#that hole with so much emotional distress still between them

[razzle-zazzle]

homoerotic fight scene, you say? Added tension of being engaged AND a possible traitor, you say? Even more tension over that being the person that you thought you knew better than anyone else in the world hiding things from you, you say?

YES EXACTLY. JAY IS SO MAD COLE IS SO MAD AND STRESSED JAY IS STRESSED NEITHER OF THEM IS HAVING A GOOD TIME IN THAT ARENA. I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF THEY'LL BE ABLE TO PROPERLY RECONCILE. CHEN IS GIGGLING IN HIS SEAT THINKING HE'S GOT THIS WHOLE "if my son-in-law (to be) won't turn against the other ninja i'll just turn the other ninja against him" THING. MAYBE EVEN COLE WINNING MAYBE EVEN SKYLOR USING BORROWED EARTH POWER TO MAKE COLE WIN WHILE APPEARING UNINVOLVED. IT'S GONNA BE SO SO FUN FOR ME FR FR

[kyeomniscient]

seventeen ao3 fic recs (pt. 2)

creating a new post for the mid-length fics bc the original post was getting too long - enjoy!

pt. 1 (completed fics, >50k words)

pt. 3 (completed shorter fics, <10k words)

pt. 4 (incomplete fics)

in order of descending word count, last updated 13/12/2024

Cherry Tree Inn (jicheol, 45k, completed)

obsessed with the plot twist in this one! the damsel in distress!hoon x hero!cheol dynamic never fails

The Times We Fell (minwon, 46k, completed)

this one definitely did things to my heart :"") loved the visuals of hockeyplayer!mingyu x figureskater!wonwoo, the development of their enemies(?)-to-friends-to-lovers arc, how their relationship remained strong and steady throughout despite being met with various obstacles and external pressures along the way, how Mingyu rekindled Wonwoo's love for skating not once but twice, just them being a healthy and supportive couple - a beautiful read!

Access Granted (jicheol, 45k, completed)

the jicheol banter was golden in this one

divine pain, pain divine (gyucheol, 44k, completed)

the enemies-to-lovers-to-exes-to-lovers pipeline i never knew i needed

cut to the feeling (soonwoo, 44k, completed)

this was a character study on emotional self-torture and every chapter was an absolute sucker punch to the gut - loved the sadness and pining for the drama but i also felt like plot-wise the events didn't really justify the intensity of it all as much as the author's other piece :"/ writing was still amazing though!!

gold fever (seokgyu, 43k words, completed)

archer!seokmin x weightlifter!mingyu in a college au - really liked the vibes and writing in this fic :) seokgyu fics are rare and i feel like it's bc their dynamics on-camera mostly revolve around teasing/bickering it's hard to picture anything else, but the slow-burn element brought smth fresh and new to their dynamics and it was such an enjoyable read!

I'm not afraid to die, I just don't want to be there when it happens (jicheol, 40k words, completed)

after reading this i think it's safe to say we all need a cheol during an apocalypse

In The Eye of the Beholder (verkwan, 34k words, completed)

half-demon!vernon x blind!seungkwan - verkwan is the softest ship and no one can say otherwise

Get busy living, or get busy dying. (cheolhoon, 31k words, completed)

absolutely living for the dialogue and banter between these two during the counseling sessions - such a unique setting, a v good fic!

secondhand smoke (gyucheol, 30k words, completed)

this was the start of my spiral down the gyucheol rabbit hole: collegiate sport aus will always be superior

just let me know (i'll be on the floor) (verkwan, 30k words, completed)

soft and sweet friends-to-lovers fic that made my heart so warm!! really loved how their relationship unfolded over time, how they took care of each other as roommates, with seungkwan's obliviousness and denial and vernon being so patient with him throughout - 'twas a lovely slice-of-life read that brought comfort and joy :)

A (Revised Guide to Lab Safety) (soonwoo, 25k words, completed)

askjfsds this was an amazing mix of soonwoo peer dynamics in a college au + science!! their lab partners-to-friends-to-lovers arc was really too cute so i'd highly recommend this to soonwoo enthusiasts

tu me manques (minwon, 26k words, completed)

this really captured the feeling of watching 90s & early 2000s romcoms (think before sunrise, chasing liberty, serendipity etc) and was written so beautifully i might cry :"") really loved the travelling aspect of it, the scenic descriptions of each city made the fic so immersive, like i was there along w them sigh

also wonwoo has slight manic pixie dream boy vibes and mingyu is just there lolol

here kitty kitty (minwon, 26k words, completed)

the ultimate cosy fall read - this fic felt like a sip of warm tea by the fire on a chilly autumn evening :)

snowflake, i'll catch you tonight (minwon, 25k words, completed)

this was really cute!! just soft and fluffy vibes in general and characterisation was super on point bc wonwoo is literally winter personified lmao

i thought that space was mine (jeongcheol, 25k words, completed)

jealous jeonghan sad fics are everything

a mix of sun and clouds (soonwoo, 24k words, completed)

lovelovelove aus with interesting professions, and this time they're both working at a weather station! soonyoung being a weather nerd is such a delight to read, and wonwoo's emotional constipation + little acts of service never gets old hehe geguri is amazing

Paradise Lost (minwon, 24k, completed)

sad fics have a chokehold on me and this one definitely takes the cake... was left in tears and i would risk it all to experience it for the first time again

despite this being a post-apocalyptic au, the development of the romance arc was treated softly and gently, that the moments of tenderness between the mcs shone through the violence and ruin that surrounded them. it was a really refreshing take on domesticity, one that took me by surprise, and it's a pity that the author only has 2 works!! i need MORE

Bend (and Break) (seoksoon, 23k words, completed)

fwb-to-friends-to-lovers seoksoon?? another wholesome fic and i loved the build up in this fic, where the mcs are basically doing all but admitting their feelings for each other UGH so cute

175°C for 60 minutes (seokgyu, 23k words, completed)

vv cute baking rivals au!! love how little clues were sprinkled throughout the story and came together at the end to tie things up nicely hehe

Lie Again (gyuhan, 22k words, completed)

the best gyuhan fic (that i've read so far) !! aka the chronicles of one (1) emotionally-unavailable yoon jeonghan where he learns to embrace the notion of Having Feelings ™ ft some of my other fave ships seoksoo and soonwoo

Jack of all trades... (jicheol, 21k words, completed)

absolutely went down a jicheol rabbit hole after this... their dynamics are one of a kind and i love it so much

stillness and motion (seokhao, 21k words, completed)

give me a fic about emotionally-repressed characters that yearn and do everything but communicate and i'll eat it up!! the tension built up between (former) teammates in sport aus are a different breed and i'm absolutely here for it

For Want of Glory (woncheol, 21k words, completed)

secret agent au! loved woncheol's dynamics here, and it's really endearing to read from coups' pov because i love the way he just PINES

you make me feel good (i like it) (soonwoo, 18k words, completed)

no spoilers but this was an absolute beast of a fic that DESTROYED me the best way possible :"") each chapter was succinct yet packed a punch, loveloveloved how the element of time travel was weaved into the storyline!! op you are a genius for conceiving and writing this

Storm Warning (wonhui, 18k words, completed)

jun as a manic pixie dream type here is everything!! ww's feelings are so valid bc if jun was my neighbour, i too, would fall in love right away HAHA

Cold Hands, Warm Heart (jicheol, 17k words, completed)

apocalypse aus always hit so hard and this fic was no exception - i was expecting a much darker arc based on the blurb, but the author managed to transform such a dire situation into one full of love, warmth and hope :") definitely check this one out!! there's also a (slightly) heart-wrenching (tiny) minwon arc on the side

now i'm covered in you (soonwoo, 16k words, completed)

it's the art of dealing with grief and moving on in a sweet and tender fic - highly recommend!

say you want me (cause I need it, all of the time) (soonwoo, 15k words, completed)

this is wonwoo as everyone's dream high school boyfriend lol

choosing the right place to put it (woncheol, 15k words, completed)

15k words of pure domestic fluff :") wonwoo and cheol are so soft with each other in this fic and cheol being so oblivious throughout really takes the cake HAHA

burning the wick at both ends (jeongcheol, 14k words, completed)

getting back with an ex is never a good idea... unless it's jeongcheol

in the dream where I am an island (jeongcheol, 14k words, completed)

rare jeongcheol fic from cheol's pov

full ten (minwon, 14k words, completed)

super adorable strangers-to-roommates-to-lovers fic!! i really loved that they each had their own lives (preferences, habits, jobs and interests) before they met each other, and coming to live together only made their lives better - there's just something about the intimacy of co-existing in the same space with someone, bonding over simple weeknight dinners, developing a shared routine over time :"")

favorite (minwon, 14k, completed)

this was a v lovely friends-to-lovers fic - really loved the timelapse of small moments between them from both perspectives!

helios (minwon, 13k, completed)

a literal masterpiece - great execution of a cool concept, and wonwoo's persona as an artist was really well-crafted!!

runaway (verkwan, 13k, completed)

this fic highlights an inseparable quality about verkwan, that there'll always be invisible string tugging at both of them, keeping them by side by side - amazing!

day ones all i keep around me (minwon, 12k words, completed)

established (secret) relationship where minwon tries to soft-launch their marriage but their fans are too dense to realise LMAO this was really cute, and i loved the dynamics between streamer!wonwoo x soccerplayer!mingyu hehe

Flowers In My Path, My Love (seokwoo, 12k words, completed)

this was the cutest college meet-cute aka hotpoetryclassguy!wonwoo x cutepoetryclassguy!dk - it really captured the moments of fumbling, awkward shyness when interacting with crushes so well and bonus points for describing dk as sunshine bc he really is the brightest boy!!

put me on a feeling i never had (woncheol, 10k words, completed)

on the inherent romance in tending to the wounds of a lover

i want us both to eat well (gyucheol, 10k words, completed)

light the way home (and i'll follow) (minwon, 10k words, completed)

[radioactivatedspider]

He Should've Known.

Main Masterlist Supernatural Masterlist

Pairings; Dean Winchester x Sister!Reader

Genre; angst, hurt/comfort

Warnings; domestic abuse, trauma, emotional distress, implied violence, mild language

Summary: Y/N’s secret is out, and Dean’s done letting her suffer in silence.

383 words

Dean always prided himself on being able to read people. A hunter’s instinct, a big brother’s intuition. But when it came to Y/N… he’d missed it.

She smiled through it all. Every family dinner, every late-night phone call, every hug that lingered a second too long but he chalked up to love. He didn’t see the cracks until they bled.

It was a Tuesday. Rain slammed against the Impala’s windshield, the kind of night that made everything feel heavier. She showed up at the bunker unannounced—hood up, hands in her coat, eyes not quite meeting his.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean asked casually, but his eyes were already scanning her face.

She nodded. Too fast. “Yeah. Just needed to get away for a bit.”

Dean stepped closer. That’s when he saw it—the slight discoloration blooming beneath her left eye, makeup smudged from the rain. His blood froze.

“Y/N…” he breathed. She flinched when he reached for her face.

That’s when everything snapped into focus. The missed calls. The forced laughs. The way she never talked about Jake the way she used to. How she always seemed to disappear for days and return with half-hearted excuses.

"How long?" His voice was low, deadly calm. But she could hear the thunder underneath it.

Tears welled up in her eyes, guilt and shame spilling over. “Almost a year.”

Dean turned away. Not because he was angry at her—but because if he didn’t, he might punch a hole through the wall. Or worse—go straight to Jake and do something he couldn’t take back.

“A year,” he echoed, breath shaking. “You let that son of a bitch put his hands on you for a year, and you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want to drag you into it,” she whispered. “I didn’t want you to kill him.”

Dean laughed bitterly. “Newsflash, kid—I’m already there.”

Silence stretched between them. Rain still pounded. Dean finally turned to her, eyes glassy but hard.

“You’re staying here now. He so much as texts you, I’ll know. And if I ever see him again—”

“I know,” she said softly.

Dean took a step forward and wrapped her in his arms, holding her like he used to when she had nightmares as a kid. His voice broke against her hair.

“You’re safe now. I promise.”

[aventurineswife]

“I Will Stay, For You”

Summary: Ratio is overjoyed to have you revived after your death, though you now struggle with your existence as a demi-god. Caught between your responsibilities as a guardian of the heavens and the warmth of your relationship with Ratio, you feel torn. Despite Ratio's loving and passionate efforts to keep you grounded, you confess your longing to return to the stars. In a heartbreaking moment, Ratio pleads with you to stay, and you promise to remain in this world—for him. Together, you begin a new chapter, seeking balance between your celestial duties and your love.

Tags: Ratio x Demi-God!Reader, Angst with a Happy Ending, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Conflict, Rebirth, Character Growth.

Warnings: Mentions of death and resurrection, Emotional distress and inner conflict, Angst related to self-identity and love, Mild tears and sadness.

The gentle hum of the air was interrupted only by the soft rustling of fabric as you lay in Ratio’s arms, his comforting presence enveloping you like a warm blanket. His hair cascaded across his face as he tilted his head down toward you, offering a small, teasing smile.

"You know," he murmured, brushing his fingers through your hair, "if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were finally softening up to me."

You forced a chuckle, though it felt hollow against your chest. Softening up to him? That was a word you hadn’t felt in a long time. For all the warmth he showed you, you couldn’t shake the cold emptiness that clung to your heart. You were dead once, resurrected by the hands of fate—or perhaps by one of Aeons itself. Now you wandered between two worlds, pretending to be a human, pretending to live, but you couldn’t forget where you belonged. You couldn’t forget the stars, the vastness of the sky, the responsibility you held as a demi-god, and most of all... you couldn’t forget the weight of your own secret desire to return.

Ratio was your love, your confidant in this strange, second life. He had been there, steadfast in his devotion when you had returned from the dead, offering you his intellect and his heart. He had promised to help you find your place in this world, but no matter how much you tried, the hole in your chest remained.

“Something’s bothering you,” Ratio said, his tone softening as his eyes studied you with an intensity that made your heart ache. His hands moved to your arms, holding you with care as if he could sense the distance in your soul. "You’re not the same as you were before... I thought we’d been making progress, but I can feel you slipping away from me."

You swallowed, trying to keep your composure. “I’m just tired. I’m still adjusting.”

He chuckled, though the sound was laced with concern. "Adjusting? To what exactly? I’ve seen the way you look at the stars sometimes... Your mind is elsewhere."

Your breath caught. The stars, your true home, your true purpose—they were so far beyond this mortal plane. But you couldn’t bring yourself to speak those words. Not to him. Not to Ratio.

“I’m fine,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended.

But Ratio wasn’t fooled. His brow furrowed, and his hand gently cupped your face, lifting your gaze to meet his. His eyes, sharp and searching, locked onto yours with an intensity that made your insides twist. “No. You’re not fine. I know you. You’re more than capable of hiding things from everyone else, but not from me.”

The weight of his words pressed on your chest, and the dam you had so carefully built began to crack. His eyes were full of love and care, and it was almost too much to bear. How could you betray him with the truth?

“I... I don’t belong here,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. You immediately regretted them, feeling the sting of your own confession.

Ratio’s eyes widened in shock. His grip on you tightened as he searched your face for any sign of a joke. "What do you mean, you don’t belong here? You’re with me. You’re alive again. This is your life now. You’re not alone."

You couldn’t bear the hurt in his voice, the desperation to keep you tethered to this world. “I belong in the heavens, Ratio. Not here. I never did.”

Ratio froze, the air between you thick with unspoken words. The realization hit him like a wave crashing into the shore, his eyes widening in disbelief. He searched your face, as if trying to understand what you had just revealed.

“You... want to leave?” he asked, his voice breaking. “You want to go back to heaven?”

The word felt like a knife to his heart, and he felt as though the ground beneath him was collapsing. His mind raced—how could he have been so blind? All this time, he had assumed that the happiness you shared, the quiet moments in his arms, were enough to anchor you here, with him. But it hadn’t been enough. You were always waiting for something else, something he could never give you.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Ratio,” you whispered, tears welling up in your eyes. "But I can’t stay. I’m... not truly alive. Not in the way you think. I can’t ignore the call of the stars forever."

The silence stretched between you, thick with unsaid words. Then, his voice, raw and pleading, broke the stillness. “No, don’t say that. You’re here with me. I—I need you here, please. Don’t go.”

His hands reached for yours, pulling you closer. You didn’t resist, but the ache in your chest only grew. You had loved him, truly, but your soul was bound to something higher, something beyond this fleeting existence. It wasn’t just your heart that longed for home—it was your very essence.

“Ratio,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You’re the only reason I’ve stayed as long as I have. You’ve made this second life bearable... But I can’t pretend anymore.”

Ratio’s face crumpled with sorrow, his perfect intellect failing to provide an answer, a solution. The tears fell freely from his eyes now, a reflection of the pain you both felt. "Please. Don’t leave me. I can’t lose you. I... I never realized how much I was asking you to give up. You don’t deserve to live a lie just for my sake."

The words hurt you more than you had expected. For his sake. You weren’t here for him, you were here for you. But now, in the face of his pleading, you couldn’t help but reconsider. His love, his devotion, his genuine care for you—it was unlike anything you had ever known. Could you really leave him behind?

“I promise I won’t leave,” you said, your voice breaking. You reached for him, your hands shaking. "I’ll stay. I’ll stay with you, for as long as I can."

Ratio’s expression softened in a way you had never seen before. He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, as though afraid you might disappear if he let go. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll help you, I swear. I’ll find a way to make you feel alive again. You don’t have to be alone in this.”

You buried your face against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight on your shoulders lightened, if only for a moment. You were no longer alone in your pain.

“Together,” you whispered. “We’ll find a way... together.”

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was still a place for you in this world—with him.

[cloudzoro]

Hi! Love your work, you are incredibly talented! I especially liked the Shuggy piece, I think I’ve read it like 5 times lol. If you’re still taking requests, I think Jinbe with 11 and/or 39 would be pretty cool. Thanks so much for the fun reads!

Hiii!!!! I'm so so so glad that you enjoy my work.vmy shuggy x reader is also a fave of mine so I'm happy to see others enjoy it ♡. Also thanks for the jinbe request! my man doesn't receive enough love! I'm a bit in my feelings so I went with prompt 39 🤧

39 - comfort sex

cw: fem!reader, mention of jinbe having 2 cocks, size kink, husband jinbe because jinbe is so husband core, unprotected sex,

Husband Duties | Jinbe ♡

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you're feeling down after a fight so your husband helps you feel better

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Married life has always suited Jinbe. He thrives when he has someone to take care of. He's reading when you, his beloved wife, swing open the door and lay down on the bed next to him.

“I'm so tired”, you whine, pushing your face into the pillows. Jinbe puts his book down, turning to give you all his attention. You're exhausted from the most recent fight. You're mostly injury-free, but all your muscles are sore.

“Do you need anything, my love?” he asks, hand trailing over your back. You nod, tucking yourself against him. The fight was particularly rough; you fucked up severely, almost getting yourself killed and causing Jinbe to leave his post to save you. You're usually a solid fighter; your husband or one of your crew having to rescue you is a rare occurrence. Your pride is wounded, and you're wallowing in insecurity.

“My back hurts a little,” you say. Jinbe doesn't need you to elaborate. He helps you to undress and adjusts the way that he's sitting so that he can press his hands into your shoulders. He works hard to distress you. Your husband's strong hands drain your body of all the stress it's harbouring until there's nothing less but raw emotions. Tears fall silently down your cheeks as you release all the pent-up frustration. Despite your cries being silent, Jinbe notices immediately.

“What's wrong, my Dear?” he asks, turning you over. “What can I do to make it better?” Your heart clenches at your husband's concern for you, but there's a much more distracting ache in your body you'd rather deal with first. Despite your distress, massages were often used as foreplay for the two of you, and you can't help the way your mind has wandered.

“It's just all my stress depleting, which means you did a good job with your massage. There is something you can do for me though”

“And what's that?” he asks, already having an inkling about what you're going to say next.

“That massage got me all worked up. I want you to touch me.”

When you first started dating, your straightforwardness had flustered Jinbe, but now it just makes him hard. Your mouth is dirtier than his, and he's obsessed with it. He nods, returning to his massage. He moves his hands down to your thighs, rubbing at the skin there. He's so close to your pussy that it makes you squirm. He chuckles at your movement, causing you to groan. “please don't tease me; I'm so wet.”

Jinbe can't say no to his little wife. He moves his massage between your legs, rubbing at your clit. He pushes a finger into your soaked hole, and you moan out at the feeling. Your husband is huge. He has to work you up to his cock. It's been a few years since you married, yet you still struggle to take him. He adds another finger, curling and scissoring them inside you. You need him so badly. He eagerly fingers you open. He whispers praises as your pussy pulses around his thick fingers.

You cum on his fingers, legs clamping shut around his hand. He works you through it, keeping his fingers moving as his gaze remains locked on your face. You can feel the love in his gaze as your chest heaves in exhaustion. Your orgasm does little to quell your weary mind, and in desperate need of further distraction, you claw at his arms.

“Please, Jinbe, I need your cock”, You say. He nods, fully undressing himself to match you. You feel your mouth watering at the site of his cocks. Being a shark fishman, he has two. Though you've only been able to successfully take both twice in your relationship, one of those times being on your wedding night. He knows you wouldn't be able to take both right now, so he settles on flipping you onto your hands and knees and lining up one of his cocks with your hole. He slowly pushes in, working himself inside you with shallow thrusts. He gently covers your mouth with his hand to stop your moans from waking up the rest of the crew.

Jinbe finally bottoms out and pauses inside you, relishing in how you feel around him, also giving you time to adjust. He drapes himself over, and you whimper at the realisation of how big he really is. Your husband is so sweet to you that it's easy to forget he's a former warlord of the sea. It isn't until he's got you trapped beneath him that you remember how powerful he is. While scary to others, it makes you feel safe and secure to know you have him lingering around you at all times.

“ What happened earlier wasn't your fault, sweetheart. You don't have to be so worked up over it,” he says as he starts to move his hips. Of course, he saw through your white lie. Jinbe is both patient and observant; nothing gets past him. “You're so strong.” His voice is as sure as ever as he squashes your worries with each heavy thrust. He reaches around you to press against your lower stomach. “can you feel me in there?” he asks. The sensation of him pressing against his own cock through your tummy is weird, but it feels so good. You're all but screaming into Jinbe's hand when a well-angled thrust sends you head-first into your orgasm. It crashes over you in waves, making your whole body tremble. Jinbe can't keep himself together anymore and cums too, filling you up with his seed.

“Thank you”, you whine as he rolls off of you and grabs tissues from the bedside table to clean you up.

“Do you feel better now?” he asks, laying down beside you and pulling you on top of him to rest. You nod, too exhausted to give him a response. All fucked out and cuddled up in your husband's arms, you fall asleep in minutes. Jinbe smiles, knowing he'll be there to chase away all the nasty thoughts clouding your beautiful mind.

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tag list: @bloodfixnd @sexysapphicshopowner @beachaddict48 @lem-hhn

thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡♡♡♡

[spotaus]

Important plot point for the New Age AU post-story dustedafterdeath plot- (realizing now slight tw for abusive relationship???)

Geno is a manipulative bastard who exerts his skill and prowess over others. With Reaper their relationship was balanced and became healthy thanks to Reaper actually being stronger than Geno. So all of Geno's manipulation was more like an angry chihuahua barking at Reaper. They got over that stage fast.

With Dust?? He doesn't realize he can't show his interest the same way. Doesn't occur to him that Dust is "lesser" than him in every situation. Royal Mage against a Knight, the Mage has more political power. Geno has direct ties to Reaper, who they need to keep happy for Night's treaty. Geno has more technical skill w/ his magic and Dust is sure the technique and control would be enough to best his own barely controlled magic. He's physically weaker, especially after his shoulder injury. So when Geno realizes he's caught feelings he feels guilty, but doesn't stop manipulating him?? Because Reaper was fine with it, so clearly that's how romance works right?

And it is (shocker) NOT how romance works.

While Dust is being low key pampered and spoiled by Reaper (Reaper recognizes the power dynamics very vividly and I'd sure to make sure Dust knows he can say No or Stop at any moment to anything, even hand-holding or escorting, and Reaper respects it) as Reaper compliments him and gives him gifts and asks how he's been. Geno is out here hyperfixated on Dust's latent magic and is getting his way to learn more no matter the cost (which, in this case, is faking romantic interest). And Reaper doesn't realize how intense Geno is bring because he *thought* Geno would know better. And with the fragile situation, Dust doesn't speak up.

So, ofc, it all comes to a head when Geno finally realizes he's gone too far, Dust completely shuts him out. And Geno is too proud to face his consequences and come clean to Dust about his intentions. Dust, usually quiet anyways, just moves on, though he's deeply distrustful of every pampering Reaper does for him now.

It isn't until 2 days later that Error is talking with Geno (y'know, brother gossip) and Error asks how it's going with Dust.

When Geno responds that his plan fell through, Error asks for elaboration, and Geno tell him the jist. Leas Dust on, then let him down gently. But he caught feels and Dust didn't seem to like the advances so he gave up. And Error knows his brother and knows that's not the full story. So they change subjects, and Error convinces Geno to go visit the woods on the edge of town to test a new weapon of his.

But once they're out there and alone Error reads his brother the riot act because he's so furious and disappointed!!! Dust of all people?? Manipulating him??? And when Geno tries to defend himself (digging a deeper hole and processing just how awful he was himself as he says it out loud) Error just straight up pulls him into combat. (And Geno, not wanting to accidentally hurt his brother but also furious + caught up in emotion, fights back.)

They beat eachother into the trees and the rocks and just tear into eachother, but by the time the Knights arrive to see what the problem is (the cats got word to Ccino, and Ccino sent Dust and Cross to figure it out) Geno is pretty much on low hp and Error is wounded but still standing.

Error spots the Knights and basically uses his strings to slam Geno to the ground at Dust's feet. And there's this moment of frustration and sorrow that seems to pass between the three of them, before Cross (<- unaware) asks what Error was thinking!

Error just says he'll explain it later and that they can go back now. Cross should carry Geno. Error would explain to Reaper (Geno flinched at that).

They return, and Error pulls Reaper aside to mutter some things to him. Reaper seems distressed and takes Geno from Cross, but doesn't even seem bothered at seeing his lover as roughed up as he was. He excuses them away, and Dust disappears into his room.

Error hunts down Dust and chills with him a bit. Error apologizes on his brother's behalf, and Dust seems just. Out of it. He won't say it's okay, because it's not, but he won't put pressure on Error because it's definitely not the kid's fault. So he settles on a tired laugh and thanking Error for beating up his big brother for him. (Error and Geno are on level playing field. As siblings, as Royal Mages, as partners to their kings. They are evenly matched in almost every way, so Error had the power to stand up for Dust, and Dust appreciates that.)

Amd after that little interaction, Dust actually realizes he's alright. He has people who will look out for him. Who will make sure everything goes smoothly. AND after joking with Error some more? He realizes Geno just. Has weird priorities. Weird ways of showing his affection. Dust decides he won't give Geno a second shot unless he bends and gives up his weird manipulation with Dust.

It takes a few days before Geno is done wallowing and processing, but he comes to find Dust (Reaper right behind him, supposedly to keep him in line) looking like a prideful lil wet cat. He says he's sorry, and that he realizes it was shitty of him, and that he will respect it if Dust wants him and Reaper to stop bothering him.

Dust clarifies and asks if Reaper was being genuine. (He was.) And he asks of Geno would be willing to give being genuine a shot (a hesitant yes). Dust does not push them away, but he does say he is going to inform Night. He also asks them to swear that no matter where the relationship ends, they will not take it out on Nightmare. (They agree.)

Like. Reaper, the romantic who is actually kind and wants to make lasting relationships *before* acting on his desires. Vs. Geno, the guy driven by desires who seems to stumble across romance by mistake every time. Both after Dust, most emotionally bottled skeleton they've ever met? Wild.

Geno is super toxic about his relationships and doesn't even notice in my aus ig. Goofy ahh. He eventually gets his conscience back. But it's. A struggle.

In the other au I have Dust guilt-trip him into being less of an idiot. In this one I make his brother throw him around like a ragdoll. (To Error, violence is often the answer <3)

[voids-colourful-creations]

Break it Apart, Tear it Down! - A Pearl Houzuki Fic

[Read on Ao3!]

Rated: T Relationships: N/A Splatoon 2, Pre Canon, Pre OTH Content Warnings: Emotional Distress, Self Destructive Behaviour, Mild Coarse Language, Breakdown, No Happy Ending Words: 1.7k

Summary: Pearl’s band kicked her to the curb after yet another venue was destroyed. At the end of the night, the only thing left to return to is the same empty house.

--

It’s well past “late at night” when Pearl storms into the house, verging more on early morning. Stage attire still plastered against her skin, thick dark makeup smeared far down her face; Pearl slams the door shut and stomps in, heavy boots and all.

Too tired and mad to really think straight, Pearl heads inside. She paces inwards with no particular intent. The day’s been long, effort otherwise exhausting, but she’s too wired to sit still. There’s a buzz in her chest, the residual high from the crowd mixed with the vibrating sting of anger.

Who did they think they were?! Kicking her out of her own band? Please! They were nothing without her. Setting off without her? She’d like to see them try! No one else would ever come anything close to her voice, her sound, her power.

(That was part of the problem, they’d said, another club destroyed and Pearl could only shrug it off. Tired expressions met Pearl’s eyes, shaded by the dim emergency lights, the only lights left in the venue. What was she supposed to say? They’d known she was like this when they’d started.)

Pearl wouldn’t fare much better on her own, either, and she knew it. The acknowledgement only stokes the flames in her chest, in her hair, lighting up with energy. An acapella career was out of the question. She needed a band, and they needed her! Or had, anyway. She was a damn good vocalist and a pretty stellar lyricist, but that was where her talents stopped, despite her best efforts.

Pearl gave the grand piano a pointed glare as she stalked past it.

Useless thing, at least in her hands, no matter how many lessons her parents had her take growing up. She just couldn’t hack it, and the more time she’d spent fruitlessly practising the same scales and bland tunes, the more she grew to hate it. 

As she passes, Pearl kicks her leg out, catching her ankle on the piano bench and flinging it across the wide open room. The bench clatters to the ground, a nice slam of a sound as it hits the hardwood.

For a moment, Pearl feels a bit better, if only slightly.

She catches a glance of herself. In the reflection of the house’s giant windows, her pale frame stands out vividly against the darkness. All clouds tonight, no stars, no moon.

It’s really just her face sticking out, her tentacles and fingertips. Her hair crackles like a flame, begging for release. Black clothes blend into the night, only the vague impression of trees somewhere in the yard where Pearl’s body should be. The dark makeup blends too, ringing holes in Pearl’s face instead of eyes.

Pearl glares at nothing, and turns away towards the kitchen. No windows in there.

The distance between rooms feels long and oppressive. Pearl’s never been a fan of just how white the house is, how much glass lined its walls, but certainly not now. There was an ever present feeling of being exposed, no matter how remote this place was. Always being stared at, peered in on, yet all that was inside was sterile, white. Nothing to be seen.

Pearl reaches the kitchen, but it isn’t much of an improvement. If anything, it’s worse.

All of it, the fridge, the cabinets, everything is unbearably ivory, and so shiny she could see her own reflection in it. Nothing but a black and pink stain, all features erased. 

She tracks dirt on the tiles— white of course— as she walks between the two kitchen islands and towards the fridge. Pearl throws open the door.

Inside are a few energy drinks, a jar of mayonnaise, and a mostly eaten pizza slice. That’s all. But why would there be anything else? She never eats here, there’s never anyone here to cook for. The band had only ever practised at studios out in the city, a trek all the way out here never worth the effort. Like everything else in this house, the kitchen was mainly just for show.

Pearl slams the fridge door shut, grinding her teeth.

She reaches up to the cabinet doors, the lower sets only barely within her reach. As her fingers curl around the silver handles, Pearl yanks them open as if she’ll find something new inside.

It’s the same as always. Dozens upon dozens of plates, dishes and glassware. All of it entirely unused, as new as the day her mother had given them to her.

Housewarming gifts, she said, like the house itself hadn’t been a “gift”. For the guests, she said.

Guests, she’d said, with that pinched little smile of hers. The same way she smiled when she’d shown off that fucking piano, the house, even. 

When Pearl made it clear she was heading out on her own to pursue her music, her mother had given her this house. Something befitting of the family. Massive windows taking up more space than walls. Shades of white on everything, blindingly pristine. A grand piano, sitting in the centre, and Pearl wonders if maybe her mother was trying to tell her something. Never outright, no, but in the ways that lingered, syllables resting idly behind platitudes. 

If she’s saying something, then Pearl’s electing to ignore it. 

She braces her arms against the counter top, digging her boot into the handle of a lower drawer. With one fluid motion, Pearl heaves herself up onto the counter, knee scraping uncomfortably against the edge of the marble.

Better vantage point of the upper cupboards this way, much too tall for her to reach on her own. She yanks one open, revealing light to a series of glass serving bowls that’d seen only darkness since the day she moved in.

On auto pilot Pearl pulls the largest one out from its shelf. The lip of it ripples like waves, pristine embellishments in the shapes of tiny squids swimming through the edges. She holds it tightly for a moment, feeling the weight of the object in her hand. It sits heavily, large enough to serve a full dozen people, if not more. 

Then, with no fanfare, Pearl lets her palms go slack, and watches as the bowl tumbles helplessly out of her grasp. It makes contact with the floor in an instant, spraying shards of glass in every direction across the formerly pristine tile.

And Pearl feels satisfied, for a moment. She always hated that bowl anyway.

Everything hits like a rush, and suddenly she’s reaching for the next bowl. Smaller now, some sort of floral pattern etched into it. She’d never taken the time to really admire it before. When would she have had the chance?

Pearl takes a breath and then screams. Loud and violent, she can feel her throat burning as the sound waves reverberate. 

Now there’s nothing but a pile of shards in her hand.

Again, she’s thinking, and now she’s grabbing with intent.

Cuz’ none of this junk matters!

It’s all useless. It doesn’t matter what she tries to drag in of herself, it’s all drowned out by monochrome. It doesn’t matter how many windows she shatters, inevitably everything is reinforced to hell and back. Nothing breaks anymore, not unless Pearl breaks it herself.

And breaks it again. She’ll break the pieces into pieces and the shards into dust. Because it doesn’t matter. This might be her house but no one lives here. No one will miss any of this.

Pearl feels good, snapping the delicate base off a trifle bowl. Now she’s controlling it, she’s not some child who doesn’t know her own strength. She knows it well, intimately by now. How every molecule of her vibrates just wrong, abrasively loud and violent and destructive no matter what she did.

She’s on a roll, the cabinet of fancy bowls is thoroughly destroyed. Onto the next then! The next club, the next band, the next act until something changes.

Pearl smashes every plate she owns. One by one, throwing them to the ground, or against the wall, or snapping them, or just screaming loud and rough and hard, until they crumble in her hand. She screams the most.

Like it’s her fault she looks best in the spotlight.

(A porcelain gravy boat embraces the floor quickly and violently.)

Like she wanted to blow out another club’s speakers. 

(Champagne flutes shatter against each other, stems turned to jagged spikes.)

Didn’t they get it? Weren’t they supposed to be the few people who understood?

(The antique teapot is unrecognizable, once painted with ancient jellyfish, now only pieces without a purpose.)

Even with all those people staring at her, hearing her scream and sing.

(There’s so much glass and porcelain on the floor it’s nearly a beach, sand made of shards.)

There’s not one of them who’s really looking at her. Not one.

Pearl hops down off the counter, crushing what little fragments survived with the weight of her boots.

Her band sings behind her— sang, now— but she might as well have always been alone. And no matter what, she swears, Pearl doesn’t care. It’s all the same anyway. A bunch of posers who just wanted to coast off her voice but couldn’t handle the real kick.

They didn’t deserve her to begin with!

...It’s hard for Pearl to believe that, no matter how much she wants to, when she’s practically ankle deep in the shards she’s made. 

There is not one piece of unbroken dishware left in the house. The cabinets are entirely empty. Pearl feels worse than ever. Looking down at the shattered remains of plates and bowls, she nudges the broken handle of a teacup with the tip of her boot. Faintly, it clatters against the other pieces. Pearl surveys the carnage, a fortune’s worth of wealth and years lying in wait to be used properly, and she had destroyed all of it in less than an hour.

Finally, with all the weight of her chest, Pearl wails.

Long and hard. Messy and painful and unbearably loud. The windows rattle, and the fridge shakes, and the pieces of glass and porcelain vibrate against each other. But that’s all, no one hears, nothing else breaks. There’s nothing left to break. As her voice gives out, the crackle of her hair dims, and the spark is gone. That’s it.

Just Pearl, the mess she’s made, and a painfully colourless house.

Pearl sighs, scrubbing the smudged make up off her face with the back of her sleeve. 

Time to find a broom.

[Ending]

[curiousityoctaves]

When you’ve spent months in Post-Polin Season Brain Rot, following rabbit holes on twitter about deleted bachelor party prostitute scenes and watching FABULOUS edits that extracted SEVEN lost words from episode 7 angsty alley makeouts…a one-shot may emerge…

Here’s an excerpt from the WIP that I’m making final edits on (aka begging my brilliant beta @wereadtoliveathousandlives to read once again to ensure it makes sense while also indulging my love of certain turns of phrase that evade all sense)

“And what secret dealings have I found you in the midst of? All alone the night before our wedding?”

Penelope’s voice trembled slightly, the words shivering in the cool air, almost swallowed by the silence of the deserted street. But they reached him—pointed, piercing.

Colin stopped mid-stride, whipping around to face her. His jaw was tight, his eyes flashing in the lusterless glow of the streetlamps. “What right have you to ask me that?” The words burst from him, louder than he intended, sharp with frustration that had simmered far too long.

Penelope flinched but held her ground, her brow furrowed in a mix of distress and defiance.

“The right of a fiancée,” she whispered, voice steady despite the tears brimming in her eyes. “If that is what I still am to you?”

If. The single word rang in his ears, making his stomach swoop as though he had tripped over the uneven cobblestones beneath them. What could she mean by it? Did she doubt him?

The audacity of it stung. It was he, after all, who had every reason—every right—to doubt her.

“Do you truly have to ask what I was doing the night before our wedding?” Colin spat, the bitterness in his tone ricocheting to lash out at them both. “I thought Lady Whistledown knew what happens everywhere in London?”

Her breath caught audibly, but she said nothing, just staring at him, wide-eyed and wary.

Colin tilted his head, his voice turning mocking—cruel in a way he knew he’d regret but could not contain. “Surely the carnal customs of a stag night at White’s have not escaped her ears?”

It was a bitter conjecture, one he did not truly mean, but it was also a test. And from the way her face paled, the look of utter agony that crossed her countenance, he wished he had not posed it.

Time halted between them, tenuous and torturing; he dared not move, mirroring how she remained motionless. He had thought it would feel vindicating to spite her—to ensure she felt even a fraction of the pain thrashing through him.

It may have been the most foolish notion to have ever crossed his mind.

She stared at him, her lips parting as though to speak, but no words came. Her eyes, aghast and glistening, flickered with emotions so palpable he could feel their ache radiating to his own body.

Without warning, she spun on her heel and bolted, her cloak whipping behind her like sapphires absconding in the moonlight.

“Penelope!” he hissed, his voice low and urgent, slicing through the stillness of the late hour.

She did not pause, did not so much as falter, disappearing through an opening he had not observed between the shops. Her steps echoed like heartbeats splintering apart in the darkness.

Without thought, he gave chase, each footfall lodging his heart higher into his throat. Vexation and hurt churned like a tempest within him, but one thought rose above the chaos: he could not, would not, did not want to let her leave believing he had betrayed her.

[idabbleincrazy]

Not Whole Without (2/2)

Fandom: Smallville/Dark Knight Trilogy

Rating: E

Pairing: Clark Kent/Lex Luthor/Bruce Wayne

Word Count: 6590

Warnings: pwp, shameless smut, mini-orgy, oral fingering, double oral penetration, double blowjobs, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, deep throating, come swallowing, come eating, come sharing, rimming, anal fingering, anal, spit-roasting, slutty Clark, subby Bruce, top Clark, top Lex, bottom Bruce, bottom Lex, cum-drunk Bruce,

Summary: Trust Lex to know just what they all need.

A/N: wow, I can't believe my first Clex+Bruce fic so very smutty. 😅 Also, I failed to mention it last time, but I picture this Bruce as Christian Bale's Batman from The Dark Knight trilogy. I probably will most times that I write for him.

Squares Filled: "Are we gonna do this, or has this all been a complete waste of time?", Oral fingering or Object Insertion, Sex with a couple/sex with friends/sex with strangers/sex with an ex, Strip tease or DP in one hole, "I've gotten rusty in my abstinence.", Accidental Confession or First Kiss ( @julybreakbingo ) Unsure Kiss, Forming a Triad, Spit-roasting, Non-binary/Polyamorus/Pansexual ( @fandom-free-bingo Pride Edition)

Clark let Lex lead him into their bedroom, the sound of Bruce's heartbeat slowly following behind. 

"Lex, are you sure about this?"

Stopping the both of them beside the bed, Lex turned around to face Clark full-on. There was no mistaking how turned on the older man was, his eyes dark and stormy, slacks tented painfully. But, there was still tenderness radiating from his gaze, a gentle understanding at the way Clark was reeling from this turn of events. 

"Clark, if you, at any time, don't want this, all you have to do is say so." Lex's gaze flicked over his shoulder, and Clark could hear Bruce's heartbeat looming a few feet behind him, the door closing with an almost silent snick. "He'll leave the moment you ask him to. Or the moment I do."

Clark wanted Bruce to take that last step between them, to reach out and touch him; his arm, the back of his neck. But he knew he wouldn't. Bruce always put too much stock in boundary lines. So, Clark turned instead, Lex's hand still in his, his ballast in this uncharted water. Bruce stood there, barely a foot away, his face hardly different from when he gazed out over his city from beneath his cowl. Except for his eyes. 

Those ocean-blue irises and blown pupils spoke of the emotion the man fought to hide; hunger, a need so deep, Clark didn't know how the human didn't buckle under its power. He wanted him, them?, too. More than just the aching desire that bulged between his legs. He wanted to be with them. 

"Bruce?" 

"I'm sorry, Clark." Bruce's voice, while not quite the rumbling timbre of Batman, was still husky as he finally spoke. "I never should have let myself become so attached to you. It was a bad idea from the start, offering myself as your mentor. But I had to know; needed to see what it was about you that had Lex so enraptured, needed to know why you succeeded where so many have failed. And once I did, how could I not fall?"

Clark felt himself blush; belatedly. Letting Bruce watch Lex go down on him, nothing. Hearing Bruce speak so tenderly, like a freaking beacon. This was the Bruce he rarely got to see, the Bruce that had his heart wrenching in distress as it fought to reconcile his love for Lex with his growing affection for his partner in crime-fighting. Clark stepped closer to Bruce, lifting his free hand to his cheek. Softer than he expected, with a hint of stubble scratching lightly against his palm. He watched Bruce's eyes, looking for any sign of rejection, finding none. 

Lex heaved a sigh, his patience worn thin.

"Are we gonna do this, or has this all been a complete waste of time?" He let go of Clark's hand and stepped around him, slipping his tie from around his collar as he maneuvered himself between them, his chest pressing against both of their sides. "Clark, really, you're making this so much more of a production than it needs to be. After six months of learning everything there is to know about Clark Kent, Bruce has inevitably found himself very nearly as much in love with you as I am. And, inadvertently, fell in love with me all over again. You, a man of impeccable taste in men, if not attire, couldn't help but find yourself growing enamored with the enigmatic, brilliant, devilishly handsome man who showed you the ropes of do-gooding and gave you all the helpful advice you could ever seek, even as you tore yourself up about having such feelings for anyone other than me. Even though those feelings never lessened in the company of these new ones. And me, well, you know me, Clark. I don't let just anyone in, and when I do, they're in my heart forever. He wants us, Clark. Both of us. Just let yourself have this. We can work out the details along the way, like we always do."

Clark, his hand still cupping Bruce's cheek, looked over at Lex, gauging his sincerity. It helped that Lex admitted to having feelings for Bruce, too. And there didn't seem to be any trace of a lie in his eyes, eyes that were more open and unguarded than they ever were when he was just trying to get his way. This was more than Lex being horny and looking for a threesome. 

Turning back to Bruce, Clark leaned in slowly, encouraged as he saw Bruce's eyes flick down to his encroaching mouth. Hesitantly, he closed the small gap between them, pressing their lips together. And everything just clicked, the rightness of it all. The press of Lex's body along his side, his hand resting against the small of his back, Bruce's mouth beneath his, warm and unexpectedly pliant, his hand coming up to cup the back of his head. As Bruce's lips parted for his inquisitive tongue, Clark thought maybe, just maybe, this could actually work. And that was the last thought on the subject he was going to allow himself for the night as the taste of Bruce, of whiskey and cool night air, burst on his tastebuds. 

All too soon, Lex tugged at his jaw, and wasn't it a testament to how lost in the kiss he was that Lex hadn't hurt himself with the action, pulled him to his own mouth, lips crushing to his in a bruising, fleeting kiss. A swipe of his tongue over Clark's lips and a growl of hunger, and then he released Clark's chin, turning to Bruce and pulling him into a devouring kiss. Panting, Clark watched the two billionaires, his cock giving a painful throb of reminder. 

Bruce came to life under Lex's mouth, teeth nipping at Lex's lip. Apparently, the brunette had been coiled tight, allowing Clark to lead, take those first tentative steps; now he'd snapped, his free arm wrapping around Lex's waist and crushing the bald man to him, his other hand still carding through Clark's hair, possibly tugging harshly at the strands ineffectively, as his tongue delved into Lex's gasping mouth. God, they were beautiful together. Clark could come just watching them, and if he and Lex had looked anything like that, Bruce had more self-control than he realized. 

He watches them struggle for control of the kiss, neither one gaining the upper hand for more than a few seconds. Bruce's hand is no longer in his hair, instead joining the other in his mad scrabble to relieve Lex of his suit. Lex's jacket is stripped off his shoulders, tossed carelessly to the floor. Buttons ping as Bruce rips his lilac shirt open, revealing a pale, hairless chest. 

"You're paying for that", Lex growls through the panting breaths he's taking, pushing Bruce back towards the wall beside the bed. "Christ, Bruce…bastard!" 

"Name calling will get you nowhere, Luthor." Bruce is smiling at Lex smugly, his voice pitched to Batman. 

Lex snarls at him and redirects his attention back to Clark, pulling him into a kiss no less devouring, albeit less violent, than the one he'd just shared with Bruce. 

"Get naked, Clark, while I ready Bruce for his welcome into our bed."

Clark nodded dumbly, loosening his tie at human speed as Lex stalked back to where Bruce stood, shedding his ruined shirt along the way. 

Lex stepped up to Bruce and began working the buttons of his crisp white button down, taking the care Bruce hadn't bothered with. 

"You left me." Lex's voice was dangerous, and Clark caught Bruce's face soften at the sound of it, his eyes reflecting regret. "You told me you loved me, and then you left me."

Bruce let Lex finish removing his shirt, then caught his wrists tightly, tugging the slimmer man flush against him.

"I had to, Lex. God, I never wanted to leave you, but I needed to get away from Gotham, from the life that was set before me by my parents. I'm sorry I left you to Lionel's tender mercies, but you were too young. I couldn't legally take you with me. And now, I'm glad I left you behind."

"What?"

Bruce brushed a soft kiss across Lex's mouth and turned him around to face Clark, who had stripped out of his shirt and was working on his pants, the button popped, boxers visible where the placket gaped open as his hands stilled momentarily.

"Look what you found while I was away. Clark protected you in a way I never could." Bruce grazed his lips against the sensitive skin behind Lex's ear as he spoke, and Clark watched the shudder run through Lex's slim, pale body. Bruce's eyes caught Clark's, and he let one hand drift down Lex's bare chest to slip beneath his trousers, eliciting a gasp when his fingers wrapped around the solid flesh. "If you had come with me, you never would have fallen in love with him; and neither would I. We would've been missing him, without even being able to understand why we felt that way."

Clark continues undressing as the two older men watch, pushing pants and boxers down his legs and stepping out of the puddle of fabric at his feet. His cock is hard and leaking and curved up to his stomach, and he lets a hand drift down to stroke himself, needing to keep his mind free of the thoughts he promised himself he wouldn't allow to intrude on this night of passion. 

"Fuck, Lex", Bruce groans in Lex's ear, the hand down his pants rubbing teasingly along the hard shaft it's holding. "He's so beautiful. Just like you. Watching the two of you out there, that was the hottest thing I've seen in years. I could almost feel you, when your mouth was around him; I remember how perfect your mouth always was."

"Not as good as his, Bruce, trust me. It's like he was made for it. Almost impossible to make him gag, and he can hold his breath for so fucking long." 

"Well, we'll just have to put that to the test, won't we?" Clark watched Bruce's arm flex, his hidden hand eliciting a drawn-out groan from Lex. "Now, weren't we supposed to be holding off on all the emotional parts for later?"

"Yeah, well, you know me, Bruce. I rarely take my own advice. But don't worry, we're back on track now." And with that, Lex forced himself to pull away from Bruce's grasp, walking the few steps to where Clark stood. "Wanna see if you can take us both, Clark? See if that sweet mouth can stretch wide enough to fit two cocks?"

Clark groaned at the thought of that, and nodded, squeezing his hand around the base of his cock to hold back the sudden urge to come. Lex grinned and pulled him into a quick and dirty kiss. Releasing Clark, he swiftly undid his slacks, stepping out of them and kicking them to the side. 

Bruce stepped up beside Lex, fully naked now, and Clark spared a second to lament missing the slow reveal of the thick, hard cock that jutted out from his groin. Lex lifted his hand and pressed two fingers to Clark's lips, pushing forward as he opened his mouth for them. 

"Bruce, want a preview?" Lex raised an eyebrow and gestured between Bruce's hand and Clark's mouth. Bruce took the hint and slid his own fore and middle finger into Clark's mouth beside Lex's. "Suck them, Clark. Show Bruce how it's going to feel when you're wrapped around our dicks." 

Clark obeyed readily, taking the four digits in as deep as he could, suckling them without a care for the noise he made. He felt Lex stretch his fingers out towards his cheek, the nails brushing against the back of his throat, almost tickling. Bruce groaned as Clark hollowed his cheeks, suctioning around the digits pressing against his tongue, thrusting his gently deeper, testing Clark. 

"Jesus, Lex, you weren't kidding."

"Uh huh. Add another. Let him get used to the stretch a bit." 

Bruce pulled his fingers back, adding his ring finger on the next slide in. Clark gagged a little at the added girth, but quickly managed to adjust, sucking just as eagerly at the new addition. He lapped his tongue over whatever flesh he could reach, his mind filling with images of both mens cocks taking the place of the spit-slick digits. His cock throbbed and he let out a pleading whine. 

Lex took pity and removed his fingers, nudging Bruce to do the same when the brunette continued to finger the shiny mouth. 

"Kneel for us, baby."

Clark dropped to his knees and didn't bother waiting for Lex's next instruction, immediately flicking his tongue out over the leaking head of Lex's cock. Lex moaned at the light touch and angled himself against Clark's side to be able to slide his cock into the wet heat of his mouth and leave room for Bruce to do the same. Bruce mirrored his stance on the other side, a loud, guttural sound falling from his mouth as he eased his cock in beside Lex's. 

Clark let his eyes fall closed as two hands gripped at his hair, moving into their guidance so they wouldn't hurt themselves trying. The feeling of two thick cocks pushing deep into his slackened mouth, of two fat cockheads pressing against the back of his throat, had his arousal surging, and he thrust his own neglected cock into the empty air, struggling not to touch himself. If he did, he would come, and he wasn't exactly sure he wouldn't inflict some serious damage on both men if he lost control of his muscles. 

"God, Clark. You're amazing." Bruce was panting above him; Clark could hear his heart hammering in his chest as he thrust deeper into the tightness of his throat. He thrilled at knowing he was able to generate such a reaction from the normally reserved man. "Such a beautiful cocksucker. Fuck, Lex, how do you ever get anything done, knowing you can have this any time you want?"

"It's a hardship, I know. Next time, I'll let you have the full experience." Lex guided Clark's mouth all the way down their girthy shafts, his free hand coming to soothe Clark's throat as he struggled to relax his gag reflex. "How's your stamina these days, Bruce? If you're one and done, pull out now, 'cause I want you hard when we fuck you."

Clark felt Bruce shudder, a spurt of pre-come sliding down his throat. 

"I can go as many times as you need me, Lex. Trust me, after six months of restraint, there's plenty in my reserves."

Clark forced his eyes open as he felt both cocks thicken further, and pulled back along their throbbing lengths, wanting to see and taste them as they came. He had timed it perfectly, just as he had the tips of both cocks pressed against his tongue, Bruce stiffened beside him, a drawn-out growl falling from his lips as his orgasm hit him. Lex thrust his cock into the cum coating Clark's tongue, leaning towards Bruce to mouth at his neck and cry out his own release. Clark felt his own aching cock spurt at the taste of their combined spend, and forced himself to keep his jaw slack as he came. 

As their climaxes ended and Clark regained his control, he cleaned away every trace of cum from their still-hard cocks, suckling the head of each in turn as he released them. Licking his lips as he looked up at them from beneath his lashes and unruly bangs, he was surprised to find himself pulled up to his feet by Bruce and drawn into a hungry kiss. 

Bruce groaned at the taste of himself and Lex on Clark's tongue as he suckled the wet muscle. He had to admit, the mix was a heady one, and further proof that the three of them made the perfect combination. His hand slid from where it was gripping Clark's bicep, down his chest into the rivulets of Clark's own release. Trailing his fingers through the sticky drops, he gathered up a good glob of it and raised it to their joined mouths. The addition of Clark's cum to the traces of his and Lex's, had Bruce amending his previous sentiment; this was the perfect combination. 

Reaching out his free hand, he sought out Lex, pulling him into the kiss, both him and Clark turning their heads to awkwardly lap at his mouth, bringing more of Clark's spend up for Lex to lick away from both their lips. 

Unable to wait any more, Bruce broke the three-way kiss and pushed Clark backwards onto the bed, thankful for Lex's need to over-indulge with certain things. Climbing up after him, Bruce settled between Clark's spread legs, leaning over him to lap up the sticky remnants of his cum from his abdomen. Clark was still hard, even after two orgasms, the thick length shiny with trails of spend, and Bruce trailed his mouth down to the ruddy appendage. He felt the bed dip, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Lex bending over Clark to whisper something in his ear before capturing his mouth, muffling the moan Bruce caused as he slid his tongue teasingly over the plummy head of his cock. 

Cleaning away the last traces of cum, Bruce sat up, watching the pair kiss, Lex's hands braced against the mattress either side of Clark's head as one of Clark's giant hands cupped the back of Lex's neck, the other dipping down between Lex's legs to play and tease. With his cock eager to get to his promised fucking, Bruce interrupted them.

"As much as I enjoy watching the two of you, Lex, I remember you saying something about the two of you fucking me?"

Both heads whipped towards him, their eyes exuding hunger he was sure was reflected by his own gaze. Lex pulled away and shuffled around on the overly large bed as Clark stood back up. Lex tugged Bruce to the center of the mattress, urging him onto his hands and knees. 

"I'm going to take your mouth, Bruce, and Clark's going to take your ass." Bruce couldn't hold back the shudder of arousal at that, the thought of being speared between the two of them testing his control. "Tell me, though, for prep, would you prefer familiar, or new?"

Much as he had always loved the way Lex opened him up the few times he had bottomed for him, Bruce couldn't pass up the opportunity to feel Clark's fingers stretching him. 

"New." He looked up at Lex, and knew he hadn't offended him with his decision. There would be time for all permutations of their coupling, and none of them would ever intentionally make one of the others feel left out. 

Lex smirked and looked over Bruce's shoulder.

"Clark…"

The bed dipped behind Bruce and he felt Clark's weight settle between his legs, his hands gripping his thighs and spreading them wider. Bruce hummed softly as he felt Clark's hands slide up his thighs to cup the globes of his ass, spreading the cheeks apart. He hadn't felt this vulnerable in so long, even longer since he felt so completely safe at the same time. 

"How long has it been, Bruce?" Lex's smile had softened slightly as he watched Bruce's reactions. 

"Years. Not…I haven't bottomed since you."

"We'll have to get you nice and stretched, then, won't we?" Bruce groaned as Lex's words were accompanied by the first brush of Clark's finger over his puckered hole. "You'll enjoy this, Bruce; I know I always do."

When the finger moved away, Bruce expected the tell-tale sound of a bottle opening; it never came. Instead, Clark shifted between his legs, and he let out a loud yelp as Clark's tongue swiped over the furled ring of muscle. Lex chuckled and bent down to kiss him, his tongue delving into Bruce's mouth to smother his moan as he let his eyes flutter shut. He had never thought Clark would rim him without some serious begging and convincing. For him to do so unbidden, on their first night together, showed him that Clark really was more like himself and Lex than he had realized. 

Bruce was breathless when Lex broke the kiss, Clark's tongue swirling over his hole sloppily and noisily. His cock throbbed between his legs, his earlier climax barely making a difference with the way the two men were driving him wild. He knew Clark could hear how fast his heart was thumping, hell, he could probably smell how hot for it he was. 

Lex watched as Clark rimmed Bruce, his cock aching in remembrance of his own experiences of that sinful tongue slowly working him open. 

"Christ, Clark. I never realized how hot you look like this. You are never eating my ass from behind again if you look anything like this." Clark moaned from between Bruce's spread cheeks, the action drawing a similar response from the older man beneath him. "On my back, from now on, so I can watch you getting me all wet and stretched for you. Fuck, I'm going to suck your cock, Clark."

Bruce forced his eyes open as he felt Lex moving around, twisting his head over his shoulder to watch the lithe man lay down on his back under Clark. A rumbling vibration against his asshole alerted him to the moment Lex had taken Clark's cock into his mouth, and he pushed back against Clark's slick mouth, needing more. 

"Clark, please. Fuck, feel so good; need you in me."

Clark obliged, his tongue stiffening to prod into Bruce's loosening hole. Between the dark taste of Bruce on his tongue and the feel of Lex's warm mouth around his cock, he knew he would come again before he finished preparing the brunette that writhed beneath him. 

Lex took as much of Clark's cock down his throat as he could manage, his tongue laving along the girthy shaft. Stretching out a hand, he wrapped his fingers around Bruce's hard length, stroking it in time to Clark's thrusts into his mouth. 

"Oh, God, Lex! You are evil, after all. Fuck, tighter, Lex." Bruce thrust his hips, pushing into the tight grip of Lex's hand, and back onto Clark exploring tongue. He cried out in pleasure as he felt Clark easing a finger into him beside his tongue, the thick digit tugging at his rim. "Shit! Yeah, Clark, like that. More. Want you, Clark."

Clark felt his third orgasm surging fast despite his previous releases as he slid another finger into Bruce, stretching them out to flick his tongue deeper into the warm passage. Lex was swallowing around him, his muffled grunts vibrating along his shaft, and he could hear the slick sounds of skin on skin as Lex jerked himself and Bruce off. Scraping his teeth over the edge of Bruce's rim, he felt him stiffen suddenly, his hole spasming around him as the older brunette came with a shout. Pulling away with one last noisy lick of his tongue, Clark focused on fucking the mouth that still worked his cock. 

"Jesus, fuck, Clark! Lex! Want you." 

Bruce rode out his climax on Clark's fingers, a particularly large spurt of cum bursting forth as he thrust back on the thick digits, feeling the tips prodding against his prostate. Clark continued stretching him as he sought his own release down Lex's throat, the bed shaking from their efforts. 

Lex let go of Bruce's sticky cock, his cum-slick hand immediately pulled up to Clark's mouth, his other hand speeding along his aching shaft as he felt Clark's tongue laving away Bruce's spend. Between the sounds of Bruce fucking himself on Clark's fingers, the feel of Clark's thickening cock stretching his throat, and Clark's wet tongue licking between his fingers, Lex let his climax wash over him, his screaming of pleasure muffled by Clark's thrusting length. 

A light spatter of cum landed on Clark's lower back as Lex came, and Clark stilled above the two mortal men, cock and fingers buried deeply in mouth and ass as his own orgasm was triggered by the tightening of Lex's throat around him. 

"Oh, God! Lex…Bruce…so fucking good. So perfect. Love your mouth, Lex." Clark babbled as he came down Lex's swallowing throat, this orgasm more intense than the last. "And, God, Bruce, your ass…so fucking sweet, so tight. Lex and I are going to be fighting over who gets to work you open every time we fuck."

Lex let his released hand slide over Clark's chest as he rode out his release, fingers pinching taut nipples, relishing the slide of thick cum down his throat. Finally, as his and Clark's climaxes subsided, Clark easing his cock from Lex's abused throat. Lex squirmed out from beneath him, licking up his own cum from Clark's backside as he kneeled up on the bed. 

"Goddamn, I love your cock, Clark." Lex scooped up the bottle of lube he had set aside, handing it to Clark as he clambered up the bed to kneel in front of Bruce. Leaning down, he kissed Bruce soundly, sharing the lingering taste of their Kryptonian partner. "And, trust me, Bruce, so will you. Still up for another round?"

"I'm insulted you think you even have to ask, Lex. Believe me, if his cock feels anywhere as good as his fingers, I'm not waiting."

Bruce moaned in remorse as he felt Clark's fingers slip out of him, but the sound of a bottle snicking open behind him sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. With Clark unable to contract human diseases, and Lex's mutated healing, Bruce knew condoms would never be an issue, and he didn't think he'd want Clark fucking him any other way than bareback. He felt Clark reach beneath him, slick fingers stroking his cock back to full hardness in a matter of seconds. Lex, himself, was only half-hard, and Bruce couldn't wait to feel that long, slim cock growing thicker along his tongue. 

"Gonna fuck you so hard." Clark's voice was it's Superman rumble, confident and commanding, as he leaned over and pressed heated kisses along Bruce's back. Bruce could feel the thick shaft of his cock rubbing between his cheeks, and his cock twitched hard. "Six months, Bruce, six months of imagining this, thinking I could never have it. Ask Lex how explosive it was when we finally came together."

"God, I thought we were going to bring the mansion crumbling down around us." Lex leered down at Bruce. "I felt him for days, he fucked me so good."

"Jesus. Clark, stop teasing. In me, now." Bruce let his voice growl, urgency driving him to the animal side of himself he reigned in so tightly. "Take me, both of you."

Clark groaned and slicked his cock quickly, notching the head at Bruce's relaxed pucker, watching Lex. As Lex pressed his own cock past Bruce's lips, Clark thrust slowly forward, the two of them skewering their new lover simultaneously. The head of his cock popped past the first ring of muscle, and Clark fought not to thrust completely into the tight heat of Bruce's ass. Bruce groaned around Lex's cock, pushing back against Clark's piercing cock despite the burn of the stretch. 

Lex pulled his cock out briefly as Bruce strove to take all of Clark's long, thick cock, wondering if his face looked so blissed out every time Clark fucked him. When he saw that Bruce's ass was flush against Clark's groin, Clark's hands soothing along Bruce's sides as the older man adjusted to the girth, Lex thrust his cock back into Bruce's mouth, sliding the length slowly down until Bruce's nose was buried in the sparse auburn curls around his base. God, he'd missed this mouth; no less perfect than Clark's and uniquely sublime in a completely different way than his Kryptonian lover's. 

Pulling out halfway, Clark thrust back in, angling his cock to rub over Bruce's prostate, his enhanced vision tuning in to guide the way. 

"Fuck, Bruce. Your ass is so fucking amazing. So tight and hot." Clark's hands slid down Bruce's back to grip tightly at his hips, shifting him between himself and Lex to start a rocking rhythm. "Gonna tie both of you down one night, just take turns fucking each of you 'till you can't even sit down at a board meeting without thinking of my cock filling you up. Christ, how did either of you ever get anything done? Lex, can you manage another after you come in his mouth? I wanna fuck you, too."

Lex groaned loudly and thrust deeper into Bruce's lax throat, somewhat surprised by just how horny Clark was tonight. 

"Jesus Christ, I can sure as hell try, Clark. God, even if I don't come, I'm not saying no to having your dick split me open." Lex heard Bruce grunt around his cock and looked down, thrilled at the way their conversation was clearly driving him crazy. He cupped Bruce's cheek, drawing his gaze up to his smirking face. "Maybe I'll even slide my cock into Bruce's dripping hole while you do. Let you fuck me into him, your cum easing the way."

Bruce shuddered, a full body convulsion, and came. He felt his face heat slightly in shame at his total loss of control, but he couldn't stop the sudden orgasm that rocketed through him, huge spurts of cum soaking the already damp comforter. 

Clark growled as Bruce clamped down around him, the already tight passage now squeezing him enough that it would have been painful for a human. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fought not to immediately follow Bruce into orgasm as the brunette writhed and shook in his grip. 

"Guess you liked that idea, eh, Brucie? Made you pop like a pricked balloon. And still so good about the teeth, even in the throes of pleasure."

Lex slipped his fingers through Bruce's hair, tugging him along the shaft of his throbbing cock, eager to come. The thought of him and Clark filling Bruce's mouth and ass with their spend had him hard as a rock. These two men were proving to be better aphrodisiacs than anything he'd ever happened across. Feeling the head of his cock slip down into Bruce's throat, Lex let his head fall back on his shoulders and thrust his hips in aborted movements, fucking the tight passage with abandon as his climax coursed through him. 

Bruce gulped the sticky fluid eagerly, still reeling from his own release, the constant pressure of Clark's cick against his prostate keeping his own erection from flagging. He licked up along the shaft as Lex withdrew, heady from the taste and the rapid-succession orgasms. He felt almost high, euphoric like that really good batch of X Lex had cooked up for fun that one summer. After six months of forgoing even masturbating - a deluded attempt to abate all thoughts of Clark beyond the professional - and years since he'd been on the receiving end of any kind of sex outside of a quick, perfunctory blowjob, his hormones were going a little berserk. 

"God, Bruce, didn't know you were such a slut for cock, coming at just the thought of Lex fucking you while you're still full of my cum. You're just full of surprises, aren't you, baby?"

Clark rode Bruce's ass harder, chasing his own release now, desperate for it, some Kryptonian instinct driving him to claim this new addition to their bed, just as he had needed to claim Lex their first time. He felt his cock twitch hard, thickening further inside the clutching hole, and roared out his need as he came. Ropes of cum jettisoned from his pulsing cock, filling Bruce so quickly that he could feel it seep out around his cock after the first few spurts. He wondered if Bruce would let them plug him after Lex fucked him? The thought of keeping Bruce stretched and ready for them, slick with their seed and his belly bulging from the excessive fluid, triggered another load of cum, and he thanked his alien physiology that he couldn't have an aneurysm from overexertion. 

As his climax finally receded, Clark eased his cock slowly from Bruce's reddened, leaking hole, reluctant to leave the tight ass that had given him so much pleasure, but eager to sink himself into Lex. He knew there was always great pleasure to be had there, as well. By the way Bruce's weight sagged in his grip, he knew he was the only thing keeping the nearly spent human from collapsing to the mattress in a limp sprawl.

"Jesus, Clark. I knew you'd be good at that, but that was beyond anything I could have imagined." 

Lex chuckled at Bruce's slurred voice, knowing his once-ex was officially cum-drunk. He quickly maneuvered Bruce up the bed so that he lay on his side, facing him, his head cushioned on one of the plush pillows. He laid out beside him, leaning in to kiss him languidly as he felt Clark spoon up beside him. One more round, and they would no doubt fall asleep just like this, covered in each other's sweat, saliva, and semen. Lex would grumble when he woke up sticky, but he knew Clark would kiss away any complaints and swiftly remind him why it was a good idea at the time. 

"God, you're still so beautiful when you come, Bruce. Though I hadn't realized you'd become a hair-trigger."

"I've gotten rusty in my abstinence. I can't believe I came so quick, without even being touched. Your sailor mouth I'm used to," Bruce flashed Lex a pointed look, before casting his gaze over Lex's shoulder, "but hearing you talk like that, Clark, I couldn't hold back."

"I liked it. I like knowing that you're so hot for me, for Lex, that you can't help yourself. Lex knows." Clark bit lightly at Lex's neck, eliciting a deep groan. 

"Oh, yeah. Our boy gets extra hot knowing he can turn me into a puddle of goo with just a well-placed suggestion, or a teasing touch. That shy, reserved farm-boy-turned-reporter doesn't exist when it comes to sex. Now, you gonna fuck me, Clark, or am I going to have to fuck Bruce with my own strength?"

Clark barked a laugh and reached for the lube he'd set between them. He poured the slightest amount of lube onto Lex's cock, knowing Bruce was plenty stretched and wet. Slicking up his fingers, he slid his hand down between Lex's firm cheeks, finding his tight hole practiced ease. Lex let out a whine of pleasure as Clark rubbed a finger around his rim, slipping the digit in slowly as the furl loosened. 

As Clark worked him open, Lex gripped Bruce's outer thigh, tugging him closer so that Lex was slotted between his legs. He draped the leg over his and Clark's hips, leaving the older man spread open. Thrusting back onto Clark's questing fingers, his cock slid down between Bruce's legs, behind his nearly depleted sac, to nestle into the opening of his twitching hole. Lex could feel Clark's cum dripping from the used hole, and he moaned at the slick warmth that trickled down his shaft. He was tempted to thrust himself into the brunette to the hilt, but knew he wouldn't have to wait long for Clark's invading cock to push him into Bruce. 

As if he'd suddenly gained telepathy, Clark removed his fingers, quickly replacing them with his cock. Lex let his head fall back against Clark's shoulder with a loud groan as he was filled completely in a single thrust. It hurt, but in the best way, his cock twitching where it was held in place against Bruce's stretched rim. Another groan was ripped from his throat as Clark pushed him into Bruce, the wet, tight heat surrounding his cock like a vise in this position. 

Bruce keened, the sudden thrust of Lex's cock into him making him clutch at Lex's shoulder, his leg clenching against the swell of Clark's ass. Lex flung an arm back to grip at Clark, his other hand tangling in Bruce's hair to pull him into a desperate kiss. He really didn't know if he could manage to come again, but his cock was giving a valiant effort, throbbing back to life inside the tight passage, his prostate pummeled with each quick thrust of Clark's hips. Sounds of flesh slapping sweatily against flesh, of Clark's grunts and Bruce's muffled moans, spurred him on. 

"This is…fucking…incredible," Clark panted in Lex's ear, teeth scraping against his neck. "Next time, I want you in my ass like this, Lex, fucking me into Bruce. Jesus, not gonna last. Too good."

Lex agreed, the feeling of Bruce wrapped around his cock, driving into his clenching passage while surrounded in Clark's cum, the steady thrust of Clark's huge cock into his own twitching hole, was just too much to keep control over the amazing fourth orgasm he felt rushing up his spine. With the way Bruce clutched at them both as Lex kissed him sloppily, told him they were all in sync on the subject. 

Burying his face in the crook of Lex's shoulder, his hand reaching out to clutch the other two to him, Clark jackrabbited his hips in a succession of bruising thrusts as he gave in to his need for release. As he poured whatever was left of his seemingly endless supply of cum into Lex, he felt Bruce and Lex stiffen in his embrace, both men moaning out the orgasms he'd wrung from their overstimulated bodies. 

Bruce went limp in Lex's and Clark's grasps, unused to the onslaught of sensations coursing through him after so long. He whited out for a few seconds, his cock still spurting trickles of cum onto his and Lex's chests when he came back to consciousness. He could feel Lex's cock still pulsing inside him, and he was amazed at how much the mutated, but still essentially human, man could come in such a short time span. He definitely had his work cut out for him with these two. 

Lex felt like he was floating, his whole body felt weightless, like if Clark and Bruce unwound themselves from him, he would drift up into the atmosphere. He'd had some spectacular sex with both these men, separately. Together, it was beyond his ken. His cock surged in Bruce's spasming hole, his cum mingling with Clark's, coating the passage and his shaft in the sticky substance. His ass throbbed deliciously as Clark's orgasm petered out and the Kryptonian eased carefully out of his twitching hole. 

As he'd suspected, Lex felt Clark use his speed to pull the covers from underneath his and Bruce's lax and sated bodies, slipping back in behind him before draping the sheets back over them. Lazy kisses were shared between the three of them, lips pressing to whatever skin could be reached. As Lex let his eyes droop closed, he heard Bruce's soft snores issuing from in front of him, and felt the gentle sweep of Clark's fingers over heated skin at his back. Enveloped so snuggly between past, present, and future, Lex let himself drift off to sleep, a sated smile on his face. He loved it when a plan succeeded without a hitch.

~~~~~~~~

@leatafandom

[ghostieagere]

do you have any headcanons about how the little ghouls deal with being sad?

oooo this is a tricky one, anon !!! (/pos) i have lots and lots of thoughts about this and how each of the littles deal with different types of sadness, but for the sake post-length (and keeping everything fairly light-hearted) i'll just stick with a few headcanons <3

under the cut for length !

rain cries a lot. they can't really help it, it's part of their water ghoul nature, but that doesn't mean it's ever very fun :( they also tend to get muddled up between their languages, so their caregivers know to prepare themselves for english or french to come out of little rainy's mouth when they're upset. but yes, when they're sad, they know they need to go and find a caregiver (if they're not with one already) and ask for a sippy cup of water, a little snack, and a lot of cuddles. and that usually helps them feel a bit less sad, depending on what made them upset in the first place

dew is a bit of a tricky one for me to pin down :0 i don't think he's much of a crier, but he does get a bit whiny if he's upset. being sad or upset also usually makes him quite overtired, so his caregivers know that a quick nap is usually enough to get him feeling a little bit better, and at that point (if he's big enough) he can do his best to explain what's happened that made him sad. he does also throw the occasional tantrum if he's feeling overwhelmed by all his emotions, but a teether to chew on, something else to fidget with and a cuddle in steady arms can help him calm down again and bring him a bit further away from the sads

aeon tends to have meltdowns when they're feeling sad. their emotions get a bit too much for them to handle and the only options when they're small is to shut off or go into overdrive. whoever's with them in that moment will try and get rid of anything that might be causing aeon distress (whether that's other people in the room, or clothing that they're trying to pull off because it feels bad against their skin). the caregiver will try and wrap aeon in their arms to keep them safe from their own flailing arms. this usually helps calm them down more quickly because the grounding feeling of being surrounded by a comforting presence can usually be something good for aeon to focus on

mountain hides when he's upset. even when he's regressed, he still has the belief that he's not supposed to be sad or upset, so he hides himself away in teeny tiny cubby holes until someone comes and finds him. once he's found, he'll be reassured that he's not a burden for being upset, that everyone gets upset, and mountain is allowed to ask for help if he wants or needs it. after this reminder, he usually asks for a drink (apple juice) and/or a snack (cut up peaches) with sign language because being upset can often make him lose his words, but once he's with his caregiver and he's got something in his tummy, he usually starts feeling a lot better

aurora doesn't tend to have many big, bad emotions when she's regressed, so if she's sad it's usually because she's fallen down and scraped her knee or if she's not feeling very well. if she's scraped her knee, by the time she's got a hello kitty bandaid on it and cumulus has pressed a soft, healing kiss over the bandaid, aurora is usually ready to go out and play again, all sadness gone. but if she's sick, she'll stay feeling sad and not very good until she's all better. when she's sick though, her caregivers are always ready to provide her with hugs, bedtime stories and warm soup galore !!

[werdlewrites]

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summary: “I’m sure I can handle it. And you? You’re not going t’say a word, got it? Not t’anyone.” It’s a warning—a threat—as his finger points like a gun, holding him hostage until he surrenders. Steve can only accept his fate—one worse than Hopper’s anger—as he pictures her face contorted in rage. His arms raised to rest behind his head, fingers locked with a gaze far off beyond the parted blinds at the other's back. “Lying t’a superhuman. Great. I’ll get my will ready. Seeing as, y’know, she’ll definitely kill me.” warnings: Steve is an angel, emotional avoidance, secrecy, some Jopper wc: 3,750

The night is long—nearly never-ending. It was far past any normal dinner time, but their situation wasn’t exactly deemed normal. Together, the pair sit in the living room with paper plates of warmed food. They bicker over who gets the unsturdy sofa, knowing it’ll buckle with their weight added together. She uses the excuse that he’s worked all day and needs to rest. He argues against her, willing to sacrifice his comfort for a girl in distress. But she falls to the now-cleaned floor across from the couch, ignoring his words as a fork cuts away at the lasagna. Briefly, he fumes. He was nearly red in the face at just how stubborn she was, but ultimately chose to sit on the floor as well, disregarding the ache in his back. They talk about little things—from how his day went at work to what her favorite classes were to how she managed to find her way back out of the woods on her own. He’s impressed by her bravery, yet he's still frustrated at her inability to listen. It’s how kids are; he knows that.

Through a mouthful of noodles, she asks about her home. If that level of destruction was truly at the hands of one man, paired with her own curse, Hopper seems reluctant to give clarity, thinking over his words carefully before choking down his mouthful, wincing at the lump as it slithers down. “It’s a cover-up,” he mumbles, preparing another bite to pile onto his fork. There’s a pause between them both, chewing behind her hand before asking, “For what?” He waits, his eyes fluttering elsewhere as he continues on this false path. “Don’t know yet. I just know that he’s not a good man.” What comes in reply isn’t what he anticipates. A hearty snort to echo in this small space shared. “Yeah, no shit.” They fall silent just after—a look of wonder and worry in his stare, watching as she so casually pulls apart her meal. Unaware of the torment to twist and tear at her mind, she was unable to escape the sight of the grayed woman and the girl she connected with in that space. A girl who seemed very much alive and aware. Somehow pulling Autumn’s mind into her own, where there was only fear, blood, and the man to invade her home. It’s an unsolved mystery—no simple man could give an understanding of the storm she fought through. Yet still, she speaks. “He’s not the only one I saw.” Her voice is soft, like a gentle summer breeze. Warm, and barely heard beneath the crickets from just beyond the front door. He questions who, and the passionate pace she held for a hot meal slows to a standstill, shrugging in response. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like... I’m just seeing someone else’s story. Their life, y’know? And he’s right there. I don’t get it.” There’s a beat, and then the atmosphere around her seems to shift. Nightmares are lifted, or rather forced back into the closet, to live in ignorance as she stands from her place to discard her plate. Her hand extends down toward him, waiting for his own, and he can’t help but offer a nod in thanks, though the smile he wears is fake. As they turn from one another, he allows the weakness to creep in, his grin falling flat as a stare burns holes through the floor. Words rush forward before being swallowed back down, shards of glass to rip at his insides, and his pain goes unheard as she scrubs at the utensils. He wants to give her the space she needs to move at her own pace, but the secrets are a slow and unseen torture within him. Slowly, he lets them trickle out for some sort of relief from the pressure. “He knows your father,” he states with a cracking voice, picturing the way her eyes shoot daggers toward his back as if he misspoke. “Works with him, I think.” She doesn’t budge from her place in the kitchen, turning at the handles until the water eases its flow. He’s not even entirely sure if she heard him. But she asks, “Doing what?” She already knows. At least she knows enough to where the idea is less surprising. He wonders what she’s seen—what he’s told her, if anything at all. “I’m not sure,” A lie. Too fearful to look her way in anticipation of a glare, plucking out the weeds of an ugly truth. He’s hesitant, ready to cast away his gaze should tearful eyes find him, but she remains facing the sink, fingers gripping the edge.

In a breath, she turns with arms crossed over her chest, seeming more irritated than disturbed by the idea of the girl's father working with a man on a mission to steal her away. Then, the denial comes in like a burst of wind to blow away the heavy fog. Eyes lit with new energy and purpose. “Well,” she says, cutting through the silence. “You better figure some shit out. I can’t imagine how much schoolwork I’ve missed. I’m probably failing right now, Hop. Failing.” His mouth is hung agape, with a slight twist at the corner of his lip in pure disbelief. He’s seen this behavior before, staring right back at him in the mirror. The switch you flip, leaving the room dark and a mind ignorant of reality, so that you may live. “You were almost abducted, and you’re worried about school?” She makes a face, shoulders shrugged with palms out to the sky, as if to say, “Duh,” and he’s baffled. “CPS will come knockin’, and then what?"

He knows the girl is right. He knows her empty home echoes with numerous phone calls from the school, searching for the missing girl. He’s not ready to let her walk through those doors and out of his sight. Not without a plan. So, Wednesday morning comes, and he’s back in the office, plotting and making secretive phone calls to the only other person who’s familiar with the situation, Steve Harrington. The boy was eager to help in any way that he could, though cut short the moment he attempted to mention her name over the line. Hours pass, and the sound of sneakers scuffing along the tile brings his full attention toward the shut door, listening to the sounds of complaining as the door is forced open. It’s well after hours of school coming to an end, and the boy's face is still holding remnants of sweat with flushed cheeks. “Sorry,” he mumbled, kicking the door shut behind him as he flipped a thick stack of paperwork with a single hand. “Had practice after class. It must’ve slipped my mind. Life’s been so crazy,” he finishes with an uncomfortable laugh. Hopper is left unimpressed or amused by the boy. Arms folded over the table to support his weight, as his stare burns through freckled skin, a smile quickly falters. “Y’know…because of?” He waits in silence, studying the other man's expression carefully, yet all he offers is an extended hand, waiting with great impatience. “Yep, anyway,” he states quickly, slipping the collection into Hopper’s grip. Now satisfied, the officer sits back in his chair to sift through the work. Specific things he’s requested.

Autumn’s homework.

Steve watches as the man's face twists up in familiar annoyance, saying a silent prayer that the girl would never ask for his help with precalculus. “Good job,” he sighs, letting the stack fall to his desk with a “whap,” before leaning further back in his chair, hands running along his tired face. “All she can think about are her grades,” Hopper snorts. The humor isn’t lost on Steve, his lips turning up in a smile as he settles into the chair just across from the chief. “That doesn’t surprise me.” The man casts a glance in the boy’s direction, a subtle frown developing the more comfortable he gets. Like he belonged in a place like this—a secret agent working undercover for Hopper and a wanted girl. His thumbs twiddle, and his focus shifts around the shared space, taking it all in with his lips parting before closing again. He wants to speak but feels small under Hopper’s stern stare, swallowing his words. The police chief can hardly handle the growing tension, snapping, “What?" Earning a wide-eyed look from Steve in surprise. “What?” he repeats back with an innocent tone, his ignorance not once fooling Hopper. “You’ve clearly got something on your mind. Spit it out.” He’s uncertain, lips pursed with an avoidant focus as scrambled thoughts collect. His hesitance is visible in the way his Adam’s apple bobs, fidgeting hands now frozen though his knee bounces. “I just, uh,” he pauses, now chewing at his still-healing lip. "How—how is she?” A heavy intake of air fills the man's chest, exhaling, “She’s fine,” he said, his eyes now locked on the quiet phone at his desk, waiting for a ring of interruption. What he gets in return, however, is a hard snort just across the way. “Yeah, I’m sure. She seemed real fine before I left.” Steve leans with his back against the chair, arms folded over his chest, and a look of light amusement in his expression. “Can’t imagine being in the best mental state after finding o-” “She doesn’t know,” he cuts in, watching how it all shifts into something of disbelief. Like all he had known was ripped out beneath his feet, now unbalanced and incapable of processing this new reality. “What?”

The teen waits in silence. He was hoping for a shift in the atmosphere or a twist of a smile to suggest he was only joking. But he’s stoic and empty. “Are you kidding me? You haven’t-? How can you explain-?” “It’s complicated, kid,” the man mumbles behind the hand to scrub away his frown lines. A glare soon lands on the boy as he scoffs, following with, “Yeah, no shit, it’s complicated.” Steve seems ignorant of his tone or the lack of respect shown to not just a peer but also an officer. He sees them as companions, a duo linked together through unsettling times. A friend in the darkness, when no one else could understand. "But it’s going t’get about one hundred times worse if you don’t tell her.” He feigns a smile, replying, “I’m sure I can handle it. And you? You’re not going t’say a word, got it? Not t’anyone.” It’s a warning—a threat—as his finger points like a gun, holding him hostage until he surrenders. Steve can only accept his fate—one worse than Hopper’s anger—as he pictures her face contorted in rage. His arms raised to rest behind his head, fingers locked with a gaze far off beyond the parted blinds at the other's back. “Lying t’a superhuman. Great. I’ll get my will ready. Seeing as, y’know, she’ll definitely kill me.” With a roll of his eyes, Hopper stands with the paperwork in hand, making his way towards a discarded duffle bag, plunging them into its depths where few other secrets remain hidden. The last thing he needed was for someone to stumble into his unoccupied office, his mind filling with a thousand questions after finding homework scattered across his desk.

He waits in silence, hands hung on his hips, while he watches as the boy lives out what he believes to be his very short future and torturous end. His stare glazed over with anxiety and unavoidable doom. “I need another favor,” Hopper speaks up, immediately regretting his lack of control once he sees the curl of a smile. “I seem t’be doing a lot of those lately.” He doesn’t allow enough room for the response to evoke annoyance, pushing through with a clear mission ahead. “I need you t’watch her.” “Watch her?” he questions, tone dripping with uncertainty and confusion. “I don’t know where those people are. They could be out there,” he gestures towards the space out just beyond the closed door, where people filed in to provide complaints against their neighbors. Hell, it could have been Florence, for all he knew—keeping tabs on a man who threatened the secrecy of their operation. “I can’t be there all of the time. I’ve got t’keep up some sort of illusion here. Just-just watch her at school for me.” “Oh, she’ll love that. Being spied on.” Hopper pulls from the wall, fingers curled into fists as they press against the desk that separates them. It’s then that the boy feels as though he is being buried alive, with Hopper holding the shovel as he looms over the grave. It’s intimidating, and he feels himself shrink away, looking for a quick escape. Preparing to scale the walls of his demise. “You got a better idea?” He’s unable to find his voice at first, his lips parting to speak and nothing coming forward until he clears his throat, carving a shaken path. “Jonathan? She actually likes him,” he finishes with a heavy-hearted sigh, a look of sadness in his eyes as his arms fall to rest lazily over his torso. The officer isn't exactly the most knowledgeable when it comes to teenagers or their strange behaviors. But he isn’t blind to the clear disappointment and longing, and he uses that to his advantage, taking a softer approach to tug at his strings. “She asked about you,” he offers in a light tone, pushing himself back to give the boy the space he needed. “She asked if you were okay. Seemed worried t’me.” The boy doesn’t respond just yet, taking it all in with great caution, weary of this sudden shift after all of her verbal lashings.

But it was different now, right? Autumn had opened the door for him and given him a place of rest when he felt lost. He had pulled her from the fire at the risk of his life. Should he dare be hopeful that maybe she found a familiar security in him? Even at minimal, a tolerance. “I strongly recommend leaving your bullshit behind, kid. Get over whatever happened between you two. We’ve got bigger problems than some... ’Lovers quarrel,’” he adds with fingers raised in a quotation. He doesn’t miss the way freckled skin flushes with embarrassment, nearly shooting out of his seat to argue. “Not lovers! We never-” “Save it, kid. Are you going t’help me or what?” A steadying breath fills Steve’s chest, his foot nearly kicking at the carpeted floor as he thinks it all over. The two had barely scratched the surface of friendship—he wouldn’t even call it that just yet. The ties of their connection are still blowing in the wind, torn in two. Could he force himself into her space for her safety, but at the risk of her pushing back? He sees the face of every teacher in that school, posing as an educator but keeping a close eye on the girl as she lets her guard down behind a book. He thinks of them isolating her just as she tries to leave the class—another sedative to keep her from screaming—before carting her off without detection. Some things are worse than her anger—her annoyance and lack of understanding as he lingers at her back, so he nods. “I’ll keep her safe.”

By the time the end of Hopper’s shift comes, he’s found some form of relief. The crushing weight on his chest is lifted, but only just. Knowing she would be looked after in places he could not go gave him comfort. No, he didn’t expect Steve to rush in head-first and fend off monsters disguised as humans. A sinister gleam in their eyes and eager hands ready to snatch. But he hopes, with his presence by the girl's side, that any plans of disruption will be discouraged long enough until she’s under his watchful eye once more. But the iron that lays out across him, threatening to concave, has names for all the things he has yet to solve. Her father and the medication he forced upon his daughter. The girl named Jane, and what role did she play in all of this? What role did Autumn play? The sheriff needs more than just the camaraderie between himself and Steve, a mere boy who stumbled into this chaos by chance. Hopper seeks solace in someone familiar with the turmoil. The struggle of having their life flipped on its head. So when the sun sets just over the horizon, leaving a glow to spread through the evening, he finds himself standing at the Byers’ front door, taking in the calm as all seems to stand still behind the door. Joyce had pulled the newspaper from the windows, now pulling the curtains shut to hide from anyone too nosey to get a look at the undead boy. He would have thought it empty if it weren’t for the glow of a lamp and a sudden clattering followed by, “Shit.” A smirk graces his features, knuckles tapping against the wood, and he imagines the look of surprise on Joyce’s face. “One second!” She calls back.

The ruckus inside continues as she sets things down in a hurry; the click of an undone lock is heard just before she peers out through the crack. Light shines on his face, a low "Hi" drifting through the cold air. “Hopper,” she calls in surprise, now pulling the door back to welcome him inside. “I’m so happy t’see you,” she states with a shuddering voice, shoulders hunched as she fights the breeze that slips through before the door can close. “Things just... it all just got crazy, and..." she pauses, arms crossed over her torso for further warmth. She seems almost embarrassed, avoiding his gaze. Teetering back and forth until the words finally come through. “I’m sorry I didn’t call.” The man makes a face of confusion at her apology, amused by her seemingly scattered priorities. “You just got your boy back, and you’re worried about a phone call?” Of course, she was. He could see the guilt in doe eyes as they looked up at him. Together, they had marched through the devil's door and made it out alive. She thought of him daily. Where he had gone and if he was okay. Her days were long and dragging, filled with exhaustion as Will cried in the night, seeking comfort from his nightmares. Her body was too tired to reach for the phone, but she took the sight of his SUV in town as something positive. “It’s fine, Joyce,” he reassures with a smile—one that she returns in full.

Hopper gives himself a moment to drink in the changes in her home. The hole was still boarded, and clutter had been cleaned up from the floor after the monster's attack. One thing he noticed above all else was a lack of multi-colored lights that once hung in his face. Instead, they lay dim inside a box, ready to be stored away. “Not leaving those up for Christmas?” he teases. “I don’t want to see those lights for the rest of my life.” They find happiness together, laughing in unison as if the horrors they experienced didn’t loom over their backs. “You got any suggestions for that?” She turns to gesture towards the still-painted wall—letters once serving a purpose, now an ugly memory as they stain the paper. He wants to make another joke to keep the air light, but a new presence creeps in, dressed in pajamas with damp hair clung to his forehead. Will stands in the doorway, eyes wide with surprise and the slightest hint of a smile, though faltering. An innocent and tormented mind thinks of only bad news—nothing good to come from the hero who stands in his home. “Hiya, kid,” the man states with a softened grin, noting the apprehension. “Just wanted t’come check on you and your mom. See if you guys need anything.” Hazel eyes shift towards his mother, finding comfort in her brilliant smile. “He’s going to help me put up new wallpaper.” Hopper laughs in return, a deep chuckle echoing through the small home to lift low spirits, though their weight is too much to carry. “I did not say that.” Will remains distant with a hesitant grin, not yet full, as he's forever haunted by the shadows he ran from. Not confident enough to face the man who pulled him from death's grip, gratitude was left unheard on his tongue as he slipped back down the hallway. Hopper waits before he speaks, hearing the click of his bedroom door before asking in a hushed voice, "How is he?" Joyce takes a breath, letting a hard sigh fall through, no matter the reassurance in her expression. Not wanting to worry anyone with her stress or troubles as they adjust back into normal life. "Oh, he's, y'know, as good as he can be. He's still really shaken up. Not-not really himself yet."

With a gaze still locked on the now empty doorway, he hums in acknowledgment. “It’ll take some time,” he speaks in a gentle, reassuring tone, watching as her fingers curl up around the fabric over her chest with anxiousness. “Yeah, I know.” His focus is shifting, mind slowly tearing itself in two as he debates himself over the reason for coming here. To bury his burden and drag his feet through the mud, or to risk the need for some relief by unleashing that weight for someone else to carry. Joyce was in her own world—her own mess. It’s selfish to ask for her ear and her support. Fingers press into closed eyes as if the arguing voices shattered every nerve, leaving him distressed. He’ll bid his “Goodbye’s” and apologize for interrupting her evening by slipping out that front door and into the dark. But she holds on—a gentle touch to his arm with sweet words to ask, “What’s wrong?” The walls come crumbling down—Joyce breaking through with little effort, ready to pull him from the prison he keeps himself in. “We need t’talk,” he says, just low enough for only her to hear. Together, the pair slip out the front door with a freshly lit cigarette between their fingers, Joyce watching as the officer paces across her porch, spilling his guts and theories over the wooden planks. Both are unaware of the boy creeping out from the shadows, leaving his ear pressed to the door to take in their secrets.

[kqutie]

ao3 request : HI I AM SO IN LOVE WITH THIS FIC ... if its not too much trouble, do you think you could write this fic in a male pov? … i just want more immersion im not mad lmao just desperate and pathetic for hermes

length : 1.4k

a/n : I hope this a good compromise for being unable to make a male pov version of the series, my darling. it’s only a little something, i’m sorry i couldn’t do more for you but, again i did my best to make it feel special to you as a fellow hermes lover. hopefully it also explains (not excuse!) hermes’ harassing behaviour towards the reader.

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“What have you done, Hermes?” Athena begins, already distressed as she appears out of nowhere beside him.

“Nothing at all, darling~” he coos nonchalantly, peering over the new cloud he’s stationed over your island for further observations. He’s made a habit of planting himself there in his free time just so he has the best view of all the hilarious antics you pull on the crew. He hasn’t been able to laugh this much in ages — no wonder he’s grown such an attachment to you.

“Don’t play dumb!” His half-sister snaps and huffs in frustration, working herself up as she drills a hole into his temple with a glare. “There was no need for such a show!”

“Oh! But we had the perfect audience~” Hermes reasoned with a sly smirk and guiltless eyes, hands tucked behind his head, and his ankles crossing over as he floated about on his back as if on a suspended bed of air. “Why not provide them with some entertainment? It’s only fair since they’ve supplied me with so much in so little time~” he chuckles to himself at the amusing events he’s witnessed.

Athena takes a moment to observe his unconcerned attitude; it’s as if she’s trying to look into his soul. She’s looking at him like many of her elaborate weaving projects, closely examining each thread to ensure that not a single one was a centimetre out of place. It was quite unnerving, but Hermes only had to keep his eyes shut and hum to himself leisurely for sufficient distractions.

“What is this about Hermes? There’s something more here, isn’t there?”

Hermes knows another lecture is coming and avoids the conversation for as long as possible. The best way, he gathers, is to not address it at all. He peeks at her with a lazily, half-opened eye, “Wha’s that?”

There’s a strict but worried expression on Athena’s face. Ever since she had taken his great-grandson in as her champion, they have grown a closer relationship, sometimes confiding in each other over small frustrations. At an especially vulnerable time, Hermes had gone to her, pouring as much of his heart out as he had drunk Dionysus’ wine. It was a rare sight to see her spritely half-brother, but Athena helped him through it. She didn’t quite understand why, however, as she wasn’t usually the solicitous type — she later found out that he needed her logic to balance his emotional state. That was the only wise thought he had at the time, and she was happy it was one he followed through on. Back then, she was more logical than empathetic, so she couldn’t offer much compassion, but she had grown since, even as a Goddess. And she can already foresee what will happen without a prophet's clairvoyance. She needs to approach the topic with equal parts delicacy and rigour.

“Don’t do this to yourself again, Hermes.” Athena meets her half-brother’s uncharacteristically aggrieved glare. She doesn’t back down even in the tense pause that follows where he refuses to answer her. The silence stretches on for so long between them that she’s afraid he has turned to stone because of his abnormal stillness.

“…It’s not happening again!” The messenger god finally snaps, turning away from his half-sibling to stare at nothing — nothing is better than seeing the pity in her eyes.

“Despite her divine-like powers, she is still a mortal, Hermes!” Athena reasoned, circling her brother to be able to see his face and look into his eyes, wanting to convey the gravity of the situation, but is unsuccessful. Hermes was insistent on not meeting her eyes, turning away at her every step. Eventually, she stops, succumbing to his wishes and stands back but her presence has grown so imposing. It feels just as perturbing that she doesn’t leave him be — why couldn’t she just leave him be?!

“If you don’t stop, it will end just the same.” She warns even though she knows he doesn’t want to hear another word, judging by the tension in his shoulders. “You have to let her go before history repeats itself — you’re only hurting yourself and her. The same way you hurt yourself and—!”

“Don’t Say His Name!” Hermes finally meets her eyes, his demanding shout stilling the air around them. His eyes glowed brighter with a profound fury beneath the shadow of his helmet. The wings attached to his helmet, once flexed in their alertness, gradually move to cover his eyes — a weak attempt at shielding him from the world.

Even with his eyes hidden away, Athena could tell that they welled with tears. But there is no satisfaction when she sees the salty drops drip past the mask of his feathers and down his cheek and jaw.

To think that a mortal man could have such an adverse effect on her usually jocular brother. Despite the years that have already passed and Hermes’ supposed return to normality, he has yet to recover from such a sad loss. The love he had described to her as the truest kind he’d ever found had slipped right through his fingers. It was to be expected of mortal souls, they are far more fragile than the gods and meet their ends far quicker. In his desperation, Hermes pleaded with their uncle to allow him the privilege of continuing to see his love again in the underworld. The messenger god had such hope that it could be made possible for him, but alas, he was not granted such a benefit, even as the lord of the underworld’s nephew. The night Hermes had sought comfort in her, he had been on his way back from Hades after retrieving a barrel of wine from Dionysus, who took pity on him.

Hermes reminisced his and his love’s happiest memories, from the times that left them breathless and feeling nothing but alive to the quiet moments spent in impossible closeness. He described their connection as a fated one, a union that made him want to slow down the years and not live at such high speeds, a surprising confession from the god known for his swiftness. Because of him, Hermes had begun to crave a simple, quiet existence — all he needed was him to reach fulfilment and completeness. Hermes remembered and gushed over his love’s beautiful eyes, his loving voice, his addictive lips, his shining spirit and his strong build. He vowed to never forget him or the precious love they’d shared.

As time passed and his lover grew older and frailer, Hermes became anxious to immortalise him and keep him by his side forever. He sought his father, who, in a rare instance, instructed against it, citing the failed immortalisation of other mortals such as Achilles and Endymion. Zeus had saved him from the heartache of foolishly and selfishly causing his love’s demise. But, in turn, had made him the bearer of a different heartache.

But…was one truly more painful than the other? Hermes regrets every day that he didn’t, at least, try for his love…

“Don’t you ever say his name… His name is a precious one. Even I do not speak it.” Hermes gathers himself away from his sister’s prying view and his helmet wings slowly fold back to reveal his eyes once again.

“You do not speak it because of the pain it gives you!”

“His name will only ever bring me joy! Don’t speak as if you know about my heart! You. Don’t. Athena. No one does. Only he ever did!”

“But I know you will only make a fool of yourself once again — she is a mortal! A mortal! It will all end the same!” Their screams leave them breathing heavily and exhausted. But, gradually, the tension fades and so do the high emotions. Hermes’ scowling expression slowly melts into a dispirited one as Athena’s stern stare warms with sympathy.

“Let her go, Hermes.”

Shaking his head, the messenger god turns away with slumped shoulders, his helmet’s wings giving a subtle tremble as if to shake off the sadness.

‘HERMES!’ the patron god smiles to himself, his mood lifting upon hearing your cry in between his ears.

“Oh! It appears as though I’m being summoned~” Without another word, he zips away, his conflicted expression finally revealing itself when finally away from Athena’s prying gaze. But as he drew closer to you, it melted into a smug (almost sad) grin.

Athena’s right…

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[sweetthepotato]

The Final Pillar: Chapter 21: And There, the Forest Became Her Fortress and She Became Its Pillar

Disclaimer*

Please note the following work is meant for mature audiences.

Masterpost

Chapter 20

Chapter Summary

Pushed to her limits, Kagome has no choice but to face the incoming horde of demons, even if it means taking more risks.

Contents⚠️

Warnings for graphic violence, blood and injury, emotional distress, cannibalism (between demons), themes of survival, exhaustion and fatigue.

If these themes bother you, please be cautious. Always seek professional help where possible if these may trigger you.

It took a few seconds for the kinoe to catch herself, clutching at her side. With a tear this large in her abdomen, her Breathing alone wasn’t enough to stem the blood pouring out at the side of her abdomen. She felt the holes of her uniform enlarge, as with some effort, she channelled more of her demon powers into her bloodstream. The sensation was beyond the heat one would find in the water of an onsen; it burnt through her, lava-like and molten, but it repaired her wounds much more effectively. At the same time, Kagome took a stream of air in through her nose, inhaling slowly and steadily until she exhaled carbon dioxide through her mouth. The pain was there and still excruciating as all hell, but it had subsided.

The bleeding had sufficiently stemmed at this point. A few more moments later, the brunette was able to regain a standing position, her muscles now reinforced enough to scale the trunk of her camphor tree to its third-highest branch. With the threat of demons now looming closer and closer towards her location, the kinoe silenced her presence to next to nothing.

Her thicket became swathed in silence, save for the snarling monsters further off into the distance.

She waited, peering down below.

Her right hand, recently healed from Kirimori’s impalement, gripped at the side of the camphor to hold her steady. Her legs were spread out across the length of the branch, crouched low and keeping the rest of her body in balance. Her thighs tensed when the first ten or so demons were within eyeshot of her bird’s eye view. As they crept towards the scent of the dried blood on the tree’s trunk, she launched herself with increased power and velocity.

Now airborne, she announced herself, peeling back her layers of concealment. Katana withdrawn, she performed the fifth form of her Nightmare Breathing style, Hell’s Valley. Somersaulting three times before gravity led her towards the ground, she slashed her nichirin above the crowd. Fortified by a demon’s strength, the strikes were more powerful than they would’ve been without, fissuring the earth with a thunder-like crack. Some of the maple trees toppled down under the sheer force of her kata, and while some demons faced the brunt of her wrath, more fell under the destruction of their surroundings.

In that move alone, Kagome estimated that at least eight of them died, with an additional few more incapacitated and trapped in the ground. There were a few, her senses informed her, who were specifically crushed under the weight of trees, and this, she hoped, was where they’d stay until the sun claimed them. As she stumbled a landing on another, much lower branch, the girl released a small trickle of blood from her stomach wound onto the forest floor.

She was sure that a sizeable group would fall for her trick. Sure enough, another swarm appeared, including the hair demon who’d destroyed Kirimori earlier. Gravity seemed to allow her blood art as an exception; as the demon moved closer to her location, her tresses drifted in the air, at some points, ensnaring and cannibalising more of her fellow creatures.

There was a rumbling from Kagome’s tree trunk that travelled to the branch below her zori. The hair demon’s blood art snaked around the base of the maple tree, fully intending on crushing the base of her hiding place. Her hair only seemed to make its way to the half-point of the trunk, and so Kagome wagered that it was best to convert her set of kata into more mid-ranged attacks. As the tree broke down in its middle, tilting downwards in a perilous angle, the Nightmare Breathing user thought that urgency justified her taking the risk.

‘Nightmare Breathing, ninth form! Equinox Flower, inverse!’

Flipping until she was upside down, the kinoe spun in a clockwise motion while swinging her katana and wakizashi around in circular motions. As the ‘flower’ itself was completed, Kagome almost lost count of the demons she’d successfully eviscerated with her latest move. Luckily, the hair demon, as she was able to see when she flipped, landing on a much lower branch of a different tree, was well and truly decapitated. She didn’t hear a thing over the screeching of her teal blades, but there was a grim satisfaction at watching Kirimori’s killer waste away in the hours of the early morning.

When she jumped down for the third time, Kagome released Hell’s Valley again, cutting down more trees in the forest. Two other demons with blood demon arts ended up being squashed by the felling of camphor and maple.

As the kinoe landed back on the ground, she estimated there were still at least forty demons left in the forest. She inhaled deeply and breathed out, feeling her tiredness seeping into the muscles in her legs and chest, her vision darkening in her periphery. Swallowing her sense of self, she placed her wakizashi back into its sheath, arms trembling from the effects of her adrenaline.

She decided to try and keep her core sealed off for now. Her left hand holding her katana, she leaked blood, imagining thin cuts along her biceps, especially where the holes in her uniform and haori made her skin meet the humid summer air. If she was even remotely aiming to be successful with this, she needed to ensure that none of the demons were tempted with a visit to the nearest town.

Streaks of crimson wept from the lacerations in her skin, and then she closed them off temporarily. She concealed herself within the surrounding environment, running as fast as she could towards the horde, slicing down upon their necks and leaping off the bases of surrounding trees to provide more momentum.

‘Nightmare Breathing, second form, Despair!’

With the strike of her sword, each one in a different cardinal direction than the last, she metered out the exact amount of strength needed to decimate those in the horde. Where she was unable to cut through some of their necks, she’d slash at their legs, making those demons collapse and squirm from their injuries. When she charged against them a few more times, at one point from their north-east, and at another, from a south-south-westerly direction, she slayed the monsters with little time for reprieve. Being in such close proximity, she was able to hear their screams this time, their howling at their own demise comparable to the brute force of her nichirin blade.

The last part of her second form came to an end. Kagome skidded ungracefully into the earth, eventually outstretching her right hand towards the roots of a tree to stop herself from completely keeling over. The brunette’s uniform and haori were torn in various places; as she dropped herself onto one knee, she felt the wetness of the dirt seep into the gaps of the fabric. Her breath was abuzz with the smell of death, but the scent and texture of the earth was a source of grounding. Her heart was still beating, albeit rapidly, and she kept the grip of her camouflage tight, lowering her body closer towards the floor of the forest.

More acid made its way through her oesophagus. She followed her urge through, throwing up again at the side of the tree. At some point during Despair, she’d lost control of her Breathing, and now here she was, hyperventilating on all fours. Morosely, she noticed that her stomach started to bleed again, the tear re-opening. If she knew what would’ve happened earlier that night, she never would’ve intended to take on so many demons at once, but she reminded herself that she was the only one who could now. She acknowledged, though, that such physical exertion took its toll. If only there was more opportunity to train earlier in the week.

Her head swam, but even then, she half-berated herself; the moment Shizu caught wind that she got herself killed after letting her skills deteriorate, she’d never stop hearing about it for at least the next ten of her lives. There were people to protect, further away from her; she supposed that her pride as a demon slayer was also something to consider.

Shizu better fight a Lower Moon after this, she seethed.

Feeling, hearing, smelling, seeing and even tasting the air told her that more demons were approaching. Her bleeding made it completely impossible to continue hiding herself, and so she relinquished her careful control over her presence. Tonight was the night of risks, she thought, as she pondered her next move. It was a decision that was half a calculation and half made of desperation, but the brunette considered that it was worth it to utilise more of her demon powers, just as the same as she did earlier. She could sense the jawless demon with the pitchfork was making his way towards her, and so time added pressure.

She inhaled and exhaled, combining her powers with her Breathing. There was a hum coming from the deepest layers of her flesh, her heart palpitating, circulating more of that liquid lava through the channels of her veins. It made it to the scarlet dribbling from the wound in her abdomen and the power in the pit of her stomach grew there, close to the exact centre of her body. Below her, she saw her creation. It was a whirling spiral of blood, not yet fully corporeal, but it was good enough for now.

The kinoe refined it and honed it until the spiral smoothed over, eventually reflecting her haggard appearance. Her demon blood took its toll on her, and she dug her fingertips into the earth, channelling more of her essence into her new weapon. Her tongue slightly grazed against the top row of her teeth, and there, she felt her canines sharpen. Likewise, she could tell that her object was comparable to that of a razor, though now it was about the size of a square of tatami, albeit circular in shape. She concentrated, the pressure around her eyes pressing down around her sockets, until she exacted her authority over her creation, sending it flying into the trees.

To be safe, Kagome got up, hand on the hilt of her katana. The pitchfork demon withdrew his weapon from the confines of his flesh, preparing to throw it now he was dangerously in close proximity for a point-blank hit. As soon as he pulled back his arm, the sheet of her blood rushed past under the command of its master, splicing the demon horizontally through the middle of his body. His top half toppled over, as did the bodies of several others as they writhed in despair. Rushing forwards, Kagome swung her katana, not even bothering with a Breathing form. The pitchfork demon’s eyes widened in terror as his neck met the bite of her sharp blade.

In the time she was hunched over, her limbs had a small moment of reprieve. The Nightmare Breathing user reinforced her arms and muscles with a combination of Breathing and demon techniques. She was sure that she was hot to the touch now, if the singeing of her clothes was any indication, but she was sufficiently pushed beyond her limits. The katana in her left hand felt much lighter than it did before, and she angled it, no trembling in sight, in preparation for the next few Nightmare kata.

Screaming, more of the demons ran, scenting her marechi blood. She charged towards them in kind, tossing her katana up and away from her to make her seem as vulnerable as possible. With her right hand, she pulled out her wakizashi as her legs continued to sprint.

‘Nightmare Breathing, eighth form, False Salvation!’

She swiped using her much shorter nichirin, soon enough losing count of the number of demons she’d managed to cull. She’d made her calculations accurately, spotting how her katana descended towards her new position in the forest. It spun as it fell, but it managed to land in the palm of her left hand. With both hands now full, the Nightmare user continued to strike down any demon within her purview, not relenting on her assault until the last of the monsters had been executed.

At one point, she had to dispatch a hole-ridden demon whose blood art was the throwing of needles. The female, she supposed, must’ve been a seamstress when she was a human; she sprayed a bunch of spikes at her through the holes in her body, but her very skin had hardened with the power of Kagome’s very own demon arts, not even leaving so much as a dent. Upon cutting through her throat with a rendition of her second kata, Fear, she felt an irritating tingling on her left hand. The brunette ignored the sensation for now, out of the concern that if she immediately stopped herself mid-momentum, everything would come crashing down.

The closest group of demons were destroyed through exacting Equinox Flower one more time. The ninth form, as it was performed according to her moveset’s orthodox, repelled the dredges of the monstrous horde as the sharpness of her nichirin lopped off parts of their limbs to begin with. As she crouched down, adding the finishing touches to her series of circular swipes, the demons who’d faced her onslaught proceeded to dissolve with their screams, fizzling up into the lightening sky as if they were made of confetti.

With time, Kagome eventually descended upon the last of them. They were a female demon, she remembered, her black hair arranged in a loosened bun, and hardly even threatening in contrast to the others of her kind that night. With as much brutal efficiency as she could scrape out of herself, she was quickly beheaded. The monster screeched in pain as she met the brunt of her katana, but the girl tried her best to ignore her desperate pleading.

The demon slayer skidded to a halt upon finishing the first form of her Breathing style, a spinning cut Shizu named ‘Midnight Howl’. She tripped as her foot returned to its position on the forest floor, rolling over as the rest of her body buckled downwards.

Sensing the end of her impending danger, her demonic traits receded automatically. She didn’t find the strength within herself to get back up as she hyperventilated the air back into her lungs. There wasn’t much energy left in her by that concluding stage; her use of her blood demon arts, as it tended to do, had long since drained that from her. From that point, it took her utilising every last will within herself to try and warm her body back up.

The feeling of being cold, tired and empty bore into the very marrow of her bones. Her injuries were finally catching up to her, and they returned to her senses with a searing ache –that was always the risk, she knew, of involving her forsaken biology to its fullest. When she figured out that her position wasn’t going to be enough, the ramifications racking through her entire being, she used the last of her strength to shift to her side, hugging her legs in the foetal position. She needed to conserve as much of her body heat as possible. Trembling, her hand, as one last precaution, clutched at her wakizashi.

Her body, for the last time in the span of twenty-four hours, acted on its own. Her eyes felt heavy all of a sudden and she blacked out.

[thehypermaniacprince]

[DE NOVO]

A alternative universe where R is killed under mysterious circumstances, and K rushes towards her body.

K hands R her bloodied jacket after moments of silence between the two. K asks, “Do you remember how you died…?” R sits. She traces the imperial R on the back of it, her fingers running alongside the texture of denim. Her fingers hit a hole, filled with dry patches of blood. She feels like she is recalling something long ago. It’s blurry. But the emotional low is still there. “Yes… no… I do not know.” K’s face falls even more. R wonders what she said wrong to him. A high ranking imperial, she deduced, from the clothing he wore. “…I do not know how to tell you this fully, R.” K, now staring blankly into R’s mask. “Hands of an imperial…” “…Wrought your life away. I do not know what reason though.” K seemed to wince. Emotional pain, or physical pain, it hurt regardless. K looked away from R after that. It felt like the chills of a bad dream. The deluded feeling of never being real. But it was, wholly real, and K could not shake it so easily… … R’s robes fluttering in the wind, propped up by staff. A message written so shakily on paper buried by the sand. He felt bitter sweetly happy for R, in that moment. He hoped she was alright. He thought she was. Feet shuffling in the sand. He was halfway back, when a distress signal emanated from somewhere. He’d check who sent it, and he felt a pitfall growing. It’s R. He dropped everything and ran. He didn’t care how much sand was piling in his boots. How scorched and rocky the territory was within Borealis Island. … He couldn’t quite exactly recall what R said to him during those moments, for her voice was but a whisper, her blood pooling against both his robes and R’s jacket. Such iridescent blood, on his hands too. He didn’t even know what to do anymore. For such shock filled his systems alight. What stuck in his mind, however, was R weakly grasping the staff that pierced through her body, her eyes barely gazing at him. … “AN IMPERIAL HAS FALLEN!” was the last thing he remembered someone say. Did he yell that with such force? … K felt unshakable, inconsolable. He’d felt trapped. Why did he be honest about the circumstances of R’s death, to an R he did not remember? Was that still his R? What even could become of the R he knew if her life wasn’t stopped so short? R noticed how K sat there, possibly recalling everything that was but distant to her. She didn’t know what to do, either. What of K does she remember, what of K can she even cling onto? She didn’t quite know how to comfort him. She looked at the jacket once again. She donned it on, awkwardly shuffling towards K. It stood out of place against the imperial robes. Blue against white. Remnants of black and shimmering against white. She lifted K’s mask. Her own as well. It felt weirdly natural for her… but why so? She didn’t question it at that time. K finally looked up at R. Those minutes he’d spent reliving were suspended. “R… I’m so sorry for my…” “Don’t apologize.” He was taken aback choked in tears. More aching silence. …What? Did she utter those words so naturally? Why was she asking a imperial to not apologize? That should normally be the case, for a higher to apologize to a lower when something went awry. R’s hands hovered over K’s body. She didn’t look at him in the eyes. K did the same, but then looked up. It felt… so familiar to the two of them. He’d remember R constantly reaching out to him in his darkest times. Those same hands that saved him. Those same hands that gave such a gentleness no Imperial ever offered before. Like a former love. K leapt towards R, his hands gripping both the jacket and the robes so tightly. The two embraced each other.

[broomballkraken]

Title: C'est la vie Chapter 4: All That's Left Is Love

Fandom: Octopath Traveler 2

Pairing: Papp/Roque

Word count: 1531

Warnings: None

Fic Summary: C'est la vie is not only used as a descriptor for a pessimistic situation, but it can also be used to express something vital, essential, beautiful. Thus, it makes for a perfect descriptor for the tumultuous relationship between Papp Yellowil and Roque Brilliante.

Chapter Summary: On that fateful day when Roque had left Oresrush, Papp wasn’t sure if he’d ever see him again. Now, eight years later, Roque stood in the office that they shared during those blissful days, and Papp was having very conflicted feelings about it.

On that fateful day when Roque had left Oresrush, Papp wasn’t sure if he’d ever see him again. Now, eight years later, Roque stood in the office that they shared during those blissful days, and Papp was having very conflicted feelings about it.

Papp could barely hear himself think over the sound of his heartbeat roaring in his ears. When he received a letter from Partitio detailing his final confrontation with Roque, Papp hadn’t been surprised in the slightest that his son had been able to guide him back onto the straight and narrow.

What did surprise him, however, was the fact that Roque had shown up on his doorstep not even a week later.

The tension in the room was palpable and neither man had said a word yet. The two cups of coffee that Papp had poured for both of them remained untouched on the desk, and he figured that they’d probably gone very cold by now. Roque was staring down at the floor with such intensity that Papp was worried that he was going to burn a hole straight through it, and Roque’s knuckles had gone white with how hard he was clenching them at his sides.

Papp opened his mouth to speak, but he quickly snapped it shut and set his jaw. The convoluted mixture of emotions that he was feeling was making his head spin, and he couldn’t quite get any coherent words to form.

He wasn’t an idiot; he knew that Roque had been the one to screw him and this town over after he left eight years ago. Deep down, he supposed that he always knew, even before Partitio had finally led the charge to take their town back by force and obtained the landlord’s true identity in the process. It certainly explained why Roque had just up and left when Papp had thought that their relationship and business were going so well.

It had shattered his heart when Roque left, and Papp really didn’t have a clue if he’d ever see him again. Now that Roque was back, however, Papp couldn’t decide if he should feel angry, relieved, happy, distressed, or some completely different feeling altogether.

“Papp, I...”

Papp’s head shot up when Roque finally spoke up, his voice quiet and defeated, which was uncharacteristic for the Roque that he remembered. Roque swallowed thickly and raised his head, his eyes meeting Papp’s as he paused to fidget with his monocle.

“Y-You’re probably...very angry with me, and don’t want to see me,” Roque continued, and a deep frown crossed Papp’s face, “And I don’t deserve your forgiveness, I know...But still...” Papp’s heart clenched as he watched a few tears fall down his face with Roque’s wavering composure.

“I’m so, so sorry, Papp, for how much pain I’ve caused you. You are the last person that ever deserved that from anyone, but especially from me.” Roque grimaced and brought a hand to his face, a choked sob escaping him as he started to tremble. “I will never forgive myself for hurting the man that I love so dearly.”

Papp bit his cheek and clenched his jaw so hard that it popped as he wrestled with his thoughts. He wanted to scream at Roque, curse him, slap him, kiss him...To hate him, forget him, forgive him...These conflicting feelings waged a savage war within, but just as they threatened to smother him, one of those feelings managed to rise above the rest in triumph. All that was left...was love.

Papp couldn’t stop his tears from falling as he reached out with a shaky hand to take one of Roque’s. “I...never stopped, you know.”

“Stopped...what?”

“Loving you.”

Roque scoffed and shook his head, but he did not let go of Papp’s hand. “How can you say that? I...betrayed you, broke your heart...even after knowing how much pain you’ve already been through. I chose greed over my love for you. You should despise me.”

“I don’t. I can’t, Roque.” Papp gave Roque’s hand a squeeze as he reached up to cup his cheek, which was damp with tears. “Don’t get me wrong: I’m madder than a wet settin’ hen at you for what ya did...but I could never, ever hate you. I...love you too much for that.”

Roque slumped forward, his weakened composure crumbling even further as he swallowed thickly. “Of all the foolish...How...Why would you forgive me, after all that I’ve done?”

“Heh, well,” Papp said, a small smile crossing his face as he pressed his forehead against Roque’s, “Partitio had to get his foolish, bleeding heart from somewhere, right?”

“Papp...”

Roque let out a choked sob as he broke down completely, burying his face in Papp’s shoulder and crying in earnest. Papp wrapped his arms around him, warm and gentle, and he was silent as Roque clung to him with trembling hands.

“I’m-I’m so s-sorry,” Roque wailed between sobs, and Papp’s arms tightened around him, pressing his face against Roque’s head and dampening his hair with his tears.

“I’ve got ya, it’s alright...You’re home, Roque.” Papp smiled when he heard Roque start sobbing harder. Hate was such a bitter and hopeless emotion, and Papp knew that he could never feel like that about Roque. Sure, he was still a bit pissed about the whole betrayal thing, but from what Partitio said, Roque had turned over a new leaf in the end, and most importantly, he had found his way back home to him.

Eventually, Roque’s sobbing had slowed and finally stopped, and he lifted his head from Papp’s shoulder. With a gentleness as if he was handling the most precious of silver, Papp moved Roque’s monocle out of the way so that he could wipe away the tears that still lingered on his face. Roque let out a weary sigh as Papp pressed their foreheads together.

“That bleeding heart of yours...truly is something special, Papp,” Roque said, his voice just above a whisper, “I...still don’t understand why you’d waste it on me-”

Papp didn’t want to hear it, so he quickly silenced Roque’s self-deprecating hogwash by kissing him. His lips curled up into a smile at the startled noise that he had coaxed out of Roque, and Papp deepened the kiss when Roque’s arms snaked around his neck; he had really missed this. Words were not enough to express their complex feelings for each other, so they let their bodies do the talking for a while...

The sun had begun to set by the time their passionate...‘conversation’ had ended, and Papp now stood on the hill overlooking Oresrush, his fingers entwined with Roque’s while they watched the town become bathed in the beautiful oranges and reds of the Wildlands sunset.

“We stood here just like this once sixteen years ago, remember?” Papp asked, grinning as he turned to Roque, “Our eyes were shinin’ bright with hope for that silver mine, and we worked like busy little bees.”

Roque chuckled as he slipped his arm behind Papp’s back and leaned his head on his shoulder. “...Yes, that’s right. I’ve remembered something that I had long thought forgotten...There is true value in toiling alongside equals, sweating and working for a common cause.”

Papp’s heart swelled at Roque’s words; he really did seem to have overcome his greedy side, and Papp couldn’t be more proud of him for that. He placed a gentle kiss on Roque’s forehead, and Papp absolutely adored the cute blush that rose upon his darlin’s cheeks.

Roque cleared his throat, and Papp found his bashfulness to be quite endearing as well. “O-Of course, the thing that really has me excited is this new business venture of ours.”

“The times, they are a changin’, huh?” Papp mused. He really was excited to see what Partitio could do with this newfangled steam engine technology, and he knew for a fact that his not–so-little chickadee was going to make the world a better place for everyone.

“But, one thing that will never change...is my love for you, Roque.”

Roque sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck, a sheepish look crossing his face. “...Yes, you’ve shown me that, and though I still don’t think I deserve it in the slightest...I love you too, Papp. I won’t leave you again, I promise.”

Papp barked out a laugh and pulled Roque into a hug. “You better not, or I’ll just hogtie ya and drag yer ass right back here.”

“...Ah, there’s that crass humor that I missed so much.”

“I wasn’t joking, partner.”

Roque stared at Papp’s stern face with wide eyes, but he found himself smiling when Papp’s straight-face faltered, and they both broke down into a fit of laughter until they were both wheezing and tears stained their cheeks.

When their laughter finally faded away and they gazed into each other’s eyes, so full of admiration and mirth and love, their lips met once again, and as they embraced upon the hill overlooking the town that they built together, Papp knew that the love that he and Roque shared was strong enough to withstand any storm, and Roque wholeheartedly felt the same.

[alex51324]

Oh, hey, sorry, I wondered after I said that if you were going to feel specifically picked on. It isn't just you; I've seen a number of people whom I don't actually know expressing what seems to be outsize amounts of sincere emotional distress about the way the show ended. So this is aimed not just at hakureiyuu, but at anyone who's feeling a real and profound sense of loss over the end of season 2.

I don't know you and I don't know your life, but I would urge those in that situation to consider that, while your feelings are real, it probably isn't really about the show. Like, either* there's something in your life that you're projecting onto it, or there's something missing, that you're putting this much of your emotional well-being into the fictional events that happen on a fictional TV show.

(*Or maybe you'd be helped by antidepressants, which for me personally is probably the biggest difference between how I am now and how when I was in college I once cried for several hours over the ending of a Winnie-the-Pooh movie. What I'm saying is, this is the guy who's been in the hole before, and knows the way out.)

Maybe try framing your fandom experience in terms of the community, connections, and support that you get from sharing this material with other fans, who are real human beings who exist in the world, rather than the artistic choices that are made about fictional characters.

The love was real, and it's still there. It just doesn't live in the show.

It's easier to make this distinction in fandoms where the source material is habitually a bit disappointing, but honestly, as I think about it more, the cliffhanger thing is maybe a red herring--yes, I think canon is ultimately going to end in a way that is satisfying for us, but that's not actually the point.

The point is that the love was real. The things you felt, experienced, and identified with aren't a lie because they didn't come from Neil Gaiman. They came out of a community of people feeling and creating together.

There are hundreds of ways for Aziraphale and Crowley to be okay. We'll eventually find out what Neil's version is, and I'm betting on it being good, but even if it isn't, there are still all of the other ways that we come up with.

(Weirdly enough, the one I'm working on right now is about Aziraphale and Crowley fixing Heaven's toxic corporate culture by showing them what happens when you stop screaming their love into the void at a distant and capricious God, and instead turn and direct it at the angel standing next to you.)

The fandom echo chamber: fanon, microanalysis and conspiracy brain 

As someone who has been in fandom spaces, on and off, for 20 years, I find some fascinating trends popping up in the last decade that I thought to be fandom-specific but clearly aren’t. So, I would like to do a little examination of where those things come from, how they are engaged with, and what it says about the way we consume media. This is a think piece, of sorts, with my brain being the main source. As such, we will spend some time down the memory lane of a fandom-focused millennial.

This is largely brought about by Good Omens. But it’s also not really about Good Omens at all.

Part one. Fanon.

The way we see characters in any story is always skewed by our very selves. This is a neutral statement, and it does not have a value judgement. It’s simply unavoidable. We recognise aspects of them, love aspects of them, and choose aspects of them to highlight based entirely on our own vision of the universe. 

Recognition comes into this. There is a reason so many protagonists of romance novels have a “blank slate” problem. Even when they do not, we love characters who are like us or versions of us that we would like to be. And when we say “we”, I also mean, “me”. 

(I remember very clearly this realisation hit me after a whole season of Doctor Who with writing which I hated utterly when I questioned why I still clung so incredibly hard to Clara Oswald as my favourite companion. Then I looked at myself in the mirror, with my medium-length dark hair, opaque tights, boots, and leather jacket, with spunk and carelessness to the point of recklessness. Oh. Well. That would do it, wouldn’t it?)

Then, there is projection, and, again, this is a neutral statement. Projection exists, and it is completely normal and, dare I say it, valid way of engaging with — well, anything. Is the character queer? Trans? Neurodivergent? Are they in love? Do they like chocolate? Are they a cat person? Well, yes, if this is what the text says, but if the text does not say anything… You tell me. Please, do tell me. Because, in that moment of projection, they are yours. 

And then, there is fandom osmosis, and that is the most fascinating one of them all, the one that is not very easy to note while you are inside the echo chamber. It’s the way we collectively, consciously or not, make decisions on who or what the characters are, what their relationships are, and what happens to them.  

(Back when I was writing egregiously long Guardian recaps on this blog I actually asked if Shen Wei’s power being learning actually was stated anywhere in the canon of the show. Because I had no idea. I have read and reread dozen of fanfics where that is the case, and at some point through enough repetition, it became reality.)

We are all kind of making our own reality here, aren’t we? 

Back when things were happening in a much less centralised manner - in closed livejournal groups, and forums of all shapes and sizes - I don’t remember there being quite as much universally agreed upon fanon. Frankly, I don’t remember much of universally agreed upon anything. But now, everything is in one place: we have this, and we have AO3, and it’s wonderful, it really is so much easier to navigate, but it’s also one gigantic reality-shifting echo chamber, with blogs, reblogs, trends, and rituals. 

Accessibility plays its part, too. If you were, say, in Life on Mars (UK) fandom between seasons, and you wanted to post your speculation fic, you had to have had an account, and then find and gain access to one of the bigger groups (lifein1973 was my poison, but ymmv), and then, if you feel brave you may post it, but also, you may want to do so from your alt account if you wanted to keep yours separate, and then you would have to go through the whole process again. And I’m not saying that fan creations then were somehow inherently better for it than fan creations now (although Life on Mars Hiatus Era is perhaps a bad example - because some of the Speculation Fic there was breathtaking), but there is something to say about the ease of access that made the fandoms go through a big bang of sorts.

(I mean, come on, I can just come here and post this - and I am certain people will read it, and this blog is a pandemic cope baby about Chinese television for goodness sake.)

The canon transformations that happen in the fandom echo chamber truly are fascinating to witness as someone who is more or less a fandom butterfly. I get into something, float around for a bit, then get into something else and move on. I might come back eventually when the need arises, but I don’t sustain a hiatus mind-state. This means that when I float away and return, I find some very intriguing stuff.

Let’s actually look at Good Omens here. Season two aired, and I found it spectacular in its cosy and anguished way; deliberately and intelligently fanfic-y in its plot building; simple but subversive, and so very tender. (I will have to circle back to this eventually, because, truly, I love how deliberately it takes the tropes and shatters them - it’s glorious). And, to me - a person who read the book, watched the first season, hung around AO3 for a few weeks and moved on - absolutely on-point in terms of characterisation. 

So imagine my surprise when the fandom disagreed so vehemently that there are actual multi-tiered theories on how characters were not in possession of their senses. Nothing there, in my mind, ever contradicted any of the stated text, as it stood. This remained a strange little mystery until I did what I always do when I flutter close to an ongoing fandom.

I loaded AO3 and sorted the existing fic by popularity. And there it was, all there: the actual earth-shattering mutual devotion of the angel and the demon; willingness to Fall; openness and long heart-aching confession speeches. There was all of the fanon surrounding Aziraphale and Crowley, which, to me, read as out of character, and to one for whom they became the reality over the last four years, read as truth. 

Again, only neutral statements here. This is not a bad thing, and neither this is a good thing, this is just something that happens, after a while, especially when there are years for the fandom-born ideas to bounce around and stew. I can’t help but think that so much of what we see as real in spaces such as this one is a chimaera of the actual source and all the collective fan additions which had time and space to grow, change, develop, and inspire, reverberating over and over again, until the echoes fill the entirety of the space. 

Eventually, this chimaera becomes a reality. 

Part two. Microanalysis 

Here are my two suppositions on the matter:

1. Some writers really love breadcrumb storytelling. 

Russel T Davies, for instance, on his run of Doctor Who (and, if you are reading it much later - I do mean the original one), loved that technique for his seasonal arcs. What is a Bad Wolf? Who is Harold Saxon? Well, you can watch very very carefully, make a theory, and see it proven right or wrong by the end of the season. 

Naturally, mystery box writers are all about breadcrumb storytelling: your Losts and your Westworlds are all about giving you snippets to get your brain firing, almost challenging you to figure things out just ahead of the reveal. 

2. We, as humans, love breadcrumbs.

And why wouldn’t we? Breadcrumbs are delicious. They are, however, a seasoning, or a coating. They are not the meal. 

Too much metaphor?

Let’s unpack it and start from the beginning.

Pattern recognition colours every aspect of our lives, and it colours the way we view art to a great extent. I think we truly underestimate how much it’s influenced by our lived experiences.

If you are, broadly speaking, living somewhere in Western/North-Western Europe in the 14th century, and you see a painting in which there is a very very large figure surrounded by some smaller figures and holding really tiny figures, you may know absolutely nothing about who those figures are, but you know that the big figure is the Important One, and the small ones are Less Important Ones, and the tiny ones are In Their Care. You know where your reverence would lie, looking at this picture. And, I imagine, as someone living in the 14th century, you may be inspired to a sense of awe looking at this composition, because in the world you live in, this is how art works. 

If you, on the other hand, watch a piece of recorded media and see the eyes of two characters meet as the violins swell, you know what you are being told at that moment. You don’t have to have a film degree to feel a sort of way when you see a green-tinged pallet used, when cross-cuts use juxtaposing images, or notice where your focus is pulled in any given shot. This stuff - this recognition of patterns - has been trained into us by the simple fact that we live in this time, on this planet, and we have been doing so long enough to have engaged recorded media for a period of time. 

As humans, we notice things. Our brains flare up when they see something they recognise, and then we seek to find other similar details and form a bigger picture. This often happens unconsciously, but sometimes it does not. Sometimes we do it on purpose: finding breadcrumbs in stories is a little bit like solving a mystery. It allows us to stretch that brain muscle that puts two and two together. It makes us feel clever. 

So yes, we love breadcrumbs, and, frankly, quite a lot of storytelling takes advantage of this. It’s very useful for foreshadowing, creating thematic coherence, or introducing narrative parallels and complexity. It’s useful for nudging the viewer into one or the other emotional direction, or to cue them into what will happen in the next moment, or what exactly is the one important detail they should pay attention to.

Because this is something media does intentionally, and something we pick up both consciously and not, it is very hard to know when to stop. We don't really ever know when all of the breadcrumbs have been collected. It becomes very easy to get carried away. There is a very specific kind of pleasure in digging into content frame by frame, soundbite by soundbite, chasing that pleasure of finding. 

But it is almost never breadcrumbs all the way down. They are techniques to help us focus on the main event: the story. I truly believe those who make media want to make it reach the widest possible audience, and that includes all of us who like to watch every single thing ever created with our Media Analysis Goggles on and those who are just here to enjoy the twists and turns of the story at the pace offered to them. And I think, sometimes in our chase to collect and understand every little clue we forget that media is not made to just cater for us.

One can call it missing a forest for the trees. But I would hate to mix my metaphors, so let’s call it missing a schnitzel for the breadcrumbs. 

Part three. The Conspiracy Brain. 

If you are there with me, in the midst of the excited frenzy, chasing after all those delicious breadcrumbs, then patterns can grow, merge together, and become all-encompassing theories. Let’s call them conspiracy theories, even though this is not what they truly are.

So, why do we believe in conspiracy theories?

One, Because We Have Been Lied To. 

All conspiracies start with distrust.

If you are in fandom spaces - especially if you are in fandom spaces which revolve around a queer fictional couple - especially-especially if you have been in such spaces for a period of time, you have most certainly been lied to at one point or another. 

We don’t even have to talk about Sherlock - and let’s not do that - but do you remember Merlin? Because I remember Merlin. Specifically, I remember the publicity surrounding the first season, with its weaponised usage of “bromance” and assertions that this whole thing is a love story of sorts, and then the daunting realisation that this was all a stunt, deliberately orchestrated to gather viewership. 

And, because we were lied to in such a deliberate manner for such an extensive period of time, I genuinely believe that it forever altered our pattern recognition habits, because what was this if not encouragement to read into things? Now we are trained to read between the lines or see little cries for help where they might not be. Because we were told, over and over again, that we should.

(Yes, I think we are all existing in these spaces coloured by the trauma of queer-bating. I am, however, looking forward to a world where I can unlearn all of that.)

Two, Cognitive Dissonance.

The chain reaction works a bit like this: the world is wrong - it can’t possibly be wrong by coincidence - this must be on purpose - someone is responsible for it.

Being Lied To is a preamble, but cognitive dissonance is where it all originates. In so many cross-fandom theories I have noticed a four-step process:

A) this is not good

B) this author could not have made a mistake 

C) this must be done on purpose

D) here is why 

(Funny thing is, I have been on the receiving end of the small conspiracy spiral, and it is a very interesting experience. Not relevant to this conversation is the fact that a lot of my job revolves around storytelling. What is relevant is that my hobbies also revolve around storytelling. And one of them is DnD. Now, imagine my genuine shock when one of the players I am currently writing a campaign for noticed a small detail that did not make a logical sense within the complexity of the world, and latched on to it as something clearly indicating some kind of a secret subplot. Their thinking process also went a bit like this: this detail is not a good piece of writing — this DM knows how to tell stories well — this is obviously there on purpose. It was not there on purpose. I created a clumsy shorthand. I erred, in that pesky manner humans tend to. And, seeing this entire thought process recited to me directly in the moment, I felt somewhere between flattered and mortified.)

This whole line of thinking, I think, exists on a knife’s edge between veneration and brutal criticism, relentlessly dissecting everything “wrong”, with a reverent “but this is deliberate” attached to it like a vice, because it is preferable to a simple conclusion that the author let you down, in one way or another. 

Three, Intentionality 

I believe that there is no right or wrong way of engaging with stories, regardless of their medium, and assuming no one gets hurt in the process. While in a strictly academic way, there is a “correct” way of reading (and reading into) media, we here are largely not academics but consumers; consumption is subjective.

However, this all changes when intentionality is ascribed. 

The one I find particularly fascinating is the intentionality of “making it bad on purpose” because, as open-minded as I intend to always be, this just does not happen.

It certainly does not happen in long-form media. Even in the bread-crumb mystery box-type long-form media. 

When television programs underdeliver, they also underperform, and then they get cancelled.

If all the elements of Westworld Season 4 that did not sit together in a completely satisfactory way were written deliberately as some sort of deconstruction for the final season to explore, then it failed because that final season will now never come.

(There will likely never be a Secret Fourth Episode.)

And look, I am not here to refute your theories. Creativity is fun, and theorising is fantastic. 

But, perhaps, when the line of thought ventures into the “bad on purpose” territory, it could be recognised for what it is: disappointment and optimism, attempting to coexist in a single space. And I relate to that, I do, and I am sorry that there is even a need for this line of thinking. It’s always so incredibly disappointing that a creator you believed to be devoid of flaws makes something that does not hit in the way you hoped it would. It’s pretty heartbreaking. 

Unfortunately, people make mistakes. We are all fallible that way. 

Four, Wildfire.

Then, when the crumbs are found, a theory is crafted, and intentionality is ascribed, all that needs to happen is for it to catch on. And hey, what better place for it than this massive hollow funnel that we exist in, where thoughts, ideas and interpretations reverberate so much they become inextricable from the source material in collective contagiousness. 

Conspiracy theories create alternate realities, very much like we all do here. 

So where are we now?

I am not here to tell you what is right and what is wrong; what is true, and what is not. We are all entitled to engage with anything we wish, in whichever way we wish to do it. This is not it, at all. 

All I am saying is… listen.

Do you hear that echo? 

I do.