#those were not very long and I hate feeling like I've been run over by a truck the day after minor shit like cmon brain

[chipped-chimera]

Man I love what my ADHD meds have done for me in a lot of ways, but what I don't love is how fast they wear off with no way around it (I'm on max dose, yeah I've tried fucking with the timing, it's either 'I'm awake for a chunk' or 'awake for tiny bits but feel worse because big tired in between') which now means I'm considering putting my head in the magnet machine (transcranial magnetic stimulation) in terms of 'can we fix my depression already' and it's just big oof (and expensive).

Problem is, I am honestly really wondering given I feel at this point the world would have to change to fix my depression (I have figured out - I am no longer the problem) if it will even DO anything :V

[bbydoll18xx]

How Do I Get to Heaven?

'Without changing a piece of me, how do I get to heaven?'

Paige Bueckers x reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Themes: angst, slurs, religious trauma, HAPPY ENDING i promise

A/N: hiii so this one is super angsty and sad. I've been going through a rough time, and this is my way of coping. I kinda touched on these subjects in 'She's Such a Good Girl' part 2, and this is similar. I was obsessed with 'Heaven' by Troye Sivan when I was like 15-16 and the lyrics hit a little too hard. If you're gay and were raised in a religious household, I suggest taking a listen.

~

“He’s a fuckin’ faggot!”

“Hate the sin, love the sinner.”

“Those kinds of people are going straight to hell.”

Your face remained neutral. It had to. But you had years of practice, and while you were internally sobbing at the bigoted remarks, there was nothing you could do to stop it. So you stayed quiet, and you maintained your usual look of disinterest. 

Running up the stairs, you finally make it into the safehaven of your bedroom. You shut the door quietly, trying to avoid seeming as if anything is wrong or out of the ordinary. Nothing could possibly be wrong. You were the perfect child; straight As, never in trouble, and you always were eager to help out around the house. But you were harboring a dirty little secret that threatened to rip you from the grips of being the golden girl of your family. 

Sobs wracked your body as you slid onto the carpeted floor of your room. What had started off as an innocent dinner had turned into a nightmare. Slurs were thrown around casually, and unbeknownst to your family, you were the unidentified target. Your sexuality was the reason you had become an empty shell of a person, riddled with fear of accidentally outting yourself. And the anxieties you felt were bubbling up, threatening to ruin the perfect image of yourself that you had crafted for your loved ones. 

This wasn’t the first time. And it surely would not be the last. 

Your family had always claimed to love you. Your childhood was a happy one, but you feared the truth would break everyone. And even if they found out and still claimed to love you, you knew they would always see you differently. Gone would be the girl they knew, and their eager touts would be replaced with hushed whispers. You’d forever be known as “the gay one.” And you fucking resented that.

So here you sat on the floor, trying to quiet your sobs as you mourned the loss of the life you once knew and the people who would eventually turn their backs to you. 

Summer was ending, and soon you would be fleeing back to college, where your guard could be let down just enough to show the world a glimpse of who you really were and who you really wanted to love. 

There was just one girl who you wanted to love you back.

Paige Bueckers was your best friend. And she was so very gay. 

Since meeting her at the beginning of freshman year, she had pulled you out of a darkness that had resided in you since you had realized your feelings towards girls. It did not take long for you to fall madly, head-over-heels in love with her, but you had vowed to ignore it. 

Even if there was any hope of reciprocated feelings, you knew deep down that being in love with a girl would mean having to come out to your family. And you were just not ready for that. You weren’t sure if you would ever be ready for that. 

The thought terrified you. You knew you were willingly inhibiting a possibility of incredible happiness and love, but because it was at the risk of losing your loved ones, you were shutting it all out. 

‘Fuck. I really need therapy,’ you think miserably. 

That was the understatement of the century.

~

The new school year starts, and Uconn’s campus is ablaze with excited students and the possibilities of what is to come. You are finally starting to feel like yourself again, and the second your parents leave your apartment, you don a t-shirt plastered with Diana Taurasi’s face on it. 

You could finally get your gay card back.

A loud knock rings through the empty apartment, and before you could get to the door to answer it, Paige is peeking her head through it, a huge grin covering her face. 

She wastes no time barreling through the room, sweeping you up in a hug and spinning you around. Your feet leave the ground, causing your stomach to flip, and your legs automatically wrap around her waist for leverage. 

“Someone missed me,” you giggle, feeling breathless from being back in Paige’s tight embrace. You had been dreaming of this since you last saw her, back in July. 

“Course I did,” she chuckles, voice muffled against your hair. “You glad to be back?”

You groan. “Fuck, yeah I am. Lookin’ forward to not hearing some slurs for a bit,” you say, fist-pumping the air with a dramatic roll of the eyes. “And I’m especially looking forward to not having to listen to Fox fuckin’ News,” you add, pretending to gag.

Paige’s eyes rake over you, and she pouts, already knowing how your family could be. She had listened to your endless rants and your pathetic cries for the past three years. 

“I think you should just move in with me after this year ends. That way you don’t have to put up with that shit. Then we can be together after graduation,” she says earnestly. 

This was not the first time she had proposed this idea. And while you were internally jumping at the idea, the fear of how it would look to your family made you shy away. Paige wasn’t exactly the most straight-looking girl. Living with her would make things complicated. Your covert feelings had no place in a situation like that. 

You sigh. “I’ll think about it, P,” you promise, linking your pinky with hers, as you always did. 

~

Christmas break quickly rolls around, and Paige’s words are still playing in the back of your mind. Your feelings for her had grown, as if that was even possible, and having to leave her and the safety and warmth that came with her, was agonizing. 

Sitting against the hard back of the pew in your family’s Catholic church, you look around, thinking about how these people would be okay with you burning in hell forevermore. The familiar feeling of shame creeps back into your chest, the flames licking at your wounds. 

You wanted to run and hide. You wanted Paige. 

The Christmas activities persist, and amongst the holiday cheer and piles of gifts, uncomfortable conversations emerge, and you shrink back to your room, desperate for respite.

You felt so fucking abandoned. This was supposed to be a time to enjoy with your family, and instead you were hiding.

There was one person, though, you knew would not abandon you, and that was Paige. Her presence was enough to lessen the sting of the inevitable rejection of your family, and in that moment, it was enough. 

Pulling out your phone, you dial her number, longing to hear her voice, all the way from Montana. Christmas break could not end quickly enough. 

Paige’s smiling face is soon on your phone screen, but it falls as soon as she sees the tears falling down your cheeks and your wobbling bottom lip.

“Oh, baby, what happened?” She asks in a hushed whisper, voice full of anger and concern. 

“They hate me,” you cry. “They fucking hate me, and they don’t even know it yet.”

Paige sighs, trying to find the right words. While she had always had acceptance from those around her, she knew how difficult it was for you to be at home, and she desperately wished to take away your anguish. 

“I love you,” she stresses. “And I know that doesnt fix your family treating you like shit, but soon you’ll be back and everything won’t seem as shitty, I promise.” 

You nod, wiping at your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. 

She loved you. And you knew that. But you wanted her to love you in the way you loved her. For now, you would take what you could get.

“Just a few more days,” she assures, and you feel the tiniest bit better.

Just a few more days. 

~

The start of the new year always engenders change, and you had promised yourself as the clock chimed to signify it was midnight that this would be the year you would hike up your big girl panties and figure out your shit with Paige. Your senior year had to slow down, and Paige’s proposal had been in the back of your mind since August. 

If you could get over your stupid crush on her, things would be all good and dandy, but your efforts to eradicate her place in your heart were futile. You had mused it over nearly a million times. Maybe you’d eventually get over her, and maybe she would have some bizarre habit that would inevitably give you the ick, ridding you of all romantic feelings toward her. 

You could only hope. 

You pump yourself up on the way over to Paige’s apartment, encouraging words forming on your lips, leaving a trail of fog from your warm breath against the cold air. 

You knock on her door, cheeks pink from the frigid temperatures of Connecticut in January, grateful that it hides your blush. Paige opens the door, eyes wide and hopeful. She always looked so damn alluring. 

Your words leave your mouth before your chary mind could overtake you. “I want to move in with you after school ends. I can’t go back to living like that.”

Paige’s features twist into a smile, and she pulls you in for a hug. “Gonna take such good care of you,” she whispers, and you believe her. Your arms wrap around her middle, anchoring you to the floor. 

“I should probably tell you, though,” she trails, her voice getting smaller as she takes a deep breath. 

You look up at her, confusedly. “Tell me what?”

“I love you. And not just like as a friend. So if you don’t want to live with me because of that, I get it,” she mumbles, eyes trained on the floor.

Your breath quickens at the realization. Paige loved you. And the thought of being a colossal disappointment to your family and potentially cast out did not seem to matter as much anymore. Because here was someone who loved every part of you and accepted the good, the bad, and the ugly. 

The look of shock swiftly morphs into one of unbridled euphoria, and without another thought, you pull Paige in for a kiss. It was filled with the pure longing and want of years of uncontrollable urges and repressed thoughts, and it nearly made all the shittiness worth it.

Pulling away, Paige links her pinky with yours again, just as she had back in August. It was an unspoken promise of love. And while you knew the journey would be inexorably difficult, Paige was worth it in the end. 

~

dang that was rough lol but thanks for reading as always:) I really hope this wasn't too triggering or anything for anyone. This has been such a nice outlet for my pain and anger, as I really don't have anyone to talk to about this stuff. I am here for everyone who can relate. My inbox is open if you guys ever want/need to talk

xoxo katy

[nothorses]

You've made a lot of really great posts about transmasc experiences and struggles, and they really resonate with me! So I guess I want to in complete earnest ask: why the push for 'transandrophobia' when anti-transmasculinity as a term has been around for longer and faces little friction by comparison? I don't really *dislike* transandrophobia, but its meaning gets muddied everywhere from different directions, while ATM is pretty direct and succinct I feel. It's very clear that it's about TRANSmasculine oppression. I'm not against having a dedicated term at all, but the content of our struggles gets lost in the weeds of attaching kind of understandably divisive terms like misandry and androphobia in an attempt to mirror a phenomenon very specifically about misogyny; it seems more trouble than it's worth considering ATM is right there

I'll be honest, this ask is confusing to me for a few reasons.

When I started talking about transandrophobia around the summer of 2020, the conversations I was encountering were very much, like, a handful of people across Twitter and Tumblr (literally, a handfull!). I picked up "transandrophobia" because it was one of two words I saw in use, and the other- "transmisandry"- felt much less clear and much more contentious. It seemed super obvious to me that people would draw a line from "men's rights activists" trying to push this idea that "misandry", as a systemic oppression of men by women, to "transmisandry", and assume some ill intent where there was none. It's confusing!

"Transandrophobia" was the better of two options being floated at the time, at least in any conversation I saw. "Anti-transmasculinity" was not really a term I'd been made aware of, if anyone at all was talking about it at the time.

I have seen people pick up "anti-transmasculinity" more recently (maybe in the last year?), and this is definitely the first I've seen someone shorten it to "ATM". The people I've seen use that term have been mostly people who seem really new to the conversation, and the vibe I've gotten has been very, like, "we're the Good Transmascs, our word isn't dirty and gross like those other Bad Transmascs everyone hates. you'll listen to us now that our word is Good and Pure, right?"

Which is like... kind of frustrating, and kind of sad, honestly. I think these people honestly believe that if they just choose the right word, all the people who've been dragging me and every other transmasc talking about these issues through the mud for the last 4 years or so will really just stop & listen. If they can just say it right, these people- who have been relentlessly harassing and spreading lies about every single transmasc who came before them for years now- will care what they have to say, and will be willing to engage with them in earnest, compassionate dialogue.

If you just find the right word, all of these people will care about your hurt, your pain, and the suffering of your community.

It kind of breaks my heart. It's an incredibly hopeful, kind, loving way to view the world. It's compassion and patience and forgiveness that these folks are not being given, but that they so badly want to offer to others.

And at the same time, it sucks to be the Bad Transmasc. It sucks to have fought so hard for so long, and for the people I've been fighting for all this time to turn around and say, "you're gross, and dirty, and evil, and everything you've done is a mistake." It sucks to see the people I've been fighting for agree with the people I've been fighting against, and shove me under the bus in an effort to appeal to the people running me over with it. Knowing that the bus is going to aim for them once it's done with me just makes it sadder, yknow?

@saint-speaks wasn't the first person to ever speak the word "transandrophobia", but he is the one who coined and popularized it in its current form. And then he was dragged through the mud so hard and so brutally that some people think I coined it, just because when I defended him (too little and too late, imo) I withstood the mud-dragging better than he did (and gee, I wonder white.)

And now people take for granted that everything everyone said about hymn to justify that frankly fucking evil harassment campaign was true, actually, and we should abandon the word he coined and find one with purer origins.

If you honestly think "anti-transmasculinity" is just a more practical word, that's fine. I don't care what word we use. But they're going to cover it in mud, too. They're going to cover every one of you in mud.

Will you keep fighting for "ATM" once they make it the new dirty, gross, bad, evil word? Will you keep fighting when they drag you and everyone else through the mud for using it? Or will you agree with them, make up a new word, and never look back?

Please don't let us drown in the mud. We've been fighting for you, and we want to fight with you. Please.

[ashleyisartsy]

Problems (objective and personal) I'm not seeing discussed a lot w this new WatcherTV thing, in no particular order:

-Alienates people internationally who literally CANNOT GET the streaming service!

-Alienates casual fans who don't watch or want to watch all of their shows. Putting down 60 bucks a year to watch just one or two shows is kind of insane, at least for me.

-The volume of content Watcher has produced historically hasn't been enough to justify a separate streamer. I understand there's no way a small team could compete with something like Netflix, obviously, but that's what you're trying to do by putting yourself in the streamer market.

-Will this streamer be secure? What steps are in place to protect your viewers info? ESPECIALLY payment info.

-Will it be easily watchable on multiple devices? I watch YouTube videos on my phone at work 90% of the time, or at home on my TV thru my switch. Is this a browser only deal?

-What are the internet requirements for this? Believe it or not most streaming services won't run on my internet personally. I don't have any for that reason. I can watch YouTube on 360p, or on my 2-bar-reception phone data. Not everywhere has stable reliable internet.

-The suddenness and totality of the move was going to be jarring no matter what, if the idea had been introduced gradually or started as a hybrid model to test audience interest there wouldn't be nearly this amount of pushback.

-I understand the people saying "pay artists!!" Bc I am one, and I get that their quality is expensive and they have a whole company's worth of people to support. I do actually think their work is worth paying for! Everyone's is! But convincing anyone to pay for something they previously got for free is going to be a hard sell. They were still getting paid before, they're now just asking us to pay instead of the advertisers. Idk about you, but that's a way bigger hit to my pocketbook than a multimillion dollar company's bank account.

-I get that YouTube can be a really shitty place to be a creator sometimes, and that being beholden to advertisers is something they don't want to be. It's why they left Buzzfeed! They already have a patreon and merch and it's clearly not been enough for their ambitions. But shooting yourself in the foot because your running shoes are wearing out isn't going to make you a better marathon runner. They had to know that there was going to be a not small portion of their audience unwilling to make this move with them (and again, lots literally aren't able to!)

-If they had a free w/ ads option, or even did a hybrid model with whole shows behind the pay wall, or even just ran a fucking crowd funding campaign to help cover costs of new seasons of shows, any of those things could have worked. They don't even have YouTube memberships turned on, which I've personally seen many many channels do even when they already have a patreon. It really doesn't seem like they've exhausted other options, at least from an outside perspective, which is all we have as viewers!

-I get that this has been in the works for a long time, and that there probably isn't a way for them to back out now. But I hope they can find a way to make this more accessible if they want it to work at all. I truly am not wishing for their downfall, but the whole situation is an awful mess.

Idk, rant over. As a lot of you are I'm feeling very disappointed and upset with this one, and I'm not paying for it either. Hope the boys can salvage this one for their and their crew's sake. Would really hate for this to be the end.

[edgeray]

“LATE NIGHT DEVIL, PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME

and never never never ever let go”- Teeth, 5 Seconds of Summer

Mafia AU! Arlecchino x Reader Oneshot

Author's Note: It's been a while since I've actually published anything on here. Well, my gay ass is back with another oneshot. This one has been in the works for at least a month. I'm considering making a Part 2, but that will definitely take at least a couple weeks for me to publish (if not months). I wish I was kidding. School literally hates me and my teachers are incessant on killing my GPA. This is also a gift for @megistusdiary because it'll be her birthday when I post this. Please go check out her blog for amazing genshin wlw content (especially Arlecchino content!) Would you guys like this on AO3 as well?

Content Warning/Info: This is a long af oneshot (6.3k words), long af descriptions and kinda long intro, Arlecchino is referred to with they/them pronouns, implied female but no usage of feminine pronouns for Reader, general dark-ish content, pet names, Arlecchino is a lil scary, I've never been to a club so I apologize for the very inaccurate information, nor have I ever been apart of the mafia so also inaccurate, a bit suggestive but otherwise sfw, if I'm missing anything feel free to tell me!

---

Monsters are said to have lied underneath beds–waiting to ensnare an unknowing victim–or stalk hidden among the depths of a closet–awaiting an opportune moment to strike its next prey. Monsters are fabled entities that are used to scare off children from bad behavior and are quickly eased from the mind by coddling parents. The mere notion of a monster shooed away like a pesky fly, swept underneath the subconscious like forgotten specks of dirt. 

You know otherwise. Real monsters don’t lurk on the undersides of mattresses; no, they lurk both in the skies above and the depths below. They do not stalk dark closets because they instead stalk alleys in daylit streets. Monsters are very real, that you know is true since you’ve seen your fair share of them. You’ve met monsters in person–they’ve come to you before. Terrifying is an understatement for them, and each time one has appeared as a client, you’re no less scared shitless.

You’ve learned that even inhumane demons find themselves in need of entertainment; like the sinful creatures they are, they seek self-pleasure. And that is how you found yourself in this particular circle of hell, meant to serve and please demons, devils, and monsters alike. Perhaps it was a revolting job, working at a strip club run by a criminal organization but it paid decent money for being danced on the fingertips of whoever you were unfortunate enough to be assigned to.

If it was a regular strip club, being an exotic dancer would have been fine. It wouldn't be so bad. Lustful and prying eyes can be accustomed to quickly, and so are the flattering compliments and the awkward flirting by middle-aged married men. However, there was a difference between lecherous and predatory gazes. Here, you aren’t even viewed as a person, no, the clients here, those that come in reeking of smoke or blood (though sometimes both), armed with knives and guns on their person, see you as nothing more than a toy or prey for them. Even in the eyes of your employer, you're less than human in their eyes. 

‘You harm our merchandise, you’ll pay for it,’ is the warning given to every guest when they first enter. Merchandise. That's what you are. And that single line of words is the only thing that assures you of your safety among mafia members, gangsters, crooks, and whatnot. You've heard that the organization behind this strip club does well in enforcing that rule according to other dancers, but you personally don't want to see if the statement is true. You've been here for a little over a year, and besides bruising grips and pulled hair you’ve surprisingly yet to be seriously injured in any way. So maybe monsters do have a little humanity in them. 

You're quickly growing to be a fan favorite as of recently, which means more money goes your way, but you're not sure how you feel about all the attention on you. It's most likely because of how often you offer private dances and private rooms to clients. Whatever gets you the most money; the faster you make money the faster you can pay off your debt and be out of here. 

Tonight is supposed to be no different from other nights. You perform on stage, you rile up the crowd, you get showered in tips, and if there is a customer that looks mentally sane enough not to murder you in private, you take them to the back. Except, tonight, you're approached by your boss, who informs you that the entirety of the club was reserved by the Fatui, a well-known mafia more powerful and larger than the one that backs you up, for some celebration. These kinds of occurrences in the club rarely crop up, but when they do, they're often the most opportune time to bag in an abundant amount of money. Big shots like the Fatui pay and tip well, but there's one unsaid risk that comes with this: as a mere dancer like yourself, your life quite literally dangles in the Fatuis’ hands tonight. The organization that owns this establishment can't retaliate against the Fatuis if they so choose to dismiss the warning. They can't even compare to the might of the Fatui.

Simply put, if a Fatui kills you tonight, no one could do more besides bat their eyelashes. You're not at all pleased with this predicament of practically bordering on death, especially when you know one wrong move with one too hot-tempered Fatui could land you at the pearly gates. Keep pleasing the crowd, keep entertaining them, keep racking in the money, you remind yourself as you continue your dance, twirling around the pole sensually, and the customers devour every movement with their eyes. The only comfort you're given is that you've heard the Fatui are quite reasonable and diplomatic most of the time. This is especially true for the Harbingers, you've heard, the twelve most elite members that serve under the Tsaritsa, and the ones that are the most exclusive customers this night. That doesn't mean the Harbingers are any more humane than the average crook. Having worked in a strip club run by the mafia and surrounded by criminal organizations, the more rumored something is, the more dangerous it is. They can be considered devils amongst demons even. That's simply how vile they're supposed to be. 

The most concerning problem about the Harbingers is that you don’t know what they look like, only the occasional whisper has alluded to how to distinguish between the twelve. Perhaps, you can survive through the night if you try not to draw too much attention; let the other dancers shine instead and hope you don’t get requested for a private room or dance. That way, you can ensure you don’t end up dead. 

Your time to go upstage comes sooner than you’re prepared for. Your hands are clammy, and your form trembles in a way that only happened during your first month. Both reactions don’t make for a very good combination when your survival relies on you not fucking up and disappointing criminal customers. As you approach the pole, just like every time you’ve done, you make sure that the crowd’s gazes are in the backdrop of your mind, and instead, fixate on repeating the movements you’ve been taught and have mastered with your experience. Bet your survival on the provocative sway of your hips, the practiced showcase of your legs, and the allure of your dancing form. Beguile the crowd, but not too much, just enough to wow them. From what you can tell by the volume of the crowd, you’re doing a good job pleasing the Fatui enough. Your body stops tremoring after a few minutes on stage, and with one last final push of courage, you focus your eyes on the crowd before you.

Unsurprisingly, the makeup of the Fatui are men, though there are notably quite a few women. Either way, all of their attention is on you. As your eyes scan across a crowd, for one reason or another, you stop at a particular set of eyes near the back of the crowd. Intent, pitch-black abysses stare back, like they were trying to bore into your soul and devour every single motion of yours. They don’t quite hold the same ravenous desire as many of those before you right now, you mentally note with curiosity. It feels like your form is being calculated, in the way a predator would cautiously observe their next prey, a sensation you’ve experienced a few times, but each is no less chilling. The weight of their engrossed gaze causes you to shiver momentarily, and you snap away from their disturbing gaze to prevent any fumbling or faltering while you’re on stage. 

Tonight marks the first time you actively seek out the same viewer while on stage, or even, during your entire time here. For some reason, you feel awfully bold, or curious, whichever two comforts you more, and unlike the meek little rabbit you usually are, you instead search for the viewer’s gaze. You find the pair of eyes with relative ease, as you remember that above their eyes are distinctive snow-white strands with streaks as black as their orbs. You take a moment to study them, and they remind you of a lion–or lioness–among hyenas. The aura they exude varied quite a bit compared to the other Fatui in front of you: not rambunctious, or arrogant; it's apparent they held an aura of indomitable authority just from the way they held themselves. Perfect posture with their clasped hands nested in their lap, with one leg raised over the other. They’re an embodiment of perfected elegance, however, much like a porcelain doll, they’re also expressionless, their appearance unmarred. You don’t examine the Fatui’s form for much longer because their scrutiny on you pricks at your skin irritatedly. 

You don’t look for them again throughout your performance. In fact, you hope you never meet those charcoal pits again. You’re afraid that if you do, you’ll be ensnared by whatever beastly claws or fangs you know that Fatui hides underneath that impenetrable mask. The moment your time on stage ends, you rush back to the changing room to shake off your nerves. You sit down at a nearby chair, taking in deep sighs as you attempt to forget how you were stared down like a you were cornered, defenseless animal. And that is what you are, as much as you hate it. There’s nothing that can protect you from the Fatui. Maybe if you hide, never show your face for the rest of the night, they’ll forget they ever saw you and they’ll target another dancer. Surely, that will work, won’t it? 

You’re able to steady your breathing before you can delve into a panic attack. Tonight, you decide, you’re not going to take any customers to any private rooms or take any private dances. You’d be missing out on a lot of money, but your life is more of a priority as of currently; not after the ‘encounter’ with that individual, you don’t want to think about how many more are just like them, hiding in the crowd like they were awaiting an opportunity to pounce on your vulnerable form. 

Unfortunately, it seems like someone else has other plans for you because your manager storms into the room asking for your whereabouts before his eyes narrow on you. You immediately sit up, stiff as a board when he practically marches his way towards you. 

"Someone wants you." 

You sigh and shake your head. You should have known. "Not tonight." 

He clicks his tongue. "You know I can't allow that tonight." 

You bite your lip. "Just pass them to someone else." 

"They're not someone you or I can refuse." 

"Who?" You question with a shuddering breath, your nails digging into your thigh. 

"The fourth one. The Knave. Lord Arlecchino."

Fuck your life. You might as well pull the trigger now. You’ve heard faint whispers of each Harbinger from the customers audacious enough to speak of them. The youngest, the eleventh, charming and boyish. The ninth, money-obsessed but a pretty looker. The eighth, elegant and cold, yet no less alluring. The seventh, as human-like as their robotic creations, which to say isn’t very. The sixth, is hotheaded and mysterious. The fifth, unknown. And the fourth?

Insane. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. That’s how the fourth is described. You shiver at the horrors that appear on the forefront of your mind when imagining what may come for you. If you're lucky, you'll be alive at the end of the night, more than likely clinging to the edge of living. 

“Well? What are you waiting for? Get ready as soon as you can.” 

And you do. It’s not long until you stand in front of the private room’s door, your guest is already inside more than likely. The Fourth Harbinger is waiting, you remind yourself, fruitlessly trying to swallow down your stress. You can be dead the minute you step inside, this room could be marked as your grave. Whatever he tells you to do, you’ll obey wordlessly to survive. Just nod along, smile, and do whatever it is that he tells you regardless of the demand. You inhale deeply, regaining some ease of mind, before you bring your knuckles to the door, knocking. 

“Come in,” comes a deep, flat voice, slightly muffled by its distance but what surprises you is how feminine the Harbinger sounds. Maybe you got the wrong room. You glance back at the room number plate on the door, and it’s the room you remember your manager mentioning. It’s the right room. Maybe someone else? You don’t have time to wonder, however, as you enter the room, knowing that if it is the Fourth, it wouldn’t be wise to keep him (Her? Them? You’ll just stick with ‘them’ now.) waiting. 

“Lord Arlecchino?” You inquire as you enter the room, closing the door behind you. Sucking in a harsh inhale, you instantly recognize their distinct hair. It’s them. Your sight is immediately greeted by the figure sitting on the couch before you, sitting in exactly the same way you discovered them–crossed-legged and lounging back with unfaltering confidence. The Knave wears a scarlet blazer over a black compressed turtleneck, with a matching set of crimson leggings. Upon closer inspection, you’re able to make out red irises in their jet-black eyes. Despite the blatant and literal red flag, something about their appearance draws you in even when they scream danger. They’re… you’re not quite sure how to describe them. You admire the unblemished and pale skin, their elegant and rugged demeanor is like the perfect balance between femininity and masculinity. Are they beautiful, or are they handsome? You think both. 

Arlecchino stares back at you like they’re considering devouring you then and there. You can’t suppress the shudder that runs down your spine. You’re a sheep before a wolf. There’s something so chilling about them that even with your experience with other clients, none has ever made you feel this way with just their mere gaze alone. This is what separates the average crook from one of the most powerful mafia members you've ever heard of.

You wait for a response but they only continue to observe you. You take the silence as confirmation to your question and that they’re anticipating something from you. Biting back a sigh of resignation, your hands hook underneath the band of your bra top and you lift it just the slightest amount before a cutting voice makes you freeze.

“What are you doing?” the Harbinger demands, their tone chilling and apathetic, making you want to shrink in yourself immediately. Your blood pumps loudly in your ears and your hands tremble a bit. Something about how designing their gaze makes you suddenly self-aware in a way you’ve never felt before another client–you’re practically half-naked in front of them with your skimpy bra top, undergarments, and fishnets and now is the only moment that you've actually considered how little covering is on you. 

Why are they stopping you? Isn’t this what they wanted you to do? Or maybe they just want to do it themselves. Those types of customers always have the most bruising of grips and suffocating of holds. You stiffen at the notion. How are you going to survive this night with a Fatui Harbinger of all things? How many of your limbs are going to be fractured and how many of your bones are going to end up broken? 

“I…I’m undressing,” your meek voice sounds out and you hate the crack in your speech. The Harbinger continues to scrutinize you. You don’t dare continue disrobing yourself. 

There are several beats of wordless response before they then stand up from the couch. 

Oh shit. You’ve fucked up. Are they going to kill you now? Is this your end? 

Every thought is telling you to run in the opposite direction as they stalk up to you, but you're petrified as you realize with a chill that they’re taller than you. You’re not short by any means, a bit above average height, but they tower over you, looking down at you from above and casting judgment on you like a god. Once they stride toward you, you avoid eye contact by looking straight, observing their neck and clavicle that protrudes from underneath the fabric. You tense when they raise a hand, their manicured fingers placing themselves underneath your chin and long, carmine nails dig into the underside of your jaw, making you wince. They forcefully tilt your head, raising your focus onto their face. 

It’s like they plunged their hands down your throat and ripped out the oxygen from your lungs, leaving you unable to breathe. Up close, the first thing you notice is their lips, plump and red from their lipstick. Briefly, you wonder what color their lipstick would look on your skin. Then your eyes travel up, red-crossed eyes gaze back at you and you gape quietly at the distinct shape of their pupils. You swear that their pupils flash red as you finally lock eye contact with them. 

“Did I tell you to?” Their tone is cold compared to the strange softness of their handsome (beautiful?) face. 

Something in your gut coils inwardly and you want to look away, but their firm hold on your chin prevents you. You bite your bottom lip to repress a whimper. You’re delicate glass in their hands, and they can break you so, so easily. 

“No, sir.” Only the numerous times you’ve said this phrase ensures you don’t stumble over your words. They don’t answer promptly, but as they observe your features, their lips quirk up the slightest amount. 

“You know how to address me. Very good,” Arlecchino purrs after several beats of silence, in a low, oh-so-sultry tone, and oh. Oh. 

You’re not sure why, but their last two words make your stomach churn, but not in a discomforting way. In the way that lights a fire underneath your skin and spreads heat to every part of your body. You’ve never quite felt this way with another customer. You couldn’t believe that your body reacts this way just from a single praise but it doesn’t stop the pooling heat in your bowels. The chill down your spine still remains in place, but there’s an off-putting equilibrium of iciness and fervor generated from the client. 

The Fatui’s eyes stay fixated on you wordlessly until the hand on your chin turns your head, finally breaking you free of their intense behold. Their grip slackens so that they can trace their nails gently down your throat, every inch of surface their fingertips brush against ignites a blaze on your skin. A shuddering exhale leaves your lips and it seems like they take notice because from the corner of your eye, the small uptick of their mouth grows. Despite how sensual and probing the Harbinger’s touch feels, there’s nothing lecherous about it–purely just intrigue and fascination. It’s a touch you both have and never experienced before. Cold nails rake against your throat, not enough to mark or scratch, but enough to invoke shivers. 

You’re aware you should be terrified, but for a reason you can’t pin down, you can’t jerk away from their touch. You try to reason with yourself it was only because you’re one upset away from getting yourself killed but that reasoning falls apart when their hand gingerly traces your jawline and you make the softest of groans, a barely audible noise of content. Unfortunately for you, the sound seems to have reached Arlecchino’s ears and their expression softens slightly: their eyes narrow less and their brows aren’t as creased. And that smirk–if you could even call it that from how faint it is–becomes a half-smirk. 

They pull their hand away and your trance is broken, reality returning back to you as you remember that the person before you is still a Fatui Harbinger, no matter how bizarrely melting their touch was. They turn on their heel and walk towards the couch in front of you; the slightest bit of heaviness is placed on your heart. You remain stationary where you are, observing them as they seat themselves gracefully on the couch, and their attention encounters yours again. Their black pits hold expectancy in them. At first, you’re clueless as to what the criminal desires from you, but then their legs spread apart, an inviting gesture that beckons you and every rational thought leaves your easily swayed mind. Your heart skips a beat, and you're sure this time it's not out of trepidation. 

Even if you didn’t command them to, your legs would take you to their seating figure. You stand before them, feeling blatantly disrespectful to look down at Arlecchino, but you await their order. They lean back, lounging laxly against the couch, their posture never lacking their usual self-assurance. It only ties the knot in your gut tighter. You’re aware of what they’re instructing you to do, but the absent confirmation makes you hesitant. It seems like the Knave picks up on this because the room echoes with one definitive spouted word from their lips, authority and dominance ringing through their husky voice. 

“Sit.” 

Your legs buckle underneath you from the one-worded response, the demand only stoking the consuming fire inside you. Eager to please, you perch yourself on their lap, straddling them, your knees pressed into the furniture below you and encasing both of their thighs between your own. 

Oh, you think to yourself as your legs make contact with their thighs. They're firm. And for some reason, that provokes your stomach to churn in itself even more. You're so close to them, enough to feel their breath cascade against your skin. 

As you seat yourself, you nearly clumsily topple over, instinctively grasping onto their shoulders for support. Their shoulders are remarkably broad, you regard, well-muscled as well. Their hands creep up on your hips, steady but gentle hands grasping on each bare side of yours to stabilize you. The heat that radiates from their hands is infectious, regardless of the nails that burrow into your plush waist. For the first time, you flush considerably, a sweltering inferno forming in your cheeks and your head fills with dizziness. Their touch is gentle–something you rarely experience with customers–so, so gentle that you would describe it as heavenly. How can someone so inexplicably vile have heaven on their fingertips?

It's not a position you never found yourself in. In fact, it's far from the first time you've been like this with another client. But here, as you're sat on top of the Fatui Harbinger, and red x-pupils search yours, a foreign feeling passes through you. Placing your finger on it, you dubiously think it's bashfulness, but the heartbeat that sings in your ears and pulses underneath your fingertips tells you otherwise, tells you it's something more. Against that, you remove your grasp on their shoulders and place your palm flat against the couch’s surface behind the Knave. 

You squirm a bit, nervousness in your form as you remain as still as you possibly can, waiting for any more instructions. All you need to do is act like an obedient doll for them in order to survive; compliance is the best way of ensuring survival with people like these. You feel like you're merely eye candy from the way that their attention flits across your body, but you're immobile throughout the entirety of their observance. Being looked at is much better than any physical interaction. Their hands still cup your hips, but slowly, they descend to the side of your thighs, making your skin feel tingly. 

Impulsively, you mumble out a quiet "Sir…" as strange sensations brush against your skin. 

The sound surprises you and you feel on edge as their eyes travel from your lower half to your face. You gulp considerably. From their stare, they expect more of a response, a reason for their addressment, but even you don’t know yourself; it seems like an unconscious calling that just rolled off your tongue. You cow underneath their gaze, even when the two of you are at eye level. When you linger in quietude, their hand releases one of your thighs and lifts to your face, supporting your chin while their thumb rests on your bottom lip, unfurling it just the slightest amount to implore an answer from your now parted lips. Gleaming scarlet pupils grip your regard sternly, piercing into you and instilling you to spew something out. Except, you still can’t, now too entranced and lost in the crimson. 

“Doll.” 

Despite the pet name, it's devoid of any affection or warmth. It's a word that drips of command, a reminder of your place: simply a toy that they can play with however they want, a manipulated and decorated plaything for their amusement. That means you answer to them, and so when they request a response, you're under the obligation to please them. Your survival is in their palms anyway, if they wanted you to dance, you would just so they wouldn’t strangle the life out of you. 

However, its implication doesn’t prevent the tingling shudders that wrack your body nor the involuntary clenching of your thighs around theirs. Was it the gravelly voice that aroused your behavior? Your cheeks flare at the knowledge that Harbinger sensed the physical reaction. It shouldn't be possible. It shouldn't be possible, your thoughts repeat, but then they're interrupted by: 

"Oh?" Arlecchino inquires to themselves, a stark amusement in their speech. Their red glare illuminates slightly, replacing the lost darkening with a faint glow in their pupils, and the corner of their mouth curls up. It is only then that you discover something entirely new: that monsters can be sinfully, cataclysmically, terrifyingly beautiful and the sight before you is the most exquisite example. A devil has you wrapped in its claws and its fangs readied for devouring but it’s disguised as an ethereal angel; blinded by their perilous allure, you mistake their snow-white hair, their lustrous piercing rubies, their flawless porcelain skin, and their burning, fleeting touches as traits of a seraph. From a measly smirk, you forget the atrocities lying underneath their fingertips and dismiss the hazard their presence holds. 

The hand on your thigh rakes its fingers up, red nails trailing across the surface of your fishnet, wrenching out a breathy gasp from you as they travel inwards. Tingling pleasure injects into your veins as you subconsciously lean in, imploring for further sensual contact. A plea sits on your tongue and nests in your eyes as you beg them through your pitiful expression. They drink in your desperation with a slow swipe of their tongue over their lips, and that single action is debauched enough to elicit a soft groan from your throat.

“Well, aren’t you an amusing toy?” They drawl out with a preposing rasp and dark abysses glint with an insatiable hunger. 

They smirk enticingly, their thumb running across your bottom lip and smearing your lipstick on their thumb pad. Their grip on your chin tightens a bit, pulling you even closer to them before a shadow casts over you when their face nears. Before you can even fathom their intentions, they descend upon you, closing the distance between the two of you. Your lips are greeted with something pillowy soft and fervently warm, and you sharply inhale from the sensation. Every one of your nerves sings frenziedly, your muscles tense all over, and your heartbeat drums deafeningly in your ears–all of this as your body is engulfed in a fervid tornado of heat that makes you lightheaded with pleasure. It takes you several beats to realize the reason for this is that Lord Arlecchino, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave is kissing–no, kissing is far too intimate, devouring–you voraciously like they're trying to rob you of any air, trying to imprint themselves on your mouth. Their mouth dominates yours, pushing against them with a deep fervor and famished urgency, eager to swallow every bit of shocked noise you make. 

You close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge. 

You first taste lipstick with a waxy flavor hitting your tastebuds. It’s cold against your lips, yet warm at the same time. But the physical texture and flavor of their lips are irrelevant; there’s only one true manner you would distinguish their taste: 

They taste like sin. 

The type of sin that’s chocolate coated and sprinkled with colorful toppings; depravity so sweet and charming it makes you reconsider the bounds of right and wrong. Degeneracy is far, far tastier than anything you’ve indulged in before. How can something so evil be so heavenly? Cushiony soft, placidly warm, flatteringly zealous, it’s like having a dance with a devil; so unequivocally immoral but no less gratifying. You question if they really belong to the Fatui because how can something like this come from such? You want to engrave the texture of their mouth onto your memory, feel this faux intimacy even when you’ve long parted. The Fourth Harbinger, you surmise as you surrend your will to them, is decadent–the only word that can be defined as both wicked and delectable at once–the perfect word to describe them. 

The last remaining bit of reasoning comes to the backdrop of your thoughts and begs you to not be swept away in the heavenly embrace. You discount it in favor of accepting this godsent gift by leaning further with a weak imitation of their ravishing lips and pressing back. It’s a feeble attempt to match their insatiate nature, far too domineering and forceful than you can manage but they display a token of appreciation when they squeeze your thigh, indenting your skin shallowly with the burrowing of their nails. The action exposes just how sensitive you’ve gone underneath their touch and you reward them with the sweetest of sounds. 

“Arlecchino,” you mumble with half-lidded dazed eyes in between ravenous exchanges and it evokes a depraved throaty growl from the Fatui, like provoking a call from a starving beast. They lean deeper to indulge in your taste. The gruff sound reaches your ears and it’s like a psalm–you shudder from its musical melody. 

Their clutch on your jaw releases and their fingers outline your jawline before snaking to the back of your head. Well-manicured digits entangle themselves in your hair, and there’s a gentle shove against your skull that forces you deeper into the kiss. Your hands clutch onto the couch underneath you as tight as you physically can for any sense of grounding and your knees attempt to close in even more to feel more of their body against yours. The hand on your leg, in turn, caresses the length of your thigh. 

Every graceful touch, stroke, and brush exudes an unyielding and infectious warmth that only adds to the stoking fire in your gut, and you’re bathed in so much swelter from the ecstasy that you feel dizzy. Yet, you never want it to end, you grow more addicted and drunk with each encounter of their lips. That, paired with your strained breathing, prompts your stamina to falter much sooner than the Harbinger’s. You let out a soft whine to signal your depleting oxygen, and their mouth unlatch with yours, pulling away despite your ache for more. With the separation comes a small string of saliva attached between the two of you, evidence of the shared intimacy that’s snapped when they lick their lips. The hand behind your head detangles from your hair and you silently mourn over the loss of contact. 

You heave for air, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You’re a little perturbed when you notice that they’re not even out of breath, a small but firm reminder that they’re as inhuman as humans can be. That knocks a sense of reality back into you. Customer, mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, it comes back to you like a train. Here you are swapping spit with them while in the lap of potentially the most dangerous criminal you could ever meet, but fuck were they a good kisser–you’ve never experienced anything that came close to this in your lifetime.

Any foolish doubtful contemplation of the morality of this interaction is swept away just like that when you hear:

“Greedy little thing that you are,” they regard with the most cunning and handsome of smiles, discrete amusement dripping from their words. Their dark pits behold you entirely, the same way they have always done when it seems like they were contemplating what part of you to savor the most. Only this time, you’re not so disturbed by the notion. If anything, the swirling heat in between your legs suggests the opposite.  

Greedy wasn't a word often associated with you, yet you couldn't more correctly describe yourself in that moment. Greedy. Greedy for a Fatui Harbinger no less. As ashamed as you should be, there's no use denying that you crave for their touch, for their gaze, for anything and everything they're willing to give you. You want everything and more. The more you contemplate, the more it seems obvious why you wouldn’t. Are they a devil disguised as an angel, or are they an angel that fell from grace? Regardless, they bring nirvana to you. An incessant desire bubbles inside you, your throat swelling up with an urgent request on the tip of your tongue. Would they allow such a thing if you plead? Would they be offended by your impudence? Would they punish you for such? But the necessity outweighs any reconsideration of your insolence and the supplicant beg tumbles out of your loose lips. 

“Can I… touch you please, my Lord?” You croak out, wincing at just how wretched it comes out. The response from them is not immediate as the two of you stew in silence, a building sense of dejection inside of you. The expression on their face noticeably contorts, smile lessening, their brows furrowing, and their red x’s glinting dimly. Their free hand raises to near your neck and you suck in a harsh breath as their fingers enclose around your throat. The mere action sends a stinging reminder to your lust-dazed thoughts about their position, and a chill pierces you. 

Mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave–the labels cycle through your thoughts. Though their grip is lax, not exactly suffocating and giving ample space to breathe, their fingertips does acutely jab into your skin, a display of their impressive grip strength. You have no doubt that they can suffocate you with one hand alone, snap your neck, or, as your mind ventures into more harrowing territories, crush your skull. Those thoughts alone has you breathless with anticipation. A heavy weight suddenly appears in your gut, so heavy that you feel like you can’t move so much as a muscle. 

Did you just go too far? Was that too much to ask? Was this how you were going to die?

The reflex to gag and inhale combat each other in your throat, a discomforting sensation that crawls up your spine while you tremble. You’re almost certain that the nails have penetrated the layer of skin, drawing beads of blood that’ll trail down your mark. You whimper at the prickly pain. Yet, in all your unease, the most masochistic thought arrives briefly at the forefront, and you can’t help but consider: this position is just as intimate as all the other interactions. You’re already so vulnerable in their lap, does the hand around your neck change your peril in any way? No, you’ve been a defenseless lamb to a slaughter the moment you’ve stepped into the domain of a menacing wolf. 

Ah. Even now, you can’t dismiss the warmth of their fingertips. 

“Do you still want to touch me when I do this?” They demand callously, their voice harsh and reverberating through the room. Their grasp closes more around, and you feel your supply of oxygen inhibited. Tears begin to brim your eyes, but you’re undeterred. Unlike Arlecchino’s, your answer is instant and breathless. Your eyes intently lock on theirs, the hardened expression enough to satisfy their question. There’s no need for contemplation. Danger, you determine, is addicting. 

“Yes.”

The previously small smile stretches across their lips considerably. Content, or dare you say it, thrill writes itself over their face and the boulder previously pressed against your shoulders is lifted. Your throat is freed from their hold, but their touch doesn’t halt there. Instead, they rotate your head for you to face to the left, exposing your side profile to them. From the corner of your eyes, you watch as their face draws closer to your skin, hot breath cascading across the small dents her nails created. The one on your thigh finally leaves, moving to one of your hips, tender strokes across your flushed surface. They lean forward, and moist, plush skin meets yours. Lips traverse over the length of your neck, teeth scraping against, making you weakly groan. It takes all of your will to still your body, only allowing for the Harbinger to do whatever they desire to your form. Their touches are burning, burning, burning–so hot that you wonder if you’re experiencing a heat wave. Peppered kisses follow the edge of your jawbone, all the way up to your earlobe. A wet kiss graces your ear and then the most sinful of statements dignifies your eardrums, like a devil whispering hymns directly into your ear. 

“I think I’ll keep you to myself after this.”

A short hum follows afterward. 

“If you want to touch me, you’ll have to work for it. You’re only mine for tonight, aren't you? Entertain me. Give me a private dance, doll. After all, you have me for all night.” 

---

Link to M-Alexa's amazing art and how I imagine Arlecchino to look like in this oneshot.

[spectrumos]

I have to say I love miquella. I adore his aspirations and desire to relieve the suffering of others.

but he has suicide bomb soldiers in the Haligtree!

I aint TRUSTING someone who can charm people and has fucking SUICIDE BOMBERS. No matter what justification you have for that! Whether they figured out how to do that on their own, or Miquella just intended to give them a blessing, or whatever you can think of.

A leader who commands that level of belief and fanaticism, whether intentional or not, NEEDS to look in a fucking mirror.

LIKE, HOLY FUCK

Soldiers shouldn't WANT to sacrifice their lives! A kind leader would want them to try to fucking survive, yeah?

I know I couldn't stand the idea that someone, BECAUSE of their belief in our cause, or worse their belief in ME!? would choose to MARTYR themselves rather than run!

the suicide bombers were in the Haligtree! Miquella only shed pieces of himself AFTER cocooning! which means the soldiers became like this either before or during his cocooning.

Edit: I've taken a closer look at the haligtree soldier ashes and it says they only started exploding after he'd been gone for a long time.

But anyway, that shit was BEFORE the dlc!

acting like Shadow of the Erdtree was a straight up lie, a retcon, and betrayal of the previous writing on Miquella is honestly very fucking irritating.

It's a consistent expansion on his character! Someone who's so desperate to do the right thing that they're utterly blind to the folly of the actions they've taken along the way, or FAR worse, rationalizes and justifies them?

Someone who's childhood taught him that nobody could be trusted to help him if they're not loyal to his cause. maybe too loyal.

screaming

Additionally, the defense of Miquella's charm being "he used it in an ethical way" is fucking laughable and I utterly hate it.

That power is unethical.

Full. Stop.

Coercion is already evil. (our society does it all the time.)

And directly influencing someone's mind in a way they literally cannot resist (the only person who could resist it was the tarnished because we got his great rune) is far worse.

No person, god, or BEING can just use a power like that ethically. The power to do that is a temptation in and of itself.

Try to look at things from an angle of power imbalance, will yah? There's a reason power corrupts etc. is a saying.

Whenever a person holds great power, no matter how pure their intentions, they will misuse it and cause suffering.

Which is why I could never willingly let Miquella become a god. I'd sooner see him dead than that, because there's no way he could possibly make himself "pure" enough by removing fucking pieces of his very self!

A god who never feels doubt, indecision, fear, and love?

That's just a tyrant with even more tyranny than before!

A leader HAS to doubt their actions! If they cannot doubt, there's no room for anyone to protest their decisions!

The options, given his powers, are coercion, literally either killing those who resist, or fucking brainwashing them!

in the end, this game, and this dlc, are

A

FUCKING!

TRAGEDY!

ALWAYS HAS BEEN.

Rant over. Sorry if this hurt anyone's feelings, I'm just so irritated it's turned to anger, and I NEEDED to let it out.

[aprilthearcher]

me and you... were meant to be.

[remus lupin x f!reader] [platonic james potter x f!reader]

slytherin!reader (because i myself am one). use of (y/n) (though i tried my best to not overuse it)

angst, but happy ending. remus' insecurities get in the way of your fresh relationship. 3k words.

i haven't written for remus for a long, long time so i tried to do my best because i love him to pieces and recently i've been experiencing a remus lupin era so... here it is. also, that spell she uses to protect her home... i've no idea if it exists, i just liked it.

english is not my first language, so there could be some mistakes. pictures are not mine.

thank you for reading!

i wrote this while listening to "Don't Delete the Kisses" by Wolf Alice and "What if I Love You" by Gatlin.

“What if you and I… What if we were never meant to be?”

“What are you saying, Remus?”

“I'm saying that I don't think we… I don't think it’s good for us to keep seeing each other.”

“But, but why? We are so good right now, we… I’m trying here, Remus, but I don't get it. Why would you do this?”

“I've just told you, we are not meant for each other. You… you des…” He stopped mid sentence. “I don't see you like that anymore, I'm sorry if I made you think otherwise.”

Now, on top of a bus that would drop her off a couple of blocks from her flat, she couldn’t recall a single moment in their short relationship that could’ve propelled something like this. They were good, really good. After dancing around each other for so long during their Hogwarts years, they had finally admitted their feelings one summer afternoon while looking at the sun go down and the moon rise up. Four months later, he was ending it. Salazar, could he have been high? She knew sometimes the boys would smoke those muggle herbs Marlene would bring them, overcharging them of course, but he had never said something so… heartbreaking under their influence. No, he couldn’t have been high, he would become even touchier when he’d smoke some, ignoring his friend’s presence and delighting in the passionate, even primal, effect they’d produce; the lightheaded feeling that allowed him to relax and run his fingers through her arms, her hands, her neck and jaw…

She pressed the palm of her hands against her eyes when they started to water for the fifth time that evening after leaving Dorcas’ apartment complex. Was he so desperate to get rid of her that he couldn’t even wait to do it at home? What would her great-grandmother think of her if she saw her like this? “Crying over a half-blood, a HALF-BREED, you are nothing but a blood traitor. You’ve tainted our legacy, you and your good-for-nothing parents, you are no more worthy than those mudbloods you hang round, affiliating yourself with muggles, living a life surrounded by them." Why did she keep caring about what she would think? She had never shared her views on blood purity and how any wizard or witch that wasn’t part of the Sacred Families would be undeserving of its magic. She hated people like her grandmother. She hated that the old hag had tried to drill these thoughts into her head since a very young age. She was glad she had died and she was glad her parents were nothing like their parents, so why was she remembering her now? Perhaps it was the fear of losing her entire friend group that made her sick mind resort to conjuring the old witch’s voice in her head.

She truly hoped for her great grandmother to be rolling in her grave at the sight of one of her descendants crying over a werewolf and the possibility of losing her entire friend group made up of blood traitors, half-bloods, and muggleborns. 

She knew they weren’t like that, that they wouldn’t isolate her for something like this. Merlin, they didn’t even know, at least until tonight, of their relationship! Though she was sure it wouldn’t take long for them to figure it out after how she had left in such an abrupt manner, without saying goodbye and barely making it to the door without the tears falling down her cheeks. She had left the task of explaining everything to Remus. 

“Lady, this is the last stop!” The bus driver called out from the front of the vehicle.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Fuck Remus Lupin for breaking her heart, for making her cry and making her miss her bus stop. Fuck him for making her feel so in love she left her guard down, fuck him for assuring her that he could trust him. 

Although she had planned to take the muggle bus to get her mind off things and not get home immediately — for she was sure her lonely flat would make her feel worse, for she was sure there was one of Remus’ sweater idle placed on the back of an armchair she was hoping to return tonight after he’d accompanied her home —, she had not anticipated missing her stop and having to walk ten or so blocks home. It was not that she felt unsafe wandering through London this late, but she just felt emotionally exhausted.

She almost jogged all the way home, not wanting to encounter any trouble on her way home for she was not in the right state of mind for fighting anyone, muggle or not. Though, perhaps, the rush of adrenaline that would come from a brawl would bring her back to life, a little at least. 

She’d taken two steps into the hallway when she saw the light coming from her flat. Stopping on her tracks, she got her wand out of her leather holster strapped in her left shoulder and approached her door. Good thing she had opted to climb the stairs instead of apparating inside; if she were to be ambushed, she wouldn’t have had any time to prepare. 

With the whisper of an incantation the door opened slowly. For a moment, she forgot about Remus and the only thing on her mind was to find out who was inside her home. Her mind was reeling with ideas. Death eaters. 

Death eaters. Death eaters. Death eaters.

But how? She had secured the place with some, if not all, of the best protective spells. Dorcas had helped her set them up. The locks were unbreachable, as well as the magical barriers protecting the walls from all sides, there were only two people that could apparate inside, her and…

“Prongs?”

She had chosen James as the only other person to be able to apparate inside her home. The spell was infallible and it had taken them several months of hard work, but it was worth it since not even someone who had induced the polyjuice potion, impersonating James, could get in. 

She saw him pacing round her living room, his fingers twirling his wand in the air, a trick she had seen muggle musicians do when playing the drums. He stopped once he saw her, quickly coming to wrap one arm around her frame while the other pushed the door closed. The hiss of the invisible sigils increased for a second.

“I thought something had happened to you on the way home, you took so long. Why did you take so long? I was worried sick.”

“Merlin, James, the baby is making you act just like your mother.”

“Shut up, I was genuinely worried. Was about to go searching for you.”

“I took the bus but missed my stop, so I had to walk.”

He nodded, relaxing a bit now that he saw his best friend was okay. Physically, at least. Her emotions were still all over the place, her heart had calmed down and decided to break again after realising there were no intruders in her home. 

“What happened back then, dove? With Remus? You, you just run away.”

“I think you know what happened, James.” She said, while hanging her coat in the rack and taking out her boots. She knew he knew, he wouldn’t have left Dorcas’ flat without an explanation from Remus after seeing her so distressed.

James sighed. Even though her own feelings were messed up, she could still realise this was a difficult position for James, and the rest of them, to be in. (Y/N) and James had been friends since they were young, younger than now at least, knowing each other because their parents introduced them the summer before beginning their third year at Hogwarts. She was a Slytherin thus making it hard for the boy to trust her, even at that age, but one stern look from his mother Euphemia had the boy overcoming his prejudice against her in a heartbeat. It had been quite impossible to separate them since then, which meant introducing her to the rest of his friends. Sirius had been apprehensive, Peter quite terrified… Remus… Remus had been intrigued, you could say. All of his previous interactions with Slytherins hadn’t been pleasing, but this was the girl he had Transfiguration with, who would raise her hand faster than anyone and answer correctly, getting all the spells right on her first try. This was the girl he had glanced at maybe once — he definitely did more than glance — at the library, carrying way too many books for her on one hand while the other, holding her wand, pointed to the floating pile of heavier tomes behind her. 

Remus is also one of his best friends, the four of them are like brothers. She couldn’t deny she was quite surprised to see James here, attempting to comfort her instead of him.

He still had his arm around her shoulders when they started to walk towards the kitchen. If James intended to stay then she was in dire need of some tea to pass the bad taste the fight had left in her mouth. He would want to hear her side of the story. Turning to light up the room, she saw pints of red covering James’ knuckles. She disengaged from his hug, positioning her body in front of his then grabbed his hand, harshly. She heard him wince. His eyes scrunched and his lips closed in a thin line, she knew. He knew that she knew.

“Did any of his teeth fall out?” She pressed her fingers to his bloodied knuckles.

“No, but… Ow! Would you stop that?” He tried to release his hand from his grasp, she tightened her hold.

“I don’t need you defending me, James.”

“You’re my best friend, of course I’ll…”

“He’s your best friend too!” She yelled. Salazar, she was pathetic. Defending the boy who crushed her heart no more than two hours ago. “I don’t want you fighting my battles for me, James, especially when it’s against one of your friends.”

“I’m sorry, dove, you are like a sister to me. I couldn’t help it.”

“It’s not like he did anything wrong though. He… he is allowed to change his mind. I - I was the one to get too caught up. I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have…”

“I didn’t punch him because he ‘changed his mind’, dove. I punched him because he was lying about that.”

“James…”

“No, no, listen. Listen to me.” He grabbed her face, wiping the new set of tears that had begun to cascade down her face. “I know Remus and I know that he loves you, that he’s loved you since you jinxed one of the fourth years after bad mouthing Peter, perhaps even before that. He’s not telling the truth and he’s pushing you away because he’s terrified of how much he loves you. That’s why I hit him, thought it’d make him realise he cannot lose you.”

“Salazar, you really are your mother.” James laughs at your comment, heart soaring with desperation at the new turn of events. He knew something more was going on with Remus and (Y/N) as of the last couple of months because James Potter was observant and this new bond didn’t look like the shy glances they’d throw from across the Hall during their Hogwarts’ years. These were slow, delicate touches; soft smiles and bodies that would look to be close to each other every chance they got. So he wanted nothing more than for his friends to be happy; although he should’ve seen Remus’ self-sabotaging tendencies coming because he knew all of his friends like the back of his hand, he didn’t. He blamed the uprising war for that. He blamed it for everything, from clouding Remus’ judgement more than ever to forcing him and Lily, and consequently the rest of the Order, to be constantly on the lookout for danger. None of them had had a good night’s sleep for months now. 

“You should still apologise, you’ve been friends for years and I…” 

Rapid, loud knocks against her front door interrupted (Y/N). She and James looked at each other, he had a hunch of who it might be but getting his wand at the ready didn’t hurt. (Y/N) had the same idea, she started to move towards the entrance with her arm up, wand always pointing at the door.

“Who is it?” The banging stopped.

“It’s … It’s me, Rem - Remus. I - I.” She could hear him shuffling outside, as if he were moving round the place, jumping from one foot to another; he probably was. “It's really me, I - I got you that black leather holster for your wand as a gift. You bought the rug on your bedroom floor in a flea market last month, you said it reminded you of the one you had back home. Your favourite colour is red and you hated yourself for it because James always joked how you should’ve been in…”

“Gryffindor.” By the time Remus had been at the end of his ranting, she had unlocked the door and opened it all the way, hitting the rag on the way. 

“Yeah, but green always looked better on you.” Remus looked at her face, he could see the trail of black makeup going from her eyes to her chin. She must’ve felt his stare because in a swift movement she got rid of the marks, or at least she tried to. It smudged a bit more than he knew she would’ve preferred. 

“You’ve got blood on your face.” She said.

“I know, I - I tripped down the…” Remus tried to explain while cleaning the blood with the back of his sweater. She could’ve told him she’ll clean it up for him with the touch of a finger. She didn’t.

“You don’t have to cover for him, I know James punched you.”

“Damn right I did.” She heard from inside the flat. James was leaning against the arch that separated the living room from the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest and a look that must’ve frightened Remus because of how he bent his head down and then looked up again, nodding as to show he’d understood his lesson. (Y/N) stared at James with an eyebrow raised, he sighed and then said: “I’m going to get Lily back at Dorcas’. See you, dove.” With a crack in the air, James disappeared.

“What I said, earlier, it - it wasn’t true.” Remus began once they had settled on her velvet green sofa. She had found it on the street, a bit tattered but nothing magic couldn’t repair. “I’m an idiot but I’m just so scared. So frightened that.. that what I - what I am will put a higher target behind your back. I’m a half-breed, a monster, and people like me … No, no let me finish. People like me don’t deserve someone as pure as you so I thought…”

“You thought pushing me away, breaking my heart, would solve any of that?”

“Well, yes! If I’m not putting you in danger during the full moon, then I’m putting you in danger because they - they won’t hesitate to come after you if you are with me.”

“You bloody git. They are after all of us, even if we aren’t together, they’ll still come after me…”

“You don’t know that.”

“What are you saying, Remus? I’m a blood traitor in their eyes, my best friend is a muggleborn. My own great-grandmother would put me on the ground if she could see me right now so don’t try to make me understand you with this bullshit. You may be scared of love, of loving me, but I’m not. I love you and I’ve loved you for so long that I’m not going to give you up, not at times like this. I don’t care that you’re a werewolf, I’ve never cared. And I get that it’s hard for you, that you feel guilty when we try to alleviate your pain, but I’m fucking exhausted that you think I won’t be able to handle it, to handle you and your transformations.” She inched her face closer to his, a hand moving up to cradle his jaw while the other grabbed his hand. “I chose to be with you, knowing full well that it wouldn’t be easy and not because you’re a werewolf but because you are an insufferable arsehole who doesn’t let people in, who is afraid of hurting others while not realising that he’s still hurting them when he pushes them away.”

He didn’t respond, he just leaned further on the touch of her hand. It grounded him. How was he able to think, even for a second, that he would survive without her light-feathered touch, without her hands running through his hair or his arms that would give him goosebumps?

“I thought that you had grown tired of me or that you had never loved me the way I loved you. That you’d thought I wasn’t loyal to the Order, that somehow I would…”

“No, no, no. I’d never, (Y/N), truly, I’d never. I got lost, I- I thought someday you would realise how you had ruined your life by spending it alongside… me. You could do so much better, and yet…”

“I’m sure there are men out there, wizards or not, that are less frightened at the idea of love than you are, Remus. But they’re surely not you, because they’re not as funny, or smart, or witty, or sensible, or great as you. I’d probably get bored of them within the hour and then I’d be lost because you wouldn’t be beside me. The only man I want is you. No one else. You drill that into your head or next time you try to pull a stunt like this I’ll kill you.”

“Got it.” He whispered before leaning in even closer, his lips barely brushing hers. He wanted to be sure she was okay with this; he wanted to be absolutely sure he hadn’t completely messed up their relationship but for that he needed her to confirm it; to accept his apology. She did, sealing their lips desperately, trying to transmit everything she had just said but with a kiss. She had been so terrified that the only way to have him in her life would be through meetings to discuss missions and war plans; that she would never get to touch him, to kiss him, to hold him after a rough full moon again. “You wouldn’t actually kill me, right?” 

“No, but I would tell James to punch ten times harder.”

“Please don’t, he’s got a sick hook.”

“Then you better behave.”

She kissed him again, deeper this time. Their lips moved synchronised, familiar with each other; her hands travelled all the way up to his hair while his circled around her waist, bringing her closer. Chest against chest, with her legs propped up into his lap, they stayed like that for a long time before Remus laid her down on the sofa.

[artsymeeshee]

Hello! I just found your laundry list of art last week, and I have to say…I LOVE IT! Love the instinct comics, Ford being cool never ceases to make me giggle, and I loved the autumn drawing. I’ll admit, that one had me in tears…made be believe in the what-if’s of my own family. What they…could be like someday. Or what I wish they were. Thanks for the tears, they were much needed.

 Anyway! This is what I came to message you about! Although,…I am extremely sorry for the late message. I tend to check back into tumblr at…weird hours of the night. Heck, it’s almost the next day as I type this. I seriously need to sleep more. So! I had a few thoughts on Stan and Ford relationship, and I wanted to hear your thoughts on it. Just a disclaimer, I’m kinda basing this off my actual life as I find these characters mirror personal events very closely! I am also a writer and soon to be author! Might post some archive of our own content about these two soon. Also, and this is the most important, I have NOT read book of Bill yet. So plz…no spoilers. Anyway, long introduction aside, let’s begin!

In my personal head cannon of these two, which I don’t imagine is “too” different than how anyone else could see them, Stan and Ford have an extremely awkward and emotional conversation after Weirdmagedon. Why? B/c they’re both, to some degree, emotionally numb. In my opinion, why wouldn’t they? They haven’t spoken to each other in 40 years, properly, and they have repressed a ton of their emotions since then. It’s hard to bring that back up. (Speaking off of experience) I’d say even harder for Ford. Stan, thanks to the twins, has learned to loosen the locks on his heart while Ford kept running away from those emotions to defeat Bill. Just like his ambitions, that was the main priority, and everything else later. To me, this would explain why Ford never bothered to talk to Stan properly since coming back during the show. He wouldn’t know how to. If they were to talk, and this is where the writer in me comes out, I’d write Ford as the one that needs it most. He’s been traveling dimension for decades, running from the past that held him back…but he has no anchor now. Stan becomes that anchor, paralleling what he wasn’t when Ford was lost. And Ford…he just breaks. Like, completely breaks. And Stan is there with him, breaking like he is, but still there for him brother. Finally back after all those years apart. And as someone who has been on the side of neglect from one’s own brother…nothing would be me happier if we went to connect. Just like Stanley and Ford. And eventually, soon to be sailing on the seas to connect even more.

Phew…that was a lot. Sorry for the rambling. Told you I had some ideas! So, what do you think? Do you see Ford acting like this? If not…why? Genuinely, I’d like to know. Anyway, thanks for taking your time to read this. Again, sorry for the ramblings. Oh! One more thing, I know you aren’t taking art request right now, but would you be open to take them in the future? Say in 2 months time? Anyway, bye!

Well first off, thank you! I appreciate it! :D

And to answer your headcanon, I agree on it. Stan is definitely more open to talking, especially thanks to the kids. I mean there's still moments where it's hard and awkward for sure. And Ford would for sure have a harder time opening up, especially with the constant guilt and mistakes that replay over and over. And there's always that lingering feeling of "well, Stan has to hate me for what I've done" and it's always so surprising when Stan tells him differently and he never once hated Ford. Sure, was angry but never hated him. He had too much self-hatred to feel that way with Ford. And as many times as it needs to be said or repeated, it really makes all the difference when they tell each other how much they love and care for each other. As Alex said, "they're both so damaged, they desperately need each other."

As for the requests thing, most likely not. Only because I'm entering the busiest time of year for my work so it's gonna be a miracle if I even have enough energy or motivation for drawing if I'm not completely burnt out.

[fuxuannie]

🐠 haii for the requests milestone thingy could u do pavitr prabhakar x reader and the prompt “are we ab to kiss rn” and then the other actually leans in? c: TY IF U CAN ‼️❤️💖

↳ pairing : pavtir prabhakar x g-neutral reader

↳ synopsis : request ♡

↳ authors note : EUEEUEEU this is sosososo cute actually, i love this idea sm. ATSV SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT !!! im not entirely sure if i like this.. bute eeurrueue i tried my best

You and PAVITR had known each other for a while, long enough that he trusts you with his secret of being Spiderman with how close you two were.

Now you were on one of the tallest buildings in Mumbattan, swinging your feet over the ledge as Pavitr sat beside you with his hand unintentionally holding onto yours firmly since there was a small bit of lingering fear at the idea of you falling.

"Jeez, finally.. a break." He sighs in relief, taking off his mask with his free hand as you chuckle. "Isn't being Spiderman supposed to be sooo easy, Pav?" You teased, watching him roll his eyes in amusement. "Well, of course it is. But it certainly is busy, and I really just wanna spend time with you." Pavitr answers honestly, noticing how you seemed to be even just a little surprised and he was very entertained by that idea. You can already see his own little smirk beginning to form.

You clear your throat to hopefully shift the topic. "What made you so burnt-out today then?"

It didn't take long for you to see how his face shifts to a frown, and you knew exactly what he was about to bring up. "Miguel.. he's been so hard on some of us recently, especially the new-comers who he introduced the 'canon events' to." Pavitr runs a hand through his hair, his sigh was a mix of sadness and frustration as he recalls the events that occured earlier in the day. "They just want to save their loved ones.. no one can accept that kind of information and simply allow it to happen, you know?"

You nod along with his statement, unable to even imagine the dread those people must feel, just waiting for the people they care about most to die for their own development.

"But that's a sad topic, and today is supposed to be a nice resting day for the both of us." Pavitr smiles a little to lighten the mood, squeezing your hand softly as you take a deep breath. "Mines not been the best either.."

The smile he tries to hold falters at those words.

"Mom.. she's still very insistent on the arranged marriage." You let out a forced and bitter laugh. "I don't.. I mean, I don't know if I want to marry that person when I'm older. I've met them twice, Pav. And in the future, I have to spend every single loving who is essentially a stranger. Isn't that even a little weird in my parents eyes?"

He hated seeing how hopeless you looked, having no choice in who you want to love is devestating and in some cases lonely. Seeing real couples on the street and wondering what kind of innocent love you're likely missing out on.

Pavitr stands up and your head follows him as he does so, watching his determination-filled face as he pulls you up with ease. "Let's not wallow in sadness, yes? I'd much rather see you smile than frown." His hand makes its way to your cheek, causing you to chuckle softly as you lean into the touch and place your hand over his. "Thanks, Pav."

And without thinking, the next sentence you manage to stupidly utter out is; "Gosh, I wish you were the one I married instead."

You can see the visible surprise in his face when you say that, before you realize what exactly escaped your lips. "W-wait..-"

But it seems like Pavitr seems more affected than you, the hand once placed on your cheek immediately pulled back to cover his mouth and the uncontrollable but flustered smile on his face.

"You want to marry me??"

Instead of a mocking or angry tone, he seems genuinely happy that the person he's had a secret crush on for year or so finally gives some sort of hint that he's more than a friend.

"Do you mean it? Like.. really mean it?"

"I mean, yeah! Anyone would want to marry you.."

There's silence exchanged between the two of you, staring at each other in confusion, disbelief and surprise.

"What? Are we about to kiss right now?"

Pavitr teased to ease his nerves, but imagine how much worse they got when you actually started to lean in. He begins to quietly panic, however in all honesty he wants to do nothing else but kiss you at the moment. What if he never gets the chance to do it again? He couldn't risk that.

He finally presses his lips against yours, albeit very very nervously but a kiss is a kiss and goodness is he into it. Pavitr melts into the intimacy, but is very quick to pull away incase you're uncomfortable.

It seems almost impossible how fast his heart is racing when he watches your eyes flutter open and the realization that you actually kissed Pavitr rushes through your head quickly.

...

"Can we do that again..?"

"Gladly."

[menlove]

[image id: an ask from @harbingerofskulls that reads: "im gonna b real i only knew the jerking off i would love to hear you elaborate more if you want to go on the whole situation" /end id]

answering here so i can save as a draft without risking the ask disappearing bc tumblr's been doing that lately but

oh god </3 for everyone else- it's talking about this post. sooo i'm gonna go through each one bc i've been feeling insane for several weeks. i'll do my best to cite my sources lmao

i don't know (johnny johnny)

this is referring to this unreleased VERY early beatles track from 1960. the audio quality is absolute shit & as such unfortunately people love to put words to it that don't make much sense in either direction (i.e a lot of mclennon fans want to hear "you're in love with me" and a lot of people that hate mclennon will just make up the weirdest lyrics that make 0 sense so it's Not Gay). some of the lyrics that ARE clear make it obvious this song is about the two of them running away together- at one point i'm fairly certain paul says "how am i gonna tell my father that we're leaving town?" probably referring to them leaving to hamburg. which would be fine but some of the other lyrics areeeee..... very..... Hm. like multiple times paul refers to john as "my boy" and there's bits of them talking about not knowing what to tell their friends & wanting to just run off together alone. if i were the other members of the band having to record this i would have killed them with hammers <3 also the entire end is just paul going "oh johnny" like 1 million times. okay. sure. also since the lyrics ARE so garbled i mean i guess people could be right about it saying "how am i gonna tell my father you're in love with me" but i just don't hear it. still, a very gay song about running off together and getting away from everything and everyone, complete with moaning the other's name </3

2. paris

this one is a huge part of McLennon Fandom Lore lmao but for good reason. not citing sources on all this bc it's one of those that's just Fact & can be found in like any beatles biography or thebeatlesbible.com (my savior) but. for john's 21st birthday, he got 100 pounds from a rich relative. instead of taking his girlfriend or any of his other friends, he decided to use the money to take paul to spain. but they stopped in paris on the way and just decided to stay there. which i mean like. taking your best friend over your girlfriend to the city of love is a little weird but it's not THAT weird. it's everything else that makes people want to chew glass about it. including some of the other things on this list. like this audio of john just goofing around singing about paris and paul, with such hits as "my cheri, my pau pau my pau paul." which is :| okay best friend. and paul has this picture hung up in his house that he took of john sleeping in paris. okay. sure. why not. (although ig there's some doubt about if the photo is from paris? either way it's a picture paul took and has framed in his house which is incriminating enough my man). also NOT in the original post but may pang, a woman john had a brief affair with in the 70s, wrote a book called loving john. in it, there's this quote:

After a late lunch, Linda launched into a long paean to the joys of living in England. When she was finished, she turned to John and said, “Don’t you miss England?”

“Frankly,” John replied, “I miss Paris.”

okay! also in an interview once he said:

The thing was all the kissing and the holding that was going on in Paris. And it was so romantic, just to be there and see them, even though I was twenty-one and sort of not romantic. But I really loved it, the way the people would just stand under a tree kissing; and they weren’t mauling at each other, they were just kissing.

(interview with david scheff for playboy in september 1980)

3. if i fell

this one i already made an insane post on that started my spiral into posting about the beatles publicly </3 but, essentially, the song "if i fell" by john is..... well it's most likely about paul. he said it wasn't about his wife but that it was auto-biographical and he never really had any public affairs that weren't flings, certainly not a lover. but most damning is he wrote the complete lyrics for the first time on a valentine's day card addressed "to paul with love" with some hearts and arrows pointing to where the lyrics were written. absolutely insane. made me insane.

4. oh! darling

rawest paul song of all time if i do say so myself lmao. but it's just.... Highly Suspicious, that's what it is. a Lot of beatles fans/historians will admit this song is most likely about john but they won't admit that it's fucking romantic if it is. like.

like that is so blatantly romantic idk what to say other than that. also, in the official recording on abbey road, there's Several points where paul says "darling" that sound more like he's saying "johnny" which is what he called him. people brush it off by saying it's his accent, but there's a very clear difference between when he's saying "darling" and when he's saying "johnny". i mean the Lore behind this is that it was written right when things were splitting up between them (& the rest of the band) so it makes sense and it's why most people are willing to accept it's about john. it's just insane to me that they'll accept it's about john without considering the implications of that.

5. the real life demo

this one made me want to light myself on fire i won't lie to you. but here it is! john had a song called "real love" and this is a very early demo of it. but instead of the lyrics that came to actually be in the song (which are thought to be about yoko but let's not get into the fact that it was on a tape labeled "for paul" but whatever), it includes john fucking crying as he sings saying:

"was i just dreaming or was it only yesterday? i used to hold you in my arms. and now a baby and another on the way... la la la la farm..."

which can quite literally be about no one else but paul, as this demo was recorded when he'd just had two children with his wife linda and linda was pregnant with their third child. they'd moved to a farm in scotland. hearing this audio clip did genuinely make me want to lie down in the dirt for a week. also "i used to hold you in my arms" just... yeah. god. when people think it was unrequited idk what to say, really.

6. If Paul Were A Woman-

shoving these two together but. in april of 85, paul said in an interview about john and yoko's relationship:

"I mean, I couldn’t stand in the way of someone who’d fallen in love. You can’t say, 'Who’s this?' You can’t really do that. If I was a girl, maybe I could go out and…"

okay bestie <3 and what would make your relationship different if you were a woman? interesting! and yoko had something similar to say. in this audio, she says:

"I’m sure that if he had been a woman or something, he would have been a great threat – because there’s something definitely very strong between John and Paul."

just reminds me of being a kid and telling my best friends "if i were a boy i'd date you" lol. incredible. does anyone here know about bisexuality.

7. stuart!

not much to say here except that john had a best friend, stu sutcliffe, who died young & before that had been the bassist in the band. paul fucking hated him sooo much oh he SEETHED. a lot has been written on that relationship but it was.... very interesting to say the least. it could have just been about the band, or just jealousy over john's friendship, but take that with a lot of john biographers suspecting john had feelings/even a sexual relationship with stuart and it paints a very Interesting picture to say the least

8. john's bisexuality

here's a compilation of quotes about it, but john was more than likely bisexual. which has nothing to do w paul, really, but more to do against people that like to claim they were both Heterosexual Men. although an interesting quote in this compilation is him saying he's "had paul" lmfao

9. paul's post-beatles work

there's just.... there is so so so much here i don't even know where to begin. @ringompreg has a good compilation of paul songs here. a lot of them do take a bit of Lore but like..... it comes down to the fact that both him and john have/had admitted many times to using their lyrics during The Breakup Years to talk to/reference each other and sooooo many of these lyrics are insanely blatant. the two i mentioned were tug of war and let me roll it, both of which are acknowledged to be about john by most people WITH NO ONE BOTHERING TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE IMPLICATIONS OF THAT which..... tug of war has this:

we could stand on top of the mountain with our flag unfurled? dancing to a beat played on a different drum? this is what gaylors think gaylor conspiracy is but paul mccartney is really out here saying this shit.

and let me roll it is so fucking blatantly romantic but every reviewer is like haha! what a cool song that's "making fun" of john and clearly in his style! like are straight people stupid genuinely. anyway:

bonus to that but about JOHN'S solo work :)))))) he wrote a song called "watching the wheels" and when you consider he very much responded to MANY of paul's solo stuff it's :)

which as a response to let me roll it would just be... so devestating but it may be a stretch idk if i'm onto anything there it's just worth Mentioning

and there's a lot of others, a lot of them in that post up there. like far too many where paul mentions falling in love with a friend like Alright.

10. paul's first lsd trip with john/"i know" "i know"

this one is less blatantly romantic but it is just insane. here's an article. and a quote from george martin about it. the first time paul tripped on acid w john was bc john accidentally took some and he took him home & then took acid w him bc he didn't want john to be alone on the trip :( but, notably:

"And we looked into each other’s eyes, the eye contact thing we used to do, which is fairly mind-boggling. You dissolve into each other. But that’s what we did, round about that time, that’s what we did a lot," the singer recalled, "And it was amazing. You’re looking into each other’s eyes and you would want to look away, but you wouldn’t, and you could see yourself in the other person. It was a very freaky experience and I was totally blown away."

he also apparently saw john as the, and i quote, "emperor of eternity" during this trip??????? okay

SOMEWHERE i can't find it rn and i'm getting lazy but somewhere they (i think paul?) talk about the fact that they used to just stare into each other's eyes and then say "i know" "i know" which. considering john's song "i know (i know)" makes me crazy

11. in my life/i will

these are really just some devastating songs with lyrics that make you really raise your eyebrows. for in my life, written by john, it's just an incredibly romantic & sweet song that is again, not about his wife. given that the lennon estate is still out here posting pictures of paul to those lyrics i have to say it's a liiiiittle suspicious. and i will is...... it's one that paul insists is not about his girlfriend at the time, jane asher. and when you look at the lyrics vs how him and john met.... like. the song goes:

and the story of how they met was that paul saw john repeatedly before they ever met, when he didn't know who john was other than that he thought he looked cool & admired his sideburns (lmfao). and when they did finally meet, it was when john was singing at a garden fete (party) and paul was in the crowd just Mesmerized. so. well. you can see.... you can see how fitting that is. makes me crazy makes me want to chew glass actually

12. "we were each other's intimates" and other insane quotes

"we were each other's intimates" is a paul quote about john which is just insane but that's not even the tip of the iceberg. here's a ton of quote compilations.

13. "literally everything else"/honorable mentions

some honorable mentions go out to: john going on stage w elton john & playing i saw her standing there and introducing it as "a song by an estranged fiance of mine" okay! the "just like starting over" demos. okay! which isn't even to MENTION the fact that paul locked himself away in the studio listening to "just like starting over" on repeat for DAYS after john died like???? john saying repeatedly that he considered paul & yoko to be his two major partners in life including in an interview the literal day he died. a whole ass rpf movie where they kiss & talk like they're ex-lovers and dance in central park (two of us) made by the same dude that made the let it be movie like. he knew them personally? he worked with them closely? and the only thing paul had to say about it was just essentially that it was what he wished would've happened like???????? i can't find a super reliable source for this so take it w a grain of salt, but apparently paul referred to mclennon fanfiction as "beautiful stories" and doesn't mind them being written. paul also had a cat that had kittens & he named two of the kittens pyramus and thisbe after fictional lovers he and john played and he gave pyramus (the character paul played) to john :|

and literally so much else like all of this and it's not even all of it. it's not even close to all of it. i didn't even get to talk about the way in "get back" the documentary, paul started talking about john leaving the band for yoko and how john would choose her over them and then he got teary eyed, started choke laughing, and then started singing "build me up buttercup" before looking at the cameras and stopping. what the FUCK was that about! IT'S NOT EVEN GETTING INTO THE SONG "TWO OF US" THAT'S SO OBVIOUSLY ABOUT JOHN THAT IT HURTS. it's. it's not even scratching the surface. they were just genuinely insane about each other.

[princessozera]

so, random thought, there's a good chance the demon bros inadvertently harmed mc in some capacity just because human and demon limits are so vastly different, and the main human any have had contact with is Solomon, whose humanity is somewhat debatable. mc might act like they're invincible, but they are human in the end, and human durability is largely that we can keep going after almost any injury, not that we don't get injured

like Lucifer strings them up as he would his brothers, forgetting (assume he's really tired or stressed or whatever) that doing so puts a lot of pressure on the body and can cause actual damage instead of just being annoying like it is to his brothers. depending on how exactly he ties them up it'd change the effects but it's never gonna be great for them

Mammon running away from shenanigans with them and he tugs on their hand a bit too hard and fast to get them safely around a corner and dislocates their shoulder in the process because force = mass x speed and Mammon is a speedy boy. or he's running from Lucifer and slams into them at top speed, and if they can't protect their head from the wall/floor you know Mams is freaking out because mc is all out of it and there's so much blood and he doesn't care how Lucifer punishes him as long as he makes sure mc is alright

otaku Levi with his nonexistent sleep schedule doesn't realise just how badly sleep deprivation affects humans. paranoia, weakened immune system, depersonalisation, all the way to sleep deprivation psychosis. you go 96 hours or 4 days without sleep and lemme tell you, you ain't properly attached to reality anymore. been there, done that, would not recommend. there were bugs crawling all over my arms and legs and shadow people whispering. fucking sucked, and I was constantly shaking so I kept dropping stuff

if anyone knows about human durability, at least in theory, it's Satan, but the avatar of wrath can be emotionally charged. he really didn't mean to hurt them, but he was trying so hard not to lose it that day and as he led mc out of his room so they wouldn't be caught in the inevitable explosion, his deadly sharp claws nicked their skin. the wounds were mostly superficial— hurt like a bitch but no major arteries were damaged— but there was quite a lot of blood and Satan felt sick in a way he never had before. humans scar easily, a useful trait to close open wounds quickly, but Satan hates that he was the cause of those raised lines

Asmo is probably best at remembering since he hangs out with Solomon and has had human lovers before, but he is mostly around Solomon who cannot die. so he doesn't always remember what is and isn't toxic for humans, especially since a lot of poisons are used in medicines at lower doses and a lot of things we need to live are poisonous if we consume enough. it'd only take one slip up to put mc in hospital, and of course they don't blame him but he begs Satan to teach him as much as he can so it never happens again

you know Beel would try his best to remember, and he'd feel horribly guilty if he ever hurt mc, but he's big and strong even by demon standards and can eat anything that isn't Solomon's cooking. there's a few ways this one could go— sharing food with them that's toxic to humans, hugging them a bit too hard, mc giving him their food and going hungry, they work out together and they get hurt... take your pick

and Belphie knows all too well how fragile mc is, so he's very careful with his demonic strength around them. he already killed them once with barely any effort. but one day he wakes up from napping with mc to find he held them too hard and they're bruising. maybe his arm curled around their neck as it bloomed black and blue once again. Belphie doesn't nap with them for a while after that

! ANON! 💕💕💕💕

I don't know how you sniped me from across the highway but whump/injuries are exactly my cup of obsession and I've thought about this forever- i just never really had enough to make a full post. I LOVE your ideas and I hope you dont mind me bouncing some of my own off them;

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Lucifer and his funny little habit of hanging his brothers 💕 Say he takes pity on MC, makes sure they're right side up, nothing around the neck and only tied beneath the arms and around the legs. Plans to take them down in 5 minutes, really it was meant to be the pet equivalent of air jail. But a call here, difficulties there and 5 minutes turn to 10 and then it slips to 15. It's so little time, absolutely nothing compared to the nights he's left Mammon up over the banister.

So why are there screams in the hall? Why are Asmo, Mammon and Levi on the phone with Solomon, Barbatos, and Simeon respectively? He doesn't understand why they don't immediatley drop MC down, only catching the tail end of Solomon explaing something called "suspension trauma" to Asmo. When they do get MC down, even from a distance he can see the color is almost completely gone from their face, while their legs are a few shades darker. He watches Satan mouth out the count for MC's pulse, quick and staggering. When MC wakes, they can't seem to take a proper breath- gasping, clutching their chest, tearing up and confused. There isn't much more any of them can do, other than stand back and hand MC over to Barbatos and Solomon.

----

In a movie, it would be considered slapstick comedy, the way that Mammon skid around a corner full speed, carpet pulling under his feet , hip checking the wall as he ran away from Lucifer. In a movie it would be hilarious they way him and MC crashed, sending them literally flying back, head bouncing off the wall, swirls in their eyes and stars dancing around their head. In a movie they would only need to shake it off and get up to yell at him, with Lucifer standing back and watching in smug satisfaction.

But there wasn't anything funny about this, MC slumped in his arms, blood turning his tshirt into a darker shade of black, making it tacky and stick onto his skin. They're awake, sort of? But their pupils aren't the same size, and the speech is slurred. There's a truce as Lucifer heals MC, and they get them to a proper doctor.

Mammon gets better at ducking and weaving around MC, it even helps him evade Lucifer better. But MC doesn't escape the dislocated shoulders, and unwanted popping of their knuckles when Mammon holds their hand too hard. Neither had known that after the first dislocation, its a lot easier to dislocate your should again. It's never intentional, but it always hurts- MC tries to breathe through it if there is an urgency, but Mammon catches the way they pointedly look away, trying to blink the tears away, and knows that he's- once again- failed to keep MC out of harm.

---------

Levi being MC's energy drink dealer. He doesnt know why they dont but their own, but he has plenty so he ultimately doesnt mind sharing. They're not attached at the hip so he doesnt see how little sleep MC is getting, a single can carrying them through 2 whole days. They know its time to 1-up again when their heart stops sounding like helicopter blades.

He finds them on the floor of their room, rubbing their arms raw with the hard bristle brush Asmo uses to buff his horns, babbling incoherently to themselves.

-----

With Satan the physical is NEVER intentional, as much as he used to rage in the early days of the fall, the thought of hurting MC didn't sit well with him. But tiny nicks are so easy to cause when even his regular nails are sharper than a humans'. If MC can keep their reactions subtle, it wont be until Satan is laying in their lap that he notices the "freckles" on their arms don't quite lay flat.

When you're used to fast reflexes, you don't think twice about slamming a door in someone's face. Someone (MC) who was too close and now has a broken, bloody nose. Now whenever the snore in their sleep, or their nose whistles when they laugh too hard, Satan remembers opening the door to MC doubled over, blood leaking from between their fingers as they tried to put pressure on the bridge of their nose.

-------

Dosage and concentration.

Asmo is vaugely familiar with these terms- SPF strength, alcohol proofing, acidity in his skin care. He's had so many spa nights with Solomon that he doesn't think twice about sharing his skin care routine with MC as well. Powders, gels, creams, exfoliants. Some a bit too harsh, MC's skin turns warm and flush, so he thinks their skin is sensitive. He'd ask for help caring for his wings and horns. MC goes in with their bare hands to get a good scrub, attributing the burn to the rough edges and upturned edges of Asmo's horns. It feels like icyhot, so it must be working. When they're done, Asmo tries to take the rest of the cream off their hands to apply to his hands, but they both scream as a visible layer of skin from MC starts peeling off as well. The acid having fulling numbed and killed off most of the senses in MC's hand, had started to deteriorate the skin, and its by some small blessing that MC hadnt already applied it to their face. It takes a panicked called to Solomon to get the feeling back into MC's hands, but it still takes weeks for the skin to grow back on to their hands. The pain of bandages on raw muscle is excruciating, and Asmo sticks to them like glue, fully taking the blame for their condition.

-----

Beel and Belphie have another trauma to share as twins- nearly killing MC in their sleep! Beel doesnt understand how heavy an unconcious body can be, and being as large as he is, this becomes a problem the first time him and MC share a bed. He falls asleep with an arm draped over them, but exhaustion from practice has him rolling on to them. Even if not entirely covering them, the weight on their chest makes it hard to breathe and MC soon drops nicities and is trying their damnest to get him off or at least wake him up. Its a panicked use of the pacts to call another brother that saves them, and Beel cant sleep for the rest of the night.

Belphie doesn't have as many night terrors these days, but they can still get bad. Usually sleeping with MC can keep these dreams at bay, but on nights that they dont, he wakes up to find MC tossed onto the floor or squeezed between him and the wall. On the worsts of these nights, he woke up to MC screaming, having wrapped a hand and tail so tightly around their arm that it shattered in 2 places.

(Can I also offer a beel and belphie alternative: MC wanting to match Beel's stamina/ gym workout time and getting muscle deterioration. Belphie wanting a sleeping partner so he messes up their sleeping cycles, 10+ hrs asleep, accidentally depriving them of light, water, and food, causing a depressive episode)

[cinnamonest]

Lena thank you for the spanking bit, has to be one of fav kinks ever because it just... fits every single yan regardless of who they are??? Kinda like a "universal" thing, just top notch. Do you think we could ever get headcanons for it?

Thank you for this anon, you're absolutely correct it is a top-tier kink

Also I've been wanting to write more about god-era Morax so thank you for the opportunity to do so, I rambled way more about him than the others here sorry lol

As for those who fit the kink best imo I’m going with Childe, Diluc, Ayato and Morax

//major spanking kink material (obviously) but gets kinda bad in severity/intensity, also mentions of hair-pulling, biting, throat fucking, anal, two cocks for Morax again (as always 👌)

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Childe is probably the best one here to end up at the mercy of here for once, for the sake of your poor ass at least.

Not that it isn't still awful and painful — he’s a sadist at heart and just adores making you squeal and cry. What at least makes it comparatively at least bearable is that he tends to use his hand — although that does make it more personable, more humiliating.

He tells you, though, exactly what he intends to do. You're being such a little brat today… come over here…

He doesn't even seem angry, but rather excited. He's all smiley and cooing in a way that feels so utterly humiliating and degrading.

Oh, but please do run. Please, please make it so much more fun for him, run away and try to hide. There's virtually nothing in the world that turns him on as much as either a game of chasing you or hunting you down wherever you're hiding. The fact that you're that scared of getting your ass beaten is kind of cute, actually. Are you that sensitive to pain, or is it more protecting your pride that gives you so much resistance? Not that he's complaining or anything.

He'll even give you a very wide opportunity to run, make sure you have plenty of avenues to do so. His heart rate begins to go up seeing the look of realization in your eyes when you spot an opening to run off, and he'll give you a minute or two of a head start. It doesn't take him long to find you nonetheless, hauling you up over his shoulders and carrying you back to your room with obvious excitement, like a predator dragging squealing, still-living prey back to its den for its inevitable fate.

That being said, doing that will make it worse for you — at that point you probably do deserve a belt at least, you know? Regardless of the instrument of choice though, he keeps you bent over his knee — he can feel your squirming more that way, and he can grind his hard-on into your stomach as you thrash around and squeal. Each strike still lands on bare skin, but rather than having your lower half naked, he likes to sometimes move the hold on your back and grasp at the waistband of your panties instead, jerking them up to wedge between your cheeks, effectively holding you in place and baring your skin at the same time.

He's so mean about it, taunts you that same voice you hate so much—

Aw, are you actually crying? Maybe I'll stop if you beg for something else…

There's no set number or standard of how much you'll be punished for any particular offense, which can be more torturous than anything. At least if you were given a number, you'd know how much more you had to endure. Instead, you just lurch and squeal each time his hand or the leather comes down... you kick your legs and thrash about, to no avail. In fact, you're pretty sure it just makes him hornier, you feel his cock twitch and his breathing grow more ragged the louder you cry out, and his hand on your back forces you down harder.

He’s actually totally shameless about getting off to it, too, so you can’t use that against him.

God, you're so cute when you cry like that... squeal louder for me...

The only real upside is that it's usually abruptly cut off at some point once he's too aroused by it to continue, and needs to just bury himself into your holes. You get slid off his lap onto the couch or bed, barely getting any time to recover — still sniffling and whimpering— before being contorted to whatever position he wants and rammed into without warning… thus for once, him being perpetually horny and having virtually no self-control actually becomes a positive. It still doesn't help, though, that the sex makes his hips smack against your sore ass with each thrust, but crying out about that only makes him go harder.

You know it could be much much worse — he makes sure to remind you that he could easily keep going until you completely break down, but he's so nice and you should be grateful for that — but you're still sore, and it leaves a pinkish-reddish tint under your natural flesh tone — something he likes to point out to you later, groping at your ass and laughing when you jolt at the sting. Your nose wrinkled with your expression of disgust as you jerk your head away from him, and you mutter under your breath.

Bastard...

And then, you squeal and lurch forward as one more harsh smack lands on your backside. You try to ignore the chuckling that follows as your eyes well up with embarrassed tears, and you bury your face beneath the covers of the bed.

-------

Diluc’s punishments are awful in terms of pain, but thankfully they're over fairly quickly because it's largely an act of momentary fury and irritation, and once he gets that anger out of his system, the punishment will be over, too.

He's still very intimidating about it, and it doesn't help that it's always a sort of spontaneous thing he decides on in the heat of the moment — thus you see the exact moment you know you've crossed a line, but also know (or at least, quickly learn) that there's nothing you can say or do at that point that will get you out of being punished. His eyes narrow and his voice lowers and he tells you to get over here in a voice that makes you feel like your heart just stopped, and your stomach feels as if it twists into a knot when you see the confirmation of your dread when he takes his belt off.

Running is not advisable — it's not like you'll succeed, and you'll just make him more mad. He's rough with how he handles you, dragging you by your clothes and hair over to bed, counter, or the back of a couch, forcing your head down.

How bad any one particular spanking is varies a lot depending on how mad you've succeeded in making him. He's not merciful at all, so he hits with force based on the level of his frustration. Thus, your attitude is important — you can technically commit a lesser offense, but if you keep backtalking and being bratty and fighting it, you'll likely get a worse punishment than you would for a worse offense for which you were apologetic and submitted to punishment easily.

What does change with the severity of your offense is that if what you didn't isn't so bad, you can keep your clothes on, but for particularly egregious transgressions, even in spite of the heat of the moment, unfortunately, he doesn't forget to pull your clothes up or down and off to make sure you're bared first.

He virtually always uses a belt, much to your dismay, and prefers to bend you over various surfaces since he can strike harder that way. It’s painful, you always end up in tears quickly, begging and pleading and spilling apologies for whatever you did, but he never has any mercy on you.

Much like you can’t get out of it to begin with, there’s also nothing you can do that will make it end any sooner than he feels like it. Over and over, grumbling with each strike about how you’re such a brat, how you can’t just behave, how it’s your own fault, until your flesh is reddened and burning badly enough that even when it’s over, all you can do is slump forward and cry.

If he went really hard on you, he might feel a little bad afterwards, getting you a wet cloth to soothe the burn… but he’ll still remind you that you wouldn’t be lying there all shivering and sobbing if you just learned to behave yourself properly.

For him, it’s more of an actual punishment first and foremost and not really an intentionally erotic thing, at first he’s too mad to think much about the eroticism of it… but seeing you lying there sniffling with your butt so heavily marked and welting, admittedly he does quickly get hard… and he’ll get incredibly flustered and embarrassed if you accuse him of getting off to it.

But be careful — push him too much on that matter, and such antagonism might be grounds for a round two on your already-stinging ass.

-------

Ayato’s punishments are particularly unpleasant, but the thing is that if you're in that situation, you deliberately chose it. Because he's gracious enough that you get a lot of warnings before reaching that point.

If you're being bratty, temperamental, rude, or whatever other behavior he doesn't like, you get a certain look first. The standard half-lidded eyes, unpleased expression, the universal ‘stop that right now’ glare. Maybe a passive aggressive comment if he can slide one into conversation.

If that fails — in other words, if you keep being a brat regardless, deliberately ignoring his warnings — you then get a verbal warning. He'll address you directly if it's just the two of you, but gods forbid you’re digging your own grave by misbehaving in front of others, he waits for a moment where everyone else's attention is on something else before pulling you close in a faux gesture of affection (with a grip harsh enough to ensure you get the message but not enough to alert anyone else in the room to his quiet fury), lowering his voice, whispering directly into your ear.

We’re going to have a talk about your behavior when this is over. Do you understand?

You know by now what a "talk" actually means, and hearing the words makes you stiffen and swallow. Granted, by the time it reaches the point that you've been that bad, you won't escape without at least a few swats, but if you persist, you'll just make it much worse. All you can do is nod your head and wait in dreadful anticipation.

As soon as the company you had leaves, you try to slowly back away, looking for an opening to run, but he has you grabbed by your clothes or hair and is dragging you off before you can even try. The total silence on his end as he drags you over to your room only serves to amplify your dread, and thereby your little whimpering protests.

The primary thing that will make it that much worse is what he uses to punish you, because from the day he brought you home, he anticipated a need for discipline at some point, and thus had a whipping cane custom-made just for you. One of those thin wooden canes designed for no other purpose than infliction of pain and punishment, which he leaves sitting out in your bedroom at all times, making sure it's always within sight as a subtle threat, a reminder of his power over you and that your behaviors have consequences.

He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t get heated, yet somehow that makes it so much worse. He’s perfectly calm as he holds you down on his lap, a hand wrapped into and grasping your clothes on your back to ensure you’re not going anywhere with each sharp pain on your bare skin. He’s very disciplinarian about it, ensuring to emphasize the reason and intention of the punishment itself—

Remember that you had every option of avoiding this. This is only the consequence you deserve. Do you realize that?

You nod and whimper and try to apologize, but it doesn’t make each swat any lighter. He’s rather harsh about the severity too, the degree of pain, duration, number of swats and outright humiliation often feel disproportionate to what is in your opinion a mild offense, although you know better than to voice that thought.

You beg, sure, you cry and whimper and say you'll take any other punishment, but it goes in one ear and out the other, your words have no effect, and while his voice has that characteristic gentleness to it, he's still cold and firm in his reply, if he even gives you one.

You're not getting out of this. Hold still.

He does take care of you afterwards, so lovingly and gently it makes you angry. He reminds you again that it wouldn't have to happen if you behaved, that you have no one but yourself to blame, all while kissing your crying face, holding you close and gently massaging the newly formed welts.

He also likes to make you gauge how many lashes you deserve beforehand, often making the total number a certain multiple of how many times you mouthed off or did something against your rules. And of course, whenever there's a fixed number, he makes you count.

Listening to your voice grow more and more shaky and begin to crack, your speech becoming slurred with sobs and oh, how precious is the sudden panic in your voice when you realize you've lost count. The way you tense and start begging and whimpering when he replies—

I suppose we'll have to start over...

-------

Morax’s punishments are always by far the worst.

That's largely because there's a maddening element of psychological torment involved. It's slow, drawn out, the dread and anticipation are almost worse than the punishment itself. He actually employs a variety of corporeal punishments, each of which make your stomach churn just to think about, but unfortunately, putting you over his knee and beating your ass until there's a deep red hue to your skin is a personal favorite of his.

What makes his style of discipline so unbearable is that you’ll be punished for literally anything. There is no possible offense, no rule to be broken, that won’t earn corporeal punishment of some kind, most usually on your poor ass. You get a very clear set of rules, rules you’re expected to know and obey from day one. Countless little rules, so many of them meticulous and pointless. Things you must do, things you must not do, and rigid standards for your attitudes and behaviors.

Each and every violation is its own offense — not to mention, things like lying when asked about what you did, objecting to punishments, even talking back or trying to defend yourself when accused count as individual offenses too. Sometimes you don’t even realize you’ve broken a rule until he tells you you’re going to be punished for it, and any protest or whining counts as another offense.

Really, you’re lucky if you can go a few days in a row fully able to sit without any stinging pain, and it’s not uncommon for you to earn back-to-back punishments one day after another. You know for a fact that your record of days in a row without ending up laying in bed, whimpering and crying and clutching your backside in pain is a single digit number.

Sometimes, if it’s severe enough, you’ll get put over his knee right then and there, but he’ll also tally up the small offenses and, at the end of the day, punish you cumulatively for every small offense you’ve made, because he can’t allow even the slightest offense to go unpunished.

It’s not limited to things you do in his presence either, because he has ways of finding out everything you do.

Every day that you can't accompany him, he has an established routine for when he returns. Firstly, of course, you're supposed to greet him when he comes in (any attempts to be petulant by giving him silent treatment or hiding away will result in further punishments), but then, as he sits you down, holds you close, he asks you the same question.

Have you done anything you should not have today?

It's a torturous question.

On one hand, you could have very well been very well-behaved, in which case you can answer honestly with at least some confidence (although even then, part of you hesitates thinking maybe you committed some offense unintentionally).

But when you haven't been well-behaved and you know it — that's what's torturous.

It's a gamble. He asks every single day, so him asking itself is not a dead giveaway that he knows what you did. If he doesn't know — well, you might be able to lie and get away with it. Inversely, how unfortunate would it be if you told him, and it turned out he didn't know, and then you had to suffer when you could have gotten away with it?

On the flip side, if he does know — well, you'll soon be squealing like a stuck pig regardless, but things are much, much worse if you try to lie. You would know — you've taken that gamble a few times now and lost.

He seems to have ways of finding out everything — you only lied when you were absolutely confident, thinking there was no way anyone saw the thing you did, only for your stomach to lurch when you feel the soft stroking against your thigh stop, and are met with a low voice—

…Is that so?

And the tone, the way he says it, you immediately know you've messed up.

Of course, you could hypothetically keep denying it, but entrenching yourself further in a lie is, by that point, the worst decision you could make — you would know, you tried that once and you couldn't sit down normally for over a week. The best thing to do now is to confess… you won’t get any mercy or a lighter punishment, but you’ll avoid the additional punishment you’d get for doing anything else.

But even then, he can’t even give you the decency of forcing your body to bend and getting it over with. It has to be drawn out, torturing you to the greatest degree possible — sometimes, he does this by delaying it, telling you he has something else to do first, leaving you to sit around and wait in anticipation for an hour or more. If an offense is bad enough, one session might not even be enough, and you're told that you'll get another one tomorrow, adding to your dread.

But most of the time, the torment comes from forcing your own participation. He keeps you firmly in his lap, reaching down to grope at the flesh where your butt meets your thighs.

What do you think you deserve to have happen to you?

Another test, a question for which you’ll only receive something worse in addition to whatever will happen already if answered incorrectly. There’s only one right answer—

…Y-you should... punish me...

On the bright side, he’s genuinely pleased once you start learning well enough to know what the right answer is.

You’re stood up, guided over to the drawers, hands firmly on your shoulders to ensure you don’t get any ideas about running. You hate that one drawer, it makes your stomach churn just to look at. He has a damn collection for you— leather straps, whipping canes, paddles with holes in them just to hurt that much more. He tells you to pick one.

That, too, is a test— you know which ones hurt more. You're supposed to gauge what you deserve based on the severity of your offense, and he'll be that much more displeased if you go too lightly on yourself, and will consequently be more forceful, which you do not want. Eventually, you manage to make your choice, biting your lip, pointing with a shaky hand, tensing as his hand runs motions that would be soothing in any other context up and down your thigh, pausing to grasp at the fleshy part of your backside.

Then you're led back— sometimes to face the wall or bend over a counter, but most often he prefers to keep you over his lap. Not that you'll be forced down either— not unless you make that necessary, which of course, you do not want. Unless you want it to be that much worse, you follow the commands— pull your robes up, the waistband of any underwear down, bare your skin (always, no matter how mild the offense), lay down on your stomach, put your hands behind your back so he can grasp your wrists.

And even then, even then you have to be tormented further.

Now, what did you do to deserve this?

You recall to the best of your ability, hoping you didn't forget anything, lest you be accused of trying to be deceitful in hopes of escaping consequences, which will add another tally to the list.

It’s painful. It always is. You've reached a point where your resolve to not cry and squeal is defeated pretty early. You used to try your best not to for the sake of your pride, but you know by now that it will go on long enough that your tears and crying out are inevitable.

He manages to somehow be so stoic and calm and yet somehow so, so cruel about it.

Does it hurt?

Your shoulders quiver with little sobs, you go tense as he gropes and kneads at the raw flesh.

Y-yes, it hurts, it hurts so bad, please no more, please—

You cut off with a high-pitched cry as the stinging pain strikes again. And again. And again. It's always so much, so unfair compared to the weight of whatever you did. That slight pinkish undertone isn't quite satisfying enough either, he never stops until there's a deep, deep red tone to your flesh.

If you've been especially bad, you may have to count… but he actually tends to prefer not giving you a set number. You're more fearful that way, uncertain of how much more you have to endure.

You're certain he gets off on the pain for one thing, the sound of your cries and the way you jolt and squirm, but the humiliation is worse than the pain itself, for you. He knows that, revels in it. He's told you before—

You're such a prideful little thing… that will certainly need to be fixed.

Repetitive subjection to something so inherently humiliating and vulnerable, and being made to break down, any semblance of toughness and dignity being torn away at his hands, is a way of slowly breaking down your pride. You know that, it makes you so angry, but you can't help but let that vulnerability be exposed every time, to act in such a way that ensures he knows how badly it humiliates you.

Your go limp with exhaustion when it finally stops.

What have you learned?

You can barely speak, voice hoarse from the strain of your cries and speech muffled by sniffles and sobs.

I'm sorry… I won't do it again…

And then, he has the audacity to be so, so sweet to you. Looking down at your tear-streaked face, smiling— no, smirking, a belittling, amused expression— leaning down to kiss your forehead.

Poor thing.

Kneading at the sore flesh in spite of how the touch makes you wince. As if it isn't his fault, as if he had any mercy on you the whole time you were begging for it to stop.

It only makes you angrier. More than once now, you've earned a second round for how you reacted to his undeserved kindness. So ungrateful.

It's never a solitary punishment either, always coupled with something else, always something equally humiliating and discomforting, if not painful. You know he gets off to it, because the second punishment is almost always a direct sex act of some kind.

You'll take his cocks down your throat, grabbing your skull and fucking your face without any restraint, forcing you to swallow every last drop of seed, even forcing your head down to lick up whatever you spill off the floor. Your saliva just provides the lube to force you to bed and fuck you until you can't even stand, and all the while his hips bounce off your poor ass, each movement stinging against the sensitive flesh. He'll bite your flesh, unnaturally sharp teeth even piercing you skin, leaving you covered in marks. If he's feeling really, really mean, you don't even get the semblance of pleasure of it ramming into your poor sore, raw pussy— you'll take both cocks into your tight little ass instead, a stretch that makes you squeal and thrash and cry. Your legs kick and you lurch forward, desperate to pull yourself off, but you're jerked back with a growl as he slams into you, completely bottoming out. Eventually, you give in as the stretching pain ebbs away and trying to take whatever pleasure you can from the faint stimulation to spots of pleasure through the walls of flesh. But the act is utterly humiliating nonetheless, your hole left twitching and gaping for hours as cum leaks out and onto your skin. You can't even sit for days, both your poor asshole and backside sore and tender.

Your embarrassment and resentment builds. You loathe him for it, feel so humiliated and angry at yourself and how deeply you dread the punishments that it makes you nauseous.

And thus, in one particular incident, fed up and filled with spite, you made the greatest mistake of your entire time trapped with him— you decided to run, seeing that for once you had an opening to do so.

A stupid choice, really. You don't get far. Not even a full ten steps.

You know immediately that you have severely, sincerely fucked up. The sheer harshness with which you're grabbed, the back of your clothes grasped and twisted with unprecedented force, the draconic growl to his voice that makes your blood run cold.

Oh, dearest, you have no idea how badly you've just stepped out of line.

His other hand latches onto your throat.

You're going to be sleeping on your stomach for quite some time, won't you?

The statement alone makes tears well in your eyes, any bitter pride quickly crushed. You shake your head profusely, start begging for forgiveness, but you know in your heart that it's far too late for that… it still doesn't stop you from whimpering and apologizing as you're dragged back down the hall, no doubt to one of the worst punishments you've endured yet.

[sentientgolfball]

Forget Yourself

SO sorry it's been so long since I've posted any writing. I've been very busy with work and swim and crocheting ghouls

18+ MDNI

Read here or on Ao3

Word Count: 3959

Pairing: Raindrop

Tags: Sir/mean Rain, forcefem, subby Dew, dubcon (kinda?? idk I'm tagging it to be safe)

Summary: Rain gets Dew a little something to make him pretty.

“You want me to what?” 

“Put it on.” 

Dew stares dumbfounded at Rain. He’s too nonchalant about this. He’s sitting in the chair across from the vanity, dress shirt half unbuttoned, suit jacket rumpled, and legs slightly spread. Dew can’t believe it. Rain is staring at him expectantly as casually as if he asked him the weather. As if he didn’t just say—

“Put on the dress Dewdrop.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing when he says it this time. 

He’s joking. He has to be. He’s baiting him so he can snap a picture and send it to the others to laugh at. He swallows, throat dry as he challenges Rain’s cold expression. He’s stubborn. He’s not going to let Rain get the better of him. 

“I won’t ask again, Dew. Put it on or leave.” 

Both of those options sound horrible. He doesn’t want to put the dress on, he doesn’t even look at it. But he was the one who followed Rain back to his room after their little night on the town. He could’ve gone to bed, could’ve trailed after anyone else, but he picked Rain. How was he supposed to resist when he was in that dark suit? The little bit of makeup making his eyes pop. The way he squeezed Dew’s ass and muttered filth in his ear while they were walking back to the Ministry. He can’t be blamed for following Rain like a little lovesick puppy. 

Now though, he almost wished he would have taken Mountain up on his offer to visit his nest. Almost. He still hasn’t decided if getting hunted through the woods by a feral earth ghoul is better or worse than this. He has half a mind to turn away, but the shadow in Rain’s eyes keeps him rooted in place. Rain quirks an eyebrow. Waiting. 

After what feels like an eternity, Dew glances at the dress. It’s laid out on Rain’s bed. It's black, perfectly matching Rain’s suit. Strapless. Small. The back is cut out. He briefly wonders if Rain raided Aurora’s closet for this. He looks back to Rain. 

“What if I don’t want to?” 

“You do,” Rain replies coolly. 

Dew opens his mouth to retort, but he can’t find anything. Rain wouldn’t stop him if he walked out, he knows this. But the way he looks at him feels like a test. Like he’s daring Dew to turn and run. A mouse caught by the cat. 

He can’t. 

“What,” he clears his throat, “what happens if I put it on?” 

The corner of Rain’s mouth twitches up, “You’ll get to be my good girl.” 

Dew’s head snaps back to stare at Rain, mouth slightly agape and a blush dusting his cheeks. There’s no way he heard him right. 

“What did you just say?” 

Rain’s fangs flash in the low light of the room, “You’ll get to be my good girl. You want that right? You want to be good for me?” 

There’s not much that can leave a ghoul like Dewdrop speechless, this is one. It’s no secret Dew desires praise, aches for it. Let’s himself be broken down in every way just to be put back together with soft hands and softer words. This feels different though. This feels like a trap. A threat. Rain is luring him in and he’s utterly helpless to his siren song. 

Still, he refuses to go down without a fight. He steps over to the bed. He can feel Rain’s eyes burning into the back of his head as he rubs the fabric between thumb and forefinger. An image of himself in it flashes through his mind and he hates the way he can feel his pants get just a bit tighter. He looks over at Rain. He’s sitting with his head resting against his knuckles, expression unreadable. Rain is patient. He’ll play this game all night if he has to, won’t give up unless Dew turns and leaves. 

“Go ahead and undress baby. It’s not going to put itself on.” 

Dew wants to throw it at him. Tell him he’s not doing it. Instead, he begins to unbutton his shirt with shaking hands. Maybe if he just focuses on Rain’s watchful gaze he can ignore the dress. Maybe if he puts on a good enough show Rain will forget about it and fuck him into the mattress. So he goes slow with it, dragging his hand down his torso once the last button pops open. He doesn’t tug it off, not yet. Instead, he unbuckles his belt, sliding it from around his hips to clatter to the floor. He doesn’t break eye contact with Rain when he drags his zipper down. Not even a blush from him. He almost looks bored watching Dew strip. It annoys and arouses him at the same time and he hates it. He shrugs his shirt off before sliding his pants off, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. 

He stalks towards Rain, ignoring the slight tremor in his legs. He stops in front of him, standing in between his spread legs. He peers down at him with a grin, hair falling over his shoulders. 

“C’mon Rainy. Forget about the dress, you’re just gonna have to take it off me later.” 

Rain stares up at him, stoic. Silent. Dew huffs. He’ll get a reaction out of him. He knows all his soft spots. He makes a move to climb into his lap, but Rain grabs his wrist. Hard. He squeezes and Dew can feel his heartbeat. His eyes flick up to meet his. He’s scowling now, dark eyes somehow darker. Still, he doesn’t say anything. It makes Dew feel weird. He can handle degradation, praise, annoyance, genuine hate but it’s the silence that’s making his skin prickle. He feels the need to fill it, feels like maybe if he talks enough he can get something out of Rain. 

“Really? You don’t want this?” He scoffs “What have you done with my Rainy? He’d never pass up an opportunity to get his hands on me.” 

Silence. 

“If you take that suit off I’ll stick my tongue in your gills so deep you’ll be able to taste me.” 

Silence. 

“C’mon, we can go down to the lake. Let you use that big, thick tentacle on me.” 

Silence. 

Dew feels insane in the worst way possible. He prides himself on his mouth, the filth he can spew from it, loves watching his partner blush and squirm. But Rain isn’t. He’s not doing anything. He’ll take the faintest twitch, a hum, an eye roll, as long as it’s something. If Rain isn’t reacting then what’s the point? Why is he still here? If Rain isn’t interested in him then why does he want to stay? To prove himself maybe. Prove that despite the coldness Rain has given him since they entered his room he can get him to bend. He knows what he needs to do to get that and he hates it. But he hates the silence more. 

He sighs, “You’re really going to make me put it on, aren’t you?”

Finally, Rain speaks “I’m not making you do anything, baby. You clearly want this.” 

His eyes flick down to the tent in Dew’s boxers. 

He blushes, heat spilling down his throat and over his chest “That’s not…it’s because you’re in that fucking suit. We’ve had this conversation before fuck off.” 

Rain coos “That’s why I need you to put the dress on baby, you’ll be such a pretty accessory for me.” 

Dew’s cock kicks hard, the thin material of his underwear doing little to hide it. Rain huffs the faintest laugh. 

“Come on baby, don’t you want to be pretty for me?“

A million different responses zap through Dew’s head. 

No. 

Go fuck yourself. 

I already am pretty. 

You wear my hand as a necklace, what more do you need? 

But the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a mumbled “Yes.” 

Rain tilts his head, eyes narrowing, “What was that?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes, what?” 

He swallows. He knows what Rain wants him to say. He knows because every time Rain gets like this Dew can’t help but resist. The word always burns and he isn’t totally sure if it feels good or not. He hates the way it makes his blood boil while simultaneously making him wet. 

“Yes…sir.” 

“Good girl,” Rain purrs, “Now hurry up. You’ve wasted enough of my time.” 

Dew steps away from Rain, standing before the bed. He can feel his heart pounding when he picks it up. He slowly turns it around so the back is facing him. He takes a deep breath before lifting it to slip it on over his head. He barely gets his arms raised though before Rain clears his throat. Dew turns to look at him, expression a mix of annoyance and questioning. 

“I believe I told you to undress.” 

Dew cocks his head, “I’m literally standing in my underwear.” It hits him the moment the words leave his mouth. 

“Oh. Oh, come on you can’t be serious.” 

“Didn’t even have to tell you, good job,” Rain smiles, “Go ahead.” 

“Fuck you.” Dew hisses as he slides his boxers down his legs. 

Rain gives a hum of approval once Dew is fully naked and something in him twists. He hasn’t heard that familiar little sound all night and suddenly he feels like he’s starving for it. He wants more of Rain’s approval. Part of him is still apprehensive about the dress, but the other part doesn’t care now that Rain is finally looking at him like he’s worth something. 

He’s still shaking slightly when he begins to put it on. It slides on easily, a little tight, but not uncomfortably so. He adjusts it around his chest until he’s sure it won’t just fall off. He turns back towards Rain, arms crossed over his chest. He keeps his eyes forward, he doesn’t want to risk catching a glimpse of himself in the vanity mirror. He’s scared of what might happen if he does. 

“Happy?” He glares at Rain. 

“Come here.” He holds a hand out. 

Dew hesitates but doesn’t protest. He walks over to Rain, his typical perfect posture gone. He’s slightly hunched, arms still over his chest. Protective. He grabs Rain’s outstretched hand and is very roughly pulled to stand between his legs. He nearly falls over with the force of it, catching himself on Rain’s chest. 

Rain smiles at him, eyes half-lidded. He brings his other hand up to cup Dew’s face, brushing his thumb over his cheekbone. 

“You look beautiful.” 

Dew’s heart stutters. It’s not the first time he’s heard him say it, but something about it in this context makes his head swim. But then he’s ripped from it with a sudden zap of pain. It takes him a moment to process what the fuck just happened. He brings his hand up to his cheek and he can feel the heat radiating off it and he quickly realizes. Rain slapped him. He blinks and shakes his head. He hadn’t even registered it until he felt the sting. His revelation must be clear as day because Rain laughs at him. 

“Out of it already are we? Did you even hear me?” 

Dew shakes his head, hand still running over the mark. He occasionally pushes down just to feel it burn. 

“I said that was for wasting my time. Now you have to make it up to me baby.” 

Dew doesn’t even have time to respond before he feels Rain’s hand grip the hair at the base of his skull. Rain knocks his knees against the back of Dew’s with enough force it makes his buckle. He hits the floor hard, unable to catch himself from the suddenness of it. When he goes down it causes Rain to pull on his hair and the noise that comes out of him is utterly pathetic. He stares up at Rain, chest rising and falling rapidly. Rain tugs again. 

“Be a good girl and show me how sorry you are.” 

All of the fight Dew had earlier is gone. Melted out of his ears with how fast Rain’s demeanor changed. He gives up, gives in. With shaking hands, he unzips Rain’s pants and pulls the waistband of his boxers down. His cock springs free, bobbing and slapping against his stomach. The only sign he’s even been affected by the night's events thus far. He’s already wet at the tip, beads of pre dripping onto the floor. He scoots ever so slightly to sit closer on the edge of the chair. 

“Go on.” He shakes Dew’s head minutely, tugging his hair again. 

Dew swallows hard, throat clicking before he darts his tongue out. He flicks it over the tip, chasing the dribbles of pre. Tasting just to taste. He wants to tease but he knows Rain won’t let him, not when he’s like this. Any other night Dew would push his luck, make the inevitable punishment worse, but he can’t. Not when Rain’s fried his brain with a mix of praise and degradation. He feels floaty. 

Rain’s thighs flex under Dew’s palms, bringing him back to the ground. He scoots forward on already aching knees to wrap his lips around the tip of Rain’s cock. He suckles on it until another drop of pre hits his tongue. He drinks him down, savoring him. He doesn’t get long though before Rain begins to push his head down with the grip he has on his hair. Dew lets him, relaxing his jaw and throat so Rain can feed it to him. He doesn’t stop until Dew’s nose is nestled in the dark curls at the base of his cock. Drool dribbles out of the corner of his mouth. Rain wipes it off with his thumb and coos. 

“There you go, knew you could be such a good girl for me.” 

Dew moans and the vibration goes right through Rain’s dick, making him shudder. 

“See I told you you wanted it. Just needed a little encouragement didn’t you baby?” Rain flexes his hips, shoving himself in that much further. 

He starts to fuck his throat, slowly at first. Barely pulling out before pushing back in, more of a grind. He twists his fingers through individual strands of hair, twirling them around his fingers before pulling. Every tug sends a jolt down Dew’s spine. His hips twitch forward of their own accord, seeking any friction on his aching cock. 

Rain is happy to oblige. Dew gasps, gagging on Rain’s dick when he feels the rough sole of his shoe press against him through the dress. He pulls off of him with a pop, looking up with big eyes as he sucks in air. Rain tsks and grips the underside of his jaw, applying pressure at the hinges. 

“I try to give you a reward for being so good and you disappoint me. How sad.” 

Dew tries to respond but all he gets out is a weak little sound before Rain pulls him in, shoving his cock all the way down his throat. He doesn’t start slow this time. He holds Dew’s head still while he thrusts into his mouth. Dew’s claws dig into the meat of Rain’s thighs, trying to focus on keeping himself relaxed and open. Obscene wet noises fill the otherwise quiet room. Rain can’t look away from the fucked out look on Dew’s face, eyes half-lidded and glassy. He applies just a touch more pressure with his foot. Dew jolts forward from the sensation, making the tip of his cock rut against the leather. He groans and Rain’s eyes flutter closed. 

The little bit of friction is enough to clear his head, but nowhere near enough to actually get him off. He becomes acutely aware of the way the fabric of the dress clings around him, sticky and wet. Dew huffs a breath of air through his nose and swallows around Rain. He’s able to keep his reaction in check save for the way his hand tightens in Dew’s hair. He does it again, licking across the vein on the underside of his cock this time. 

Before he knows what’s happening he’s being pulled off Rain. He forces him to look up at him. A mix of drool and pre makes his swollen lips shiny. The yellow blaze of his eyes is nearly consumed by black with how big his pupils are. 

“Come here baby stand up,” Rain coos. 

He gets up slowly, knees screaming as he does. He’s sure if he looks down he’ll see bruises already forming. The thought alone makes his stomach twist tighter. He goes easy as Rain pulls him into his lap. He wiggles his hips just a bit feeling his cock press against him. Rain’s hand holds his hips, fingers trailing dangerously close to the hem of the dress. Dew can feel the faintest prickle of claws against his skin. 

“You’ve been such a good girl for me, you know that?” 

Dew nods with a hum. 

“Words baby. I need to know you’re still with me.” 

“Yes sir.” 

“Come on you can do better than that.” Rain squeezes his ass. 

Dew’s breath hitches. It takes him a moment to find his voice. “I have…I’ve been a good girl for you sir.” 

Rain grins, fangs glinting. Predatory. “Do you know what good girls get?” 

Dew shakes his head, not trusting his voice. Thankfully Rain allows it this time. He gasps when he feels Rain’s fingertip press against his asshole. He kisses across his gill scars before bringing his lips to Dew’s ear. 

“Good girls get my cock.” 

Rain traces around Dew’s rim before pushing it in. Dew fists his hand in Rain’s dress shirt, clinging to him while he slowly works that finger inside. He curls it, searching for the spot that will make Dew keen. It doesn’t take him long to find it, years of practice making it easy. Dew lets out a choked little moan, grinding his hips down to make it sink in farther. 

Rain decides to take it further, pulling the first finger out until just the tip is inside. When he pushes back in, a second finger is added, stretching Dew more. He curls his fingers, thrusting them in and out and reveling in the wet sound it produces. He doesn’t drag it out though. He scissors his fingers, working Dew open as quick as he can stand. It's not much longer before he’s pulling out of him and wiping the slick that coats his hand on Dew’s thigh. 

Rain hoists the material of the dress up to rest on Dew’s scrawny hips, exposing him. He lifts him just enough to brush the tip of his cock against his hole. Dew squirms in his grasp, trying and failing to sink down on him. Rain digs his claws in, a warning. By some miracle Dew listens, stilling his movements to let Rain guide him. He makes a pleased noise, sucking a mark in the space between his jaw and ear. 

All at once he shoves Dew down onto his cock. He yelps at the suddenness of it, but Rain doesn’t give him time to adjust. He sets a brutal pace, thrusting up into him. The chair creaks with the force of it. Dew whines with each pass over his prostate, arms wrapped tight around Rain’s shoulders. 

“That’s it, baby girl. Taking me so well.” 

“Rain.” Dew gasps, rutting his hips against his stomach. 

Rain huffs a laugh. “What is it? Need a hand on your pretty little clit?” 

Dew clenches hard and it nearly makes Rain choke. He takes that as a yes, shoving his hand under the fabric of the dress. Dew bucks forward the moment Rain wraps his hand around his cock, giving him a firm squeeze. He twists his fist around his head, gathering slick. He strokes him quick and short, pulling reedy little moans from Dew. 

It’s all so much so fast. He never really recovered from how Rain’s demeanor kept changing. The way he’s driving into him is such a sweet mix of pleasure and pain it makes him feel like he’s burning. The hand on his dick just adds a layer of sweetness to it all that makes his balls draw close to his body. The final nail in the coffin comes when Rain whispers into his ear. 

“Look at you. Look how beautiful you are sweet thing.” He tugs his hair, making his head turn. 

For the first time that evening, Dew sees himself. He makes eye contact with himself in the vanity mirror and it makes his brain short circuit. His hair is a mess. His cheeks are red, flushed, he can’t tell what’s blush and what’s from Rain smacking him. The dress is bunched up enough he can see Rain fucking into him. His eyes are half lidded and glassy. He looks fucked out, absolutely debauched. He catches Rain’s eye and it’s over for him. He cums without warning, gasping and spilling all over Rain’s knuckles. 

“Good girl. Good fucking girl, so wet for me.” Rain strokes him through it, milking him until he squirms from overstimulation. 

“Clean up your mess baby.” Rain doesn’t give him a moment to recover, bringing his hand up to Dew’s face. 

He doesn’t hesitate. He lets his tongue unfurl, wrapping it around Rain’s fingers to suck his spend off. Rain watches his eyes roll to the back of his head when he tastes himself. Rain curses under his breath, hips slamming into him one more time. He cums with a low, drawn-out groan. He grinds against him, driving his release deep into him. 

He pants heavily, head resting against Dew’s shoulder. He can feel Dew shaking and he presses kisses all over his exposed neck and collarbone. He rubs his hands up and down his back, muttering genuine praise between each press of lips. 

“Thank you. Thank you so much for indulging for me Dew. You did so good for me, took it all so well.” 

Dew whines, clinging harder to Rain. He runs his fingers through his hair, soothing the ache in his scalp. The feeling of claws gently scratching relaxes him, going limp in Rain’s hold. Dew nuzzles into his neck and breathes deep. 

They stay like that for a long time, long enough that Rain goes soft and slips out of him. Neither of them wants to move. They should, Rain’s suit needs cleaned before it stains and Dew needs to get into something more comfortable. But they’re hesitant to break the hazy, warm spell. Eventually, though Rain sighs and presses another kiss just below his ear. 

“Come on spark, we can’t sit here all night. Let’s get you clean.” 

Dew hisses “Says who?” 

“Says me,” Rain laughs. He stands, picks Dew up, and walks with him to the bathroom. 

He takes care of him quickly, yet efficiently. He cleans him up with a warm, soft rag until he feels him sag. He rubs a soothing hand over his bruised knees the whole time. He gets Dew dressed in one of his hoodies and a pair of his boxers, kissing over his face when it pops through. He peels his suit off and dumps it into his laundry bin. He’s usually more conscious of his clothes, but he can’t find it in himself to care at the moment. Dew picks up the dress off the floor and hands it to him. 

“Rora’s gonna kill us if it stains.” 

Rain smiles at him. “Well, it’s a good thing Mist knew why I needed to borrow it.” 

He wishes he could take a picture of the look on Dew’s face.

[ryanguzmansource]

Full Audio Transcript (6.17.24)

The following episode contains potentially disturbing content and we want to alert trauma survivors. It contains material that for some may be difficult to discuss or listen to.

This is He Said, Ella Dijo with Eric Winter (EW) and Rosalind Sanchez (RS).

RS: Como estas, Eric?

EW: Oh, bien bien, and you?

RS: Hoy tenemos una persona muy especial, mi gente. Guys, we are, I know you don't, but you're learning. We are excited about our guest today. He's an actor currently on ABC's 911, which is a huge show.

EW: In the ABC family.

RS: Yes, you may know him from Step Up dance films or from playing the sexy boy next door opposite Jennifer Lopez.

EW: That's right, we have Ryan Guzman. He's here with us today to talk about his new film, The Present, out tomorrow. We're excited not only to dive into his career, but so many other personal things he's opened up about—mental health, his career, so many other things he's been talking about. So let's bring him in.

RS: Yeah, looking forward to Ryan Guzman.

Ryan Guzman (RG): How you guys doing? You guys sweating in that room?

EW: Yeah, man, it's been hot in here. We don't want that air running because you're gonna hear it in the background. So we're just like, this is all for you, Ryan. We're just gonna be sweating the whole podcast.

RS: My armpits almost stink, I hate it!

EW: Yeah, that's great. Great way to open up the podcast.

RS: It’s terrible. Anyways, we're so happy that you are joining us. Thank you so much for doing this.

EW: Yeah, fellow ABC star now. I know you guys jumped over from Fox. You're now on the network where I'm at.

RG: Yeah.

EW: How's that transition been? Has it been weird? I've never been a part of a show that jumped networks. Did it feel totally seamless to you?

RG: Honestly, I've never been a part of something like this either. I mean, I've been on four other TV shows and this one—it felt like a revamp for our show. So it's just like, as soon as we went from Fox to ABC, all of this promotional that we've never even seen in six seasons happened.

EW: Yeah, like a relaunch almost.

RG: Yeah, it was a relaunch. So it was, you know, a blessing. We're all grateful for it.

EW: Which is great. You guys came out with a bang. The ratings were great. You guys were sitting pretty in a good position.

RS: How many seasons now?

RG: Now we're gonna be going on our eighth.

RS: And you've been part of it since the very beginning?

RG: Since the second season.

RS: Since the second, wow, long gig. That's awesome. Good for you!

RG: It happened perfect timing right before I was about to have my first born.

EW: Really?

RS: Oh my God, perfect.

EW: Congrats. So your first born is how old then right now?

RG: Five.

EW: Five. And you have just one right now? You have a second?

RG: No, two. Yeah, I have two. I have a three year old. Little boy, Mateo and my baby girl, Genevieve.

RS: Oh, that's beautiful.

EW: Changes your perspective on everything, right?

RG: Amplified everything. Yeah, yeah. I mean, I'm also losing hair quicker than I'd like, but.

RS: Yeah. We just did a podcast and we were talking about parenthood, you know, and generational trauma and how I understand my mom now that I'm fifty-one more than ever. You know? My whole life, it was all about, I don't get her. I don't get it. I don't get her. Why, why, why? And now as a mom of a twelve-year-old girl, I just go, okay, now I get my mom.

EW: Yeah, you're not there yet. You're getting some challenges, I'm sure. You know that they say with the terrible twos, the terrible threes, the fucking fours, the fucking fives. That's it! It'll beep those curse words out. But I mean, there's challenges at every level, but there's also so many blessings and so much fun.

RG: Yeah, I'm sure right now as a twelve-year-old girl in this day and age—I'm sure it's insane.

RS: It is work. It's a little work. It's beautiful, listen, it's delicious, it's amazing. She's awesome. We have a little star. She's a tennis player. She's a good girl. But she is so fierce. She's fiercely independent, and she's at the age that I know everything and you don't know anything and just leave me alone because I am finding who I am. And sometimes you want to slap her and be like, you don't know, you don't know shit. So it's interesting.

EW: Let me ask you this, Ryan, because we were just having a conversation about our son is very, very passive. And I mean, he's coming out of his shell more and more, but we have some good friends that started their kids at a very young age in jujitsu and all these things that are just great training grounds to learn for self-esteem, for self-defense, for all these things, right? You grew up doing taekwondo, correct? Got your black belt in taekwondo. Started where you were like around eight, am I right? In that range?

RG: Yeah, it was my seventh year old birthday I started, yeah.

EW: What was the reason that, was that just, why not, I'm gonna try something new? Or was there something that prompted you to go, ah, taekwondo, I wanna jump in?

RG: Way too many Bruce Lee films.

EW: Yeah, I was gonna say, because I used to love watching movies like that too and get excited. So that—it just became a cool thing. You're like, I wanna do it.

RG: It was, honestly, it was everything. Bruce Lee was my idol, he still is my idol. From the philosophical to the physical, it was just a key component in my own evolution. So as I got to read more books, I mean, I was a young kid reading Bruce Lee books and Richard Marchenko books, which are Navy Seal books. I don't know why my interest led me there, but I feel like I needed that kind of structure. And that structure has been such an incredible foundation for, I mean, all of the success that I've been able to be grateful to get. So I highly advise every parent to put their kids into Jiu-Jitsu, wrestling at least, if not some Taekwondo or karate or some kind of martial arts, especially if you're a boy.

RS: I told you.

EW: I'm open to it. I have no problem with it.

RS: We just talked about this.

EW: I have no problem with that. I just know my kid's not gonna do it yet. He's six. I just know like his personality. He did a version of like a Taekwondo for a bit. He lasted, it was like, you know, little kids running around.”

RS: No he never—he did karate.

EW: Well karate. I think it was Taekwondo.

RS: No, it was karate.

EW: It was for sure a blend.

RS: Really?

EW: For sure a blend, it wasn't just straight cut. But he did it for a few years and then kind of got bored, right? And like with any discipline, it takes a lot of work, a lot of patience. I think the age you started feels like a pretty solid age to dive into something that takes that much focus and patience as well to learn.

RS: Did they get hurt though? At six and at seven, when you see them fighting and doing Jiu Jitsu, that is such a physical and a contact sport, do they get hurt?

RG: Yeah, I mean, they can get hurt, but they can also heal really quick. They're young. So I mean, when I was doing Taekwondo, I ended up sparring guys that were like actually twenty-years old to even my master and actually got taken out of—what was it?—a tournament because I broke my hand trying to break, I'm trying to block one of his kicks.

EW: Oh wow.

RS: Oh no.

RG: Yeah. I would say there's different, you know, personality types. I think from one to six, it's less about the structure and less about the discipline. It's more about play.

EW: Yeah.

RG: How can you allow them to feel comfortable in their own bodies and know their movement and then play with this now new martial art? And then after that, then yeah, you start to develop more structure and discipline and say, this is, you know, we got to tame the mind before we tame the body. And you start to understand a little bit more of why it's called an art, martial art.

EW: And when you first started competing, what age were you when you jumped in and then you started fighting, taking shots?

RG: I think it was right away. I was like, I'm around maybe eight, nine. Yeah, around that time.

EW: You learn life lessons quick, right? Like Mike Tyson says, everybody's got a plan till you get punched in the face. Then you have to figure it out.

RG: Yeah, yeah, I wanted to be quick. I wanted to be powerful. And I think another reason why I liked Bruce Lee so much is he was a tiny man. He wasn't a massive, like Michael Jai White kind of guy. So he was able to demand respect just off of his own technique. And I thought, you know, okay, I need to copy that. Technique can beat power and strength or technique can beat strength. So I ended up doing that and proving to myself like, oh, even at eight years old, I can be a force. And as soon as I started doing actual sparring, I just kind of fell in love with it, with the competition of it.”

RS: So Taekwondo and then MMA, right? Because you did a little bit of MMA. So all this is just fighting. When did acting came to the table? Like, and how?

RG: The acting was something I never even thought of coming from Sacramento, I mean, that's not even something that we talk about out there. And it's either martial arts or working for the state or an automotive job. But none of that called me. I was doing modeling in San Francisco. I got offered to do a photo shoot in LA, and I just asked my modeling agency from San Fran to hook me up with an agency in LA, not knowing the racket that modeling is. And I stayed in a one bedroom with five guys creating a massive amount of debt before I learned there was commercials and there was acting available. And I think the competitive streak just kind of clicked. And I was like, well, I want to get out of this situation. That seems to be making a lot more money. And this is the time and day where commercials—the nationals were actually bringing in some money. I don't know if the landscape's the same anymore.”

EW: It's very different for sure.

RG: Yeah, so I was very fortunate at the time to catch the tail end of that. And then I remember being a new twenty-three year old in LA. I'm going to clubs, I'm enjoying, I'm having a great time. And I'm seeing some of the guys that are being successful as actors. And they're kind of like, they were idiots, to be honest. So I was like, how are these guys, you know, so successful? Like I got to try this acting thing out. And I remember I didn't have enough money to download scripts. So I would just take the same page or pages that I had in my place and I'd write my own scripts off of the internet. And I would invite two or three, maybe even five guys over to the house, and I'd just start doing those scenes in front of them. And that was kind of my acting class. And then I went and auditioned for a manager, didn't get that manager, got another one who is my manager today. Three months after that, I booked the lead in Step Up and my life forever changed.

RS: Oh my God. So it was fast.

RG: Within nine months. So yeah.

RS: That's incredible. Good for you. That's incredible.”

EW: I can relate to your journey in a lot of ways. I had a similar—I went from sports to modeling to the same thing, curiosity with acting, reading different books about acting, seeing people do commercials. And like you said, back in the day, you could do one national commercial and if it was a good one, you could actually make your living for the year off of just one commercial. And little by little, just very, very similar path. I didn't get one big movie out the gate that changed my career. It took a lot of grinding. That's an amazing blessing to have something like that happen. And then you have to balance the ebbs and flows of this business at that point, right?

RS: The dancing was just organic to you? Or you were a dancer? A lot of people have that question. Does he really dance?

RG: It was something, I think it's—culturally, I don't know, just being Mexican-American, I was literally raised with my family going to do, like Quinces' [Quinceañeras], or like just parties in general, we'd always dance. And it was less about the one, two, three, ba, one, two, like doing any kind of structured kind of stuff, more of the feel. And I've always loved dancing, but never on that level.

RS: How was it having to follow choreography?

RG: It was kind of like fighting. I put it next to it because the amount of hours we did—we did eight hours every single day for about two, three months. I remember seeing the guy that, and I feel bad because I gave him such a hard time. He was supposed to be my dance double, but my competitive streak was just like, no, no, no. I gotta be that guy. So I would do the eight hours with everybody and then I'd videotape our session and I'd go home and I'd do another two, three hours by myself. And just go over and over, and then I ended up being in every scene.

RS: That's awesome.

EW: Good for you.

RS: Have you done a movie playing a fighter, like an MMA, a boxer or something like that? Have you done that already?

RG: I've not. I've wanted to for the longest time. And I don't know if—I think it'll come. Everything's happening for a reason. I believe in... to, actually what you were saying earlier, getting that job right out the gate, it was overwhelming. It was too much for me at the time. I wasn't ready to be catapulted in the way I was. And I wasn't an actor really. I wasn't really a dancer. I had kind of just been fooling everybody.

RS: How old were you?

RG: I was twenty-three.

RS: Oh baby, okay.

RG: Yeah, so I'm brand new with all this.

EW: Months in, like you said, months in.

RG: Yeah, and everybody's thinking that I'm this thing and I'm kind of taking it. My ego was like, yeah, yeah, yeah, maybe I am. And then reality kind of checked me and the next movie I did and two movies after that were bombs and I realized I don't know anything about this business. So I would say up until maybe three years ago, I didn't really call myself an actor and I was just lucky to count my stars that I was amongst other actors that were like a Jennifer Lopez or working with the Richard Linklater and now Glenn Powell being who he is now. So just super grateful that I got the time and maybe the hustle that I had, those combined allowed me to stay and have some longevity in this career.

RS: Did you get caught up in the whole business—the ugly dark side of Hollywood because you were so young and it came so fast?

RG: I didn't get caught up, but I definitely got put onto it, and it quickly showed me I want no part of it. That's why I kind of say to myself, I stay with my kids. I rarely do any press, but that was just like, the fame game was never something... I don't want to be seen too much and then have to speak in front of thousands of people as if I'm speaking for them. I can only speak for myself and my experience and hopefully people connect to it. But I saw a lot of people that were not necessarily skilled in any asset becoming really famous and rich. And it kind of just wasn't feeding anything other than a hole in the soul. So it kind of made me go a different direction.

RS: That's amazing.

EW: Do you remember on your climb at any point—maybe an older actor you came across that maybe, maybe not a full mentor—but somebody who guided you or gave you some words of wisdom early on that might have helped you navigate this business or any of that even failed you and just set you back going, oh, that was a horrible example of somebody on set? You don't have to name names if you don't want, but I'm just curious if you had people that hit those marks.

RG: I've definitely been blessed to be, I mean, I've worked with some of the greats, Edward James Olmos, Jennifer Lopez, I mean, Juliette Lewis. I've worked [with] some amazing actors and actresses. I could, yeah, I would never name names, but I have gotten some really good advice and some really like [makes a noise] advice. And... so grateful for the good advice. Eddie Olmos has given me some incredible advice. He's just a sound individual.

EW: He's a great human.

RG: Yeah, and his son, Michael Olmos, another sound individual. But I think it was just on all aspects—just stay true to you. I think that's the general narrative that I've gotten from plenty of other individuals. It's just, no one can do you. And your uniqueness is meant to kind of shine in its own unique way. So if you're trying to be—I can't be Antonio Banderas I can't be, even though I'm a Latin actor, I can't be somebody else that's already had that role. I need to just kind of explore myself and allow that to shine, and that's what I feel like I'm just starting to tap into these past couple of years. So I'm really excited to see where it goes.”

RS: Before we talk about your movie coming out tomorrow—and listen, we don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, because we want to be very respectful—but we read that and you came out openly saying that you had to deal with some mental situations, and you battle a little bit of depression at some point in your life. Only if you want to talk about it, otherwise we don't have to. I was just very curious, where did depression come from? If you even know.

RG: Yeah, I've spent many, many years dissecting where the depression has come from, and it's essentially from people pleasing. It's a trauma coping mechanism that I started a long time ago when I was a child, and I didn't even realize it. And it's kind of these things that I'm aware of now raising my own children to give them less to work on later on in life and give them a better foundation. But yeah, as I got older, I started to realize that I was people pleasing so much to a detriment that I had nothing left for myself. And I've even watched old interviews and where I'm smiling the whole time and trying to say the right thing and do the right thing and be the perfect individual, be the all-American boy, and that's not who I really am. I'm flawed and I have my own issues, and I think being raised a Mexican-American man who's not supposed to tap into his feelings or understand them, let alone, that set me back a lot. So I came to a point about seven years ago where I reached my limit, and I had just seen my parents' divorce. I had just gone through a horrible relationship, and I was looking around for some kind of aid, somebody to be there, and no one was there.

And I realized that I had been leaning on the wrong people. So feeling that lonely, feeling like you wake up and you just know what's gonna happen every single day is just kind of a time suck and it's quicksand, and that's how the depression kind of starts. And luckily, I got a second chance, and from that moment forward, it kind of just awoken—I awoke into something new, something better and a path towards a purpose. So. Yeah.

RS: The second chance came from within, from a person, from a book?

RG: The second chance came from my attempt at not working. So I'm a very extremist person type, and right after my attempt did not work, I just started crying like crazy. And I was in a horrible environment. Somebody was yelling at the other side of the door. You know, just horrible things were happening at the time. And then after I stopped crying, I remember sitting on my bed and just having this moment of like this epiphany. You can't ever be the same. You got to be something different because you've already reached the absolute limit with this type of person you are. You got to deconstruct, break everything down because the foundation you've been building on is so fractured and cracked. And for the last six, seven years now, I've broken myself down and try to stay as humble as I possibly can and look at all the horrible things about me and then kind of start from there and rebuild and heal and allow myself to be a different individual and actually show and implore people to change via changing myself.

RS: That's amazing.

EW: Yeah, thank you for sharing that. I think a lot of our listeners will gain a lot just hearing. Maybe they don't go through something to the extent you went through, but everybody deals with some sort of down moment, whether it gets as far as a deep depression or not, and a lot of people don't know how to even pull out of the simplest thing. And you, like you said, hit a level of rock bottom and had that epiphany. Thank God. Now, I mean, you're a dad and you have so much to offer your children and let alone your own— yourself and your life. You have so much more to do—so thank you for sharing that. That's powerful.

RS: I'm assuming spirituality is very important in your life at the moment.

RG: Yes. Yes. Yeah. That's part of my purpose as well. I was raised a Catholic. I was an altar boy at one point in time. I went into the seminary for a little bit. And then I kind of disassociated with the church and religion in general. I saw the underbelly of it. But yeah, my spirituality is—I started to reread the Bible and tap back into my spirituality and just be open to Eastern and Western, allowing all forms to kind of really like be permeable. So I think there's so much to this life that to say that you know it all is kind of cutting yourself off of so much opportunity and abundance. Yeah, so that's kind of where I'm at right now. Just—I'm exploring that with like-minded individuals, and propelling love rather than fear, so.

EW: It's great that you're putting all this into perspective in your life now because especially—I know every business has challenges, but I think in a business like ours, where so many people—their happiness hinges on the ups and the false belief that people around you have all the time—and the moment you don't deliver, the moment people's attitudes or perceptions of you change, or the moments—it's such a roller coaster emotionally, the business that we're in, that a lot of people, I think, aspire or want—they want it so bad because they see fame, they see that meaning, the all-encompassing success. You must be happy because people know who you are. It's like nobody has to know who you are to be happy.

I like what you said—just staying out of press unless you want to do something or maybe you have a social media presence when you want. But it's not because you feel the need to feed the ego to be seen by everybody else. It's something that speaks to you, so I'll do it. But it's not to please people. And that's what this business has become for so many others. I need to constantly please. And when I'm not pleasing, I failed. And when you fail, you feel like, what have you accomplished? You could have accomplished—you could be an Oscar winner and it still wouldn't be enough. Because you're gonna fail at some point again. Like it's very rare that someone just rides high all the way through in this business. And so I think our business is such a tough one to navigate the waters you've been through. But thankfully you're putting those pieces in perspective now, which I think is perfect timing because your career is just gonna continue to go and go and go and go and go like that, because that's just what the business does. But you've got the tools now.

RS: It's brutal, to be honest. So it's good when we find spirituality and when we have all the things going for us that are so much more important, like parenthood. Because for me, I decided to be a mom late in life because it was all about career, career, I need to make it. And I wasn't searching fame. My problem with the business—and the lows were low. Not because, oh, I'm not where I wanna be because I wanna be famous. It was more about why do I have to constantly prove myself? I've done big movies, I've done huge TV shows and then why is there, what I call in the meantime, this moment of nothing that all the stuff that you have accomplished basically becomes nothing and you have to do it all over again. And it's the constant, I'm swimming against the current. It's not about being famous. It's about why, like it's been almost 30 years. Why do I still have to prove to you that I can do this when just look at my body of work? I've done it many times before. And it is very frustrating.

RG: Both of you guys have great points. I mean, and both of you guys' careers speak for themselves. I would say that I've been blessed now again with this new chance at life that I've come to understand it's more about connectivity. Connectivity to like minded individuals and loved ones and connectivity to a purpose, which for me is creativity. So to your point, I always felt that same way where I was like trying to outdo my last thing and that was so fleeting—or get some type of money, some type of recognition, and it was all fleeting because at the end of the day, after you pass away, that's all gone.

But if you create something, you connect with somebody, that remains even after you pass. So that's what truly matters. So I find myself having deep conversations with individuals. I find myself getting lost in my art or my poetry or writing screenplays and just kind of just creating, allowing my own storytelling to come in and flourish. But it can be very defeating in the time and age that we're in right now. So many people are trying to be social media stars and do the next TikTok dance and say the next absurd thing to get all the views.

And I think they're gonna find what I ended up finding a long time ago, which—one example sticks out in my mind. I'd always wanted to throw a first pitch in a baseball game or at least be a part of a baseball game, and I luckily got invited to the LA Dodgers game. And I remember getting that experience and the people that I wanted there weren't there. So it felt meaningless. And it felt like I had no true connection. I'm like, my mom, my dad, my brother, somebody should be here. Why are they not here? I've lost all contact because I've been so busy working. I've been so focused on creating this brand of Guzman. And now I understand. It's like, none of this means anything without the people that you care about right next to you.

EW: 100%. Talk to us about your movie. This is exciting. The Present.

RG: Yeah, The Present is an awesome film. It's a good wholesome family film. Nice little comedy in there. Cause you know, Isla Fisher, Greg Kinnear, they're incredible individuals. The kids kill it in this. I mean, they're the star pupils in this film. And then it was new for me. It was a little fun role to play. You know, comedic timing, trying to master that still. But I had fun with it playing opposite of Isla. And essentially the movie is about a family who's on their way to separation going on divorce and their kids get gifted this grandfather clock and this grandfather clock can turn back time. So the kids try and use this to try and save their family's relationship. And everything that ensues is really nice.

EW: You know, when I saw the premise, I was thinking to myself, cause I come from divorced parents and I remember as a kid always going like, how can I just change this? How can I take that back? And so to put that into a movie, I think is a fun concept that anybody coming from a divorced family could probably relate to in that sense. Cause you always want to turn back time and go, is there something I could have done? And even though, you know, kids take that blame, but it's a great premise. That sounds like a lot of fun.

And comedic timing, like doing comedy and stretching, even though you've done it before and you continue to do it, it's like, it's always its own art form. It is so tricky. People don't understand how difficult great comedy is. Like, I always think some of the best actors in our business, period, are comedians, because to make someone genuinely laugh, like crying laughter, to me is way harder than making someone feel like cry with tears of sadness. I think people can tap into that as a viewer much easier than like someone genuinely making you die laughing. So just doing comedy as an actor is such a fun art form to continue to explore, I'm sure.

RG: 100%. I mean, Robin Williams is the, I would say my go for that. He shows—”

EW: Do it all.

RG: The comedy that he does is so based in truth.

EW: Yeah.

RG: It's so grounded. That's why it works. And obviously it helps that he can play like 12 million personalities, but—

EW: Totally, but then he'll crush the drama at the same time. Like he'll do drama, no problem. Then to do comedy, you don't see a lot of dramatic actors come over and knock out comedy like you see comedians go over and knock out drama.

RG: Yeah.

EW: So I think like it's awesome that you got to explore that as well.

RS: Is there one thing that you see yourself in five years doing? You have a successful show, and now you're a dad, you know, you're pretty accomplished. But if you can look at your future and be like, there's this thing that is my north is the next, is what is gonna make everything make sense and be full circle.

RG: Yeah, being my own director. Right now I'm working on a film that I've written. I'm working with an incredible director, Mo McCray, mentoring under him and taking ownership of my own career and allowing myself to kind of open the space and open the door for not even just more Latinos, but just in general for newer voices and more creative voices and human experiences. But I mean, there's always that one big thing to be like a Marvel superhero at some point in time.

RS: You will.

EW: You can have more than one North for sure, but that's a great one. That's a great one.

RS: You know, it's interesting. I'm going through the process. I'm leaving to go to Puerto Rico to do this thing that I wrote that I'm gonna direct. It's my first feature that I'm directing, and it's like, I want it to be like the second stage of my career. And it's so hard, Ryan, to—it's an independent film and to be able to raise finance, you know, it's years, you know, like we had Ricky Martin a couple of podcasts back and he was saying that he learned that in this business, everything takes five years from beginning to end is five years. And now that I think about it, I'm like, you know what? Absolutely right. It's gonna be five years, you know, once I'm done, I edit, you know, locked picture, boom, it's gonna be five years.

And it's been brutal. The process, it's been brutal because it's a lot of letdowns and people offering you all kinds of things and at the end of the day, it's all BS, you know, it's all smoke and mirrors. And the only thing that keeps me going is the love of the art and the love of what we do because I wrote it and it's so special to me. It's like my third baby. And even though I'm going through logistical nightmares and finance, is it gonna fall apart? Is it here? Is it not? When I sit down to do my shot list and when I'm actually doing the creative work of it all, I can do that all day long. All day long, because it's amazing if you love it.

RG: Yeah. Yeah, the business part of it is just—it's defeating. The creativity part of it is incredible. And I'm sure this is just gonna be, you know, an abundance of opportunity and knowledge, you know, for the next thing. And like anything you do in life, as soon as you begin something new, you probably suck at it, unless you're one of those rare few individuals that can do everything. But there is a learning process, a learning curve. And this was gonna probably be one film that spurs on so many other films now.”

RS: Amen.

RG: Watch and enjoy.

RS: Yeah, amen. Anyways, thank you.

EW: Well, Ryan, thanks for hanging with us today. This was awesome, man. Thanks for sharing everything. Wish you the very best. Obviously you're crushing it and you have a lot of great aspirations still to come. So we truly wish you the best.

RS: Thank you.

RG: Alright, guys, you guys have a great day.

RS: You too, bye bye.

EW: That was great.

RS: Oh my God, he's so wonderful.

EW: Yeah, such an awesome guy. And truly wish him the best with the trajectory and everything he has planned for his career beyond 911. I love that he's writing and wants to direct. Check out The Present movie coming out tomorrow.

RS: Tomorrow. On demand.

EW: On demand. Till next time.

RS: Bye, love you.

[hoseokslefteyebrow]

The Anomaly || JJK

Chapter 4: Homesick

summary : In which you're isekai'd from your (own) parallel Jujutsu Kaisen universe to the canon universe.

wordcount : 2k

Pairing: Jujutsu Kaisen X Reader, eventually Character x Reader (idk who yet tho)

Masterlist | Next

You find yourself seated in a familiar spot. The scenery is the same as back at home, the sun setting on the sight of Tokyo Jujutsu Tech. There have been a lot of days where you and your best friends have lost track of time talking to one another late at night in this very spot. 

You're worried,mind running with scenarios of how home would be doing. How is your own world? Are you having this human body - cursed spirit issue too? The one you had been fighting was quite tough- were your classmates alright? Was your best friend alright? Or had everyone written you off as dead? Considering you disappeared right after a battle, it wouldn't surprise you. You're not sure. Your eyes sadden, losing yourself in your thoughts. You refuse to believe that everyone believes you're dead, that they've given up on you just like that.

You glance down at your bracelet. It's ordinary, crafted from simple wood. It matches your best friend's bracelet back at home. You wonder if his works. It's filled with water, imbued with your cursed energy. That way, he could always find you when he needed you, and you could always find him when you needed him. You doubt it works. You can't feel your connection to it currently, your cursed energy with you and you alone. 

" Are you okay? That last mission seemed to be quite rough on you. "

You glance up, only noticing Yuuji standing there now. Had he been standing there for long? 

" Ah, sorry, I didn't notice you. I'm alright. I've just got homesickness at the moment. "

He hums, noticing your sad eyes as he sits down beside you. 

" The way you stood up for Nobara was badass. It was cute too though. Are you two close in your universe? " 

He's calm, watching the scenery with you. Your presence is somewhat comforting. New, yet so oddly familiar. 

You hum. 

" Yeah, we are. I was so happy to learn that another girl would be joining our class. We hit it off right after meeting in the city for the first time, when we went to pick her up. I think that got Sukuna a little jealous. "

You're smiling fondly at the memory, meanwhile Yuuji has to remind himself that you're talking about a different Sukuna, not the one he's harboring. 

" Ah, he's your best friend right? "

You hum. 

" My one and only. "

" What about us? "

You turn to him, blinking. 

" What about us? "

" Are we close? You've mentioned that we used to be close when we were younger. "

" Ah, yeah. We were inseparable as kids. Until you grew more athletic and developed a love for horror. I'm a whimp- I don't like horror at all. It makes me downright unable to sleep. Sukuna would laugh at me when I came over to sleep over one random night, because of my fears. I wanted to prove him wrong, so I watched a horror movie with the three of you. It backfired, and I was unable to sleep. Sukuna ended up feeling guilty enough to watch Pokemon movies with me all night. We grew closer after that. I realized that I too was one of the people he has a weak spot for. In my universe, you're one of those people too. "

Yuuji blinks, not having expected that at all. 

" Sukuna as my twin.. The idea of that leaves a really bad taste in my mouth. "

You laugh softly. 

" I think it's weird you share a body with him in this universe- and that he had 20 fingers. And that you swallow them for breakfast, basically. "

Yuuji laughs, agreeing with you. A comfortable silence settles over the two of you. You lean your head on his shoulder for a moment. Back home, you were touchy with your friends, often linking arms with Nobara, or straight up pulling Sukuna along to where ever you pleased. He always pretended to hate it, but you know him better than that. 

Yuuji doesn't seem to mind, instead relishing the comforting gesture. 

Yet, you can't help yourself from asking him the next question. You need answers. 

" You've mention that you've... Killed, instead of exorcised before.... "

You're careful in your words, allowing him to stop you if he wants to. When he doesn't, you continue to carefully speak. 

" I just wondered... Do you maybe know why? - As in why they were in a human's body? "

Yuuji shakes his head, eyes on the floor. 

" I don't. There's a curse who's strong enough to transfigure people though. I know you're afraid too, but if we don't figure out how to send you home soon, you might have to fight more human-cursed spirits. "

You nod at his words, your eyes downcast on the floor. 

" I don't like it either. I hope we manage to kill patchface and these cursed spirit people before anything too rash happens though. "

You hum, about to reply when-

" It's because of you! You took me in, and now the severed parts of my soul have awakened. "

Your eyes widen, head raising to stare at the mouth and eye that has sprouted on Yuuji's cheek. What the fuck was this?-

" To help lots of people, was it? Brat! People are gonna die because you live! "

" Hey, don't tell that to Fushiguro. Don't you dare. "

Yuuji's stoic, different. It's obvious he doesn't like Sukuna. 

You don't like this Sukuna either. You can tell he's nothing like your Sukuna. 

" And what are you looking at?! "

" You're an eye and a mouth on my friend's cheek. "

You deadpan the obvious as you blankly stare at him. 

He cackles, Yuuji slaps his hand over him, trying to shut him up. 

" That's enough out of you. "

It doesn't stop him, Sukuna's mouth appearing on the back of Yuuji's hand. 

" You don't belong here! You should die! "

" That's rich, coming from someone who's a mouth on a hand now. I'd say you should die. "

While you're busy mocking him, Sukuna has an unsettling realization. He's met you before. You're not from here, and you're definitely not supposed to be here. You were a sorcerer he was forced to face back in the Heian era. Your reverse curse technique was strong, strong enough to be used as a weapon. Your domain too, was one he hated. He absolutely hates you. He needs you dead before he can carry out his plans of regaining powers. Facing both Gojo Satoru and you would set him at a huge disadvantage. One that not even his current plans could face. 

However, there's no need to rush in killing you though. It appears that you don't even know your potential just yet, your body protected with regular cursed energy. 

Yuuji scoffs, slapping a hand on his own to stop Sukuna from spouting nonsense. Thankfully, he disappears. 

" Soo, that's your Sukuna. "

" Yeah, sorry about that. "

" It's fine. I don't take things randomly appearing mouths say to heart. "

Your smile eases Yuuji's worries, his previous guilt gone, replaced by a warm feeling. The two of you sit in silence a little longer, enjoying each other's company and watching the sun set on Jujutsu Tech. 

-

A few days pass, and you find yourself and your classmates in Tokyo's shopping district. 

" Aren't you buying way too much? " 

Yuuji releases a puff of stress, holding the many bags Nobara has shoved in his arms.

You're walking a few paces up front with her, your arms linked together. You have bought some stuff too, considering that was why you were here in the first place. There was no answer on when you could return to your own universe, no one has any idea how just yet. Your financials are finally properly supported by Jujutsu Tech, and you've entered the shopping district. You're only really buying stuff you need, though that is still quite a bit, leaving you with three bags. 

You're only holding one. For some reason ( an unspoken one, everyone was surprised when he offered), Megumi was carrying your other two bags. You've promised you'll buy him a crepe as a thank you, but he's brushed you off, telling you it was fine and that you should save the money. 

" Half of that is yours, you know? "

You blink at her, that's not true. 

" This bag is all that's mine! "

Just as Yuuji raises his bag to show her, one threatens to fall out of his arms. He manages to catch it. 

" Drop one and you're dead. " 

" Ah, Yuuji, do you maybe want me to carry some bags? "

" No Y/N, Itadori is a strong guy. He's fine. "

" I don't think being strong is part of the issue Nobara-"

And then.... One of the clothes she bought slips out of the open bag, on the floor. 

Everyone's eyes widen. 

You raise your hands, attempting to stop Nobara, but as expected, she's already punching him. Megumi tugs on the back of your uniform, holding his own high in embarrassment as Nobara scolds Yuuji. 

" Come. Let's pretend we don't know them. " 

He's already walking a few steps away with you, arm around your shoulders, When his phone rings. 

He takes his arm off you, taking out his phone. 

" It's Gojo sensei. " 

You're not sure why he's informing you. Maybe because you know him as well. 

Their conversation ends soon enough, and he turns around, facing Yuuji and Nobara again. 

" What? "

Finally, Nobara releases Yuuji. 

" Gojo sensei is calling us. "

" Huh, why? "

Nobara's pouting, you guess that she wanted to spend the whole day lingering around Tokyo's shopping district. 

" It's a mission, 'a top secret one'. "

You snort, the words familiar. 

" Ah, so this Gojo sensei is the same as the one back in my universe. "

" Does your Gojo sensei say that often as well? "

You grin at Nobara, nodding. 

" Last time he called us for a 'top secret mission' was because he wanted to get crepes and didn't want to go alone. "

You smile fondly at the memory. Eventually, it had only been Yuuji, Nobara, Megumi and you. Sukuna wasn't around, because he was simply god knows where. You hadn't felt bothered enough to find out back then. Your best friend had been offended that you had gone without him. You only found him hours after the place closed. As a peace offering, you spent your money on expensive fruits (strawberries) and chocolate, dipping strawberries in chocolate late at night. 

Nobara laughs at your words. Some people are apparently the same no matter the universe. 

" Why not go? Gojo sensei still said it is top secret after all. It must be big. "

You smile at Yuuji softly. He was so cute sometimes. 

" Yeah well, Y/N is right. He does say it all the time. "

Yuuji hums at Megumi's words. 

" Yeah, so what? "

All four of you exchange smiles, and make your way back to the busstop. This time, you link arms with Megumi, simply because he's the closest. He shoots you a surprised glance, but his expression softens, features softening into a smile. 

This Megumi was so different of your own. This one is nice to you. 

The Anomaly Taglist:

@luxylucylou @kalulakunundrum @strxbxrrylover @aethersslave

[ghostfilecabinet]

I've thought about this a little bit, and it feels like a cop out, but truly I can see both sides.

On one hand, it's a fledgling company who wants to make art in a way they feel proud of. It's all well and good for us to say "we were here when the text was blue and yellow and we don't care about production value", but as someone who in her own right creates - whether its gifs or writing or silly little scrapbook pages - it's about creating something you believe is of the highest quality you can create.

Not only that, it's also about being a company that can support its employees and pay them a more-than living wage. It's potentially about being able to fulfill promises to people who had invested in Watcher in the beginning, though I know less about that.

To say that 'they make bank' with patreon and sponsorships and merch when they support a staff of over 20 people is potentially untrue. What seems like corporate greed can have several layers.

On the other hand, it's not an overreaction for fans to feel abandoned and disregarded - especially those in non-Western countries, as well as younger fans.

Fans feeling bitter at being told that USD5.99 is an amount 'anybody and everybody can afford' isn't unreasonable. It's a large amount for many fans who live in countries where several USD is a quarter of what they earn in a month, or even for people who are at stages in their life where everything they earn has to go into keeping themselves fed and housed.

Imagine a life where you struggle so much to meet your own needs, where some of your only comforts is sitting down at the end of the day and watching people talk about conspiracies or shout at air in abandoned buildings, only to see that was being taken away from you (and by the very system that's been holding you hostage and making you miserable)? I can see why people would lash out. Why it would seem like these people who joked about eating the rich and understanding privilege have been lying all along.

To me, both of these things - creatives turning away from a highly controlled space like YouTube with its low financial returns, and fans hating that content that used to be free now has to cost them money and reading that as capitalist predatory behaviour, all stem from the same issue, which is that money and art are intertwined. Whether this is terrible and insidious or just a fact of life is another point of mixed feelings, for me.

The point is: I understand why Watcher is doing this. I understand why people don't want Watcher to do this.

Do I think it's a good thing? I'm not sure. How much will their content change? Their reasoning is feeling that they're having to make content for both their fans and advertisers, so that creates an expectation that making this decision will change what they put out in a positive way. That's added pressure. Another thing is that there is a narrative they're pushing of doing this for their audience, while of course making it inaccessible to a potentially large chunk of them. How will that bridge be crossed? These questions definitely need answering, but they need time to be answered. I'm withholding judgement until these get answered for me, and I'm ready to be patient.

Do I think it was the smart thing for them to do in the long run? I have no idea. I want it to be, because I don't want them to fail and decide to give up. It's not a nice feeling to see artists give up on making their art be their livelihood.