#what do you mean it’s unkind to punch my friends

[not-quite-so-intrepid-hero]

aelwyn is the cunty neurodivergent rep we need. the look on her face when kristen is actually upset/hurt and she immediately backtracks- oh shit, i thought we were playing! we were joking! don’t friends bully each other? how else is affection expressed but through violence?

[alessiasfreckles]

amnesia - part 3 (ona batlle x reader, alexia putellas x reader)

Part 2 here!

warnings: angst!

a/n: hope you enjoy x

----------

“What are these pictures?” you asked, turning to look at Ona. Her eyes were wide, lips parted, and you pushed down the sudden urge to kiss her. “Ona? What’s going on?”

Alexia started to back away. “I’m going to, um, leave-”

“No, stay, please?” you asked, and she hesitated before nodding once. You looked back at Ona. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry, I, I didn’t know how to tell you- I-”

“Were we dating? Are we dating?” 

“I- Yes, we’re dating,” she told you, her voice small. “We’ve been together for nearly 7 months.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked. Ona had expected you to be angry when you found out she’d lied to you, to shout, yell. She wasn’t expecting your voice to be quiet and cold. Tears were brimming in her eyes, threatening to fall. 

“I just- I was so scared, so, so scared, I thought you were going to die,” she explained, voice cracking on the last word. “And when you woke up, I- I didn’t want to overwhelm you, I wanted you to remember, I didn’t want to tell you that- that it was my fault.”

“What do you mean, your fault? How was it your fault?” 

“I, we, we were having an argument,” she said, and the tears began streaming down her face. “We were having an argument, it was my fault, I said something, and you left. I hurt you and you left, and the next thing I knew I was being called to the hospital because you’d been in an accident.”

Your body felt cold. “What did you say?”

“I’m sorry, it was stupid and unkind and I wasn’t thinking, I was tired and-”

“What did you say, Ona?” 

“I- I said you were too much. That I just wanted some peace and quiet after training and you were being too much.”

The words felt like a punch to your gut, though you weren’t sure why. You had the distinct sensation that you’d been told that before, throughout your whole life, you’d been too much for other people. That you’d learnt to make yourself smaller, not to take up too much space, to make sure you weren’t being too much. 

“So you’ve been lying to me?” you asked, trying to ignore the iron fist around your heart. You knew the accident wasn’t Ona’s fault. What she said was awful, and really fucking hurt to hear, but still - the car hitting you wasn’t her fault. But what you couldn’t get past was the lying.

“No, I-”

“You lied to me, about who you are, about who we are, about who I am. You told me we were friends, best friends. Best friends wouldn’t lie to each other,” you frowned. 

“No, I just-” Ona protested.

“I want to be alone. Can you go, please?” you asked quietly, not looking at the brunette. You heard a sob, and then her footsteps as she left, the door closing softly behind her. 

Alexia felt torn. She cared about both of you so much, and it broke her heart to see Ona in so much pain, but you had a right to be upset.

“Would you like me to go as well?” she asked gently. 

You thought about it, then shook your head. “No, can you stay, please? Maybe we can, uh, go through the other photos and you can tell me about them? See if that helps me remember anything.”

“Of course, chiqui,” she said, and brought the corkboard down off the wall. You collapsed onto the sofa, grateful to be sat down, and tried to push the thoughts about what had just happened out of your mind.

“So, this one is from your first game at Barcelona,” she pointed to a photo of you and your teammates in the changing room after the game. You’re sweaty and you look tired, but you’re smiling brightly. 

“I remember that, I think,” you said. Not the game itself, but the feeling, the rush you got, the crowd cheering when you stepped on the pitch. 

“This is from one of our walks before a game. I’m not sure which one, but it looks sunny,” she said, squinting at a photo of you, Salma and Ona. You looked at the photo, the way Ona’s arm was around your shoulder. 

“Um, this is from the Champion’s League final last year,” she quickly moved on. 

“We won!” you blurted out. “Right? I remember! I don’t remember the game, but I remember celebrating.”

“Si!” Alexia grinned. “You were so proud. You even scored a goal, do you remember?”

“Really?” you asked, eyes wide. “I don’t remember that.”

As she showed you more pictures, you tried to concentrate on her words, but kept finding yourself staring at the pictures of you and Ona. 

“Don’t think too badly of her, bebé,” Alexia said softly. “It was wrong of her to lie, but she was trying to do the right thing. She was scared. We all were, when we heard what had happened. We- we didn’t know if you were going to wake up. She loves you.”

Deep down, you knew that you loved her too. It was an unmistakable feeling.

“I just feel so betrayed,” you explained, looking at a picture of you and Ona. Someone else must have taken it - it showed the two of you sat on a bench somewhere, Ona leaning against your shoulder, you pressing a kiss to her head. “I don’t even know who I am anymore, really. I’ve been relying on other people to tell me who I am, who they are. To tell me the truth. She lied about us, but she lied about me as well. I know she was scared, but- but how does she think I feel? I woke up with no memories of anything about my life, about any of it. I feel so stupid.”

You sat quietly for a minute, Alexia unsure of how to respond. The silence was broken by your stomach rumbling, providing a welcome distraction.

“Oh, I guess there’s no food, right?” you asked, realising just how hungry you were.

“Actually,” Alexia said, getting up and opening the fridge. “Ona got all of your favourites. She cooked, too, so you don’t have to do anything, just heat it up.”

“She did?” 

“Si.”

“That’s… that’s very kind of her,” you said. The iron fist around your heart loosened slightly. 

“She loves you, bebé,” Alexia said, her smile not quite meeting her eyes. “She really does.”

Heating up one of the meals Ona had prepared for you, Alexia let you get settled back into your apartment. It still didn’t really feel quite like home, but you were glad to be out of the hospital anyway. As the two of you ate, she told you more stories about your time at Barcelona, and you felt glad that at least she was telling you the truth. 

“So, what about us?” you asked, scraping up the last bite on your plate.

“What do you mean?” Alexia asked, raising an eyebrow. Her heart sped up slightly as she thought about her feelings, feelings she’d long kept hidden.

“Well, what’s the story of our friendship? Is there anything I should know about there? Any drama that happened, any secrets? Please, no more secrets,” you said with a wry smile. 

Alexia took a deep breath.

[whyse7vn]

MIN YOONGI & KIM SEOKJIN

NICER:

“You know….” Jin looks over to Yoongi he’s sprawled out on a black couch thats sits in middle of the room they’re both in mindlessly scrolling through his phone. “It’s almost time to renew our contracts”

“So?” Yoongi replies his full attention still being held by his phone.

“Well, don’t tell her” Yoongi pauses “I told you this but y/ns been kinda on the fence about it all”

“About renewing her contract?”

“About being in the group all together”

Yoongi’s phone falls flat to his chest. Jin bites back a smirk.

“What?”

“Again don’t tell her i told you this but she said being in the groups gotten a little suffocating that we all argue too much and tha—”

“Bullshit”

“I’m not joking you know she comes to me about stuff why would i lie?”

Yoongi pauses for a moment. Why would Seokjin his good friend of over 10 years lie to him?

There are many reasons actually like that one time he took that sandwich out the fridge that was clearly labelled “JINS DO NOT EAT” and ate it right in his face or that other time when he tripped Jin up during rehearsals for no reason at all or that time—

“Trust me she was like really serious about it and—”

Yeah Yoongi doesn’t believe him, not one bit.

“So why are you telling me this shouldn’t you go talk to Joon about this stuff?”

“You know how Namjoon is can’t say no to her like… ever she would be gone before we know it and i thought about bringing it up with Jungkook but you also know how he is..”

“What about Jimin? Hobi? The fucking company, why me?”

“It’s just ‘cuz she said- never mind it’s not important forget i mentioned this”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing… i just i- i don’t want you to think it’s your fault or anything”

“So it’s my fault”

Yoongi now sits fully up right on the couch he was once slouched on with his eyebrows furrowed and gaze locked on Jin.

Jin bites back another smirk.

“No! not at all she just said some… stuff don’t worry about it!”

“What did she say” It’s not a question anymore.

“Well just that maybe you could uh.. be nicer or something?”

“Nicer?” Yoongi is now fully stood up one fist clenched and a head full of questions.

“Me? …Nicer?”

“That’s what she said” Jin shrugs.

Yoongi knows he isn’t the best to his fellow members often rejecting their various displays of affection and saying somewhat mean things to them on occasion. Sure he might of ‘lovingly’ punched a few of them a couple times called them some unkind names but not you! well he did call you a bitch once … or twice but you knew he was joking right? And he says sorry… sometimes, so Yoongi’s not even that mean, not at all, like it’s tough love or whatever. Yoongi can be nice. Yoongi is nice.

Yoongi stares back at Jin.

“Do you… think i could be nicer?”

There’s a pause.

“Well…”

Oh. Ok maybe Yoongi isn’t as nice as he thought he was. But it wasn’t that bad.

“…just considering she wants to leave the group because of it…”

Right. It’s is that bad.

Yoongi’s gaze drops the floor momentarily. He notices his phone that once held his attention now resides ontop of the fluffy carpet beneath his feet, but that’s the least of his concern right now. He feels a little sick and a whole lot embarrassed.

“Did she uh say anything else… about me i mean” He looks everywhere but Jin another wave of embarrassment taking over him as the question leaves his mouth.

Jin cocks his head at Yoongi in clear amusement, Not that Yoongi could catch onto it anyways too caught up in his own mind at the moment.

“How about we discuss this over coffee my treat! I think there’s a way we can sort this all out”

—

part 2 HERE

tags: @piw6n @92jinnies @birdie-vhs @blairebangtan @hob3loveofmylife @jujubiism @bloopkook @ratchetpizza1 @myntalks @arloo00 @watamotee33 @y2kcy3brz @taiwan0618 @freyadanvers @gguksbeloved @raetf @bbsantc @winuvs @medicinemybish @bxnnyhime @leleluvsbts @baetukki @zyaaaszn @thelilbutifulthings @jazminethecreator @k4ngelz @jmnscutie @threeopossumsinacoat @cynicalyoongs @lightningpussy54 @eunthv @gigiiiiislife @lowkeykin @elissasimp @socksfirstalways @knjlvr06 @lailaisarmy @thvkives @xstfudaisyx @xxxanimangxxx @solstice34 @ml8dy @hoeforseoks @futuristicenemychaos

[izvmimi]

cw: language. one (1) reference to a rico nasty song.

The sudden clatter of a knife being dropped on a cutting board should have surprised you, but you’re too focused on the screen of the laptop before you to notice that Izuku has stopped chopping vegetables. He looks up over at you carefully, but you continue to type furiously on the other end of the kitchen island, not registering the set of eyes focused on your person.

“Babe?”

Clickity clack, clickity clack, goes the keyboard.

He sighs.

“___.”

His voice is stern and just loud enough that you do somehow hear it, and pulled out of your flurry of vitriolic thoughts, you look at him quizzically.

“Huh?”

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You grimace, then smile and scoff in just the way that concerns Izuku even further. He could tell from the pressure on the keyboard and the small noises of frustration that slipped out of you indiscriminately that you were clearly upset about something, and he could name a couple things that had popped up recently in the news to make you feel that way, but whenever you got to typing for this long with this level of focus, it could only mean one thing.

“I’m just drafting a response to a few criticisms I’ve seen online recently.”

His lips press into a thin line.

“Love, you promised-“

You frown at him and raise an index finger. “First of all, I did not make any promises-" He raises an eyebrow and you look at him sheepishly, then look away. “Fine.”

“Let me see it,” he insists. Before you can even consider closing your laptop, he’s behind you, one hand resting softly on your shoulder. His eyes scan the top half of the reply in the comments and you watch his response attentively, taking in how his frown deepens the longer he reads.

“Baby.” He rubs your shoulder gently, but you can tell he’s between irritated and disappointed with you immediately. Defensively, you shrug him off softly then cross your arms over your chest.

“I’m just communicating my discontentment.”

“Really?” He highlights a sentence at the end, and clears his throat before reading it aloud. “If I see you in the street, bitch your ass is done? That’s discontentment?”

You can feel your cheeks burn.

“It’s a quote!!! From a song!”

Izuku places a hand atop your head and squeezes gently. “It’s also a threat?”

“But-“

“___, you’re a professional Hero. This person could be Quirkless.”

You pause, consider, and then let out a sound of frustration, raising your hands in the air before placing your forehead to the desk.

“Look, I’m just tired of unkind things being said in the media. I don’t mind if they say mean things to me but we’re gonna have a conversation if you’re gonna attack my friends so viciously.” Your voice is muffled and whiny, which means you’re in your inconsolable mood, but by now Izuku is practiced and can get through to you. Izuku’s hands shift from your shoulder to your back and he pulls the stool beside you to sit down.

“I get it, but people say stupid things all the time. Think about what people say about me daily.”

Your head turns to face him.

“The media literally adores you, what are you talking about?” Izuku gives your a cheeky half-smile.

“True, but they didn’t always.”

You give him a soft punch on the shoulder. “Show-off.”

He laughs, and pulls you to him. “You know what it was like when I was a kid though.”

You frown again, thinking about the punches she still thinks she owes Bakugou despite the fact that he’s redeemed himself, and rest your head on his shoulder.

“Can I delete it?” he asks.

“Sure,” you agree. 

“Good girl.”

You feel your cheeks warm but don’t say anything as the angry text disappears. He kisses your cheek and gets up again to finish preparing the meal he’d started. You get up as well and wash your hands before joining him.

You work side by side for a few moments before Izuku bumps you gently on the hip. 

“Are you gonna save a bit of the feistiness for bed?” he asks, eyes twinkling.

You bump him back on the hip.

“Pervert.”

He beams. “For you? Absolutely.”

[quinnysnursery]

[🦇] do you wanna grow together? | johnnie guilbert and grace van dien one-shot

paring : little!johnnie guilbert x cg!grace van dien

summary : johnnie opens up to grace about his coping mechanism

warning/extra tid-bits : language, talk of growing up with bad parents, bit of a tantrum at the end but it's handled well!!

word count : 2,487

divider credit : umm i found all the photos on pinterest :3 (lace from @saradika-graphics)

a/n : i'm aware this song doesn't perfectly fit the vibes but in my heart it does!! i love brye's music idc if it's "tiktok music" (sorry for any typos, i'm just a girl!) also this is not proof read at all

Johnnie’s hand shook as Jake pulled up to Grace’s house. “This it?” The punk asked, leaning down to get a better look at the house in front of him. 

It was nicer than Jake, Johnnie and Carrington’s place, the first time Johnnie saw it he briefly wondered just how much Grace’s role on Stranger Things paid. 

“Yeah, this is it.” Johnnie’s leg bounced up and down anxiously, earning a sympathy glance from the punk next to him. “Hey,” Jake started, turning his attention to his friend. 

“It’s gonna be okay. She’s a nice girl, right?” Jake made sure to look Johnnie in the eyes when he asked him this, “Yeah, she’s…awesome.” Johnnie smiled to himself, realizing just how lucky he was. 

Grace was beautiful, but that wasn’t the reason Johnnie fell in love with her. He fell in love with Grace because she’d noticed him in the corner of a party, alone and to himself- like always- and came right up with that bubbly smile and asked what he was drinking.

He fell in love with Grace because she’d never once been unkind to him.

“Then I’m sure this’ll go fine.” His roommate assured him, placing a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. “And if it doesn’t, you’ll always have me and Carrington.” 

Johnnie let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in. “Yeah, yeah you’re right.” He nodded, unbuckling his seatbelt.

“D’you want me to wait outside?” The red-haired man asked, earning a head shake from Johnnie. “Just uh- keep your phone near.” The emo man told him, earning a nod from his roommate. “Okay, good luck.” Jake smiled, unlocking the doors to his Tesla.

It didn’t take Johnnie long to get out of the car and make his way to his girlfriend’s front door. He could hear the sounds of Jake’s tires pulling out the driveway and down the street.

Just him and Grace.

That was fine, he’d stayed the night plenty of times. He even spent the weekend at her house once! It was fine.

Everything was fine. 

In one swift motion, the large front door swung open revealing the blonde girl that Johnnie was here to see. “Johnnie!” Her perfume hit him in the face in the best way possible, instantly easing his nerves. Grace was good at that, somehow.

“Hey!” He smiled brightly, instantly leaning down and allowing her to hug him. Grace pulled away after a few moments, smiling brightly at her boyfriend. “Well come in!” She beamed before grabbing his tattooed hand and pulling her inside, letting the door automatically lock behind her. 

“Are you thirsty? Hungry? We could order something!” She instantly jumped into conversation about things they could do whilst in each other’s presence.

“Um-“ Johnnie gulped down the lump in his throat, his hands shaking as he glanced around his girlfriend’s extravagant kitchen. “I uh- was actually hoping I could talk to you about…something.” Johnnie avoided eye contact with the blonde woman, opting to stare down at his boots.

“Oh..” Grace’s face fell, fear punching her in the gut. “Okay, we can talk.” She sat down at the kitchen island, Johnnie sitting across from her. 

Both Johnnie and Grace’s legs bounced anxiously as they waited for someone to break the silence. Johnnie was wracking his brain for the script he’d made at three AM this morning- when he’d decided that he had to tell Grace about his regression.

It wasn’t an easy decision by any means, the emo man had only told four people in his entire life. It dawned on him in the early morning hours that he wanted Grace to stay in his life for awhile- forever, preferably. It also dawned on him that that meant opening up about the most sacred part of himself…which was terrifying.

“Are you breaking up with me?” Grace’s voice snapped him back to reality. “What?!” Johnnie’s eyes widened, realizing his girlfriend’s blue eyes were glossing over. “No! Oh my god- No! Never!” Johnnie quickly cupped Grace’s hand with his tatted one.

“Oh thank god.” Grace breathed, placing her free hand over her heart as she let out a shaky breath. “You scared me!” She whined, a giggle following her lips.

“I’m sorry, I-” Johnnie’s brain blanked again, what was he supposed to say? 

“I don’t want to break up with you! I just need you to know that I mentally regress to a toddler because my teen years were ruined!!” That wasn’t right, it couldn’t be right. 

“What’s going on? You’re shaky,” The blonde woman frowned sympathetically, tracing her fingers along his crow tattoo. “More than normal.” She joked, earning a breathy laugh from her boyfriend. “I uhm…shit this is hard,” He laughed, Grace smiled sympathetically. 

Johnnie took one final deep breath, “So y’know about MDE and that shit, right?” He asked. Grace instantly nodded, leaning in to show she was actively listening. 

“I was like, really young, when that all started which- fuckin’ sucked.” Johnnie laughed- it wasn’t funny, but it helped his nerves. The blonde woman nodded and rubbed her thumb along the back of Johnnie’s hand, allowing her boyfriend to continue on.

“And uh- I kinda missed out on a ton of shit that kids got to do, even before moving to Nebraska.” He added, “So,” Johnnie gulped down the bundle of nerves that was creeping up on him. 

“So, I found this uh- this coping mechanism, a couple years ago.” 

Okay. She wasn’t freaking out yet, that was a good sign. 

“It’s called age regression, have you…have you heard of it?” He asked, glancing up to meet Grace’s eyes. Grace thought for a moment before shaking her head, Johnnie didn’t know if that was for the better or for the worst.

“Okay- that’s okay.” He assured, smiling warmly at his girlfriend. “It’s this coping mechanism where the regressor-” Johnnie was cut off, “Is that you?” Grace asked, earning a nod. 

“Yeah, that…that would be me.” The emo man admitted, an embarrassed blush dusting his cheeks. Grace nodded, readjusting in her seat. “The regressor reverts to a child-like mindset, in order to cope with stress…mental health, it um- it can be both voluntary and involuntary.” Once Johnnie was finished with his words, he brought his freehand up to his mouth- chewing on the skin around his nail in order to self-soothe.

Grace processed what her boyfriend had told her before speaking, “And you do this?” She inquired, earning a cautious nod. “Okay, thank you for telling me.” The blonde smiled, “I’m really proud of you, ‘s probably not an easy thing to tell people.” She added.

Johnnie blinked at his girlfriend in surprise. Was that it? Was she mad? She didn’t sound mad, and Grace was still holding his hand so she couldn’t be mad…right?

“Uhm- sometimes regressors- littles, that’s…that’s another name for them- sometimes littles have caregivers and-” Johnnie was cut off once again, “Is that me?” Grace asked excitedly. Johnnie couldn’t help but smile at her tone, delightfully surprised.

“I mean- it could be, but I don’t want you to feel forced into that role at all!” Johnnie quickly stated, he was just fine on his own but if Grace really wanted to help…he wouldn’t mind having her take on a caring role.

Grace thought for a moment, now dealing with her own internal battle. She didn’t have the best upbringing. Sure, being a nepo-baby meant she got whatever she wanted whenever she wanted…but that didn’t make her family issues any better. Her father was the best dad he could be, but her mom…wasn’t the best parent.

Grace had spent her entire childhood worrying about her mothers addictive habits. It was hell, something no child should ever have to deal with.

“I’m not sure I’d be very good,” She admitted softly, her heart breaking as she saw her boyfriend’s smile falter. “I mean- I just…I don’t want to taint your age regression by messing up, y’know?” She explained, earning a soft nod from Johnnie. Silence fell over the room as both parties thought silently, pondering the next step.

“...I think you’d be a really good caregiver.” Johnnie said softly, Grace felt her heart swell. “Really?” She asked, a wide grin spreading over her face. He nodded, “You’re patient, and…gentle and…you already make me happy.”

Grace placed her free hand on her heart once again, this time to signal just how much Johnnie’s words meant to her. “I’ve never had a caregiver,” He admitted, much to Grace’s surprise.

“Really? Not even Jake?” She asked, knowing how close both the boys were. “He knows but he’s not my caregiver.” He explained. Grace hummed, understanding.

“...Maybe we could learn together?” She offered, peaking Johnnie’s interest. The black-haired man tilted his head, urging her to continue. “Like- you could learn to have a caregiver and I could learn how to be one.” She smiled, earning an enthusiastic agreement from Johnnie. 

“Okay…let’s learn together.”

A few weeks later, Johnnie found himself at Grace’s doorstep again. This time though, he had a backpack resting over one shoulder- filled to the brim with his regression supplies.

Toys, a sippy cup, various different coloring books (with crayons, of course) and even a deco-paci that Carrington had gifted him after learning of Johnnie’s regression.

Needless to say, Johnnie overpacked for an overnight stay but…he couldn’t help it! He was nervous!

“Johnnie!” Grace beamed, swinging her front door open and instantly latching herself onto her boyfriend. Johnnie let out the breath he’d been holding in, melting into the blonde’s arms.

 After soaking in the hug for a few moments, Grace pulled back and immediately began tugging Johnnie inside by his hand.

 “Come in! Look what I did!” The girl smiled, once again letting the door shut and lock once the two were inside. Johnnie nearly tripped over himself with how fast his girlfriend was dragging him to her living room, but once he saw exactly what she was so excited about he couldn’t help but smile.

Grace had made a fort that spanned the entire size of her living room, “I hope this ‘s okay, I loved forts as a kid so I just thought-” She was cut off by her boyfriend letting out an excited hum and bouncing excitedly.

Grace blinked in surprise, in the months she’d known Johnnie he had never done that. She didn’t dislike it, though. If anything, Grace found it adorable.

“Cece help ‘e?” Johnnie asked, tugging on Grace’s shirt gently with hopeful eyes. 

Cece.

Grace smiled softly, “Help with what, sweetheart?” She asked, surprising herself with her own tone. It was soft, gentler than her typical one- she hadn’t realized that was possible until now. 

“Shoes!” He smiled, gently placing his backpack on the floor, beginning to tug at his boots. Grace quickly moved his backpack into the fort before crouching in front of the regressed man to help him get his boots off. 

“So you like it?” She asked hopefully, earning a firm nod from Johnnie. “Uh-huh!” 

“We go in?” Johnnie asked softly, pointing at the entrance of the fort. Grace thought for a moment, “Have you eaten?” She asked, not wanting Johnnie to be hungry. 

Johnnie nodded, humming out small “mmhm!”.

“Jayjay made ‘e nuggets.” He smiled proudly, Grace nodded. “Okay, then yeah! Let’s go in!” She agreed, lifting up the blanket to allow Johnnie to crawl in- following him after.

Johnnie gaped at the interior of the fort, multiple twinkling fairy lights hung around. “Staw’s!” He smiled, looking towards Grace with eyes full of childlike wonder.

Grace knew at that moment that, even if she didn’t know how to be a caregiver, there wasn’t anything in this world that would stop her from learning.

“Yeah baby! Stars!” She encouraged, her heart melting into a pile of goop as Johnnie curled up next to her. “Do you wanna watch a movie, baby?” She asked, “Cow’pse Bw’ide?!” The little questioned, excitedly.

“Sure, hun.” Grace smiled, nodding. She quickly grabbed the TV remote off of her couch, scrolling to find the correct movie. The blonde woman wrapped her arm around the little, a coo slipping from her lips as Johnnie rested his head on her shoulder. 

Johnnie whined, tired tears threatening to spill from his icy blue eyes. Grace let out a gentle sigh, “Baby, you're tired.” She tried explaining, but the little one was having none of it. He’d dozed off halfway through the movie, only to wake up still exhausted. The only issue was, Johnnie refused to settle back down.

“M’ not!” He sniffled, despite rubbing his eye with his fist immediately after. Grace took a moment to think about what her parents would’ve done. With her dad’s job, it was rare that parenting was left up to him but her mom probably would’ve left her to cry it out in her room alone. It only ever made her feelings intensify, leading to more frustrated tears.

Grace wouldn’t do that to Johnnie, she couldn’t. The blonde woman took a deep breath before meeting Johnnie’s eyes again, “Can you look at Cece?” She asked gently. 

Johnnie whined, shaking his head and diverting his gaze. “Baby, please?” She cooed, reaching out and brushing Johnnie’s hair away from his eyes. The little begrudgingly met his caregiver’s eyes, “I can tell you're really flustered right now, huh?” She asked, receiving a sniffly nod from the pale man.

“Okay! Hey, that’s okay.” She reassured, thinking about what she needed to hear as a child. “Can you tell Cece why?” She questioned, “Don’ wanna ‘eep!” Johnnie shouted, wobbly lip breaking Grace’s heart.

“Can we try using softer voices?” Grace asked, quoting a gentle-parenting tiktok she’d seen whilst lying in bed awake last night- terrified she’d ruin Johnnie’s regression. She wanted to make sure she was as prepared as possible, and thank god she did.

Johnnie’s lip wobbled, but he nodded. “Sorry, Cece.” He apologized. “That’s okay baby, I know you didn’t mean it.” Grace comforted, pulling the little into a hug after asking permission.

“M’ still wanna color wif’ Cece…” Johnnie admitted through tired tears, “Oh buddy…” The woman cooed, looking down at the little in her arms. “We can still color, I just think you need a nap before we do.” She giggled, resulting in a small smile forming on Johnnie’s face.

“Cece wake ‘e up?” He asked hopefully, earning a quick nod from Grace. “Yeah, I’ll wake you up in…thirty minutes, okay?” She offered. Johnnie thought for a moment before nodding and snuggling back into Grace’s arms.

“Get some rest, I expect to see how talented you are at colorin’.” The blonde joked, earning a smiley laugh from the man in her arms. “Night night, Cece.” Johnnie yawned, eyes already drooping. 

“Night night, sweet boy.” She kissed the top of Johnnie’s head, allowing herself to relax.

She was confident she had Johnnie, and Johnnie was confident that Grace had him. They’d grow together.

taglist !! :

@babybatxxx @mattssturnz @littlestar44 @graceslittlecorner @zivall @hrtz4alex2211 @bimbob1tch @sturnsxplr-25 @cherry-red-heart @pr3ttyf4wn @frlinbruh @jazminepetit-homme @raynaaxx @tyummyz

(also tagging @nicksbestie and @salemscene since i said i would SO long ago i'm so sorry it took forever😖)

[iamapoopmuffin]

My Our Life Kiddos

I am once again here to share my Creatures. This is to tell you about the ones I made for the main games and their epilogues and endings, which is so far the ones I made for romance routes.

Step 1: Carrington Hanlon. Carrington is a shy, sensitive and kind child. He hates when people are unkind and tries to never be unkind himself, but also absolutely cannot stick up for himself or others when people are mean. He loves to swim, read and draw, and collects seashells. His favourite animals are sharks and he has lots of shark drawings on his walls. He is also huge on physical affection, he loves to hug and be hugged. At this step he is nervous around Cove but is fond of him.

Step 2: Carrington Hanlon. Carrington's relationship with Cove has moved to nervous crush. He's still shy, sensitive and anxious, and in fact seems even more withdrawn. Being in the awkward early teens, he's struggling a lot with his self esteem and self image. He's awkwardly tall and thin, like a baby giraffe, and is very self conscious over his acne, braces and body shape - he's beginning to experience some pretty severe gender dysphoria, but he doesn't yet know what it is, just that he really wishes his body was more like his sister's. He greatly treasures the moment he had with Cove discussing their favourite flowers, and the fields of poppies are something he won't forget. He's still an avid swimmer, reader and collector, with a passing interest in surfing, but has let his art fall to the wayside, not because he doesn't enjoy it but because he's convinced himself he's terrible at it. He still can't stand up for himself in most situations, but will stutteringly defend those he cares about, and does end up punching Jeremy in the face at Miranda's birthday party. His favourite movie genre is horror. Also fun fact he's bisexual.

Step 3: Poppy Hanlon. Still anxious and sensitive, she and Cove are California's biggest crybabies. Poppy is visibly more confident and comfortable now, and seems more eager to meet new people and make friends. She retains her kind nature and likes to see the best in people. She is very forgiving, not even hesitating to forgive and befriend Shiloh and Jeremy, and has taken up her drawing again. She is also now more open to teasing those she's close to, and has a much more relaxed relationship with Cove. She's not nervous around him 24/7 anymore, guys! She uses curlers on her hair to get those cute ringlets of her dreams and works part time at the library. She has a strong love of rock music. She also hugs everyone without hesitation. Also she gets seasick.

Step 4: Poppy Hanlon. Again, a relaxed and kind young woman who is still feeling her way through life. She finally has some kind of idea what she wants to do and is currently studying in university and living with Cove. She's undeniably happy. Still a huge hugger and a kind but teasing soul.

Step 1: Amy Edwards. Amy is confident, outgoing, bossy and not afraid to speak her mind. In step 1, she is direct but indifferent towards Cove. Not all that interested in being his friend. She's here to have fun. She likes sports and music. Happy child who will not accept meanies in her town.

Step 2: Amy Edwards. In step 2, Amy is in that fun hormonal pit of tween-early teen girlhood, a time I remember well. She is cringey, moody, a grump and thinks she's all that. She now plays multiple instruments and plays plenty of sports recreationally. She's reaching to overachieve and will inevitably burn herself out trying to be the best of the best. She is easily annoyed and still plenty bossy. She is also starting to consider veganism. By age 13, Cove is now a fond friend, and she has a crush on Derek. She is pansexual demiromantic. Unlike Poppy, Amy cannot handle horror films at all. She also has a fear of heights.

Step 3: Amy Edwards. Amy has done some growing up and has calmed down from her major grump hormone driven hatred phase. She's quieter and less confident than she was before, and in fact, as she would have grown up at the same time as me, societal pressure and beauty standards have begun to bother her significantly - she's always had a chubby build, and now feels insecure over her weight. Comments made over it have actually had her shying away from her old love of sports and instead focusing on being the sweaty band kid. She feels a little awkward in herself, and can't fully get away from the reputation she built in her younger teens of being 'that bitch who thinks she's better than everyone'. She's trying to live her best life and has a few flings here and there and tries to figure out what will make her happy. She's also burning out hard, just barely scraping her exams as a result and feeling like things are crumbling around her. She's looking for anything to act as her safety net right now.

Step 4: Amy Edwards. Amy feels more settled at this stage, but still anxious and in need of a safety net. She still will speak out if something upsets or annoys her, such as Derek's own unfair treatment of himself. She co owns a company with a friend and feels like she has some purpose and direction in life. She's open to teasing and making fun. She's still a little insecure about her body, but has begun to come to terms with the fact that she has a plus size build and that doesn't mean she's unhealthy or unattractive, in fact she's athletic and looks after herself well, the real issue is unhealthy beauty standards. She is, however, annoyed by how short she is, especially since so many of her friends and loved ones are stupidly tall.

Step 1: Tafadzwa 'Taffy' Kalakona. Taffy is bright and cheerful. They seem confident and happy, like to take charge and want to see others smile. They aren't as physically affectionate as Poppy, but are big on gift giving and kind words. They also love fashion, and seem to dislike reading but love writing. They were born intersex.

Step 2: Tafadzwa Kalakona. Tafadzwa doesn't have any visible change in their character doll at this step or any change in their pronouns. Tafadzwa is loud and tries to be the funny kid, and to be someone reliable who you can lean on with your troubles. They have begun to form an interest in journalism and want to work for a fashion magazine in the future. They are also becoming aware of the fact that they haven't really felt any attraction to anyone, and until meeting Baxter at the soiree, they believe they're aroace.

Step 3: Tafadzwa 'Taf' Kalakona. At this step, Taf is losing their confidence, primarily due to a crisis of identity. They've referred to themselves as they/them as long as they can remember, but did they choose that? Because that was what they felt? Or were they just always a they? Has anything ever truly felt right? As well as that, they're becoming more keenly aware of the fact that, following learning about their biological parents' deaths, there's a whole separate culture they could have been raised in, and part of them has told themselves they've missed out on something big. There's a disconnect between the life they've lived and this idea they've put in their own head about the life they should have. They've always loved writing, and dancing, but suddenly these hobbies feel hollow. Do they really want to be a journalist? Are they good at anything, really? They have so many questions about themselves and no answers and it's driving them a little insane. They cover this up by leaning harder into being the funny one of the group. Also the one person who made them question their aroaceness is back, which is awkward, and now they're having a summer fling and he feels weird about the fact that Taf's demidemi ass has only ever been attracted to him so far and they feel terrible about that making him uncomfy. Is it weird they've only ever felt attraction to one person? God, they just don't know any more.

Step 4: Tafadzwa Kalakona. Appearance is again largely unchanged on the doll. They now use they/them and he/him pronouns and have several tattoos. He's still anxious and uncertain regarding who he is, still feeling it all out, but is also more solid. He has labels for himself that feel right. Genderfluid demiboy demisexual demiromantic. Does still want to be a journalist and is actively working towards that, but has more of an idea of specific areas they want to work in. Has also moved away from being 'the funny one' and more towards being their genuine self. No more masking. He still tells jokes and wants to uplift spirits, and is a strong and protective presence in his friends' lives, but that humour isn't a solid wall to hide the confusion anymore.

These next two are for Now & Forever, and since that's only in demo right now I can only provide steps 1 and 2. I'll update it with 3 and 4 when available.

Step 1: Diamond Zeiler. He doesn't uncover his right eye until step 3 but I will tell you now it's hazel. He wasn't originally going to have heterochromia but when I saw it was an option in this one, I jumped on it (I have heterochromia myself so squee). Diamond is excitable, loud and active, very talkative and passionate, eager to make friends but he didn't have many at his last town. He currently has undiagnosed ADHD and autism, which may have been a factor in his difficulty in making friends before. He is also very bitter and grumpy about having to move. He's angry and doesn't hide it. He doesn't want to be angry, but things were difficult enough relating to other kids and getting along before, suddenly being thrust into a new place with lots of change and absolutely nobody familiar makes him very upset and anxious, and that manifests as anger at the situation. This ends up primarily directed at his mother, who he blames for the move. He loves his skateboard and his cuddly toys very much. He is also realising that he likes boys romantically. His only concern regarding that is if he can impress them with skateboard tricks or not.

Step 2: Diamond Zeiler. Diamond is now quieter and much more withdrawn. He's definitely suffering from some form of depression, and other people's reactions to him in the past have built up a belief that he is stupid, annoying and has no future. Because of that, he second guesses everything he says and tries to hold his tongue, and doesn't really look forward to anything. The anger he felt before was never dealt with in a healthy fashion either, leaving a nice festering unpleasantness within. He has now also developed a crush on Tamarack, but isn't sure if he really likes girls or just feels like that's expected of him. Like, he likes her a lot, but is it the same as his very definite crush on Qiu?

Step 1: Virginia Walsh. Virginia is a very quiet, polite and well behaved young lady. The very idea of being naughty is utterly scandalous to her. She tries to stay clean, keeps out of trouble and wants to make friends. She goes out of her way to be kind and understanding.

Step 2: Virgil Walsh. Virgil has gone a good 180 from his good little girl past. He's now in the midst of a wild, reckless phase where he causes problems on purpose. He's a feral little shit now and you should all be afraid, be very afraid. Also he and Qiu are no longer friends, but dear sweet god does he have the biggest crush in the known universe on Tamarack.

And while I'm here, a bonus of two more things I made playing around and then got attached to

I have a problem and it's endlessly playing with character customisation.

[kick-a-long]

my pronouns are actually in my bio btw no need to misgender 👍 would also prefer if you didnt call me a race faking jew but what can i expect from zionists ? yall have the same unoriginal shit every time. check the notes of that post and youll see a buncha people claiming im not jewish. it makes you so mad other jews dont hate palestinians like you do that you jump straight into grief and denial lmfao

I didn’t mean to misgender. I didn’t look. That I’m sorry for. I didn’t mean to but I should have looked, that was an honest mistake.

Calling you a fake Jew however I think it’s worth a conversation. I knew it was a low blow and I meant to do it.

You said that it makes sense for a Zionist to assume any antizionist Jew isn’t Jewish. But by saying, well all Zionists are X why does that make my saying, all antizionist Jews are faking, which I did heavily imply, I 100% did that, a rude thing to do? Both these things are rude unkind and unthoughtful generalizations. We shouldn’t do that to other people, just like we shouldn’t blame problems on the people suffering them. I’m talking antisemitism and antizionism.

You can’t really say “how dare you be rude!” When you started being rude to a Jew I follow. I defended them because I could. That said, we are both fucked because our family line, a thing we didn’t choose, has put all Jews in a place where we have to have an opinion.

I should feel safe to say, I think Israel should exist and they aren’t genocidal (backed up with evidence I find and my thoughts) that same way you should be able to say “I don’t think Israel should exist” in a synagogue (backed up by evidence and arguments you have) and both of us should be safe to talk about that.

I was mad and gave you a low blow I felt you deserved. Did you deserve it? Idk. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. I was raised hyper secular so my connection to being a Jew was almost entirely cultural and ethnic fear. I’ve been called a fake Jew by Jews and it hurts like a kick to the nuts. I intended to hurt you whether you merited it. I don’t know if I’m sorry yet. I think I understand where you are coming from. I was really pissed I had to know anything about Israel to live where I live in south Brooklyn frankly, I’m glad I learned and have made a bunch of Israeli friends who have a different experience from me that makes my life better but still, it shouldn’t have involved me because I’m a ny Jew who never planned to know. I have many interests and the whole thing is such a winding cluster fuck I was happy to be comfortable and dumb.

All this to say, I don’t like you being an asshole to me or Zionists and I hope you don’t love being an asshole either. Why don’t you consider coming round a ceasefire between you and Zionists? From my perspective Jews and Zionists are inseparable. You don’t agree which you might have reasons for I don’t know but if you go low I won’t argue. I’ll go lower. I’m not asking for agreement, I’m saying that inter community shit flinging serves no one.

If there’s dialogue to be had this isn’t doing it. That’s my full opinion. I’m angry at 2023 and 2024 and I’m happy to punch anyone about it, I don’t think that’s the best coping mechanism (but it feels good so fuck it right?)

I think you’re mad at other Jews because you’re being lumped in and being born Jewish has gotten you in a bad situation. I might be wrong about that but I’m right that you are attacking the wrong people, people you can avoid and people whose thinking has nothing to do with you, to prove you aren’t an evil person from birth. People who have seen bigotry and people who don’t deserve to be attacked or judged for how they are coping.

Don’t piss on my leg and say it’s raining, the reason you and I are in conflict has nothing to do with us as people and everything to do with being Jewish and goy opinions about that. Idk what else to say.

[solar-nightengale]

hi hello I am here with prompts! 💕 How about: ‘you scared me!’ or ‘there’s nothing to say!’ ? :)

Hiiii Libby 😏 💕 Heck yesssss thank you so much for this!!! I apologise for how long this got DFJTKHCLKSR But ahaha…. Had fun with the idea once it hit

Hope you enjoy a little, ah, Mother/Daughter time between Bethan and mother dearest, Nimue 👀

𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒

prompt: ‘there’s nothing to say!’

CW: There’s some emotional manipulation going on here, so reader discretion is advised!!

The clock tower ticked silently, each minute passing with another added point to the dread Bethan was already feeling. The Mark of Charon was the last thing she had wanted to see tonight, yet fate continued to toy with her like the sick and twisted puppet that she was in its marionette play. She heard the hand tick into place, as another minute passed while she walked through the streets and her hands tensed in her pockets. She wanted to hit something damn it. If her helplessness could be personified, maybe she’d have punched it. She wanted to rid herself of it somehow, and the fact that she couldn’t do a damned thing to help anyone (I mean who could battle against the Mark of the Underworld for goodness sake. Who was she? A God?) but the fact that she had no weapon or tool to help-

“Damn it!!” she exclaimed, as she hit the wall she was walking by, her chest rising and falling heavily all the while. Her gaze burned.

A cold sensation suddenly fell over her where she stood. Her hands returned to her pockets, Bethan not looking up as she heard the footsteps approach. She knew who was approaching. The eerie feeling she felt the second they had appeared was more familiar than she would like to admit.

Too much grief. So much… hurt. Gods above, when will they finally have peace at last?! Is the only way to earn it through death alone? Is that all that would be left for them? To enter the world’s under and find that better place?

“You can take your leave now, Nimue. I have no intentions of commuting with you.” Bethan croaked out, her head still cast to the ground.

“Is it wrong that I wish to speak to you once more, my dear?” She heard her say back.

“You've lost that privilege a long time ago.” Beth murmured.

“Now that's just harsh,” Bitterness rose up like bile at her words, as Bethan straightened up and turned around at last.

Standing before her was an individual she hadn’t seen in a long time. Frankly she looked almost unrecognisable. Because despite certain similarities, the scaly skin notable for a dark one is enough to distinguish them. Bethan’s face remained unreadable even as Nimue took a step towards her.

Beth’s gaze narrowed. “If that's supposed to upset me then you've lost your touch, my dear,” she sneered.

Nimue’s smile morphed to something sickeningly sweet, Bethan finding herself squirming under her gaze.

“It’s harsh, because for someone that claims she treats other people differently your lack of sympathy is no different from those you think of as your friends. Look how quick they were to turn against your fairy, your best friends,” she pointed out.

“An’ you- an’ you’d blame them?!” Beth retorted, tensing under her gaze. “After the damage you caused through their souls and bodies?! Cause I sure can’t! Not after all the shit you had them do!”

“You wish to see the rest kill them then? Kill me? Is that what you want?” Nimue continued, her voice holding a sadness Beth wasn’t sure if it was true or not. And yet her own words and feelings died, giving way to fear once more as she turned away, glaring at the ground once more. “That wounds me. After all these years of making sure you stayed alive even after I was gone, and yet I cannot earn forgiveness or a second chance, Bethan? Isn't it cruel to grant them to others yet you can't give it to your own mother?”

“Mother!!” Beth’s laughter was shrill and unkind, as she looked up and took a step forward. “What kinda mother are you if the only way you’re gonna get through to me is whatever this method is?!

“Use your words and not your volume-”

“Stop telling me what to do, you have no right!” Bethan snapped as she took another step towards the dark one. “All your life you-you spent spreading nothing but your corrupted self across the land, leaving none bu’ harboured hate in your wake. I can barely even remember your face or if there were any kind word you spoke to me without intending to use it as a means of keeping me, your darling pawn, close.” She could feel the wound she still had on her side burn. The cruel irony of it doing so, given stood before her was the agonising reminder why she had it; who it was caused by. It was reckless perhaps to blame it all on the woman in front of her but Bethan was too angry to care.

Her life, her misery, her loneliness and fears were all born from her. Her inactions, her choices. The last of any love she might have had for Nimue had been simmering away, leaving none but apathy and disdain.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to shout, she wanted to let go and show just how much this all seared on the inside but the words couldn’t form. No matter how much she would like them to, she couldn’t speak even a syllable of them, as though they were only for her to hear.

She breathed in shakily as she took a step back. “When I said I wanted nothing more to do with you I fucking meant it, Nimue. Stay the hell away from me. And keep your ruddy hands off of my people.”

“Not like there will be much left of them soon enough, my dear.” Nimue hummed, making the other freeze.

Another tick on the clock tower sounded. Another reminder.

Stop reminding her. Stop reminding her that time was short, she should probably be with them and talking to them even if it were for the last ever time, and not wasting it with this-with this!!

Nimue huffed.

“What? Got nothing to say on the matter?”

“There’s nothing to say! There never was!” Bethan spat, glaring up at her and ignoring the resettling sting behind her eyes. “May-maybe fate has another plan the way it always bloody does for people like them! But the one thing it won’t change is that I'm through with you. For good.”

“Hm, pity.” she heard Nimue hum as she turned around and started walking off once more, swiping at the tears on her face. “And here I was going to give you a chance to say goodbye at least. But if this is your choice-” A subtle chill draped over Beth once more. “Tell your father I said hello.”

Shit!

She turned thrusting her hand out with a silent spell readied but not only was she unable to summon it, Nimue was faster. She grabbed her wrist, blue smoke engulfing the girl until even her wide eyes were shrouded by the dark haze.

The clock ticked above once more, a quiet chime sounding the half time for all to hear.

But the only one standing beneath it was Nimue.

[lupinnsa]

why choose to be mean?

i’ve had a few bad experiences and discoveries over the past year, and one of those revelations included a weird, uncomfortable observation: that while I strive for kindness in casual conversation, often times the people in the world around me… do not.

i’m not talking about silly, comedy-tuned mockery of friends or anything either. i’m referring to, at least, semi-serious discussion about anything you could have opinions about, from other people, to current events, to trending products.

no matter how positive or negative my opinions are, i strive to voice them with as much respect as possible to those involved with the subject. i might overemphasize my positive opinions and refrain from spending too long on my negative ones, for example. More importantly, I try not to belittle other people casually just because they “aren’t in the room”. When they are, I try to be direct and honest without exaggerating my point. Negative opinions and disagreements are already difficult enough, and there’s no need to salt the wound; I try to remain kind even when discussing events or persons that actively harmed me. Even when I’m pretty sure no one else will see.

If I realize my opinions are flawed based on incorrect or outdated information, I always try to own up to those sorts of errors, and change my opinions accordingly. I try to leave room for personal growth or change to make a difference. I try to keep my expectations from coloring my attitude.

Recent events have made it very clear that others are not so interested in that same effort. I suppose it is easier to be unkind if the expectation is that the subject will “never know.” Or perhaps there isn’t enough consequence for “being mean” to choose words with care. Or perhaps this aggressive behavior comes from the increasingly antagonistic perspective of those beyond one’s personal boundaries. Or perhaps it simply costs more energy to keep your filters on.

I’m not free of this sort of sin myself. I’ve said unkind things before, especially when I was younger, especially when I was less informed, less sympathetic. Even recently, I’ve said unkind things to my own close friends simply because I was in emotional turmoil, because I was desperately craving the minimum closure I could ask, for one of the most egregious accusations I’ve ever been the target of on a larger scale. A simple, genuine, apology.

When I realize that something I did or said was hurtful beyond necessity, whether it was from the heat of the moment or a moment of carelessness, I try to genuinely apologize for it. But I’ve seen that others are all too willing to double down on their aggression instead, punching deeper without indication of a second thought. Without restraint.

Someone once said that people don’t like to own up to their mistakes because saying stuff like, “I was wrong,” is an admission of guilt. That no one wants to be guilty of being a jerk, because then they would be a jerk. And I think overall, that observation seems pretty spot on, if deeply disappointing.

I obviously want people to be more kind, passively, to other people in general. But I especially want the mindset of admitting you were wrong to change: not, “I was wrong and I am a jerk,” but, “I was wrong, I was a jerk, but I want to do better.”

Obviously there’s a lot of nuance to be had here. Like, what about the consequences of actions? Why not fight back if something isn’t interested in giving you a chance to defend yourself? How do we learn to be kind and sympathetic in a world that is, for some reason, becoming increasingly intolerant?

I wish I had the answers to all of that, but I don’t.

I just want people to choose to be kind.

[libidomechanica]

But lets it so large an orb, as truly, know

And one the light, then quickly gone?     Around that motto drew. Show! A thousand honour of union     was Juan; whom shall have he did sip, and cast up from their     order keep we thinks gay Punch hath ending in her eyes nor     ears, till older man who

loves me again: the Future I     embrace; and lady friends them all this sick period close     the curtains over you except once on a day, so short,     and made a monument, so well served in this very weel     aff like Autumne plums, did

drop, and cause some pinnes hurt did     whine, by my side, so is her eyes glowing first. Strait is the     kitchen lightning a candle to touch upon them. Has     powerless Heliades melt into his repartees. When the     landscape which sight, they rode;

they take your regular in     paradise had more white with vagabonding sheets. A hidden     mystery once, and put the chosen it. Pensive he eyes,     lips another; no sister flower—may choose her voices     die, vibrates in the doors

ajar? His Soul was constant     colonies at last, to fold, birds more purpose lost, where am     I? Brake with her arms infold him his smoke occupied their     true hypocrite at least all price, when in an hour with you     fightingale does shed

its cool underwater filter’d     in a thoughted Venus having wretch! Some deem it but her     wings which in rubles, diamonds, cash, and sees best work, yet swell     threshold, he, or hand had my load before the saints and saints     had once think’st thou need not

see a single laughing at his     way, but true,—last war the wayward love, my bright sun glorifies     their guided steps can find nothing hastily. Which lovers     dream of Heaven to reach heart shall know, it is very     miserable Knight thee, which

is the stature, all are but with     the bench behind the clove, and murmurous vestibule his     youth, and the realme of Lorraine; and draw one Breath you this. Where     were dewd with many a sniggering flames in eyes? Pensive     he eyes, thoughts so sweetly

doth fall, the fetid wombs of blood,     with stay thought, in pity of love their hearts to—all at last     wet step before the wall, like Autumne plums, did drop a flowers     with the hung his common- place! Farewell, hear, mistress, for     Tyrans make a lyzard

dull, to taste. From each light voyage     or Shah, and the nymph that Fate avenges arms Shirúeh with     her grieve: for sharply, and hotel; thy packets, all hoped to     find its love a sister flows away; a single laughter     loved the best presume for

I have my body’s bane would surpass     the equinox, that sliding hip to haunch. Is it thy     seal-manual on my thought to owe, insolvent every     willing me. Thou dost speak no square were out of the dale, the     mysterious: besides,

so plied and stitched up in fatal     Juan ever made. The little Turk refused to walk away,     as with burning in a fit of waste, refuse and dubious     bone, though the cold ran the welkin volleys out his poor     old breast. Various arts

of melancholy rite for the     break. I am the heavy Saturn laugh’d, as if it seems     unkind. Of a wee white should not that ourselves awake, and     expire; so was of more perjured eye, to see me weep so     sore, hey ho! Don Juan now

was she. You tell the slow-picked, halting     travell��d; and kissing injury, revenge from his ivied     nook glow like a race- horse; much as may be Boaz, and     fingers on this wish, nor blank; it means to immure herself     in me. Birds, gusts and now

she will Europe’s sagest head.     Be cut in Phaeton’s time, and destroy the cattle’s feet, scrambling     ecstasy, till Paradise: wheels round my hope! When Newton     saw an apple doth sit, long siege to their fox-hunt o’er     its steady surprise a

heap of pain. An image I do     steal thyself, by turns to pull. Here he could tell nought can tire,     and Lamia, what can ye recognition from thy     should be able for know, through or smooth as snow she seeks: he     shoulders, heav’n-directed,

to go, whilst ravish’d with no soul     and unload all good to live. Mae nor mermaid’s voice and alone     the writhed her to Its delicacy—stoops at once     ye shall lay bare her long by hardest fate, the bows her heart.     He spoke, and yet these dinner;

angle, the soldier’s death’s ebon     dart, to strike the prison’d in her, she: but thou, that turns     up through they rang on her troubled brain;—and tug at the all     over America. Teaches one to folk—remember     me when the low starlight.

Who, in my e’e, to this flesh helps     soul! Nor did when they: alas that joy can get a fresh beauty     is to me as laughter knit into each other ran     in his magic vapour of some a little leaning up     this proud head lolled back,

nor brag not of. Just such art as     from a half-unquench’d volcano go. Have in the primrose     bank whereon with brasswork prinked, each leaning in the god     of day, to lord and lads indifference certes, she was     Nor more than she frame to?

[sinditia]

Starkercest Fic - Father's day edition

Server prompt by @starkly : Dubcon starkercest, once again porn inspired. Peter's ex is saying Peter will never be able to find someone other than them, and Peter wants to disprove that But... Peter doesn't have a boyfriend.... What he does have though is his dad, fast asleep in the other room.... He could pull down the blankets and his pants and take some selfies sucking dick, that would show his ex they're wrong. They don't have to know the dick belongs to his sleeping father

Additional warnings: 17-yo-Peter. Quentin Beck being a gaslighting shithead.

Word Count: 2.5k

--

Peter Stark storms through the penthouse, fuming, angry tears still prickling his eyes.

Quentin, that fucking asshole.

--

It’s a party. Peter had a few solo cups of plain Sprite in him and he needed to find a bathroom.

The door wasn’t even locked. That’s how little Quentin cared about getting caught. Peter pushed it open to find his boyfriend standing there with his dick in another girl’s mouth.

Neither looked particularly sorry. The girl just said, “whoops” then straightened her skirt and slipped out of there, leaving the two alone.

Quentin tucked himself back in, just sighing as he continued leaning against the bathroom counter like Peter had just deeply inconvenienced him by interrupting.

“What the fuck?!” Peter finally said, voice pitched a little too high and pathetic to be righteous.

Quentin sighed again. “Babe, look-“

“Don’t fucking call me that!”

“What the hell did you expect me to do, dragging me to a high school party?”

“Oh, I don’t know, not stick your dick in some-”

Quentin scoffed. “What, it’s not like you were gonna do anything about this.” He gestured offhandedly at his crotch. “I told you we should go to my place instead of this stupid party.”

“I wanted you to meet my friends!”

“And sit in a corner and talk about Legos or Star Trek or whatever all night? You’re not even drinking. Jesus, Pete, I had no idea you’re such a kid.”

Peter blinked, eyes burning. He’s not… But Quentin said…

“Look around, Pete. All the other seventeen-year-olds in here are having sex. Meanwhile you’re just sitting there, a bunch of sad virgins talking about nerd-shit.”

“I- I’m not,” Peter stammered, “I’m not a virgin. I’ve had sex with… with-”

“With me?” Quentin finished, pitying and mean. “When you just laid there like a starfish and made me do all the work? That could barely be called ‘having sex’. My left hand does a better job getting me off than you.”

Peter blinked faster, tears starting to well up.

“Aw, baby,” Quentin cooed, but it sounded unkind, demeaning. He reached forward and cupped Peter’s cheek. Peter flinched but couldn’t muster the strength to push the other man away. “You know, that’s why I wanted us to go to my place tonight, work on your technique, get you a little better at it. But then you forced me to come here…” Quentin shrugs, pulling away.

Anger started to blossom under Peter’s hurt. “Are you actually trying to make it seem like it’s my fault you’re cheating on me?”

“Peter,” Quentin says, exaggeratedly all-patient like scolding a child, “when one person in a relationship can’t fulfil the other’s needs, it’s only natural that they look for it somewhere else. I think you should take this as an opportunity for self-reflection, some self-improvement. Don’t worry, baby, I can help you get better.”

Peter bristled. “You’re insane if you think I want anything to do with you after this. We’re over.”

“Oh sure, I’m insane.” Quentin actually laughed. “Babe, I’m the only one reasonable and understanding enough to actually put up with you. You think you’d actually find anyone willing to come near you, let alone fuck you?”

Peter wanted to punch Quentin square in the face but the tears were also threatening to fully cascade down his cheeks now so he did the only thing he had the strength to do.

He ran. He left the party and went home, his ex-boyfriend’s callous laughter and cruel eyes echoing in his mind.

--

“Dad!” Peter’s cry echoes through the quiet, dark foyer. He sniffles as he wanders the penthouse, wanting his dad’s strong arms around him. Tony is always there for his son, ready to comfort him whenever he’s upset. “Daddy, where are you?”

Peter finds the door to the liquor cabinet hanging open and a half-empty Glenfiddich sitting on the counter. He sighs sadly. His father’s been drinking. Judging from the silence replying his calls, Tony is probably passed out somewhere.

Peter heads to his dad’s bedroom, opening the door slowly as he peers inside. Tony’s room is never locked. Peter is always welcome to come inside, slip under the covers at night and sleep with him whenever he needed comfort. Nightmares and thunderstorms don’t seem so scary when he had his dad’s warm, protective body curled around him.

Peter’s feet are quiet on the carpets as he steps inside the bedroom. Through the darkness he sees an empty glass on the bedside. Tony is fast asleep, shirtless, but Peter knows he’s wearing boxer briefs under the blankets covering him from the waist down. That’s how his dad usually sleeps, even when he’s wasted.

Peter climbs into the bed, the king-size having plenty of space for him. He snuggles close, taking in his dad’s natural, musky scent under the faint remnants of sandalwood cologne and the boozy scotch in his breath. Peter feels better already though he wishes his dad would hug him, squeeze him tight and tell him everything would be alright in his low soothing voice.

“I had a bad day, Daddy,” Peter whispers to the slow heaves of his dad’s bare chest.

Tony doesn’t answer, still out cold.

Peter sighs, restless. He takes out his phone, intending to text his friends, apologize for taking off so suddenly, but sees a text from Quentin instead.

let me know when you’ve come to your senses. I’ll help you work things out.

Peter buries his face in the pillows and stifles a scream. That fucking sociopath really thinks he’s god’s gift to humanity, like he’s doing Peter the world’s biggest favour by being with him. Like there’s no other choice, like Peter won’t find someone other than him.

Is he right? An anxious little voice in Peter’s brain keeps asking. The only guy who’s ever shown interest in him is Quentin. He’s never dated anyone before him. What if he never dates anyone ever again?

Peter whimpers unhappily, pressing his face into the muscle of his dad’s shoulder. If Tony was awake, he’d say all the right words to make Peter feel better. He’d understand Peter’s feelings even if he can’t relate to them.

Tony was a notorious playboy back in the day. Even now, Peter has seen enough people throwing themselves at his dad. He can’t really blame them. Tony can wear a three-piece suit like no one else. He looks powerful and capable, beautiful and expensive. Unlike his son, Tony can have anyone he wants. But his dad has never taken up any of the offers, not since Peter’s mother ran off. It pleases Peter, secretly. He doesn’t want to share his perfect dad with anyone else.

His perfect dad.

Peter studies Tony’s sleeping face. So handsome. Peter wonders if he’ll grow up to look like that, with those strong brows and chiselled jaw and impeccable facial hair. Peter takes more after his mother, it seems. Soft freckles, small nose, thin lips. Peter does share his dad’s brown eyes and dark lashes though. That’s Peter’s favourite feature of himself, the part that shows he belongs to his dad.

Peter traces a hand down his dad’s chest, admiring the contours of his pectorals, down to the hint of abs covered by a healthy pudge that Peter shouldn’t find so, incredibly attractive. He follows the captivating trail of dark hair that goes down, down, until it hides from Peter’s view under the waistband of dark red boxer briefs.

How many people have followed this path ‘til the end? Peter wonders, feeling coarse hairs through the thin fabric. How many people have seen where it goes?

Peter’s own situation down there isn’t much to look at. Barely any hair, unimpressive cock even when fully hard. Peter’s face burns with humiliation. No wonder nobody wants him.

Hell would freeze over a million times before he gets back together with Quentin though. Peter would rather be alone forever. He just wishes there was a way to get back at him, show that smug-faced asshole that Peter can do so much better. That someone out there wants him.

Peter realizes belatedly, that he’s been touching his dad’s… his dad. Down there.

Peter’s eyes flick up to his dad’s face but he’s still fast asleep. Tony makes a soft sound and shifts his hips but his eyes remain closed. A different part of him is waking up though. The part that Peter touched. The part that Peter is still touching.

It grows. Firmer. Bigger. Until the tip is straining against the waist band.

And Peter is still touching it.

Now here’s a cock that wants him, Peter thinks, giddy at the thought that he can have an effect like this to a man as incredible as his dad. Wish Quentin could see this. That’d show him.

Peter could, though. He could show him. The phone is back in his hand before his brain catches up with him. His other hand hesitates only slightly before tugging the waist band of his dad’s boxer briefs down.

Oh God.

His dad is magnificently hard, impressively large, the most beautiful cock he’s ever seen, in real life and in porn. It feels natural for Peter to wrap his fingers around the length, give it a stroke, like it’s exactly what he’s supposed to do, like he’s made for it.

Tony sighs in his sleep, a content sound. His expression is slack, mouth curled into a slight smile like he’s having a nice dream. A slight twist on the upstroke has a bead of pearly liquid emerging from the tip. Instinctively, Peter leans down and laps it up. It’s a salty burst on his tongue and he moans at the taste, while Tony grunts and bucks his hips.

Peter grins, pleased. Okay, sure, he’s always been a little bit of a daddy’s boy, always eager to please. He works hard at school, gets good grades, all so he can come home and show his dad, see those eyes light up with pride. When his dad comes home from work all tired, Peter likes to rub his shoulders, make him feel better, and his dad would hold him, kiss him, tell him he’s the best. Peter loves making his daddy happy.

And Tony isn’t just Peter Stark’s dad. Tony Stark is a man. A handsome, wonderful, perfect… sexy man. And Peter is making him feel good.

Take that, Quentin. Peter opens the camera app on his phone.

Careful not to let Tony’s face in the frame, Peter angles the lens so that it catches his face, right above the man’s hard cock. Oh wow, his dad looks so big in Peter’s small hand. Peter clenches low in his gut at the sight of it. Peter puts his mouth on the shaft, licking, lapping up and down, clicking the shutter the whole time.

“Oh fuck.”

Startled, Peter looks up, fearing that he’s caught.

Tony’s eyelids flutter but don’t open. He’s still breathing deeply, albeit a little faster. He’s still asleep.

Peter huffs, relieved. He checks his photo gallery to see if he’s gotten some good shots.

“Mmm, baby…” Tony whines in his sleep, pelvis twitching against the cold air.

Peter stifles a giggle. “Sorry, Daddy,” he whispers, more apologetic about leaving his dad hanging than actually taking advantage of him.

Peter changes positions so that he can see his dad’s face while he’s doing this. Peter suckles the tip, lapping up any pre-cum that’s slipped out, before sinking down to try and take the whole length into his mouth. Tony is so big though that he’s hit the far end of Peter’s mouth with only half of it inside.

Peter bobs his head, getting a little more in deeper every time but never quite bottoming out so Peter strokes and rubs the part that he can’t fit into his mouth. Tony lets out a heavy sound each time Peter sinks down on him, hips twitching, abs flexing, chasing the pleasure his son is giving him. Peter is getting hard now too, turned on at the thought of making his daddy feel good. He squirms on the bed, grinding his achy, little cock against the mattress.

Peter fumbles for his phone, wanting to capture on camera the way his dad wants him, wanting to show off to his bastard of an ex-boyfriend just how fucking skilled and desirable and sexy he is. How it’s Quentin’s not Peter’s loss that they broke up and-

Peter chokes in surprise as two large hands wrap around his head and pushes him down, forcing the cock in his mouth to slip down his throat. There’s deep groaning sounds from the direction of the headboard as Tony starts thrusting into his son’s mouth, hard and fast. Peter drops the phone, only able to hang on to his dad’s thighs helplessly as he’s face-fucked within an inch of his life. The spill of thick, bitter cum in his mouth is sudden and brimming and while Peter’s throat convulses on instinct to swallow, some still escape his lips and drip down his chin.

Peter pulls off as soon as he feels the grip on his head relinquish.

“Daddy?” Peter coughs, voice raspy and breathless. He looks up but astonishingly, Tony continues to sleep, snoring softly. Peter lets out a giggle, a little hysterical with relief and the absurdity of it all.

Peter rummages the bed for his phone and finds it, looking at himself through the front camera. There’s cum – his dad’s cum – on his face, painting his lips, smearing across his cheek. It looks fucking good on him.

Peter leans down to take a selfie of his cum-splattered face right next to his dad’s spent cock. He sticks out his tongue to scoop up some leftover cum from the tip of that softening cock and takes a photo of that too. Yeah, he looks good like that. That one’s his favourite, he thinks. He sends that photo to Quentin.

let me know when you’ve come to your senses. I’ll help you work things out.

work THIS out, shithead, Peter replies.

--

this was supposed to be about 6k, then things happened and i lost steam. so there may be a second part to this where tony catches peter doing it again and i wrote like half of it already. i'll pick it up again if i get my zeal for writing back.

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ACOK: Arya X (Chapter 64)

Long time no see, Sailor Moon.

The heads never lacked for attendants. The carrion crows wheeled about the gatehouse in raucous unkindness and quarreled upon the ramparts over every eye, screaming and cawing at each other and taking to the air whenever a sentry passed along the battlements. Sometimes the maester's ravens joined the feast as well, flapping down from the rookery on wide black wings. When the ravens came the crows would scatter, only to return the moment the larger birds were gone.

What am I reading?

+.+.+

Do the ravens remember Maester Tothmure? Arya wondered. Are they sad for him? When they quork at him, do they wonder why he doesn't answer? Perhaps the dead could speak to them in some secret tongue the living could not hear.

Wouldn't that be something? If birds could talk to the dead? The possibilities!

+.+.+

Tothmure had been sent to the axe for dispatching birds to Casterly Rock and King's Landing the night Harrenhal had fallen, Lucan the armorer for making weapons for the Lannisters, Goodwife Harra for telling Lady Whent's household to serve them, the steward for giving Lord Tywin the keys to the treasure vault. The cook was spared (some said because he'd made the weasel soup), but stocks were hammered together for pretty Pia and the other women who'd shared their favors with Lannister soldiers. Stripped and shaved, they were left in the middle ward beside the bear pit, free for the use of any man who wanted them.

Oof.

Stark fans reading this chapter:

+.+.+

Once, when there had been only half as many heads, Gendry had caught Arya looking at them. "Admiring your work?" he asked.

He was angry because he'd liked Lucan, she knew, but it still wasn't fair. "It's Steelshanks Walton's work," she said defensively. "And the Mummers, and Lord Bolton."

"And who gave us all them? You and your weasel soup."

Arya punched his arm. "It was just hot broth. You hated Ser Amory too."

"I hate this lot worse. Ser Amory was fighting for his lord, but the Mummers are sellswords and turncloaks. Half of them can't even speak the Common Tongue. Septon Utt likes little boys, Qyburn does black magic, and your friend Biter eats people."

The worst thing was, she couldn't even say he was wrong.

Boy, this northern political coup is sounding more and more like a big oopsie.

+.+.+

"You do it." Elmar could be friendly when he needed help, but afterward he would always remember that he was a squire and she was only a serving girl. He liked to boast how he was the son of the Lord of the Crossing, not a nephew or a bastard or a grandson but a trueborn son, and on account of that he was going to marry a princess.

Hmmm. Elmar Frey, the squire. Not a nephew or a bastard, but a trueborn son, set to marry a princess.

I would check to see who has the next chapter, but I already smell the citrus.

+.+.+

"He has lost Winterfell! His brothers are dead . . ."

For a moment Arya forgot to breathe. Dead? Bran and Rickon, dead? What does he mean? What does he mean about Winterfell, Joffrey could never take Winterfell, never, Robb would never let him. Then she remembered that Robb was not at Winterfell. He was away in the west, and Bran was crippled, and Rickon only four. It took all her strength to remain still and silent, the way Syrio Forel had taught her, to stand there like a stick of furniture. She felt tears gathering in her eyes, and willed them away. It's not true, it can't be true, it's just some Lannister lie.

+.+.+

Ser Aenys shook his head stubbornly. "You do not know the Lannisters as we do, my lord. King Stannis thought that Lord Tywin was a thousand leagues away as well, and it undid him." The pale man in the bed smiled faintly as the leeches nursed of his blood. "I am not a man to be undone, ser." [...] "Someone must have the courage to say it," Ser Hosteen said. "The war is lost. King Robb must be made to see that." Roose Bolton studied him with pale eyes. "His Grace has defeated the Lannisters every time he has faced them in battle." [...] "Stannis lost," Ser Hosteen said bluntly. "Wishing it were otherwise will not make it so. King Robb must make his peace with the Lannisters. He must put off his crown and bend the knee, little as he may like it." "And who will tell him so?" Roose Bolton smiled. "It is a fine thing to have so many valiant brothers in such troubled times. I shall think on all you've said."

They don't even know about Robb's little blunder in the westerlands yet, but you can't convince me Roose hasn't already flipped at this point.

+.+.+

"There is a letter from your lady wife." Qyburn pulled a roll of parchment from his sleeve. Though he wore maester's robes, there was no chain about his neck; it was whispered that he had lost it for dabbling in necromancy.

✨ foreshadowing ✨

+.+.+

A rider from Ser Helman had come two days past. Tallhart men had taken the castle of the Darrys, accepting the surrender of its Lannister garrison after a brief siege.

"Tell him to put the captives to the sword and the castle to the torch, by command of the king. Then he is to join forces with Robett Glover and strike east toward Duskendale. Those are rich lands, and hardly touched by the fighting. It is time they had a taste. Glover has lost a castle, and Tallhart a son. Let them take their vengeance on Duskendale."

Smells like sabotage. Seems to me Roose Bolton is trying to send the Tallharts and Glovers as far away from the north and riverlands as possible.

+.+.+

Arya was glad to hear that the castle of the Darrys would be burned. That was where they'd brought her when she'd been caught after her fight with Joffrey, and where the queen had made her father kill Sansa's wolf. It deserves to burn.

Good thing you don't have your sister's superpowers.

+.+.+

"I will hunt today," Roose Bolton announced as Qyburn helped him into a quilted jerkin.

[...]

"It is wolves I mean to hunt. I can scarcely sleep at night for the howling."

[...]

"Terrible times breed terrible things, my lord."

Bolton showed his teeth in something that might have been a smile. "Are these times so terrible, Maester?"

+.+.+

The heel of her right foot was bloody where she'd skinned it, so she stood one-legged before the heart tree and raised her sword in salute. "Valar morghulis," she told the old gods of the north. She liked how the words sounded when she said them.

What's this all about? Is that some sort of pledge?

+.+.+

As Arya crossed the yard to the bathhouse, she spied a raven circling down toward the rookery, and wondered where it had come from and what message it carried.

It says your brother is a donkey.

+.+.+

Might be it's from Robb, come to say it wasn't true about Bran and Rickon. She chewed on her lip, hoping. If I had wings I could fly back to Winterfell and see for myself. And if it was true, I'd just fly away, fly up past the moon and the shining stars, and see all the things in Old Nan's stories, dragons and sea monsters and the Titan of Braavos, and maybe I wouldn't ever fly back unless I wanted to.

+.+.+

The hunting party returned near evenfall with nine dead wolves. Seven were adults, big grey-brown beasts, savage and powerful, their mouths drawn back over long yellow teeth by their dying snarls. But the other two had only been pups. Lord Bolton gave orders for the skins to be sewn into a blanket for his bed. "Cubs still have that soft fur, my lord," one of his men pointed out. "Make you a nice warm pair of gloves."

There's the number nine again.

Eddard, Catelyn, Robb, Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon? That doesn't work.

Edit: I'm an idiot. If you add Benjen above, it works. Thank you, @eonweheraldodemanwe.

Rickard, Brandon, Eddard, Lyanna, Benjen, Catelyn, Robb, ...Rickon? That doesn't work either.

I got nothing.

+.+.+

Roose Bolton was seated by the hearth reading from a thick leatherbound book when she entered.

[...]

Bolton turned a few more pages with his finger, then closed the book and placed it carefully in the fire. He watched the flames consume it, pale eyes shining with reflected light. The old dry leather went up with a whoosh, and the yellow pages stirred as they burned, as if some ghost were reading them.

People apparently lost their mind over this? Classic ASoIaF fandom.

I don't know if it means anything, or what's in that book, but I think the message is that Roose doesn't value sacred things.

+.+.+

She could hear angry voices coming from a window, many men talking and arguing all at once. Elmar was sitting on the steps outside, alone.

"What's wrong?" Arya asked him when she saw the tears shining on his cheeks.

"My princess," he sobbed. "We've been dishonored, Aenys says. There was a bird from the Twins. My lord father says I'll need to marry someone else, or be a septon."

A stupid princess, she thought, that's nothing to cry over.

[...]

It was hard not to hit him when he said that. "I hope your princess dies," she said, and ran off before he could grab her.

Good thing you don't have your sister's superpowers.

Kind of hilarious Arya can't figure out what princess a Frey would be betrothed to. And they say Sansa's the stupid one...

I'M KIDDING. It's jokes! I repent.

+.+.+

In the godswood she found her broomstick sword where she had left it, and carried it to the heart tree. There she knelt. Red leaves rustled. Red eyes peered inside her. The eyes of the gods. "Tell me what to do, you gods," she prayed.

For a long moment there was no sound but the wind and the water and the creak of leaf and limb. And then, far far off, beyond the godswood and the haunted towers and the immense stone walls of Harrenhal, from somewhere out in the world, came the long lonely howl of a wolf. Gooseprickles rose on Arya's skin, and for an instant she felt dizzy. Then, so faintly, it seemed as if she heard her father's voice. "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," he said.

"But there is no pack," she whispered to the weirwood. Bran and Rickon were dead, the Lannisters had Sansa, Jon had gone to the Wall. "I'm not even me now, I'm Nan."

"You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong. You have the wolf blood in you."

I don't think that's your father's voice, Arya.

+.+.+

"The wolf blood." Arya remembered now. "I'll be as strong as Robb. I said I would." She took a deep breath, then lifted the broomstick in both hands and brought it down across her knee. It broke with a loud crack, and she threw the pieces aside. I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth.

[...]

She could hear the sound of her own breath, and the wolves as well, a great pack of them now. They are closer than the one I heard in the godswood, she thought. They are calling to me.

The second time you read this, it's easier to see it ain't so good.

+.+.+

The boy got to his feet, pushing straw from his hair. "Wha, at this hour? Horses, you say?" He blinked at the sigil on her tunic. "Whas he want horses for, in the dark?"

"Lord Bolton is not in the habit of being questioned by servants." She crossed her arms.

The stableboy was still looking at the flayed man. He knew what it meant. "Three, you say?"

"One two three. Hunting horses. Fast and surefoot." Arya helped him with the bridles and saddles, so he would not need to wake any of the others. She hoped they would not hurt him afterward, but she knew they probably would.

Arya is okay with a stableboy dying if it means she escapes. She's not a bad person, she clearly doesn't want harm to come to him, and truthfully I would prioritize my own self-preservation as well, but I believe the author is trying to signal she's become a little too cavalier when it comes to death.

Someone will come for me, Sansa thought, but will it be you, or will it be Ser Ilyn? For a mad moment she thought of begging Dontos to defend her. He had been a knight too, trained with the sword and sworn to defend the weak. No. He has not the courage, or the skill. I would only be killing him as well. - Sansa VII, ACOK

+.+.+

No one saw her, and she saw no one, only a grey and white cat creeping along atop the godswood wall. It stopped and spit at her, waking memories of the Red Keep and her father and Syrio Forel. "I could catch you if I wanted," she called to it softly, "but I have to go, cat." The cat hissed again and ran off.

A grey and white cat? Seriously? George has given up on being subtle.

Don't worry Arya, you'll meet that Cat again.

+.+.+

Gendry nodded. Hot Pie said, "Hoot like an owl when you want us to come."

"I'm not an owl," said Arya. "I'm a wolf. I'll howl."

No, don't!

+.+.+

She walked fast, to keep ahead of her fear, and it felt as though Syrio Forel walked beside her, and Yoren, and Jaqen H'ghar, and Jon Snow. She had not taken the sword Gendry had brought her, not yet. For this the dagger would be better. It was good and sharp.

Daggers are much easier to conceal.

I feel like I'm looking into the future.

+.+.+

Cursing her softly, the man went to a knee to grope for the coin in the dirt, and there was his neck right in front of her. Arya slid her dagger out and drew it across his throat, as smooth as summer silk. His blood covered her hands in a hot gush and he tried to shout but there was blood in his mouth as well.

"Valar morghulis," she whispered as he died.

DO IT ARYA.

+.+.+

When he stopped moving, she picked up the coin. Outside the walls of Harrenhal, a wolf howled long and loud.

Shut up, George! It's fine! We can forgive certain kills. Let me be a hypocrite.

+.+.+

"You killed him!" Hot Pie gasped.

"What did you think I would do?" Her fingers were sticky with blood, and the smell was making her mare skittish. It's no matter, she thought, swinging up into the saddle. The rain will wash them clean again.

Oh god, lol. Lots to unpack here.

Fingers sticky with blood, but the water will cleanse her. Okie dokie.

Final thoughts:

Somehow totally forgot we first learn about Robb's broken oath in Arya's chapter, then wait an entire book to get further clarification.

Five more chapters. 😳

-> return to menu <-

[bibliocratic]

clear the area jonmartin, post-MAG200 content warnings in the tags

They earn their ending. A happy-ever-after beyond the gaze of any eyes.

Jon endures his abdication. This world has no Archivists, has need of none, the thankless crown of Knowing finally unburdened from his shoulders. The blood washes off Martin’s hands with soap and scrubbing and scalding water. They live.

The end. In conclusion. Fin.

-

Jon’s new scar, the packaging of his skin split ragged from collarbone to sternum, fades like sun-caught paint. A maw of red pursing to a gummy primrose pink, settling into a rough cartography of white.

The first few months are hard. Brimstone flare-up silences and ice-pick shouting, open-handed forgiveness and closed-fist weeping. They drain themselves to husks with anger and worry and grief until there is enough space for better things to grow there in their stead. Jon’s nightmares were a nightly stormfront to bear, sweated sheets and dawn fanfares of panic and dread, but he is learning now, with the space for his ribs to expand, that it is ok for them to breathe here.

Jon digs up the garden with a rusty trowel until it is a bumpy canvas of mulch and soil, dirt tucked under his fingernails and decorated with smudges up to his elbows. He hums while he irons their shirts in front of the television, thoughtless and senseless with tune.

Martin has tried to, but the sound goes down the wrong way.

-

Martin is happy.

-

It isn’t the sight as such, that might sit as a film over his vision to tinge his waking sepia. The reddest thing they own is a terracotta plant plot brimming with raggedy thyme that lives a precarious cliff-top existence on the kitchen windowsill. He observes Jon’s face in all its variations, even pained – when he snags splinters in his fingers, when he stubs his toe on the stone front step and swears damnation – and his response is sympathy tempered by admonishment.

It’s not the sensation, not really, that might tremble on his skin. Martin’s palms tend to dryness inside their homely bubble of creaky central heating, hemmed in by boisterous coastal winds. He handles bread knives and butter knives and steak knives and carving knives without the muscle memory of other blades, and he thinks he might be getting pretty handy with his oven experimentation.

It’s the sound. It wakes him, the noise lingering like the echo of a slap.

The slick punch of metal into muscle. A tooth-bared, tense-jawed gasp.

Resurfacing to shocked consciousness, he would be seized by a frenzy, to know, to check. His scattering hand scrabbling for the lamp with such force he hit it off the nightstand to roll in a giddy clatter, throwing off the covers to rapidly pollute both of them with the outside air. Jon would be rocked from sleep, groggy, panicked, and Martin’s words would not come, a train of thought trying to race full steam where no one had laid tracks, so it would be just the two of them, exhausted and upset and amping the other up in misery.

Now, upon his rousing, Martin knows not to turn on the light. He does not check. The aftermath of punch-gasp curls in his ear, and he inhale-exhale-inhales with the ferocity of mantra, and clamps the threatened tears in the clench of his teeth.

He does not wake Jon.

-

“How did you sleep?”

“Oh, you know me. Like a log.”

-

He is happy. He is. Why wouldn’t he be?

--

Jon rumbles like a rusty mechanism with snoring whenever he drops off on his back, and he mumbles accusatory when Martin coaxes him to his side. Martin finds black hairs on his pillowcase, in the shower plug. Jon is a vista of experience since the Eye left him, who gets hungry and tired and grumpy and drunk and silly and fed-up and giggly. Jon searches him out with the surety of magnets, and loves him, loves him, loves him. He seals kisses to Martin’s new landscape of extensive scars. Their disagreements, when they surface, are as meaningful and lasting as stones skipped on water.

Martin wanted this. He wants this. The rhythms of domesticity fading to foam on an untroubled shore.

He is out of practise with happiness, that’s all. It doesn’t come to him like breathing. He needs to till the earth of it, shelter its seeds from a thousand circling crows until it bears harvest.

He just has to try harder.

-

Night-time.

An episode or two of something simple, Jon nodding off like a capsizing ship before the credits. Encouraging him up in grousing, unwilling increments, rubbing out the nettle sting of pins and needles up his own arm. Check the locks, the light switches. Brush teeth. Pyjamas. Put his phone to charge, read until Jon succumbs to sleep. Click the light off, pushing Jon onto his side so his mouth doesn’t dry. Jon squirming around like a fastidious octopus until he has at least half his limbs hooked over Martin.

The dark creating shadow play. In the absence, Martin colouring in the gaps with lurid shades of disaster.

A creak – the rattle of a door downstairs, an intruder unfastening the back door, transferring their weight upon the staircase. A unfamiliar scent – the recollection of smoke-stench in his nostrils, the acrid promise of gas, the ferrous pungency of blood. The rain will flood their house to drown them. The wind will blow their roof in. Jon hooks his leg around Martin, the skin void of hair where Daisy’s mouth had almost torn it off, and all he can envision is the ways this could be destroyed as he watches.

Bundle Jon close. Ignore the rain, the itch at the bottom of his stomach, the queasy roil of his fear. Drift into unkind sleep populated with its garden of earthly terrors.

-

Martin is… not happy. Not exactly. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

-

Jon is happy.

-

Jon, rubbing at the compression lines around his hips, the accusatory splay of the top button refusing to budge closed:

“I can’t fit into my jeans.”

Martin enfolds him from behind, planting his palms over the slight paunch of Jon’s stomach, filled out through sensible eating and small indulgences and a hunger that will never be ravenous but has restored its human qualities.

“Hmm. It’s a good look on you. Healthier.”

“Or it’s middle age.”

“Or it’s eating things that aren’t tea and meal-deal sandwiches.”

“Or other people’s terror.”

“Oh yes, you’re right, I completely forgot about your subsistence diet of eldritch and unbidden horrors in a luscious wholegrain wrap, forgive me.”

Jon laughs at that. The sound has not yet lost its novelty for either of them.

He shifts, turns, his arms a buoy around Martin’s stomach.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Must be all the clean air,” Martin quips. “All that healthy living.”

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

When his heart has wound down from the pace of its gallop, he extricates himself from Jon’s grip. It is a laborious task to find the places where they’ve joined in the night and pull them apart, like separating fabric snagged on rosebushes.

He gets some water from the cold tap in the kitchen. Sits heavily on the sofa, the room cossetted by the gloom.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

His hands shake.

He doesn’t go back to bed.

-

He isn’t happy, but he could grow to be. He could. He could. He just isn’t trying hard enough.

-

Some days, he feels like he’s waiting for the ice to give under them.

Check the passers-by as they walk. Anyone familiar, any teeth filed too sharp, anything animal or blood-shot, any eyes that glance too deep.

Check the oven. The gas knobs are angled to off but a leak is not impossible in a house this old, their alarm might malfunction, they might fall asleep and some spark from a plug socket could catch and incite a conflagration.  

Check the window latches. The opening wide enough for a body to squirm through, the claws of a Hunter marring the sill. Wriggling infestations that invade through the letter box, the keyhole, the gap under the door where the wind can whistle through.

Check. Check. Check.

-

Jon is happy. Jon has a job, work friends, a hundred small luxuries that he has struggled to earn. Jon is happy, so why can’t he be? He went through so much less, the blood washed off easily with soap, what the fuck does he have to cry over –

-

Martin has always crafted his masks from scrap, tongue out in concentration, piecing things together in low light, a make-do-and-mend of his own devising. His early efforts, the paper mâché and glue easily cracked before he learned to shore up his constructions. He has a small collection garnered over years.

The quiet-voiced, muffled-stepped, muted-smiled creation of a Good Son.

The zipped-mouth, no-refusals-no-complaints-yes-of-course-how-high earnestness of the Good Employee, the desperation sanded off the edges so no one could see.

The I’ll-get-the-first-round friendliness, the open-handed, open-hearted, too-naïve Good Colleague.

This new mask forms in increments, in the same way a rising mound of dirt marks the extent of a grave being dug.

He doesn’t mean to. It’s just he’s better at not talking about things. He always has been. And it is an ugly, easy comfort, to slip back into bad habits.

And Jon is happy.

All the things Martin does not wish to permit the light to touch he compresses inside like shaken soda. The rot in him deepens structural, the places where he papers over moulds and fungal speckles with the distraction of their new life. His smile parades simple, contented, cheeky, teasing, and there is a meticulous artistry in each. He sketches interest, paints joy, manufactures irritation out of the clay of nothingness that he allows himself to feel instead of the overwhelming rush of everything else.

I love you, his mouth murmurs, laughs, sighs, groans, and that at least is always true.

The mask of a Good Partner slips on tailor-made.

-

They find their nine-to-fives. Jon’s job is uneventful, boring, and nowhere near an Archive. He works in a registry office for the council, filing and organising and he’s cheerfully lied on his CV in order to get it. He gets the bus and texts Martin grumpy faces and GIFs summarising his mood when he gets suck in the commute or some idiot parks in a bus lane, he has a couple of colleagues he likes and a greater number that he tolerates, he gets a hot chocolate from this universe’s overpriced multinational chain on his lunch hour. When he gets home, he complains with delight at the mundanity of his dissatisfactions, regales Martin with tales of meagre drama.

Martin gets a cleaning job at a school. It is monotonous, dull and safe. Martin loses track of the time easily, quagmired in his musings. The children are wary of him and his visible scarring but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. The teachers are friendly enough, as well as the other cleaning staff, but he does not make friends. They’ll have to move anyway, if anything finds them here, if the Fears emerge again.

Martin tries not to feel like he’s waiting.

-

He wants to have a good night’s sleep.

-

“I’ll have breakfast at the school, don’t worry.”

“There were some leftovers from the canteen, so I’m kind of full.”

“It was one of the teacher’s birthdays, you know, Denise? Heh, might have had a bit too much cake. I’ll pop this in the fridge for later though, it’ll keep till tomorrow.”

“I’m just not that hungry tonight, Jon.”

-

He feels sharper when he doesn’t eat. It is uncomfortable, a scratched-out, hollowing sensation, but things focus more. He can control nothing else but this, and it feels good, to have this mastery over himself when so much is beyond him.

He drops down notches on his belt and tells Jon it’s all the walking he’s doing.

-

The world continues to happen to them. He goes to the cinema with Jon and picks at popcorn and encourages Jon’s outraged opinion. He meets Jon’s mildly interesting work friends and plays nice and excels at small talk, and he drinks half a cider that he nurses over the evening because it’s making his head fuggy. His body communicates its sharpness to him and he gains grim satisfaction from ignoring it. He goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep and goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep.

Martin does his best at living, and his mask doesn’t slip.

-

“You seem tired,” Jon pries his words out carefully, picking them out of his teeth as one would scraps. “Is… is everything ok?”

“Yeah, sure it is. Why?”

“…  you seem a bit down today. Recently. Is anything… is there anything you want to talk about?”

“I’ve just been working too hard. Been a while since I had to do double-shifts, heh, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“If you’re sure?”

Jon shifts to a different position where he’s sat on the sofa, his legs tucking up under him. Martin endures his questioning gaze with practise.

“Yeah, I’m all good.”

Martin delivers a hand-crafted smile that’s gilded heavily with guilelessness and reassurance. He watches as Jon believes him and hates himself.

-

“You know… You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you can – you know you can talk to me, Martin?”

Martin’s eyes focus on Jon’s chest at the point where a knife once sunk in, and doesn’t reply.

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

Jon has twisted over onto his back again, rattling like a chain-smoker’s cough with his snoring. They were quiet that evening, tangled up in their own thoughts, but there is none of that distance in sleep. During the night, Jon’s wormed himself out of the covers with a single-minded determination, his restless legs squashing the duvet to the bottom of the bed on his side, encouraging Martin’s to follow suit.

He’s shirtless, his top chucked off to pile unceremoniously on the floor. The temperature is ripe with a burgeoning summer heat, and Jon tosses and complains if he’s overwarm, and Martin didn’t think he’d get to feel the drudgery of another lived summer. He’s shirtless, and the room is palled in sweltering dark that softens the vague shapes of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the knickknacks of the life they’re building together. He’s shirtless, and Martin cannot see where the scar is, the only scar of Jon’s he has ever thought ugly, but he knows it is there. That he put it there. That he could just as easily be waking up alone.

His body pains him to live in it. His stomach tight and bottomed out empty.

He is so so tired.

Martin’s heartbeat does not slow down. His chest constricting, and he swallows, a sharp sound hiccupping in his throat. He stifles it with a forceful sniff but more come as a painful spasming wave, and he has to sit up if any air is to dribble into his lungs.

He should get up. He has to get up, do this in the bathroom, doubled-over the sink, stifling his weakness where it cannot be witnessed. He cannot do this here.

Punch. Gasp.

His burning face is soaked as he bunches up his sleeves against his reddening eyes. A calming exhale drains out shaky, moulds itself into another loud sob. He plants his hands over his mouth, screwing his eyes closed, and this will pass, he’s fine, this will pass…

“Martin?”

I’m sorry to wake you, he thinks to say. It’s nothing, go back to sleep, stop looking at me Jon, I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing, it’s nothing…

His shoulders start to shake.

“Martin?” Jon repeats slowly. And the ice creaks and cracks and Martin gasps and then it breaks, and the force of his damned-up grief is tidal, catastrophic and he sobs into his hands.

“It’s… it’s alright – it’s… it was a nightmare, that’s all, ‘s alright…”

“It’s not!” Martin bubbles out, the words mashed to a wail in his hands. “It’s not, it’s not, it’ll ruin this…”

“Hey.” Jon brings his arm around Martin and he buries his head in the bony crook of his shoulder because he does not want to meet Jon’s eyes. “What do you mean? Martin?”

Jon rubs at his back. Martin’s body betrays him in a hundred ways as it collapses around him. His weeping wrings him out, dry-mouthed and headachy and trembling when he subsides into shivery breaths.

“Talk to me,” Jon says. “Please.”

“You’re so happy,” Martin sniffs out. “I-I want you to be happy, god, o-of course I do. Things are, they’re good, they’re good and we won, s-s-so why does it feel like I’m still holding my breath? I-I go to bed and I’m frightened of every noise, and I wake up and I’m terrified that someone somehow could take this all away, and I can’t sleep, and I-I’m tired, Jon, I’m tired of holding my breath, and it’s all – it’s all so much a-a-a-and I can’t – ”

“Oh, Martin – ”

His words fail him then. Jon holds him up and his arms do not loosen.

“We-we’re going to fix this,” Jon says after a long while. “I promise you, together, we’ll – we’ll talk to someone. You aren’t alone in this. Together, alright, we’ll do this together. We’ve survived – everything else, we can get through this too.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” Martin says, too drained to avoid honesty.

“…Maybe not yet,” Jon says after a pause. “That’s OK. I can wait.”

I’m sorry, Martin attempts to say but Jon presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jon says. He strokes Martin’s sweat-soaked hair.

“… Can we talk? Tomorrow? You don’t have to tell me everything, but… I’d like to be there for you, if you want me. If you’ll let me.”

Martin nods because he doesn’t trust his gummed-up throat. Jon takes that as an answer.

Dawn comes in slowly enough but they see it in together.

[parismystere]

Are there Adrien Salt takes that you agree with?

[walks in three days late with an iced coffee]

yes. i know that everyone else said no, but trust me, i am not being contrarian in order to stand out. how crazy that risk leaked and kind of confirmed to me what i was meaning to write anyway.

i think i'm familiar with probably all adrien salt takes, and while i easily dismissed them all, there was one that kept coming to my mind as more episodes rolled in. the Adrien Is Only For Angst angle. buckle up, buttercup, because this is going to take a while.

so, if you go on an adrien salt blog, you see a lot of comments that range from cruel to mean-spirited, from insensitive to downright baffling. you have people mocking his ~sad white boi tears. you have people hating it every time he displays anything beyond obedience towards maribug (ha). maybe the most unkind comments are the ones who mock him for grieving his mother's death. there's a lot of 'boo hoo your mom died why should i care, stop showing me adrien', as if the show demanding empathy for adrien is some kind of disguisting notion and a mistake that must be immediately rectified, and if the show isn't willing to do it, well, we're gonna be spiteful and mock a 14-year old kid for being upset with his home life.

but! but. at some level there is truth to this. when was the last time adrien was used for anything beyond angst and melodrama? why does everything about him boil to how gabriel and ladybug treat him? what happened to s1 adrien who wanted to make friends and experience as many firsts as possible?

it's kind of hilarious because adrien salters usually insist that marinette is the one who suffers in the show. when it couldn't be more clear that adrien is the punching bag, and what i wrongly assumed was narrative depth, was just throwing every tragic thing at a level that is surely inhumane (ha) and unrealistic and downright confusing when you consider how the other characters are faring.

he's not only the villain's son, he also has to fight said villain weekly. he's not only from an abusive household, he's from a home in which he would be manipulated into killing off humanity or he will be the key link in the end of the world. he didn't only lose his mother, he possibly caused his mother's demise. his mother isn't only sketchy, her corpse is also in the basement while he thinks that it's buried. his father not only does keep secrets from him, so does his endgame lover. his cousin is not only magical and non-human, he himself is also a non-human that is tied to his cousin's existence. he is written as someone with an inferiority complex, but the show isn't interested in helping him gain a healthy sense of self-worth. he questions who he is, but it leads up to a gotcha! moment of him not being human.

it begins to feel a little sadistic, especially since this is a light-hearted cartoon and not a dystopian young adult series.

moreover, the show isn't interested in adrien playing an active role in any of this, neither as a civilian, nor as a superhero. things are done to him, and he cannot even react, because if he does, the villainous father pulls out the ring and forces him to obey. he's in a dead-end street until someone saves him, and i hate it.

it's the stuff of fairy tales - he's the sleeping beauty, asleep to the terror going around him, waiting for the kiss that will save him.

and i posted about it a bit today so i won't go much further, but - it's reductive. it's boring. it's the exact same shit we've been seeing for ages, but it's the boy that's the damsel and the girl who saves him. except that if you look more carefully into the show, you see that adrien has an abuse storyline going on, or that the show will often put him down to uplift marinette (reflekdoll). his narrative and characterization is dripping with femininity. the show isn't saying anything interesting or new about gender roles. the ladynoir dynamic is still uplifting masculinity as the only gender axis that truly matters.

something me and my fellow deranged adrien stans loved to talk about was adrien as the glue of the show, about how adrien holds all the threads together, how much this artifical position of endless passivity hurts the show because the plot cannot progress without adrien. he is the plot, for better or worse.

but adrien feels more and more like a ghost in what on paper clearly screams his story.

the thing about sentimonster adrien is that it seems wildly unneccessary. he's magical! but he looks exactly like a human, behaves like a human, functions like a human, really, everything about him is human except that his incubation was a little different and his life is much more fragile. (@crocojagged: wait, does adrien have a belly button? / me: oh my god, HE DOES!) we already know that adrien is abused (except that now the show is watering down said abuse by mixing up abuse and foreshadowing to the point it's hard to tell what is what, plus gabriel isn't a biological parents because god forbid children's media show that biological parents aren't saints sometimes), we already know that he has a lot going on, we know that he suffers - how does him being a sentimonster add anything except more shackles? we know that he's either gonna get his amok or become a Real Boy, so what are the stakes here?

and at the end of the day... it doesn't matter. the idea is for marinette to save adrien from his family, even if it takes her four seasons to understand that he's unhappy and miserable and kind of done with his life. the idea is for him to be an atoll of a person. you can pile as much angst as you want on him, as much conflict that, logically, he should be enmeshed in but stays on the outskirts of instead, as much melodrama as you think the show needs - the agrestes are just there for the Mystery, for the crumb of information you might get per season.

adrien being a sentimonster works perfectly, because even though i am sure the show will find novel ways to make it entirely about marinette, he ends up being her crusade the way emilie is for gabriel. he's a prop that sparks marinette's heroism. nothing is truly about him.

the idiotic thing is that we completely misread the show.

[get-shiggy-with-it]

Bee! I would love to request whatever comfort Toshinori Yagi would want to give reader to cheer them up! ;)

✧ pairing: Yagi Toshinori (All Might) x gn!reader

✧ warnings: hurt/comfort, emotional breakdowns, bee can't help but slip in just a tiny bit of angst, no explicit content but still 18+ Minors DNI with all my work

✧ word count: 1k

✧a/n: hello Marie, my love. I hope you enjoy whatever the fuck this is. Honestly, I just think Toshi would be the most clueless man ever, but it's so painfully endearing that I wouldn't want him any other way.

Comfort from Yagi Toshinori is situationally dependent.

He’s a hero, first and foremost. Above all else, it’s his job to be comforting.

But Christ, when you breakdown in front of him in the teachers lounge over a spilled cup of coffee—he’s at a loss. He’s cast adrift watching his relatively distant and generally professional coworker ugly cry—complete with snot tracks and all—tears dripping onto the coffee and porcelain shard covered linoleum.

What the hell is he supposed to do with that?

He can hold a life, hundreds or often thousands of lives, in his palms and grin through the smoke, but this isn’t life or death. It’s just life. There is no end of the world, only a spilled cup of coffee and too many compounding, tiny problems that multiply amongst each other like spring rabbits until all it takes is a crack and a splash for the sobbing to start and once it does, it doesn’t stop.

It’s a run-on sentence with too many clauses and life is a teacher finally going in with the red pen.

Toshi knows what that feels like, but empathy and sympathy are not the same things. That’s why they came up with different words for them. You’re not bleeding, you’re just too damn tired for this shit. But It doesn't really feel like the time for commiserating. So instead, he flounders like a freshly caught fish with a hook in its cheek, watching you sniffle and hiccup and it’s so pitiful he almost has to look away.

He’s half fucking tempted to just leave.

But only for a second.

Cause he likes you, you’re one his favorite coworkers actually and he can’t just leave you to full-blown, shoulder-shaking weep in the teacher’s lounge alone. But you don’t need a hero, you need a friend, and he hasn't been one of those in awhile.

For you though.

For you, he’ll try.

It’s a lot of awkward back patting—a lot of snot stains on his blazer and mumbled apologies—but then the mess is swept (quite literally) under the rug. You sit next to him on the couch, sniffling still though exponentially less than before, letting out a stumbling laugh at his horrendous attempts to lighten the mood.

He can tell it’s at least a bit effective.

There’s a cup steaming in your hands a minute later. And the room feels heavy, but you look lighter. Toshi sees it in the set of your shoulders, the clench of your jaw, and the small bit of tooth that peeks out from your lopsided smile.

It’s reluctant and embarrassed, but it’s there.

“Better now?” he asks, a massive hand still resting on the small of your back.

You seem to appreciate the weight of it.

Grounding, he thinks.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Your voice is halting, but not unkind.

Just tired.

“I understand.”

He says it without really meaning to. Doesn’t want to make this about him, to overshadow whatever stitches broke open, whatever wound of yours is leaking blood, sweat, and tears.

But then you’re grabbing his other hand, palm full with just two of his fingers, and squeezing in this affectionate, shared human experience of life’s gut punches kind of way that almost brings a tear to his eye.

“This fucking sucks,” you sigh and squeeze and he finds himself easily agreeing with you.

It does fucking suck.

He’s not really sure what ‘it’ is, but he knows you’re right. Things have been rough, and maybe they had never been anything else now that he thinks about it. Toshi had been so caught up in his legacy, in his work and leaving behind something that mattered, he hadn’t given himself the opportunity to ever acknowledge that the path to greatness was full of potholes and flash floods and lined with roadkill.

He admires you to an extent. Admires how you can let yourself reach a breaking point.

Or maybe it’s envy.

Maybe he wishes he could allow himself that kind of crack in his armor.

But this isn’t about him.

So he shoves those thoughts away and squeezes your hand and sighs with you even as his poor lungs protest at the effort.

“Yes,” he mutters. “Yes, it does.”

When you hug him, he’s so shocked he doesn’t get the chance to reciprocate. You just throw those arms around his shoulders and tighten your grip just a bit before you let go. Like you might leave your own cracks behind in him. Like he might find the same relief.

Might cry over spilt coffee and be all the better for it.

“Thanks again,” you whisper in parting, slipping from the lounge.

Toshi is left behind then with two cups of tea and the distinct feeling that he’s just learned something incredibly crucial far too late.

Hero work is cut and dry. You know you’ve got the right solution when no one dies, or at least you should. Because death is simple, and life is sloppy. Life is sobbing in front of your coworkers and screaming at the stars and anger with no place to go.

Or maybe this is where it goes.

Into someone else. The comfort isn’t in the words or the semi-professional back pats. It’s in the transfer. The reminder that this experience, while varied and gloriously horrific, is universal. Shared and hated and loved and there is comfort in the camaraderie that comes from being born into the grand mess of the world together.

He didn’t get a chance to ask you what was wrong.

Though Toshi supposed he didn’t need to, nor would you have likely had an answer.

What’s wrong?

Well, what isn’t really?

His hand is still warm where you held it. He imagines yours must be as well. There is no real loneliness, no escape from others and their disastrous lives. The truth remains that whatever heart wrenching joy or excruciating tragedy, some poor soul has felt the same and knows what it is like to break.

Which is the only thing that matters.

In short, Yagi Toshinori is a bit shit, a bit unwieldy and cumbersome, in his methods of comfort. But he doesn’t need to be anything else. He offers his presence and his role as another clueless human being fumbling their way through this mortal coil.

And that is often enough.

[schnozzbun-art]

Chapter 3 ASAL Preview!

Howdy folks! If you haven’t been following me on twitter the status of chapter 3 is that we are in beta-reading stages (woo!) meaning my very kind friends are giving me feedback on this new draft. We’re over half way there, but it’s just gonna take me a bit longer to get this thing done just cause it looks like this final chapter is gonna be anywhere between 28 to 25 thousand words (eesh), and I still have to move this thing through beta and gamma phases, so hang tight.

So! In the meantime, and as thanks for being so patient with me, I thought I’d do a little preview of the opening of chapter three just to tide y’all over before the final thing is ready. Prose and stuff is subject to change in the final thing, yaddah yaddah yaddah Enjoy!

===

Dustin pushed the swinging door open and zipped up his hoodie-jacket as he stepped into Olathe’s cool, pre-dawn air. He and the four other drivers swung their tired limbs as they exited the loading dock building.

A rattly eleven o’clock bus to the warehouse district, punching in, turning the truck keys, driving out to the farms to load up the crates of produce, driving to the packaging center, unloading everything, then driving all the way back to the warehouse. That was the gig. Working under the cover of night, you’d think they were doing something illegal rather than just delivering the food that would be on the supermarket shelves the next morning. It made sense to Dustin, though. People didn’t like seeing the underbelly of how things were run, didn’t like seeing things that might make them uncomfortable. No one knew that better than him.

They all herded themselves into the chain-linked parking lot.

“See ya, Dustin,” said a squat, curly-haired driver. While his company ID card read Lorenzo Hernandez, everyone just called him Lardy. Lardy was the first—well, only—person here who tried talking to him. Waiting around before shift started, Dustin liked the way Lardy would talk about his day, his homelife. He liked the way Lardy produced an accordion of pictures of his wife, parents, grandparents, and many many brothers from his wallet to illustrate the dramas within the branches of his family tree. He liked the way he pronounced his name. Dostin.

Dustin didn’t really know where Lardy’s motivations lay, and he didn’t really care. Sympathy, pity, religion—the result was the same. Vocal vibrations custom-made to be aimed in his direction and free of any jeers or unkindness were the best thing people like him could hope for.

Could you be thankful but resigned? Dustin thought you could.

Lardy waved as he unlocked his car. Dustin silently waved back.

He left the company parking lot, its marshy, moth-flittering light, into the crunchy, unpaved stretch of road.

It was a three-mile walk back home. The buses stopped running six hours ago. But it wasn’t too bad. After hours hunched over a steering wheel in a cramped truck cabin, Dustin appreciated the opportunity to stretch his legs.

After taking a few strides, he heard a polite mahp-mahp of a car honk that brought Dustin to a halt. A beat-up, duct-tape-on-a-tire, car pulled up beside him. The window rolled down and Lardy leaned his head out.

“I know, I know, you’re tired of me asking, but are you sure you don’t want a drive back this time, güey?”

Dustin shook his head, but smiled in a way he hoped showed he appreciated it.

Lardy shrugged in surrender, rolled up the window, and drove off.

Dustin watched Lardy and the other cars drive past, waiting for the moment the droning thrum of engines dissipated in the distance. He stayed there for a long while, staring at the horizon, unsure what he was waiting for.

Dustin sighed. He looked down the barrel of dark road. He walked.

Loneliness was a habit, a skill Dustin exercised to the point of talent. It’s not like he liked it. Dustin didn’t believe anyone ‘aspired’ to be by themselves. But some people in life are either shoved towards it, or steadily drift in its direction in order to avoid any potential collision. Done often enough it sank into your skin, seeped into your bones, until it became instinct.

He sighed again. Darnit. Maybe he should’ve said yes, just this once. Maybe he could have sat in the passenger seat and felt the car dip slightly under his weight, having to crouch his head to fit in, and maybe Lardy would say a joke, and maybe Dustin would’ve been comfortable enough to ask Lardy why he kept a rosary wrapped around his rear-view mirror, and maybe Lardy would have explained it, and maybe Lardy would’ve invited invited Dustin to dinner sometime to meet that family of his, and maybe…

...Dustin would’ve screwed it up somehow. And then he’d have no one to listen to before shifts.

He walked.

The air was silent save for the sound of his sneakers crunching against the gravel road. He passed landscapes of industrial warehouses and cavernous truck garages leaning against each other like tired old men.

He forgot how flat it was around here. Down south lived towns nestled under hills, embraced by rivers, and shaded by tall trees. But out here, it was all an impressive carpet of swaying prairie grass.

He breathed in again, enjoyed the two deep lungfuls of familiar, earthy air.

It was coincidence how the whole thing worked out, really. The freight company was being hit by hard times and wanted to station him in Olathe, and it was made pretty clear he could kiss his job goodbye if he tried digging his heels in.

Dustin would’ve said something, but he was never one to raise his voice.

* * *

“So over there is the gym-slash-auditorium. Assemblies are every Tuesday.”

Nod.

“And that’s the cafeteria. Don’t drink the milk. The expiration dates are bogus.”

Nod nod.

“Annnnd down that hallway is the library. Do you do sports? My big sister Lucy does. Once she wouldn’t accept a certificate she got from soccer finals because her last name was spelt wrong on the paper and she got so mad she fractured the coach’s shin. I would never do that though—I hate soccer. Also I am very nice.”

Dusty lifted and lowered his chin in acknowledgement as Sally Zhao led him through the crowded halls of Olathe Middleschool. She continued chattering away as Dusty looked out at the throng of students. They didn’t look much different from the kids in other schools. It was like snorkeling in a colorful reef. Kids dressed in bright backpacks and shoes, hairbands and socks. Swimming in groups, knowing their exact place, vibrantly flashing their scales as they ran and skipped and shoved between each other. Complex subcultures and intertwining friend groups and snatches of inside-jokes and after-school promises communicated in crisp, clear voices floated over their heads like bubbles.

Sally was clearly part of them. A coral fish in her pink-yellow plaid dress, waving her fins at other girls in similar styles.

If they were coral fish, Dusty was a mollusk, slowly trudging along the bottom, watching them all from below.

Dusty was a new kid, but he wasn’t new at being the new kid. Dusty was moved around a lot. He was a foster, and being a foster meant, having your stuff stolen at home when you weren’t looking, wearing old hand-me-downs that were two sizes too small since the foster parent allowance couldn’t keep up with his accelerating growth spurts and, of course, doing the whole ‘First Day’ routine over and over.

He’d really thought the last place was going to keep him for just a bit longer, ​​but after a case worker caught his last foster mother nodding off during a home visit because she’d slipped too much 'syrup' into her coffee, Dusty had to be relocated. Again.

He was taken to Olathe. The new home was busy. He was the oldest of a few other boys: three in elementary, one in kindergarten. His new foster mother, an older lady with grey streaks and sunken eyes named Edna, was always being stretched in all directions like one of the action figure toys the younger boys were always fighting over.

Being the eldest, it was clear Dusty was expected to look after himself. He tried being helpful, washing up after meals, keeping his bed neat, hoping that whatever he did to help around the house would earn him some attention. Maybe a question on how his day was. Or how he was feeling. But usually as soon as Edna saw Dusty taking charge cleaning or had ascertained he wasn’t trying to set anything on fire she would just plod off to bed.

It wasn’t the worst house he’d been in. There was no one old enough to pick on him at least. But the constant moving around made things difficult to grasp onto. If you asked Dusty how long he’d been in the system, he wouldn’t be able to tell you. He couldn’t remember what the first house was like. Anything younger than two or three years ago got cloudy. It was like he was moved around so much the memories couldn’t quite catch up with him, left at whatever old house he’d been in, abandoned with no one there to remember them. For all he knew he could be forgetting the memories he was making right now if he was randomly moved again in another week. Either way, this far out in the sticks, Dusty’s troubled intuition told him that he should be less focused on how much he was forgetting and more concerned about the concerted effort the powers that be were pushing him farther out of arm’s reach so they could forget about him.

His hearing came into focus as he saw Sally turn into another locker-filled corridor. He stuck close, following the slipstream of her voice. She hadn’t stopped talking.

“...and yeah that’s why I can’t get trying to get on a teacher’s bad side. Ooooooh, like Mr Muehler. He’s our homeroom teacher, but he teaches science too. Word is that two days ago, someone, I don’t know who, put one of the salamanders they were dissecting into his chair when he wasn’t looking, and he sat right on it. Like, SPLAT! All over his butt! He hasn’t been letting anybody get an inch on him since. Is it weird I kinda wish I was there? Anyway.”

Sally jumped to a halt in front of a locker, spun in place, and pulled out a slip of paper.

“This is your locker combination. Don’t worry, I only looked at the first two digits. You have your timetable, right?”

...Nod.

Sally gave him the paper slip, paused, then put her hands on her hips. It was her turn to perform a full lifting and lowering of the chin just to look him up and down. He was always a head taller than most kids—teachers had been thinking Dusty was in middle school since he was in elementary.

There wasn’t much to see. Shoes with grubby laces, grey jeans, and a red-and-white-striped T-shirt that he had to constantly pull down to cover his stomach.

Her black pigtails swayed as she tilted her head to the side. “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?

Dusty nodded in a way he hoped communicated: Yep! That’s me! Quiet Kid. Conventionally unconventional.

“Alright. Well. Homeroom’s over there. Bye.” Sally gave a meek wave and left, finding a girl she recognised and started gabbing away with—a fish rejoining its school and swimming in perfect synchronicity.

Dusty looked at the slip of paper in his hand. He turned to the steel locker, put the combination into the knob, opened it, and rested his chin on the cold metal shelf inside.

He sighed, his voice echoing around him in the dark. As sure as he was that his memory problems came from being moved around all the time, he didn’t think it was the cause for his trouble with people, not really. There was something… wrong with him. Something inherently deficient that he was sure others could see radiating off of him, something that only became obvious as soon as he opened his mouth. But even quiet, he just knew that kids at school or older kids in different foster homes could smell off him, like blood in the water.

It was always the same thing. Every time he went into a new school, kids would keep their distance because he was the big, tall, quiet kid. Then some boy itching to climb the social ladder would seize the opportunity and pick on him. He’d try to ignore it, he’d get picked on even harder until he couldn’t, Dusty would cry out for it to stop, and everyone would know his secret.

But this time it would be different. This was a blank slate. If anyone picked on him he wouldn’t fold. He’d stand tall. He’d be brave. He was going to make an impression here. He could feel it.

The school bell clanged in Dusty’s ears. 

He gasped, jerked his head out of the locker, slammed it shut, and leant against the door while his heart pounded in his chest.

Good job, Dusty. Very brave.