#thinking about them at all times. permanent residence in my brain

[sowheresmyroom]

Thinking about how both Vox and Alastor use a smile as a mask and tool of control. With Alastor is obvious but with Vox we see this when he's speaking with Velvette about Valentino, most noticably when the door opens up on the way to the Voxtech Angelic Security interview bit, and in Stayed Gone before he devolves into a fit of rage.

Thinking about how Vox pretty easily lets that mask slip though, and especially behind closed doors he doesn't even feel the need to wear it in the first place. Times when he's comfortable and at least not challenged in a way that he needs to assert his control. Why would he if he's just hanging out in his own space with his partners?

But.

Thinking about how Alastor wears it 100% of the time, even when he's alone in his radio tower. Thinking about the conversation he had with Charlie to the beginning of episode 7.

Thinking about how Alastor is so affected by the hold over him that his deal has, that he NEEDS to wear the smile at all times to grasp at any straws of control he feels he has in his own life.

Thinking about how Vox wears his smile for other people but Alastor wears his smile for himself.

[keferon]

Blurr and Swerve (set sometime during the Blurr chapter when Blurr first gets his mech), because these two have apparently taken up residence in my brain

--------------------------------------------------

Swerve wonders, waiting for Blurr to show up to inspect his new mech, if Blurr has ever felt anything less than confident, less than certain. 

Does he have any hesitation or doubts about joining the mecha program, becoming a pilot? 

If he has, you'd never know it by the way he walks into the mechanic's hall like he owns the place – accompanied by a flustered looking staffer from the upper floors and a full five minutes later than when he was scheduled to arrive.  (Not that anyone seems to care whether Blurr keeps to a schedule or how much it disrupts everyone else's ability to just do their jobs. He's Blurr after all.)

Swerve watches Blurr walk away from the staffer with barely a thank you.  Watches as Blurr asks one, two, then three times for directions as he crosses the long hall.  And each time he's greeted with smiles, attempts at conversation, and people kindly pointing out Swerve's direction.  And each time, Blurr gives the same thank you – short and dismissive, without a backward glance.

Swerve wonders, as he watches, whether Blurr ever feels shame or has second thoughts about how he treats everyone else as though they are less than him. 

If he does, it certainly doesn't show from the way that lazy grin never slips from his face the whole way across the hall.  Even up close, even as Swerve shakes Blurr's hand and has to reintroduce himself and remind the man that they've met before (and how many times has it been now?), Blurr's smile never wavers.

Does it ever falter when Blurr is alone?  Does the smile ever slip from his face as he thinks back on his actions in private?  Or is it just a permanent feature of the man -- along with the shining eyes, blindingly white teeth, and immaculate hair.  Superficially perfect in every way to an extent that standing next to Blurr is enough on its own to make Swerve feel special.

And then Blurr is gone, moving to inspect his mech.  And the shallowness of it all hits Swerve in full force again.

Swerve wonders, watching Blurr move under the shadow of the looming metal machine, whether the man ever feels fear. 

Does he realize that mechs are synonymous with death?  That the machine he is standing under is built to kill.  Aliens, yes.  But pilots die too -- alarmingly often.  Even if Blurr isn't on the front lines (and Swerve can't imagine Swindle risking his money on that) there are still risks.  Accidents.  Injuries.  Deaths.  Would he care if he knew?  Maybe his ego is such that he believes such fates are for lesser men.

But Blurr's mech in particular – Swerve worked on the specs for Blurr's mech.  Does the man realize that his machine is a death trap? 

Maybe ignorance truly is bliss.  Swerve wonders whether he should tell him.  Swerve wonders whether it would even matter.  Would Blurr even listen, if he pulls him aside?

Swerve never gets the chance.  He is crowded out by a swarm of photographers, staffers, and mechanics -- come to watch Blurr set foot in his mech for the first time.

Blurr hops into the pilot's seat as casually as though he's taking his car out for a drive around the block.  He smiles that blinding smile down at the crowd and waves for the cameras.

And Swerve wonders, watching Blurr, whether he envies the way Blurr can just breeze through life seemingly untouched and unphased by it all.

ANON I LOVE YOU MARRY ME /J

This is absolutely delightful ehehhengkgkhmh it synchronizes SO WELL with my mental image of them you literally caught my brain waves lglmgkg i love it so fucking much it's part of the canon for me now

[theoxenfree]

DARK POOL

aquatic monster x reader | 2.8k

you're mystified by the strange noises coming from the basement. despite your uncle attempting to thwart your concerns, you make your way downstairs into the basement one night and come across an appalling sight, and soon enough, a blooming infatuation.

warnings; 18+, double penetration, explicit sexual details, imprisonment (not mc), some unsettling details, roughly proofread, repost from my old blog 2kmps.

this is a concept piece for a potentially long one-shot! pls answer the feedback questions at the end + reblog!! it really helps to develop a well-rounded story for y'all!

Uncle told you that the rats in Cape Tellis liked to swim and when they were in search of food, they didn't care how long they'd have to paddle through the water to find it. Some would simply drift with the current for days; black-gray fur rotted off, skin peeled off bone, little faces disfigured by sea and salt, but they would keep going until their bodies nudged the rust-red walls of the lighthouse and found the energy to scale upward to a window and squeeze inside.

He mentioned this anytime you had something to say about the ruckus down in the basement—sometimes scratching, sometimes powerful, erratic thuds that you felt pulse through the floorboards, through the rubber soles covering your feet, and into your skin. That place was sealed behind a rusted metal frame and door, deadbolted and locked with a key he always carried on a chain through a belt loop.

It always jangled when he walked because he had a limp so bad that his entire leg always dragged a pace behind him and took a great amount of effort to haul forward. When you had asked of it, as memory dictated a handful of years prior he didn't have such trouble, he first claimed it had been a bad sinus infection that got into his brain and disrupted something neurologically. In another instance where he had stopped for a third time on an evening stroll together, he had said he scuffed with one of Cape Tellis’ formidable rats and the mangy bastard had won and taken a chunk of meat out of him before scuttling back into the walls.

“Just ignore it, it's normal that they're active this time of year,” he was saying while scraping fried eggs out of a pan onto your plate. Meanwhile, you winced to the usual commotion downstairs. “They get real flighty this time of year. The rats do. They get frisky and chase each other all around. I don't know nothin' about them besides being persistent, ugly things, but it may well be their special season.”

You ripped a sharp edge in your toast and prodded the egg yolk until the sunny orb burst, oozing out across your plate before you could scoop it all up in the bread.

“How long does it take for the rats to go away?” you asked with some interest in his answer, if for no other reason to know what sort of yarn he'd spin next. The bread was buttered, the eggs unseasoned, but you ate it all anyway while watching him. “Are they permanent residents or do they come and go? You must be feeding them if they stay here.”

Uncle took a long time to situate his bad leg under the table, longer to arrange his silverware and the direction of his food. “Oh, they have no interest in leaving, I don't think. If they really wanted to, I imagine they would've jumped back into the water and swam somewhere else.”

Each time the noises rose up between the wood slats under your feet during breakfast, Uncle told you not to worry about it, but you quieted every sound in your head to better hear rattling metal, reverberations of some sort—like having a man’s deep, anguished moan pressed right against your ribs. You weren't sure what you were looking for when you listened, only that you knew they were rats.

Uncle looked at you, his appetite pushed away towards the center of the table with his plate. “Let's go for a walk, yes? The rain won't come back for a few hours.”

When you did walk after a meal, granduncle would often have to lie down with his dead leg propped up on a short stack of pillows for a long while. It became something of a habit of yours to exert him too much after dinner, forcing him to keep up with your youthfulness—your merry prances and unburdened soul.

For what it was worth, he did the best he could to never be a hindrance. He didn't seem to fully understand his own limitations either, making it quite a simple thing to steal the key from his belt loop while he slept—deep and silent, so much so that you needed to drop a tissue over his face from make sure he was still breathing—and unfasten the lock to descend a set of slick, stone stairs.

There wasn’t much to at the bottom; a space half-flooded from seasonal rains raising the sea-level, old pieces of ship equipment hanging like ornamentation, an old folding chair that had yet to rust despite damp air, and a large hole in the ground that was dark like the throat of a nightmare envisioned in the most precious hours of night.

You held a plate of raw meat, freshly thawed from the freezer, outstretched with a flickering lantern in your other hand. Anywhere else, you'd have just brung a flashlight—but, he didn't like the bright lights, had ripped the last one out of your hands and smashed it against the wall. Oil lanterns were better tolerated, but he still seemed to cower from the gentle flickers.

So, you placed the meat on the seat of the folding chair and walked closer to the hole, wading a hand through seawater until touching braids of cold metal, chains pulled taut as though weighted down by an anchor. You gave the closest one a tug, always with the same caution as a child gripping his mother's clothes in uncertain times, and backed away.

He never made noise when he surfaced, always frightfully quiet, only indicated by a trail of bubbles that followed after where he roamed underwater. The first thing to emerge was a dorsal fin flared proudly from the middle of his head until midway in the deepest curve of his back. His eyes were on you, abysmal black things with a luster you likened to a landbound fish, and skin and scales that moved stiffly with his facial movements.

“You,” said the creature, toneless and in a voice far too raspy and deep to have an equal match amongst human men. “You have come. You are here.”

Months ago, he hadn't been capable of simple speech such as this. The noises he made were incompatible to anything you had ever heard—perhaps mere vocalizations he utilized underwater, possibly something long gone and archaic—but he had started mimicking you when you'd speak, and eventually you started slowing down, giving him the time to feel how the sounds vibrated in his own throat.

“I brought you food, again.” You gestured towards the seat with raw meat with your lantern, prompting his passing glance of interest before he was back on you. “Not hungry? He usually doesn’t feed you that well. I haven't been down here in a week or so, so I figured you'd be ready to scarf it down.”

“No.”

He came closer and the size of him grew, a towering figure with strong, broad-shoulders and a chest built to withstand the friction of the sea he used to own. His face, although hidden in darkness and flickering shadow cast from your lantern, gleamed as the light struck his iridescent scales. The shape of his lips were human-like yet taut, helping to comfortably fit his sharp teeth inside his mouth.

You'd wondered at times what exactly he was, what your granduncle believed him to be and feared so much to hide him away, chained to a wall. You fantasized that he could be the lost prince of some underwater civilization, or the offspring of several thousands of years of evolution between humans and something else.

He never seemed to understand you when you asked him what he was.

“Come,” his reach was limited by the chains that bound his limbs, keeping him shy of touching your body. “Come to me.”

With the lantern set aside, a distance you hoped wouldn't turn him petulant, you walked in his arms and the shackles and made home there as he surrounded you. His embrace was not the sort you could escape, nor was the kiss he pressed against your mouth.

There were parts of him you were too scared to touch, where his scales were like serrated teeth and he had much less control to retract at will like the dorsal find along his back. His lips were smooth and cold, however, a safe place for you to be on his body along with the hard flesh on his chest.

He pushed himself into your touch as your fingertips traced the shape of his torso, rose with the sprawl of his breasts and shoulders, molded into the ridges of his lower abdomen that you felt pulse and tense the further downward you roamed.

The sheath around his groin had swelled significantly and seemed to twitch when you smoothed your hand across it, kneading it gently to see what would come of doing so. You'd seen this only once before several months ago, a time where you'd been more frightened of him and fled from the basement for weeks when he'd acted more aggressive than usual.

It was one of the many things he had taken notice of that were perceived negatively—with fear and distance and shutting him away in this deep dark until you found the courage to feed him again, because your uncle was petrified along with being restricted in his ability to navigate the stairs with his lame leg.

So, he had learned to behave at the worst of times to keep food supplied, for you to stay wrapped up in him like this and so curious to challenge the extent of his self-restraint.

His kiss had grown full-bodied and restless and gone elsewhere on your body to a great expanse of skin. His face nuzzled into the fabric hiding your warmth from him, teeth tearing and fraying the threads that kept your clothes together until you stopped him.

“Stop—wait, wait, wait.” You walked back out of his arms once he was able to recognize the words. He reached for you despite the clattering bonds around his wrist, but you took your time to shuck the clothes from your body and fold them.

Once he had you back, he led you to the edge of the pool of endless depths and sank down inside of it. Your toes touched the very edge of darkness, stirring a rabble of butterflies in your gut that did not dissipate even once he resurfaced.

"Sit.” He gestured right at where you stood. “Sit down.”

The idea of having any part of your body submerged in the black water left you with little desire in continuing this, but you obeyed and slowly lowered your rear to the rim of the pool, legs speckled by goose pimples as the cold water gripped up to the inside of your thighs.

“Yes, good.” He was close enough to push your thighs wide apart and stick his tongue inside of you. You took in a great sucking breath, startled from the suddenness of it and the long, articulate appendage massaging a part of you in a way no one ever had before.

You leaned back on your arms when they weakened and shook from the sensations, eyes flicking towards the drab ceiling, wondering just how far under the living quarters of the lighthouse you actually were and whether granduncle would hear any lewd sounds that were beginning to hum in your throat.

“Keep going.” He said when you moaned, tongue retracted from your body to mimic the ministrations you made with your hand and fingers while you stroked yourself. “Keep doing it.”

He nudged your hand away to put his mouth over that stimulated spot instead, sucking and licking along you with such fervor that you dissolved into hard pants and whimpers, tempted to close your thighs around his head and push him away as the tight warmth inside of you flushed out with a kaleidoscopic burst of color and cool air following the trail of something slowly oozing out of you.

It took a second orgasm and chanting turned to cries to get him off of you. That brief respite ended when he took you by the waist and dragged you into the pool with him. By that point, you were too far spent to have anything but unshakeable indifference to the depths and the cold.

His kiss was as it had been before, rough and restless, forceful in a way that left you malleable and melting against him. Even when he had your front wedged between the rim of the pool and his chest, you couldn't bring yourself to react much.

You felt his thighs mold to the back of yours before the slim tip of his cock pushed into you, the girth of it thickening considerably at the base. The friction of the water wasn't an obstacle for him to fuck into you with greedy thrusts that threw your hips forward, knocking skin and bone against the wall of the pool.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh—” the ridges of his cock were an unusual feeling, catching your walls in spots, spreading you wider when he'd withdraw part way and plunge back inside. “Oh, shit—feels good. Harder. Harder. Harder!”

There was truly never any way to know how much he understood when you said it, something called into question when his thrusts slowed to a stop, but he stayed hard inside of you. For a moment, the water settled along with your heavy breaths and blood gushing through your ears.

Things slowly came back into focus—the dancing lantern light, the room temperature meat, the wicked water in which you were immersed to the waist while the rest of you was braced by him.

He shifted behind you, adjusting his thighs so yours went even wider. Before you could ask the things you wanted to, a new sensation stole your breath—the swollen head of a second cock, different in shape and size from the first, pushed into you and lay flush atop the other.

“Don't—don’t move.” You were struggling to do the same thing with such an enormous stretch you'd never had to accommodate before. Tension built in your throat, whether a sob or a scream or your own anxiety, and stayed there to cinch your voice into silence.

He soothed you with lips and teeth all over your flesh; the back of your neck, the cartilage of your ears and the underside of your jawbone. His large hands left the shelf of your hips and felt along your front side, nipples, chest, stomach, and groin where he tried to recreate the same pleasure on you now as you had done for yourself earlier.

“Good?” He nested his cocks deeper when he heard you moan. The pain of it was beginning to subside, but the strangeness of it remained. “Is it good?”

“Just—just don't hurt me.”

His hands were back on your hips to keep you seated on his thighs while he thrust into you. It wasn't as easy for him to move as it was before, perhaps realizing the limitations of a human companion, but continued in snappy pulses that made the water lap at the skin on your back and turned your thoughts into senseless, garbled things.

Soon enough, you were riding a sloppy, savage rhythm to which you had no control of whatsoever as he chased his end. In moments where he seemed to regress into a natural state, almost animalistic in the way he rutted into you and buried his cocks, one would slip out and go forgotten for a time. The length of it glided against your groin, a smooth motion underwater that prodded your sore spots before he was able to fit it back into place with the other.

Amid your luscious sounds were those of his own; labored, air-sucking rasps that rumbled from places more than just his throat. They were probably never meant to be heard above the surface of water, just as he didn't belong fucking a human while being chained to a wall.

You thought about that fact while the last thrusts he took seated his cocks so deep that you ached, hard surges of warmth flooding your insides in a way unexpectedly delightful. He clung to you with his arms and shackles even well after he had emptied himself in your body and retracted both cocks into their sheath.

After a while, he hoisted you out of the water and followed you to retrieve your clothes. He stopped short of the chains pulling in the wall, watching while you wiped away the remnants of him oozing down the backs of your thighs and redressed.

“Don't go.” He kissed you and let his cold lips linger over yours. “Stay here.”

You returned the affection as endlessly as he gave it, only thinking that sunrise would soon come to pull you apart.

a/n: so, this idea has unfortunately never been able to fully develop from a lack of ideas. with starting this new blog, I'm hoping to get enough interest and feedback to actually commit to this and bring a completed project eventually!!

are you satisfied with how the aquatic monster was written in this piece? what would you be interested in having added/taken away? what do you think could be improved upon/expanded? is there anything you're particularly curious about?

what sort of setting would you like to see this story take place? 19th century, the 90s, or modern e.g. 2010+? are you satisfied with the setting being in cape tellis? a location inspired by lighthouse coastlines with predominately dreary/cool/wet weather? if not, what type of setting would you prefer to see?

in terms of the storyline, are you more interested in seeing: 1) a relative goes missing, so you arrive at the lighthouse he owned to solve the mystery 2) mc being an underwater mechanic to fix a damaged dam 3) mc being part of a small group trying to capture proof of a "creature" lurking around cape tellis. 4) something else???

[rey-129-fan]

Well, it's been a while since I've posted any fanfic... Let's change that.

Good news! I'm not dead! My brain did try to get me to do things that could unalive myself for a bit, and then I lost nearly an entire side of my family over the span of 3 years, but I'm still here and still kicking! And I have two new puppies who are adorable and so loving.

Now for this story, this is inspired by a few posts I saw on @theglamorousferal, mostly the one about Amity Parkers going to college in Gotham and buying a hotel (I'm making it a co-op student house, but I've never lived in one, so if something's unacceptably wrong, tell me, if not, artistic license), but also the one where our main Trio buy a building to set up shop there, and wind up adopted my Jason (I swear, I saw that post after I wrote the first chapter, but it just fit so well).

***

Honestly, Amity Park was weird long before the Fentons moved there- the original settlers named the nearby lake Eerie, and it wasn’t after the Great Lake.  It’s just that before the Fentons’ machine punched a hole through reality and created a permanent doorway to the land of spirits and ghosts, the weirdness was not as blatant.

Prior to that, Amity Parkers were some of the few that could move to Gotham without suffering a breakdown that was common for new arrivals.  Now there was a slight dip in newcomers for about a decade or two after the Bat made his debut and then the crazies that followed him, but then Amity Parkers got used to the spirits of the dead wandering around following the aforementioned punching through reality.

All this to say that Gotham Universities were a rather common destination for young Amity Park adults seeking higher education.

Now because of this, there were always apartments advertising themselves for people from the small town.  They, after all, tended to not have a breakdown after their fifth rogue attack and just pack up and leave halfway through their lease.  But it got very annoying having to sift through all the advertisements when looking for a place to stay- something Danny Fenton saw his older sister go through when she got in to Gotham City University.  The boy then shared what he was witnessing with his two best friends- Tucker Foley and Sam Manson.  Tucker offered to help filter out the spam, which Danny’s sister Jazz thanked him for but turned down.  Sam… Sam instead got thinking.

Sam had been to Gotham a few times in her life.  She had an idea of the areas closest to the schools and how much those should cost.  And looking at the letters Jazz was getting, the offers were a little too high for a regular college student to afford.  Sam was also familiar with how many hotels were not being used in Gotham- people building them in hopes tourists would come to stay while visiting the East Coast, tourists that could not be convinced to visit due to the high crime rate and the lack of activities or places of interest in the city itself.

She quickly went to work, looking in to these empty hotels.  She was rather upset by their numbers and put together a spreadsheet of them, with details like number of rooms, any amenities they may have, and nearby landmarks.  She then grabbed her two dorks and marched to Casper High’s Community Outreach director.

Now Sam’s presentation raised a few eyebrows, mostly because it was in a completely different state, but Sam shot back that because of the efforts to incorporate the town’s new ghostly residents and provide them with helpful ways to feed their obsessions- efforts led by the Fenton family- Amity Park had very few homeless, and those that were had a huge community safety net to help them get back on their feet.  Additionally, with how many people moved between the city and the town, helping the city could be argued to also be helping the town.

The Outreach Director just sighed and gave Same the green light to at least draft and send out a proposal to the powers that be in Gotham, saying that there wasn’t much that could be done before they got backing and approval.  Sam thanked them before leaving, Danny and Tucker trailing behind.

She was back the next day with a draft of her proposal and a list of who to send it to.

***

Since returning from the dead in the eyes of the public, Jason Todd was often contacted by groups trying to use the Wayne fortune to fund their own personal projects.  They thought Jason would be the easiest to con- sorry, persuade- since he was a former street kid unlike the rest of his family.  Thus surely he would know just how much this new building with low income housing would help the people of Gotham- it even came with a pool and gym!

Yeah, he did know how much the people of Gotham needed housing, but $2K a month was not affordable when you’re barely making $30K a year!  Oh and the pool and gym were only available for those who could shell out an additional $2K a month.  Jason knows, he read the whole document carefully.

God, sometimes it was hard to tell who was worse, the psychos in Blackgate or real estate investors.  And sadly, he couldn’t just pop a bullet in their heads and be done with it because 1) it would raise too many questions and 2) it would make Bruce get all sad and mopey- again.  Jason just did not have the mental energy to put up with that on top of the rest of his life as a crimelord/vigilante/long-lost adoptive second son of a billionaire.

All this to say, he was not impressed when he first glanced over a proposal to convert the unused hotels around the city into housing units- especially since it was from someone that did not live in Gotham.

Manson?  Wasn’t there a family with that name that would attend some of Brucie’s galas?  Oh yeah, their family made its fortune off patenting the machine that wrapped toothpicks in plastic, as well as a couple others.  And they had a daughter around Repla- Tim’s age.  Hopefully this wasn’t her trying to be a kiss-ass like her parents.

Jason finished reading and sat back.  The proposal wasn’t too bad.  Converting hotels into apartment buildings would be easier than office buildings, and the suggestion to use ex-convicts that wanted to turn over a new leaf as building managers certainly wasn’t the worst.  Also creating a fund for those that couldn’t afford rent, as well as community kitchens and gardens were certain plusses, though would need to have the right people in charge to make sure they actually worked as planned, and to keep the Court of Owls from messing with it.

Overall, it was something Jason would consider, after some research and maybe talking with the rest of the Bats and Birds.  And if this was from the Manson kid, maybe get Dickie or one of the others to talk to her next time there was a gala in town.  Or talk to her himself, if the Pit wasn’t too loud.

…Dick was probably the better option to talk with her if it came down to it.

***

There's the first chapter. I'm going to go write the next one. When I have a good log of them, I'll then go and edit them and put them on AO3.

This has no title yet because I suck at naming. Feel free to comment with suggestions for a name, both for the fic/au and for the eventual hotel/co op. As well as any shinanegans and majors/colleges/universities for our liminal young adults.

Part 1/? Next >

[that-house]

can you tell us more about dronestrike & the campaign theyre from?

just read thhe post about it & immediately became obsessed

(context: Dronestrike is my warrior cats OC, an american imperialist robot cat the size of a horse and equipped with enough firepower to wipe out the clans if it seems like they're at risk of falling to communism. in the oneshot he accidentally fired a nuke at the city of LA and blamed "every other country" in a phone call with Bidenstar to avoid getting in trouble)

it wasn't a campaign, just an 11-person oneshot in the single most chaotic discord voice call I have ever been in. so i haven't played him since then, nor will i ever play him again

i can provide you a variety of facts about him i came up with after the fact though because he's a funny enough character that i can't stop thinking about him:

his brain is composed of three parts with an equal amount of control over his actions: the soul of a vietnam veteran, an AI replica of a cat, and every single super bowl halftime commercial

he comes armed with combat knives for claws, a machine gun in his mouth, a high caliber sniper rifle built into his spine, a pistol that he somehow uses with cat paws, and a douglas air-2 genie air-to-air unguided nuclear missile

transition could not save him because all trans people are godless communists who bully him on twitter

Dronestrike acknowledges every independence movement if only so that America has more countries to eventually colonize

he has read Marx so he can misuse quotes and flex on any marxists who haven't read theory

his greatest wish is for america to have won 'nam

doesn’t really have any physical possessions because he’s a cat who doesn’t have pockets or a permanent residence. he does however have $8.6 million in Shell oil stock

Dronestrike if he played League of Legends: only plays champs who have america-themed skins, but doesn’t actually own the skins because that would be giving money to a chinese company. plays all of them jungle to poor results. iron 4 two thousand games this season

has no mouth but wishes he did so he could taste the burgers that honest Americans have died to defend

Dronestrike's dream world is world war 3, with the stipulation that there is an american flag superimposed over EVERYONE'S vision instead of just his

if he had 24 hours to live he would start a “second american revolution” by attacking England

he isn't a good kisser: no lips, he's a cat, and also george washington famously said that romantic connections weaken your spiritual link with The State

response to being trapped in a maze of mirrors: breaks through the mirrors without noticing, but also can’t recognize his reflection. Thinks he has to fight these teleporting commie clones of himself to save the United States of America

he's on Santa's naughty list

on Halloween he dresses up as George Washington and “trick or disappears” journalists

Dronestrike hates the reds, the brits, women, and most importantly, himself

prefers fundamentals over schmovement

favorite board game is Monopoly because watching people go bankrupt or be imprisoned is one of his hobbies

his happiest memory is his first glimpse of an amazon packaging facility and the horrible conditions of the workers

favorite season is summer: 4th of July babey!!! the holiday where you're allowed to blow shit upppp!!! he also frequently sets off fireworks in the off season to scare dogs and people with anxiety

doesn’t date but he sends tech billionaires unethically farmed flowers sometimes

doesn’t play video games but he has a simulated CoD lobby’s chat going at all times in his head. they call him slurs whenever he misses a shot

relates strongly to Patrick Bateman

he was in ShadowClan. they picked which clan he would be deployed into by having him take the official "which clan are you" quiz

sometimes he doubts that he has the heart of a true warrior

[hanibalistic]

#8A1725 | NISHIMURA RIKI.

genre | angsty romance

word count | 2339

warning | mention of domestic abuse, suicide attempt (jumping off building) / blood, injuries, violent acts / scissors ​

note | niki (riki?) is the only person i can think of who fits this character. / hi, i love choco puffs!  

niki's quick and loud footsteps echoed across the quiet blocks, but they were not enough to wake their residents permanently.

racing the wind has always been a thrilling experience. there was nothing like the tender suffocation of cold air filling his nostrils, traveling to his brain and his lungs, while his legs begged to give under pressure. there was no such thrill this time around. he was suffocating, still; he couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t. but it didn’t come from the wind; it came from the cryptic text you sent him half an hour ago that wrote, ‘help me.’

he responded with a journey of messages that began with amusement and tease, to increasing worry and annoyance, and finally, only a minute before he ransacked his clean laundry basket for a jacket and the messy drawer for a pair of rusty scissors, fear and desperation. you revealed your home life to him shortly after he pieced the puzzle together. he knew your father’s anguish disposition and the violent ways he enjoys showing it. your call for help and the fact that you didn’t read any of his replies for half an hour made him assume the worst.

the biological inability of humans to safely hold their breaths for more than two minutes was the only thing reminding him to do so. when you opened the door to the bathroom where you locked yourself in, he inhaled deeply once again and held onto it. it wasn’t time to let his guard down. closing the door behind him and locking it aggressively to make sure you heard it, he reached up for your face and began to examine you in quick succession. you let him, your brows furrowing as he pressed his fingers against your scalp and brushed through your hair.

“niki, i'm–“ you paused your sentence to let out a low whine when he pinched both sides of your face and pulled them toward opposite sides–“i’m okay.”

“why didn’t you read my messages?” he demanded. 

“dad took my phone,” you replied with a muffled voice. “can you let go of my face now?”

oxygen gained permission to enter his body once he established that you weren’t severely injured. he stared down at you, his eyes barely visible behind his sweaty hair, and then he scoffed and let go of your face. it was a conscious decision to smooth your sore skin over with his thumb, the back of his fingers running down your chin as his hands removed themselves from your face, but niki didn’t know if it was an attempt to savor the touch or an unneeded apology for pinching your cheeks.

you watched as he sat down across from you on the bathroom floor. you’ve only known him for two years; he has always been tall. even with you curling your legs to your chest, there wasn’t enough space to accommodate the length of his legs. you measured them with your naked eyes, then up at his face where he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his palm. he must have run like hell to get to you, all over a text you didn’t think much about. You had no idea he would do that at all.

“move over,” you muttered as you released your knees from your chest.

he listened and scooted closer to the door, an unconscious precaution taken. you crawled over his legs to plop down next to him. you didn’t have to curl yourself into a ball if you were sitting next to him, and he couldn’t have you blocking half the floor space on which he could rest his feet. niki extended his legs more, heaving a relieved sigh, and then he chuckled after peeking at you.

“you're sitting next to the toilet,” he said.

you shrugged, arm brushing against his. “it won’t be my first time.” 

“that’s true,” he said, shifting so his arm pressed against yours. “he really didn’t hit you?”

“he did,” you nodded, “but not enough to bleed this time.”

pursing his lips to let the curse die on his tongue, he leaned his head back on the edge of the bathtub. the ceiling light was blinding, almost as if he was staring at the sun, and he couldn’t stare at it without squinting through the pain. marks of illusional symbols began to float behind his lids, and he felt his eyes burn with tears—niki held on; he wondered if this was enough to taste your pain, or perhaps he needed to ask your father to break his nose before he could adequately fit his feet in your shoes. he wondered if his futile protectiveness had developed into an obsession, or perhaps it was normal for a boy to suffer with his lover.

“where is your mom?” he asked curiously, tapping his index finger against his knee. “where is she in all of this?”

“she’s afraid, niki,” you replied. “i don’t blame her.”

“well, i do,” he sneered. “she should divorce him and get you out of here. she should have done that years ago.”

“it’s not that easy,” you mused at his naivety. “besides, she loves him.”

he snorted, rolling his eyes and glancing at the silver doorknob. “what love? this is punishment.”

“when is one not the other?” you muttered offhandedly, not expecting a real answer from him. 

it wasn’t that niki couldn’t articulate ideas of that calibre; he was just a very straightforward person. if he liked you, he would show it. if he didn’t, he would let you know. if there’s an issue, fix it. there was no such thing as cutting corners or walking on eggshells around a taboo topic. his answer to your question wouldn’t be nuanced because it shouldn’t have to be—love is never a punishment. if it feels like it, then it couldn’t be love.

besides, he never liked these kinds of questions in general.

“i came here for nothing then,” he said, not bothering to answer you. 

you shook your head with an amused smirk. “i wouldn’t say for nothing. you’re keeping me company.” 

“that’s not what i want,” he muttered to himself and turned to you. he found it difficult to say you worried him to death, so he didn’t. Instead, he pulled the pair of scissors from his pocket and showed it to you. “i should have been here earlier. i even brought a weapon.” 

“no way,” you chuckled. “what were you going to do with it? stab my dad?”

niki played with the sharp object in his hand, his silence a sign of contemplation. his thoughts couldn’t replay themselves far enough for him to remember exactly why he grabbed the scissors in the first place, but he knew that during his frantic sprint to your apartment estate, he made up his mind. he saw blood frothing at his mouth as a potential aftermath of the decision, and he made up his mind that perhaps an act of violence and an act of love were two indistinguishable things.

lowering the weapon to his thigh, he turned to you. you two sat close, the origin of the proximity an unknown, subconscious story, and his eyes were as soft as his voice.

“i was ready to kill him for you.”

in that moment, as your neck soured as if you pulled a nerve, you wished your father had killed you. 

“don’t be ridiculous,” you said as you tore your eyes away from his. “you’ll get–“ the words got caught in your throat for a second–“you’ll get in trouble.”

but he already knew that. 

he may be hot-headed and immature, but you wouldn’t put it past him to understand the full scope of a murder’s consequences. you didn’t want to verbalize it for your sake, handing yourself the notion that he knew what would happen and still chose that path to keep you safe. neither were the lines printed between his actions and decisions lost on you; the fact that he belonged to you in ways no person should ever belong to another, all on his volition.

niki was the first boy who’s ever confessed an undone murder to you. he was the first boy who’s ever confessed his love for you. 

he kept his eyes on you. you have your father’s features; every time you look into the mirror, you see a mixture of him and yourself, and you are reminded the very man you resemble doesn’t love you.

an act of violence and an act of love were two indistinguishable things. you wished he confessed to you differently, in the language you understood, the language of the damned. he also knew that, so the second time he confessed to you, it was through a split-second decision made in a hapless situation.

falling off a building has the same feeling as racing against the wind, except the end goal was death rather than suffocation, and he has no control over his legs. he wasn’t thinking about that, though. when he found himself hopping off the school roof after you, his fingers clutching the hem of your uniform to shelter you against his chest, he wasn’t thinking about how clear the air in mid-air was or how fast a human body could actually fall to the ground. he was thinking about something else, something morbid.

he thought about dying. perhaps with you in his arms, or the fall would break you out of his embrace. either way, he was content. amid the thought of a splattered brain and leaked blood, he was content.

niki was already awake and sitting by the infirmary bed when you opened your eyes. your head hammered the same as when you hit the ground, but you found it in yourself to take a peek at him. he looked exhausted, and his hair messier than ever. he caught your eyes and subtly sat straighter, his phone sliding off his knees to the floor.

“the tree growing in the backyard cushioned the fall,” he clarified as he leaned down to pick his phone up. “if you’re wondering how we didn’t die.”

“you jumped after me." it was all you could muster. your curiosity about his thought process was overwhelming.

he pursed his lips, his movement slowing a fraction when you reminded him of what he did. “yeah.”

trailing your eyes down, you saw that his arms were both bandaged, and his knuckles were red with afterimages of dry blood stains. if the tree—you suspected it was the one close to growing inside the school building—really tanked the fall, then the rough branches must have caught his skin a few heavy wounds. as for his knuckles—you looked down at your hands to recall what happened—it could have been him shielding the side of your head from hitting the floor, but you couldn’t be sure.

slowly sitting up to lean against the pillow, you eyed him with dissatisfaction. “was it worth it?”

“what was?” he questioned, mildly upset at your expression.

"trying to save me,” you said before gesturing toward his injuries to make a point.

“i wasn’t trying to save you,” he said after a pause, raising his brows as if you should have known that all along. 

between the uncertainty of life and death, where he couldn’t be sure if you could live through this tragedy, niki figured it was better if he, too, ceased to exist. he wasn’t willing to bet his life on a miracle, nor was he willing to live in a world with untraceable leads of you hidden in every corner.

or, perhaps he wanted to die because you also wanted to die, like your brains were linked and you were two halves of one being. you could be the sword that kills the both of you—you have to be the sword that kills the both of you. once you plunge into him, he’d be glad that he got to feel your blood in his half of the body because that would finally render him whole.

“i was trying to die with you.”

the flicker in your eyes mimicked the thundering of an epiphany, and he knew that his confession was received well this time. you turned away to look out the window. the tree that saved you wasn't there, but it wasn't as if you planned to express gratitude anyway. you only looked away to avoid seeing the boy you've fundamentally changed from the first time you opened the door of your bathroom to his knocks, revealing to him a black eye and a bleeding nose.

"you really like me that much, niki," you said, but the sentence could be considered a question. any affection thrown towards you could be regarded with confusion.

"i do," he muttered.

you turned your head back to meet his eyes. "would you give me your heart?"

he never liked these kinds of questions.

"i'll feed it to you," he said, and he would.

he would chew his own heart into small pieces, carefully gather them on a spoon, and feed them to you.

you laughed lowly. "that's going to hurt a lot."

it would, as did his arms when the tree branches caught his falling weight, his back when he hit the ground with you close to his chest, and his legs when he ran across blocks to your home. everything about loving you would hurt him; his devotion to you would mirror your father's hands without him realizing it.

"it will," he joked while pulling the chair closer to the bed. "i bet my heart tastes like shit, but you're gonna have to eat it."

you laughed with him, and he suddenly remembered, when he was laying on the ground, his knuckles bloodied from shielding your head, your question about love and punishment, about how to decipher when one becomes the other.

when does love become a punishment?—

you trailed a finger across his bandage, your bottom lip jutting out without a promise that it wouldn't happen again.

—when it's real.

[copious-zygomaticus]

You sly dog, you got me monologuing! Anyways, I think I’m gonna be writing more Obey Me oneshots cause I have NASTY FREAK BRAINROT. Also because I have ideas that have to exist because they’re too good and my brain is huge. Uhh, anyways- TAKE THAT!

I’m Your Turbo Lover

Characters: Solomon x MC x Asmodeus

Reader Insert Pronouns: He/They

Dynamic: Polyamorous Romantic.

Summary: After a long day of classes, the Devildom’s most fashionable triad gets ready for date night at a fancy restaurant. Your boyfriends are not mentally prepared for the rev of your motorcycle and your hardcore getup.

Warnings: Suggestive Language, Nothing!

The moon shone brightly on metal street lamps and store signs as the sound of a twinkling voice and a cool laugh filled the air. You see, Asmodeus and Solomon were walking together under a star dotted sky to Ristorante Six for date night with the triad. Asmodeus was all dressed up in a flowing pastel pink silk dress shirt with ruffled bell sleeves and cream-colored pants trapped by a decorative vested corset in matching colors. His face was truly a vision with pearlescent shimmering eyeshadow that darkened at the edges with a peach pink eyeshadow that framed his eyeliner detailed eyes. Asmo formed quite the divine image with Solomon, who had his white hair slightly tossed atop of body clad in loose black pants that were tied at the waist over a slightly unbuttoned deep velvety purple button down shirt which complimented his usual galaxy cape. Solomon’s dark eyes were swirling with a rainbow sheen, like an oil spill from the heavens. And yet you were no where to be seen, because you had told your boyfriends that you were arriving separately due to an “incoming surprise from the human realm”. They brushed it off as casual personal business, but their nonchalant demeanor could not prepare them for what they were about to see.

The arrival of this “surprise” had been a long time coming. You see, after your time in the exchange program, you inevitably moved to take permanent residence in the Devildom with your boyfriends. Since moving, it has been quite the struggle to drag all of your belongings to hell. Especially your pride and joy, your V2 Bayliss 1st Championship 20th Anniversary Ducati Panigale motorcycle.

Despite Barbatos’ portal opening skills, getting your precious speed bike through the portal proved to be an insanely difficult task along with a hesitance caused by a fear of the portal scratching it up. But after a few months, tonight was the night that your diesel prince was finally returned to your side in the Devildom. During the wait, you were able to get your motorcycle license approved to use in the Devildom, meaning that once those wheels hit the ground, you were ready to ride. And oh how eager you were to ride again.

As the clock struck just the right hour, you donned your matte black riding helmet, flicking the silver reflective visor down over your shinning eyes. Throwing a heavy black steel-toed leg over the seat of the panigale, you felt the leather of your pants hug your thighs with an exhilarating pressure. Excitement only ramped up as you started your metallic beast, kicking the start on and letting the sweet deep rumble reverberate against the external walls of the infamous House of Lamentation. Keys jingling against your belt chains, you fit your boot under the curve of the kickstart to shift into first gear before you cranked the radio’s volume to its limit and rode into the eternal night. There was something about this two-stroke engine that made you whole and gave you life as the wind whipped across your studded leather jacket that had “Hells Bells” with a decorative upside down cross embroidered across the back.

As street lights flew past you, you breathed in the cool night air and narrowed your eyes as you crept upon your target, the infamous Ristorante Six.

Solomon’s P.O.V

“Ugghhh where’s MC?? We’re gonna be late to our reservationssss,” Asmodeus dramatically groaned next to me while he fussed with the strands of my hair that fell on my face. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but I know that he’s just scared of being left behind and that makes him a little nervous about date nights. Being worshiped for his looks certainly did something to his brain over the years, but I would never verbalize something we all knew that didn’t need to be said. I slipped his face between my hands, “they’re on their way Asmo, just wait a spell. We are not going to be late, and even if we were, there is no doubt that your charms couldn’t get us all a table dear.” His warm peach eyes darted to swipe motionlessly across my lips before pouting jokingly and looking into the night sky.

We shared a comfortable silence as Asmodeus tapped away at his D.D.D screen on Devilgram, my arms wrapped across his chest and my chin perched atop his head. The demon grumbled about messing up his hair before relenting and going about his digital business. That silence was quickly interrupted as a new sound entered the night, a distinct vehicular rumbling. I thought nothing of it until it raced closer, becoming more loud and unavoidable. I gazed out towards the street and Asmo even flicked a gaze upwards before they caught on the culprit: a quickly approaching red motorcycle.

“My my, that looks expensive,” Asmodeus chirped as he imagined an endless possibility of photo shoot, and extracurricular, opportunities for a motorcycle. I chuckled lightly, “you almost sound like Mammon.”

That certainly earned me an earful as my comment caused Asmo to scoff pointedly and rang about how he was nothing like his greedy brother. As he talked, my eyes landed on the motorcyclist who had parked across the street. They appeared to be taking off leather riding gloves, strapping them to a carabiner on a heavy layered belt chain that adorned their pants. I couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but there was something so enticing about this mystery person. After not responding for a while, Asmodeus noticed my silence and followed my gaze to the leather-clad man across the street, letting out a small gasp before he turned and grabbed my shoulders with a face of excitement.

“Solomon~ you dirty dog, we’re waiting for our boyfriend and you’re looking at other men!” Asmodeus cooed jokingly with narrowed seductive eyes. I scoffed lightly at the comment, the polyamorous nature of Asmo, MC, and myself being a well known fact across the Devildom and multiple magazine spreads.

“I know I’m partial to a bad boy, but I didn’t expect as much from you darling~” Asmodeus turned back around to face the motorcyclist that had began walking towards the restaurant before his jaw visibly dropped to let out a loud gasp.

“What? What happen-” I looked back towards the mystery man to find him shaking out his hair from his helmet. He wasn’t a mystery man at all. It was-

“MCCCC~~!!” Asmodeus kept forward into MC’s arms despite one of them being occupied by his motorcycle helmet. I literally couldn’t believe it. Well, it’s not totally off the mark considering the band t-shirts and the heavy metal music MC adored, but I had never considered this possibility… how fascinating, how enticing.

“You never told us you were a biker,” I ask as I slink towards my boyfriends.

MC scratched the side of his head, “well I kind of wanted it to be a surprise! And besides, I felt weird saying I ride without any bike as proof you know?”

There was a streak of grease on MC’s face, right below his glittering eyes. I stepped in closer and licked my thumb, teasing him for showing up to such a fancy restaurant with a dirty face, which in turn made their face warm up with a soft pink hue.

“We have plenty proof you can ride sweet thing~” Asmodeus quips back quickly, only darkening our poor boyfriend’s blush that clashed yet complimented the shine of the black leather jacket that adorned his body.

“Down boy, we’re in public,” MC says as he scoffs, doing a very poor job at hiding his embarrassment behind his rough appearance and the hair he shook to cover his face.

I then stepped behind MC, putting my hands on his shoulder blades and rubbing his spine lightly. I paused for a second and chuckled lightly, “Does that say fucking ‘Hells Bells’ on your jacket?”

“Shut up Solomon, shady bitch,” MC grumbled and put his hands over face, trapping his hair between his hands and the saturated pink of his face.

Asmodeus giggled at his boyfriends before looking at the time on his phone, “it’s time for our reservations!!” I felt a warm slender hand intertwine with my fingers as I looked up at Asmo who had grabbed my hand, finding that he slipped his other hand into MC’s. As we were pulled into the sparkling restaurant light and delicate piano moment, I looked at MC and Asmodeus, and I knew in my soul that I had found my home after all these centuries. Both of my boyfriends are so full of surprises, what a beautiful thing.

Sorry if Solomon’s a bit ooc, I suck ass at writing for Solomon, but that’s okay cause I like his mischievous wiles. Anyways this was super self indulgent if you couldn’t tell because I’m a big motorcycle guy myself, I miss flat track racing. Tell me if yall want more biker MC or alternative MC fics because I WILL be writing more of them and if yall got something in mind I would love to hear any ideas 🙏

[mixtapedoh]

actually you can go with seungmo + winter falls too. i think he's more of a winter falls girlie than lino. actually anything with winter falls 😭🙏

you knew what you were doing when you paired seungmo with my favorite skz ballad,,,,,,, your support and your mind will never go underappreciated in this house ♡♡♡♡♡

ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɴᴏᴡ ꜰᴀʟʟꜱ (��ᴇ ꜰᴀʟʟ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ)

☄. *. ⋆

pairing: kim seungmin x reader (not endgame) genre: angst, reminiscing word count: ~1k warnings: heartbreak, mentions of blood (metaphor and imagery), all thoughts no plot (sometimes fanfiction is about VIBES and VERSE, not cohesive story telling), gratuitous sneaking in and bastardization of song lyrics

olive's notes: you know know i had to go full tumblr for the title of this fic. song lyric titles (with something in parenthesis) how i love you, how i have missed you, how you changed the very synaptic pathways in my brain ♡. nothing will ever be as influential as you ♡.

consider my mini writing event ?

It wasn't the weather that made you think of him.

No, because that would be all too cliche — tidy and neat — something easy to anticipate and, perhaps, simple to avoid.

In a way, you could blame it on the snow: the soft, fluffy flakes too carefree to be cold, spinning on the barely there wind, a graceful pirouette to a gentle, almost forgotten landing. It was beautiful — the first snowfall of the year — and because it's arrival was so benign (unexpected and mild, creeping into the edges of the day until it's whispered chill tickled your skin and it's gossamer flakes were delicately kissing your head), you had no warning against the flood of memory it would bring in it's wake.

It was the couple on the end of the street that reminded you, though, if we're to be fair to the elements and truthful in the story we tell.

Two figures at the furthest distance from your current standing, hand in hand, startled as they walked out of a shop and into sudden snowfall. The leftmost of the two, seemingly more ecstatic than their loving counterpart, stuck out their tongue, angling their head skyward, and after a moment, laughed in delight, or some approximation of it. They turned to their partner, kissed them on either cheek, and then took off their jacket to place around the other's shoulders. Perhaps there was an exchange of half-hearted argument, but the moment ended with the two of them walking off, one double-braced against the building cold, the other habitually turning their palms to the clemency of snow — as though the moment was pure and this weather something to be held.

Snowflakes fell of your cheeks. If you were to be asked, they were to be blamed for any wetness, there.

Memories come in waves, and they are a vengeful and needy sea: demanding to be realized, sure in the devastation they bear. But how long is it before an experience crystalizes into memory? What is the minimum amount of time that needs to occur before that passage is significant and longing for someone can turn into missing them?

You weren't quite sure if it could be called missing him: this gnawing, guilty feeling accompanying your thoughts of Seungmin.

Once, the two of you had been friends so close, no one could talk about either of you without mentioning the other. His footsteps always following yours, your voice a necessary addition to any of his statements. So close your names spilled into the other, so present there was a space carved in the both of you for the other to reside in. Side by side or in tandem, there were always two.

And there were two, that night, when your warmth was carbonated with a fizz of intimacy and bubbles of desperation. You confessed to the secret of loving him and he worshiped that attachment with his lips. Again and again, a mantra that intensified to the fervency of song.

I love you, love you, love you.

And how many times did you say that before the sentiment set to rot, and the permanence of that phrase became something of the past?

I loved you, loved you, loved you.

Again, snow fell on your cheeks, pulling you just far enough out of your mired thoughts, to remind you to finish your walk to that lonesome, quiet destination called home.

You had Seungmin for longer than you held him, and the feeling of his voice in your mind was more resonant that the touch of his lips on yours. Evocative, cohesive, tenacious — something you couldn't yet unstick from the crevices of your thoughts.

Seungmin beside you, Seungmin whispering into the shell of your ear, Seungmin placing his love in the spot where your neck met your shoulders, the crook of your grin, the place above your heart.

But the wind blew, the novelty faded, the movie ended and you were stuck in the credits where words became meaningless and effort was forgotten in the aftermath of spectacle.

The ease corroded, the bitterness spilled, past tense slipped into the habit of your speech until all the tenderness between you was finished and gone by.

I loved you, and it wasn't his words or yours, but something set on the table for the both of you to consume. A sentiment on which you both engorged and drank dry.

Everything had changed, and yet you were somehow still the same. Seungmin had been so clearly and undoubtedly part of you — you carved out his place inside you alongside him! You hollowed out a space for him, and he for you — and yet with the absence of him, should there not have been something desperate and bloody for you to fix? You had searched and pleaded and clawed at the edges of you to find that void so you might set it to rights, but it evaded you, still.

I loved you.

Perhaps it had already healed over.

Perhaps it had never been.

But still, that unfound cavity ached in you. It was filled with the sound of his voice, and the phrases in his diary he'd let you read and you held to committed memory — it was shaped like the palm of his hand when it cradled you, and it contorted to the essence of his grin.

Would it have been different, had you never said anything all that time ago, and instead chose to keep those feelings in a bottle, only to be uncorked should Seungmin, himself, had fallen first and told you so? Maybe you could have kept that bottle of spirits in the most hidden parts of you, and, on nights when your yearning sharpened to the point of a knife, drank from them — an alcohol of illusion — just enough to get by? Maybe he would have found the bottle, and smashed it to ruin, or maybe he would have loosen it and get the both of you drunk off your own delight.

You would have liked it, perhaps, had he been the one to fall.

Maybe then he would stare at the innocence of snowfall and mix the feeling of it's melt with salty tears.

(ʇɹɐdɐ llɐɟ ǝʍ) sllɐɟ ʍous ǝɥʇ 'uıɐɓ∀

☄. *. ⋆

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[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

I would love to hear about any headcanons you have regarding the Wold, especially about the people/communities that exist there. What is their culture and livelihood like? What about the land/terrain itself?

I'm sure you've given it some thought since Widfara originates from there, so if you feel like writing about it some more, I'd love to pick your brain! :) Thank you in advance!

Aaah, thank you for asking about one of my favorite little corners of Rohan! As you say, Wídfara is from the Wold, and I love all things connected to Wíd! What follows is a mishmash of actual canon and my own canon-compliant additions…

The Wold has always been the most rural, least populated part of Rohan because: 1) The terrain is unforgiving – endless grasslands that offer little cover from frequent storms and winter winds; not many trees and no stone for building permanent shelter; and poor quality soil that can’t grow much other than the native grasses. 2) It’s in a dangerous neighborhood! It’s at the very edge of the kingdom, with the creepiness of Fangorn Forest next door and the Brown Lands just across the river. It was repeatedly invaded by Easterlings over the years, and, as Sauron rose to power again in the late 3rd Age, orc attacks became a huge problem and further drove people out of the plains and into the relative safety of the towns of the East-fold.

So there is (and always has been) a pretty small group of folks who can hack it out there. Most of them live the semi-nomadic lifestyle of herdsmen (for horses or cattle). They move with their herds as they graze, spending most of their nights sleeping in the open plains and only occasionally going back to the small encampments where they keep something akin to a permanent home. As a result, they’re renowned for their outdoorsmanship and (like Wíd!) are very in tune with the weather and the land. They also produce a disproportionate share of Rohan’s archers (like Wíd!), since wolves are a common problem around herds and arrows are a more effective weapon for that than the spears or swords most Rohirrim favor.

Folks in the Wold do have a reputation as the country bumpkins of Rohan. They don’t have any fine cities or big estates. They speak Rohirric with a heavy rural accent. They’re much more at ease in a tent or around an outdoor fire than they are in a fancy hall (see how it takes Wíd a year of living in Edoras before he can comfortably sleep in a bed!). Their food is simpler, and they don’t spend a ton of time on social niceties and etiquette. (For their part, they think the city folks are pretentious and couldn’t last a day in the plains.)

Despite their perceived lack of sophistication, there was a time when they were relatively prosperous, because it is widely agreed that the horses of the Wold are Rohan’s best, achieving a perfect combo of speed and endurance. There are ancient (by Rohan standards) horse breeding families who have been in the Wold for as long as Rohan has existed and maintain bloodlines in their herds that trace back to horses owned by Eorl himself. They fell on hard times starting in the reign of Théoden’s grandfather, who had the army begin supplying its own horses and, thus, deprived the herdsmen of a huge part of their normal income. But they refused to give up the vocation, and they persisted out in the plains, living in increasing poverty, until Éomer became king. His wife, looking through some of Théodred’s papers, found plans to revitalize the traditional breeders, and she put them into action. This eventually helped pull many of them (including Wíd’s family!) out of the direst straits.

Although folks in other parts of Rohan might look down on the residents of the Wold for being poor or unsophisticated, there is a lot of reverence for the land itself. It has a desolate beauty that’s admired, and it holds a special place in Rohirrim history. It borders the Field of Celebrant, where Eorl came to the aid of Gondor and was rewarded with Rohan itself, and the Wold was the scene of many historical battles, including the one where Eorl was killed. If you rode around in the Wold, you’d frequently come across little cairns meant to mark the site of these important events (though you’d have to be able to decipher the pictograms to know what they are marking), and, in some areas, you don’t have to dig very deep before you come across mass burials and other physical remnants of these old battles.

That’s probably more than anyone wanted. But, all in all, I think it’s a neat place, and it produced one of my all-time favorite Rohirrim. We are Wold-positive on this blog! 🙂 Thank you for asking about it! 🐎🗡️♥️

[the-nebula-sys]

Well, the personal era is over now. Now it's time for a somewhat more permanent era, the era of the Hexaflame. Because I, am many. There are six people in the brain. That number could change. This is a bio for all of them. Update: there are eleven

So hi, I'm the same ol' Ellie as the one who made this blog. I am an autistic, aegosexual, cupioromantic tgirl. Please use she/her pronouns for me. My hobbies are worldbuilding, and learning about stuff. I also really, really like the Outer Wilds. You should play it. Right now. Here's my AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehAspyfics. If there is no signature, assume that it's me that's posting.

Hello there! I'm Megan, and I'm only fronting to make my bio. I am a very big lesbian. I would also like you to use she/her when reffering to me, please. (Quick note from Sieben, her signature is a pride flag. If you see a 🏳️‍🌈, then that's Megan). Update: as of april 25th, Megan is now a little

Hi there tumblr. My name is Sieben. I'm a straight up boy, so I use he/him pronouns. Respect that. Update now that I know my sexuality. I am ace. Good day.. If I'm posting, then you should see a radio. 📻

Hello. My name is Void. Pleasure to meet you. I am an agender void being. I use any pronouns. I use 🖤. (Note from Alex: Void's sexuality is unknown.)

I am Alex. Welcome to my blog. My sexuality is unknown, yet I am having a feeling towards women. Please use he/him pronouns for me. I use a butcher knife for my signature. 🔪 I also came up with the signature system.

Ah, hello there young ones! You may call me the Grand Maestre. I go by anything with the vibe of masculinity. Pleasure to meet you. Also, you'll see this ⚕️when I post. If you need help, call for me.

(Umm, what is this thing called again? Tumblr? Okay, I got it) Hello there, Tumblr! I'm very pleased to meet you! My name is Agatha, princess of somewhere or other. Use she/her for me or you shall be executed. You know who I am, as I use a crown. Good day!-👑 (note from Void: Agatha is a fictive of Sapphia from High Class Homos. And she really fucking hates it. Please don't mention thag comic when she's around. Thanks)

Tumblr. I am Unit 6497. Call me Unit. I go by any pronouns. I use a robot to let you know who I am.🤖

Am Sammie. Am what you call little. No idea what "pronoun" is. Ummmmmmmmm... typing thingie is signature. Bye. (Update from Ellie, it's a 🧸)

(Here we go) Yeah hi, I'm Entrapta. Yeah, from the show. She-Ra is that good, okay? Ellie's brain rotted too much and now I exist. Okay? She/her for me, and I use a wrench-🔧

I'm Bob, the resident trauma-holder. Please use he/him when talking to me. 🐻 because I can't find anything

I do believe that this bio thing is finished. I mean, not neccesarily complete, just that we can't think of anything more to add right now. I hope to see you again soon, sincerely, ⚕️

[theteasnake]

The Silent/Stalker Trio

I've always thought Danny and Amanda would be close in some way and I've seen others throw Michael in. Doesn't help that all three are my mains and I love all three equally.

TW: mentions of self-harm

Danny was the one who started the trio first. He ended up stalking Michael for a while and the other didn't seem bothered by it. Amanda joined the fog a bit afterwards, with Danny constantly sneaking into the Game and she couldn't find a way to keep him away permanently, they became buddies pretty quickly.

The Game has become the hangout spot for all three, with Amanda taking residency there. Haddonfield is an occasional choice, but Amanda really doesn't like leaving her realm.

Danny often annoys Amanda, leading to her beating the shit out of him. They're basically annoying little brother and tired older sister without the familia relation.

Back when Amanda was alive, Scream and Halloween were movies, while with Danny it was just Halloween. Amanda has told Danny about how Scream is a parody of slasher films and he hates that he has to live with that fact.

While Amanda and Danny fight each other, Michael is usually sitting in the background, watching and sipping on a juice box.

When the three don't have trials lined up for a while, they'll have movie marathons. Danny always wants to watch crime documentaries while Amanda would rather watch plain horror movies. Michael doesn't care.

All three are usually maskless when they hang out together, especially since it's hard for the other killers to get into the Game without springing some trap.

Sleep isn't a necessity, but the killers do get exhaustion and fatigue from all the running around, especially the ones that are more human. The three sleep together in the same realm, almost always. Danny and Amanda start the cuddle pile with Michael joining in later.

Danny and Amanda are both very touch-starved and are very physically affectionate with each other, while Michael is indifferent to it, only joining in afterward.

Danny has tried to steal the reverse beartraps for his trials. He was not successful. And a few times, he has found himself a victim of said traps.

When Danny isn't around, Michael will just sit and watch Amanda tinker around with her traps.

Michael is often forced to wear clean and more comfortable clothes when in the Game, especially when 'night time' rolls around. Janitor clothes are not comfortable to cuddle against.

There's a special room in the Game for Danny to develop his photos. He'll often hang them up along the walls, and when Christmas comes, they're hung on the Christmas tree, much to Amanda's dismay.

If the fights get too physical, Michael tends to intervene, holding both of them by their hoods and apart from each other. The Entity forbids deaths outside of trials and gets annoyed when she has to heal one of the two after their fights.

Danny has to keep an eye on sharp objects and Amanda, often hiding them from her.

Amanda and Danny bond over trauma while Michael silently stands in the doorway before hesitantly joining in.

Michael doesn't have many feelings or thoughts in that head of his, but being around Amanda and Danny is the closest he'll get to feeling human. Both are very expressive and emotional that it makes up for his lack of.

Amanda has killed or almost killed Danny countless times, but Danny has yet to settle the score. Keyword: yet.

Danny will vent, rant, and fanboy to either one. Amanda usually socks him in the mouth if she's not in a good mood to listen to him, while Michael doesn't mind his excessive talking; it quiets his brain.

Michael doesn't partake in their aggressive love language, he thinks it's pointless and unnecessary. But he doesn't mind a good show as long as they don't break the Entity rules. (They both get scolded like children, and their luxury gets taken away until Danny kisses up to the Entity).

They all share one bedroom, multiple mattresses pulled from Haddonfield and thrown on the ground. Of course, Michael runs off to Haddonfield when he needs alone time, and Danny runs off to stalk other killers or the survivors at their camp when he's overwhelmed. Amanda just kicks them both out.

Michael is still learning how to control his strength; so far, it's gone from bone-crushing hugs to just bear hugs. Danny has been the victim to the majority of his rib-breaking embrace.

Amanda will curse Danny out but will hunt anyone down who does the same. Michael does the same but with Amanda, minus the cursing out. He thinks Danny deserves a bit of verbal abuse tho. Just a little bit.

There are rumors that Amanda and Danny are dating, but Danny isn't interested in romantic relations right now and Amanda has her eyes set on someone else. Doesn't stop their closeness tho. (Yes, they've kissed)

Michael is the main cook out of the three, which is surprising, but he has picked up on numerous skills while stalking others. Danny is banned from the kitchen after the poisoning incident.

Michael has attempted to drag Detective Tapp to the Game for Amanda but gets chewed out by the Entity each time. He doesn't care and still tries.

Danny has a scrapbook of pictures of the three of them and secret pictures he's taken of them.

Michael has gotten violent with them once. It was when Danny took a photo of him with the flash on. Danny still has a scar on his ribs from where Michael stabbed him.

[littlemisspascal]

Bitter Ends Turn Sweet in Time

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Female Reader

Word Count: 7k+

Summary: There’s not a single day in a whole year that isn’t bookmarked by a memory of him. And you, you remember all of them.

Rating: T

Warnings: Pokémon au (but not 100% true to canon, just elements + some characters), time skips in non-linear manner, fluff, angst, bittersweet ending, storms, language, Reader and Frankie are same age + grow up together, high school au ish(?), inspired by 500 Days of Summer + Song of Achilles' 'name one hero who was happy' scene + this quote by photographer David Alan Harvey:

"Don't shoot what it looks like. Shoot what it feels like."

- Reader has no official name and no physical traits described in detail. However, she is mentioned to have hair, a career, wear a dress (no description), and eat sandwiches

Author Note: I've been wanting to write a Pokémon au for a long, long, long time and I've also been wanting to write a non-linear fic for a long, long, long time as well so this is the result of both those wants combining forces *awkwardly throws it into the universe* It is what it is.

-- all moodboard photos found on pinterest

-- shinx, luxio, luxray // pikachu photo references

Special thanks to @beecastle for beta reading and encouraging me through my breakdowns 💜

Day 1,695

Luxray’s a silent wall of black and blue fur for your body to brace against as the sky bleeds a deep shade of orange, and you know he knows. Doesn’t even have to use his x-ray vision to confirm what’s etched into every line of your expression. Anguish—when it’s real and unbearable and deeply-rooted—is impossible to hide. Everyone who looks at you will know. 

Everyone except the one pair of brown eyes that’ll never look your way again.

“I’m such an idiot,” you say quietly, and it’s embarrassing how thick the lump of emotion is lodged in your throat. You wipe at your nose with your sleeve. “So damn stupid.”

Luxray lets out a low growl, chiding in nature, as if to say don’t talk shit about yourself. 

“He was never going to stay,” you continue, ignoring the vibration rattling your bones. “But I got my hopes up anyways. What we’ve accomplished these last few weeks together, I thought there was a chance…a slim one, you know? That maybe–maybe we could actually stick together this time.”

And you don’t realize you’re crying until Luxray’s twisting his head to nuzzle against your temple, encouraging you to bury your face into the thick fur along his chest and shoulders. With your eyes squeezed shut, you can almost block out the all-encompassing numbness emanating from the cavity your heart used to reside in.

“He’s gone…” you choke out through sobs, grabbing fistfuls of Luxray’s inky black mane. “And I think it’s permanent this time.”

Day 1

The first day of classes at Uva Academy is a whirlwind of meeting teachers, racing from one floor to the next against the clock, and making sure you never lose track of Shinx in the chaos of it all, but when the last bell finally rings, you feel no sting of regret about coming here. 

You split a sandwich with Shinx underneath a tree in the school courtyard, brain buzzing with the overload of information absorbed throughout the day. Maybe signing up for a full schedule of classes was a bit excessive, but unlike most of your fellow students who have some semblance of a plan for their futures your next steps are plagued with uncertainty. There are so many paths one can take with their Pokémon—the course of a Trainer, a Coordinator, a Professor, a Ranger, the list goes on and on—you don’t know which direction to take.

When you lock eyes with a boy with brown eyes across the yard, there’s nothing special about the moment. No sparks, no forgetting how to breathe. He’s just a boy with a Pikachu on his shoulder and a dimpled grin on his face.

“I saw you in Mr. Jacq’s class,” he says in lieu of a greeting when he draws closer, purple Academy tie loose and crooked around his neck. Recognition stirs in the back of your mind, a flash of dark brown curls towards the back of the room spotted before taking your seat at the front. 

Actually, now that you think about it…

“Weren’t you in Ms. Dendra’s class too?” you wonder, passing the last bite of sandwich to Shinx, his little body wiggling eagerly. “And Ms. Raifort’s…?”

“Yeah, I, uh, I don’t really know what I want to do yet.” He scuffs at the ground with his shoe, grin turning a bit crooked at the corner, strangely endearing in its awkwardness. “I figure life’s short, you know? Why not try as many things as you can when you have the chance?”

“Right,” you agree, finding yourself smiling back. “Nothing wrong with making memories.”

"I'm Frankie, by the way."

“Nice to meet you Frankie,” you say, shaking his hand. It’s warm in your grip, firm and secure, thumb grazing over your knuckles. “Looks like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

And so it starts after that—the counting of days. Days when you see him in class, when he smiles at you, when he does homework with you in the library, when he and Pikachu have a battle against you and Shinx–winner buys lunch. It’s a subconscious quirk you keep to yourself. Even after he’s gone, chasing after legends to the far corners of the earth, you still continue counting days.

Days when he crosses your mind. Days when you leave the door unlocked in case he stops by. Days when you swear you catch a whiff of his citrus shampoo on the pillowcase despite the impossibility of it.

There’s not a single day in a whole year that isn’t bookmarked by a memory of him. And you, you remember all of them.

Day 183

“I want my name in one of these books,” he tells you, Ms. Raifort’s assigned reading on the lost explorers of Area Zero spread out in front of him.

You look up from the text, fatalities and disaster and other sharp words with teeth still swimming in your head. “It won’t be easy.”

You’ve only known him six months—long enough to be certain you’ll never meet anyone else like him, but too short to realize the hidden depths of his stubborn ambition.

“No,” he agrees, mouth curling up at the corner, “but it’ll be one hell of a story.”

Day 8

The air is heavy with the sharp, pungent scent of ozone as thunder rumbles overhead. You take in the ominous black clouds, adjusting the hood of your yellow coat to better defend your hair against the pattering raindrops. Doesn’t do much to ward off the chill of the wind though.

Shinx is darting about the meadow in zigzagging lines, wet to the bone and having a blast. Pikachu follows at his heels, electricity sparking from the red circles of her cheeks before fizzling out harmlessly. If there’s any rules to this game they’re playing, you haven’t a clue. Still, their obvious excitement over the weather has you smiling despite the numbness of your toes in soggy shoes.

To your left, Frankie watches the pair of Pokémon nimbly leap over a puddle, studying their graceful movements. His dark hair is flattened against his head, curls beaten into submission, but there’s something in his eyes, a sort of wistfulness that snags your attention like a moth to a flame. 

A bolt of lightning burns a gleaming white strip across the gloomy sky, halting Shinx and Pikachu’s play as they elicit squeaks of awe, but you can’t stop looking at Frankie. He’s grinning now, a wide and ecstatic thing with his head tipped back, rain streaming down his face.

“Amazing, isn’t it? Seeing one of nature’s tantrums,” he says, voice low and wonderstruck. “My mother always said it takes someone extra special to train those who can summon such raw, uncontrollable power on cue.”

You’ve never thought of yourself as someone unusual or remarkable. Looking at him though, soaked and shivering and absolutely beaming, you think if anyone’s extra special in this world it’s him.

Day 1,987

It’s a long time before you can look through photos of him without a wound violently tearing open in your chest. Longer still before you can hear his voice on the phone. He calls more often these days, mostly because you’re knee-deep in another mystery and only a little because he misses you, and that’s okay. You can smile at his jokes and it feels real. You can love him and know better than to be in love with him.

You stay busy. You photograph every inch of the nature park on Florio, even convince Professor Mirror to let you take the NEO-ONE to some of Lental’s other islands for further research. You spend hours clicking through photos on your computer, frowning at blurry ones, printing some out for the Professor to take a closer look at as well as a few for your own personal collection of albums. 

Your coworker isn’t an intimidating figure by any means, but something about watching him study and scrutinize your pictures never fails to make your hands shake and feet shuffle. Even after all these months, practically living inside each other’s pockets at the Laboratory of Ecology and Natural Sciences (or L.E.N.S. as the Professor affectionately calls it), studying the Illumina phenomenon and all its effects, there’s a part of you still terrified it could all come crashing down.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Professor Mirror tells you, glaring disapprovingly over the frames of his glasses. It’s not the first time you’ve heard that remark and it won’t be the last either. 

“More analyzing the photos and less analyzing me please,” you reply, nodding your head at the small stack in his hands.

He grumbles under his breath, but resumes evaluating the latest shots of your walk along Blushing Beach. There are Wingulls performing loops in the air, an Exeggutor snoozing beneath a palm tree, the splashings of a pair of Corsola playing in the waves. Luxray looking at the contents of a tide pool. A Pikachu eating a fluffruit after you’d scared her by your loud gasp, mistaking her for another of her kind. You don’t mention that tidbit to your coworker though.

That should be the last one, except then Professor Mirror’s letting out a surprised little hum, holding up a photo you never intended anyone else to ever see. Not even the subject. Especially not the subject.

It’s from your sophomore year at Uva Academy. You would call the picture ugly, edges a bit hazy due to your unsteady hands, still learning the tips and tricks of photography, except it’s Frankie. And he’s looking at you behind the lens with a fondness so sweet it makes your teeth hurt, holding a newly evolved Luxio to his chest, with windswept curls your fingers will always long to tame. 

You should’ve thrown it out a long time ago. The man in the photo isn’t the same man who will call you later tonight from half a world away just to ask how your day went and if you’re willing to admit you need his help with the Illumina project. But you’ve always been too sentimental for your own good, holding onto things until there are only scraps left, slipping through the gaps of your fingers. 

At the very least, you shouldn’t have reorganized your albums so close to your work station.

After what feels like the longest stretch of silence of your life, Professor Mirror finally says, carefully neutral as if wary of provoking a negative reaction, “Someone special, I presume?”

“It’s complicated,” is all you offer in response, snatching the picture back and telling yourself the ache behind your ribcage is a side effect of a papercut.

Day 389

Uva Academy teaches you battle strategies, the effects of Berries and how to better understand your Pokémon amongst other vital lessons to prepare students for a career outside the ancient brick walls and dorm rooms. 

It’s Frankie who teaches you how to find beauty in thunderstorms, how to enjoy each day like it’s your last, how to dream a little bit bigger, a little bit bolder—or maybe that’s something you teach each other. 

On the weekends you head into the city center together, trying different eateries and watching fellow students challenge each other on the plaza battle court. Afterwards you’ll walk along the cobblestone streets side by side, sometimes discussing classwork or pointing out items in shop windows, but usually the time is spent in companionable silence. Just sharing the same space.

You buy your first camera acting on pure impulse, drawn to it inexplicably and handing over money to the salesman in a matter of minutes. It fits in the palm of your hand, heavy and solid, buttons and knobs staring back at you, waiting to be pressed and manipulated. For the first ten or so minutes of ownership, you simply hold onto the device, studying its shape, its lens, fingertips running over the bumps and grooves.

“Well?” Frankie prompts, gentle voice breaking the silence, brown eyes flicking between your face and the camera. Pikachu echoes the question with a tiny pika?, sensing the fragility of the moment. 

“I don’t know what to do,” you answer, shoulders curling with self-consciousness. At your feet, Shinx sits on your shoe and rubs his cheek against your leg comfortingly.

“Well,” he hums, a teasing smile growing on his lips as he presses a button. “Maybe start with turning it on first.”

“Shut up.” You swat at him, but there’s no real heat. “I meant, I don’t know what to take a photo of.”

“It doesn’t matter what the sight is,” Frankie tells you, grabbing hold of your hands and raising them up until the camera’s in front of your face. He steps back and you peek at him through the viewfinder, watching as he spreads his arms out wide with Pikachu still happily perched on his shoulder. “What’s important is how it makes you feel.”

You take a breath, taking a moment to hold the shutter button until it focuses, and then take the photo. No count down, no say cheese!—you simply heed his advice, focusing on how it makes you feel.

The preview screen asks if you’d like to keep the picture or delete it. Your thumb hovers over the buttons.

Focused on the way Frankie’s hair has a golden aura in the light, how Pikachu’s nose scrunches when she’s grinning, you nearly jump out of your skin when he’s suddenly at your side again, wondering, “What do I make you feel, shutterbug?”

Like I’m falling and flying at the same time, you think, quick and startling. A bolt of lightning amongst storm clouds.

You press save.

“Like spending a hundred bucks wasn’t a total mistake.”

Day 448

You take a seat in the cafeteria across from Yovanna and her Sylveon. You’re lucky she shares the same lunch hour as you. Even more lucky she likes you enough to also share her space. Her knack for securing a table each day despite the scrambling rush of hungry students is a gift from the gods. Or maybe it’s a perk of being the president of the Academy’s student council.

“You haven’t stopped smiling for days.” She points with her fork at your grin, a giddy, bubbly thing not even Ms. Tyme’s pop quiz last period could stifle. “Spill it. Who’re you crushing on? Is he a student here? You got a picture?”

“Not with me.” It’s a lie, ever since you bought your camera it’s been glued to your person and there’s always at least one picture of him stored within the device’s gallery of Luxio shots and library aesthetic and other things that make you happy. “He is a student here though.”

Yovanna drops her fork onto her plate, jostling the pieces of fruit waiting to be eaten. Sylveon catches a flying strawberry midair by jumping in her seat and landing neatly on four paws like it’s a regular trick to perform. “Shut up. It’s him, isn’t it?”

You feed Luxio a pickle off your sandwich, neither confirming nor denying.

But your grin does get a little bit impossibly wider.

“Aw man, I owe Santi twenty bucks now.”

Your eyes narrow shrewdly. “Did you seriously make a bet?”

“You two are joined at the hip, of course I did.” Yovanna leans back in her chair, arms behind her head, not a single hint of shame for her actions. “Santi said you’d realize you had feelings for him before winter break. I thought it’d take you until the end of the semester ‘cause you’ve got the self-awareness of a piece of concrete most days.”

“Rude.” She dodges the crumpled napkin you toss at her with a laugh.

“Hey, this is a good development. Now you just gotta keep the momentum going and tell him how you feel. You’re perfect for each other.”

Tucking back into her meal, she misses the brief slip in your smile.

“Yeah.”

Day 8

Ms. Dendra is the only teacher without a classroom, preferring to use the battlefield in the middle of the courtyard for her lessons rather than a whiteboard. She weaves along the line of students with her Medicham, offering suggestions and correcting forms to make the most out of their Pokémons’ moves. You keep one eye on her drawing steadily closer and one on Shinx pawing at the ground, charging up electricity in his forelegs. He still hasn’t mastered thunder shock yet, maybe Ms. Dendra can–

“Storm’s coming tonight,” a voice drawls behind you, a curious blend of casual and enthusiastic.

You turn around, finding Frankie standing there looking up at the sky. The dark gray clouds do seem indicative of bad weather, now that he’s mentioned it. Rain is definitely on its way. 

And then he asks, a little sudden, “You ever seen one up close?”

A strange question. Still, you think about it, searching your childhood. All you remember are memories of cowering under the blankets in your bed and playing in puddles the next morning when the monstrous rumbling and harsh flashes had long passed. You’ve seen rain up close, felt the drops on your skin, inhaled the scent of petrichor deep into your lungs. But storms? 

“No,” you shake your head, shivering as the temperature seems to drop. “Never.”

He hums, a bland note that could mean anything. At your feet, Shinx and Pikachu sit and stare at each other, little sparks of blue and yellow static crackling in the air between them like morse code. 

“No wonder you’re having trouble with your partner. Can’t teach him about electricity when you’ve never seen it in action.”

“That’s not how training works,” you retort defensively. “Also storms aren’t exactly harmless, in case you forgot. They’re loud and dangerous and—”

“Beautiful,” Frankie cuts in with such firm conviction you reel back in surprise. “Absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful.” A pause follows, and you hate the smirk that grows on his face, how it taunts you, how it makes his eyes glitter with mischief. “Or maybe not. I could be lying. Only one way to find out for sure.” 

A raindrop lands on your cheek. Then another on your arm. And another on your nose. It’s pouring now. Students are complaining about their lesson being interrupted and Ms. Dendra’s shouting for everyone to head back inside. Through it all your eyes remain locked in an intense staring match, neither one willing to surrender.

“Fine,” you reply with a sharp jerk of your chin. “Show me.”

Day 1,448

Your internship with Professor Oak is—good. It’s the start of a brand new chapter in your life, except the last chapter ended on a terrible note and the upcoming pages are terrifyingly blank if you fail to impress your new boss, so. Yeah.

You get along with the Professor’s other intern, a local boy named Will. He teaches you how to drive the ZERO-ONE around the sanctuary. You spend hours out on the trails, memorizing everything about the wild Pokémon who call the island home. You enjoy the assignments Professor Oak gives you, staying busy, filling up albums with photos and journals with research notes. 

But when it’s quiet, when you’re staring up at the ceiling waiting for sleep to come…you’ve never felt more lonely in your life. Even with Luxray within reach, loyal and constant, there’s a persistent ache you can’t shake. A loose thread dangling in your mind, tormenting you, and you know if you were to tug on it exactly where it would lead.

Everything leads back to him.

Frankie hasn’t tried to call you. Hasn’t had any contact with you since graduation. Not even a postcard from whatever corner of the world he’s trying to accomplish his dreams. 

You haven’t tried to call him either. And yes, it’s true communication is a two-way street, but he’s the one who left and took your heart with him. Why should you give him more of yourself? You hate yourself for even contemplating picking up the phone.

You hate yourself even more for wondering what your relationship would’ve been like if you’d gone with him. If it’d hurt less to just have stayed friends. If you’d been better off never knowing him at all. If, if, if…

Day 485

The problem is, you think your feelings for Frankie are just a little bit stronger than a crush. You’re pretty sure you’re in love with him. Or at least halfway there. 

As much as you hate to admit it, Yovanna wasn’t wrong saying you have the self-awareness of a piece of cement. You don’t know for certain if the fluttery Butterfree sensation in your stomach or galloping heartbeat whenever Frankie smiles at you is love. But you are certain he’s gotten under your skin, triggering as many irritations as he is encouraging new ways of growth. You’re a better person, you think, simply by knowing him.

You also think it’s actually kind of scary to imagine something so strong and life-transforming could be anything else but love. Regardless, you hope it stays with you forever. This precious, nameless thing.

It won’t be until many days later—until you know what it’s like to kiss him, and hold his face between your palms, the heat of his breath tingling against your skin; until he’s fluent in myths and legends and fables, swearing he’ll be the one to make them truths and facts and verities; until you can’t picture a future without him in it, not a happy one, at least—you’ll realize you do love him. And he loves you, too, as it turns out.

But nothing lasts forever. Someone’s always got to be the first to let go. 

Day 1,375

You receive an offer for an internship with Professor Oak in Pallet Town to help him complete his Pokémon Report by taking photos on a nearby island sanctuary. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime to work with such an esteemed researcher, but thinking about graduation creeping up, about leaving behind this realm of familiarity now that you’ve learned everything Uva Academy has to teach, it’s—moving forward is harder than you anticipate.

It doesn’t help that Frankie's becoming more and more restless, unable to stand still as if it physically pains him to do so. No matter how many walks around the city, how many storms chased after, he’s always looking out towards the horizon, aura so thick with discontentment it’s as if he’s physically cloaked in it. 

Lately the only moments he seems to settle within his own skin are when he’s talking with Ms. Raifort, discussing ancient prophecies and ruins scattered around the globe. You don’t understand it, his passionate fascination–no, obsession with mythology. Why not let sleeping dogs lie? 

Frankie won’t talk to you about the future, evading the topic like a cunning Nickit. Still you cling to his hand, to hope, to the belief love conquers all, until the morning of graduation he comes to your dorm room and stares over your shoulder rather than meet your gaze. Even Pikachu hides her face in his curls, ears lowered despondently.

You let him in, the beginnings of dread stirring in your stomach, sensing whatever he’s got to say will have irreparable consequences.

“Did you have breakfast yet?” You gesture towards the kitchen, an unspoken can this wait? laced within the question.

“Not feeling very hungry today,” he answers, glancing about the room aimlessly. No, it can’t.

“That’s a first.” You take a seat on the sofa next to Luxray, grounding yourself by stroking a hand along his back. “You gonna tell me what’s on your mind or are you gonna make me guess?”

At that, Frankie finally turns to you, and his torn expression fractures something delicate inside of you, coldness flooding your lungs.

“I’ve been thinking. About us.”

“What about us?”

“I love you.” There’s no sweetness to the words. No tenderness. They are words of blood, of pain, scraping against his throat on their way out. “I’ve loved you from day one and I’ll love you ten thousand more. But what I want, what you want—it’s not the same thing. And it’s only going to hurt the longer we keep pretending otherwise.”

“Stop, please don’t—” your voice cracks, the cold gripping your heart now. Please don’t say it. Please don’t do this. “We’re—we’re good together. You know we are.”

“We were,” he amends, voice so unbearably gentle it’s a jagged blade against your soul. “We were so good. But we’re not ready for what comes next. We’ve become thunder and lightning, one ahead of the other. Our timing is off, shutterbug.”

Day 765

It’s drizzling a little when you return to campus. You shiver in your wet dress, grimacing as you accidentally step in a puddle, thoroughly soaking your flats and bare feet. Hopefully you won’t slip on the stairs and break your neck. That’d be the cherry on top of this disappointing evening.

You just want to shower, put on your comfiest pajamas, and fall asleep as fast as possible. 

Except when you reach your floor there’s a figure curled up on the floor outside your door, fast asleep with a snoring Pikachu curled on his chest.

“Hey, sleeping beauty.” You nudge at Frankie’s knee with your wet shoe, raising an eyebrow at him as he jerks awake, blinking rapidly. “What’re you doing here?”

“Oh, you’re back,” he says through a yawn, stretching his arms over his head. Pikachu grunts, displeased at the movement and sounds, and stubbornly curls into a tighter ball, forcing him to cradle her in the nook of his arm as he stands up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I just–I wanted to make sure you got back from your date okay. How did it go?”

Your date, Tom, is in Mr. Hassel’s art class with you. He invited you to see a new photography exhibit at the city’s museum. He was nice, if a little overzealous, and seeing lovely displays of art  seemed like a better way to spend the evening instead of once again hopelessly pining over your best friend. So, you’d said yes, changed into a nice dress, and swore off any and all yearning.

Except that’s exactly what you ended up doing anyways. 

Every time a photo left you breathless, you’d instinctively turn to look for brown eyes that weren’t there. Every joke Tom made you’d compare it to one of Frankie’s. Throughout the entire evening, you couldn’t stop your thoughts drifting back towards the Academy, wondering what he was doing.

You weren’t surprised Tom cut the date short, correctly sensing your heart just wasn’t into it. Still stung a bit though watching him leave you behind to join up with some other classmates hanging out in the plaza.

“Poorly,” you answer with a slight grimace.

“Oh.” Frankie blinks, looking at a loss for additional words. He’s wearing the hoodie he got from his trip to Montenevera over the holiday break and sweatpants, warm and rumpled and cozy, a complete contrast to your entire wardrobe. “Did he–did he hurt you? Because if he did anything inappropriate, I swear–”

“What? No, no, nothing like that happened.” You shake your head, ignoring the flutter of your heartbeat, touched at his protectiveness. He’s still staring at you, and you know he’s not going to let this slide under the rug. “Relax, tough guy. Tom was fine. I was the problem.”

“Tauros shit,” he immediately rejects the notion. “You could never be a problem.”

The hallway feels too hot all of the sudden despite the icy raindrops still clinging to your skin. “That’s sweet,” you say, trying to flash a grin except the muscles in your face refuse to cooperate. It feels stiff. Forced. “You say that to all the girls?”

His mouth tugs upwards into a smile, dimpled and boyish. “Once or twice,” he says, “but I only mean it with you.”

It’s dangerous and stupid to get your hopes up, but there’s something about the quietness, something about his brown eyes and his nearness, that makes you take a leap of faith. Makes you think screw it and reach for his free hand, lacing your fingers together.

“I was the problem,” you tell him softly, watching his expression sober, “because I kept looking for you.”

Silence follows, interrupted by a quiet snore from Pikachu. 

Then, just as softly, Frankie says for a second time, “Oh.”

You swallow, feeling like you can’t breathe. “Yeah.”

“Silly girl, you didn’t need to look.” He squeezes your hand, leans in just enough to bump his nose against yours. “I’ve always been here.”

Day 1,375

Later, you won’t remember the particulars of how the rest of the conversation played out. There are words, so many words. Angry and inconsolable, spat out through clenched teeth and pleaded with numb lips. Tears, too. So many damn tears it’s a wonder you don’t drown yourself.

You will remember how he looks at you though. Brown eyes deep and golden, reflecting the morning light streaming through the window. He’s beautiful, and you think that’s the final straw of it all, the definitive proof that even as he’s ripping out your heart you will never feel anything less for him than love. 

No passage of time or miles of distance will ever change that. You know this like you know the sun will rise tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after that. 

Still, this certainty doesn’t stitch up the gaping, bleeding hole in your sternum.

No, that self-healing won’t begin until many, many days later.

Day 610 

In another life, if you hadn’t discovered your love of photography, you think you would have been a great astronomer. You know each of the constellations’ names, the best times during the year to spot them, even the tales assigned to them.

Tonight, the night sky is full of stars in every direction you look, not even the distant city lights strong enough to overpower their shine. You lie on your back in the soft meadow grass, hands resting on your stomach, the scent of wildflowers as thick in the air as the fireflies Luxio and Pikachu chase after. To your left, he mimics your pose, except he’s got an arm pillowed under his head, silent except for his breathing.

“There’s Kingler, cursed to hold up his heavy claw for eternity,” you say eventually, raising a hand to trace the starry outline with your fingertip. “Cubone’s next to him, forever mourning his mother.”

He remains silent. You turn your head to look at him, discovering he is deeply absorbed in his thoughts. Physically, you could easily reach out for his hand, but the blankness in his eyes suggests internally he’s half a world away. Somewhere you can’t follow. An irrational spark of jealousy burns hot in your veins, upset your presence isn’t enough of an anchor to keep him locked in the present moment.

You emit a quiet sigh, mentally rolling your eyes at your own childishness, and start to turn back to the sky when his voice catches you off guard, asking, “You ever notice they’re all tragedies?”

“Huh?”

“The myths behind the constellations.” He looks at you then, eyes dim with an emotion you can’t recognize. “Can you name one with a happy ending?”

You think about Pinsir, exiled due to his uncontrollable rage; Koffing, releasing toxic gases as he dies; Dugtrio, punished by an angry Groudon for gouging too many holes in the earth. The list grows longer, the tales grow sadder.

“No,” you say at last. “I guess not.”

He shrugs a shoulder, like it’s nothing, like his next words aren’t going to hurt something fierce. “That’s because happy endings are the biggest myth of all.”

Day 1,375

He kisses you. It is perfect and excruciating all at once. His hand is cupping your cheek, and his touch is so tender and intimately familiar you can’t stop yourself from indulging and it’s cruel of him to leave you like this. Shattered and wanting. Falling and flying.

But when Frankie’s right, he’s right.

This split in your paths has been a long time coming. You’d just refused to read the writing on the wall, content to keep counting the days, pretending the number would stretch on into infinity.

Infinity is just another word for forever though.

And there’s truth in that old saying: when you love someone—

“I love you,” he says again at the door. His eyes drift over your face, as if memorizing every detail. “And I’m proud of you. Remember that.” There’s the briefest of glimpses of tears in his eyes before he’s wrapping you in a hug, so tight your ribs painfully protest. You savor every second of it. “This isn’t the last of us. We’ll meet again, I swear it. One day, shutterbug.”

—you let them go.

Day 1,669

You’ve been dreading his arrival, dreading how he might look at you. What might be different. What, if anything, might be the same. 

All communication thus far has been directly with Professor Oak. You haven’t heard a single peep even though your number’s stayed the same. Even though you know he knows you’re here. 

Luxray stays close as the hour draws closer, trying to soothe your nervous energy. You stroke his mane, eyes flicking between your computer, the window, and then back again. The cursor blinks on the screen, waiting for you to finish adding the last details to the report you’ve been developing on the Pokémon signs you and Will discovered. Bizarre occurrences where the environment manifests the likeness of specific Pokémon—always the same ones in the same places. But why they existed and what they meant remained unsolved mysteries robbing you of sleep.

It had been the Professor's idea to invite another set of eyes to examine the clues after months of no solid progress. For every one step made forward it felt like the universe would shove you five steps backwards, the hidden connection remaining just out of your reach.

If you had known Professor Oak and Ms. Raifort were old friends, that she would’ve recommended her favorite pupil…well, you’re not sure if anything would’ve really changed. What fate wants, fate gets one way or another.

Frankie arrives at eventide, bringing the warmth of the fading sun into the lab with him. He looks…unchanged. Maybe a little broader, thicker with muscle from his journeys. But still familiar in all the ways that matter. You wonder if the same can be said for yourself. 

He’s looking at you, and it’s—it’s less painful than you expected. No tight band wrapped around your middle, no spontaneous bursting of tears. He’s just a man with a Pikachu on his shoulder and a dimpled grin on his face.

“Hey shutterbug,” he says, and it feels abruptly like slow motion, like you’re watching through someone else’s eyes as he comes closer, closer, closer and pulls you into a tight embrace. His arms are just as strong as you remember them, memories of graduation screaming in the back of your mind and you’re in your dorm room again watching him walk out of your life with your heart in tow.

You want to…

(kiss him, hit him, hold him, scream at him)

You want too many things.

“Hey,” you echo lamely as he pulls back. If Frankie hears the faintest of quivers in your voice, he thankfully doesn’t show a sign of it. You shoot a small grin at Pikachu, mouth stretching wider when she returns it with a cheerful pika pi, waving her paw. “Ready to help solve a mystery?”

“I always wanted to make history.” He’s smirking that same damn smirk, an intense pang of nostalgia striking you. Your fingers twitch, wishing you had your camera. “But I think it’s better this way, yeah?”

“What way?”

Distantly, you’re aware of Professor Oak and Will watching the conversation ping-ponging back and forth, both smart enough to pick up on the unspoken something between you and Frankie. 

“Making history together,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “We make a good team, you and I.”

The words bounce around inside your head for a moment. A good team. Is that all we are? is what you want to ask, but the answer’s a double-edged sword shoved between your ribs no matter how he phrases it. 

So you swallow the question down and bury it. 

“C’mon,” you gesture towards your computer, “I’ll show you what we’ve got so far.”

Day 128

Winter sweeps in, all frigid winds and frosted windows. Together you stay at the Academy during the holiday break. It’s days of no homework, snowball fights, and parka coats. Nights spent by the fireplace, hot chocolates topped with whipped cream, wishing you could bottle these memories in a jar and keep them on a shelf.

If Frankie knew about it, he would say Jirachi heard your wish, but it’s your opinion that fate’s just got a funny sense of humor. Either way, a few years down the line you’ll have the collection of memories you desired, almost all of them starring him. They won’t be kept in fragile jars, but in captured photographs unaffected by the withering flow of time. Little glimpses of a happy life, and how much you've lost.

Day 2,000 

You kiss Frankie on the front deck of the L.E.N.S. the night before he’s scheduled to leave. It’s stupid and impulsive, but he’s just right there in front of you, bathed in starlight and high off the elation that comes with solving another Pokémon mystery, further securing his place amongst the pages of historic exploration, a legend in his own lifetime, and there’s no thoughts in your head so—you kiss him. 

It isn’t your first kiss, but it feels like something new. He’s got stubble now, you’re wearing a lab coat—little details of proof you’re far from the kids you used to be. He smells the same though, like coffee and evergreens and fresh rain. The quiet, awed exhale of your name, like you’re something wonderful, something mythical come true, is the same too. 

And for the briefest of moments, you can almost imagine you’re together again.

But in the end it’s just a kiss, not a time machine. 

Day 1,762

“For someone with a new career, you don’t look very excited,” Will says, knocking his shoulder against yours good-naturedly. You try to summon up a smile, but it isn’t fooling anyone.

Professor Oak’s treating you both to a fancy dinner at a restaurant you can’t pronounce the name of, celebrating the news of your new job as an official field research photographer working alongside Professor Mirror in Florio. It’s an amazing step forward, resulting from the success of the Rainbow Cloud discovery with Frankie, certain to give your name another added boost of recognition in the photography community. 

“I am,” you say, remembering how you’d nearly passed out when you received the offer. Another attempt at a grin yields better results. “It’s gonna be great.”

Will tilts his head, a knowing look in his eyes. “You’re thinking about him. Again.”

“Not intentionally.” Your lips curl into a rueful grimace, fingers twisting together in your lap. “He just…never leaves my thoughts.”

Frankie told you before he left he didn’t have a home, not anymore, too much of a restless spirit to stay in one place. You wonder if his answer would be different, if he knew it’s been 1,762 days and every one of them he’s spent occupying your head.

“Even when he’s gone and left you behind?” From anyone else, the question would’ve been harsh, but your friend’s eyes are kind, full of empathy. 

There’s a second where you contemplate lying, but you can’t. Not to him, and not to yourself.

“Especially then.”

Day 2,000

“Sorry.” It comes out of your mouth stilted—not because you don’t mean it, but because your heart’s beating like a thunderstorm. A wildness you haven’t felt in years.

“I’ve never needed an apology from you.” Frankie looks at you softly, the brown of his eyes getting lost in the dark. “Two thousand. Can you believe it? Seems like just yesterday I watched you walk into class.”

You forget sometimes that he’s the sentimental type too when it comes to those he cares about. It’s why he doesn’t give Pikachu a Thunderstone, and why he only knows how to play one song on a guitar, his mother’s favorite. How sweet it is, to learn he must care about you to keep count, maybe even love you a little bit still.

“Frankie,” you start, dropping your forehead onto his shoulder. His nearness is a comfort as much as it is a distraction, but this conversation is long overdue by hundreds of days. “What are we?”

“You tell me.” A hand comes to rest on your waist, a searing brand through the fabric of your clothes. “What do you want us to be?”

You think about the question for a long moment, wondering what words pack enough meaning to give the answer it deserves.

What you want is another storm to chase, another constellation to trace. What you want is for your hands to brush during walks, never having to hear his voice on the end of a phone again because he’s right there by your side. What you want is everything that once was to align in perfect harmony with the immediate now.

“I want us to be together.”

“We are.”

“No, we’re not,” you murmur, staring down at the mud stains on his boots. 

“Listen, shutterbug,” his hands move to your head, one tilting up your chin and the other gently palming your neck, forcing you to meet his gaze, “a lot can happen in two thousand days–”

“I know, I know.”

His fingers spasm, like he’s resisting the urge to tug on your hair, eyes sharpening at the interruption. “A lot can happen in two thousand days,” he repeats, and you hear it this time, the heavy weight in his tone. Rarely is he this serious. “We’ve changed, we’ve grown, we’ve been on opposite ends of the earth from each other. But tonight, of all places, I’m here and you’re here.”

And maybe it really is that simple. People say lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, but twice now you’ve watched him go and twice he’s been brought back to you. 

You reach up, wrapping your hands around his wrists, holding him there. “Do you think we’ll ever be what we were?”

“No.” He steps impossibly closer, lips brushing against your forehead. “I think one day we’ll be better.”

Better, you mouth the word. It feels like a promise, like a turning point. 

“Yeah, one day,” you agree, heartbeat steadying, matching the rhythm of his beneath your fingertips. “It’ll be worth the wait.”

[nightmaretour]

When I move out of my parents house (they support me heavily with a lot of functional skills due to a brain injury too) I'm looking at moving into assistive housing and I think it's what you mean in your pinned post?

The idea of it scares me and I was wondering if you'd be comfortable sharing what it's actually like because all I can imagine is that it's like a hospital ward

I live in a building that has a mix of people who can live with only a little bit of assistance and people who need full time care so the experience is a little different than fully assistive housing (this place comes under sheltered housing) so I can only offer a little insight into what a place with full assistance all the time would be like if that's what you mean, unfortunately.

I can say that it feels extremely secure to know that you have help available at all times if something happens. They give you a little buzzer that you can put on a bracelet strap, wear as a pendant or attach to clothing (usually it has a choice of attachments) as well as the pull cords around the place, it's not very stylish but it's reassuring that you can call for help no matter where you are, as long as you remember to wear it. If you have to press it or pull a buzzer the people who answer tend to be really nice and really helpful. You WILL accidentally pull the cords occasionally, but the people who answer are used to it so it's not embarrassing.

I only get assistance for keeping everything clean, doing laundry, changing my bed, etc. aside from the pull cords (although I would definitely benefit from more than that) and the rest is still done by family members, so I can't say what it's like to have full time care, but I do know to a lesser degree that having a stranger come into your home and kinda invade your privacy does feel weird and uncomfortable at first. However as you build trust in that person it feels more and more comfortable, until it just feels natural that they're waking around your home and touching your belongings. Some of the carers walking about are rude occasionally, (including the ones that practically shout to each other in the corridors) but most are nice. Cleaning staff WILL put your belongings away in places that you can't fathom the thought process behind fairly often, though.

It really doesn't feel like a hospital honestly, even with all of the nurses and care staff around. Most places for more permanent residence allow you to paint your walls, add your own carpet, etc. as well as furnishing it yourself, so it really feels more like a home than something cold and clinical. The one I live in is really nice, they're all designed to be wheelchair accessible so they're very spacious. There's a garden area out back shared by the whole building which is really nice and a great place to hang out in the summer, most places have one. There's also a big lobby with lots of seating where we can have events (you can even make your own if you let the staff know!) and it also has a TV and a selection of DVDs that people go there to watch, as well as lots of books, board games and a pool table. It's a pretty cool place to hang out actually, it's much more comfortable than what they show on TV. Definitely look around the options if possible to make sure that you get a place that suits your needs and everything has good standards and facilities.

Most of your neighbours will most likely be elderly, but there's a good sense of community, far more so than normal housing. You'll get to know them, and making friends with older people is actually pretty interesting. Here there tends to be weekly residential meetings, where everyone gathers to bring up any concerns and the coordinators tell us any news about the building, staff, etc. and drink tea/coffee, then everyone hangs out for a little while. I've heard that's pretty much standard in supported housing. It really helps build that sense of community, and you can make sure things get fixed and improved.

I think that's all I can offer now, I hope that helped make you a little less nervous even if I can't explain the places I think you're looking for. If you get the right place it can really feel like a nice home that's your own, and feels safe and secure. If you need full time care I'd suggest asking someone like @flowercrowncrip about it, because that's something I can't really tell you more about unfortunately.

[pencilofawesomeness]

They kept Leona’s hands mostly free so that they could throw Riddle at him. Still, he had to jerk on the manacle connecting him to a stake in the corner of that miserable tent just so that he could catch the kid and not let him hit the dirt first.

“Riddle? Riddle, do you hear me?”

He knew it was going to be bad. He didn’t trust them enough for it not to be. That didn’t mean he was prepared to see him with those half-lidded blank eyes, nearly dead to the world, blood coating his skin like the phlegm of a newborn, large red welts arced all across his back. Leona held him there, almost forgetting to breathe himself, his blood quickly covering his hands, but there was nothing he could do that would help in a way that mattered. He just…used a little healing magic. There was only so much he could do, without a stone and with too much blot accumulation already, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about the eyes of the guard staring at him, either.

From Chapter 6 of And You Think, “No Escape” by @therosefrontier

----

Rosebud’s fic has given me extreme brainrot so I turned around and drew this after the scene made permanent residence in my brain. It’s so good guys. I’m not okay /pos

Bad times for the boys in the Kidnapped Corner, for sure. Riddle’s scene broke my heart, and Leona trying his best to care for him swept all the pieces into a little pile. These two. These two. ;-;

[ace-robot-has-matcha]

Wow I’m so cool I’m gonna make an intro post now

You can call me A. What’s it short for? Nothing, that’s what. You can also call me Robot as a silly jokey joke

My pronounce are she her. I am the resident Token Cissy. I am aroace and a fictional woman liker. My friends sometimes wonder if I’m actually aroace with the way I talk about fictional women and I am I just think women and girls are CUTE, COOL AND HOT and I love them.

I have a million concepts for games, books and comics that I will probably never make because motivation is hard.

Things that permanently altered my brain

Doki Doki Lit Club

Hazbin helluva

Mtg

Undertale

Kindergarten games

Fnaf

Mlpfim

Steven universe

Usagi Yojimbo

Skullgirls

Dnd

Guardians of the galaxy

Dunmeshi

Slay the Princess

The following gave me a twisted sense of humor, a love of horror and other dark stuff, and a cartoony artstyle.

I draw and I write and make music but most of my posts are the little doodles I make all the time

Most of all I wanna make friends on here! My DMs are open, and I would love to chat!

Adbot, my little guy who is my icon for most things. I don’t share the same identity as him, other than my love of video games, cartoons, and tea.

[plegg-culture-is]

Fannish plegg carton culture, specifically protogenic-endogenic plegg culture that later finds itself to be full of permanent resident soulbonds is —

In very very early childhood:

*Projections literally playing H.O.R.S.E or whatever that basketball game is. Of course the main fronter never played, because they are too short.*

"Huh!! Well I mean those barbecue sauce was spicy before but it's 0.05 seconds later and I feel completely different as a person and also this barbecue sauce is no longer spicy. Oh well. The teacher called me a liar over barbecue sauce so I'm gonna be a shithead to them and have a meltdown"

In middle school:

"What would Gohan do if he was in this world???"

"What would Jayfeather do if he were in this world??"

"OMG. WHAT WOULD. IZAYA ORIHARA DO IF HE WAS IN THIS SITUATION JIST SOME MIDDLE SCHOOLER NOW"

*Has full-ass slow changing "see through my eyes" quasi-ceremonies based solely on vibes since we didn't have innerworld completely built yet*

*Chasing each other in hallways and all people saw was a small autistic child running for no reason lol*

"Why the fuck can I never feel my face when something horrible happens to us me? Also I relate too much to Silver from Pokémon HeartGold/SoulSilver"

In high school:

"Yep just Gon and Killua from Hunter×Hunter chillin' over there. Nobody can see 'em and these feel pretty distinct from hallucinations considering I can't literally see them. Eh. Maybe just imagination."

*Checking out a pro-endogenic blog in 2015* "Yup I am just a curious singlet"

*Still chasing ourselves through hallways just less or more hidden because people are stupid.* Why the fuck am I so angry all of the time. Why the fuck do I feel like there should be more to all of this.

"Hhhh Illumi Zoldyck from Hunter×Hunter patting my head is completely normal. So is pretending I am Ethan from Pokémon HeartGold/SoulSilver I'M NOT PRETENDING ThOUGH??? I DO NOT KNOW WHAT TO CALL THIS all I know is I am definitely Ethan, , not Ethan? And Illumi Zoldyck is petting my head and we are working at a McDonald's right now. What the fuck is happening" *Proceeds to ignore this and never tell anyone until we are today years old*

"My vitriol for Hisoka Morrow of Hunter×Hunter has three sides to it. I hate him and his canon. I have no clue how to explain the other two sides to this and I cannot stand my friend obsessing over this character" *Proceeds to also ignore this one too, and never tell anyone until we are today years old*

In university:

"Hey 30 year old Gladion idk if you're actually a figment of my imagination anymore but yeah sure your sister Lily and her daughter Mei can chill in here in this brain for awhile. Does this mean I'm genderfluid lol?" (Narrator: this is, in fact, NOT what genderfluidity is supposed to feel like.)

"Oh well I guess Itonai from Assassination Classroom is just decided to sleep in the bed tonight. Get the fuck off of my bed ya lazy bum. Noooo it's just wei — get back in our head you freak (//lovingly, platonic)"

*Just feeling fucking uncomfortable around sysmedicalists but especially the sysmedicalists who were anti-endogenic as well (yes there are pro-endogenic sysmeds!! Uhm but definitely not plural, nope)*

"I am now talking to these projections while brushing my teeth. Lucifer from The Devil Is A Part-Timer has literally crash-landed into our brain along with Emilia Justina. Wtf?"

*Discovers the word endogenic yet again and gets the weird euphoria again*

*Maybe our late second year at university, at fucking 11PM, after anime club finishes — Kusuo Saki just fucking chilling on top of the table via projection* "Heeey so remember that one time in high school where you had weird daydreams about that pink-haired psychic boy and the blonde with drills? Welp, Mami Tomoe picked me up on the way here —" *Queue freakout of the main fronter at this point*

-----------

SO ANYWAYS that is. Uh. Some Stuff(tm) yaaay, anyways the good thing about this is we don't think our queer shit would ever, ever be as fucking weird as our plurality shit in the context of the societal context and chronological context we, Rusanya, live in, so figuring out we're aceplex (since we found the plurality first and asexuality is more of a veil) was mostly just an "AHA okay then lol" and we just kind of slap every label on the planet onto us that we like that we think applies, both on an individual and collective level. :D

.