on his chest, his heartbeat your lullaby to the most restful sleep you’d ever known.

"Maybe not," you admit quietly. "But it's safer than the alternative."

"Safer for who?"

The question almost knocks you off your feet.

Because he's right — this careful distance isn't protecting him. It's protecting you. From vulnerability. From the possibility of loss. From the terrifying reality that despite everything, despite all your jagged edges and dark corners, he's still here.

Still looking at you like you're something precious instead of precarious.

The silence stretches between you, heavy with all the things you're afraid to say, all the ways you're afraid to need him, and even more terrified of the way he needs you.

Eventually, you turn from the window, facing him. "It can't be simple. I won't let it be." Your voice catches. "I push and I pull and I keep everyone at arm's length until they prove me right by leaving."

Luigi stands slowly, like he's approaching a wild animal. "You've been trying so hard to make it impossible," he says softly. "Creating distance, convincing yourself I'll give up." He takes another step closer. "But loving you has always been the easiest thing I've ever done."

"Don't." The word comes out choked, your hand pressing against his chest in hopes that he’ll back away. "Don't say that when you know how complicated — how- how difficult-"

"Difficult?" He's close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, stood firm but not inching any closer. "You want to talk about difficult? Try watching you date other people. Try sitting across from you at coffee shops for years and watching you cry over them. Try fucking loving you quietly through every gallery opening, every crisis,“ his brows furrow, his nostrils flare, “you don’t get to tell me what loving you is like.”

Your breath catches as he reaches for you.

"You think you're pushing me away?" His voice is barely above a whisper, his hands finally cradling your face, tears dampening your cheeks that blaze with warmth. "I've been yours since that first night you fell asleep on my shoulder during finals week. Everything since then — it's just been waiting."

You clench your jaw, your heart a wild thing against your ribs. This tightrope you and Luigi have been walking for years — this delicate balance of almost-but-not-quite, of maybe-someday-but-not-now — has finally frayed beneath your feet. All those careful steps, those perfectly maintained distances, those nights of pretending your skin didn't burn where he almost touched you.

They’ve led you here, to this hotel room in Chicago, where the fantasy of staying safely suspended between friendship and something more has finally given way to gravity.

And what, you wonder, has Luigi seen in you to make him want to dive deeper into your chaos?

He's already witnessed the 3 AM phone calls when your mind won't quiet, the obsessive cleaning episodes that leave your hands raw and your apartment sterile. He's held you through the tears that come without warning, weathered the anger that burns hot and fast like summer lightning.

You're no manic pixie dream girl — you're the real thing, messy and unpredictable, with a heart that bleeds all over everything it touches.

He's either a storm chaser or a fool, you think.

Some hopeless beast tamer who hasn't realized that some creatures aren't meant to be gentled, that some storms leave nothing but wreckage in their wake.

But that's the thing — to Luigi, you've never been a storm to weather or a beast to tame. He doesn't look at you like you're broken machinery in need of repair, doesn't treat your edges like something to be smoothed away.

Instead, he's spent years matching your pace, stepping back when you needed space, stepping forward when you needed anchor. And now, finally, the weight of all that careful patience has brought him here — raw and honest in this dim hotel room, asking you to either meet him in this space between what you are and what you could be, or lay him to rest.

"Touch me," he says, the words falling soft but heavy in the space between you. His eyes hold yours, steady and sure, "Or let me go.”

The city lights paint his silhouette in gold and shadow, and you realize you've never seen him look so vulnerable, so stripped of the careful composure he always maintains. Your Luigi laid bare — not the patient friend, not the steady shoulder, but a man who's finally reached the end of his endurance.

"What if we break?" The question slips from your lips, small and honest, carrying all the weight of your fears that kept you at such a distance all these years — shattering to pieces, left broken by the man you’d loved the most.

Luigi's eyes soften, and something like a smile — sad and sweet and knowing — tugs at the corner of his lips. "Then we break," he says simply, his thumbs swiping away the tears that slide down your cheeks. "But I'd rather that than spend the rest of my life whole and wondering."

His hands haven’t moved. Patient, steady Luigi, who has never pushed but never fully retreated, either. Who has somehow found this perfect middle ground between staying and going, between asking and waiting.

And maybe that's what finally does it — the realization that he's offering you both beginning and end in the same breath. That he's standing here saying yes to all of it; the possibility of breaking, of shattering, of ending up with nothing but deadly carnage between you.

That he knows exactly what he's asking for, and he's asking anyway.

Your hand moves before you can think yourself out of it again, crossing the space between you like a prayer finally answered. When you cup his face, the scrape of stubble against your palm is both foreign and achingly familiar — like a song you used to know by heart, now half-remembered.

His eyes flutter closed at your touch, and you feel the slight tremor in his jaw, the way he leans into your hand like he's been starving for it.

His breath catches, shaky and soft, and when he speaks, his voice is rough with emotion. "There you are," he whispers against your palm, like he's greeting someone long lost, like you've finally come home after years away. "There you are."

His lips brush your palm once more before he lifts his gaze to yours, eyes dark with something between hope and heartache. "Tell me to pull away," he whispers, voice rough. "Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll go. I'll understand."

But his body betrays him — the slight tremor still present in his jaw under your touch, the way he's still leaning into your hand like he can't help himself. He's offering you an exit, even now. Steady, selfless Luigi, always making sure you have a way out, even when it's killing him to do so.

And that's what breaks you finally — not his touch or his words, but this endless capacity of his to put your needs first.

To stand here offering everything he has left and the chance to walk away from it.

His hand finds your waist, fingers pressing into soft flesh with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. That small sound seems to undo something in him — his control fractures, and suddenly he's pulling you down to him with a urgency that matches your own, your hands bracing against his chest, feeling the thundering of his heart beneath your palms.

"I've thought about this," he confesses roughly, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes heat pool low in your stomach, his thumb tracing a burning path along your hip bone. "Having you like this.”

You can feel the tension coiled in him, the way he's still holding back despite everything. Even now, he's giving you the chance to set the pace, to decide how far this goes. But you're done with hesitation, done with the careful distance you've maintained for so long.

You lean down, letting your lips brush against his ear. "Show me," you whisper, and feel him shudder beneath you. "Show me how you wanted me."

He moves with a swiftness that steals your breath, flipping your positions in one fluid motion. Now he's the one hovering above you, his forearm braced beside your head, other hand still at your waist.

The weight of him, the heat of him so close — it makes your head spin.

"Like this," he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. "Just like this." He holds you like you’ll run from him — just like he’s watched you run from everything before that doesn’t run from you first.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, feeling the tension there, the way he's trembling slightly despite his strength. "I'm here," you whisper back, one hand sliding up to cup his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."

[aciddrattboyy]

Wԋҽɳ Yσυ Mҽʂʂ Wιƚԋ Lσʋҽ

┆ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ - "your boyfriend arrives late for your study date and things(sex) happen"

ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇ ꜱᴛᴀᴛꜱ: ★ Starring: Mark Grayson x F! Reader ★ Run Time: 3.9k ★ Genre/Warnings: [Rated R: Drama/Rom/Adult Film] smut, both reader and mark lose their virginities, fingering(f!receiving), vanilla sex tbh, there will be eventual angst, set in au where they are in college before... (gulp) chicago incident, two part story ★ soundtrack: karma police, basta ya ★ pls pls pls any invincible fans HIT MY LINE i have no friends in this fandom and i desperately need them ★ 01 . 02 .

⋆｡°✩

noon. you invited mark over to your dorm at noon. it was three o’clock now, with no text messages or calls from your boyfriend; even after he assured you he’d be there about four hours earlier. mark had been… distant. constantly ditching you, not even showing up to dates or hangouts, or asking for rain checks if he had the decency to do even that. today was supposed to be a typical study date, with exams coming up you thought it would be nice. because even though mark left you hanging seemingly more often than not, the time he was there was, well, amazing. when he did manage to find the time for you he treated you like you were the best thing that ever happened to him, acted as the perfect, doting boyfriend. whether it was picking up your favorite food without asking or buying you a plushie of your favorite animal you didn't even remember telling him about, mark was loving.

but as the minutes ticked by, your phone continued being pathetically dry, and your dorm mark-less, you were starting to think maybe the good no longer outweighed the bad. with a sigh, you push back in your desk chair, slumping in the seat as you tipped your head back. you glanced over at your phone sitting atop a pile of books, almost mocking you with the lack of notifications, and thought about texting mark. again. dragging a hand down your face, you began to spin slowly in your chair, watching the room swirl by out of boredom. 

as you spun lazily, you could see your door slowly opening. and then there was mark, peeking his face through the crack, sporting that same guilty expression you were starting to think you saw more than him smiling. you plant your feet on the ground, coming to a halt as you looked at him with narrowed eyes and a frown. 

“if your excuse is you had to help your dad with work, lost track of time, or ‘had something to take care of’, save your breath,” you turn back to your desk, staring at the open textbook with your jaw clenched and brows pinched together. mark grimaced at your words, his hand twitching hesitantly on the doorknob, not sure if he should even come inside.

“alright no excuses,” he murmured softly, scratching at his nape as he stared at your back. sheepishly, he held up a plastic bag, the contents inside rustling softly. “but… how about an apology? starting with some food from that place you said you wanted to try?” mark’s voice had a hopeful lilt to it, although he knew he couldn’t keep fixing everything with food. he was entirely sure he’s been fixing anything at all, like a bandaid on a broken bone. but he also couldn’t exactly say: “sorry for being late to our study date. i promise i wanted to be here but my alien space dad made me go train with him since i just got super cool powers.”  it wouldn't be a secret identity if he started telling people. and unfortunately, people included you, no matter how much he didn’t want it to be this way. 

your glare aimed at your text book softened at his words, once again he had gone out of his way for you. acting as if he cared for you even as he was constantly blowing you off. a few quiet moments of you contemplating what to do pass by before you speak, turning in your chair slightly to look at him. 

“i guess that’s not a completely bad start.” marks face immediately lit up like an excited puppy as you spoke. it wasn’t a hard get the fuck out of my room and that was as good of a start as any when trying to make up for his major fuck ups. without missing a beat, he steps inside, closing the door behind him before toeing off his shoes, dropping his backpack near the foot of your bed and making his way over to you.  

“i uh got you a little bit of everything- well not everything everything but y’know a reasonable amount of-”

“thank you mark,” you cut him off quietly, not entirely sure how mad at him you still were. you take the bag from him, not able to meet his eyes as you set the bag down on your now limited desk space. mark stood somewhere to the side behind you, shoving his hands in his pockets as he rocked back on his heels.

“yeah, yeah no problem,” his voice cracked slightly and he winced at his own tone, feeling helpless and not at all sure how to really fix this without coming clean about his secret identity; something he could not do. the silence seems to drag on as you looked through the different containers. his eyes trailed over your desk and a fresh wave of guilt washed over him when he the notes scribbled into a notebook. “you.. um you got a lot of work done,” mark said awkwardly, grasping at straws to try to fix what he was rapidly breaking between you two. 

“yeah well it would’ve been easier if you had been here to help.” both of you freeze at your words that came out just a bit more harsh than you intended. mark frowned, not sure what to say. he reached out a hand, hovering it over your shoulder as he slowly opened his mouth. but you sighed before he can get anything out, running a hand through your hair before you turn in your chair to face with a faint frown of your own. “look, i’m sorry for talking to you like that. let’s just eat yeah? i’ve done enough studying for the both of us” you offer mark a small smile, one that he returns hesitantly. he takes a step back when you get up from your chair, grabbing the bed and heading over to your bed. 

“yeah that… sounds good.” mark nods, following you over to the bed. he sits next to you, mirroring your cross legged posture with his back leaning against the wall. he slowly scoots closer as you pull out the various containers until your knees are touching. you didn’t acknowledge it, but you didn't pull away and that was as good of a win as any. his eyes light up with an idea before leaning over the edge of the bed to grab his laptop. “thought we could watch something while we ate.” he offers softly, already turning on youtube and putting on the type of videos he remembered you telling him you watched sometime in the past. you nod at him softly, your smile growing both in size and genuineness just a bit.

“good thinking,” you respond softly, the anger already subsiding just from being with him. mark had a way of making you feel good, even if it wasn't for long, even if he upset you more often than you’d really like. you knew deep down he was still a good guy, and you desperately wanted to see him be better. wanted to see him start living up to his apologies.

the two of you eat in a somewhat comfortable silence, interrupted by laughs or brief commentary on what you were watching. and everything starts to feel normal again. for you, but also for mark. for just right now he wasn’t Invincible. he was mark grayson, a freshman in college with the more amazing girlfriend by his side. it felt nice to feel normal again, even if he had been waiting his whole life to get powers, to be just like his dad. you find yourself curled up against mark’s side, watching random videos with your head on his shoulder and his arm wrapped loosely around your waist. the sun was starting to set, the fading sunlight casting shadows and warm orange light through the blinds. 

when you tilt your head to look up at mark, he meets your gaze. his lips slowly pull into a goofy smile that makes you huff with amusement.

“why’re you looking at me like that?” you murmur playfully while tracing idle shapes over the fabric covering his chest. he pulls you closer, the movement almost imperceptible as his expression turns warm.

“you’re just so pretty,” mark answered just as softly, getting lost in your eyes with a stupid smile. only a second passes before he realizes what he’s said; his eyes widen, face flushing red as he sputters out apologies while trying to pull away. “oh shit that was so stupid- fuck im sorr-” before mark could run away and hide, you grab his face and pull him into a kiss. he lets out a muffled noise of surprise, eyes wide before his brain catches up to what was happening. then he’s humming softly instead, hands finding your waist as he kissed you back gently. “wha… what was that for?” he whispered breathlessly when you pulled away, your faces only inches apart. 

“am i not allowed to kiss my boyfriend?” you ask teasingly, smile only growing as your swipe your thumbs over his cheeks.

“no- i mean yes- uh yeah you can kiss me,” he lets out an almost self deprecating laugh, hands squeezing your waist gently. “i’m fucking this up aren’t i?” you pull him into another kiss, languidly moving your lips against his.

“i think you’re doing just fine,” your fingers tangle in mark’s hair, deepening the kiss, starting it off slow, gentle, but one thing led to another and soon enough you’re pulling him closer as you fall back against the sheets. mark follows you willingly, hovering over you with his hands on either side of your head. one of mark’s legs slot in between yours, involuntarily pressing his knee against the apex of your thighs. you gasp softly against his lips, grip tightening in his hair. when you roll your hips, a shudder runs through both you and mark when he realized what you were doing. the revelation only served to send blood straight to his already semi-hard dick.  

the kissing grows frenzied, the air between you heavy with harsh panting and even messier kissing. your laptop had been precariously moved out of the way and onto the corner of your desk. both of your shirts? thrown god knows where. was this all happening just a bit too fast? maybe… probably… definitely. but slowing down seemed to be the last thing on your mind along with mark’s. who was now practically buzzing with nervous excitement and lust. he’d kissed you before, many times actually. but never like this. never half clothed and making out with you as if you were trying to eat each other’s faces off while you ground your hips against his knee.

shifting slightly, mark props himself up on his elbow, body pressing more firmly on top of yours. he smooths his free hand up your waist, hesitantly thumbing over the hem of your bra as he waited for some sort of signal to stop. but none came, in fact, he could feel your back slightly arch into his touch. he let out a low groan, muffled by your lips, the obvious tent in his sweats pressed snuggly against your thigh. for a brief moment he thought maybe he should be embarrassed. but how could he when you seemed to just as affected. and somehow a lot more confident… with a gasp, and much reluctance, mark pulls his mouth off of yours, panting heavily against your lips.

“have you uh… y’know… before?” his voice was barely a whisper, face feeling hot and eyes slightly widened as he looked down at you.

“no…” you start, your voice equally as quiet as you prop yourself up on your elbows. “is it that obvious?” your brows twitched, just barely pinching together with a hint of worry and newfound self consciousness. 

“no- no no!” mark quickly squeaks out, shaking his head with wide eyes. “i just- you seem so- so…” he trails off, not entirely sure what to say anymore.

“we don’t have to keep going if you don’t want to. do you want to stop?” your voice was soft, a small smile on your face in hopes of making sure mark knew his comfort was important above all. but it only served to make mark feel more… feel more of whatever was making his stomach flip and his cock twitch against your thigh in a way that was getting harder to ignore. he swallowed the lump in his throat when thought about what ‘keep going’ would actually entail. 

“um… no. not really,” he murmured softly, a sheepish smile on his face. he feels his face heat up all over again at the admission. but before he can doubt himself, you’re smiling at him. and then you were kissing him, and it was like you had never even stopped at all. 

the kissing quickly grows heated, hands fumbling to rip each others pants off through breathless giggles and sloppy kisses until mark was seated between your open legs; both of you in nothing but your underwear and your bra long gone. mark smoothed his hands over your inner thighs, chest still somewhat heaving from the rather heavy makeout session just moments ago. he swallowed thickly, thumbs tracing over the lacy edges of your panties. his head snaps up when he hears a small noise leave your lips. the kind of noise that has his body going hot all over again.

“can i…?” mark wasn’t sure what he was exactly asking permission for. but the way you were looking up at him made him pray to any existing god that he was granted the sexual prowess of a veteran pornstar just for tonight. upon seeing you nod your head, he sucks in a deep breath, feeling both a wave of arousal and anxiousness. with shaky hands, he hooks his fingers under the waistband of your underwear and slowly pulls them off of you. looking at your naked body, mark was afraid he’d bust right then and there. but then your voice, soft and playful, cut through his thoughts currently being led by his dick. 

“c’mere,” you reach out, tugging on his hand and pulling him closer until he was hovering over you again. the backs of your thighs resting atop of his, the bulge in his boxers not too far from your pussy. you could tell he was a little nervous. and although you never got verbal confirmation, it was clear to see that mark was a virgin; somehow more a virgin than even you were. you card a hand in the hair at his nape, pulling him into a kiss that seemed to make mark relax just a bit. kissing was good. kissing was familiar territory. and after a small while, you placed your free hand on top of his hand not supporting his weight and slowly inch his palm downwards. 

marks breath hitched in his throat, body temporarily going still. that is until he felt how fucking wet you were as you guided his middle and ring finger through your soaked folds. a guttural groan vibrates through his chest, only barely muffled by your tongue in his mouth. 

you were panting against his lips now, soft mewls escaping you led his fingers to circle your clit. teaching him what you liked, how you wanted to be touched. and to mark’s credit, he was a very fast learner. soon enough he was moving on his own, your hand holding onto his wrist instead as he pumped two fingers inside of you. he ground his palm against your clit, making your hips buck into his hand as the pleasure just kept building. 

“o-oh fuck-” you cry out when he hits that sensitive spot inside you, arms wrapping around his neck as you nuzzle your face against the sensitive skin just below his jaw. if it were not for the string of muffled moans leaving your lips, even mark was able to tell you were getting close almost embarrassingly fast by the way your thighs trembled against his and how your hips snapped up to meet each thrust of his fingers. “fuck- fuck ‘m gonna- hah-” 

mark felt like he was almost there with you; he could feel the damp patch on his boxers growing as his dick continued to throb in it’s confines, leaking a lot of precum. his hips twitched involuntarily, searching for some sort of relief. but he would continue to push his own wants aside, breathing heavily through his nose as he peppered your collarbone with wet kisses and focused solely on making you cum. and that he did. biting back a moan of his own at the feeling of your walls clenching around his fingers, your whole body going taut under him as you held onto him tighter. 

after a few moments filled with only heavy breathing, your body goes limp against the sheets as he pulls his fingers out with a soft squelch. there was a very satisfied smile on your face as you looked up at mark, who somehow looked more fucked out than you. 

“you were… surprisingly good at that.”

“ha, thanks… hey, wait what do you mean surprisingly?” you giggle softly at the small pout on his lips, lifting your head just enough to press a kiss against his lips.

“don’t think about it too much,” you mumble as you pull back, trailing your hands down his sides until your palms met the waistband of his boxers. “uh there’s condoms in the drawer if you…” you trail off, eyes widening when you realized what you had just implicated. “i- i didn’t buy them they were uh- a gift from my roommate a while ago…” you look up at mark with narrowed eyes after seeing the way his lips were pursed, twitching with the force he had to use to keep himself from smiling. for now, mark would bite his tongue, not wanting to face your wrath when his dick was so hard it was starting to hurt. 

“condoms. got it.” the words were strained under the weight of his stifled laughter, but before you could comment on it, he was already leaning over you. rummaging through your night stand, he was able to pull one out, settling between your legs with the gold foil in his hands. “but are you sure you want to do this?” there was a hint of vulnerability in his tone, sounding almost worried that you’d regret being with him, or you were for some reason only doing this out of pity. but then you were giving him that warm smile and nodding your head, and suddenly all doubt jumped out the window. 

through more muted laughter and clumsy, inexperienced hands, the two of you manage to get the condom on without mark blowing his load then and there. placing his hands on your hips, he leans down to kiss your lips, rubbing soft circles on your skin with his thumbs. you hum into his lips, gently holding onto his biceps as you kiss him back just as passionately. but when mark reaches a hand between your bodies to line his tip with your hole, the energy shifts. less playful and more so intense, romantic. like the both of you realize what you were doing, and what it means for the relationship going forward. 

“are you sure?” mark whispers against your lips, eyes fluttering open to gauge your reaction.

“yeah, yeah i am,” you breathe out, eyes shining with something that made mark’s stomach flip in an almost scarily good way. he nods, adams apple bobbing before he presses his lips against yours again. he snakes his free hand up the bed, intertwining his fingers with yours above your head as his hips slowly push forward. it takes a little while of patience and whispering sweet nothings to each other before the two of you are comfortable enough for mark to start moving, the whole situation intense for both of you in a way that was both exciting and a little nerve wracking. 

“h-holy fuck-” mark’s voice comes out as a shaky pant, head hanging as he looked down at where your bodies met. his hand in your squeezes gently, the other holding onto your hip as he slowly rolls his hips; pulling out until only the tip was inside before slowly pushing back. “feel s’good,” he groans softly, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck as he continued to slowly fuck into your wet heat. his hand leaves your hips, entwining his with yours and pinning you to the mattress. you bite your lip, muffling the whimpers and moans spilling from your mouth. squeezing his hands tightly, you tilt your head when you feel mark starting to suck and nip at the skin of your neck

“y-you can- nngh- go faster,” your breathy words do not fall on deaf ears. mark’s whole body stills for just a second before slightly readjusts on top of you. the moment he quickens his pace, both of you are turning into moaning messes. kissing sloppily and exchanging spit as the cheap bedframe rocks slowly with mark’s movement. he lets go of one of your hands, reaching down to rub messy circles on your clit with the pad of his thumb.

it didn’t take long for mark to get close, hips already stuttering as he teetered on the edge as your cunt fluttered and clenched around him. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, muffling any and all embarrassing noises that leaves his lips. your hips buck up to meet his with each thrust, thighs shaking with your own impending orgasm. your nails rake down his back in a way that has mark groaning against your skin.

intense orgasms hit you both at the same time; mark’s thighs trembling right along yours as his hips jerkily buck his dick inside you until he spilled every last drop into the condom. collapsing on top of you, the room is silent save for heavy breaths and the smell of sex. after a few moments, mark presses a soft kiss to your jaw before slowly pulling out and flopping onto his back next to you with a content sigh after tossing the condom into the trash bin under your desk. 

“that was…”  mark turns on his side, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling your back flush against his warm chest. nuzzling his face against your hair. “was… amazing,”  he murmured softly, voice full of bliss as he held you tight. you giggle softly, letting your body melt into his warm embrace. at some point, you both clean up; with shrugging on a shirt and underwear and mark slipping back into his sweatpants. cuddling up under your sheets, it was easy to fall asleep in his arms, perfectly content and feeling loved.

i hope you enjoyed !! reblogs/comments are very appreciated <3 ʟᴏʙʙʏ ﹕ꜰɪʟᴍᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜʏ 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

[sadlynotthevoid]

Tbh, ever since I saw this one anime scene in youtube where an old man told (who i suppose was) the mc of course he'd recognize his own son, he's his dad (as in, he noticed the person in the body wasn't his own son anymore), I think my expectatives went a bit way too up.

That said, I think what bothered me wasn't that no one noticed he changed, but that they did and, at least in Krs!Cale's side, no one went to him about it.

I mean, team 1's first thought when Heniroksoo exhibited not-rok soo behaviour was going to check on him to see if he was okay. They were concerned for his health, thinking he could have hit his head or something.

Meanwhile in Krs!Cale's side, people didn't worry until he went and ended up getting hurt. Which, valid. Most of them didn't meet him until the soul swap had already happened. But his family saw him suddenly start to act strange and went like "oh well" and Deruth specifically was "oh well, I have more urgent matters to take care of". Sir??? that's your damn son!

And like, I know they noticed he changed but— *frustrated noises* it gave off the impression that they were relieved. And if they had talked about it and gotten the impression that Cale just changed, matured, whatever, it wouldn't bother me. But they didn't (at least I don't remember they doing so, or they didn't as far as I read. No, sending your butler to stalk him doesn't count. Not all issues can be told at first sight), they just shrugged and kept with their day. It gives me the feeling that they thought of him like you think of troublesome matters you don't want to deal with. Like, "as long as is not a problem". (To be fair, I really don't expect Bassen or Lily to have such talk with their older brother. They're kids. But Deruth is his father—)

And also, or what they know there could had been a problem, just one they didn't notice or that didn't cause trouble as his usual self. I mean, team 1 was into something, he could have hit his head. He could have been blackmailed and the behaviour being a side effect of seeing just one side of the picture. It's a fantasy world, he could have been possessed by a ghost or something. He could have decided to complete a bucket list (which actually makes sense btw). Uh, I really don't know about this but maybe a personality disorder? They didn't really know what was going on. But they also didn't really cared until Cale started to get hurt, which was after he changed so... Yeah, it bothers me because it makes me feel bad for OgCale.

Now I need an AU where they don't exchange bodies, but OgCale's starts acting odd anyways. Like, toning down his lout behaviour, being less harsh and so, maybe doing strange stuff but that doesn't really affect them. And turns out he's completing a bucket list or got amnesia and is trying to hide it.

And his family and such don't start to worry until way later on, when the realization something big happened hits them in the face (let's be real, I mostly mean Deruth and any other responsible adult). Luckily, Rok Soo (maybe ogCale's new friend, maybe a classmate or coworker, maybe the guy from ogCale's usual cafe) got involved way earlier and they (as in Rok Soo, whoever comes with him, and OgCale) were handling it.

Sometimes i forget everyone *did* notice something was up when cale and og cale switched in both worlds. Team 1 noticed, but also literally everyone at the henituse fief. Its just that noone is abt to guess “a person from another world took over his body”, the most supernatural thing ppl might have guessed would prolly be “he got three ghosts of christmased”

[muletia]

I can’t cook for the life of me but uh, here goes (baby’s first ask off anon lmao)

Imagine the newly exiled Megatron (formerly D16) just being tired and stressed from all the hassle of establishing the new pecking order (while I figure the majority of the old high guard backs him, there are not too keen on this newer, younger bot taking command) and he finds comfort in resting with the reader. Like… he’s resting his helm on their chest, trying to keep it together, but reader is able to reassure him he’s what is best for the Decepticon cause as their leader and he’s worthy of his position.

Okay I’m gonna scurry away now under my rock like a little pill bug and not make everyone sad. :3

[tfo] megatron x human!reader

word count: 600

very short, took me way longer than it should cuz words weren't wording but I needed to write about tfo megs

Silence. Peace. When was the last time he had a chance to spend time in his habsuite? When was the last time he allowed himself intimacy with you? When did he last have time to catch his breath?

He doesn't remember. That's why he wants to squeeze every last nanoklik out of this fleeting privacy. Before the chaos returns, the conflicts resurface, and the venomous glares at the back of his helm return. Before the guilt over everything that happened in Iacon manages to catch up with him. Buries his mass-displaced helm deeper into your chest, as if trying to fuse the two of you together, shrinking the world around down to just you. Desperately trying not to break, not to scare you away with the turmoil reigning in his processor. Holding you close for as long as he possibly can, because you are the only being keeping him from breaking down and destroying everything in his path.

There’s so much he wants to tell you. About the chaos, the disorder. About how Starscream drives him to madness. About the expectations he still cannot meet. Wants to pour all his stress, frustration, and grief into words, feelings that claw at his glossa like wild animals begging to be set free. But he knows the walls have ears. A newly appointed leader cannot appear overwhelmed, let alone uncertain. Yet peace is a privilege, and unloading his emotional burden is a treasure he cannot afford. He must be strong. Resilient. No feelings. No stress.

“You’re doing great,” you say, stroking his massive helm, heavy with worry.

But he already has a weakness. The greatest one. Painful and unbearable, because the mere thought of losing you dims the spark burning within him with passion.

“You are a good leader. The best and the only one worthy of such a demanding and difficult position,” you add, placing the gentlest, most tender kiss on the top of his helm. That brief contact with your lips momentarily overshadows his suffering.

Wants to tell you how deeply grateful he is for your mere presence. How much he appreciates that you’re here with him, that you’ve stayed after the torment in the mines and, of your own free will, chose to join him. After everything he’s done, you witnessed his cruelty firsthand. Offer him comfort he doesn’t deserve. He isolates you, and separates from the rest out of fear that someone might use you against him. Knows he doesn’t deserve your affection, knows he causes you pain and suffering, knows he can be harsh and aggressive. And he hopes you understand that he has to be this way. Though he cannot fathom how you can greet him with open arms. Every time. Without a trace of hatred, always with a joyful smile.

“Only you can lead the Decepticons to the glory they deserve. You deserve,” you say, offering another kiss that melts his spark. Megatron slides his servo behind your back to gently caress it with his thumb, anchoring himself even further in this rare sense of comfort. “You are strong. Resourceful. Able to handle every challenge.”

He’s not yet sure of your words. They’re too raw, spoken too soon. They build confidence and reassure him — oh, how they comfort and soothe the urge to cry — but he wants to let them ripen because he must believe in them himself.

For now, he’s content with the closeness. With having his own corner where you always wait for him, with your delicate hands cradling his helm so tenderly, with moments when he can rest. Your presence is enough. One day, he’ll tell you everything. About the ugly and the messy, the most hidden and intangible parts of himself. But for now, this is enough. It has to be.

[cheesycatz]

Parasitic worm pretends to be your valentine so you don't notice that they're the reason you have 24 days left to live

Wormton AU fic is 190k words now! : )

Nothing crazy new plot wise, more bonding and found family stuff. Obligatory fluff after how much these guys had to go through. I like describing all the sounds he makes when isn't trying to suppress them; chirps, warbles, trills, chirrs, chitters, screeches, snarls, and that weird computer whirring sound he makes that may or may not have the same connotations as purring (sorry I couldn't resist)

I'm excited to go through revisions! It's been so long since I wrote some of this stuff that I don't remember the fine details, so it's genuinely fun for me to read through. Also, I had fun making disguised wormton seem as cursed as possible without actually describing his real form until post-reveal. Blue was probably the only one who didn't think he was some deranged serial killer at first sight, which, fair enough. I was kind of worried about a few very minor original characters I added not being accepted, but then I remembered that Trashy the trash can probably has more speaking lines than any one of them and it probably isn't that big of a deal. I hope you enjoy the one chapter with these three kids putting their LPS animal dolls through the most traumatizing, heart-wrenching, dark story as we all did as children (I promise it's plot relevant and contains symbolism).

Drew some non-canon wormton stuff for Valentine’s Day. I mean, I don't know how you would send a valentine to an elusive homeless man with no official documentation of his existence. The asexually reproducing computer worm guy can't feel anything romantic, but he would love to take advantage of you—gladly accept your lovely gifts. Bro’s just teasing haha he would never inject parasitic worm larvae into your abdomen just don't go to the doctor in the next 24 days please he definitely loves you and not the worms hypothetically eating your organs

“worm.vbs” is a reference to the file type used by the ILOVEYOU worm and other old malware. I only know this because I realized that one of the official spamton valentines from last year contains its exact file name “LOVE-LETTER-FOR-YOU.TXT.vbs”. sharing this trivia because it was like the one reference in those valentines that I didn't see anyone mention back then and because it makes me feel smart

Food for thought:

Honestly, he'd be pretty scary if it weren't for his justified fear of the antivirus forces. Malworm safety is all about avoiding disembodied voices trying to lure you into alleys, so the fact that you can physically see his relatively humanoid disguised form would make him seem dangerously trustworthy. I was thinking about what would've happened if he would've gotten help from the person on the phone (probably gaster I guess? idk). He could've totally been like a cult leader manipulating people into willingly becoming hosts because it was honorable or whatever. And that could combine with the fact that their venom slightly influences the brain. And the followers would've thought he was simply dressing up as a malworm and his fall from grace would've been when they realized he was just a malworm in disguise infecting them and prolonging the invasion. I prefer what I have now; lonely hypothetically-murderous wormton is a lot more redeemable than very-murderous cult leader wormton would be. The addisons, or anyone really, would want nothing to do with him. Fun to think about! And only to think about; I'd rather focus on the version I have now.

See you next time at the big 200k 👀 chapter 3 might actually come out before my multi-book-length spamton fanfiction but don't worry I would never abandon my favorite freak of nature

yappin complete B)

[oneirophasia]

I like thinking about how The Murderbot Diaries could be adapted. I enjoy the conceit that much or all of the footage/animation is technically in first-person - but, true to character, Murderbot frequently prefers to hijack drones and other environmental cameras as an emotional distancing mechanism, allowing changes in POV to communicate its emotions without forcing Murderbot to explicitly comment on them. :D Visual media obviously want less narration than literature (sometimes to its detriment), but fortunately Murderbot has the excuse of lacking a Watson or anyone else it's willing to talk to, especially for half the first book, so there's plenty of justification for a minimal level of snarky cyber-noir commentary. The tonal contrast between its internal monologue and everything it actually says is important!

Treating the "camera" as an explicit extension of Murderbot's perspective also slightly simplifies the problem that a lot of the action and dialogue happens in a way that's tricky to convey passively in only two senses. For one, people talk to each other regularly not just vocally, but over the feed. How can that distinction be made clear to the audience without constantly having to say so? Audio is the most obvious choice; maybe the dialogue has processing effects that give it a subtle electronic tint. Earlier scenes could establish the convention by showing augmented humans continuing to talk by closing their mouths and using subvocal jaw movements, accompanied by the processing change, setting up that association to use without the visual cue later. It'd be important that the effect be distinctive without making the dialogue incomprehensible, since music and sound effects would also still be part of the mix. But "the feed" isn't just one feed, either - not everyone uses the same public channel, and sometimes that's plot-relevant. I remember in Rogue Protocol there was a moment where Murderbot has a brief conversation with someone - I think it was Abene? - which starts vocally, then moves to the feed, then to a private channel. The same people are speaking, or else you could use that to imply the change, but it's important to the audience that other people in the group who aren't currently speaking can only hear some of it. How do you communicate that efficiently? "Sounds digital" is one thing, "sounds digital but in two or more distinct and consistent ways" is another level and outside my limited AV knowledge. (If Murderbot is narrating when other people are around we might also need tone for "asides no one heard but the audience", but that isn't anything new at least.)

That's relatively trivial compared to the broader problem that Murderbot, specifically, is constantly talking to and hacking computer systems. That's at least half of its job and plot participation, but it's also a core part of its characterisation as an insubordinate non-human that makes it a compelling protagonist, so "just write it out of the script" would clearly betray the spirit of an adaptation. I don't know if you've thought about how much effort directors went to until someone (possibly on Sherlock) figured out how to just present text messages on-screen in a dynamic and legible way? This is worse. Viewers don't necessarily need as much information as readers get, but I just finished Exit Strategy and was paying attention to what I was actually imagining visually while Murderbot:

Remotely contacts a gunship using false authentication so it won't notify its human crew

Casually disables security devices and erases itself from recordings

Distinguishes systems by which organisation they belong to, how much access it has to them, and whether they have an active human operator

Sorts personal memories to edit into a highlights reel

Briefly redirects a secure call at a critical moment

Fakes a glitch in decorative holography

Exploits the perimeters of security systems that don't directly communicate with each other to evade pursuit

Monitors transit traffic to deduce enemy movement and change plans accordingly

Hijacks all the drones in a large room and blocks attempts to regain control

Reclassifies enemy combatants mid-engagement

Secures a pilot bot in the middle of being destroyed by killware

Creates bait to lure said killware into a subsystem that can be physically disconnected

Good thing I was imagining a broadly POV camera framing anyway, because none of this is happening physically, and Murderbot isn't experiencing it through human-analogous senses. The challenge is to communicate all of that without impeding the story it's meant to support, without the advantage of being able to control pacing through text. The usual trope for creating visual interest in the visually-unexciting activity of "using a computer" is to portray it as happening physically anyway in a metaphorical cyberspace, but I don't think that actually works in this case, because remember: a lot of this happens during climactic action scenes, and blocking fight choreography can be disorienting enough as it is without also constantly flickering into virtual reality just long enough to flip an imaginary switch. It makes more sense to me to represent it as more of an augmented reality overlay, which... the problem there isn't really that that sounds like creating an entire imaginary UI, which isn't different in principle from set design making sure all the buttons are labelled consistently on the spaceship console, the problem is that usually the audience isn't watching through the console. You'd need to treat the HUD elements as normal and use them at least often enough that when they become important the audience will be ready to follow along without exposition, but cluttering the screen can be distracting enough when you're playing an game and is probably even worse in a non-interactive medium.

[pianokantzart]

This can’t be the Mandela effect, but based on your Brooklyn adventures post, I’m damn sure an Illumination employee's resume included a “Mario Bros Short”. I assume it was an epilogue in which we saw Mario and Luigi utilise their newfound power in their job. Some of the customer reviews on the SMB Plumbing website after the movie's release would have foreshadowed it. One review said that the Bros traveled from Brooklyn to Queens in “seconds” while another stated that they simply jumped to the top of a building when the elevator wasn’t working.

I can’t be the only one who remembers this. Does it ring a bell?

Though the Super Mario Bros. Plumbing website is (sadly) long taken down, I do remember those particular customer reviews. I also faintly recall that rumor about a Super Mario Bros short, but it has been such a while since then with no word of it actually happening.

Who knows if it got canceled, is intended to be released later on to hype up the upcoming sequel, or some bit of information got completely misinterpreted and there was never a short at all... but a ten minute slice-of-life animation of Mario and Luigi's antics in Brooklyn and The Mushroom Kingdom would be a dream come true, honestly.

[umikawa]

a/n: omg ANOTHER senku fic?? Sedate me. I went off topic in this fic and didn’t even try to redeem myself so 🙏 writing Stanley next, wish me luck

senku ishigami x gn!reader | no warnings, set at the end of the village origins arc. 970 wc. Lot of dialogue cause that’s just how I roll (｀_´)ゞ

Senku was tired. 

Thoughts raced in his mind at a mile a minute, never-ending and constantly sprouting. On paper, he was sure it’d mimic the nervous system. Each thought that crossed his mind bothered him to no bounds, leading him to sleepless nights where he would devise plans for any situation that could happen. 

Like how to handle animal attacks like the one with Taiju in the beginning. What to do if there were (somehow) a fish shortage. What the plan was if an unknown settlement comes suddenly to raid the village. What to do if the Tsukasa empire decides to take action first…

For once (more than he’d admit), thinking made his head hurt. A groan leaves his lips as he holds his head in his hands, rubbing his temples in an attempt to soothe himself. 

“Another late night?” 

He turns around slowly, watching with parted lips as you approach him, a tray with two steaming cups in your hands. “Yeah.” Is all that he can come up with, mouth running dry. He can’t remember the last time he stopped to have a drink.

“You know, for someone as knowledgeable as you, I’d hoped you know that sleeping can be very beneficial to your health.” Senku chuckles at your words, gratefully taking the cup of tea from your hands. “What’s got you so worked up?” 

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, taking a long sip to mask his uncertainty. “I'm just thinking about how this whole thing will play out.” It’s not a lie; he is worried about how everything will go, but it isn’t what he hoped to say. Though, he isn’t too sure what he wanted to say in the first place. 

You hum, leaning against the edge of his workbench. Your eyes trail over the mess of scribbles on the papers in front of him to the notable bags under his eyes. “Have faith,” Senku nearly rolls his eyes. “Believe in your comrades, and everything will fall into place.” 

He nearly jumps out of his skin at the feeling of your hand holding onto his chin, blinking up at you with wide eyes as you tilt his chin. “You should rest, Senku. A general can’t lead an army with only a wink of sleep.”

He laughs to himself, shutting his eyes as he pulls away from your warm touch. “I know.” Is all he responds with. He knows you're right, but he goes back to the drawing board anyway, ignoring the irregular beating in his chest. “You can go.” 

His tone held no malice or annoyance at the blatant dismissal, his words gentle as he cast a glance your way. You’d walked away from the table, standing behind him now, likely to aid him in his next endeavor. 

Once again, Senku jolts at the feeling of your touch. Your arms wrap around his waist from behind, your head pressed in the space between his shoulder blades, and your fingers clutch the fabric of his tunic. 

“What’s gotten into you?” He asks. Voice strained to keep himself from shouting or worse– trembling.

“Come to bed, Senku.” You’d whispered, pulling on his tunic gently. He sighs, running a hand through his hair as the slightest bit of annoyance builds up. 

Not with you, with himself for ignoring his health to the point you were concerned. 

“Alright.” He sighs, turning around in your hold. You weaken your grip the slightest. Senku wonders if you thought he’d run away if otherwise. “Don’t worry, I won’t run.” 

“You’d better not, " you mumble, releasing him fully. Your hand slips into his, fingers intertwining in place. He felt like they were meant to fit together. Senku quirks a brow. “Just in case. Though I’m sure you wouldn’t be able to get very far with your… stamina.”

He rolls his eyes, allowing you to lead him out of the lab. Twigs and dirt crunch under your steps as you approach his hut. His eyes trailed around the village, and a part of him was praying that no one was awake to see you and him together. 

Not that anything was wrong with that– it’d just be another annoyance he’d have to deal with. 

Senku blinks down at your intertwined hands. When was the last time he held hands with someone? Did he ever? A flash of Byakuya crosses his mind, and a smidge of sadness crosses his face at the thought–right, when they went to see fireworks. 

He figures the look was still etched on his face when you entered his hut. Your hand comes to his face, thumb brushing over his knitted brows. He ignores the touch, his eyes lifting to meet yours. 

Instead of asking him what was wrong, as he thought you would, you wordlessly pulled him into you, fingers carding into his hair and ruffling it around. He groans out a noise of protest, frowning at the wide smile on your face.

“There’s something wrong with you,” he says, rolling his eyes when you pinch his cheeks. “Ten billion percent.” You don’t say a word in response, only messing his hair up even more until it falls in front of his eyes. “You’re weird.”

You scoff at the insult, pinching his chin. “Yeah? And what are you, normal?” He nods, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re the craziest guy in this village, Senku. I assure you.” He chuckles at your words, and only then does he realize what you’ve done for him. 

Tore him away from his work, successfully relieving him of his stress and calming his mind. 

Except his mind wasn’t calm, and a million thoughts swarmed his head the second he locked eyes with you again. Did you always make his heart race when you looked at him?

And when did you get so… pretty?

[theharmonious13]

Guys hear me out (this is a YouTube animatic/animation community deepcut I think??? At least for me it is)

🎵 Two Birds on a Wire 🎵

Kamimura and Hasegawa

"One tries to fly away" - Kamimura

"And the other watches him close from that wire" - Hasegawa

It summarises their relationship PERFECTLY

I can already imagine scenes now in my head. Kamimura branching out to Tamba, Mai etc. while Hasegawa watches him quietly in the background clinging to his one and only friend. And then literally every single

And the song is symbolic of so many things, ranging from Kamimura's more outgoing nature to his character development in finding a reason to live/future plans outside the killing game. Meanwhile Hasegawa is very introverted and closed off, he's reluctant to leave his room before and after Kamimura's death, deep down he wants to follow in Kamimura's confident footsteps but can't get himself to. Especially when they split up for the first time during the killing game :3

~~~

Other duos this would work for in my head (in chronological order of how passionate I feel about the ideas):

Tsuno and Wada: Literally their whole screentime together. As Wada struggles in countless ways throughout the chapters while Tsuno "tries to fly away" by being super duper helpful to the group OR by opening the woodshop door. Perfect duality by having Wada reluctantly not open the door, and Tsuno hyping him up in her final moments :3

Okazaki and Watari: Their differences and friendship exemplified, the sadness and bittersweetness of them having fun together as Okazaki does fucked up things to Wada and the others in the background. Watari having her final moments with Okazaki saying how she hates her, and breaking down at their unmistakable differences in morals. I love how both characters were bold in personality, but Okazaki was on a different level of existence to everyone else, and how she was delusional/thought that playing the role of a villain would solve all of her problems. I would be evil and draw Watari looking through glass at Okazaki's final moments of her being filled up with gold :3

Sasaki and Yanagi: Case 1 Angst mainly highlighting their estranged relationship in Chapter 1 and how they technically work together in the trial before Yanagi has to spit out the horrifying truth. Imagine Yanagi's face as Sasaki gets executed, and wanting to know why she used him afterwards. So much delicious angst, I love it hehe

Hama and Chiba: a HUGE commentary of Chiba's life during the killing game, how she's reluctant to live a normal life because she feels she's unable to. And Hama living his life with kindness/confidence while trying to get Chiba to do the same. Before something unfortunate and heartbreaking happens to Chiba regarding a certain tiger :3

Mai and Yanagi: Mainly an End Chapter 3/Beginning Chapter 4 recap following their interactions and fight regarding unlocking the door. Mai literally tries to break down the door out in the open while Yanagi tries to pick the lock in secret. If that doesn't scream the duality of these two/the song I don't know what does. Also them making plans together, being glad to have each other's company

Isono and Wada: Mainly a fun little recap of their relationship transformation, from streamer/viewer/parasocial to friends. It's a great way to highlight chapter 1 Wada too, he's very closed off and reluctant to get help from what I remember, you can even pan forwards to Tsuno's death/Chapter 4 Wada to see how angsty is he/far he's come. OR close it off with Wada talking to Isono quietly/in solidarity in her room. Or omg, breaking the PC when Wada finds out about the reward :333333

*Always assume for the above that the first person listed is "one tries to fly away" and person two is "and the other"

For example: Kamimura (Person 1) and Hasegawa (Person 2)

~~~

I feel so passionately about it being for Hasemura but this song resonates with so many of the cast duos it's unreal

[not-poignant]

Hi Pia,

I just wanted to say you are an inspiration to me. I'm in my twenties and also struggling with an insane amount of health issues with new ones constantly popping up, which makes me feel like I will never be able to do anything with my life. Except maybe for writing, because I can do that in my bed and I love escaping into fictional worlds.

I don't know much about your life except what you share in the author's notes, but knowing that you're living life out there and writing these amazing stories despite all your health issues gives me hope. Unfortunately I live in the US, so it's easy to fall into a spiral of doom, but maybe I can be like you one day. The choices you make every day to keep pushing forward, keep doing things that make you happy, is what makes me believe that it's possible for me to keep going, too.

Hiya anon,

Health issues suck, don't they? I started my Crappy Pokemon Collection of Chronic Health Issues in my teens but I remember I really started to get concerned in my 20s when it just kept happening. And kept happening. I think there's a sadness/grief and depression and anger that comes with that too, and a fear.

For what it's worth, science comes up with new medications all the time, new discoveries, new breakthroughs. I have started medications that have helped some issues I've had for 25 years, thinking they'd just progressively get worse. And to be fair, some of my issues do progressively get worse, and I do have new chronic illnesses or chronic or stupid health things come up fairly frequently. And as I'm sure you know, maintenance and surveillance and chasing this shit up is its own job and labour that is extremely thankless.

But outside of that, there is a great radical activism in simply being kind to yourself, loving yourself, trying hard not to see yourself as wrong in the world, as still deserving to take up your space, no matter how much that changes over time.

I have loved ones in my life who spend most of their time in their bed (and otherwise in a wheelchair), all in their 40s/50s, all who have rich lives filled with loved ones. That doesn't mean they're not sad sometimes, or not frustrated with an ableist world (especially around how quickly everyone gave up on us), but it does mean when everything feels awful and despair-filled, they have people who love them, they have hobbies and interests (game coding can be done from a bed, art can be, cross-stitch can be, writing can be, and even sometimes chopping fruit and vegetables can be if you have one of those sturdy overbed tables and can trust your hands), they have things that get better and things that get worse, they all think their lives are better now because it does just take time to...learn how to live in a body that does this when you're younger and had different visions for yourself.

I spend a lot of my time in bed. I need to lie down every afternoon for several hours or I'm non-functional in the evenings and that's on my best days. Escaping into fictional worlds is honestly such a blessing, whether it's in writing or movies or TV or anime or manhwa etc.

Sending hugs and solidarity and much love for how things are in the USA right now, especially for ill / disabled folk. There are lot of people fighting the good fight, so please make sure you take the time to rest, even on the good days, when you might be tempted to push past your limits to get everything done.

It took me forever to stop overspending energy on my good days, and I still do it all the the time, lol.

[kedreeva]

HI!! It's the guy who asked about the medical mice stuff, I wanted to THABK YOU!! for your answers:) seriously informative and I appreciate it! I figured as much that culling is a massive part of it, instead of vet stuff, and I'm alright with that! I've familiarized myself with how important culling is, keeping the future mice as healthy and as unprone to diseases as I can is a big goal for me, I think. I currently own chinchillas and BOY I know how expensive vet treatment can get, I can only imagine how much more it'd be for tons of mice. And the hassle.

I had no idea disease testing was a thing though! That's interesting, but man that doesn't seem that.. worth it, with the points you mentioned. And sucks that most breeders will start over if most of their colony gets something Bad but I 100% understand that. I'll definitely be sure to research up more on everything to have on hand when I inevitably have to deal with mites, and I'll definitely make it a point to be very vigilant with health checks and quarantine:) and also 100% do a ton of research in getting good founders, thanking you a TON right now!! As I've mentioned before I really do want the best for these future guys

Sure no problem!

More under cut because culling discussion again

And honestly if you're starting with decent stock and being careful about quarantine for anything you add... You're really unlikely to have to cull much for health unless you get wildly unlucky. I've had these lines for a few years and the VAST majority of culls are population (males I don't need, pinks from larger litters, young females that don't get adopted before I need space again, older breeders that retire and don't get adopted etc), failure to thrive (ie, scrawny babies that just don't make it if left alive), and feeder quality mice (temperament issues). The biggest health problem I'm dealing with is when mice that have siamese/splash blood get a tumor/cyst or two as they get old. Old age masses are one of the hardest things to get rid of because you don't see them until the mouse is nearly done breeding. Outside of masses, I've had mites once (twice if you go back 25 years to college), pinworm once, and coccidia twice (once in the whole colony, once in quarantine but I still treated the whole colony just in case), one malocclusion, two head tilts (one of which was a circler), two URIs, a couple of cloudy/ulcerated eyes (can happen when they scratch themselves), and a couple penile prolapses way back at the start of the siamese line. I've had one line collapse (the tricolor line) due to bad founding animals. And that's across over two decades of breeding! And I can count them because I remember each case because it's unusual to have lots of health problems with mice, if you've been careful with initial stock, selection, and biosecurity.

What I'm trying to say is, don't be too anxious about it. While it will come up, and you'll have to deal with it harshly when it does, it's also not likely that you'll be up to your ears in health issues on a daily basis or anything.

Good luck with them and feel free to ask if you have other questions!

[anachrosims]

I’m healing up with six holes in my torso and laying here in bed, unable to sleep, thinking about the state of the world.

I’d like to think that B*den leaving the race, and H*rris losing, would be a wake up call to the left; that sometimes we have to support shitty people to prevent shittier people from getting back in power; and that the US has yet to culturally come to terms with its history of racism and misogyny. And no, it’s not fair that we’ve had to choose between lesser evils just to tread water—it’s stupid, vile, horrific, to ask people to vote for politicians who are still more like rulers than representatives, especially when those people are directly impacted by systemic bullshit every day.

But it just boggles the mind, that so many of y’all either forgot or weren’t clued into the damage Dump did in his first term, and were so willing to do things like tell me to kms just because I was encouraging my fellow Americans to vote. At the end of the day, no, it’s not about me—it’s about what you’re willing to do to make a better future happen, and stupid petty bitch squabbles online ain’t gonna do shit for anyone.

I’m laying here being kept awake by a future that is as uncertain as it ever was in my life, and any other. And as I get older, the more I internalize that time is the one thing we can’t get back—time with loved ones, time to make the most of opportunities, time to just sit and turn off the screens and just BE alive. Too often, time is stolen from us—by abuse, illness, loss, and other hardships. But it’s still up to us to try and make the most of what time is left.

I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t have any pithy clapbacks, snappy one-liners, wordy manifestos. I don’t have any solutions—suggestions, maybe—and God only knows I can’t tell you where my own life will be in five years, let alone our collective fate as a species. All I can truly champion with any certainty, is the truth that we should try to put more love into the world—tell someone you love them, go on that road trip while you can, make time to visit someone you cherish, donate excess items, food, time to those who need it. Leave nothing unsaid with those you love, while you still can.

… Sorry for the lack of my own content. I’m a week into recovery and my laptop started spluttering out, so I’ve traded it in (by proxy since lol I ain’t leaving the apartment like this). I need to set the new one up, but I’ve been bedridden and sleeping through the healing process. (I am in fact about 10lbs lighter. They removed ten g-damn pounds of fibroids and uterus out of me.)

Anyway, thank you to my followers and mutuals. Please, remember you are loved. Go pet an animal, go watch your favorite movie, go hug someone you love. Life is… not easy, by any means, but doing those things can make it a little more bearable.

[creature-wizard]

Found some stories from people who realized their SRA/repressed memory therapists were a bunch of quacks. Lots of CWs for talk of severe abuse and some occasional disturbing activities. If you can stomach it, it's worth a read because it shows just how bad these therapists could get with malpractice and quackery. If you don't want to read the whole thing, here's some key takeaways:

Many therapists just decided their patients had repressed memories. The patients were not allowed to question or disagree with this. The therapists basically flexed their professional authority and told them they were just in denial. Former patient Deborah David described her own experience as being like constantly told that she had once seen a bear climbing a candy cane, told that other people had seen bears on candy canes, and constantly being asked leading questions about her experiences with bears on candy canes, and told that she was in denial if she said she'd never seen one.

Not all patients appear to have been put under hypnosis, but the therapists' insistence that terrible things must have happened to them and their insistence that the only way to heal was to "remember" all of it basically had a number of patients just imagining up all the horrible scenarios they could think of. Former patient Laura Pasley realized after getting out that a number of her "memories" actually came from the book Sybil, the movie Deranged, and from a story she'd written when she was seventeen.

(Worth noting here that a study showed that people who believe they have past lives are more likely to forget where they learned information. It would make a lot of sense if many people who "remembered" SRA under therapists like these have the same issue.)

Many patients were told that their bodies stored memory of this alleged repressed trauma, and any physical sensation they felt was a "body memory" surfacing. So for a hypothetical example, someone who experienced an aching ankle might be told that this is their body "remembering" parental abuse. A patient might imagine a scenario where a parent broke their ankle, and the therapist would treat this as a "recovered" memory.

A number of patients were diagnosed with MPD (as it was called at the time) regardless of whether they initially showed any symptoms. Patients were pushed into "uncovering" these alters that allegedly remembered all the abuse. One patient (Robert Wilson) actually began acting out the alters his therapist told him he had outside of the therapist's office, in some very harmful and destructive ways. (CW for prostitution and animal death if you want to read his story.)

Another patient (Nell Charette) said that while her therapy was ongoing, she had "eight different people telling [her] what to do."

Another patient (Susan) reports:

I mapped an elaborate system, virtually every emotional state or conflicting world view was an alter, plus the male protector and little girl and little boy that went with it. There were sets of 12 for every ego state, complete with names. In the end, I had about 200 "alters." ... Now along with all these alters is the question of how did they get here? Now, we've all heard the story that you can't be this way without severe, repeated, sexual or physical trauma from before you were 5. I'm really pissed about this part, because look how they did this: 1. Your symptoms mean you have MPD, the first step to getting better is to admit this. There is no other thing this could be; if it walks like a duck it's a duck. 2. Since you have MPD, you had to have been sexually/physically/ritually abused. There is no other way you could have this, so you need to admit it to get better. 3. You have to bring these "memories" forward to get better.

This confirms exactly what I've been saying for months: that the mythology of SRA and Project Monarch-type alter programming permits any uncomfortable feeling, any unwanted impulse, and any conflicting beliefs to be attributed to an alter, and therefore to trauma-based mind control, extreme abuse, or whatever you want to call it.

Robert's unfortunate case also confirms that if you go telling a sufficiently unstable person that they have certain alters that do certain things, they will effectively develop them. (This is why convincing a child that they might have a prostitute alter is not only unethical, but also incredibly dangerous!)

If you try and make yourself uncover certain alters, or if someone convinces you that you have them, you will almost certainly "find" them. The simple act of imagining an alter can be enough to make your brain start generating one, or at least something that resembles one close enough to convince people like these therapists.

Many of these former patients describe their mental health deteriorating as their "therapy" progressed. Many who came in without severe issues were completely dysfunctional by the time they left, and if they did have issues when they started, they were exacerbated. This was treated as a part of the healing process, with patients being told that "you have to get worse before you get better" and "the only way out is through."

As retractor Stephanie Krauss put it:

They get hold of this impressive-sounding theory and it goes through some metamorphosis in their minds and is transformed into fact. Then they go treat patients with this new information that only causes more havoc in the lives of persons with normal problems. They have this zeal to treat a disorder that doesn't even exist-at least, not until after treatment starts, and that's when the suffering really begins.

I know brainwashing techniques, and what these people experienced was 100% brainwashing. Each patient had their very sense of self torn apart and each was led to believe that they couldn't trust their own minds. They were led to believe that they had a serious problem that only the therapist - the one with all the power - could fix. They were only "healing" when they complied with the therapist's desires. They were told to cut off anyone who challenged the therapist's narrative.

In other words, the real programmers, the real practitioners of mind control, were the therapists.

[heavenly-garden]

I learned a valuable lesson recently, one as a Christian I need to remember and keep close to my heart because I began to lose sight of what really matters. I learned yesterday that I have biased opinions that in the end do more harm than good.

I realized that even though there are people that do and say things that go against my faith and beliefs...that doesn't mean I have the right to be mean or nasty. I got wrapped up in my own biases and well...I forgot the importance of loving my neighbors as I would love myself. Neighbors being anyone from anywhere no matter what faith, identity or beliefs they hold...they're all still human beings and I need to look at all humans as God's creation, no less worthy of his love than I am.

I realized I was developing a sense of superiority which is so wrong...it leads to pride...and pride leads to the ultimate fall. I feel bad for the way I've been, but I'm glad I realized I was wrong and must admit the truth to myself and others. Last night as I prayed and considered my actions it came to me...my heart is in the right place but my mind and biases were clouding my judgment and making my heart harden towards others and I can't let that happen.

I want to apologize to anyone that I might have unknowingly hurt or even intentionally hurt. I think its important to remember that all living creatures have their value and human beings have freedom of individually for a reason. We were given free will to choose if we go to Jesus or not. It's not my place to try and fix anybody or tell them what to think, do or feel.

The most important thing is giving love, understanding and compassion to all people, animals and nature. I can't let political ideologies get in the way of what's right. It's important to always treat people with a base level of respect. Treat others how I'd like to be treated. It's not my business to judge or condemn others.

People are free to choose and I am free to choose. I have decided what matters is to love people while they are HERE on earth, right now! we have to love them, we have to overcome all these insecurities qnd judgemental thoughts standing in the way of loving each other. We have to do better, stop attacking each other. We have to stop pointing fingers and being angry all the time, it doesn't solve anything, it's counter productive. I'm so tired of being mad over some dumb crap I saw in the media online or on television. I'm not falling for all this extreme polarization of opinions anymore.

So to all people no matter your nationality, religious beliefs or identity beliefs...I'm going to do better, hold myself accountable for any poor choices I make or hurt I cause. I have mental health issues of my own, inherited in the genes yet that's no excuse to treat people badly in any capacity and you know what else...it's not MY place to condemn anyone lest I condemn myself unknowingly. So I vow to do better.

Sending love out to all who read this. Please know you are valued and loved by God even if you don't value God, that's your choice. In the end I'm only responsible and accountable for my own choices and actions. Thanks for reading I hope this message of love and admittance of how wrong I was makes someone out there that feels ostracized or hated by the world...feel loved instead.

I'm not superior or better than anyone, I'm a sinner and choose to rebuke these hateful thoughts I've had this past year. I can't let the seed of hate bloom and take hold. I need to grow seeds of love and positive growth. That's what matters, I do believe with all my heart that we "humanity" are family and should treat each other better and this planet too. Take care and God bless all people. 🙏