#way I will always love you and your sociopathic ass

[beelikesdramas]

just a not so friendly reminder how hard nut supanut eats up every scene in pit babe!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[peachysunrize]

Devil’s Doll ⥃ Mob boss!Aemond

Summary: no one can do anything when Aemond Targaryen sets his eye on a sweet girl and comes to the party with her on his arms, and those who dare to say an ill word will face his wrath with a bullet in their head.

Warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut, p in v, possessive & obsessive Aemond, mob/mafia au! Murder, creampie, Aemond is a sociopath simp for you, blood & gore, oral (F! Receiving), rough sex, Qoren Martell is an ass here, self defense murder, ztell me if I’ve missed anything. English isn’t my first language so if you’re not okay with that, simply ignore this post. if you don't wanna read dark content, block rue:darkcontent <3

Word count: 3.5k

a/n: babeeees! Hello and welcome back to another unhinged smutty one shot I have written! Hope this satisfies your needs for possessive Aemond🤭 please reblog and comment, it’s most appreciated🩷

A very special thank you to @targaryen-dynasty for beta-ing this piece!🩷🫂

In the world of crimes, Aemond Targaryen’s name is enough to make men shiver in fear. The ruthless nature of him has been the subject of many late-night stories in the past few years in the filthy streets of King’s Landing and beyond.

The one-eyed prince they call him. The infamous second son of Viserys the Coward has built an empire solely around one thing; blood and vengeance. 

After the murder of his fiance at the hands of his uncle, he became an untamed beast, bloodthirsty and hungry for revenge to the point that he became the god in the eyes of many — he wiped the streets off any man from his sister’s clan, ruled on the ashes of their bones and burnt flesh.

He thrived in the newfound power, he cherished it and greedily took more and more until there was nothing left more to take. Aemond Targaryen became the head of his clan with his loyal followers doing anything to please him and keep their heads attached to their necks.

So when he finds a new sweet girl at the local coffee shop he frequents, his emotions begin to cloud his judgment or heighten it in a way.

It starts innocently; a black coffee with dark chocolate on a daily basis, a sweet smile, and ‘Have a nice day, sir!’ Always ready for him. 

Sweet girl, he calls you when you bring him his order and brushes his fingers atop yours when you lean down to put his coffee on the table.

He looks, he observes, and he obsesses over your every move, every step you take, every inhale and exhale. He likes watching you.

The ruthless god of the criminal world has set his eye on his new prey.

You notice him, of course you do, because he wants you to know about him, he wants you to be as interested in him as he is in you. He loves how your lips move when you question his motives; sweet girl he calls you again, telling you how beautiful you look when you work and how he desperately wishes he could take you out on a date. But he can’t, not when his enemies are behind the corner, ready to strike where he is weak.

Yes, you are his weakness, and the one-eye god isn’t used to it, but for you… oh for you he would murder, he would let his bloodlust get the best of him and commit a massacre just to see a glimpse of your smile.

He catches you crying in the corner of the cafe, mouth agape as you stare at the man who was supposed to be your date for today, lying limp and lifeless with a bullet in his head.

Sweet girl, he calls you as he brushes your hair out of your face, you look like a doll, his doll, and oh, in the pit of your stomach you feel a strange warmth because of his heated gaze. He is smiling, he shouldn’t but he is, and you smile back, captivated by his nature, by his cruelty and devotion.

It feels like fresh air when you reach out to caress his dimples, how he has dreamed of your soft skin on his. The touch only makes him hungrier, a desire, a need to make you his, and he does that night. He takes you to your small apartment, giving you a pleasure like no other while you cling to him — sweet girl, my doll, he calls you, vowing in his head to protect you, and when he asks you why you do not feel disgusted by what he has done to that man, you reply:

“I’m sick of heroes. They ruin their loved ones to keep others safe. But a villain, my devil, you, will burn the city without letting a flame touch my skin.”

He is like your shadow from that day; following you around in the dark without you noticing, keeping his business up while he focuses on you. Sweet girl, he thinks, how you smile at those unworthy people, your smile should be his and his only.

The news spreads like fire; Aemond Targaryen has found a new plaything. As soon as those words fall from one of his men, others gasp and shriek, staring at the poor man’s head that has a hole carved with Aemond’s bullet.

Plaything they say, he scoffs at the thought. You are no plaything for him, you are his sun, his moon, the air to his lungs, you are fuel for his soul, and he wishes he could burn under you to show you how much you mean to him, to crumble into pieces and let you stomp over him while he basks in the glow of your face.

You are his doll, The Devil’s doll.

He knows how dangerous his world is, he understands it perfectly, and that’s why he nearly loses himself when he finds the door to your apartment ajar with muddy footprints leading to your bedroom.

He sees red when the scent of iron hits his nose; blood, he thinks. What has happened to you? He has never felt such a strong emotion before, not for his fiance or even his sister. Now, he is shaking with fury, his knuckles white from how hard he’s gripping the gun.

You leap into his arm as soon as you spot him in the doorway, letting the knife fall from your hands while you push yourself to him, clutching his shoulders while you sob.

He sighs in relief, holding you in his arms tighter than he has ever done before. You’re alright, his sweet girl, his doll. He listens to you intently, wiping off the tears that fall from your gorgeous eyes gently, oh you look just like a dream come true; your dress is covered in blood, a man you killed for defense lying on the floor beneath his boot.

He has never been more proud of anyone than he is of you.

He wants to show you off to the world, sick of all the hiding and lies behind the rumors spread by Rhaenyra’s clan. He needs to let everyone know how beautiful his doll is, and what a goddess he has in his arms.

He helps you get ready, keeping his hands all over your body while you try to put some clothes on, giggling and indulging him as he kisses your bare shoulders, groaning at the sight of you in black and red.

“Sweet girl, I have to be the luckiest man alive to have you as mine.” He whispers in your ear, eye narrow as he takes you in again, thinking about how he could be graced by your presence.

“And I the luckiest girl, my love. You make me feel so happy,” you reply, spraying your perfume on your neck and collarbones, and Aemond nearly moans as he takes your scent in.

“Fuck, you have to be a sorceress, I am bewitched by your beauty and smile. What have you done to me, doll? What spell have you put me under?” He attacks your neck with kisses, relishing in the small giggle you gift him.

“I’ve poured a potion in your coffee every day, to make sure your eye only sees me and no other girl.” You joke, turning around in his arms to give him a soft peck on the lips, mindful of your lipstick to leave no trace on his clean-shaven face.

“Don’t give me ideas, doll. I might do it just to keep you all to myself.” He grins, his dimples on display for you to kiss them, chuckling as you try to wipe the red stains off his face.

“Oh, I would love that. Please do, my love,” you match his smile, lopping your arms around his neck, “now, let’s go to this party. The sooner we go, the sooner we can leave and have our fun.”

“Anything for you, sweet girl.” He says, offering you his arm as you both walk towards the door, Aemond helping you down while you hold the long skirt of your dress in your hand, taking cautious steps to the car.

Criston nods at both of you and opens the door, waiting until the two of you are settled inside the car before he gets in himself and starts driving to the location.

Aemond was reluctant to attend this party, after all, it was hosted by one of the clans that were loyal to his sister, but his grandfather convinced him to go with Aegon and Daeron, but he declined and said he’d rather go alone with his doll.

You smile at him, caressing his ring-clattered fingers that are caressing your thigh gently, talking with Cole about what is expected of tonight; murder for sure, but he would rather not get caught up in the whirlwind of hatred he has for his sister and uncle, and most importantly, he needs to keep you safe from all the eyes of those hungry men.

The ride to the mansion is quick, and a sense of dread fills the two of you when your eyes meet. Aemond presses a kiss to your forehead to both calm himself and you before the car comes to a stop and he steps out, coming to your side and holding your hand to help you on your feet.

The moment you step inside the house, you are greeted by various couples, men, women, and people that you have no idea about. You keep your head high, squeezing Aemond’s arm as the two of you hide your discomfort behind a smile while everyone keeps staring at you.

“Targaryen,” someone calls Aemond behind you, “you honored me with coming tonight!” You both turn around, finding Mr. Tyrell and his wife and oldest daughter waiting to greet you.

“The honor is mine, sir,” Aemond shakes his hand, reaching to press a kiss to Mrs. Tyrell’s hand, “thank you for having us tonight. Let me introduce you to my girl,” he puts his large palm on your waist, gently pulling you closer to him as you shake and greet your hosts.

“You certainly have won yourself a prize, Aemond.”

“No prize is as beautiful as she is, I’m afraid.” Your lover says, pinching your waist playfully away from the eyes of the attendees, looking at you with nothing but adoration and unconditional devotion.

“You’re too kind, my love,” you smile, “Lady Tyrell, I would love to get to know you more.” Aemond nods at you gratefully, glad that he has discussed his plans for the party with you.

Aemond watches you being led away by the ladies, letting the smile fall from his lips as he gazes back at Tyrell himself, “I hope you have good reasons for wasting my time here.”

“I do, Mr. Targaryen. I wish to introduce you to Prince Martell from Dorne.” Tyrell says, pointing at a group of men who’re talking intensely. As soon as the two of them approach the group, they grow silent, waiting for Aemond to say something — their silence could be because of two things, either they respect him, or they’re terrified of him.

He hoped it was the latter, for with fear there comes blind respect and loyalty.

“Ah, Targaryen,” Prince Qoren Martell says, reaching to shake Aemond’s hand, “how wonderful to finally meet the One-Eyed God of the underground. Made yourself quite the name, huh?” Qoren smirks, already sensing how his words irritate Aemond.

Aemond shakes his hand back, tightening the hold he has on him, a ghost of a sinister smile forms on his face while he stares at the Dornish man with his indigo eye.

“Can’t say the same about you, Prince Qoren. What have you been doing all this time, not ruining the South, I hope?”

“You’re funny,” Qoren laughs, tapping Aemond on the shoulder, “Ah, I missed someone who’d challenged me over stupid things, kind of feels good to have a kid like you around.”

“Mind your words, Martell. He is no ordinary man, these silly little challenges will be the least of your concerns if he decides you’re not worth his time.” Barros Baratheon, ever the loyal dog of Aemond, speaks up, standing tall and proud next to him.

“Pft, please, I’m sure he knows I’m joking!” Qoren laughs nervously this time, “but… I don’t think your man isn’t doing great nowadays huh?”

“What do you mean?” Aemond asks, slapping Qoren’s hand away, “I wonder what has been said that makes you so full of yourself.”

“I don’t need to say a thing, look, your pretty plaything is coming,” Martell smirks as he eyes you up, watching the sway of your hips as you walk shyly towards Aemond, feeling a bit out of place due to all the looks on you.

“Eyes on me, Martell,” Aemond says through gritted teeth, anger swimming in his good eye as he watches the Dornish man look at you intently.

“Aemond…” he turns around at the sound of your voice, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Sweet girl—“

“Ah, it’s truly a shame that a beautiful girl like you wouldn’t reach anywhere with being a side chick for a Targaryen.” A deadly silence falls on the group, Aemond with his ever-rising temper looks at Qoren who hasn’t realized what he has truly said.

“Elaborate, Martell.” He hisses, reaching to pull you closer to him, covering your body mostly with his.

“You need a lady sooner or later, I doubt a woman from her status would be a good choice of a wife for you. You need someone stronger, with more connections, and a mind as sharp as you, not just a pretty whore to keep your bed warm,” Qoren shrugs, and a few men from his side laugh and agree with him.

Aemond presses his lips into a thin line, his fingers twitching in anger as he gazes at Qoren; he looks murderous, ready to pull his gun out and empty a bullet in that useless head of his — but he’s stopped by the sound of your sniffing.

He looks at you, his features softening immediately when he sees your teary eyes. He feels as if he’s about to die with a dagger in his good eye; the look on your face hurts him, burns his heart, and tears it into pieces. The string you’ve wrapped around him tightens and tightens until he cradles your smaller face in his hand, pressing a sweet kiss to your quivering lips before his eye turn black with madness.

He pushes you behind him, and in a second, the hall is filled with screams and shrieks of horror and bullets flying around, bodies of the men who dared to disrespect Aemond’s doll are falling on the floor next to his shoes one by one.

He feels you bury your head in his blazer, gasping at the sound of yet another bullet firing into someone’s head. Aemond doesn’t blink, not even once. His blood is pumping with the urge to showcase how much he’s willing to do to keep his sweet girl happy and content.

“Let this be a reminder to all of you,” his voice echoes in the hall, “whoever dares to say anything about my girl will face the same fate; death! Aemond Targaryen will go to a fucking war for his future wife!” With that, he holds his gun upwards to the ceiling, firing not one, not two, but nearly six bullets to make sure the hall is empty besides the corpses and the two of you.

“Aemond…”

“Shh,” he shushes you roughly, pressing his lips into a searing kiss to yours, groaning at the sweet taste of your lips. He adores losing himself in you; in your taste, in your scent, in every ounce of attention you give him. He feels blessed to even breathe the same air as you, but kissing you… his heart stops every time his lips meet yours, and now, with adrenaline and anger swirling in his veins, he wants nothing but to show you his devotion — even if it comes out as a rough fucking session while staring at the men he killed for you.

His trimmed nails dig into your sides, groaning at the feeling of you melting beneath his rough touch. Aemond is a man possessed with how he handles you, strong and confident while he finds the closest table and finally breaks the kiss.

He watches how your chest heaves with ragged breaths, lips swollen, and eyes wide and hazy with lust — the perfect picture of a goddess that he has been graced with.

He turns you around, pushing you on the table until you’re bending over, looking directly at the limp bodies on the floor drowning in their own blood. He hums as his fingers caress your spine before he strikes you on your ass, humming at the feeling of the weight of your flesh under his hand. 

He doesn’t have the will to wait anymore. He drops on his knees, pushing your dress up to your hips until he’s face to face with your bare pussy; wet and ready to be devoured. 

“Good girl,” he praises you for listening to him when he asked you earlier to not wear any underwear, “The most gorgeous cunt I’ve ever seen, prettiest girl, my doll.” He’s already drunk on your essence without even tasting it, that’s how much he adores you.

He moans at the same time as you do when he finally dives in, wrapping his thin lips around your buzzing clit as he devours and eats like a starved dog, caging your hips while he takes and takes and takes from you.

There’s not a thought in his head, empty and filled with nothing but an urge to show you how eager he is to please and protect you, your loyal dog he calls himself.

The One-Eyed God crumbles for a simple barista girl, and not a single soul dares to say a word, for if they say, they’ll experience his rage.

Aemond is quick and messy with how his tongue laps up your wetness, creating lewd sounds that have both of your hearts racing. His fingers join his tongue, filling you up slightly and giving you the friction you need, but you know him, the only way you can come is on his cock.

You whine in agony as he leaves you aching for more as soon as he feels you getting closer, but he doesn’t leave you waiting for too long. The sound of his zipper brings back your attention to him, and he chuckles in delight when he sees you wiggling yourself back to get some friction, to end this torture and gives into the temptation.

And he does; he aligns his painfully hard cock with your soaked entrance, pushing himself in with one smooth thrust that knocks the breath out of your lungs.

Long is gone the man he was a few seconds ago; he is on a mission now, fucking you until you tremble and fall from the edge of bliss, knowing it’s him pleasuring you, it’s him who will burn this blasted city for you.

“Oh, sweet girl, I’ll kill thousands of men if it means I get to be inside this sweet pussy—fuck-“ he groans, hands finding home on your hipbones as he quickens his pace, driving his cock in and out. Hard and fast.

The squelching sound that your wetness is making embarrasses you, and you hide your face in your arms while you squeal his name over and over again.

Your Devil has grown like ivy around your heart, covering the last untouched part of your souls that he had left untouched, and you love it, love being consumed by him.

He bends down over your back, hips snapping into yours roughly, filling you up with his length as the thick tip of him kisses your cervix while his teeth sink into your bare shoulder.

“Do you see the lengths I would go to protect you, sweet girl?” He whispers in your ear, licking your tear away with the tip of his tongue, “I will commit unspeakable crimes just to have you by my side.”

You nod at him, looping your arm around his neck to bring him down, and he compiles, bending further on your back to kiss you roughly.

Both of you are close; the knot in your stomach gets unbearable until it snaps and you moan loudly in his mouth, gushing around him as your legs shake.

He follows closely; his cock throbs deep within your core, and with one final rough thrust, he empties his balls inside you, coating your velvety walls with his thick cum, marking you as his once more.

You glance back at the corpses, smiling devilishly at how Qoren Martell’s empty eyes are still on you.

“Sweet girl,” Aemond says, “you’re untouchable now. Targaryen clan is yours to rule.”

[gallusrostromegalus]

I've always said that kubota did orihime soooooooo dirty >:( she literally has god powers and they get diminished so harshly... I've always viewed her power as her having the ability to Reject phenomena. In canon she rejects the fact that people are injured. What would happen if she rejected the fact that someone was alive? That someone was in her way? Reject the injustices that led to her and her friends' world being turned upside down. Anyway I love that your hime has the spine she deserves and I'm so excited to be completely normal about aeiwam

Some Important facts about Orihime from canon:

Orihime is the #3 student in her entire (fairly large) high school. Girl Ain't Stupid- if anything, the fact that she's wildly unorthodox in her projects and STILL pulls those kinds of grades and test scores suggests that her teachers are grading her like that because her weird-ass approaches to assignments demonstrate a thorough understanding of the material, so she may actually be smarter than Uryuu, the #1 student who gives me very strong "I'm very good at taking tests and telling teachers what they want to hear, so I can pull good grades even if I have no clue what the subject is" Vibes.

Orihime cooks weird damn food, and enjoys it. She also has strange ideas about what's cute, exceptionally brightly colored clothes relative to everyone else, and does things like get lost following dragonflies for hours on end. Screams sensory processing Weirdness to me. Maybe I'm projecting a bit here, but Sensory processing disorders come with sensory euphoria too- I get to enjoy a huge variety of strange foods and the sound of rain gives me physical joy.

Orihime's best friends* are: -The School's Self-affected "weird boy who might be a delinquent or possibly just insane" guy -A Butch Jock With Anger Issues -The Crafts Club president who has So Much Gender Happening, and also sort-of grew up in a cult -The Giant, scary-looking guy who keeps smuggling small animals into school. -A Genuine sociopath whose family probably has Yakuza Connections -An extremely powerful supernatural being who is like five times her age -Keigo. This is not the friend group of a "Normal"

Taken together, these points form a constellation of THIS GIRL GOT AUTISM. LIKE SO MUCH. LEVEL 999 AUTISM MAGE. She's full of strange joy and magnificently weird and experiencing reality four steps to the left of everyone else AND SHE IS SO, SO SMART.

So in the fic, when she sees Ichigo freaking out because Rukia has been Kidnapped back to Soul Society on Bullshit criminal charges, Orihime does what every autistic person I know does, and immediately begins drafting a Solution.

Namely She begins drafting an extraction plan. She gets slightly in over her head with details about what data they need, how much and what kind of resistance they'd be facing etc. etc. until she realizes she needs some concrete answers and, without regard to social conventions like "time" and "Personal space", more or less kicks in the door to Urahara's shop at 2AM, marches directly into his bedroom and starts interrogating him about the civil services in soul society, yes it's weird you sleep naked with your cat sir but I'm not here to pass judgment I'm here to get answers you can put pants on later.

After the resounding success of their operation in Soul Society, the hardest part when Ulquiorra comes to kidnap her and gives her the completely insane circumstances of "you will be invisible and go through walls for 12 hours, prepare yourself." is not vibrating with the absolute mania of the chance to go to Los Noches and FUCK. SHIT. UP.

[thepunkranger]

Rating Resident Evil Men’s Marriageability

Note: I tried my best to be impartial with each of the men, regardless of my personal opinions

Chris Redfield

Pros

Loyal

Protective

Trusting

Wants to see the best in people

Strong

Anti-capitalist

Cares deeply

Prioritizes family

Ass that you could bounce a quarter off of

Cons

Smoker

Prone to bouts of depression

Definitely has PTSD

Drinks to forget

Literally solves his problems by punching

Married to his job

Rude to waitstaff

Keeps secrets because “it’s better for you not to know”

Blames himself for things out of his control

Canonically a bit of a slob

Overall Score: 5/10 - Could do worse, but could definitely do better. High potential of being a stereotypical “straight husband”

-

Albert Wesker

Pros

Rich

Attractive

Super strength

Super speed

Verified genius

Might destroy the world for you

Looks good in a leather jacket

Natural leader

One of only two RE men to canonically have sex

Cons

Violent sociopath

Might just destroy the world in general

Obsessed with power

Believes himself to be superior to all other beings

Turned himself into a giant worm monster

100% would track your phone

Withholds physical affection as a power play

Overall Score: 1/10 - At best you’ll exist as a bored but scared trophy spouse. At worst he’ll dissect you as part of an experiment

-

Leon S. Kennedy

Pros

Loyal

Kind

Affectionate

Caring

Silly sense of humor

Protective

Willing to be emotionally vulnerable

Always wants to do the right thing

Soft hair

Trusting

Goes out of his way to help people

Cares deeply about his friends

Strong

Flexible

Tries to make the best of any situation

Dog lover

Drives a motorcycle

Cons

Definitely has PTSD

Prone to depression

Bordering on/alcoholic Degeneration and up

Body belongs to the US government

A little dumb

Should not be behind the wheel

Overall Score: 8/10 - Potential to be an amazing, loving husband with therapy and support, but may fall into toxic or even self-harm tendencies if left unchecked

-

Carlos Oliveira

Pros

Sweet

Protective

Kind

Physically Affectionate

Supportive

Strong

Cares deeply about the people in his life

Skilled with his hands

Emotionally vulnerable

Trusting

Wants to be the best person he can be

Willing to break laws to help those he loves

Natural provider (acts of service love language 100%)

Verbally affectionate

Sense of humor

Laid back attitude

Gorgeous hair

Respects boundaries

Cons

Probably has unprocessed trauma

Will do Dumb Guy Shit™️

Trusts too quickly

Will throw himself into dangerous situations without thinking it through

Will probably make inappropriate jokes without thinking unless you tell him specifically not to

Likely wanted in multiple countries

Overall Rating: 10/10 - Literally marry this man immediately. He will be a good partner, good husband, and good father. May need reigning in occasionally, but it comes from a place of love

-

Luis Serra Navarro

Pros

Always has the best intentions

Cares deeply about his friends and family

Tries to do the right thing

Sense of humor

Highly intelligent

Extremely curious

Debonair

Charming

Good dancer

Chivalrous

Book lover

Good with his hands

Cons

Doesn’t open up easily

Tends to trust the wrong people

Smoker

Doesn’t think things through

Prefers fantasy over reality

Doesn’t always keep his word

Self-serving

Unprocessed trauma

Tends to deflect

Overall Score: 5/10 - Potential to be a great partner, but would take time and patience to get there (best outsourced to a therapist)

-

Jake Muller

Pros

Snarky

Literally designed after male models

Loyal

Will have your back

Affectionate once he opens up

Surprisingly good with kids

Drives a Motorcycle

Self-sacrificing

Looks amazing in black leather

Cons

Daddy issues

Self-sacrificing

Tendency to only do things that benefit him

Takes a long time to open up

Illegal drug use

Wanted by multiple governments

Would need to be forced into therapy if he went at all

Overall Score: 4/10 - German Shepherd partner vibes. Would be forever loyal to you if you broke through his walls, but only to you. Probably wouldn’t stop any (self-) destructive habits of his either

-

Piers Nivans

Pros

Kind

Trusting

Loyal

Nice to waitstaff

Appreciates good food

Cares about the emotional well-being of his loved ones

Not easily deterred

Cons

Self-sacrificing

Codependent tendencies

Most likely has unresolved trauma

Hotheaded

Overall Score: 7/10 - The potential is definitely there, however - like Chris - Piers winds up with a high likelihood for being a stereotypical “straight husband,” mainly due to his upbringing in a military family

-

Ethan Winters

Pros

Loyal

Trusting

Kind

Good with kids

Indestructible

Gentle

Protective

Never gives up

Would still love you if you were a worm

Not easily scared

Domestic

Creative

Good under pressure

MacGyver skills

Soft

Self-sacrificing

Cons

Mold

Bad luck

Arguably too trusting

Self-sacrificing

Thousand yard stare

Overall Score: 10/10 - Like Carlos, marry this man immediately. Second only RE man to canonically have sex and the only one to get married. Just hope you don’t have a penicillin allergy

[romanoffsbish]

Found Family

Yelena Belova x F!R

WandaNat 🤰🏼❤️

Request: @/modedddd | 3,168 Words

Weddings—What total fucking chaos…

Warnings: Alcohol, Violence, Puking (but like soft ass, nauseating fluff)

"Wanda, are you sure the fitting went well?" You huffed involuntarily as you tried for the umpteenth time to get the zipper to reach the top of her dress, "Maybe it shrunk hon?"

Wanda turned to you with tears in her eyes, you could see a secret settled beneath the surface of her shining viridescent orbs, but her wobbling lip prevented her from offering it up.

"Oh honey," you saw the soft baby bump as her dress now pooled at her hips, "It'll be okay, what's a wedding without a few hiccups?"

——

Wanda smiled instinctually at your offered comfort, the world could be on fire, but you would still find the beauty for her somehow.

"What are we going to do?" Wanda asked in a whisper, and you tightened your hold on her.

"Well, the wedding is in six hours," you looked to your watch, "How about we run to our safe space, then we can magically fix the problem?"

Wanda pulled away from you with a genuine smirk, you always found the best solutions.

"Can I get extra toppings?" Wanda wagered, and you nodded amusedly, "Then it's a deal!"

After Wanda changed back into her comfy loungewear the both of you snuck out of her dressing room, and right on out of the venue.

—

Kate had been excited to be playing such a pivotal part in Wanda and Natasha's special day's events. The excitable girl was skipping around with her bedazzled clipboard, making sure the workers knew where to place the flower arrangements, then she was calling the caterers to triple check on the delivery time for the various plates, and she continued to do such work until she arrived to Wanda's door.

"Hey ladies it's Kate, I'm just checking in to make sure we're staying on time," she called out as she knocked softly, but there wasn't a call back. Kate tried a few more times, and with the continued silence she grew worried, so without further thought she opened the door.

The worry she felt only increased as she found the room empty, she was panicked when she saw Wanda's dress in a heap on the floor, and in that state she called Yelena on FaceTime, offering no privacy as she yelled, "They're gone, we have a runaway bride, and her bestie too."

"WE HAVE A WHAT?" Natasha shrieked, and Yelena muttered underneath her breath, "Pochemu ya?" before throwing back her flute of champagne, and turning her focus to her frazzled older sister. "It will all be okay."

(Why me?)

—

"So, is this a 'oh no she knocked me up' wedding?" You teased your best friend, you cackled as her nose scrunched up in pure offense. "No, and you very well know that!"

"Yeah, but for all the secret keeping on your end I felt it was only fair to tease you babes."

"We didn't expect it to happen so fast," Wanda muffled her admittance over a spoonful of her fro yo, "But with my magic it's apparently a sped up process. I am technically only a week in, but at last weeks scan they said I was three."

You remained unexpectedly silent as you ogled your friends bowl, it was literally towering over the lip of the bowl, and the toppings were what you'd expect to see on a sociopath's bowl.

Who pairs mango boba pearls with chocolate syrup, and pieces of coconut? A menace...

When you took notice of her glare you brought yourself back into the conversation, "Weeks?"

"Months," she groaned as she dropped her gaze to the bump that she could no longer hide, it'd become even larger since you'd left the venue.

"Yeah, I am afraid that makes sense now."

—

Natasha was pacing around her dressing room, there was no way Wanda would have cold feet.

Right? No, she loved her just as much as she did, so why the hell is she nowhere in sight?

"Sestra, calm yourself, I'll find them."

Natasha glared at her sister, "You better."

"Why would they even leave?" Kate questioned, and Yelena swiftly glared in her direction, "Y/N doesn't do things without good reason, she is her maid of honor for a reason Kate Bishop."

Yelena didn't mean to snap, but truthfully she was worried that you hypothetically helping Wanda run meant that the life she wanted with you maybe wasn't the one you wanted with her.

—

"Y/N?" Wanda hesitantly called out to you, she could see the way you were concealing your own panic to keep hers at bay, it didn't work.

"Don't," you pleaded, "We'll be there soon, it's okay, there's no need to panic Wanda, please."

Wanda rested back against the seat, she wasn't going to press you further. It wasn't your fault there was standstill traffic on the highway, how were either of you to know about a nearby basketball game taking place. Had you known you would've stayed off the freeway, especially since the next exit was two miles out, and the wedding was meant to start in two hours.

It wasn't intentional, but the two of you let time get away from you as you giddily roamed the city in search for baby items. Wanda let you peek at the baby's genders in her purse, they (Wanda) wanted a party for that, and there was really no one better to throw it than you. It wasn't until you looked over a receipt that you clocked the time, and rushed to get back.

"I'm sorry," you couldn't keep it in anymore, you were literally the worst maid of honor.

"Hey," the witch reached for your hand over the console, "You are doing everything right, I needed this, they'll understand if we're late."

The sound of a loud noise startled you both, your gazes shifting to the illuminated dash.

My Stinky Girl (Yelena Belova) is calling...

You gulped, then nodded to the witch who was hovering over the green button, "Heyyy..."

"Don't hey me, where the hell are you?" The blonde shrieked, but then she sighed, "Hi..."

"We're on the highway," you meekly answered.

"Why?"

"To get hitched in Vegas, we realized we had the wrong partners," Wanda deadpanned.

"You stay away from my girlfriend Maximoff."

The witch cackled, "Calm your vests Lena."

You could hear your girlfriend inhale, she was two seconds from a freak out. "Yelena, why don't you ask Natasha about the beans?" You instructed the irritated blonde, "We'll wait."

Yelena trusted you, so without questioning you further she turned to her sister instead. With a shy smile the redhead proceeded to spill them.

"Oh my gosh!" Yelena was grinning, you could hear it, your heart swelled at her excitement, "Detka, we're going to be such cool aunties!"

"Yeah, we are," you chuckled, sharing a fond look with your best friend as the two of you piggybacked off your lover's excitement, and you envisioned a future where you were more.

"How long until you're back? We can stall."

"I am not sure, it's a twenty minute drive, but the traffic is at a standstill, so probably hours."

"Why don't you just mind warp the people to drive faster Wanda?" Kate asked, and you could hear a slap followed up by a shriek.

"Yelena, be nice!" You reprimanded her, and bit back a laugh when she grumbled curses.

"You know how I feel about stupid solutions."

"Actually," you looked at Wanda, and she nodded, there was no harm done if you got traffic to cease to exist right? "We're doing it."

"Wait!" Yelena shouted, "I have a better idea!"

Wanda looked to you fearfully, and it checked out because not even a moment later were you both upchucking the fro yo onto the ground.

"How was that better Lena?" You looked at your lover who was quickly approaching you, she shrugged, "It seemed like a good idea."

Pietro smirked at you as he held his sisters hair back, "It was so fun, pretending to have super strength as I ran you here to save the day."

"Yeah, your noodle arms could never have done that without my help," Wanda grumbled, shoving her brother away, and nuzzling into her wife to be's arms instead, "Hi lovebug..."

Natasha's cheeks turned crimson, Wanda's delirious muttering of her 'behind closed doors' nickname had her feeling put on the spot, but she also knew she meant no harm, so she softly kissed her temple, "Welcome back detka."

"We have a wedding to get to," Kate reminded everyone, and you looked to Wanda knowingly.

"Go, we've got this," you ushered everyone off, then with a reserved softness you reached for Wanda and worked a smattering of miracles.

—

The ceremony went off without any further hitches, it wasn't until the reception that things got interesting again. You watched with rapt attention as a drunken Pietro approached girl after girl with no luck, it was very amusing.

"What's so funny?" Yelena asked, the deepened rasp in her tone enough to tell you she'd been drinking; Pietro was probably her doing.

"Pietro has no game," you mused, tipping your nearly empty glass in his direction, Yelena burst into laughter once she saw him pouting, "Oh my gosh, he looks like a wounded puppy, how funny." You snorted at your girlfriend's odd sense of humor, "Yeah, his pride is gone."

"Welp, sucks for him," Yelena shrugs, then turns to you with a smug grin, "Care to dance?"  Yelena reached her hand out for yours, and you graciously accepted it as she pulled you from the table to the dance floor with the couple.

"You look absolutely gorgeous malysh," Yelena whispered before softly kissing your lips, she swiftly spun you out before you could reply, then she pulled your giggling form right back in, and you smiled at her. "As do you Lena."

The blonde smiled even wider, her cheeks tinting a subtle pink, something you wanted to tease her for, but you knew better than to ruin the sweet moment. After a few songs, where the both of you swayed around in your little bubble of love unbothered, a hand softly tugged you away from your lover. Natasha smiled at you, with her hand extended, and the two of you reluctantly exchanged partners.

"You're my favorite person," the redhead said almost as soon as she had you in her arms, "Natasha, I'm flattered, but I'm with Yelena, at your wedding mind you, have some class."

"Why must you ruin the moment?" She groaned, and you chuckled softly, "I'm your favorite, so really I can do whatever I wish."

"That you can," Natasha conceded, a soft smile overtook both your faces as you danced about.

The conversation between Yelena and Wanda was a smidge different. Yelena held her sister in law protectively as they barely even moved.

"You know, I'm not made of fluff Yelena," the witch teased, and the blonde huffed seriously, "You are carrying my future nieces or nephews, sue me for wanting to keep them safe."

Wanda gripped her by the shoulders, "Cute."

"Wanda Maximoff, I am not cute."

"Romanoff," she quickly corrected, the lovesick smile she wore nearly made your girlfriend gag.

"Now, before the song ends we must discuss important business," Wanda's face was now one of stoicism, "When are you proposing?"

Yelena grunted, "That's a personal question."

"Mhm, you're officially my sister now, and I am patiently waiting for you to make Y/N mine."

Yelena ignored her sister in law for a moment, she found herself staring at you from across the room, no matter the occasion her eyes always drifted to you, it was a reflex at this point. Her sister dipped you backwards, then repeatedly spun you so fast you couldn't stop laughing.

"See," Wanda called her out, following her gaze to be met with the sight of you, the smile the blonde wore was far too soft for Yelena's usual cold appearances, "You need to lock her in."

"She is already locked in," Yelena huffed, but she couldn't help but agree, "But I know, you are right, is that what you wanted to hear?"

Wanda smirked smugly instead of responding, and after a moment of awkward silence she released herself from the blondes strong hold.

"Don't worry Belova, I got your back," she winked as she walked away, then she tapped your shoulder to signal it was time to switch back, you smiled at her, a hand affectionately grazed over her bump, and Yelena found the sight to be a perfect glimpse into the future.

Her perfect little family, one she never thought possible, coming to fruition before her eyes. It nearly brought her to tears thinking about your hand on Wanda's belly as her own on yours.

When you caught the bouquet a few hours later Yelena saw the intentional wisps of red that floated it to your hold. She glared at the witch who wore a content smile, but it faded quickly as you jumped into her unsuspecting arms. Your body shook with excitement, and the blonde held you that much closer when she understood you wanted it all just as bad.

Yelena set you down, and instantly cupped your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss that said more than her words ever could. When she finally pulled away your eyes were glossy, she frowned, but you waved her off, "Happy tears."

She nodded in vague understanding, "Why?"

"Because, even if you are not there yet, I am," you smiled at her while nervously flitting the flowers around, "This bouquet toss helped me feel stronger in my convictions that you're it for me baby, there's no love story greater. So, if and when you're ready, I'll be there to say yes."

"I'm ready," she interrupted your monologue, her tone was neutral, likely due to her nerves, but you saw a smile steadily creeping up.

"I'm more ready!"

Yelena frowned, and you nearly lost your shit when you turned to see Pietro down on one knee with a ring that resembled Wanda's.

"Oh, you poor, drunk fool," you sympathized, and leaned into your girlfriend as he went on.

"I am a good man," he hiccuped softly, his hand flying up to cover his mouth, and to your fortune it was a false alarm, "I can make you the happiest women ever Y/N, will you—."

Yelena was about to attack the man, but in a twist of fate it was Wanda who got him first. The witch lifted him into the air, not a care in the world as he gasped for no apparent reason.

"Give me my ring pridurok, or you'll be sleeping with the sharks in the Atlantic."

(Dipshit)

"Sestra, please, you just had your big day," he whined drunkenly, "Just let me have mine!"

Yelena approached the man, she scooped the ring from his hand, and gently passed it back. Then she nodded to Wanda, and in a show of impressive strength she caught the man by his collar as he fell from the air, and slammed him into a marble pillar, "Ostorozhneye, Pietro, ​​ya znayu, gde ty spish', a ukus vdovy smertelen."

(Careful now Pietro, I know where you sleep, and a widows bite is deadly.)

As soon as her hands left the mans collar he was running for the nearest trash can. Yelena turned to you with a smug grin, she knew you were in a state of shock at her show of power. With her arms wide open you crashed right into her, your embarrassing words being muffled into her suit jacket, "That was hot."

Yelena snorted at your admission, and in a rare moment of PDA she kissed you tenderly. She never denied you her affections, but ones like this kiss were usually reserved for the house. But you reckon she didn't mind tonight since it was just a small group of close friends here.

"YA tebya lyublyu," Yelena confessed for the millionth tome with her forehead pressed up to yours. "Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu vonyayet."

(I love you / I love you too Stink)

"One time Y/N," she groans, "I come home smelling like a sewer one time after a mission and you don't let me move on, I want peace."

"Yeah, and that was one time too many."

"Can we go home now?" Yelena was over the scene, at this point she just wanted to cuddle up to you, with her puppy, Fanny, and your kitty, Gerald, sleeping soundly at your feet.

"Yeah, let me just grab my co—."

Natasha rushed over to you before you could even ask where the fire was, "Her water broke."

Yelena glared at her, "Ne nasha problema."

(Not our problem)

Both women went to grab you, likely to hold you in a standstill, but fortunately the witch with fluctuating hormones had the upper hand as she yanked you towards her, "They can have their petty little fight, while we go have babies."

"Hold on," you pulled the woman over to the bar, and grabbed two shot glasses. "Y/N..."

"Hush," you waved her off, "Close your eyes."

Wanda rolled them first, making sure you saw, but then she complied. "You can open now."

Stood before her were two shot glasses, both with a clear liquid in them, and she smirked. She wasn't sure where you got the droppers from, but in the dimly lit room she couldn't tell what was in them, so when you dropped a bit of blue curaçao into the first one she beamed.

"It's a boy!" You cheered, and you saw Natasha briefly look to you with her eyes alit with joy before she was back to shouting at her sister.

Wanda winced as another contraction hit, and you made quick work of the next shot, you had three droppers for the sake of surprise, and it sure helped to keep Wanda unclear until the next liquid turned a light pink, "It's a girl!"

Wanda smiled at you, it was pained though, you could see how she clutched her stomach, so you rushed around to her to guide her to the car, and as you retreated you shouted back, "Oy! Assholes, come take these shots, then get in the car and take us to the damn hospital!"

Love is beautiful, it might be a chaotic, messy experience, hell, even at times tragic, but even with that chance, it's beautiful nonetheless. It was all you ever wanted, and with this family of found individuals it seems you finally have it. That was never really a question for you honestly, but it was confirmed tonight as you looked into the fresh eyes of your goddaughter.

The brunette's tiny fingers were wrapped tight around your girlfriends, she was cooing softly at the baby in your arms, you felt your heart ache for this sort of future. When your gazes eventually met, and your lover smiled at you softly, with those bright, albeit tired hazel eyes you knew this was forever. You'd done it.

Yelena was your dream come true.

——

[blackangelism]

Born to Die

hey, so, basically, i was writing this fanfiction called born to die based upon kurt cobain and an original character called nirvana lacey anhedönia and, well, i never finished it and i think i’ve lost the inspiration to. but, i still want it to see the light of day because i think it’s beautiful (sort of). so, here we are.

Gibson Girl.

1480 words.

July 6, 1981.

Aberdeen.

Washington.

[ You wanna… ]

Lovelace.

That’s what I’m fucking carving into my arm. With that oh-so-American size of the knife, the cut was deep and my handwriting as unhinged as it could be, probably and possibly worse than the cruel (upon me!) variety of forms it takes; like it was in my journal (I’ve always adored the copulation of the words probably and possibly as it tends so well to my seeming lack of sincerity and existential confusion), but worse, worse. Tingling all over I was in not an aroused, sexual way—but in the way it tingles when the high becomes scary, when the swirly faces start to scratch at you and when your belly feels scarily pregnant (everyone whom I know wants children; I wonder, am I sociopathic or a prophetess? Probably both, they’re primarily synonymous anyway). I knew so damnéd well I was addicted to this shit, the little, translucent, hallucinatory blotters (I prefer ’em trippy on both the outside and in, and pink; but I’m an addict! I’ll take whatever anyways) I get by shaking my ass to the guy whose name I do not wish to have my married brain clouded with. He still cut into my head like the knife that was working with all it’s effort and my inputs carving that v on my plump, ripe forearm. I was addicted as fuck; and I fucking loved it. At the very fucking least, I was pumping out poems like a heroine of the fifties. It’s what it was: the fifties had Sylvia Plath and the eighties had me. Downright iconic. The blood by now—I felt like a lamb, but I knew I was the dragon—was flooding my lap on which that forearm of mine was settled. I apologise if my writing, grammer, thoughts, anything else is fucked up in this or don’t make sense—I’m drugged up into Cloud Nineteen (ten blotters, two packs of Marlboro Reds over this evening).

I know I sound fucking insane and I probably am, and I treat myself to pain Virgin Mary couldn’t have dreamt off—but, I promise I’m not mean. Just a hard, excessive exterior and a tight, eager posterior in this dollhood of mine. Does that even make sense…? I don’t fucking know shit… “Ah, fuck…” I whispered with the most disappointing one I could muster when I fucked up the second l of Lovelace.

Lovelace, Lovelace… Great, I have to recall him.

The fucker who got me into this.

Norwegian trucker in India who was friends with my greaser pa, Norman Anhedönia, called Gibson Lovelace. The chap had forty years worth of oxygen wasted in his shallow breathing (he always breathed shallow, even when he came; I had noticed), a nine-incher monster of a dick, pedophilia, a drunkard wife and an obsession with me. I’d always been what Nabokovian terms would term nymphet, and I do say I’m split on it. I’m a shit daughter and a demon child, or am I? Maybe I’m just depressed and suicidal, or I’m fucking divine and the reincarnation of Eve meant to meet her Adam through a senseless act of violence upon myself (I didn’t know at the time, but I was fucking foreshadowing; go me.). Every girl needs a senseless act of violence properly upon herself but rarely upon the other to discover her one and only cult leader.

Anywho, Gibson led me into his truck away from my father who was too busy cleaning his shades listening to Elvis on the records: January of ’77, I was seven going to turn eight in the November of that year. He fucked me raw, smashed my head so hard into the steering wheel that I bled (I was questioning too much), kissed my cuts and made me promise I wouldn’t pick up a knife again but didn’t do shit about what I actually felt; he told me to stick my tongue out and placed this thin translucent sheet of pink from a little booklet he kept in his glovebox. And I decided that I loved it. I’m at fault, I’m at fault… Fuck Waheguru.

I’m finished. I squeezed my arm as hard as I could, the blood spraying over the marble floor (I had tucked the rug away; I can’t let Mumma see). My incisors with the utmost force to keep my vocal chords at bay dug into my chapped bottom lip and drew blood there too. It trickled down to my chin and came to nirvana at my lap resting amongst the other red molecules; it left a ferric taste on the tip of my tongue, slightly bitter and quite sweet. Bittersweet. Blood, blood, blood, blood, blood… Blood, everywhere. Gibson would’ve rubbed it all over my nipples and told me to lick it up like it was his sperm all over my asscheeks or, well, just cheeks. I did have quite big tits for an almost twelve-year-old, I must admit… I’ve always had more estrogen and my estrogen was also more sensitive: susceptible. Susceptible to manipulation, fuckery, religion, what not… Finally, I could fucking feel something except for the stimuli of my g-spot and the irritation in my nostrils that still blossomed when I chainsmoked indoors or that itching feeling in me when I go too much time without my LSD. I have this delusion that I only pump men good or pump out good stuff when I’m pumped on those little squares: He said that LSD would be good for me when I told him that I write; I’ve been pumpin’ poetry for my baby ever since. I hate children, and I sincerely wish that all babies die alongside their parents and the doctors and the nurses and the medical’s parents and me…

My disorders kicked in (Borderline Personality Disorder, majorly untreated) and I fucking panicked. After so much shit, I fucking panicked. Panicked. Jumping up almost to slam my head to the sink I was cutting up like ham under, I had to hold onto the sink to make myself stand actually. I slowly experienced my hand creep up to switch on the faucet (like Gibby did to the faucet in my eyes everytime he crossed my neurocircuitry) and my other arm (I’m right-handed) creep to wash the blood from Lovelace off. Thankfully, I had a few bottles of peroxide, a pack of Reds, a babydoll dress all set up, razor and men’s shaving cream, my skincare, makeup—all of that set up, and the shower prepped as well. Today, I was to die.

The same year as Gibson’s arrival to me, I spiralled and ended up flinging my curvy body down the roof of some pretentious hotel in Seattle. I didn’t die, unfortunately. Then, well, I was transferred to a crazy people place for four years until I got out in March of ’81 (this year!) equally, if not more, fucked up. I had glowed so much surrounded by my little hellspawns, my creatures... My paradise is dying in the arms of nobody. But, I couldn’t care when the blotters kicked in and helped my cerebrum in distorting so fucking shittily my face into some eldritch horror that passed the likes of werewolves mid-transformation and golems. I giggled manically at the twistings of my eyes into the hair and my ears into halo, my mouth stretched through the giggle was transmuted to the petrified image of a dog and a lady and what fucking not. Oh, I need my pen… Pen, pen, pen, pen,... pen!

The lad

I tried to write into the journal page I had kept open on the small settee of my bathroom that I had also made sure to drip some of my essence onto (not like that, pervs; the blood, I’m saying) but my mouth wouldn’t co-operate with my cerebellum or my cerebrum. The giggles just wouldn’t stop and they just got more and more distorted like guitars fitted into amps and amps and shredding. I fell back on the ground, it cushioned by my ass, and held my head in my arms, shaking my head as if to curate outside of my all the fogginess and to shake out of my trip. I wanted to write, write! Not whatever the fuck this was. My eyes were squeezed so hard, I was crying. And, I couldn’t fucking stop laughing like a shitshow.

“Oh, God, stop, stop, stop, just fucking stop…!” Hadn’t even realised I was sobbing but in that moment that epiphany hit me like a freight train (whatever the fuck a freight train is; I just picked up on the writing tool from whatever I read using this). My arm was still bleeding, smearing blood over my cheeks; my lip was still cut from my teeth, bleeding the smaller bits too; I was shaking like a fucking banyan leaf in the rainstorms of Wash.

• • •

Strangers.

5010 words.

July 6, 1981.

Aberdeen.

Washington.

[ Don’t talk to strangers, or you might fall in love ]

Even the isolation, deprave, and mesophilia of our fucked-up, Lacey, crazies hospital was better than this drenched, little town. What was better than any of those two fucking disasters, though, was my stance on the railway tracks. Sittin’ there like teke-teke, waitin’ for my gorgeous guts to be smashed over, destroyed, violated, clawed out by the grinders of the train. I’d never seen starry nights—the ladies at Lacey would never have enough testicles to let me watch a shooting star and hope that it crash into me, the fuckin’ meteorite. My years at Cawnpore already were quite less in number, and it eternally was too polluted for us to see something more than the dhruv star and a few other killers; I’d never seen starry nights. According to this astronomical magazine I picked up while the nurses took us out to the local stores of Lacey for us teenage girls to detoxify our battlefields for minds, today was a meteor shower and I was thoroughly intrigued by blazing space rocks in the skies, so I bluffed and fucked my way out of the hospital. My egg and sperm donors did not believe for a major nanosecond that I was cured. At two years of pained age, I was standing in the middle of the gray-like-me roads, conscious of the act; at four, I burnt my pierced earlobe on purpose, using the steam-fuelled iron to; at six, any blade I pranced upon would find it’s metallic way to scent the room in the aroma of my equally metally blood, I only wished for one to kiss those marks and draw about them, to be what the lyre was to Apollo; at eight, this curvy brain of mine finally snapped into her hemispheres and told me to fling my curvy body down the highest story of our hotel. At eight, my suppliers abandoned their Catholic mistake of a dolly into a mental hospital in my Americana birthplace, Lacey.

There, I morphed myself like the blesséd Phoenix, curse, profanity I am into The Mother. Mother Lace, Mother Nirvana, Messiah of thee, and the literary combo of Three. One of the only times I shall ever cherish are my years with those six girls… My girls: my loves, only ones who would ever succeed in enveloping me with so much heat that the outward exterior, the exoskeleton of middle fingers and catty hisses, melts into a puddle of rot beneath me and the inner delicacy of my wretched fragility and mortality is on display for all those mental fuckers to eat.

Needless to say…, I missed my bundle of little women, my packets of compressed, oppressed joy. So, I lay there longing with my arms stretched onward craving hiraeth in the Heavens—now that I look back, it never was hiraeth. I knew exactly what my home was: the browned mental hospital where I spent four formative years of my Jim Morrison's life in. I longed for the hug of my collected daughters, their soft digits brushing my hair as they softly inquired escape from the hellhole I promised to save them from. My girls... I loved them, like the mother they never received. I had promised, I had promised… I was a betrayer. What mother to those girls…

On instinct I experienced my hands reach to the crown of my head, relief coursing through my blood the moment a thorn stung me. Their entity had crafted for me a crown of thorns to relish me as their Lady and Saviour. I did feel blood seep from the pinch, but I stuck my finger between my lips and thrashed my tongue around, gazing at the dying glows of the starry night.

I pretended to be Jesus.

I am Judas, or am I?

I don’t even know what I’m writing. You’re hallucinating while interpreting strange symbols written left-to-right in lead and antimony compounds upon thin, delicate tablet-like structures made of tree sap, so I guess we two are never too far apart in our crazy.

Well, to them (my girls: Laine Jean Ray, Bonita Ana Dios, Aurora May-Belle Long, Theresa Midge Check, Verbena de Baïa Voisin, Margaret Sarah Check), I still remain Yeshua. Yet, I feel a wolf in lamb’s skin as myself; a panther in the throes of the night sky that I stare emptily, tearily, upon. I fake it so real, I am beyond fake (translation: you people are fucking dumb).

In my convulsing tubule of thoughts birthed by my cerebral quality, I failed in my life to notice movement, possibly a metre from me. I was laid over the railway track like a corpse, eyes empty yet body warm for no reason at all. It truly seems bizarre how the movement noticed me neither—maybe dissolved so much in the grief were they that they were as heady as me, as crazy as I! Trapped inside the fever dream of their own thoughts, vowed to never spit it out, bit tongues and summertimes spent in clawing bedsheets and clamping hands over the own lips so as to refrain from the awareness that might spread. That might say…: I am iron. I am usable, extremely so. Exploit me, as if you have not already. Though, I might have not warneth thou… I rot as vigorously as I am used, keep me out in the world and I will break down and become ash of myself. In the velvet night, a puff of air as a sigh crawled out of me, liquid dripping down the corneas of I, ruining not the night (this was to be, I planned to die today for fuck’s sake) but my precious mascara and eyeliner. Oh, how I worked on that lining to accentuate my inherited, unwanted, auto-appreciated felinity. I’d be the prettiest girl in the morgue.

Someday you will ache like I ache.

Anyhow, the shower from the atmosphere had concluded a few minutes prior. And, well, finally, the train I was waiting for to scramble and crumble my guts into nothing but wasted potential, like I already was, had arrived… Only, it arrived wrong. It ran over the steel beside me, beside us (counting in the movement I am). A severe monsoon bummer filled my chest, the void in my heart had been concealed tightly and packed with Lyssa, Eris, what not. I craved to screech at the tyrant Father for his sin, for his fucking disruptive mercy on me—I did not want mercy! I needed death to fuck me like his personal, unpaid, loyal servant-girl; I needed it violent! So, as soon as all registered in my voluminous cerebrum, I recoiled in my pose, resorting to the protection of a foetal position as I screamed out my sobs and muffled them by staining my shaved thighs with my lipstick and drool smelling of minty chew-gum that I chewed last minute, tears of brown-black from my mascara and liner, hitting my head against my knees and punching the bloody rails that I was once moonbathing over until I experienced my knuckles burn and bruise, actual slivers of blood peek through the skin. I continued then too, but was too passionate in my quiet wailing to keep up the aggression.

And, thence, I swiped my tears with my bleeding knuckles, unrealising in my little girl’s misery of the fact, and smeared blood over my eyes and mascara over my blood. By some distance, I could hear some twigs crunching, maybe it was the movement I hadn’t noticed beforehand. When I did notice in that current moment, fear struck my gut like Cupid’s arrow when I had seen Priscilla Presley for the first time in forever. Naturally, a response occurred within the fatty mass of electric muscle in my head and I recoiled within myself, burying my face in my knees that I had pulled to my tits, only my eyes blinking up like a defensing cat—if I had been a cat, my pupils would have shrunken to that reptilian, creepy glare. I saw that the thing was lighting a cigarette, my cravings relit alongside (the appearance of the thing was half-revealed in the dim spark).

Stupidly as I ever could be, I murmured from my coil, “Do you have a light?” However softly I did speak, the boy did hear because it was the death of the night in wherever we were, the railroad was as quiet as could be with the crickets around chirping and inaudible bats may or may not be sauntering about. Dim moonlight that I somedays worshipped (as a witch, I did) proved herself, and I saw him. The first predicament was that he’s cute: blond, ice eyes, hopeless swagger, shaky legs. He paused himself in his trek, and slowly but mildly clumsily, turned to see my form. Perhaps cold moonlight proved her importance to hallucinatory pages of dead sap’s inkéd words of feel-good love. Wow, fuck, I went overboard on there. So, he scrutinised me for a moment, squinting to gaze at me carefully.

I’ll never forget what came out of my future husband’s mouth the first time he spoke a single thing to me…: You look very pretty when you’re crying; tears suit you. I don’t think that I can emphasise the moan that was nearly to escape me at that very moment, it was a shockwave of whatever down my spine to my ladyness. My knees dropped to become flat, just legs, and I did acknowledge the gashes in my doll heart bleeding so vigorously, it matched my swallowed drool.

“You don’t mean that, you’re drunk.”

His honeyed voice, sort of scratchy as I observed he was pubescent and hormonal in his blue jeans, white striped shirt—walked into the room, you know you made my eyes burn!—and black-y jacket he kept open, pushed me to experience the yayo-type, giggly joy of his chuckle, he shook his head in amuséd denial of his drunkenness. He was poetic, he had a slur, he had his thin lips wrapped around a cigarette—shit, I needed them wrapped around mine… And, I loved it. Why the fuck was I enamoured? “You’re a hypocrite,” He paused for a moment, maintaining that smile. Two distinct holes, punctures in muscle, were noticed by thee truly, myself, at that very moment; I felt my ribcaged heart palpitate. “You’re bawling your eyes out here like Virgin Mary.”

“Oh, fuck me, that’s beautiful.” The moan that was slowly and gradually, steadily and irresistibly, mountaineering up my throat finally escaped in the form of this: *Oh, fuck me, that’s beautiful*. Which, I did mean—how could I not mean *this*? I’m not Lisa Rowe, you buzz (although I wish to be—have you not read the sheer charisma produced from the description Kaysen emits of her? She was definitely the prettiest girl in the morgue!).

Hands of his extended to mine, both, and I took them, shakingly wobbling from my psych-out. I felt drunk. As terror-inducin’ it seems, drugs had exhilarated me, no cock of a man who had money this nymphet had onlooked had been left out, I was such a La Lolita for my crazy desires—but I had never had a swig before. Smelling the booze off my falling, twisted guy as he pulled me up from my literal and mental death—I only knew that my heart was hitting at my sinews, she felt a depraved wanderlust. Some wanderlust it was to, like a man in a Prime Minister pose, mark that free, angel Earth mine with maybe a flag (a tattoo) or a hole (a lovebite), something, somewhat. I held onto his shoulders for both metaphorical and literal support, he held onto the curve of the lower back I possessed, though the fabric of his jackie didn’t benefit friction and he kept slipping his arm off accidentally because, one, he adorned too much weight on; two, the fabircs intermingled like our forms, the cheap satin and whatever the fuck his jacket was made of. “Why am I a hypocrite, though?” I finally asked this little blond dude what had been pestering me (I am not to blame for this worthy-of-disdain obsessiveness, I have Borderline Personality Disorder. I am Cool Girl: I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive) for how millennium long. His ocean eyes matched mine for a moment, and he seemed to think through for a momento before he permitted the giggle of a hyena break out of him: Because you’re pretty when you cry, and I’m not.

“Yes, you are.” No hesitation was laced through me, none of that unaware uncertainty that I usually experienced leaking through my tune when I comforted one of my girls—my girls...—and instead was there an ignorant stubbornness. I was always stubborn, but what the fuck? I, having registered in my still plush cerebrum that my crown of thorns (gifted to me by Laine specifically, although all the girls worked on it) had fallen like my Lucifer when I had risen, thence I bent to grab my status, injuring my already injured hand thus further as the thorns pierced and pricked into my skin. And, I didn’t even cry…

He recoiled almost physically at my olden compliment (remember the first dialogue of the previous paragraphed rambling?) and I was due a breakdown of my psyche in that very singular fraction of a minute when my man suddenly perked up, “I only have this cig,”, changing the subject. Yahweh, my knuckles burnt. I ohed a tiny bit, and chuckled, extending one of my quivering, weak limbs and bending to wrap my lipstickéd lips on the ass of that cigarette, same one he took a drag from not fifteen seconds ago. His Atlantic eyes widened for a twiddling momentous, and, possibly and probably in drunken stupor and marijuana heights of his death wish, he giggled—I physically felt my pupils dilate, what the fuck? Maybe it was the nicotine, maybe it was the aftershocks of my tiny-teeny mental breakdown on the rail, maybe it was hisself… Damn, I think I understood Grant so well in that miniscule moment: Heaven is a place on Earth with you.

The world was built for two.

Delusional, I was convinced that it was us two the moment he grabbed the cigarette from me for his chance, and he examined the matte, messy mark of my lip stamped on it.

With the dumbest smile he could muster in my damnéd opinion, this little, blond, territorial, underdeveloped man adjusted his lips on the exact place I had left my shine, suckling it like it was some part of me. He knew what he was doing, I could pluck it from the glitter in his pretty orbs that told me shit he’d never be able to spit out in our tragic, magic relationship of some thirteen years. We kissed in death like we kissed in that moment, he blew smoke into my mouth and I giggled, almost extracting the alcohol of his from the roof of his mouth as my tongue felt her way around. We parted for perhaps, well, a second (I don’t remember the details, I’m writing this after our wedding sex, 1988. We’re in our flight back to Olympia from Honolulu, and he’s sleeping on my tits), and rejoint as I adjusted the angle to kiss-fuck this virginal Cherub better. “Darling, is this your first?”, he nodded, responsive—to be frank, that was adorable...! I’m pretty sure I squeaked out of sheer kiddy excitement, squeezing the sides of his face (cheeks). My grip migrated to around his neck, form bent for he was teenier than I. I didn’t even know his name and we were kissing in the blue dark…

Parting, I only gazed into his oceanic gaze and breathlessly giggled, “Oh, wow, fuck,... That was…, yeah.” A grand total of seven partners (three females, four males) I had engaged in before this merman, and I had never felt myself stolen of breathe ever in my existence after a mere kiss. Possibly was it the intoxication, the nicotine fucking over my senses so that my taste buds tickled with the enriching experience of his glazed cavern, but was it not thrilling, oh Mary! I had enchanted outward the sweetest giggle, and he in his still stupor snuggled his head inside the curve of my shoulder and chest; he was only that much tall. I was not lanky in any aspect, neither I am still—on the flipside, truth is that my mother repeatedly insisted upon me to not drown in my head and force her to onlook, rather to go outside, soak some tan (I am racially brown, thence I don’t require a tan) and run some. I decline profusely, tangling in blankets again and writing what, if discovered, would have positively filed me into the South Sound Behavioral Hospital yet again for a term not of four years now but of God-knows-how-long.

Eventually, I figured: some other day, this nymph may or may not have only prolonged my life now, and I told myself it. By the railway roads were grasses uncared for (like most daughters were; the human was their mother and the stain’d, tall grasses were the lost), we decided unconsciously to sit by those and talk the dimlight of the night off the clouds, to dawn we conversed. As unbelievable as it may sound considering the turbulence not even Athena might have dreamt of that had plagued the twisty courses of my lifetime, I had not sipped upon the liver eater yet: alcohol! With my newfound darling, that was precisely what I did.

We were dwelling inside uncanny synchronisation with our acts: we looked around at the same time, fixated on the same piece of cement, reached to gasp one another’s hands the same moment. I didn’t flinch, neither did the blond darling. Which..., was quite, well, it was especially choking as I... Usually froze at contact of the physique from someone whom I loved. Around this time, with my drink-induced lover, it felt good.

We curled up by grass, against a gray boulder-like structure, perhaps a part of a rotten or demolished building of some sort, debris. There, I suckled upon the lengthy cancerstick and inquired like an owl: “Why were you here, anyway?” In a casual tone I did, as if it was something so normal that I was nonchalant. “Oh, y’know, to kill myself.” The answer delivered by this sweetness would dwelling in me a day or so afterward (take that very literally) was just as nonchalant, confirming the suspicion conjured by my despaired subconscious that he was just as heady as me, as crazy as me, someone who would rot along me like iron all the while fearing the rot, hiding from something murmuring within thyself and teetering about; aura as a nymphic call and melancholia as the default ring of the mood. GOD is a teenaged girl of grunge and glitter, and I am a doll (soulless, empty, pretty with no matter on the inside yet pretty from the back—it matched!).

“No, no, like, why?” I repeated with an accentuated tone and my regular gestures of hand and eye, “The reason you wanted to kill yourself. I don’t judge, promise.” I shrugged, chuckling a bit as I passed the miniature cancer to him for a drag. “Clearly.” He chuckled too, widening his eyes momentarily to allude to my appearance; as I remember it, that elicited out from me a little giggle. I mean, it was the factual; darling, not lying. A girl; a girl dressed in a pearly babydoll dress with lacy tights (opaque white-like, frilled, a bow on top of each, knee-high) and no footwear with mascara smeared down her face from a clear breakdown of her battlefield for mind, manic brown eyes with a grape-coloured lipstick on pouty heart-shaped lips, blood and dirt also staining her optic area due to her bleeding knuckles from which she punched the steel of the rails because the train did not run over her? Paired alongside the fresh wounds on display littered across that fatty arm of hers? Oh, she was a crazy chick—and I could tell that this little guy loved it. He loved my mania, he loved my blood, he loved my crazy, he loved everything that I loved about myself. Maybe it was his alcohol that urged him this way, but I loved him for he loved what he saw.

But is she pretty on the inside?

“Well,” I spaced back in with the thrill of his voice curling the air around us; I wish we were plunged into steel. Sound travels best in something like steel… What would his voice be in steel? The thought messaged down my spine a shiver. “’s mostly everything about my life. Wouldn’t say I’m addicted, but all I do these days is mope and get high, or drink. I’ve been this since last month. Last year, I saw this… This dead boy who hung himself in the woods. That really affected me, I think; I’ve got suicide genes.” He paused a bit, sighing as he was passed the smokestick again. I puckered up a bit and drew closer to his pretty face, rounding my lips out and pushing out a ring of cigarette smoke. On impulse, he stuck nose through the centre of the dissipating smoke ring which drew from me another giggle—he was just like me! I did that too! I’d never thought someone else would…? What the fuck is going on?

Taking a drag, he then resuméd: “My parents are divorced… I’m really embarrassed of that.” He added a bit hesitantly, I could gauge that he still felt the shame of it all; which perplexed me. A divorce is shameful? How so? It’s a fucking life decision… But, that’s okay because this little one was clearly less mature and emotionally developed than I, although that amount still was remarkable considering his physique and my presumé of his age (which I thought to be elder to me, but still not too much so). “Why?”

“I want my real family back. My dad promised me he wouldn’t remarry, and he fucking did; to a bitch nonetheless. I hate her and her children are so… Phoney…!” Humming at his hurt words, I was analysing him: eyes gliding over the pasty, smooth contours of his vanilla face; staring into the trench of his pupils surrounded by his ocean eyes as he passed back the almost dead cigarette to me. The guard he wore over his exterior again was forming as he read that I was reading him without contempt (he thought I was feeling that, but I was simply analysing him emotionlessly—as if he was a labrat and I was dissecting him to figure out the following: what the fuck is this little shit?). But, I got him before he leaned away or apologised: Don’t worry, go on. Say it. I hate my cousins too. He relaxed yet again, I could see his shoulders come down and he leaned into me again,. Our heads were almost leaning against each other’s, breathes intermixing with each intake and out. “Go on.” I repeated, tapping his knee to accentuate my point.

He snapped out of whatever daze (he was reading me too, perhaps; mentally dissecting my Barbie body too, perhaps) and his hand came to clasp mine. I bit back a giggle and a smile at the contact, he did notice the corner of my lips tilt upward so he took that as a positive for further lacing of his fingers with mine. I, now a bit assured in myself, squeezed his hand and nudged him again: go on.

“Right,” He chuckled, “So, well, I just feel… Alien. You know, when I was little, I used to look at the stars,” He pointed briefly to the stars that were shining above the both of us, “And imagine my real family because I just felt like I wasn’t from here, like I was from another planet. I think I like that feeling, I was homesick for a place that didn’t even exist. And, to be honest, you’re the only other alien I’ve met.” That made me giggle after I muttered hiraeth at the sentence spoken second to the last. I found in my nicotined mindscape that this… Theory, was almost verbatim of a theory I myself had gardened in my meadow for mind. “Y’know…! I felt like that too, still do actually. I just used different terms for it. I called whatever the fuck our species are Earth Angels, angels on Earth. I read somewhere once that a person with scars of cuts on their arms was called an angel by a kid, and I think I really internalised… That.”

He chuckled, “Your mind is divine, Pretty. Yeah, I think my family is also a reason in why… I want to kill myself, y’know?”

“Oh, absolutely. I love them so much so I do what they want and they hate me for every speck of originality; I don’t know if it’s my mental disorders or it’s my hormones, but every small inconvenience makes me wanna kill myself. I’m also a hater! I hate everything and I do nothing to change it which, admittedly, makes me an arsehole—but, fuck it.” We both had laughter crawling up our throats and I could tell it wasn’t actual laughter. Oh, no. It was mania, laughing not because it threatened to spill; laughing because you had nothing else to do. Like crazy people (I do think that I am insane, in some way, shape or form. But, I also think that I’m supersane. Who fucking knows? I think a lot, don’t I?).

The cigarette had gone out by now, I think I had stubbed it out by pressing to the moist ground after he had truly started opening the shells of himself, not wishing to be distracted by drugs when I had the most addictive and healthy sedative offering his lifestory to a little shit like me. “Well, what’s it for you? I haven’t ever seen… You around…” He slurred out as we jumped down from our maniacal, little, episodic bursts of sacrilege or insanity… Well, are they not synonyms?

“Ah, so, I just moved here about a… Maybe a few days ago? I think a week or so. I moved from Lacey, though I’m actually Indian. Well… It’s a fucked-up fairytale, really. My whole ancestry and family is the following: sexist, racist, extremist to Sikhism, religious, doomed, homophobic, transphobic, Islamophobic, very, very Indian. It’s only my grandmother who acknowledges the sexism floating between our family; she dreamt high and was ambition incarnate but her marriage to this horrible fucking man led her to be so oppressed she couldn't speak a word of English without being thoroughly taunted for it.” His face clearly contorted into a gnarly grimace, and I felt my nose start to itch and burn again remembering all this up… Never had I ever trauma-puked this well or been so comfortable vomiting it out to someone I did not know.

“’s just… Fuckin’ Hell. I can’t translate it into words, I can only feel.” Shaking my head in a paternal sort of disappointment (no matter how much I despise the fact, I am my father’s daughter; his copy of carbon) at my inability, I felt myself pulled in again… How? How was he doing this shit? Being so fucking kind? It made me anxious, admittedly. Why was he so kind? What did the fucker want?

I’m being too cynical. I wanted to cry; instead I accepted his tentative comfort and shoved my face into the nook of his neck, breathing down it like a vampire in the night. I had the purely feminine, feline urge to wrap myself around him like Sarin and never let go to slowly dissolve into him even if maggots eat us out. Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why…? For a few minutes I think, we stayed in that exact position, in a sort of silence that neutered my turmoil. His arms were gel onto my wounds, and I, terrified, readily crept in like the Dutch beetle on the elm.

“Don’t.” I eventually muttered out into the tender, pale, untouched flesh of temptation on his neck; I don’t know why I did it, don’t decipher or discover the root at all. What is a girl to do when offered love on a silver spoon when she only possesses a forked tongue of venom caused from licking slivers of love off a parental knife? I was a black, not racially but spiritually. I was corrupt, disgust, free-use trash for swollen cocks with zero semblance of any soul and only a pretty body. It’s my pretty power which is my ugly. I am disgusting… I sometimes feel the scorching need to cleanse myself, to face redemption, to hurry to salvation; and other days I revel in the hellfire of lust that would surround me once I am liberated of this uséd body.

[walder-138]

Questions for Annika, Jack, & Oswald:

What's this oc's biggest fear?

What's this oc's mental health state?

What's your favorite thing about this oc?

How does this oc feel about physical affection?

How does this oc get along with people they just met?

VICE!!!!! WHADDUP GIRL!!!! TYSM FOR THE ASK!!!!!

1) What’s this oc’s biggest fear?

Annika: People. Not in a social anxiety typa way (scared of judgement etc), but of what they are capable of. Annika has been exposed to human cruelty from a young age, growing up as a child soldier in a terrorist organization convinced her that every single person around her wanted to hurt her.

Over the years, her fear manifested into hate for humanity. It was never real hate, but ‘hate’ was the only label she could put on it without feeling like a coward. Fear is weak, Anya. Fear is weak. Hate and anger protected her; who wants to pet a rabid dog?

Jack: His scientific ‘research’ being exposed to the public. Jack is incapable of fear or anxiety; he’s a textbook sociopath, but he really doesn’t wanna stop performing his research and experiments (he worked on MK Ultra since he became a doctor) Seeing it flourish due to his involvement has been his greatest achievement, that being taken away from him would tear him apart.

Oz: Losing his daughter, Jenny. I’ve said this before and I’ll say this again; she’s the reason why he got off drugs following Vietnam and stopped being a verbally abusive misogynist to almost every single woman in his life. Oz knows that if he lost her, he’d most likely have a pretty bad relapse and fall back into his old bad habits.

2) What’s this OC’s mental health state?

Annika: Take a wild guess.

Jack: He’s balling honestly 😭 With everything that happened with Bell being a complete success, (assuming Annika isn’t Bell; she detonates the nukes) he basically saw his top project take off. Sure, the dumbasses in the safehouse didn’t listen to him about keeping Bell under that trance or whatever, but he can always start again; make another one.

Bro’s walking on sunshine!

In reality, Jack can’t feel anything. All of his emotions are fabricated. There could be a spark; of hope, or pity, or amusement, or some kinda love, but it’s never enough. He’s almost completely numb. He hates it sometimes, but Jack can’t miss what he’s never had.

Now about the state of his actual brain… uh ask Abbey about that. She fed him the curb

Oz: Shitty. He is constantly haunted by visions from his past. He can barely sleep at night without seeing his men -his sons- dead around him. The heroin, the morphine, and the LSD were the only things keeping him from having to see their mangled bodies scattered every time he blinked. Rehab helped him get over his addiction, but he hated talking to those damn prissy ass shrinks. But now that Jenny’s around, he can’t be high all the damn time, so Oz has to deal with it without any assistance from anyone but his ex.

He’s stressed, and he thinks he can’t do it anymore, but he wakes up every morning and does.

3) What’s your favorite thing about this OC?

Annika: How far her development’s come along. I based her off me when I play video games (I rage a lot 😭) and had to think about how, realistically, someone with an erratic fighting style would come to develop it. Since I die a lot, I figured Annika wouldn’t have any formal military training except by the terrorist organization she was raised in. I really wanted to make her a reflection of my video game playing style, and I’m happy to say that she does. Just with more depth now.

Jack: He’s not far along in his development process, so this will most likely change but so far, it’s how two-faced he is. When you talk to Jack, he genuinely seems like a nice guy that you’d wanna crack a couple cold ones with on a nice, hot day, while all of his ‘patients’ are horrified of him. Dudebro’s the reason Abbey doesn’t like British people 😭

Oz: I’ve got two things. How real he is. I’ll admit; a lot of my ocs are over exaggerated, but at least in my opinion, he’s the most realistic. I’ve made a post going slightly more into depth about this a while back. The other thing is that Oz is somehow my 2nd most morally stable character after all the shit he’s done 😭😭😭

4) What does this OC feel about physical affection?

Annika: She yearns for it. Annika’s never felt the loving touch of any individual that wouldn’t later be used to hurt her. Now, I’m not saying it’s a smart idea to abruptly give her a hug, unless you wanna pull back a bloody stump or you’re her girlfriend, as that scares her, tying back to her fear of people.

Jack: He doesn’t particularly care for it one way or another. Jack might tuck someone’s hair behind their ears if he’s being patronizing, or pat them on the shoulder to reassure them, he doesn’t really get anything from it. He won’t provide any physical contact if it doesn’t benefit him, unless it’s with his partner. Everyone else, even Jack’s own kids, can go to hell.

Oz: Oz is touched starved. At this point, he’d take any form of physical contact from anyone. The problem is, he doesn’t feel like he deserves it, so he recoils from it at every opportunity it’s shown. He says it’s unmanly, but if a woman even patted him on the cheek, bro’s getting a bit excited 🤭

5) How does this OC get along with people they just met?

Annika: Not well. Annika already hates the people she actually knows, introducing her to a person she doesn’t know will ensure hostility. Unless you’re going on a mission with her, she doesn’t want to know anything about you. She doesn’t want to know what you think about the weather. Her life wouldn’t be impacted if you lived or died, and she wants you to know it 😭If she can, Annika would just walk away after the initial greeting.

Jack: He’s the opposite of Annika, at least on the outside. He introduces himself, shakes your hand, and offers to take your coat. Very gentlemanly, especially to women and children. He presents himself as a genuine caring and kind man, giving gifts and offering to listen/help anyone around him. So whenever people (Abbey) accuse him of doing something, everyone tends to be like “Not Jack! He helped me sort through my divorce!” even if they barely know him, cause Jack’s just so damn polite.

Oz: Oz is extremely awkward. Most of the times when he’s meeting someone for the first time he just kinda stands there like🧍‍♂️waiting for his friend to finish talking so he can go watch the Patriots game. He isn’t rude about it though; he’ll smile and wave but he isn’t too good at small talk. Only when he starts to open up more will he start being the asshole we all know and love.

[dead-boys-club]

You characterize everyone really great! Except Touya don't you think you write him a little too expressive? it just doesn't seem very fitting.

I'm not sure if I should say thank you or...

So, I'm not going to do what I did with Hawks and write you a whole book ( i lied ) on why I write Toya the way I do. However, I'll give a little piece:

Dabi was a mysterious, sarcastic jackass. Dabi was a cover. A persona. He didn't exist. He was built to mask intentions until Toya got where he needed and wanted to be. It's very simple.

Toya, on the other hand, in case no one's noticed is very emotional, very expressive and talks waaay too fucking much. I mean, we spent like 7 pages with him monologuing. He's not.. some emotionless, dead inside jerk and I also refuse to write him as some overly sexualized nympho - it's kind of tiring seeing all these characters reduced to nothing but sex and bad clichés. I mean - he's a super traumatized, unstable dude with a mental issue here and there, who actually enjoyed hurting people, but he's not a sociopath. However, he's also not in denial about a single thing. He knows what he went through, he knows what he's doing, he knows he's a little unhinged.

However - you're talking about a kid who basically just wanted attention and approval, who wanted his dad to be proud of him. Lmao, I hate to break it to you anon, but half the people I know, including myself, are very familiar with this kind of situation and the trauma of it. ( if you feel the need to come at me for the burning alive part, you can take your smart-ass right to the block button and not waste my time. )

I really, really hate that I have to keep repeating myself about these characters actually having depth and being more complex than you give them credit for.

Do you even understand what its like to be a deeply traumatized person, who sought those things and ended up so fucking disappointed that you became someone else? That you stopped trusting, stopped loving - you just kinda broke? The scenarios and reactions I've written for him with a partner convey someone who finally found someone else that isn't pushing him away, isn't screaming at it and is accepting how he wants to deal with things. And I've also made it clear in my writings of him that it confuses the shit out if him and he doesn't just accept that someone loves him and is proud of him... because how the hell is he supposed to know how to react to something he's never had? I didn't just.. make him into a character that changed over night and is good and happy, etc etc. No. Because I know better and I'm not going to shit on a character with complexities stemming from trauma and mental disorders.

As someone with a handful of mental problems, trauma out of the ass, that relates to this character on a pretty scary level - I refuse to write him on the surface of what Dabi was supposed to portray. I will continue to write Toya the way I always have and if you don't like it, that's perfectly fine. I'm not asking you to like it or change your OPINION, because that's what it is, but you will not come onto my page and tell me it's wrong. Lmfao.

I'm sorry that you want some shitty, second hand surface level Dabi writing that I refuse to give. 🤷🏻‍♀️ Hopefully you find another writer who will do that for you.

( Let me clarify: I am 100% shitting on how this opinion was brought to me. I'm not shitting on people that write him that way, not everyone spends 179395 hours in a fixation obsession over a character; I do. Write how you want. Write how it makes you happy. But don't go to people and talk to them like this.)

You could have easily written something like 'you characterize everyone really great but I don't agree with toya. can i ask why you characterize him like this?' Literally could've just asked. Not 'oh this is great except this one this one is wrong'.

If it doesn't seem fitting to you, that's okay. Then my writing isn't your taste. Go find someone else you enjoy?

[eddiemunsonmash]

part two: Baby You’re a Haunted House

summary: In the summer of 1985, your life is turned upside down when your family moves into the newly renovated Creel House in Hawkins, Indiana.

warnings: foul language, drug use (the devil’s lettuce), mentions of parental death, and, as always, mentions of Satan, cults, etc. | WC: 2138

Eddie didn’t care to absorb any of Mrs. Jenkins's lessons; instead, he found himself unabashedly staring at you from a few rows away.

As the bell rang, Eddie nearly stumbled over his own feet in his eagerness to close the distance between him and you. Having not spoken to you since your meeting in the attic, he was eager to have another encounter with you. You turned, a playful smirk dancing on your lips.

“You weren’t listening to a word she said, were you?” You asked, arching an eyebrow in mock disapproval.

“Nope.” Eddie flashed a goofy grin, his heart racing as you shook your head, a reluctant smile creeping onto your face.

“You cheering tonight?” He gestured toward your cheerleading uniform, watching as you seemed to fold inward, your expression a mix of annoyance and amusement.

“No,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “I just love looking like a busted Sprite can.”

Eddie laughed, weaving through the sea of students in the hallway, never breaking eye contact with you.

“I take it you’re not a fan of the uniform?” He asked as you pushed through the double doors, stepping into the refreshing embrace of the outside air.

“I did gymnastics for years, but Hawkins High doesn’t offer that, so here I am,” you shrugged, a hint of resignation in your tone. “Plus, cheerleading makes colleges think I’m friendly and outgoing.”

“Which is a total lie, isn’t it?” Eddie teased, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Yep,” you nodded, your laughter ringing like a bell as the both of you made your way toward the parking lot.

Riley bounded alongside you, reaching the passenger door of your car before pivoting to face Eddie. “You coming tonight?”

“Me?” Eddie pointed to his chest with exaggerated disbelief. “At a football game?”

Riley nodded eagerly.

“That’s the deal,” you chimed in, leaning against the driver’s side door with a mischievous grin. “I support Hellfire in my space, and Riley becomes the cheerleader’s cheerleader.” You shot a playful smile at your brother, who rolled his eyes in feigned exasperation.

Eddie discovered that the deal was a bit more nuanced than he’d anticipated, munching on concession stand popcorn with his hood pulled up, frizzy curls sticking out like a wild halo. Beside him, Riley stood by the concrete bleachers, his expression serious.

“Our mom works the night shift,” Riley explained, his voice earnest. “Honestly, I’d feel bad if no one was here to cheer her on.” There was a depth to his caring nature that surpassed that of a typical fifteen-year-old.

“Isn’t that a little redundant?” Eddie shot back, raising an eyebrow. “Cheering for a cheerleader?”

“‘Redundant’ is a big word for someone who rarely shows up to English class,” Riley teased, just as the band struck up Hawkins’ fight song, the sound reverberating through the crisp evening air.

In a dazzling swirl of yellow, white, and green, you and the rest of the squad cartwheeled and backflipped your way onto the field. Eddie watched intently, captivated by how effortlessly you turned on the charm, smiling and chanting as you pom-pommed your way up and down the sideline until halftime.

“This is ass,” you huffed as you sauntered over to them, snagging an unopened water bottle from your brother.

“Gymnastics was so much quieter and less sociopathic,” you added, chugging half the bottle in one go, your breath coming in quick bursts.

“Please, do not stay and watch this,” you urged, rolling your eyes. “I see now why it’s considered a form of torture.”

Eddie snorted, and Riley looked almost relieved at your words.

“I’ll see you at home then,” Riley waved, heading off toward where he had tossed his bike somewhere near the tree line.

“You staying for the torture?” You asked, a playful glint in your eyes as you turned back to Eddie.

“I am a sucker for pain,” he admitted, placing a hand dramatically over his heart, a grin spreading across his face.

_____________________________________________________

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” You said, striding up to Eddie, who was still rooted in the same spot where you had left him at halftime. The game had wrapped up nearly an hour ago, ending in a triumphant victory for Hawkins. You had quickly ditched your cheerleading uniform, emerging from the locker room in cozy sweats and a fitted tank top, your wet hair elegantly braided into two dutch braids.

Eddie glanced around the nearly deserted football field, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “What makes you think I was waiting for you?” he teased. “I’m actually here waiting for my friend, the, uh, quarterback.”

You hummed thoughtfully, a grin breaking across your face. “Right, of course. My mistake.”

As you walked together, the field lights flickered off, and the last few stragglers made their way toward the exit, the echoes of laughter fading into the night.

“They really shut the place down quickly, don’t they?” You observed, your brow raised.

Eddie stuffed his hands in his pockets, nodding. “If Hawkins wins, it’s like a stampede. They all rush out to Lover’s Lake for a massive bonfire—beer fest at one of the player’s parents’ lake house.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “That would explain why I was quite literally the last one left in the locker room.”

“They didn’t invite you?” Eddie asked, genuine curiosity glimmering in his eyes.

You sighed, your expression turning contemplative. “I’m only on the team because Veronica Miller broke her leg right before school started. The cheerleading coach reached out when she heard I was looking for a gymnastics studio in town. The girls are friendly enough, but I think they can tell my heart’s not in this, and honestly, I couldn’t care less.”

“Well, since you couldn’t care less and neither of us were invited to the bonfire…” Eddie grinned as he pulled a joint from his breast pocket. “How about we smoke this right here on the football field to celebrate your first night as a mindless, zombie cheerleader?”

You burst into laughter, the sound bright against the quiet night. “Do you just pull joints out of thin air?”

Eddie chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Would you still smoke it if I said yes?”

“Honestly,” you sighed, a playful glint in your eye as you nodded, “I absolutely would.”

You sank to the ground, letting your duffle bag slide off your shoulder with a soft thud. Eddie settled beside you. You laid back, crossing your ankles and lacing your fingers across your stomach. Eddie mirrored your pose, both gazing up at the star-studded August sky.

Your voice cut through the quiet. "Seriously, thanks for staying."

Eddie turned his head, catching you still fixated on the heavens. "Your brother mentioned your mom works nights. Said she can't really support after-school stuff."

A snort escaped you. "Some people choose those hours to dodge things like this. Riley's got a bleeding heart. Always trying to compensate for everyone else's shortcomings."

You rolled onto your side, meeting Eddie's gaze. "But that's a story for another time."

"Is it?" Eddie chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Because I've got nowhere to be and plenty of weed."

Your eyes sparkled with mischief as you leaned closer, a teasing grin spreading across your face. "So, you want to hang out with a member of the satanic cultist family that’s trying to open a portal to hell in the murder house?"

Eddie chuckled, shaking his head. “You want to hang out with the town freak willingly?” His laughter was dry, laced with self-deprecation.

“You’re not a freak,” you replied with a sigh, your tone firm. “It’s this backwards-ass town and their backwards way of thinking.” You crossed your arms defiantly. “In Indy, you’d fit right in. You’re just in the wrong place.”

Eddie pondered your words, his mind drifting to the life you must have left behind. He imagined the bustling streets of Indianapolis, the vibrant energy, and how starkly different it must feel compared to the sleepy, judgmental aura of Hawkins.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” you continued, your voice steady, “people can be dicks everywhere. But in a city that big, no one cares how you look or what kind of music you’re into.”

He watched as you sat up, crossing your legs, and quickly mirrored your stance.

“So, why’d you guys leave?” Eddie asked, curiosity piqued.

A heavy sigh escaped your lips. “My dad died, and my mom got this huge life insurance check. She’s from Hawkins originally and wanted to move back. She snagged the murder house for a steal and has these big plans to turn it into a bed and breakfast.”

“A portal to hell and a bed and breakfast?” Eddie raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

“Aren’t they one and the same?” You shot back, laughter bubbling up as you nudged him playfully.

“I had no clue about its history until two days before we moved,” you confessed, your voice dropping to a whisper. “I literally refused to leave. I tried to stay with my aunt; I unpacked all my boxes and stood my ground.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t work out, considering you’re here with me,” Eddie pointed out, watching as you plucked at the tufts of turf grass beneath you, your fingers absentmindedly tugging at the green blades.

“My mom repacked them while I was sleeping and really gave me no choice,” you shrugged, a hint of exasperation in your voice. “Plus, Riley and I stick together.”

Eddie's smile morphed into a mischievous smirk as he sat up, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Well, let me formally welcome you to Hawkins," he drawled, holding out the joint like an offering.

You leaned in, the joint nestled between you lips. The flame from Eddie's lighter danced, casting flickering shadows across your faces as you inhaled.

"Sometimes," you began, your voice taking on an airy, almost sing-song quality as you held in the smoke, "I lie on the floor and pretend to be a dead body." You exhaled, sending a plume of smoke swirling above Eddie's head. "Just to be an asshole and remind my mom that she moved us into a literal crime scene."

Eddie snorted, accepting the joint back. "You're sick and twisted," he said, his tone a mix of admiration and disbelief.

Your laughter bubbled up from deep in your belly, genuine and infectious.

"You know," you admitted, your voice softening, "I was happy to see you in English class that first day. Happy to see someone real, not some cookie-cutter version of a person from a Sears catalog.”

“And I’m glad you waited for me tonight.” You admitted quietly. “It’s nice to have someone on my level to talk to.”

Eddie let the words settle, savoring them like the smoke in his lungs. Of all the things he'd been called, 'normal' had never made the list. Your confession made him feel almost vulnerable, and he wasn’t sure if he was feeling the vulnerability wafting off of you or a form of his own softness trying to seep out.

"I think your idea of normal is a little... off," he said, his eyes comically wide as he emphasized the word 'off'.

"Maybe you're right," you shrugged, accepting the joint. You took a long, thoughtful drag before continuing. "But at least you're brave enough to be yourself."

Your gaze grew distant, unfocused. "I've found myself turning into a chameleon since moving here," you confessed. "Keeping to myself, not letting anyone close enough to figure out that maybe I'm a freak too." Your eyes widened briefly, mirroring Eddie's earlier expression. "Though, moving into a murder house hasn't exactly helped my reputation. Wearing a stupid uniform and yelling in riddles has at least kept the pitchforks at bay."

You locked eyes as you passed the joint back, a silent understanding passing between the two of you.

The joint flickered, more paper than herb now. With a casual flick, Eddie tossed it behind him. The absurdity of the gesture broke through the moment, and your laughter rang out, Eddie's own chuckles joining in harmony.

His laugh echoed in the empty field as he stood, extending his hand to you. "Let's get the zombie cheerleader home before she starts eating my brain," he teased, pulling you to your feet.

Your eyes glinted with humor. "I don't think I'd eat your brain," you quipped as the two of you ambled towards the parking lot. "There's not much in it, so I can't imagine it would be very filling."

Eddie clutched his chest in mock offense before dissolving into laughter alongside you.

As you hung off the driver's side door, you glanced at Eddie, a hint of hope in your voice. "I guess I'll see you Monday?"

"Yeah," Eddie smiled, his eyes soft in the dim light. "Monday."

[queen-diamond-serenity]

no I'm not the type that think everything is narcissism

But you're not going to sit up there and sugar coat and make excuses for narcissist either. I've came across a lot of narcissistic apologist and I'm telling you right now you are an enabler for these people. That is what narcissist Thrive off of praise and people kissing their ass you are fuel for them you are their crack. I don't feel like everybody should always have the room or freedom to have an opinion on everything just because they feel entitled to open their mouths. I don't feel like every subject should be open for everyone to discuss. Until you walk the mile and their abuser shoes you shouldn't be opening your mouth on what narcissism is. Most people think they know a narcissism is and you really don't. I am a spiritual woman and I have seen the demons in them people. They are sociopaths and they are incapable of love. Rather it was man or woman I suffered under narcissistic abuse when it came to both genders. So when you hear me speaking on narcissism understand I don't make everything about narcissism but I will point out what narcissism is. Just because you see me talking about narcissism and the hell they put their victims through doesn't automatically mean I'm making everything about narcissism. Thought I might clear that up have the block a few idiots who came at me. I wouldn't trust a person who takes up for narcissist anyway. You trying to blanket them and romanticize them and treating them like this some type of victim is dangerous. Narcissism is not a mental illness narcissists are evil. They're just pure evil people. But I don't think their apologists are ready for that conversation. On top of that I'm pretty sure some of the people who are apologists are narcissists themselves one thing a narcissist hate is being exposed. So I'm not surprised they're starting to come out to do damage control. You know when I was a part of the new age Community we often spoke about narcissist. And when I was doing tarot cards with my friends I remember things concerning narcissists popping out in those readings that will start taking root and that is how they would start cleverly coming out looking like their victims starting the cloak and blanket themselves because social media has exposed them so they're trying to find other ways around being exposed now they have taken root into trying to look like the victims and trying to use childhood traumas that they may have suffered under probably never have some of them don't you come to find that a lot of narcissists had good child upbringing had everything they wanted growing up so on and so forth. Not every villain was made one some villains truly are born that way. But yes when I was a part of the new age Community we've been picked up that they would be doing this shit. Trying to switch the narrative on what narcissism really is lol. I see right through you.

[wendytestabrat]

why kyle is a textbook covert narcissist (FROM THE VAULT [2021])

I’ve explained this before, I think Kyle is a textbook covert narcissist and this episode and this scene right here pretty much gives it away. I love how Kyle’s definition of doing the “right” thing means getting everyone to like them again. But this is how Kyle has always been, he never actually does anything good that’s nice and helpful to anyone he just wants to make people THINK he’s a good person doing the right thing. He gets a kick out of being a martyr and shit bc it feeds his ego and it’s more of a status symbol for him to do the right thing. Bc when a genuinely nice person wants to do a nice thing and help someone they just do it and they don’t need to brag about how amazing and altruistic they are for it DHSJJSJSKS. But Kyle isn’t like that, he clearly cares too much about what everyone thinks which is why he was sooooo fucking upset when people were blaming him too for the period joke, and a big reason why Kyle likes to shit on Cartman but he makes sure to shit on Cartman IN FRONT OF OTHER PEOPLE, it to make himself look like the better person in comparison. So that’s why all Kyle cared about in this episode was trying to get everyone to like him again and get on people’s good side. If Kyle was a genuinely good person who cares and does the “right” thing he wouldn’t have been all pissy and yelling at Stan & Cartman throughout this entire episode to get his way, that’s not what a good person does RJDJJSSJ. I just really want to bring awareness to this bc I think covert narcissism is such a huge issue that pisses me off and it really flies under the radar, and Kyle is the perfect example of a bunch of people like that we see in our lives. There are soooo many manipulative ass people who trick us into thinking they’re good people who wanna do the right thing but they’re really not and then they just hurt and betray us, and I guess that’s part of the reason why I rant about Kyle sm and it makes me sooo mad when people defend him and say he’s a good person when he’s not dhsjsjs. All of these SJWs and snowflakes on the internet getting everything cancelled and complaining on social media are total covert narcissists with the same kind of mentality where they think they’re just innocent victims trying to do what’s right for the world but they’re really just shitty assholes who are causing more harm than good. This kind of behavior is NOT okay. It’s NEVER okay to spew more hate into the world under any circumstance. That shit don’t fly with me! And we need to watch out for these kinds of people bc they can end up hurting us and tricking us even more than what we typically think a narcissist or sociopath to be. Watch out for people who play the victim card, who are a constant stream of negativity, talk shit behind your back, get literally jealous of anyone, and they say shit that doesn’t match their actions to make you think they’re an angel but they’re really just a sad loser. Believe me there are A LOT of Kyles out there.

[blistering-typhoons]

BBC SHERLOCK REWATCH - A STUDY IN PINK (REAL TIME NOTES)

From the perspective of someone who watched this show when they were thirteen, made it their whole personality and then stopped being a massive prat.

I thought about organizing this into a cohesive review, and maybe as I go on I'll delve deeper into some of my observations but for now I thought it would be funny to present my findings in raw, mostly unaltered form:

- loud ass opening, my god

- only bit of acting Martin freeman ever does lmao

- dances along to theme against my will

- god the effects and transitions are so shit

- all the shots of the pills are so ugly

- oh yay molly - whoo - yayyy

- the potential withe these two goddamn

- also this sherlock does not drink his respect women juice by god

- fucksake the deduction about john's sister- not only is it translated awfully into this modern setting, it's explicitly a deduction Sherlock is supposed to make once they know eachother a bit better

- THE POTENTIAL

- also sherlock displaying one insecurity when john accidentally insults his stuff- well done moftiss, characterization

- How far away is the crime scene, why it dark

- pls the transitions

- PIPE BOMB, WHOO Phone deductionnnn

- oh my god it's so shit

- uuuuuuuugggghhhh the potential I hate this shooooow

- fuckin deduction as a way for witty one liners and sexism, i hate this place

- 'you were thinking it's annoying' i'm going to send myself off a cliff, CRINGE

- RACHE- moffat, come here a sec- literally putting ACD on par with the police, who are always wrong the sheer audacity- also just a bad change

- these lens flare white lights are so goofy please, you will never be a whole scene of silence with jeremy brett

- benedict cumberbatch is very pretty i will grant

- terrorized by the fact i used to quote this show unironically

- from a writing point of view I understand that John gushing over Sherlock is to show off and emphasize their specialest boy- but, some sincerity is infused into it from an acting standpoint

- 30:02 GIRLIE WHAT IS THAT SOUND EFFECT

- OOH YAY THE PSYCHOPATH/SOCIOPATH STUFF WHOO YEAAAAH

- All the phones calling as john walks past is kinda cool but mostly stupid

- oh anthea, what a rich character lmao

- how long was mycroft posed like that

- First johnlock queerbait whooo

- Where does he fuck off to???

- he just vanishes lmaoooo

- Three patch problem. Bruh.

- I am bored as shit, help

- This music- girl

- Bloated is a very good word to describe some of these scenes

- HERE SHE IS- THE BIG DADDY OF QUEERBAITING

- this scene is insane fucKING INSANE I HATE THIS SHOW

- god how much episode is left fucksake

- the stop/go signs- pick a tone girl

- this episode is so almost good and it's anytime Sherlock makes a mistake lmao

- not the drugs bust :/

- ooh sociopath line- whoo

- "I don't have to [imagine]." OOOH OKAY, WELL, YOU GUYS GET *ONE* POINT FOR THAT SHEESH

- this is so ridiculous- COME WITH ME- girl shut up

- I wanna be done I wanna be doooone.

- lamenting the confrontation we had in the unaired pilot

- The 'Frwhoomp' noise as the light goes out, girl

- 20 Minutes left my christ

- BRO- I forgot that bit of ADR wooooof

- and thus begins the scree of Moriarty

- five years, why is Scotland Yard still doubtful of Sherlock's skills? I know he might have been deep in his addiction during some of that, but they evidently kept him around for crime solving.

- Great man/good man quote has me fumin babes, my god, what a fundamental misunderstanding of Sherlock Holmes

- boring ass back and forth

- this piano is giving me war flashbacks

- is it a five orange pips reference?

- also the pills look like that speckled gum that burns your throat

- when is it oveeer

- falling asleep

- bomb under the table but the table is made of glass and hates gay people

- she tooks the kidssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

- 13 min

- love, or rage, dude, come on Sherlock

- i hate this 'enjoying crime too much' theme they've written

- like watching a stupid play

- once more, the potential

- moriarty he said calmly

- also, so out of character for Sherlock do I even need to say

- peaks of what could have been- FUCK

- this mycroft fake out- lord

- also, mummy, fucksake

- cheesy ending BUT IT'S OVER

[blodgmonster]

Part 3 of my EoS ToD tandem reread commentary. Getting to the end of both books so it should be less of a slog now.

-- Yrene pushing Hasar into the pool. Priceless.

-- "I loved you before I ever set eyes on you." SARTAQ!!!!! God, men written by women are just so much better than the real thing.

"' We wait for the Queen of the Valg,' the spider purred, rubbing against the carving. 'Who in this world calls herself Maeve." The fucking SHOCK when I read that the first time. God damn.

-- "' You once asked me where I stand on the line between killing to protect and killing for pleasure.' His fingers grazed the seam of the scar across her abdomen. 'I'll stand on the other side of that line when I find your grandmother.'" DORIAN!!!! FUCK YEAH!

-- Gah, I'm getting confused on what chapters from which book I'm supposed to be reading in which order. And I'm like 85% of the way through both of them.

-- I was right. The Eye is the Lock

-- Hey, Nehemia....

-- It's so funny that all this time Elena has been portrayed as wise and serene. And then we find out she was reckless and short sighted and stupid.

-- "Everything he had done, Aelin had come to rip it apart. Starting with his honor." You did that all by yourself, Chaol. God, get OVER it, you Criston Cole ass bitch.

-- "He only looked toward the dark and smiled. Not broken. Made anew. And when the darkness beheld him...Chaol slid a hand against its cheek. Kissed its brow. It loosened its grip and tumbled back into that pit. Curled up on that rocky floor and quietly, carefully, watched him." What a lovely metaphor.

-- Hell yeah, House Whitethorn

-- Last 100 pages of EoS. Here we fucking go.

-- ABRAXOS AND THE THIRTEEN ARRIVING IN THE NICK OF TIME!!

-- LORCAN, YOU DUMB FUCK

-- "I'll go with you, I'll come with you" ELIDE, YOU BEAUTIFUL SOUL.

-- Aelin being whipped.

-- "Where is my wife?"

-- AEDION, SHUT THE FUCK UP

-- *heavy sigh * That's Eos done. Time to finish ToD.

-- having the Valg be Duva is a fantastic little twist. Sweet, mostly ignored preggo lady.

-- I wonder...will the baby be born fucked up? The Valg was infesting its mother the whole time it was developing in utereo. Will it have been affected?

-- Aelin's self-defense lessons coming through to save Yrene.

-- I think the scar Aelin gave Chaol should have stayed. Maybe that's mean of me but...

-- "I am as much of a man in that chair, or with that cane, as I am standing on my feet." Alright! Chuck that ableism out the window!

-- Oh, shitballs. I forgot that Yrene and Chaol's lives are now tied to each other so that if one dies they both die. Just like Feyre and Rhysand. SJM must think this is suuuuuper romantic. I think otherwise. A suttee is not romantic. Leaving your potential children to deal with suddenly becoming an orphan is not romantic. Leaving your loved ones to mourn not just one but both of you is not romantic.

-- Sometimes she makes it seem like Yrene actually goes INSIDE Chaol or Duva when she's healing them. That can't be right. It's her like...power going inside and fighting what's inside, right? Homegirl does not Magic School Bus her way into the human body. Right?

-- so the fetus is healthy and human. BUT will it be a sociopath or an asshole?

-- Poor Duva. Get her some therapy.

-- I'm so glad Nesryn claimed a ruk

-- Nesryn got a MASSIVE upgrade with Sartaq. And not just because he's the heir to the khaganate. Because he wonderful.

-- SJM like...never writes weddings. They always just get married in some secret ceremony off camera. Very weird.

-- "A gift from a queen who had seen another woman in hell and thought to reach back a hand. With no thought of it ever being returned. A moment of kindness, a tug on a thread..." I hope you feel kind of shitty about all the mean things you said about Aelin, Chaol. She saved your wife.

-- Fireheart. Locked away in the dark.

Well. I don't think I'll do the tandem reread again. But it certainly was a cool experience. A slog, but cool. Onto KoA, destroyer of my heart.

[angeltrafalgar]

Kinktober Day 2

MINORD DNE/DNI🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞

Watch Dogs 1 Jordi Chin x Fem reader F/N= fake name

E/C= eye color

“Ok so you are going to use this bad boy, inject him it will instantly stop his heart. Hey and don't fuck this up ok. It will blow back on me if you do, (Y/N)” I roll my eyes at him, “Jordi I get a cut to and you know it. Besides thought this one was my gig. Not like I haven't killed someone before, or had sex with them to kill them.” I hide the syringe in my bra as he checks me over making sure I'm good to go. “Yeah I know, I've watched remember. Besides, you get your cut plenty. Remember the car I bought you last week. Or the jewelry, clothes and new phones. Eh? I got you, you want for nothing. You don't even have to be a fixer anymore, you know.” I smirk at him, “I still like the thrill of it, and plus I know you like to watch.” I smile as I raise my eyebrows, smirking at him. “I'm going to be in the hotel's ctOS system. I set it up already, his bodyguards will let you in the hotel room. Get him on his back and just as he climaxes. Boom dead, the left window is your escape, I've set up everything you need to get away. When you're out we meet back up. I get you away. Also that nice little thing I put in your ear you will be able to hear me all the way.” I nod smiling as he spins me around and sends me on my way. 

As I wait in the elevator I look at my reflection. I know what you will say, Jordi is a sociopath, he's incapable of loving anyone. Being with him is a bad idea. He will sell me out for the right price. Thing is we crossed paths a year ago, it's this weird on and off again thing. He's been at this work longer than I yes but, he's good at it, knows what he's doing. And learned that a woman can go places he can't. Even if he loved or cared about me he will never admit it. In our work love gets you killed, it's a weakness. And weaknesses can always be exploited. 

The ding of the elevator flips my brain as I put on the facade, as the doors open I walk towards the door where two men in suits stand guarding it. As I walk up to them in a seductive smile, “hi I'm (F/N) and I'm here to offer some comfort, and entertainment to your boss.” I smile as I let the jacket fall a bit off my shoulder as they exchange a look but then ultimately let me in. As they let me pass I hear the door shut and lock behind me. 

“Ahh you must be (F/N) my associates told me I would be getting a warm welcome tonight.” I smile at him. Do I know who the fuck this is, or do I care? Fuck no to both. I smile as I take my clothes off as I leave myself in only my bra and panties. “Why don't you get comfortable then I can get to work.” I tell the man in the white dress shirt, as I watch him remove his clothes, I know I'm going to have to slip the syringe out of my bra and hide under the pillow or something before I can finish the job. 

“Good job, now make sure he is happy and the job is done. I clearly have good taste . Those make your tits look bigger, nice ass too.” 

I try to brush off Jodi's voice in my ear. One thing for certain, I have to stay on top. Too much shit can go wrong if I'm not. “Good boy, now close your eyes, I have a surprise for you.” The man does as I say as I walk over to the side of the bed making sure he's not peeking as I take the panties off and slowly take my bra off as I slide the syringe in my hand hiding it under one of the pillows. 

It's not the worst guy i've had to do, I would say this guy is mid to late 40s. Maybe a bit older than Jordi but still. Granted this wouldn't be the first time I've used sex to kill a man, nor will it probably be the last. “You are gorgeous my dear.” 

“He's right on that one you are. Granted I have more class I would say hot as hell but hey. Actually I wanna get a good shot of you from the front.” 

It doesn't take that much foreplay for him to get fully erect, once he is I make it a point to be on top riding. I act like I'm enjoying myself, as my tits bounce I see the small red light in the mirror that I'm looking back at. I know it's him watching. 

“Damn, don't enjoy yourself too much. Hope you can come once. Granted if he doesn't get his grubby mitts off my tits I might just make this job a bit messy eh? Not neat and clean like you want it.” 

I grab the man's wrists and hold them above his head as I work him to the edge as I feel myself enjoy it for a little bit I moan as I feel myself climax, and then for a second I don't her anything, as I look down I see him about to as I elegantly grab the syringe as he does he lets out a loud curse and moan as I jab the needle in his neck. He only has time for his eyes to immediately shoot open as he looks at the lifeless look in my (E/C) as I look down at him before he dies. 

“Damn that made me come as well. Well not quite what I wanted. Clean up, take your stuff and get out of there. I got you as soon as you're out the window.” 

I hear Jordi in my ear as I do just that. I wipe any trace of myself off the guy as I redress as fast as possible, taking the empty syringe with me and its cap. Prints and bodily fluid wiped and gone as I opened the window and took the zipline down Jordi had set up for me. I find him waiting for me in a luxury black car. 

“Thought we were leaving in the one we came in.” I look at him and huff as he collects my escape route “yeah change of plans. I had my guy come get that one and bring me something better. Get in.” He tosses the stuff in the trunk including the empty syringe he takes from my hand as I get in the passenger seat and he the driver's seat as he drives us away from the scene. “Enjoy the show?” I ask with a sly smile. “Yeah, about that. What do ya say we go to this nice penthouse I know. Order some pizza, only this time the pizza boy won't have bolt cutters. Oh and don't worry this time you can be on your back.” He says as I raise my eyebrow, as I see his hand come over from the steering wheel and reach down the mini skirt I was wearing. As his fingers make a scissoring motion inside me. “Because I for one enjoyed the show.” I moan as I smile. Ok yeah I guess I can afford to take the rest of the night and today off. 

After all, I'm sure Jordi still has the footage, and wants to make me squirm. I know we are both in for a good time.

[artzychic27]

Superstore Quotes

Adrien: It’s just like my dad always said, “If you don’t work hard, baby Jesus will cry.”

—

Nathaniel: I’ve been busting my butt trying to show you I’m a good worker, but you have your head so far up your own butt you haven’t noticed!

—

Jean: Immigrants. We get the job done.

Ismael: We?

Jean: My family’s Argentinian or something.

—

Nino: Attention all DuPont students and staff—please report to the breakroom for pizza. Because apparently, now, everyone gets pizza. Never mind that the basic infrastructure of this country makes it so that one group of people gets way more pizza than others! Or that some of us spend over four hundred years forcibly making pizza for white people!

Denise: … This isn't about pizza, is it?

Cosette: No, I don't think so.

Austin B: Yes! I love pizza!

—

M. Grotke: I just wanted to change a couple of racist policies. I didn't sign up to teach a bunch of grown-ass white people about racism.

—

Luka: I’m a hunter. Some people like to hunt elk, or deer. I hunt people, and your head is going on my wall.

—

Max: A psychopath doesn’t have a conscience. A sociopath knows what he’s doing is wrong but does it anyway.

—

Marinette: I thought I'd show up on the last day and surprise everybody.

Rose: That's so nice! What's the surprise?

Marinette: Um, just me.

Rose: Oh. I thought it would be like, donuts or something.

—

Ismael: Attention fellow students, I am graduating! On behalf of everyone in my class, I'd just like to say, BUH-BYE!… Sorry, that shouldn't be the last thing I say. One year of morning announcements. I mean, I'm not a sentimental guy; that's not my thing. But it did just occur to me that this is... this is the end. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's a job. I mean, if jobs were fun, they wouldn't pay us to do it, but I don’t get paid to do this. Memories are the only things I can remember right now. You know, school sucks ninety-nine percent of the time, so you really... you really gotta enjoy those moments that don't. Those bits of fun you have during study hall. Or an interesting conversation with a classmate. Or something happens that you can laugh about later. Or you do something that you're actually proud of. If you're lucky, maybe you even get to be friends with a student or two along the way. Not sure what else you could want. At any rate, have a great last day. And have a wonderful school year next year.

—

Aurore: I think Jean likes Taylor Swift.

Lacey: No, he's back to hating her again.

—

Nathaniel: It was nice of the school to wait an entire week before they reminded us we're just as replaceable as Alix.

—

Marinette: You know Lila? The one who sucks and is like if Satan and a turd had a baby? She just walked in.

Alya: Mmhm, yeah um but your little rivalry thing is just kind of fun and friendly competition, right?

Marinette: No Alya I hate her with the fire of a thousand suns. Frankly, I'd like her dead.

—

Marc: Who are those boys?

Kiran: Oh, those are my drug dealer friends. We sit in the pile of broken bottles by the bleachers.

—

Austin A: Talk to the teachers? Gross.

[anjumbai]

American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis – Thoughts

“… and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.”

First of all, this is one huge book. I was skeptical of whether I should really even pick this up, will this put me in another reading slump and yada yada. Surprisingly, I managed to finish it in a very short time. The narration style and dialogues are something I found to be absolutely hilarious. Bret Easton is very crafty with the dialogues he constructs and I don’t understand how he comes up with such elaborate and funny conversations. Honestly, I’d research a little bit more about the book and the writer but there is no network in my country as I’m writing this. So yeah, giving it to you raw.

Can I talk about the movie first? I’ll talk about the movie first. I love Christian Bale. He’s one of my favorite actors, a master at his craft and worthy of respect for his diverse set of roles. His dedication to play a role is unmatched. He starred as Patrick Bateman in American Psycho and I’m glad I watched the movie first. The book is written in first person narrated by our P&P executive, working in murders and executions, Patrick Bateman. And every time I imagine a scenery with this guy, pop, it’s Christian Bale’s goofy ass acting popping up in my head and I absolutely love it. Somebody said while working with Bale that during the shoot of the film, he thought that Bale was deliberately acting horrible. He couldn’t understand why and when the movie came out, his doubts were gone. He seemed like the perfect sociopath, trying his best to fit in while being absolutely horrible at it. His deliberate bad acting just made the character Bateman come to life. It was bad acting to the point it was amazing acting. I don’t know, 10/10 for Christian Bale.

Let’s start off with the contents of the book. The book is a series of narration of the events happening in Bateman’s life and his mind by Bateman himself. There are often whole chapters dedicated to Bateman naming designer and luxury brands, describing popular music bands and their history and what their songs mean, there was even a whole chapter dedicated to his panic attacks; considering he is always high on Xanax, Velium or some other drug. Pages and pages worth of creative and witty dialogue, callbacks or just the total unhinged way of how Patrick treats everyone else when he is on bloodthirst mode. So much to highlight. So much to highlight, cause all of it is just so funny. Something like- “What is this continuing inability you have to evaluate this situation rationally?” when Patrick is being harassed by his fellow gay co-worker(who thinks Patrick loves him cause that one time he was trying to strangle him but dude thought wow Patricks in love with me) is just comedic. Or something like – “Patrick, why aren’t you looking at me?” “I’m ignoring you, Luis.” Just makes me laugh out loud. And of course, the movie. Lines from the movie written out in the book and you’re just sitting there Leonardo DiCaprio-ing all over. “He said the thing.”

All jokes aside, it was also a very clever critique of the free market. All the characters are extremely self-centered to the point of obsessive narcissism, where Pat just takes it up a notch. I don’t need to describe some of the scenes from the movie or the book because I can’t. It’s just not possible, the things Bret writes in the book, to put in a review. If you do wanna see an uncensored review, do pull up your Platinum AmEx card and sign up for my patron, where you’ll find exclusive content. Seriously, if you don’t have a Platinum AmEx card you might as well just be gutter garbage. Did I tell you that Patrick just gave me a face care routine that’ll set me back thousands of dollars but it’ll make me feel, quote, “I feel like shit but look great”?

Overall, my thoughts are all over the place and there’s nothing in particular I want to say about this book. It’s just the day to day life of a psychopath who commits heinous and gorey acts of crime, murder and what not. The book is basically him trying to fit in society while also maintaining his bloodlust. The lines “My nightly bloodlust overflowed into my days and I had to leave the city. My mask of sanity was a victim of impending slippage” sums up the book pretty well. He doesn’t necessarily leave the city all the time but rather he leaves his “I work in finance” façade behind and goes full on Ted Bundy all over the city. Graphic and gorey descriptions of his murder, torture, assault is just horrifying to even imagine. The very fact that someone thought all of this and put it in a book is gut-wrenching alone but let’s just say that the book tries to put some heartfelt moments too. Sentences like “I just want to be loved” are spoken out loud by Patrick after he, pretty graphically, cooks a part of a human body for his dinner. Words are written but not said out loud when Patrick feels love from someone. Genuine, heartfelt love that doesn’t want fame or money or anything else from Patrick, unlike every other girl he has slept with. “yet she weakens me, it’s almost as if she’s making the decision about who I am, and in my own stubborn, willful way I can admit to feeling a pang, something tightening inside, and before I can stop it I find myself almost dazzled and moved that I might have the capacity to accept, though not return, her love.” A slight attempt at humanizing a monster, I’d say. Not very successful. And I found it funny that even until the end of the book, I couldn’t tell most characters apart from one another. Just like in the movie, and I think the movie captured that essence pretty well.

Most of what you can know about the story is summed up pretty well in the movie, except that the book delves into much more comedy and, of course, gore. The movie ends at a better note in my opinion, simply because the part where the movie ends is just one of the few final chapters of the book. The movie couldn’t have done well with what the book offered as its ending and well done to the script writers for that. The book is hilarious, graphic and just a really funny mockery of materialism. It’s definitely worth a read but it does drag on without a proper goal or anything. But did I still enjoy it a lot? Yes, I did. 8/10. Hilarious and witty.

Now you know what to do when life is getting you down. Just tell yourself “You’ve got a negative attitude. That’s what’s stopping you. You need to get your act together.” Wise words, honestly.

Big ideas, guy stuff, boy meets the world, boy gets it.