#this is just what my brain has decided to come up with

[zara-renata]

So I had one holiday prompt that I couldn't include in the big holiday prompt fic I posted last week, and I also have been receiving some really sweet and cute ideas that weren't exactly requests, but the ideas were so nice that I wanted to write something for them. I've gathered them into one story that I hope isn't disappointing. I had intended to do separate, cute little drabbles, but I had a bad day the other day and somehow uh, really dark angst happened, and then I used the ideas people sent for the comfort half of the fic? So please forgive me for just... taking it as dark as you can go before including the sweet, cute ideas that people requested. I hope you like the result anyway, although please read the content warnings. Several of the people who sent requests/ideas apologized for doing so, as if sending the ideas was 'too much', but you don't have to apologize for sending asks. My requests are open, and I like seeing everyone's ideas even if I don't end up being able to write for them, or if I tweak them a little to make them work for the story that comes out of my brain despite my best laid plans to stick to an outline.

The river | ao3 | masterlist

It's Christmas Eve, you're at the end of your rope after an absolutely awful year, and you decide to end it all after pushing everyone in your life away. Sylus pulls you from the brink and convinces you to keep going.

Sylus x fem reader, Sylus x mc, hurt/comfort, angst, grief, banter, fluff. CW: attempted suicide, depressed thoughts, NSFW, Sylus penetrating reader (this is not sex ed, do not follow these idiots' example, no discussion of condom or birth control, this is fantasy and we're not going to worry about that in the fic)

Ask #1 You asked to keep sending silly little ideas for you to write so I thought I'd give my own request! After Caleb and Gran (supposedly) die it's pretty much canon that MC refuses help from their friends and isolates themself in certain ways. I always imagine MC sometimes sees Sylus as "the only one they have left" since he is the only one who goes out of his way to check up on MC. But MC kinda grows to resent this and has a moment when their drunk/really going through it and basically ask Sylus why he doesn't leave them be so they can just rot away in peace. Sorry if this is too lengthy or I'm overstepping! Brain worms are getting to me

Ask #2 Okay, so random thoughts here, but do you know that superstition that’s like, “the places where you have moles on your body show where your lover kissed you in a past life”? But like… can you imagine what it would be like if MC had a mole in the exact spot where Sylus bit her during Abyssal Mark (cus I have one there lol) and then that superstition randomly gets brought up, only for MC to show him that mole and Sylus is just s h o o k??? N e way that’s my random thoughts lol (sorry if this is a lot 💀)

Ask #3 I love the way you write the MC and I find myself relating to them at least 99% of the time. Sometimes I just imagine them giving Sylus one of those "Do you like me? Circle yes or no!" Love letters to Sylus because they are terrified of rejection -> i wrote the MC in this story really, really depressed, so if this didn't hit the spot for you in terms of fear of rejection, let me know, and I can include your prompt in another story idea I had before this one that's a lot lighter and sweeter before I got hit by the angst truck that this fic turned out to be. just let me know!

Ask #4 the last holiday prompt! -> idk if anyone sent it yet but from the xmas prompt list, i would love to see what you do with number 8 -> I'm so sorry that this is what I did with it, I hope you like it anyway😭

Thank you everyone who has sent me ideas! If you've sent me a request and I haven't answered it yet, it's because I'm still intending to do something with it.

Here you are. Again.

At the end of a long day. A long week. A long year. 

A long rope.

It’s the dark, this time of year. 

Maybe. 

You’re restless. You’ve passed through the Deepspace Hunters Association doors for the last time this year. Empty days of leave stretch before you.

Normally, it would still be light out, leaving this early. But not now, this deep into the year—it’s already full night, as you leave work early.

The bright lights of the building pour over your upturned face as you look back, just once. You don’t know what for. You’ve successfully severed most of the ties you had built before.

Before everything.

Tara, Xavier. After Caleb, Josephine—they reached out, over and over, and you bit their outstretched hands with your sharp, sharp teeth. 

You snapped enough times that they keep their distance, now. 

They’re still kind. 

Tara still comes, sits on your desk, shares tidbits of gossip during the workday. But she no longer invites you along to karaoke, to after-work drinks with other coworkers.

You and Xav work in sync, as you eliminate wanderers. He walks you to your door at the end of the day. But he no longer offers to lend you books. No longer invites you to the bookstore, or to try new restaurants.

You watch his broad back as he walks away from you, down your apartment building’s hallway. He feels as far away as a star in the velvet night sky.

It’s not their fault. You did this.

You wanted this.

You turn away from the warm light beaming from the Association as you leave early, the Christmas lights glittering in the windows, the holiday party you’re skipping still in full swing in the open, sleek company restaurant area on the ground floor. A division-wide shindig, to celebrate the end of the year, the holidays.

The night is cold. Fairy lights, nets of bright pinpricks in the dark night, cover the trees lining the sidewalk. Decorative light displays stretch across the busy road at periodic intervals, over the canals that parallel the streets, the gondolas and tour-boats festive under their own lights, red ribbons flapping in the cold winter wind.

You think about how they never recovered a body.

Only Josephine’s ashes fill an urn, sitting in a cold niche of a quiet columbarium. Caleb’s urn is empty.

You start walking, fast, along the busy sidewalk. People are out shopping, scurrying to tie up last minute errands before the city shuts down for the holiday tomorrow.

You want to unzip your coat. Unzip your uniform. Unzip your skin, your ribcage. Leave all these pieces of yourself behind, for others to puzzle over. To sweep up with the rest of the refuse left over from festive party goers on the street. You want to dissipate in the cold winter air like your breath with each cursed inhale, exhale.

You settle for beginning to jog to the metro station, your feet carrying you faster, faster, your boots heavy on the sidewalk. You see it lit in the distance, but you can’t stand the thought of being underground right now. Buried alive, with all the other people. You sprint past it. 

You’re graceful enough to duck and weave, not disturb anyone else, until the crowds thin.

You’re running, running, the city is streaming past, like the tears from your eyes. Wet from the cold, because you haven’t cried since waking up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s silver chain glittering in the firelight on the walk up to your grandmother’s burning house.

Tears won’t bring a body back.

You don’t know how much longer you can stand this.

The days, one after another. Alarm, moving through the dark to get to work. Moving through the dark to get back to your apartment at the end of the day.

The pain—your only constant, now. The only thing you expect, have to look forward to, day after blurred day. 

An echoing emptiness, like an urn without ashes. An emptiness that feels so full that your skin could burst with it.

You think about your apartment. The festive city outside its windows. The half-opened bottle of wine in the fridge, the only thing in it.

You veer from your neighborhood. Keep running. You’re sweating under your winter coat, your heavy Hunter uniform. It doesn’t matter.

You run, and run, and run, until you run out of streets, sidewalk.

Just the river, wide and black. There is a bridge, soaring over the water, in the distance. Its lights reflected in the water, along with the urban nightscape. Stars above, stars below.

You could drown in them.

You look at the bridge.

You could drown in it all.

There’s no one left, after all.

Who will miss you?

You slow. Stop.

Your breath is heavy in the quiet air. Fairy lights sparkle here, too. Pretty swooping light displays top each lamppost along the river path. 

You would have gone to identify the body, as you did with Gran. She didn’t look like herself. Not even a sleeping version of herself. They did their best, reconstructing her face. But it wasn’t the stitches, the bruising. It was that she simply wasn’t there anymore. Like a stranger’s body on display. An empty house after the residents have been forced to flee in a night of unimaginable violence. 

But running your hands through her hair, one last time. It soothed something in you. Enough that you could breathe in the cold mortuary air. Could nod. Could watch as they covered her again. As they escorted you out into the bustling hospital hallways, to stand under cold fluorescent lights. To stare vacantly at the wall, until you felt a strange, familiar feeling. You looked up, saw Zayne watching you, at the end of the long hallway. You stared at him, memorizing his beautiful face. His dark hair. His severe, cold loveliness. You let yourself look one last time, and he let you. Through the people filling the hallway, each walking with purpose, they were a blur and he was  across the world, across time, a part of your past that should never have reappeared in your present. It hurt too much, to look at his beautiful, distant face. He left you behind, once. He should have stayed gone. You can’t stand to experience the loss again, the loss you felt every time he listened to your heart, expressionless, a stranger with a beautiful, familiar face from your past, a past in which Caleb was still alive. 

You looked at Zayne one last time, across a bustling hallway in a place full of life, of death, and he let you. You then turned, headed to the reception desk. You switched doctors, hospitals.

You blocked his number, so you’ll never know if he sent you a text, tried to call and ask why, after. He let you walk out. Which is as it should be.

You wanted this.

The water churns under the whipping wind, the fast current. It looks so cold. Cold enough to numb. Cold enough to finally put out the fire that’s been burning in you, ever since you woke up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s necklace shimmering in the flames.

You think of running your hands through his hair. Something the fire robbed you of—it would have been your first time, your last time. He would pat your head. Call you pipsqueak. Ignore your protests to not mess up your hair, to not treat you like a little kid. But he would always duck out of the way anytime you tried to return the favor, tease him, tousle his hair. His pretty brunette hair that always looked so soft. Now you’ll never know how soft it really was.

You look at the water. You look at the bridge. The car headlights meteors streaking along their guardrail-gated orbit.

You think about going home. Waking up tomorrow, Christmas Day. The silence. You think about going back to work. Killing wanderer after wanderer. Wondering which one will be the one to finally kill you.

The days blur. The constant emptiness echoing inside your apartment, inside your ribcage.

You look at the water. You look at the bridge. You imagine running your hands through Caleb’s hair for the first, the last time. A tender goodbye you’ll never have, because they never found his body.

There’s no one left to miss you.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. You fish it out.

Rafayel no longer calls, or texts you words. He just sends photos, every once in a while. Mundane details of everyday life, rendered extraordinary through his artist’s eye. Paintings he’s working on. A foreign landscape. Leaves glistening with dew. The moon, waxing full.

You haven’t answered in months. You look at each one, tuck your phone back in your pocket.

You look back at the water. Think about taking a photo of the reflected stars, the thin crescent moon in the black waves, think of sending him one last response. But even you’re not that cruel. You don’t want him to realize later, that he was the last one to say anything to you.

You don’t open his text. You block his number. Tuck the phone back into your pocket.

You start to walk toward the bridge. As you walk, you keep your eyes on the path, its edges. Decorative, smooth stones line the walkway along the river embankment. You pick them up, here and there, as you walk. Slip them into your coat pockets.

Eventually you run out of room in your coat pockets, add more to your pants pockets. 

You turn your eyes back to the bridge, looming now.

You think of your empty fridge. Josephine’s empty face. An empty urn.

You’re ready to scoop out what’s left of you, leave it behind on the sidewalk, smoldering as the cold night finally smothers the endless fire, the only thing left inside you. Maybe it will warm someone else, in passing. A last good deed, from you to someone in the world.

A metal staircase, leading up, up, into the black sky, mirroring the dark river, your heavy boots echoing. The cars are loud. If you close your eyes, they could be the rushing waves of an ocean, instead of a river of traffic, above a river of water.

You keep your eyes open. You’re not going to pretend that you’re not doing what you’re doing, now. You’re not at the ocean, its pure salt air drifting through your hair, now whipping around your face. You’re on a busy, exhaust- and oil-stained commuter bridge on the night before Christmas, having cut your ties with everyone you have always known never wanted or needed you in the first place. What’s the difference if a wanderer kills you tomorrow, or if something kills you today? Just empty time, blurry days, photo frames without pictures.

The guardrail isn’t so high as one would guess. It’s an easy step up. An easy step over. You stand, looking back over the city where you were raised. The city that contains all the past versions of yourself, from the moment you were pulled screaming into life from a mother whose face you’ll never know, through to now, an empty shell of a person. If your fellow hunters could see inside you, they’d mistake you for a wanderer and put you down, like the scientists who experimented on you, your own grandmother, did years ago.

Since learning that Gran was one of the people who fucked with your heart, you have often resented that she and her colleagues weren’t successful in finishing the job years ago, when they had the chance.

But now you wonder, standing over a dark, freezing river that reflects what’s inside you now, maybe they did finish it. You just didn’t realize it. Not till tonight, as you look down in the mirror of the rushing water, far below.

Even now, the tears won’t come.

What use are tears, when they can’t bring a body back. When they can’t wash it clean. When they can’t lovingly touch it, one last time, soft strands of hair under your fingers.

Your tears, your heart, your suffering, your existence—useless, for the entirety of a life you can only half remember.

You wonder if it’s the dark, tonight. Why tonight, and not yesterday? Why not six months ago? 

Because it took that long to sever the ties binding you here?

Now you are assured, no one will miss you. It will take days before anyone even notices your absence because of your holiday leave.

You hope that they’ll assume it was a wanderer. Bad luck. Wrong time, wrong place. A modest little plaque on the wall of heroes, even though you know you’re no hero.

In the end, it doesn’t matter why it’s tonight, and not any other night.

No need to be dramatic, pretending there’s meaning in the meaningless.

You put your hands on the guardrail, the metal colder than your freezing hands. You lift a heavy booted foot. Take a deep breath. 

It’s so cold. It will be over before you know it. You’ve read that from this height, it’s the impact, and not the drowning.

You’ve always had dreams of flying. 

You lift your other foot, arms thrown wide for balance, just for a moment. The world feels so big, here at the end. The stars above, the stars below, the doubled crescent moon. You’re ready to drown in it all.

You only have one hope.

I don’t want to be reborn.

You breathe, empty your mind of Tara’s earnest smile, Xavier’s soft laughter, Zayne’s steady hands, Rafayel’s flashing violet eyes. Josephine’s empty face. Caleb’s soft, untouchable hair.

You let yourself fall.

You’re flying. Your heart is soaring. Your heart is seizing. The relief, the terror, mingle. You can’t scream, even if you wanted to.

You’re flying and it’s everything you ever dreamt, until it’s not.

Your body jerks, abruptly. Your hair whips down, lashes your face. You grunt with the impact against… nothing. You’re suspended over the water, drifting in the air. The wind tugs at your stone-weighted coat.

You twist away from the water, craning your neck to look up, up, back at the bridge.

You have withstood the uselessness of tears for almost a year now. But now, you want to cry so badly the pain of the need steals your breath.

You knew he was cruel. You knew he was merciless. You knew that he hated you. You just didn’t realize how much, until now.

You hang suspended over a dark, rushing river, wrapped in scarlet and ink tendrils, looking up into the sneering face of the one person you refused to think about as you made your final decision tonight, at the end of your desolate, half-remembered life.

His evol begins to lift you, away from the merciful impact, the numbing water. You, your past, your heart, the memories and despair and stones filling your pockets seem weightless, wrapped in his power.

His usual mask of bored indifference is gone. He is finally showing you his true face, what he must always feel when he looks at you—fury and disgust.

He says nothing, as he pulls you from the depths, back into the world. As he sets you gently back on your heavy feet on the sidewalk in front of him. His evol evaporates, winter breath in the wind.

He looks at your face with his wine-dark eyes. Looks at the water. Flicks his gaze back to your face.

You will not cry in front of this man. This man who hates you so much he won’t even let you seek the peace of death. Death, which has always been too good for you, but not for the people you loved the most.

You clench your jaw as the fire re-ignites in your chest. The flames you had tried so hard to scoop out, to leave behind.

You don’t want to feel this much anymore.

If you speak, you know you’ll cry. You can’t stand it.

Maybe, with enough repetition, he’ll get bored. He gets bored so easily, after all.

You turn, try to launch yourself over the guardrail again.

This time, it’s not his evol, but his arms that wrap around you, pull you back from the fall.

You struggle, throwing your elbows, kicking, throwing your head back, hoping to catch his perfect nose, break it under the hardness of your stupid, useless skull.

He says nothing, just holds you tighter, wraps one arm around your waist, the other over your chest, his big hand cradling the side of your face, pressing your head back into his own chest, as he hunches over you, an immovable wall of warmth. As you fight to break free of his hold, you are wrapped in his scent—cloves, gun oil. 

Sylus.

Eventually, you tire yourself out—despite all of your strength, it is no match for his. He holds you against himself easily, as you pant, lungs burning with the effort, the sweat warm once again under your Hunter’s uniform. You become aware of a whimpering, the keening of a wounded animal.

It’s coming from your throat. Your eyes burn. You go limp in his arms.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. A voice like warm liquor in your veins. You think he’ll let you go. You prepare, hoping you can get to the guardrail again. Maybe this time he won't be so fast. But instead of releasing you, getting away from you as fast as he can, the arm around your waist moves up, cradling your upper back. He scoops his other arm under your legs, holds you against himself like you’re a delicate princess, if you were anyone else. But because it’s you, he’s probably just holding you like a useless sack of shit that would be too annoying to drop. He begins to walk, his stride steady, brisk.

He looks down into your face. “I bought a dress for you. Silk. A design like stars over a flowing river. That’s the only river you’re allowed in tonight, kitten.”

You stare at him. His breath puffs white in the cold air. The face of disgusted fury is replaced by his usual bored mask.

Why is he doing this to you? He wanted to kill you, just a few months ago. Why not let you do the job for him?

He is the only person in your life who didn’t take the hint. Who kept showing up, after you made it clear that you didn’t want their presence anymore. That you couldn’t handle the ties, because ties become nooses, snapping your neck when the other person leaves you behind.

When he showed up where you were, in a ‘coincidental’ meeting on the street, on a jog, you would turn, move in the other direction. He would match your stride, doggedly pestering you with questions, asking you about your evening or weekend plans, telling you silly stories from the N109 Zone, Luke and Kieran’s latest antics. Sometimes he’d just walk in contemplative silence, thumbs hooked through his belt loops, or jog quietly next to you, never losing his breath, never complaining about the pace.

When you would routinely see him at various restaurants you were headed to in order to pick up takeout, you’d leave your food, immediately turning and hurrying away. When the same food was delivered to your door half an hour later, you’d refuse to answer, letting the confused and irritated delivery man leave. A half hour after that, the same man would be back, yell through the door that he had instructions to leave the food even if no one answered, and then he’d make good on his promise. You were faced with the choice of either letting the food go to waste, or eating it guiltily at your kitchen island.

No matter how many times you told the delivery person of the almost daily packages you received with no return address that you didn’t want to accept delivery, they would always insist that their instructions were to deliver regardless of recipient response. You were welcome to bin the items after receipt, but if you didn’t accept, the packages would just pile so high outside of your door that you couldn’t reach your apartment anymore.

You would accept, and then donate whatever exquisite item was inside to women’s shelters, children’s homes, university museums, soup kitchens, fundraiser auctions. No matter how clear it was that you wouldn’t accept anything from him, Sylus never stopped sending you gifts.

When you were sick, he’d show up personally, barge into your apartment when you were too tired to look at the doorbell camera before answering, a duffel bag gripped in his big hand filled with fever reducing medicine, homemade soup from his home chef, painkillers, hot water bottles, cooling pads, muscle pads, vitamins. He’d lounge on your couch, manspreading, insisting that he wouldn’t leave until he saw you swallow the pills and drink a gigantic glass of water.

He’d wait until you lay back down on your messy bed, until you fell asleep. He’d be gone when you woke again, but your apartment would be clean and your fridge and freezer would be stuffed full of healthy pre-prepared food.

You were half-convinced he was just buttering, fattening his prey before getting bored and mercifully ending its life.

Tonight, you are now fully convinced.

“Did your tongue freeze in your mouth?” he asks, descending the stairs you had just walked up, thinking it was your last time ascending them. “Do you need mouth-to-mouth to warm it up again?”

You scowl at him, at how appealing the idea of Sylus’s tongue in your mouth is, even now. You hate yourself, your traitorous body for being drawn to him, even now. “What’s the point of talking, when you never listen?” you grind out, your throat sore. You hadn’t realized how much your animal wailing had wrecked your throat. At least the tears are no longer so close to the surface that they’re threatening to spill.

“I listen to every word out of your beautiful mouth,” he counters serenely, with that same inexplicable kindness that makes your heart hurt. So at odds with how you know he must really feel about you. “I just listen to more than your mouth in order to hear what you’re really saying.”

“What?” You stare at his beautiful face, the way the lamplight illuminates its sharp features for a brief moment, before the night swallows it again as he moves between lampposts on his way… somewhere. Back the way you just came from.

He spares you a glance. “Your mouth says one thing, while the rest of you is screaming something else.”

You feel the blood draining from your face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

One corner of his beautiful mouth lifts. “Don’t play dumb, kitten. You’re too smart for it to be convincing.”

You were just falling into the river. You were just about to be free. How did you get here again? In this man’s arms, his smug, roguish smile filling you with the unease of being seen. 

“I mean, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little more honest about the fact that you want people to fight for you, right?”

You begin to struggle again, shame lancing through you, making your body unbearable to be in. You know it’s weak, to have wanted so desperately that the people you were carving from your life would see what you were doing and stop you, place their hands over yours holding the cleaver, gently push it down, down, until it dropped from your grasp—how desperately you wanted them to step into your space, hold you tightly, just like this man who sees right through you is holding you now. You wanted Tara to keep inviting you out with your ridiculous colleagues, to sing your heart out at shitty karaoke clubs, to forcibly drag you to sleepovers and arcade nights. You wanted Xavier to push himself into your apartment, try to bake something horrible in your oven, sheepishly offer to go to the bakery with you instead when the fire alarm inevitably went off. You wanted Zayne to walk through the crowd to reach you at the other end of the hallway after you identified Josephine’s body, to ask to take your hand, to ask how you were doing, even though you knew you wouldn’t have been able to answer. You wanted Rafayel to keep inventing excuses for you to visit his studio, to keep insisting that he needed you to accompany him to expositions and fancy lunches as his bodyguard. 

But none of them did in the end, and that’s okay. You kept pushing them away, because your terror of their leaving was apparently bigger than your need for their presence in your life, and at least if they were already gone, as they inevitably would be, you’d finally be free. 

But the last person you would want to see this utterly humiliating need inside you, exposing you like this, is the one looking down at you right now with deceptively soft, all-seeing eyes.

You know the feeling, this need, of pulling away and pulling away and then being heartbroken when people finally let you is weak, and pathetic.

You may experience weak and pathetic feelings, but you’re not weak or pathetic. Not at your core. You were prepared to do what was necessary, to save yourself from the pain of your emptiness, the fire raging inside your chest. You weren’t asking anything of anyone. You were doing it all on your own. 

Not a burden. 

Never a fucking burden. 

You clench your teeth, buck in Sylus’s arms.

He just holds you tightly, a straightjacket for the insanity that you’re feeling, the insanity of this man, out of all the people in your life, stripping you of your masks, flaying you so that all of your most tender, shameful parts are exposed to both him and yourself.

“Stop that. You’re just going to tire yourself further, when I need you tonight.”

Of course. The quid pro quo. He helped you with the auction, the Aether Core. Now you owe him. He doesn’t give a fuck if you live or die—he just can’t let one of his assets destroy itself before it fulfills his purpose.

You go limp in his arms. Turn your head away from him.

He continues his train of thought. “No, it wouldn’t kill you to tell the truth to your friends, so you decided to take matters into your own hands, huh? Telling the people in your life that you actually need them wouldn’t kill you, so why bother, right, when you can just jump off of a fucking bridge?” His voice sounds like the night you met him. Controlled anger. Disgust. Accusation.

Then there’s something wrong with her.

You thought you had killed everything inside of you already. The yearning for human connection. The kindness of a friend. Family holding you in their arms. You thought you had scooped out most of it, even as some of it rekindled when he pulled you back from the fall.

But the way you’re hurting now, at the memory of his hate, the reminder that the people you love won’t fight for you even if it would be fighting against you, and that this man, for all of his false generosity, never cared for you from the beginning, that his gifts and his visits were all what you knew them to be, all along—a bored predator toying with its prey before using it and consuming it. 

You let your thoughts drift back to the bridge, push your pain away. Feed it to the fire. When he’s done with you, maybe you won’t even have to jump.

“Just shut up, Sylus. I’ll help you with your problem tonight. Just promise me you’ll toss me over yourself, when you’re done with me,” you tell the night, because you still can’t bring yourself to look at him.

He stops walking. The wind is so cold against your face. You wish he’d snap your neck, right now. You’re so fucking tired.

“Look at me.” His voice is low. Menacing.

You watch the water. Wonder how long it would take if you just walked out into it, without jumping. Just walk in with your stone-weighted coat and let the cold paralyze you, the current pull you under.

“Look at me, my heart,” he whispers. The change in his tone, his bizarre endearment, has you turning your head, looking up into his face. “That is one promise I can never make you.” He looks like he’s in pain. You don’t know why. He leans down, rests his forehead against yours, hunching his big shoulders, lifting your body in his arms so he can meet you. His breath is warm against your lips. “Please don’t talk to me like that.”

You want to snort. It’s rich, coming from him—the same man who is telling you not to tell him to shut up, after all the things he said to you as he starved you, strangled you.

“Please don’t tell me to kill you. To hurt you. That hurts me.”

You stare up into his face. See the sincerity in his eyes. The wind whips your hair. He wasn’t upset that you told him to shut up, but that you asked him to kill you? “What does it matter? Aren’t you going to, in the end?”

“Why would I stop you tonight, if I wanted you to die?”

Of course he won’t answer outright. When has Sylus Qin ever answered a direct question?

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Why bother stopping me, unless you just need to use me and then be done with me? I can’t be that irreplaceable. Just get someone else to put on the dress, and let me get on with my fucking life. Someone who you can train to say just the right things, at just the right time, who’ll look good in whatever fancy shit you want to put her in. There’s gotta be easier idiots than me to serve your purpose.”

He closes his eyes, breathes in the cold night air. When he opens them, you have to look away. You can’t handle whatever is in them. “I know I hurt you, when we first met. That I said cruel things to you. I’m sorry.”

You laugh, even as your heart wrenches at this strange apology. Of course he doesn’t explain what offended him so much about your existence at the beginning. Why he treated you exactly how you deserved. Probably just whatever he saw when he used his Aether Core on you. He saw the echoing chambers of your empty, fucked up heart and was enraged that it was you, and not someone worthy, who would absorb the Aether Core. “There’s never been any need to varnish the truth, Sylus. You almost choked me to death the day we met. You should have fucking finished what you started,” you sneer. “Why does no one ever finish what they start?” You think of Josephine, her researcher cronies. Think of Caleb, his promise to return, the last text he ever sent you. Your fucking parents, who you will never know.

You don’t expect an answer.

And yet, you’re surprised when Sylus wordlessly releases his hold on you. Lets you slip from his arms, sets you back on your feet. You settle in your heavy boots, the weight of your coat, the stones in your pockets, grounding you to the earth.

The lamplight shines in his silver-sheened, wind-tousled hair. His cheeks are red from the cold.

Of course. Of course.

No tool is irreplaceable.

You’re not irreplaceable.

You finally said the right thing, to push him away.

This is it. This is it. This is it. 

Your mind returns to the bridge. Your hand is holding the cleaver, dripping with the blood from the last unwelcome tether to your life.

You try to memorize his face, just as you did Zayne’s, but for some reason looking at Sylus’s face hurts you so much more despite having known him for so little time. Just a sigh, in the timeline of your life. The warm glow of his irises. The softness of his lower lip. The pride in his shoulders, his nose. 

Maybe you didn’t want to think of him before jumping because you had fallen in love with him, despite the fact that any affection he offered was counterfeit—the steady way he breathed next to you on a jog, the way he spread out on your couch, his dry humor, his intelligence, his piercing gaze, his kindness that was actually more cruel than if he had just tossed you out and never bothered to look for you again after the auction.

You knew it was fake. You knew it was calculated. You knew that the reality was, because he had told you from the very beginning—

Don’t tell me that you like me. Is this all so you can get my attention?

Clearly you’ve read too many fairytales.

And yet you had believed, in the bright moments of receiving his kind attention, in the fairytale. Just for a heartbeat. A raindrop, splattering on the ground.

You thought that you couldn’t bear to see what it looks like when Sylus finally tires of you pushing him away, and stops reaching out, as everyone else has. 

But with just a few words, you’ve finally managed to do it. He set the burden of you down, and now he’ll walk away, replace you with some other beautiful, breathing tool.

You learn in this moment that you actually can bear it. You can bear anything, as long as you know that very soon, you won’t have to bear anything at all.

“You wanted the truth?” you say, suddenly, the relief flooding through you that the worst has happened, that you’re now actually free. You think of the fabric of the dress, liquid stars over a night river, and wonder whose body it will caress, with Sylus’s big hand on her waist, his gentle fingers drifting across her collarbone, his forehead pressed against hers, for whatever ruse he needs to run tonight, on Christmas Eve.

He grows still. Watches you carefully, as if searching your face for a trick. You look back at him steadily, scooping everything inside you out, letting it splatter onto the sidewalk, here along this dark riverbank.

“Will you give it to me?” he finally asks.

“As a parting thank you gift, for cutting me loose.” You nod. Take a shuddering breath of the frigid air. “Here is me telling you the truth: you should treat the woman who ends up wearing the dress you got with more gentleness than you did me at the beginning. You could have the world eating out of the palm of your hand, if you skip the cruelty at the beginning and just treat people the way you treated me in the last few months. She’ll do anything for you, I think, if you do. Because somehow you made me love you, despite our beginning. I could bear to cut everyone else loose but you.” You laugh, and the sound is like icicles snapping, shattering on the ground. “Thank you for doing it for me, instead. It’s probably the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

You smile at him. 

You don’t know why you’re surprised that he just frowns deeply, brow furrowing. 

Well. That’s okay. You never expected him to be pleased to see your face, smiling or not.

“Good luck, Sylus.”

You turn, begin to walk back the way you came, for the second time tonight. Your thoughts are already at the bridge. You’ve been falling for months now. Soon you’ll finally hit the crystal water and shatter. 

You hope you won’t be reborn.

“You said you love me.” His deep, low voice is carried by the wind.

You stop, turn your head. “Stupid, huh?” you ask, wondering if he wants to pour salt into the wound you just willingly exposed to him.

“Why would you love someone who treated you the way I did?”

You turn fully, face him across the night, one last time. “You’re so fucking funny. I’ve always appreciated men who can make me laugh.” You shrug. “And I’m a pathetic fool. You pretended to be kind, and I lapped it up like the thirsty dog I am.”

He tilts his head, takes a step towards you. “That’s all?”

You take a step back. You don’t need him and his pretty face, his delicious scent any closer to torment you.

You offer him more truth. “Of course not.”

“What else?”

You sigh. “What does it matter? We’ll never see each other again.”

He shakes his head. “Indulge me.”

So salt, it is. You press your fingers into the most tender part of yourself, peel yourself wide open. “Your cleverness. How sweet you can be when you want something—strangely pliant, for such a big, powerful man. The self confidence you have. I could say, do anything and you did so well pretending to never be embarrassed of me. You made me believe, very briefly, that you really wanted to be with me, do anything, go anywhere, just because I was there. It’s quite impressive, really. I can see why you’re so good at business. You’re competent. You’re beautiful to look at.” You pause, shake your head in turn. “But you already know all that. You know why you’re loveable. You made me feel cherished in a way that no one ever has, even as I was pushing you away. But honestly, those are just parts of you. They don’t fully cover what it is about you that makes my heart ache when I look at you. I love you because you’re you. Even hearing your name makes my heart race. Seeing your shoes in my foyer, because they were on your feet. The curve of your wrist, because it belongs to you. I know it’s pathetic, and stupid.” You shrug again. “Can’t help it, though.”

He stares at you. 

You prod him. “Is that enough?”

“How can you ask if that’s enough, when it’s everything?”

You look at him in confusion. “Huh?”

He takes a step towards you, frowning. “Are you only telling me all this because you think I’ve finally given up and allowed you to push me away, because I set you back on your feet?”

You take a step back, as he takes another step forward.“What do you mean ‘I think’ you’ve given up?” You squint at him.

“Did you only tell me all this because you’re going straight back to the bridge to try again?”

You take another step back at the intensity of his face, his question. “What does it matter? You don’t have to worry about what happens to me after this.”

He takes two steps. “You tell me you love everything about me, and then you plan to fuck off and leave me alone again?”

Okay, this was a mistake. You don’t know why he’s mad, but he’s mad again. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t know what else to say. You’ve been sorry your whole life. This is yet another miscalculation. You should have just left. What did you think would happen if you told him how you feel? That he’d be happy about your pathetic heart bleeding pitifully for him?

He strides over to you, his long legs outpacing your own. “If you’re sorry, don’t fucking do it.”

“What?”

He looks down into your face, so close you can smell him again, you can see the fine lines around his eyes as he frowns. “If you’re really sorry for loving me, for ever meeting me—which are the only things you have to be sorry for, then make it up to me by staying. Don’t leave me. Don’t push me away anymore. Just stay, and love me.”

You huff. “Are you really that desperate for help tonight?”

He lifts his hands, places his palms on your cheeks, his long fingers dipping into your hair. “No, I’m desperate for you tonight. It’s Christmas—I don’t give a shit about the holidays, but I know you do. I want to spend it with you. You made me watch you jump off of a goddamned bridge. What would have happened if I hadn’t already been on my way to you?” He sounds so upset. You’ve never seen him like this. The fear is naked on his lovely face.

“What the fuck are you talking about? What does it matter? You said you could get someone else for the dress, for tonight.” You’re so confused. Why is he acting like this?

“I didn’t say any of that. You suggested that I replace you with someone else, I set you on the ground to make sure you were looking at my face, that you were listening to my words when I told you that you’re irreplaceable. That no one else will do. That after watching you almost die, I can’t continue being cautious and trying not to frighten you away anymore.”

“You… what?” 

“You love me. Right? You weren’t lying?” he looks uncertain, like he can’t quite believe it.

You can’t bring yourself to lie. The truth is out. You’re witnessing the fallout. There’s no point in backpedaling. “Yeah.”

He nods, once, decisively. “Okay. That’s enough.”

You sigh in relief. Maybe he’ll let you go, finally, finally.

He checks his chunky watch, the platinum flashing in the lamplight. “There’s still time.”

“Time for what?”

“For my plans tonight. Come.” He closes the distance, sweeps you into his arms again, cradles your body against him like something fragile.

“What plans? Listen—” you start to argue.

“No. Now it’s my turn to speak, and for you to listen.” he squeezes you tightly. “Today was the last day you spend alone. If you can’t live for yourself, then you can live for me, until you remember why you want to live for yourself again. No matter what you say, or what you do to get rid of me, it’s not going to work.”

You can’t even process what is happening. “What are you—?” you begin, but he cuts you off again.

His voice is strained, rough. “You love me. So you have to take responsibility. You have to stay.”

You don’t know what to say. 

I’m desperate for you tonight.

You can’t believe this. He hates you. He has hated you from the beginning. He was so kind to you because he wanted to use you for something he never bothered explaining to you. He needs you for your resonance, your amplification of his powers.

You’re irreplaceable. No one else will do.

Because of your resonance?

I don’t give a shit about the holidays, but I know you do.

He carries you along the wind-swept riverbank, through the frigid night. Stars above, stars below.

You made me watch you jump off a goddamned bridge.

You didn’t think anyone was left to care.

You were so careful, severing ties like arteries, so that you wouldn’t leave the world with more pain than you found it. It was already bleeding so much.

You just were so tired of bleeding with it.

As if sensing the turn of your thoughts, Sylus carries you to the edge of the river’ embankment, where the concrete falls away, drops into the water.

He sets you down again, but doesn’t let you go. His big hands slide down the outside of your coat, dip into your pockets.

He pulls out a smooth stone. Turns it in his hands.

“I’ll never understand how someone so light can weigh so heavily in me,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But you’re a weight I’ll carry for as long as you let me.”

His ember eyes flick back to yours. He hands you the stone.

“This is your conviction that the world won’t miss you, if you’re gone. You will hold it in your hand, one last time. And then you will throw it in the water.” He wraps your cold fingers around the stone. Somehow, his fingers are still warm.

You grasp it, look up into his face. You see yourself in them. It hurts, to be seen so clearly. You’re so ashamed. “How did you know?”

He closes his eyes, shakes his head a little. Opens them. “I looked into your soul, the day we met. I know you’re too soft-hearted in this life to kill yourself if you thought it would hurt someone else. You don’t carry that spite, anymore.”

In this life.

Anymore.

You can’t bring yourself to ask him what he means. You only know that once again, Sylus Qin has seen inside you, has seen you, in a way no one else ever has.

“But I don’t think anyone would miss me. I made sure of it.”

He huffs. “You’re a fool, if you actually believe that. The people you’ve pushed away still love you. But if you can’t believe that yet, then you can’t pretend to yourself that you’re disposable anymore, if for no other reason than I’m standing here now, telling you that I would miss you.”

You think of Tara, sitting on your desk, nudging a steaming latte she got for you on her way to work toward you, asking if you’ve heard the latest about Simone and Andrew.

You think of Xavier, walking you to your door at the end of a nasty wanderer encounter, reaching out, brushing a bit of mud off your cheek, then smearing it across his own cheek. See, we match now.

You think of Zayne, waiting across a busy hallway, patient, letting you choose to approach him, and respecting you by letting you walk away.

You think of Raf, the beauty he shares with you with every photo, the funny strings of emoji that don’t demand an answer.

“How do you know, that they would miss me?” you ask Sylus quietly.

“I’ve been watching you for a long time, sweetie. Do you think I haven’t seen your friends’ faces when you walk away from them?”

You clutch the stone in your hand. “I don’t think I can change my thoughts, my conviction, just like that.”

“You love me, so you have to try. Throw it. Every time you try to drag it back up, I’ll remind you that you threw it away, and you can let it stay at the bottom of the river.” He reaches up, caresses your cheek with his fingertips.

You want to cry. You want to cry, because you’re so afraid. If you let yourself believe that people love you, you have to stay, for them. You have to feel, every day, the weight of grief, of existence, the pain of being alive, of being inside yourself, your body. The hollowness will return, even with your friends, even with Sylus filling most of it.

It’s like he can read your thoughts as his eyes devour your face, as his fingers tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “I won’t let you pretend, anymore. You love me, and I will not survive if you aren’t here with me. So you have to stay. We don’t have to accept that life is a curse. We can fight back. Make it something better.”

“I’m scared,” you say.

His eyes are so tender, as he watches your mouth form your biggest truth, set it free in the night. “I will protect you, until you can protect yourself again. There’s nothing to be afraid of, if we’re together.”

You want to believe him. Your heart beats painfully behind your ribs. The moon is a sharp crescent in the sky. 

But you’re a weight I’ll carry for as long as you let me.

“You’ll really stay?”

He finally smiles, a faint Sylus smile that feels like a grin. “I told you. Today was the last day you’ll ever be alone. You can’t get rid of me now, no matter what you do, or say.”

You turn, holding the stone in your cold hands. You think of all the lies you’ve been telling yourself, about your friends, your place in their lives, because you were so tired of living with an unnameable grief, one you carried inside you long before Caleb and Josephine died, but whose loss compounded, made unbearable the original sorrow.

And I will not survive if you aren’t here with me.

You don’t know why he feels this way. Does he love you too? He hasn’t said so. Can he even love you, in the way you love him?

Does it matter? 

It’s enough, that he says he’ll stay. That he wants you to stay alive. That he’ll help remind you, when the whispers drift back in your mind, telling you that you’re just a burden, that no one actually loves you, would miss you when you’re gone. When the hollowness echoes so loudly it’s all you can hear.

You lean back, lift the stone, throw it as hard as you can, as far as you can, into the rushing river.

You don’t hear its splash over the wind.

You turn back to Sylus.

He dips into your pocket again. Pulls out another stone. “Your guilt, for having lived. For having been born.”

You take it from him. Let your mind drift. Feel along the contours of your memories, the jagged, missing pieces, all the way back to when it fades to black. You throw the stone.

You don’t see it sink to the riverbed.

He dips into your pocket again. “Your shame, for needing others. For being human, and imperfect. For not being able to do it all alone. For wanting to be loved.”

You take the stone. “Is it really okay?” you ask, helplessly. There’s no point pretending everything he is saying isn’t true. “To want these things, when I haven’t earned them?”

He steps closer to you. Places his hands on your shoulders, draws you in. “There is no okay, or not okay. There is no crime and punishment, no transgression, no sin. How can it be shameful, to want what you were born to want? Why does love have to be earned, instead of just given?”

You lean into him, press your face into his chest, his thick wool coat soft against your skin.

“I don’t know.”

He reaches into your pocket, places a stone in your other hand. “One for your shame, one for the idea that love must be earned. Throw them.”

You lean back again, and it’s already too far away from him. But you throw each stone, and they disappear under the cold water.

“That’s enough, for now. We’ll take the rest home.” He draws you back into his arms. Lifts you without effort, stone-filled pockets and all. The weight of all of you.  “When you have thoughts of shame, of guilt, of not being loved, we’ll come back. You’ll throw them again. Until they’re all gone. We’ll gather other stones, when other feelings make life unbearable. I’ll come with you, as many times as you need.”

Sylus carries you along the path back to the road that snakes along the river. His motorcycle gleams under a bright lamppost.

He settles a helmet on your head, checks to make sure it’s secure. Puts his own on. You sit behind him, cling to him. Rest your head against his broad back, close your eyes. The motorcycle is loud, and he drives it carefully through the busy, holiday bustling streets, until he reaches your apartment building. He holds your hand as he leads you through the front doors, as he stands quietly beside you in the elevator, his red, warm eyes never leaving your face in the elevator mirrors. He leads you to your front door, waits patiently while you unlock it with your cold finger.

In the hallway, he kneels at your feet, unlaces your tall boots while you look down at him, the soft fall of his silver hair, his big, nimble fingers working the laces.

He then removes his own boots. His coat. He’s wearing a garishly bright Christmas sweater, with prancing reindeer. He hangs his coat on a peg in the wall. He turns, slowly unzips yours. Eyes flicking between the zipper and your face. He gently lifts it from your body, again like it’s weightless, even though it’s still filled with stones. He pulls it from your arms, hangs it next to his.

He pulls you further into your place.

The first thing you notice is the warmth. It’s so warm, like someone came in while you were gone and turned on the heating.

The next thing you notice is the Christmas tree. The one you didn’t get this year, because the thought of the holidays without Caleb and your grandmother was unbearable.

Beautifully, tastefully decorated. Silver and gold, twinkling lights. Its pine scent fills your place.

Sylus moves to a record player on one of the cabinets along your living room wall. A record player that wasn’t here before you went to work today. He fiddles with the arm, and suddenly Joni Mitchell’s River fills your house.

It’s coming on Christmas

They’re cutting down trees

They're putting up reindeer

And singing songs of joy and peace

Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

He walks back to you. “Is this okay?”

I wish I had a river so long

I would teach my feet to fly

Whoa I wish I had a river I could skate away on

The music flows around you, paralyzing you. You stare into his face, into the warm glow of his eyes. How could you have missed this? The way he’s looking at you now? Through all the long months since the auction?

He tried hard to help me

You know, he put me at ease

And he loved me so naughty

Made me weak in the knees

Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on

The words wash over you, through you. The scent of pine warms you, memories without form filling you with the sense of home, safety, love.

I made my baby cry

I'm so hard to handle

I'm selfish and I'm sad

Now I've gone and lost the best baby

That I ever had

Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

He takes your hands in his, thumbs across your skin. “Is it too much?”

You think of how cold it was, standing on the guardrail of the bridge. 

You were running toward the bridge, while Sylus was filling your home with warmth.

What would have happened if I hadn’t already been on my way to you?

You think of him spreading out on your couch, as a fever raged through your body. You think of your freezer, filled with food. You think of the takeout boxes, still steaming, sitting in front of your closed door.

You think of him hanging delicate ornaments on a fragrant tree. 

I made my baby cry

You shake your head, the enormity of what almost happened filling you. The enormity of the choice you made, that you enacted, until Sylus pulled you back from the rushing dark.

You start to shake.

“Kitten?”

“It’s not too much,” you say, teeth chattering. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

He stares down at you, seems to make a decision. “Shower. Now.”

You nod, moving away from him, but he follows. 

Inside your small bathroom, he takes up the entire space. He peels off your hunter’s uniform, tosses it beyond the open bathroom door. His gaze flicks from your undershirt, your underwear, to your face. “Do you want me to leave?”

You think of the dark water, an impact that never came. Sylus plugging in the record player, choosing a record with one of your favorite Christmas songs on it. Placing it delicately on the turntable.

“No. You promised you’d never leave me alone again.”

He smiles a little. “I mean, leave the bathroom.”

“No. You promised you’d never leave me alone again,” you repeat.

He stares into your eyes. Nods. Lifts your undershirt. He reaches behind you, unhooks your bra with the same agility that he unlaced your boots. He lifts it from your body, watches you as he lifts it to his nose, inhales.

You shiver.

He tosses the bra behind him. Kneels. Pulls your underwear from your hips, down your legs. You step out of them. He stands again.

He leans over, his ridiculous, festive sweater soft against your cheek, as he reaches past you to turn on the shower faucet. As he messes with the knobs until steam begins to fill the small space. He nudges you forward, past the sliding glass door and into the small shower cabin, letting the hot water pour over you. You turn, watch him through the clear glass. He picks up your underwear, watches you as he lifts it to his nose, inhales as he did with your bra. His eyes close for a moment, and then open. He tucks the little slip of fabric into his pants pocket, sits on the closed toilet, rests his elbows on his knees, and continues to watch you.

You let the hot water flow over your tired, cold body. You stare at Sylus’s face, let it fill your vision, blot out the rushing river, the impact that never came, the idea of everything you would have missed, if he hadn’t pulled you out. Everything you would have missed, in such a short amount of time. What else would you miss, if he hadn’t caught you? If he could give you so much within an hour, how much would you have missed in a day? In a week?

What have you been fighting, this whole time? 

Just yourself. 

You think of the stones at the bottom of the riverbed, instead of your body. Your conviction that you’re not loved, your guilt, your shame, instead of you.

You stare at the man who handed you each one, and told you to get rid of them, instead of yourself. The man sitting in your tiny bathroom, filling it with his big body, his even bigger presence, staring at you, staring at him.

You stop shaking.

Reach for the body wash, lather your hands. Run your hands along your body, under your armpits. He frowns, eyes on your hands. You palm your breasts, dip between your legs.

He lowers his head, eyes still on your hands, rests his full lips on his long steepled fingers.

You finish lathering your body, let the water wash it away. He’s too far away, even this close, on the other side of the glass.

As you turn off the water, he stands, lifts one of your towels from the rack. Holds it out for you. You step into it, him, let him wrap it around you. He turns you both, so that you’re looking in the bathroom mirror, which is mostly fogged.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod, soaking in his warmth at your back, the steam of the bathroom. 

You have a question, a question you can’t bring yourself to say out loud yet.

You reach out with one hand. Trace a finger through the fogged mirror.

Sylus watches you, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

Letters, a question.

Do you like me? Circle yes or no

Sylus smiles again, lifts an eyebrow. He reaches out, takes your hand in his. He circles no with your finger.

You frown, heart sinking, but Sylus just whispers, “Patience, kitten,” and flattens your palm across like. Guides your finger again, just above the erased like, drags it through the moisture in an elegant script.

love

He then gently sets your hand down. Lifts his own, circles with one long finger, yes.

He watches your reaction in the mirror.

You had no idea.

This whole time, you had no idea, even though he was showing you, with every ‘chance’ encounter, his pestering you with questions about work, life, his silly stories about the N109 Zone. His packages at your door. Fever medication, a big glass of water shoved into your hands.

You think of the rushing water, what almost happened. What you almost missed.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me believe you still hated me?”

He looks down at you now, away from your reflection in the mirror. His eyes trail your face, down your curved neck. He palms the back of your neck, his thumb drifting along the side, over a mole there.

“Have you heard of the myth that where we have moles is where someone kissed us in a past life?”

Even if so much has changed between you in just the last few hours, you’re reassured that Sylus Qin still can’t answer a straightforward question with a straightforward answer.

You shake your head. “No, I had never heard of that.”

Sylus smiles, and it looks a little sad. He leans down, presses the softest of kisses against your skin, the mole there. “Like most human legends, it’s a pretty lie. Not quite true.”

You laugh. “I could have guessed as much.” You tilt your neck, enjoying the press of his warm lips on your skin for the first time.

He opens his mouth, runs his teeth over where he just kissed you. Bites, gently.

You shiver again. Press your neck into, instead of away from his teeth.

He bites harder.

You gasp.

“I was afraid I’d frighten you with the enormity of my feelings for you, when in your mind, we’d only just met,” he murmurs against your neck, his saliva, the indentation of his teeth hot on your skin.

He bites again, presses himself into your ass through the towel. You realize he’s hard.

You forget about the last part of his sentence. Had you not only just met?

You lift your hands, let the towel unfurl from around your body, let it drop to the floor.

You almost died tonight.

What have you been fighting this whole time?

Just yourself. 

He tried hard to help me

You know, he put me at ease

You turn in his arms. He’s breathing hard, cheeks pink.

“You love me?”

He closes his eyes. Opens them. Shakes his head. “Love isn’t intense enough.”

“Adore me?” You lift your arms, wrap them around his neck. Pull his face closer to your own.

He shakes his head again. “Still not enough.”

“You won’t survive without me?” You lift on your toes, his soft sweater almost unbearable against your sensitive nipples.

He nods. “You’re getting closer. Can’t breathe without you. When I saw you jump…” He swallows, thickly. “You might as well have pulled me down with you, beloved. If it ever gets to be too much again, take me with you. I’ll never leave you alone again. Promise me the same,” he demands, big, calloused hands running up your naked sides, the fabric of his dark jeans rough against your body, where your thighs meet, as he helplessly nudges against you again with his hips, his hard dick behind his zipper.

I'm so hard to handle

I'm selfish and I'm sad

“I wouldn’t have known, unless you told me,” you breathe against his lips. “Promise that you’ll tell me how you’re feeling from now on, and I’ll promise to take you with me if I can’t leave the stones in the riverbed, even with you here.”

His voice is deep, rough like the fabric of his pants against your sensitive skin. “Deal.” He closes the distance, presses his soft lips to yours. Licks into your mouth.

And he loved me so naughty

Made me weak in the knees

His hands drift down your sides as his tongue dips into your throat, as he swallows your noises of pleasure, just from kissing him, his hands on you. He grips your ass, urges your legs around his waist. He carries you out of the tiny, steaming bathroom, manages not to knock you against the doorway, or into any furniture on the way to your bedroom, even as he continues to kiss you, as your hands in his soft hair probably block his peripheral view. He lays you down on your bed, the puff of your duvet. It’s so warm in your place that you’re not even shivering. You watch as he pulls his cheerful sweater and undershirt over his head, tosses them to the floor. As he unzips himself, hastily yanks down his pants and boxers, his socks. He blankets you with his big body.

You wrap your arms around him, pull him tightly to you, arch your breasts into his chest. He leans down, runs his nose along your cheek, inhales the scent of your hair at your temple. You just feel each other, for a long stretch of time. His soft chest hair against your skin, the silken skin of his dick between your thighs where he just leisurely rubs himself against you, as your palms run down the muscles of his back, the line of his spine. You’ve refused to think of him like this, ever since he wrapped his hand around your throat. You couldn’t bear his beauty, through all the long months that followed. You fled, every time your heart raced at the flash of silver as he approached you, met you where you were, over and over and over.

But now he says he has loved you, through it all. That he’ll never leave you alone again.

You let yourself feel him, under your hands, under your tongue, as you lick into his ear, feel him shiver. As you squeeze your thighs together, offering him a tight, snug space for him to keep pleasuring himself, as you feel your own wetness begin to coat your inner thighs, his cock, the longer you feel him on top of you, inhale the scent of his skin, the ever-present gun oil, the cloves, his clean sweat underneath it all.

After a lifetime, or only a few minutes, he leans down, says softly into your ear. “I want you. Tell me you want me too.”

“Can’t you tell?” you ask, bucking a little, squeezing him with your legs again.

He makes a low, pleasured sound in his throat. “I want to hear you say it. You’ve gone through a lot tonight. I need to know you actually want this. That you’re not just—” his breath hitches, as you move your hips again, as his dick slips between your wet, soft places. “That you’re not too tired to say otherwise, not thinking straight.”

“Use your Aether Core on me. Then you’ll know that my body is telling you what my mouth would, if I said the words.” You smile at him, teasing. 

I wish I had a river so long

I would teach my feet to fly

You had wanted to fly. You had settled for flying for a brief moment, before shattering. 

But Sylus is offering you constant flight, under, over, along his crow’s wings.

You think of the rushing water. The tide of cars behind you, the wind whipping your hair. You almost missed this. You don’t want to waste any more time.

He lowers his forehead to yours, breathes, speaks against your saliva-slick lips with his own. “I don’t want to use my Aether Core on you. I want the words in your mouth, in your heart. I want your free will, your freely given consent. I almost lost you because I tried to force you, at the beginning. You believed I hated you, this whole time. Don’t ask me to force you again, my heart.”

You understand. You accept his request, his demand. “I want you, Sylus.”

He exhales, shifts above you, slips his wet cock between your legs, slides into your body with gentle, firm, graceful waves of his hips.

You whine, the feeling of fullness layering into the pleasure of the warmth of his skin, the taste of his tongue. For once, the feelings inside you threatening to burst out of your skin are so good, instead of painful, so pleasurable, that you can barely stand it. 

He kisses you, his velvet tongue big, heavy in your mouth. You suck, whine again as he lifts a hand, palms your breast, begins to thrust into you.

You are filled with him. His warmth. The size of him.

You widen your legs, wrap them around his thick ass. Urge him with your own body to move faster, to fuck you harder. He gives you everything you want. Just the pressure of his body against yours has you coming, the release bright, sudden—you shake with it.

Your pleasure seems to trigger his. He grunts, roots into you, buries his teeth in your neck, bites where he bit you before, over the mole on your neck. The sting makes you clench, and he whimpers, groans, comes with a jerk of his hips.

He slows, still filling you, still pleasuring you, as he lifts his head to look into your eyes.

You stare at each other, breath mingling, warm between you. 

You smile at him. 

He smiles at you. Nudges your nose with his.

“Can we do that again?” you ask.

He laughs, low and surprised. “Yeah,” he says, kissing you softly. “Just tell me, and I’m yours, anytime, anyplace.”

“I’m telling you.” You move your hips, feel his cum drip drown your ass. Feel him gasp at your movement.

“Now?” He’s surprised again.

“Problem?” you grin at him. 

“Fuck no.” He kisses you, hard. Slips out of you. Flips you over, lifts your hips with one big hand, pressing his other between your shoulder blades.

He presses his cock back between your legs, the slide easy and wet, and fucks you until you come again, until he blankets your back with his sweat-slicked, matted-hair chest.

“Was that enough, your highness?” he teases.

“I’m telling you,” you pant, wondering what he’ll do. 

“As you wish,” he murmurs, before flipping you again. Before watching your face as he slowly, leisurely works himself, his cum into you, makes you come again. 

In the morning, the sky through your windows is heavy, dark, gray. You wake slowly. Turn your head, find Sylus’s sleeping face next to yours on the pillow. He’s lying on his stomach. You take in the dark sweep of his lashes, his generous mouth, slightly parted.

You slip out of the bed, use the bathroom. You wander into the living room, gaze at the Christmas tree, its twinkling lights.

It’s Christmas.

Caleb and your grandmother are dead. 

But you’re still alive.

Your body aches from Sylus’s efforts, but it feels good. For once, it feels good to be inside your body. To breathe deeply.

You think of riverstones, sinking deep in the riverbed.

You know that the feelings tied to them will try to rise, clawing to the surface again.

We’ll gather other stones, when your feelings make life unbearable. I’ll come with you, as many times as you need.

Your eyes drift to the top of the Christmas tree. It’s empty.

“I thought we should finish it together.” Sylus’s warm arms wrap around you from behind. He leans over your shoulder, kisses your cheek softly. “Do you want to do the honors?”

You smile, wrapping your hands over his forearms around your waist. “You’re taller.”

“Use me as much as you like, kitten.” He turns, grabs a pretty golden glass tree-topper from your kitchen table, hands it to you. He lifts you up onto one shoulder, easily, and you fit it gently over the highest point of the tree. He holds you against him, as he lowers you. You slide along his body, until he sets you gently on your feet again.

You both stand, admiring it for a moment. It’s beautiful, like the rest of the decorations.

You hug him, look up into his face.

“Merry Christmas, Sylus.”

He smiles down at you, ruby eyes twinkling with reflected light from the tree. 

You would have missed this moment, and all the moments like it, if Sylus hadn’t stopped you last night. You shudder, hug him more tightly. 

You know your feelings will return. That no one person can solve a lifetime of wounds. But you promised him that you’d try. That you’d stay. You can only do your best.

You hear your phone vibrating, reluctantly pull away from him, head to your coat in the hallway where you thought you left it last night, but Sylus stops you. He points at your kitchen island. Your phone is lying on the counter. You look at him in confusion, but go to check it.

You’re shocked at how many missed texts you have.

From Tara.

Xavier.

Your eyes widen.

Zayne, who you thought you had blocked, months ago.

Rafayel, who you’re sure you blocked last night.

Each one is a response from a text you never sent. Telling them Merry Christmas. Telling them you love them. Telling them you hope to spend time with them soon.

None of them shame you, call you out on your behavior of the last year. Even Zayne simply suggests that you try a new bakery, that you’ve been in his thoughts, that he’s relieved you felt comfortable enough to reach out. Rafayel sends a bunch of firework emojis, suggests blowing shit up on the beach for New Year��s.

You turn to Sylus.

He looks steadily back at you, silver hair sleep-tousled, wine-bright eyes glowing.

Your eyes feel hot, and you realize you’re crying, the tears fat on your cheeks, dripping down your neck. 

This is the first time you’ve cried since you woke up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s necklace bright in the reflected fire.

Sylus walks over to you. Leans down, licks the tears from your cheeks with his warm tongue, one after the other. He kisses you, ignoring your suddenly snotty nose, your morning breath.

“If it’s too much, we can take it slow. We can throw more stones in the river. But please answer your friends. You need them. And you’re a fool, if you can’t see that they need you too, if that makes you feel better about your own need.”

You continue to cry as you wrap your arms around Sylus’s neck. As he gently sways with you, to music that isn’t playing. He hums, and you think it’s Joni Mitchell’s The River, but you can’t be sure. You smile against his chest.

A thought occurs to you.

“Last night, you said there was still time. That you had plans for us, a pretty dress for me. What did we miss?”

Sylus sighs, holds you closer against himself. “Don’t worry about it.”

You stop, look up into his face. “What did you have planned, Sylus? Are you sorry we missed it?”

He smiles at you. “Oh yes, so sorry I got to spend all night fucking you instead of going to a holiday concert featuring the organ.” His voice drips sarcasm. “But we can go tonight, if you’d like to make it up to me.”

You laugh, bury your face back into his chest. “And here I had planned to suck your cock while watching a black and white Christmas film marathon tonight,” you say forlornly. You smile into his chest as he chokes. “Oh well, the concert it is.”

He just laughs, rich and deep, and continues to sway you slowly in your living room.

“Merry Christmas, my heart,” Sylus says against your hair, in your pine scented apartment, as snow begins to fall outside your windows, as your phone continues to vibrate, filled with the love of your friends.

Here you are. Again.

You’re so grateful, to be here, again.

[dragoniangirl]

I would like to share my experience with a similar medication.

My doctor has been hyper-fixated on my weight for years. Every medical issue or concern I have he links it back to my weight. When I told him a while back about my concerns about my focus issues, he said it was because I had sleep apnea which meant I wasn't getting enough oxygen to my brain when I slept. And I had sleep apnea because I was fat. Not in those exact words but it was implied.

For the longest time he kept trying to push the bariatric surgery on me. Except I was apparently supposed to loose 60lbs before they'd even do a consultation for the surgery. If I was capable of loosing that much weight, I wouldn't need the surgery. But I digress. I was very adamant. I didn't want to get surgery to loose weight. (It also helped that I had a friend who is a nurse and when I mentioned the surgery she was appalled he would even suggest it to someone like me as I'm not even in the 300lb range but he still claims I'm "morbidly obese")

He suggested I do portion control and weight my food. I did and the next time I went in to see him and I told him that's what I was doing he goes "No no. You need to be counting your calories." By that point, I decided I wasn't going to listen to any of his advice about my weight as it just kept changing no matter what I did.

During one of my more recent visits (winter of 2023 I believe) he suggested Mounjaro (which is a drug similar to Ozempic as it's meant for people with type-II diabetes). He said it would work as an appetite suppressant. That I wouldn't feel as hungry and thus I wouldn't eat as much. He had a trial kit which had five injections in it so I wouldn't have to pay anything. I figured, fine. We'll give it a try. It was a once a week injection. I could handle that. We did the first injection there so they could show me how it was done and then I'd just have to do it again on the same day for the next couple weeks. Then I'd come back and we'd see the results. He did warn me one of the side effects would be nausea. "You'll feel nauseous but that's normal with this drug." he assured me. The way he explained it, he made it sound tame. I figured I could handle that.

I was very wrong.

Day one: Didn't feel any different but I figured it was just the first day and I wouldn't be feeling the effects right away.

Day two: Woke up for work feeling a little sick. Thought I'd be okay. Had a light breakfast then went into work. Spent the majority of the day running back and forth to the bathroom being violently sick. Couldn't keep anything down.

Day three: Same as before. Felt super nauseous. Had terrible cramps like my stomach was turning in on itself. Could barely keep anything down.

Day four: Felt slightly better. Not as sick but still felt on the verge of throwing up every time I ate more than a sandwich.

Day five: Better than day before. Could eat a little more without fear of throwing up. Cramps were still there.

Day six: Finally felt fine. No longer felt nauseous and could eat more.

Day seven: Still fine. Figured the nausea was because my body was just getting used to the drug. Now that I had experienced all that, I'd be okay.

Day eight: Injection day. Felt fine the whole day. Was feeling hopeful.

Day nine: I was wrong.

Day ten: Was sicker than I'd been the previous week. Could barely function at work.

Day eleven: When leaving for work, threw up on the way to the car and noticed I'd just thrown up the other medication I was on. Decided enough was enough.

I called the doctor's office to explain what was going on and if I could stop taking the medication. (I know better than to stop a medication cold turkey) They gave me the go ahead and scheduled an appointment that week. I go in and the first thing they do is weight me. When I see the doctor he's all excited because "You lost seven pounds!"

In two weeks.

I told him that was because I wasn't eating at all. And anything I was eating was being thrown up. I told him I didn't think it was healthy to loose that much weight in that short amount of time. He looked disappointed but agreed to take me off, marking in my medical chart that I was "allergic" to Mounjaro.

The next scheduled appointment I had with him, he once again started on my weight. Said it was a shame I had such a reaction to the Mounjaro because it worked so well. I got very upset with him about that. Yelled that "of course it worked well! It essentially gave me bulimia!"

So yeah. Unless you actually need this medication to treat the condition it's meant to treat (ie Type-II Diabetes) don't fucking take it. It sickens me that actual medical doctors are recommending this to their patients.

I have been debating sharing this for some time, but with the new year weight loss ads amping up, I feel it's something I have to say. I'm worried for people's health.

Unless you've been living under a rock, you probably already know about people taking the diabetic drug ozempic for weight loss. You've probably heard the debates about the ethics of taking needed drugs away from diabetes patients and maybe even the side effect of "ozempic face." However, there is one side effect of taking these drugs that, in my opinion, people are not being warned about.

If you carefully pay attention to the television ads, you will hear them mention "pancreatitis" as a possible side effect. If you're like me a decade ago, that word probably means nothing to you. Let me warn you, however, it is no minor thing. My husband suffered from chronic pancreatitis for five agonizing years. The pain is beyond comprehension. Doctors who specialize in the pancreas describe it as the worst pain a human can endure. There is no actual cure. Little is understood about the disease, so treatment is difficult. Doctors who understand it are few and far between. It took my husband forever to get diagnosed. He went through multiple surgeries and procedures, but nothing worked. He had to go on an extremely limiting diet. If he varied from it in any way, he would have an attack. The only way to recover from an attack was to not eat at all for days, then slowly add in broth and jello. Did he lose weight? Yes. As a matter of fact, one day he stepped out of the shower, and I burst into tears at the sight of him. He was skin and bones - I could count every rib. Was it worth it to be thin? If you even ask that question, I'm concerned for your mental health.

They couldn't figure out exactly why my husband got pancreatitis. At that time, they thought only alcoholics and drug addicts got pancreatitis. This made it difficult to get compassionate medical care, unfortunately. Now they know that prescription medication (particularly diabetic medication) and high cholesterol can also cause it. Then there is another group - where they just don't know. But you better believe I would hesitate to take any medication that could cause pancreatitis. I would weigh my options carefully to assess if it was worth the risk. In my opinion, weight loss is not worth that risk.

My concern has been heightened seeing the Hers commercials for these drugs (under different names, but rest assured, it is the same thing). These commercials brag that you can get these drugs from Hers with just a simple virtual call, no questions asked. I wonder if people are fully aware of the risks of these drugs. I also wonder if we even know all of the risks yet. I also fear that the culture around these drugs could develop into an us vs. them mentality. That if it's so easy to be thin, why wouldn't you be? And some are getting dangerously thin on these drugs.

I know some diabetics who are on these drugs, and necessarily so. They tell me that it causes nausea when they eat. That's why they don't eat much. Again, that doesn't sound like a pleasant way to live. If you need it to regulate your blood sugar, that's one thing. But if you don't? Why would you do this to yourself?

My husband is now healed of pancreatitis. It was a miracle. You may not believe in that sort of thing, but I'm telling you, there is no other explanation. We had exhausted every medical solution, then the pandemic hit. We were concerned because hospitals were only taking life or death cases. What if he had a bad attack and needed an iv of pain meds? What would we do? Weeks passed - no pain. A month passed - no pain. Six weeks passed - no pain. He decided to grill a steak - something he hadn't been able to even take a nibble of in 5 years. I watched him take a bite, holding my breath. Nothing. He ate the whole thing. No pain. Five years later, still no pain. The doctors can't explain it, either.

So our story has a happy ending. Not everyone else's does. I hope people take the time to read this. If you do, please, please share it. I don't want anyone suffering needlessly.

[ghostgirl-22]

OBSESSED with your stupid cockslut art!! Needy little baby too stupid to think about anything other than getting wrecked by his teammates…. The first time it happens…. They’re changing after training and the new kid - some handsome clearly gay guy - is flirting with art, leaning over him, putting his hands on arts chest, on his waist and Patrick’s being his typical jealous about it until he realises arts brain has completely turned off and he’s spacey and giggly and blushing and Patrick is immediately hard and like. Needs to explore this immediately actually. Drags art away and back to their room and arts so different to normal and Patrick just can’t help himself he has to fuck art immediately because as if he’d miss out on the chance to have him like this????

Ah yes…yes… I hear you anon…<3

So like Im taking it as the first time Patrick realizes that Art goes brainless or something like that (idk enjoy lol)

CW: 18+ !NSFW!

—-

It takes a little while for him to notice, if Patrick’s being honest. He’s not really paying attention at first. He’s joking with a couple of his teammates about how predictable one of their regular opponents serve is. They’re all laughing and out of the corner of his eye is when he sees it.

The new kid, Craig Reynolds, is also the only openly gay kid on the team. He’s this tall, handsome, conventionally attractive athlete from a rich family. That’s pretty much why he gets away with it, integrating seamlessly while taking little if any flack from his teammates.

He’s talking to Art, talking up close, the way Patrick might. Barely giving him any personal space. Art’s leaning with his back up against the lockers, half dressed, smiling at him. Letting him touch, letting him grip at his arm, at his waist.

“God, Craig wants to fuck him so bad,” One of Patrick’s buddies mutters when he notices Patrick staring.

“Put him in make up and a dress and I’d wanna fuck him too,” another teammate snorts and they both laugh.

Patrick feels his stomach do a somersault and he’s suddenly burning up with irritation. Of course Craig is into Art, it makes perfect sense. Art is the pretty boy blonde on the team with the perfect ass. What’s bothering him is the way Art is mirroring his attraction.

It’s the way Art’s leaning back, letting himself be played with. Eyes wide, posture submissive. Smiling the way girls do when someone really attractive is giving them attention. When Craig leans in to play with his hair and Art starts wetting his lips is when Patrick decides to interrupt.

He gets first dibs. He gets last dibs. He gets everything in between. “Hey so you wanna go?” He asks Art.

“Patrick, Craig said he can help me with my backhand,” Art says, he’s chewing bubble gum, always has something in his mouth. And Jesus Christ up close it’s even worse. Patrick can see his eyes are dilated and his cheeks are pinkening. If he had longer hair he’d be twirling it for him.

“Oh yeah?” Patrick glares at Craig.

Craig glances at Patrick, eyes filled with amusement before his gaze returns to Art. “I mean, whenever. If you want to come play with me Donaldson, you know where I live.” His eyes fall over Art’s body, his desire so fucking obvious.

“Okay but promise you won’t go easy on me?” Art says, softly. Flirting. It’s so silly and irritating. Patrick’s one step from grabbing him and dragging him away.

“Don’t worry, you’re strong,” Craig rubs Art’s bare chest, “I know you can take it.”

Art’s grinning now, like it’s funny. It’s so not funny.

“Can you go get dressed?” Patrick demands. “I want to get food before the cafeteria closes.”

Art blinks, “Oh yeah… um…” he stumbles forwards running into the bench and he bends over to rub his shin as Craig laughs.

“Careful pretty boy.”

“Shuddup,” Art says, playful. “Um… wait… where’s my bag?”

Patrick narrows his eyes, “where it always is?” He says, incredulous when Art looks around helpless. “Other side of the room. Under the bench,” He points. “Near your locker.”

“Oh yeah,” Art grins.

“I think your roommate likes boys,” Craig’s sing song voice sounds teasingly in Patrick’s ear as they watch Art make his way over to his bag. “But of course you already know that… you’re fucking him, aren’t you?”

Patrick raises his eyebrows, turning around to face him. “Did he—”

”He didn’t say anything but it takes one to know one. Everyone talks about you guys like you’re one entity and then of course you show up all jealous,” Craig smirks, bending over his bag on the bench. Patrick rolls his eyes.

Impressively, Art hasn’t even made it five feet without being distracted by another boy.

“This is his right?” Craig hands Patrick a razor phone that definitely belongs to Art.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Fuck.”

“Be careful with that, someone might steal it away from you.” Craig pats his arm. Patrick shrugs him off and follows Art to the other side of the locker room.

He’s no more dressed than he was a minute ago. Instead he’s like a little space cadet, straddling the bench and bouncing his thigh while the guys Patrick was chatting with earlier are teasing him about Craig.

“Do you have any more gum, Donaldson?” One of them asks, sitting across from him while idly rubbing Art’s thigh. It’s their teammate Tyler Fitzgerald, who everyone just calls Fitz. Art smirks and blows a bubble which Fitz pops with his finger.

“Someone gave it to me.” Art says, soft. Pretty little grin on his face as he licks all the gum back into his mouth. Someone’s always giving him something.

“I like how you blow bubbles. You wanna blow something else?” Fitz smirks, still rubbing Art’s thigh. “I don’t think Craigs is bigger than mine.”

Art leans back on his hands, still chewing, skin flushed. “You’re so gross,” he says, but he scoots his body closer and sticks his gum coated tongue out.

“Art,” Patrick sighs. Fitz glances up at him at the same time Art does, pulling his hands away from Art’s thighs and getting to his feet with a not so subtle wink in Art’s direction.

“Patrick I’m— I’m coming,” Art says. He reaches for his bag and then sits up straight patting his pockets. “Wait I can’t find my—my—”

Patrick pulls the silver razor phone out of his own pocket and hands it to Art. ”Oh wow. I- where did you—?”

”Don’t worry about it, come on,” Patrick interrupts. He’s anxious and not for food. He thinks he’s starting to understand what’s happening.

Art is so shy when girls flirt with him, but he’s absolutely ditzy when he’s taking Patrick’s cock. Maybe with Craig flirting and Fitz flirting, maybe just the thought of getting fucked has him in that same drunken silly state. Unable to focus on anything but the idea of getting filled. And suddenly Patrick’s jeans feel so much tighter.

“Come on,” Patrick holds out his hand and Art chews a little longer before he spits the gum out, gazing up at Patrick, lips parted, eyes dilated, pink tongue tracing the surface of his white teeth. Patrick thinks about fucking him right here�� taking him in the bathroom stall just to get it out of his system. Everyone probably already fucking knows by now. Art reaches for Patrick’s zipper and Patrick barely stops him, stepping back to go throw the gum away. “Get dressed,” he says.

Craig smirks at him from across the locker room.

Art just barely manages to get his clothes on. Patrick has to help him collect his gear. He’s all over the place. A little bit of boy flirting and he’s a fucking mess. Teasing the whole time, desperate for Patrick’s attention… for his…

He barely gets Art home. They’re kissing in the elevator. Art is dizzy, grabbing at him. Climbing all over Patrick as soon as they get onto the bed. Hes such a fucking cock slut he’s moaning before Patrick even gets inside, he’s moaning just for the promise of it. Falls apart all over it. Doesn’t recover till they’re sweaty and breathless, covered in lube, spit and semen.

And then Art’s back to normal. It’s fascinating. The way he comes back down to earth with little or no recollection of the way he was acting in the locker room. They clean up and go to dinner and it’s Patrick’s turn to fall apart. Tripping over himself to open doors for him, pulling him closer where they sit in the cafeteria. Patrick’s practically on top of him, consuming all his time, his attention, all the food he wants but can’t finish. Art’s not even eating his dessert, just licking the icing off. Patrick’s asking him what he remembers still trying to understand this particular tick.

Art denies flirting, says he was just talking to Craig, says he would never cheat and or let another boy fuck him. “I mean, unless…” he shrugs licking the frosting off his spoon. “Unless you wanted me too.” He bites down on the spoon and gazes at Patrick.

Patrick stares back at him, he can’t help but to smirk. “Yeah, okay.” He says but his mind is screaming because whatever the fuck this is… he knows he wants it. It’s only a matter of time before Art gets hit on by another boy and Patrick decides he’ll just have to be there so he can do more research.

[writingwisterias]

hope this isnt off limits but how would eras leon react to their partner being into ddlg?

Hi!

I have no problem doing this for you! I hope you like it 💕 I'm churning these out as fast as I can lmao...I'm dead from work but almost to my holiday 🥺

Warnings: NSFW, Ddlg, Fluff, MDNI

AFAB!Reader

RE2:

I actually think he would settle into this role easily, like it sort of makes a routine in his life

He would be embarrassed at first just with the idea and worried if anyone saw but eventually he would settle pretty quickly

I think he would lean more towards getting you the thing you would want like teddies

Less likely to punish you even if you break the rules he's given you because he caves easily

In terms of the use of daddy I think he would freak out a bit at first, never letting you see it because it would almost feel like you are aging him and the world is already doing that so he might be a bit reluctant

He's never thought he would be into something like this but he ends up actually liking it and it fit really well with the both of you

RE4R:

He would love the idea of being able to take care of you and provide for you in a safe place

I think he would also enjoy coming home and seeing what you have done whenever it's colouring or just being cosy on the couch

He would also shower you in love and affection very quickly. All the money he earns goes to bills, food and you.

I think he's more of a quiet observer, so he just enjoys being in the living room watching a film as you sit next to the coffee table drawing etc

He prefers watching your favorite films and shows. He will say they are bad but secretly he loves them

Huge on praise Kink, all you have to do is bat your eyes at him and he's dragging you to the bedroom with a raging hard on

At first the use of Daddy would shock him and take a while to get used to but then he would fall into the role naturally and actually refer to himself as Daddy

Infinite Darkness:

LOVES IT

Like he's all in straight away no need for further questions

He loves spoiling you but becomes firm if you break his rules

Has raging hard on's all the time with your innocence.

Often Feels guilty about it but you always seem up to pleasing him so eventually he doesn't get guilty anymore

Doesn't let you in his office because you always end up distracting him but somehow you always end up in there

When you do enter let's just say you will be shooed out with the promise of a red ass if you don't do it quickly

He will tease you as you cuddle and watch films or TV shows. Playing with your clit under the fluffy blanket you insisted on laying over the top of the both of you

Enjoys your whines of protest and how they eventually turns into begs for daddy's touch

Damnation:

Definitely becomes more strict in terms of you following the rules he puts in place but always makes it up when he does have to punish you

Your little doe eyes always help you get your way with him

Lazy at sex, prefers if you are so needy and do most of the work. Until you get all whiny and upset that you can't cum he'll step in then

He's away a lot more, but always at random times so he'll make sure to have meals prepared for you and labeled in the fridge. Trusting that you use them and don't forget

He will call you if he's away but if he can't he'll always make sure to send you a text

RE6:

Neither of you actually have a conversation about exploring this dynamic between the two of you it just happens naturally

It works though and Leon enjoys it as it gives him something else to focus on

Especially so after the events of the game, he pretty much lives through the events of raccoon City again and doesn't even seem phased

Until he gets back

You notice the change in his attitude and see his sad eyes. Deciding in your little brain to try and help him out

He finds it cute how you bring him your favourite teddy and cosy up to him, allowing him to thread his fingers through your hair

You'll try your best to not be needy but that only upsets him further because that's his favorite part

Your constant need for his attention

Vendetta:

Since he's not in the right frame of mind I don't think he would be as interested in the idea

He can barely take care of himself

I think the dynamic would only work during sex

It would come out to play before, during and after sex but beyond that it would have to be hidden if he's having a bad day

Sometimes when he's drunk he'll play into it a bit more, he's looser and forgotten whatever was bothering him

He would be gentle still during these times, probably loosely refers to himself as Daddy just for your sake

Feels bad that it's been washed away and he's not doing a good job at providing for you in this manner

Still spoils you rotten though

Death Island:

Doesn't like the idea of having children he's too old for that now

But you? He loves taking care of you

He wouldn't even let you work, he's got more than enough savings to last you living this life style comfortably

Prefers it if you didn't spend his money lavishly but then you are just his cheeky little girl so who's he kidding

Sex is great because you are just so willing for it

He doesn't have to worry about erectile dysfunction for a while that's for sure

Accidentally refers to himself as Daddy in public if you are meeting friends one too many times

It's just become a natural habit now, he doesn't mind though. You seem to get more embarrassed than he does

[resident-idiot-simp]

Thinking about my X-Men rewrite again.

Shot out to my beloved @shy-canadian-snowflake for the amazing starting idea.

Wade and Logan who go around a different cage fighting arenas as a duo to scam people out of their money. The beginning goes the same way except for the guy also getting mad that Logan and Wade were scamming people then when Logan pins the guy to the wall. Instead of turning around and slicing the gun Wade does it.

The then get the hell out of Dodge and instead of Rogue hiding in the back Wade catches her and directs her into the truck. Things go relatively the same except none of them get knocked out and Sabertooth gets run off by them (Logan also has him memories).

They get picked up by Storm and Scott then brought to the mansion. It doesn't go as well because Logan is half feral with the new environment and the short time around and protecting Rogue had already started alternating his brain (despite his best efforts).

Logan is actively hostile to anyone who isn't Wade and all the children, thought some are thin fucking ice. Wade isn't much better with how manic he is.

No one is having a good time because Xavier is explaining sabertooth and Logan is just like yeah that's my creep pervert brother (This information has made everything worse btw). No one knows what to do.

Rogue still gets stabbed and runs off. But this time Wade is also there. Both get their asses handed to them and yada yada yada. Everything is still the same at the end except for Wade being there.

Then when Logan wakes up in the med bay Wade is by his side. They both decided to stay because lord knows no one else teaching the kids practical applicable stuff.

Rogue is now practically their kid and is the only one who who is excited for Wade to stay

That's X1 come back later for more when I figure that out

[miharaikko]

My 2024 writing round up

Thank you for the tags to @firenati0n @0npurpose @sophie1973 @clockwrkpendrxgon @kj-bee

I started writing fic this year in May and managed to put out 21 pieces, 19 oneshots and 2 multi-chapters. I would have never imagined myself as a fic writer, considering I barely knew the concept a year ago, but here we are—brain rot so active and ideas overflowing 🤷‍♀️

I’m so thankful to all the people willing to give my little stories a chance. Thank you for all the kudos, comments and overall yelling on twitter and discord. 

And thank you to my Red Umbrella gang. Since meeting y'all in June my life has significantly improved 💕 Can’t wait to see what 2025 brings us! ✨

My AO3: miharaikko My fandom: Red, White & Royal Blue Number of fics posted: 21 Number of Words posted: 91,717

MAY

Pearly Gates (M, 5K)  Alex sees Henry across the dance floor and is mesmerized by his ivory skin and the pearl top he is wearing.

JUNE

Love will abide (take things in stride) (E, 15K)  Henry should be getting married tomorrow. Instead, he's at a pub, considering if he should go back to the hotel of a man he just met.

JULY

waging my wars behind my face and above my throat (M, 3K) Henry is having a bad day and Alex helps him through it (part I)

AUGUST

I was already on my way (GA, 1.1K) Henry is having a bad day and Alex helps him through it (part II)

SEPTEMBER

touch my phone (as if it’s your face) (GA, 5.3K) Alex texts the wrong number. It turns out to be the right one in the end.

just you and I (GA, 1K) Slices of life, inspired by Tom Odell's Grow Old with Me

OCTOBER

In the heart of Wales (Yng nghalon Cymru) (GA, 2.8K) Alex and Henry get lost in the heart of Wales

only thing on my grocery list (is your lips) (GA, 2.2K) Henry keeps visiting his local market and trying out new recipes, all for the sake of a cute vendor

more than a game to play (the truth is on my tongue) (E, 2.5K) Being friends with benefits shouldn't matter. But when Henry gets jealous, it starts to matter.

I was cold as a stone (but I found what I'm lookin' for) (GA, 2.6K) Henry retreats to a cabin in the woods for some peace and quiet, but he also finds something else there.

all eyes on you, my magician (all eyes on us) (GA, 3.8K) - collab with tothemoon_andsaturn Henry is a magician, but he is falling under the spell of Alex.

three words, infinite possibilities (GA, 1.8K) Alex figures out that his feelings for Henry are more than he thought.

a beagle's guide to finding love (GA, 5.7K) When David feels like henry could use a new friend, he takes the matter into his own paws.

pink silk ribbon kinky thingy (E, 7.2K) Alex finds a spool of silk ribbon which makes him feels things. Henry helps him process those feelings.

NOVEMBER

saturday night love (GA, 1.3K) A-list actor Henry decides to come out during an SNL sketch. Alex is the SNL regular who gets to kiss him during it.

DECEMBER

Spotify Wrapped - a Series of Unserious Drabbles (M, 2.7K) writings based on my 2024 Spotify Wrapped

a beautiful sight, we're happy tonight (M, 2.8K) - collab with tothemoon_andsaturn Henry takes Alex to visit Wales. The lack of snow doesn't stop Alex from transforming the day into a winter Wonderland.

but if you’re leaving, I gotta know why (M, 4K) Alex overhears a conversation between Henry and Bea and realizes there's a lot more things that he feels for his roommate.

...for so long (M, 6.2K)â Henry is tasked with baking gingerbread and he gets a helping hand from a friend

both your hands (in the holes of my sweater) (M, 6.4K) Henry and Alex lend each other certain clothes items over the years

s'mores (let me taste you some more) (E, 8.8K) Stuck in a cabin due to a storm, Alex and Henry only have marshmallows, crackers and chocolate as supplies. They make the best of it, while also tending to some old wounds.

WIPs & UPCOMING FICS

I've been yapping about these 3 since the moment they each came to mind, but with the collections I took part in, and other smaller ideas that never let my mind, I haven't been able to finish them. But my goal for 2025 is to bring these 3 babies to the world:

Red Wine and Royal Bleu Cheese - vaguely established plot, where Alex visits a winery where he meets Henry

Clay your love on me - Alex is a TikTok potter and Henry is a fan of his live videos

no title yet, but this will be my multi-chaptered Magnum Opus once I manage to write it, based on the following prompt: Friends with benefits (they share a house to split the rent) with detriments (they used to date but broke up for self-sabotaging reasons) with perks (sometimes they spend the night together. it’s fine) with troubles (one of them is moving away. it feels worse than the breakup)

And I also have an upcoming fic for the Wrap It Up exchange.

No pressure tags under the cut 🥰

@alasse9 @anincompletelist @cha-melodius @indestructibleheart @itsmaybitheway @jafffacakess @myheartalivewrites @miss-minnelli @msmarvelouswinchester @ninzied @nocoastposts @orchidscript @porcelainmortal @sherryvalli @silvermaples @shesfromboston @thesleepyskipper @tinyarmedtrex @whimsymanaged

[sandorsubs]

wiring your brain to control shifting

i was playing a video game but level was extremely hard. i shed blood and sweat, thinking "maybe this game is for pros and i'm not a good gamer" i was this close to give up but i wanted to see rest of the game so badly i kept trying. finally i passed it thinking it's just luck.

years later i played the game again. i hesitated at first but passed the same level in my first try. mind you i didn't become pro gamer or anything in all these years. it was just my brain wiring in the background, collecting data to find out what to do exactly but i've never realized this until i have to do it again.

if you ever said "i have never been able to do this throughout my life" for anything wait for a second and admit this is just a mental block you put between you and your desire. when you are wiring your brain, you don't realize it's happening, looks like nothing is changing or only little changes happening. because you don't see what's happening in background. it actually becomes easier but we don't care because if it's easier we are too focused on moving forward and achieving the desire.

then a random day it feels natural being able to do that. almost like you were born with this.

i've said this in my previous post, shifting isn't a skill/talent/sth related to luck or genetics. if you still think shifting is just one big change happens rarely and miraculously, please try to change that.

because shifting is just like water. it can be a drop or big ass ocean(depending on the changes in the realities). just because you've never seen an ocean, it doesn't mean you can't look at rain and say guess there has to be more.

you won't wire your brain to shift but to control it. if you aren't new to shifting, at least couple months passed since you've started your journey, your wiring has already started.

how wiring works for shifting?

i'll call this wiring path. you either stick to one thing you like or feel comfortable with, even a little interest is more than enough. or find an existing wiring path. the times you felt close to shifting for example. maybe a little voice keeps telling you this is your method. you probably have more than one wiring paths for shifting, but they are like unfinished projects. one of them must be more prominent, like at least 50% finished project.

after you've decided on your wiring path, it's not any different from achieving anything. you are not a monk, you won't be spending eternity if you are actively learning. do you know those clicking moments? you can meditate for thirty hours straight but a feeling or realization in one of your attempts takes wiring process further. and i gotta admit, maybe you needed those thirty hours meditation to realize this. that's what i love about wiring. nothing goes is in vain.

everything you do takes your wiring further.

if it feels like literally nothing is changing, you either work on more than one wiring paths or the process slowed down.

when you are not aware of this wiring, it's like pushing all the buttons and hope for best. that's what they mean by lock in. because trying everything at the same time or having backup methods is working on more than one wiring paths.

it's like learning ten languages at the same time but you are barely a1 in all of them.

like i said you have more than one wiring paths and they are unfinished projects, they all have potential. don't give them powers thinking one of them is better than the other. you make them work better with yourself. you have power to choose.

wiring from loa perspective

before loa folks come and say "so what you are saying is, you have to actually do sth to shift? stop planting assumptions in people's minds! i don't have to do anything to shift!"

baby, i'm gonna hold your hand while saying this, you assumption is also a work. you assumed you don't need 46 step method to shift or you have already shifted, right? good, i'm happy for you but see that's also a work. you still do something. you wire your brain this is how you'll control shifting. seriously, what do you consider as "work"? i'm not telling you to do 30 push-ups everyday. (i'm not being sarcastic btw, i love loa. but some of y'all doesn't like to see anything out of assumption-core. this isn't progressive and if my opinions are shaking the foundation of your assumption, sorry but maybe it's not much of an assumption because it shouldn't matter even the whole world is against you when it comes to loa -sandor goddard). whatever get on the ship loa gang, we are sailing

why "tried it all" shifters couldn't complete their wiring process then?

so i remember a person in my dm saying "i've tried a particular method for long period of time. i've tried it all and gave time."

i picture a student when i see "tried it all" shifters. this student thinks if they study math and score high marks in exams they'll be a perfect student. so they start working hard, ignoring the fact they hate math or find it hard to understand.

maybe they're interested in sports or literature but this student is obsessed with having perfect student image. they are not actively wiring, they are bargaining which only slows down and takes extra effort even to reach a milestone. they'll still have hard time to wire their brain even in subjects they do like. they study for 9 hours straight but the friend of them sniffs the textbook and scores higher.

then we have to let go of desire? it depends, i think there are two kinds of desire: first, a desire that helps you, reminds you of what you want to have and the second, desire that reminds you, what's lack. if your desire feels like a liability or its leeching you it's the second one. atp what your desire is unimportant. it's about how you see this unaccomplished desire.

plus if you are actively wiring your brain, you won't even have time to think about this desire obsessively. because you are too focused on what to do, desire is just a fuel and collectively helping you.

so people whose shifted in first attempt didn't wire any shit?

when you bumped into a "i shifted in my first attempt" person next rime, know that they are not shifting gods or prophets. they just figured out in instant what makes their brain easier to wire for controlling shifts. let's be fr some people are gifted with focusing or visualizing. they have useful existing wiring paths for shifting. plus i want to remind you something:

don't underestimate the power of a blank page. neutrality has higher frequency than courage, do you know why? because you don't have any fears or worries, when you are neutral you don't need a reason be courageous. i know if i erease your shifting attempts from your memory right now, you'd be shifting in your "first" attempt either. because most of the time you deal with your fears and worries instead of actively wiring.

how to actively wire?

people are trembling, throwing up and procrastinating when it comes to "attempt". i don't even want to call it attempt because you are actively learning. and no it's not "dw we learn from every attempt 🌺🌻✨" kinda motivation, it's literally how your brain is getting wired.

let's assume you find your wiring path, it's more prominent than other paths you have. for example its raven method + visualizing and falling asleep. you felt close to shifting with this method before. be aware of your every attempt and observe closely because by the time you'll get better at each part of your method. active wiring is not doing the same thing everyday robotically.

maybe normally you count to 100 but one day you feel you are already focused when you reached 40. or your focusing skills improved so much, you need to discard counting part, because you already wired that part in your brain. or you were visualizing yourself in your dr bed but suddenly you felt like you want to visualize one of your dr memories. your brain will be more invested in something they find interested. in previous student example i gave you, bargaining person misses these moments, they stubbornly do the same thing and rarely progress.

don't be scared of working on your wiring path. if you feel like you are waiting or pending, your wiring only slowed down. it doesn't always mean you need to do something, maybe you need to observe what you are doing and make simple changes. even if it means taking a break.

active wiring is not waiting for the day you'll achieve it. when you are learning a new skill you do your thing and expect it to be successful every single time even if it's your first time. you can almost see yourself achieving it. this expectation doesn't come from bargaining tho, it's your desire, the healthy kind.

in next posts i'll be sharing my way to wire my brain to control shifting and the terms i came up with. this is how i observed and decided to use wiring for myself. please take care and don't consume everything you read if it feels wrong or doesn't sit with you, or you don't even want to accept it true. spit it out. same for this post.

[writing-gremlin420]

This took over my brain for a bit, now I have a few ideas.

My initial thought when I first saw it was has Arti n Scav king boned. Mainly cuz I mix up the violence and lust karma a lot. I was thinking about if it could be inverted symbols n inverted meanings. So here are the ideas I have for potential meaning of the mysterious using in game symbols.

The blue texted idea. That it meant has she become a mirror of an echo? A mirror of Saint? Forced to relive her war over and over, asking if her current peace is only temporary until her cycle starts again, having to relive the violence again and again, only realising/remembering in the end after scav king is killed, so she just hasn't remembered this time around. Like how Saint is thought(by some) to be in an endlessly repeating cycle, deciding to come back only to free others of the cycle, something he was too caught up with in life. Arti was so caught up in avenging her children that maybe she has become a form of echo, maybe death is ascension in a way, but only for those who are in true balance? Used violence symbol, Chieftain symbol, and echo symbol.

The yellow idea is from the symbol A New Friend, which ya get from meeting moon and hybernating without eating or stealing neurons. Maybe it draws from that, it could mean enemies to friends if the symbols invert without changing meanings, or it could be inverted as enemies, asking if it is truly the end of her rage and if this is a temporary peace? If she has or is bound to reignite her violence. If the friends are bound to become enemies. Another possible inverse could be lovers, if she is now the lover of who she once viewed as an enemy.

The last idea, the one with pink text, I had for what it could mean from in game symbols is has she found home? An inversion of the pilgrim and nomad tops, an end to travels, which could also be suggested by the two green lines that make the walls of the cup shape, taken from the inversion of the survivor symbol which could be taken as death or ending.

The line at the bottom could be part of the violence karma, but it could also come from the pilgrim. The line in the pilgrim is near the top, an active journey, while in our mysterious symbol it is near the bottom, a journey that is coming to or has come to a close. The arms of the symbol could come from the Chieftain symbol, could mean she has found a home amount the scavengers, or if we take the inversions of the green from survivor, the arms from the Chieftain symbol, the bottom line from pilgrim, and the violence karma,we get the death or end of her violence against scavengers, has her war ended? Is her quest for vengeance over, is her endless war finally done?

Of course we could all be way over thinking it and it could be a pictograph using in game symbols depicting scav on scug action.

I these are just my opinions/theories/ideas n I only really thought em up cuz I've been world-building and conlanging for a pretty long time n my ideas could ofc be wrong.

hey uh. do you think arti ever uh. do you think she. um.

⠀⣷⣦⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣠⣴⠀

⠀⠈⠙⠻⣿⣶⣤⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣤⣶⡿⠟⠋⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠛⠿⣿⣦⣤⣴⣾⠿⠛⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⣀⣤⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠛⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣀⠀⠀

⣶⣦⢹⣿⡆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣿⡏⣤⣤

⣿⣿⠀⢿⣷⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣾⡿⠀⣿⣿

⣿⣿⠀⠘⣿⣇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢰⣿⠇⠀⣿⣿

⣿⣿⠀⠀⢿⣿⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣿⡿⠀⠀⣿⣿

⠿⠿⠀⠀⠘⠛⠛⠛⢛⣛⣿⣿⣿⡿⠿⠃⠀⠀⣿⣿

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣤⣶⡿⠟⠛⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⣰⣿⠟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠹⣿⣤⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣠⣴⣶⡀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠛⠿⣷⣶⣶⣾⡿⠟⠋⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀

yeah

i really hope this isnt a hip new meme or some kind of irl symbol that I should know, bc ive literally spent the last hour and a half like

im supposed to be WORKING....

and i know the longer i spend trying to figure this out, the more ridiculously obvious the answer will end up being

[quibbs126]

So because I wandered into the Prima tag earlier today, my brain has now concocted a headcanon regarding him in Transformers One

Namely that he was originally the leader of Cybertron and the Matrix holder (since I think in other continuities he is also that along with the 13th), but it eventually was passed down to Zeta after Prima just couldn’t handle it anymore

I don’t know if this is how the thought originally started out, but currently my brain says he basically had a huge mental health crisis and crash out, which may or may not have resulted in him nearly killing another of the Primes (not intentionally mind you, he was having an episode and immediately regretted it afterwards), my brain saying Megatronus in particular because that parallel drama

This was in part the result of being the main ruler of the planet and also Cybertron, a position that causes a lot of stress, but another is his status as not only the original Prime, but the original Transformer, and the status that alone brings, as well as being around for everything and basically having to always be the one to lead and try to build things up for all of history, because there’s no one before him to ask for guidance, outside of Primus himself who’s their god

Then after everything went to hell and everyone realized way too much was on his shoulders, they eventually came to the conclusion that someone else should take his role in his stead, which ended up being Zeta, while Prima basically got therapy

By the time the Primes died, Prima was doing a lot better; therapy and retirement treated him well. It’s also not to say he wasn’t still involved in the politics of Cybertron and didn’t help Zeta out in his role, just that he did significantly less than what he used to

[thegreatyin]

How did you manage to handle not one, but FOUR separate accounts in fl? I recently made the account for my HD little guy but having to do the tutorial again just seems miserable

there's... weirdly several answers to that question, actually??

a HUGE part of it is due to the way FL is structured. the 10-minute action timer is a core part of the game on a fundamental level, and the fact that i can very easily run out of stuff to do on one character and thus have an excuse to quickly and easily swap to another is just... convenient? satisfying? i'm not entirely sure how to explain it. the fact that i can make progress even while i am fundamentally simultaneously Not Making Progress is like pure dopamine for my freak insane awful little brain. there's just something really pleasing about spending all of my actions pursuing The Goal Of The Day™ on one account before casually swapping to another and doing the same without feeling like i'm wasting time or acting to the first account's explicit detriment. the downtime helps! the recharge time helps! the structure really really works!!

i'm technically only actively playing three, maybe two accounts minimum. the only reason the fourth (the one that'll be my future BaL playthrough) currently exists at all is so i can get his earlygame completely out of the way now and not have to waste time running through it all later, when what i actually want to do is play the ambition i've made myself wait a full year to play. and also getting free goodies as seasonal stuff happens,, something something surprise tools to help us later. the only two accounts i'd say i'm really "actively playing" at the moment are caeru and lark- and of the two, lark takes the most priority, since his ambition is the one i'm currently pursuing in earnest. for a couple months now- despite being My Main FL Character- the scoundrel has actually been pretty inactive on a gameplay front outside of the occasional progression in TLC and discordance content. purely by virtue of having Very little left to do outside of Very long-term grinds and vanities. they're in their "now what?" "now you can start playing the game" era. they've graduated to previous protagonist background cameo in a sequel anime series. they're like the yin FLPC equivalent of red at the top of mount silver. they're Literally just vibing rn. i only keep posting about them regardless because i'm insane and i will never ever ever ever ever let that bat go. but yeah, big TLDR, outside of doing the bare minimum to keep making waves/notability up every week, i'm not actually spending that much time on accounts i'm not currently actively interested in playing. and that accounts for way more gaming spoons than you might think.

i have a virtually lifelong history of playing MMOs, especially and specifically world of warcraft. i was born in the endless grind for useless video game pixel vanities and/or bragging rights. molded by it. you all have merely adapted to doing the same piece of content a pointlessly excessive amount of times for literally no reason besides whimsy and folly. me? i've done my time. i've served my sentence. i've spent weeks doing the original burning crusade netherwing dailies. i've devoted days to running praetorium over and over and over again, back-to-back, nonstop, long before square enix cut it in half and made it NOT take at minimum an hour and a half per run. i've perfected my silverwastes + auric basin goldfarming strategies. i've (almost) crafted dragonwrath tarecgosa's rest. i've killed the sha of anger so many times its dying scream of agony is embedded into the very fabric of my being. ""only"" doing making your name content four times over? that is nothing to me. it means nothing to me. it is so infinitesimal i can do the persuasive seduction quests in my sleep. it's not a matter of handling misery, or having the capacity, or even sighing as i remember the brass embassy raid segment of the watchful questline seriously i don't know why i keep forgetting that exists or what even is my problem with it i just am so consistently mildly inconvenienced by it and its highly specific resource requirements and it is the worst thing ever. maybe i'm just so used to the scoundrel's near-infinite money and troves of disposable items that i've completely forgotten what being poor is like. despite having done that step 3 fucking times now. ahem. anyway. i have transcended the feeble mortal bindings of my resistant-to-grinding flesh and ascended to a higher plane of enlightenment, they may call me insane but they will be the ones left laughing when they see what that "insanity" has wrought, i've usurped them, i've usurped them all-

hacks and coughs and awkwardly clears my throat. i mean. uh. um. Ahem.

the empress' court artistry + tales of the university nerfs helped too.

[vaguely-concerned]

I was just ambushed within the turbulent halls of my own mind by some headcanons about rye ingellvar's childhood that did 15000000 points of psychic damage to me and my heart personally and also made me almost sure of how I want to play it all at the end (very very differently from how I imagined going in!). some 'oh holy fuck this changes everything' rocking my own world bullshit going on in my neurons right now I'm reeling

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

This post is a solid nine months old by now, but I have an addition to it.

I picked out a few How Do You Cope episodes to listen to in the last couple of weeks - I've not gone through that whole podcast in my usual completist way, but I decided to pick out some the feature guests I found interesting (I did Paul Sinha, Sally Phillips, Jordan Gray, Josie Long, Alex Brooker, Chris Packham, and Mark Watson). There was a bunch of interesting stuff in a bunch of those episodes that I meant to post about, but I listened while doing other holiday stuff and didn't sit down to write it.

This, however, I made sure to save. As soon as I heard it, I made a note to myself to remember to cut this out and add it to my collection of clips of John Robins talking shit about Stewart Lee. Because I find it extremely amusing that John Robins turned up to an interview with Mark Watson, in 2019, with a quote from Stewart Lee that he thinks is Clarkson-esque, just so he can throw that at Mark eight years after their actual feud, because it gives him an excuse to shoehorn in talking shit about Stewart Lee. In this case, by accusing Stewart Lee of sounding like Alan Partridge, which... might be just a touch hypocritical, coming from Robins. I mean, I'm generally on John Robins' side here, and I'm definitely on Mark Watson's side in that particular feud (I obviously think Stewart Lee is a brilliant comedian who is rightly accoladed, but he does seem like he's probably a dick), but I don't know if accusing other people of sounding a bit Partridge-y is John Robins' best move.

I do respect how committed John Robins is to the grudge. I enjoy listening to him try to sound reasonable and not shout "I hate that fucking guy" every time Stewart Lee's name gets mentioned. But then also, he'll take any tenuous opportunity, like interviewing a comedian whom Stewart Lee was a dick about in 2011, to bring up what a dick Stewart Lee is. As a frequent holder of grudges myself, I find it funny to listen to people struggle with them that way.

This was unfortunately not where the relatable content in this podcast interview ended, as there was some very interesting chat near the end about how Mark Watson uses running to turn off his brain and take the edge off anxiety, and John Robins said he uses alcohol for that, and Mark said he also used alcohol for the same thing. And then two of my favourite comedians, who have talked a lot in their work about anxiety and alcohol problems, and I have spent a lot of time listening to a whole lot of both their work and being interested in their perspectives on those issues - those two comedians talked to each other about how alcohol and exercise can achieve similar ways of turning off a frustrating brain. And I had just been thinking a lot lately about how when I try to cut out alcohol, and try to find healthier things to replace what excessive drinking has done for me through so many years, the most useful replacement I have is getting on the treadmill and running until I can breathe or stand and throat and lungs are on fire. That is the closest physical/psychological sensation that I can get to the thing I like best about alcohol, without actually consuming alcohol. And Mark Watson and John Robins discussed that exact phenomenon for a bit, and I was going to cut out that clip and post about it on here too, but honestly, writing an entire post about that would get way too depressing, and I don't feel like doing a long, over-share-y depression post on this second day of the new year. So I'm condensing my thoughts about it into one run-on paragraph (trust me, if I dedicated its own post to that clip, the post would be far longer than this paragraph) on the end of a post for John Robins talking shit about Stewart Lee. I'm going to try dry January again this year, and I think it will probably be less tough than it was last year, as by the end of 2024, I was starting to be able to go 4 or 5 weeks at a time without drinking and not even be too bothered by that. Dry January made me want to jump off a cliff and into a fire in 2024, it took all year to go from that to being able to not drink for a month just because I didn't need it and it was okay, I want to start extending that time in 2025. Again, I know this personal over share-y bit has gotten long, but trust me, it could have been far longer, if I hadn't decided to confine it to one run-on paragraph. Happy New Year.

There was one day last week when my coworker asked me what I did the night before, and I thought, "I organized my John Robins and Elis James audio clips folder, the one with a whole big mess of files because pretty much any time they discuss anything that seems like it might be a long-running thread I'll mark the timestamp in my notes and then cut out the clip when I get home in case this does become a big thread and I want to make a compilation of it, but as I got along I don't know what will and won't turn into anything so I try to err on the side of just saving everything, well last night went through the folder and made a few sub-folders to group together clips that discuss the same type of thing so that making posts about it in the future will be easier. Why, what did you do?"

I didn't say that, obviously, I said "I just had a quiet night, why, what did you do?" and she told me about how she had her kids help her cook dinner and then watched a Troll movie with them before putting them to bed but then had to wake up at 1 AM because her kid was crying so that was her night, and it made it seem like an even better idea that I hadn't gotten into mine.

Anyway, on a completely separate note, does anyone want to see the running record I'm keeping of John Robins' feud with Stewart Lee, every time he's mentioned it up to the point I'm at now in the radio show, which is September 2016? I've entitled this collection: John Robins Talking Shit About Stewart Lee and/or Denying That He Talks Shit About Stewart Lee, Sometimes Doing Both In The Same Breath:

Looking at all the evidence together, I think Stewart Lee did get him kicked off a gig on purpose, not just had him bumped due to lack of time, because he didn't like his opinions. And, to be fair to some more recent and possibly stupidly over-the-top comments that Robins has made on the subject, that is arguably a touch McCarthyist.

[lisxdumbr]

The whole "if a person is mad at you it's their responsibility to tell you" thing just made me realize how fucked my situation is. Like just. woah

[cuteniaarts]

Here *throws random and actually much more important than I realised at first OC redesign at you after two and a half years since the OG*

Meifeng, Ming-Hua’s cousin! I just randomly remembered that she exists while putting together my OC family tree and since the only art I have of her is… nearly 3 years old and mediocre at best, and Kat and I have recently spent so much time focusing on Red Lotus siblings, I thought “Hey, why not redraw her? Just because she’s a cousin and not a sister doesn’t make her any less special than Lien-Hua, Summiya, Aiza or Haya!” (On that note… Nia give someone a brother challenge. The only one that counts is Aiza and she’s only a brother half the time)

Some headcanons about her, both new and old (the old copy-pasted over and slightly edited to save everyone the second hand embarrassment of going to look at my old art), which will go under the cut because this has gotten LONG:

Old:

Older than Ming-Hua by around 10 years

Her dad is the older half-brother of Ming-Hua's mom who’s… not the most fond of their side of the family

Has never left her home in the Foggy Swamp Water Tribe

Master healer, specialises in children. Can't have any of her own because of the high pollution levels in the swamp which is why she puts all those motherly instincts into teaching and caring for kids

Got a scar on her leg while saving Ming-Hua from some wild swamp creature when the latter was a child who was absolutely convinced she could handle everything herself and never listened to anyone. Ming-Hua still insists she had everything under control that day

She tried to understand Ming-Hua's perspective on things, she really did, but ultimately tribe mentality and fear for her cousin’s safety, believing her not to be nearly as capable as she claims to be, won over

Attempted to stop Ming-Hua from running away but was, obviously, unsuccessful

Was the one consoling Nuying after Ming-Hua left

Helped Suiren learn waterbending and held genuine affection for the girl, although she ultimately refused when Suiren begged for the chance for her and Midori to escape from Haya and live with the tribe. She thought that while Suiren would most likely adjust well, Midori was simply too Gaoling to survive in a place as dark, damp and isolated as the Swamp. She regrets that decision every day since she found out Suiren became an assassin

Mourned Ming-Hua more than anyone else in the tribe when informed of her death

New:

Was the one who babysat Ming-Hua a lot when Nuying was going through one of her depressive episodes after Cadeo left, and Ming-Hua actually enjoyed spending time with her because she was a lot less overbearing and protective than her mother. Was the first person to start calling her Ming. Sometimes Ming-Ming, but Ming-Hua had a tendency to deliver a very hard kick to the shins every time she tried that

Never left Nuying’s side when she got sick in the years following Ming-Hua’s disappearance, no matter how much everyone, including her own father, told her to stay away, there’s nothing she can do to help her. In her final moments, Nuying was delirious with fever and called out for Ming-Hua. Meifeng didn’t have the heart to remind her that her daughter left so instead let her hair down, covered her own hand in water and told Nuying that she was “right here, mom. I’m right here” and stayed like that until Nuying passed

When Ming-Hua returned, Meifeng was the one to break the news to her. Later, when Ming-Hua asked how and when it happened, she couldn’t quite stop herself from snapping at her because she should have been there, Meifeng shouldn’t have had to pretend to be her so her mother could die without worrying about where her daughter was. Their relationship never really fully recovered after that fight

Still, she had met Suiren when she was little on the rare occasions when the Red Lotus passed through the Swamp and Ming-Hua chose to take her daughter to visit the tribe. She never met Midori, but she did see Ming-Hua pregnant with her once

Didn’t know about Ming-Hua’s imprisonment until an 11-year-old Suiren told her because world news don’t reach into the heart of the Swamp. She just thought they had decided to stop visiting. The news crushed her but… a part of her couldn’t help but go “you should have fucking listened to me when I told you to stay, then this wouldn’t have happened”

Her teaching Suiren waterbending involved mostly the basics of combat (she herself doesn’t know much of it since she’s a healer), plantbending and healing. Suiren reached her level of mastery and proficiency as well as figured out icebending on her own through sheer determination and spite (she’s so much like her mama 🥹🥹🥹)

Is the only one from the tribe Suiren had ever confessed to about being an assassin. That knowledge broke her heart and she spent all those years absolutely terrified that Suiren would meet Ming-Hua’s fate. When Suiren stopped visiting at one point (when she left for her mission to kill Kuvira, got injured, recovered at ATI, reunited with her parents, broke Kuvira out and started living with her, etc etc) she had assumed that it really did happen, until Suiren randomly showed up one day with Kuvira in tow (Meifeng did not approve bc of the whole spirit vine thing 😅)

Absolutely reunited with Ming-Hua at some point and it was an extremely emotional moment

Ripped Cadeo a new one when he suddenly appeared looking for his daughter after 45+ years after it became common knowledge that the RL are all alive and no longer wanted by the law

All in all… quite an interesting character that I really should do something with at some point, bc how come Ming-Hua’s family is the only one to get 0 attention in our discussions?? #justiceformeifeng2024

[mooremars]

Generally I think the 2023 Camelot cast recording does a very good job of conveying the onstage vibe of pretty much all the songs with the dialouge snippets. However in my heart of hearts I truly believe the Simple Joys of Maidenhood feels incomplete without the moment of Arthur realizing Guenevere has run away and right to him after she sings her intro. I'm sure I could choose many hills to die on for cast recording opinions but apparently the one I feel the most is a particularly good delivery of the word shit.

[machiavellli]

what’s up with me and plane crashing dreams. perhaps my life long obsession with the show air crash investigations is hitting or smth