#while you shouldn't write for an audience

[mumblingsage]

i wonder how much this is a personality or intended audience thing, because I'm not sure I've ever taken "Don't use epithets" as a command on par with "Thou shalt not kill." The person recommending I don't use epithets has no authority over me. They can't take out a warrant for my arrest. They can stop reading if I write something that annoys them. So can every reader, whatever the reason for their annoyance. So it's not bad to know the kinds of things that often annoy or trip up readers (even readers who just read to enjoy themselves, without thinking much about the words used, can get tripped up by confusing phrasing, jarring word choice, or repetition, even if they wouldn't think to phrase it in writing-advice language like "use of epithets").

No piece of writing advice can cover every sentence you will ever pen in your life. For that matter, no piece of driving advice will apply everywhere, and driving well is a matter of life and death! "Don't stop at a green light" except when a fire truck is going through the intersection with sirens blaring. "Be judicious when you stop at a green light" is technically more accurate but not really more helpful because you don't want people to overthink the relationship of green lights and the brakes of their cars.

It's not that OP's point about deliberate choices is bad--it's very good--it's that I've understood "Only take this advice when it applies" as the subtext of most writing advice. Or the text. George Orwell's sixth of six rules for writers is "Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous." (After phrasing the first 5 rules as "always" and "never" statements!) Anyone believing "this rule is universal, never ever break it" has themselves not read or written enough to encounter the exception.

I guess I will disagree a little, to the extent that I think, "Be deliberate about XYZ" is 201 or 301 level advice. To follow it, you need to know enough to fuel your deliberations! For 101 I'd just say "Here are some guidelines to know (at times you'll want to break them but try following them first)." I speak from some experience. I once shared this very good article about deliberate use of filter words (vs outright banning filter words) with a writer and got the feedback that the article was too confusing, the writer just wanted to know what they should or shouldn't do. At that point it's maybe easier to give them the "Do and do not's," remind them it's not life or death, and let them try following those rules until they hit a natural breaking point and figure out on their own, "Oh yeah, the rule usually applies but it doesn't work here. Let's do something else."

Or maybe, as we're dissecting phrasing: "Don't use epithets" actually means "The consequences of using epithets are undesirable to most modern audiences." But the latter sentence is going to confuse or intimidate a chunk of writing students, while the first gives them actionable advice to try out in three words.

My ideal writing advice leans more toward capability, of allowing writers to do things, so phrasing like "It's okay to use your character's name or pronoun a lot. It's clear for the reader to follow and this kind of repetition is rarely distracting or annoying" might be a healthy alternative to "No epithets." And "Passive voice is useful when you want to foreground the subject of an action and obscure the person who did the action" (since if that's not what you want to do, you'll chose to use active rather than passive voice, just as I don't squeeze a lemon into a recipe where I don't want lemony flavor).

There's also the school of hard knocks way, which is where your beta reader asks you "Which one is the blond second child of a mechanic again?" over and over until you realize the epithets are more distracting than they're worth.

I've already said that my number one piece of writing advice is to read.

But my number two piece of advice is this: be deliberate.

Honestly this would fix so many pieces of bad writing advice. Don't forbid people from doing something, tell them to be conscious and deliberate about it. This could help stop people from falling into common mistakes without limiting their creativity. Black and white imperatives may stop a few annoying beginner habits, but ultimately they will restrict artistic expression.

Instead of "don't use epithets": "Know the effect epithets have and be deliberate about using them." Because yes, beginners often misuse them, but they can be useful when a character's name isn't known or when you want to reduce them to a particular trait they have.

Instead of "don't use 'said'" or "just use 'said'": "Be deliberate about your use of dialogue tags." Because sometimes you'll want "said" which fades into the background nicely, but sometimes you will need a more descriptive alternative to convey what a character is doing.

Instead of "don't use passive voice": "Be deliberate about when you use passive voice." Because using it when it's not needed can detract from your writing, but sometimes it can be useful to change the emphasis of a sentence or to portray a particular state of mind.

Instead of blindly following or ignorantly neglecting the rules of writing, familiarize yourself with them and their consequences so you can choose when and if breaking them would serve what you're trying to get across.

Your writing is yours. Take control of it.

It probably sounds like I'm preaching to the choir here because most of my mutuals are already great writers. But I'm hoping this will make it to the right people.

[mel-the-pirate-prompt-reblog]

Not to bring up "old" stuff, such as the OTW May Signal bit that was removed after some backlash, I wanted to see it. I threw the OTW into the Wayback Machine, went back to May 9th, and was able to see just what they pulled from the Signal after the community backlash to see what they regret adding to this month's Signal.

So I copy-pasted it, since I bet others who didn't read it wanted/want to, too. You can also read it directly from the OTW May Signal on the Wayback Machine here.

Quotes and etc are under the cut. All blue text is a link.

This is what they cut out of May 2023's Signal:

For Fair Use/Fair Dealing Week, the OTW’s Legal Chair, Betsy Rosenblatt, was interviewed about AI legal issues*. Betsy pointed out that having AIs learn from works such as fanfiction meant that they weren’t only using old works from the public domain to learn about the world. “That means that machines will learn how to describe and express a much more contemporary, broad, inclusive, and diverse set of ideas.” What’s more…

"I’m also intrigued by some of the expressive possibilities that AI may create. Will DALL·E or ChatGPT become characters in fan fiction? Surely they will. I want to read the fan-created stories where DALL·E and ChatGPT fall in love with each other (or don’t), get into arguments (or don’t), buy a house together (or don’t), team up to solve (or perpetrate!) crimes….

Will fans will take up this challenge?"

Thought it might be worth noting that the OTW did add this about AI and Data Scraping on the Archive on May 13th.

*The interview is still up, but just in case, I'll be pulling the link from the Wayback Machine instead of the actual link.

I will be highlighting a few important points (imo) in case people don't want to read the entire interview. For longer highlights, I will be adding bold/italics/underline to help people keep from jumping around the text and read out of order (I know I do, and that tends to help me).

Because I'm having Thoughts about AI scraping, I might make a Tumblr-esque essay and put my English major to use looking into some of this interview (If I ever do, I might add a link to this post). Highlighting things and reading through this interview makes me want to pull my stuff from AO3, and I've only just started posting there a year ago.

Highlighting phrases and sentences does not mean I agree with them. It means I think they are important to see and consider.

Here's the interview that Signal links to:

...Betsy Rosenblatt is the legal chair for the Organization for Transformative Works (OTW), a nonprofit dedicated to preserving fan works.... The interview with Betsy follows.

Katherine: When you think about AI technology, fan works, and copyright, what excites you? And, what keeps you up at night?

Betsy: One of the things that excites me—which is probably a bit off to the side of what most people are talking about with AI and copyright—is that AIs are reading fan fiction now. For a long time, machine learning relied almost exclusively on data sources that were known to be in the copyright public domain, such as works published prior to 1927 and public records. The result of that was that machines were often learning archaic ideas—learning to associate certain professions with certain races and genders, for example. Now, machine learning is turning to broader sources from across the internet, including fan works. That means that machines will learn how to describe and express a much more contemporary, broad, inclusive, and diverse set of ideas.

I’m also intrigued by some of the expressive possibilities that AI may create. Will DALL·E or ChatGPT become characters in fan fiction? Surely they will. I want to read the fan-created stories where DALL·E and ChatGPT fall in love with each other (or don’t), get into arguments (or don’t), buy a house together (or don’t), team up to solve (or perpetrate!) crimes….

As for what keeps me up at night, I remain mostly optimistic. I think it would be a very sad turn of events if some of the newly begun litigation about data crawling and scraping ended up preventing machines from building contemporary, inclusive, broad-based data pools to draw on. I think it would be very sad if people turned to AI-created works instead of finding, exploring, and making fan works of their own. But I don’t think either of those things is very likely to happen. Fans make fan works because they love doing it. They feel compelled to tell the stories they imagine, and they want to share those with communities of other fans. They use fan work creation to build skills and find their own voices. I don’t think that the emergence of new technologies will stop them from doing that.

Katherine: Artists have filed a class-action lawsuit alleging that AI companies violate copyright law when they create databases of copyrighted images to “train” their AI image products. At least one of the companies in the suit, Stability AI, says that this is a fair use: “Anyone that believes that this isn’t fair use does not understand the technology and misunderstands the law.” What questions would you like to see a court ask when analyzing whether ingesting copyrighted works to create AI-training databases is a fair use?

Betsy: I tend to agree with Stability AI’s statement. I would like to see courts consider the “training” process separately from the process of generating works. It is, of course, possible that a machine could generate an infringing work. But the process of training that machine involves something very different—turning expressive works into data and creating relationships based on that data collection. We call it machine “learning” for a reason. A well-trained machine won’t generate an infringing work, but it needs as large a pool of data to work from as possible to do that. The mere fact that an AI can create something infringing doesn’t determine whether the gathering of information is infringement. Consider the classic Sony v. Betamax case: The VCR can be used to infringe, but it has noninfringing (fair) uses, and therefore the VCR does not inherently infringe. I recognize that the analogy isn’t perfect, but I find it persuasive. In general, courts have found that “interim” copying isn’t infringement—that is, copying isn’t infringement when it occurs inside a machine and does not, itself, make copyrighted works perceptible to people—and I think courts should continue to follow that logic.

Katherine: Will the Supreme Court’s 2021 Google v. Oracle decision have any bearing on this case?

Betsy: I hope so. That case highlighted that we shouldn’t be locked into one definition of “transformative” work, and that copying for the purpose of engaging in a different technological use can be transformative copying.

Katherine: What would you say to online creators who might be discouraged by AI technology?

Betsy: You will always make your work better than an AI can. What matters about your work is that it comes from you. That makes your work irreplaceable, and it will always remain so.

[lovecolibri]

Oh I am *cackling* at the producers trying to claim the show was driven by Loki and Sylvie's relationship when she refused to lift a finger to help multiple times (while platonic bestie Mobius was living out romcom moments by the dozen with Loki), and honestly they could have not had her in the season at all and barely anything would change. Like, I don't like that ship but it's still SO deeply disrespectful to give them NOTHING on screen all season while giving all the cute classically shippy moments to Lokius, and then come out after and claim it was some grand, sweeping romance and also there was nothing intentional about giving all the shippy stuff to Lokius. 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

Also, as I said in some tags, the "we can't get into Loki's head" like is just....peek absurdity. My brother in Christ, YOU'RE the writers! This character has been in the MCU for like, 14 years, played by Hiddleston who is *obsessed* with Loki. Getting into Loki's head should have been a cake walk! And even if it wasn't, IT'S LITERALLY YOUR JOB TO GET IN THE CHARACTER'S HEAD. Maybe this is why shows are so shitty? Instead of letting the characters drive the plot by getting into their heads and making choices from that perspective, showrunners instead twist the characters into a storyline.

ANYWAY.

[edwardshundredyearoldspunk]

stumbled across a ballad of songbirds and snakes critique video and I couldn't even watch it because the person so did not get what the book was doing and saying and the comments were complaining about the unnecessary romance when it's super obvious it's not intended to be a romance. suzanne collins is, yet again, ahead of her time because I remember the hate mockingjay got when it came out for killing prim and having katniss vote for new hunger games when those plot points are crucial and are meant to act as a commentary

[thealexchen]

Why Dontnod's games feel original and inspired (and why Deck Nine's games don't)

So, I've talked at length about how Double Exposure feels much more like a corporate product than a playable piece of art entertainment [My initial thoughts on the DE trailer] [My thoughts on the early access paywall] [My thoughts on the weird marketing].

But now with the release of Lost Records, I feel like I have no choice but to confront the question: were any of Deck Nine's games truly original or inspired in any way? And honestly, I have to say no.

Objectively, I could say it's because Deck Nine literally has not produced any original IP's since their rebrand from Idol Minds in 2017. Their only narrative adventure games are all part of the LiS franchise. But even their most original game, True Colors, pretty obviously follows the first game's narrative formula (young woman with a superpower investigates a sudden disappearance/death in a small town with a dark secret, has two opposite sex love interests, learns about a twist villain, is nearly murdered, and goes through a psychological nightmare in the last episode) to a tee. But oh look, there's also a LARP!

But I believe there's more to it than that, because when I look at Dontnod's games, they are always inspired by other works. Life is Strange 1 plays very clear homage to Twin Peaks with the Pacific Northwest setting and Rachel Amber resembling Laura Palmer. Max Caulfield is named after the protagonist of The Catcher in the Rye, another novel about the fleeting innocence of childhood and superficiality of society. Life is Strange borrows tropes from Donnie Darko, Groundhog Day, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, Stand By Me, and even Blue is The Warmest Color for its themes and plot points. Just take a look at its "Shout-out" page on TV Tropes. And the result is... something completely original, with riveting plot twists, memorable characters, and an ending that will make you cry.

This shouldn't make sense, right? You'd think this big soup of references would turn into an indistinguishable mess of cliches, but Life is Strange managed to be a synthesis of everything the writers loved and were inspired by, to become something completely new. Why? Because nobody had tried to take Twin Peaks, Donnie Darko, and The Catcher in the Rye and turn it into a video game before! And make it gay!

The point being, Dontnod consistently makes original material because they take creative risks. This is definitely not done lightly, since they still need to be a company that generates profit, but they still prioritize making art over selling out. Their stories feel inspired because they are inspired; when writers love what they're writing about, the result is a passion project that has loving, clever nods to all the works that are woven into it.

So perhaps a way to reword that first question is to then ask, "Have Deck Nine's games ever been inspired by anything?" And unfortunately, the answer is still no. Instead, they just copy what they hope will sell well. And a bland imitation for the sake of generating profit is never going to produce anything that feels original.

This takes me back to Lost Records, which is also clearly inspired by the same works: Twin Peaks, It: Chapter One, The Craft, The Blair Witch Project, The Goonies, Stand By Me. But again, no other game studio besides Dontnod has ever looked at these works and thought, "But what if it starred teenage lesbians instead?" Or, more specifically: "How do we capture the spirit of what made these media great and incorporate that into a new story for a new audience?" And those characters have so much thought and care poured into them too: while I've been disappointed that Double Exposure Max looks airbrushed to hell and back, I love that the Bloom & Rage girls have asymmetrical faces, acne, freckles, body hair, skin discoloration, and diverse body types. Double Exposure is marketed as nostalgia bait for fans, where Max is reduced to a prettied-up, polished-up, representation of nostalgia, not even her own character anymore, in a game that otherwise has no connection to the original. Her quips are reduced to "Hey! Remember our good ol', dad-joke cracking, dorky Max Caulfield??" and her grief is shoved aside for "Hey, look at that appealing new love interest! Because we knoooow y'all love your sapphic romance, right?"

By contrast, Lost Records has only been out for 10 days, but I already feel like the girls are some of the most memorable characters I've come across in gaming for the niche they fill. Swann seems like your typical Max-like dork, except she's also a movie buff and giddy about bugs, horror, and the paranormal; and has clearly been affected by her mother's fatphobic beliefs. Autumn is a level-headed leader who always stuck to her desire to help others, and her Blackness naturally informs her desire to feel valued and not cause trouble in a small, very white, conservative town. Nora intrigues me so much for going from a fun-loving rebel punk teen to a more gender-conforming, capitalist-leaning, influencer businesswoman. And Kat feels like an evolution of Chloe's cynicism, where her scrappy charm belies an almost unsettling obsession with the occult and a deep, tragic chasm of rage at having to confront her mortality far too young. They make sense. They feel carefully written, genuine, and like real people.

But most of all, Dontnod's games have never felt like products. In fact, most of their characters have historically gone against the grain of what traditionally "marketable" characters are. The first LiS took all these aforementioned stories about straight white men and chose to remix and retell it through the eyes of a young, queer, time-traveling girl instead. Tell Me Why is the first AAA game with a trans protagonist, and Tyler is voiced by a trans actor in all the language dubs. Lost Records decided that it would tell its story through four queer teenage girls, with women writers onboard, and fucking own it. As long as Dontnod keeps making games that stick to their creative integrity, I'll keep respecting their vision in whatever they decide to create next. Also, maybe I should finally watch Twin Peaks.

Thank you for reading!

[valtsv]

can you pitch tsv to me fandom propaganda style… like sell it to me. hook me in. what is it about

the silt verses is a folk horror/political satire/weird fiction podcast set in an alternate ambiguously modern-day reality that asks the question "what if gods (and their saints, and angels, and miracles) were real? what if they formed the core infrastructure of the society you lived in? what if they were sustained by human belief and sacrifice? what if this was just the accepted Way Things Are?" and then introduces you to a cast of characters for whom this is their normal daily routine, and shakes them up through a series of intersecting arcs and plotlines. it deals with a lot of compelling themes - including identity and personhood, how institutions of power are formed and maintained and the potential for abuses of that power even by the most well-intentioned who wield it, action vs. rhetoric and the power of words; whose story is worth telling and whose is erased or adulterated by those privileged enough to write the version that becomes the widely accepted canon, and how struggles for control of something as conceptual as narrative can become very real and legitimate fights for the right to have one's autonomy and personhood recognised, human connection and why it's both so valuable and so destructive, etc. - but the central question it unceasingly begs is "why do we continue to live like this? why do we accept that this is all there is? what will it take for us to care about what's happening all around us, every day, right before our very eyes? what will you do when you realise you've spent your whole life drowning, and every option for relief comes at a cost? how long can you keep telling yourself that you're not really drowning before the water closes in over your head and swallows you like all those before you?"

tsv takes a magnifying glass to the horrifying exploitation and cruelty that so much of our own society runs on, and literalises it, leading to what is often rather heavy-handed satire bordering on the parodic - but it does so with such grace and unflinching, grounded honesty, without preaching to its audience but without letting them off the hook, either. it recognises that we are all both complicit in and victims of our own collective slow grind towards annihilation, and it asks us "isn't this absurd? isn't this horrifying? is this really all there is? is there nothing we can do in the face of this seemingly insurmountable, inescapable self-defeating routine-turned-ritual? why should we, or shouldn't we, care? why should we, or shouldn't we, try to make a difference?" and it's brave enough to admit that it doesn't have all the answers. but it still tries. because the silt verses is, fundamentally, a story about hope - real hope; the difficult, unglorious, unrelentingly in need of maintenance kind that is, nevertheless, still worth every effort to inspire it. the silt verses is a story about why we get up in the morning and try again, even though it might never be enough.

it's also a very character-driven story, and the character writing is truly second to none. every character is a person, in all their infinite messy, human complexity. every character has the capacity for abject cruelty and incredible kindness; to be a significant influence on their reality and to be utterly meaningless in the wider context of things; every character has the potential to be both the hand that pulls someone to their feet in their hour of need, and the boot that grinds them further into the dirt, and every character is both of these things, at some point or another, to someone. every character is both the martyr and the one holding the knife. no character is a saint - not even the actual, literal saints. and while this isn't necessarily something that should be used as a selling point, the way this podcast handles the diversity of identity is fantastic, and never used tokenistically, or as a character's sole defining trait (though not all aspects of identity get equal consideration; the creator has acknowledged that he didn't tackle race as a topic much beyond examining the developmental factors of broad strokes "us vs. them" nationalistic identities, and the arbitrary nature of patriotic loyalty to one's nation when it runs on the same oppressive systems as that which is painted the aggressor, and some fans have pointed out that while diversity of gender and one's lived experiences according to one's gender identity gets plenty of focus, some things are left to implication and inference in a way that doesn't necessarily strengthen the story's themes).

anyway. not sure this is the "fandom propaganda style" pitch you asked for, but listen to the silt verses. it's a brilliant work of fiction and to my mind deserves to be considered a landmark piece of art (even if that does mean that some of my more fandombrained takes would likely come to be seen as unflattering misconstrusions of the source material that betray my personal deficiencies. well whatever it was fun i had fun.)

[includedisco]

You know what dear fanfic writers?

it's okay to cry because you can't put your character's emotions into words. Dry your tears and write it however the hell you can. It's your story and it's still art

It's okay to take 5 days away because you failed to adequately describe a fight scene. Write it in two sentences if you want. You'll do better next time.

It's okay to use the same word 25 times in one chapter. It's not that deep

It's okay to have too long or too short chapters.

It's okay to be brief or to be as detailed and colourful as you want with your kiss scene. Whether they just "kiss tenderly" or you tell us all about how "his tongue tastes like honey", it's okay and we get it. You've still successfully told us that they kiss

It's okay to have 7% emotions and 300% dialogue or vice versa in your story

While dreaming of writing or working on that awesome work that's better than anything you've written so far, it's okay to allow yourself to write a few pieces that are just YOU and YOUR style, whatever that might be.

I'm not saying we shouldn't grow and improve as writers. What I'm saying is that we shouldn't punish ourselves. At the very least, let's do better because it's what we want and not because we feel pressured by anyone else to do so. You always have an audience no matter what sort of author you are.

Look, nobody is paying us to be this hard on ourselves. If anyone comes at you about your writing, tell them to show you how it's done then. Tell them to politely excuse themselves from your "bad writing". Better yet, give them your bank details so they can pay you for stepping so way out of your writing comfort zone to please them. You'll see how quickly they'll shut the fuck up

[xqueen-of-disasterx]

The winner takes it all

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Scarlett Johansson x fem!reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐲: Scarlett Johansson just hit the peak of her career, she had everything: money power glory. One thing was missing, the Oscar. After she finally won the award she found a special way to celebrate her win with her perfect little girlfriend as a helper.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUT, dom!scarlett, sub!reader, alcohol use, oral, object insertion, recording of sexual activities, Oscar in places they shouldn't be, degradation

!Disclaimer English is not my first language so please excuse any grammar or spelling errors. This story is completely fictional. I do not own these characters!

𝐀/𝐍: I swear | was drunk while writing this l'm not a weirdo okay 😭

𝐌.𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Third times is the charm, right? That’s what Scarlett thought when she sat in the audience of this year Academy Awards. She was nominated for best actress for her latest movie, last time that had happened her award was stolen from her, but not today, she thought.

She sat in the big theatre room you, her younger co- star turned affair sat next to her, nervously she tapped her fingers over the armrest of the seat. “Scarlett” You called out the older actress had her eyes fixated on the still empty stage. “Scarlett?” You tried again hoping to reach through to her. “Huh? Yes, what’s the matter?” Her fingers still tapping the soft fabric of the armrest. “You’re so nervous” You slip your hand over hers “How couldn’t I be? Have you seen the competition this year? There’s no way I win against Emma Stone”

You chuckled intertwined our hands, it was dangerous you knew that, but luckily no one way paying attention to you. The fact that you shared so much more than just the screen was intoxicating to you, sneaking around the crew to share a few passionate minutes with the older actress. She made you feel the things none of your boyfriends ever could. How she touched you, loved you. But everything had to come to an end, and so did the affair you two had. “You blow them all out of the water” You assured her.

The alcohol did it’s job pretty well in Scarlett’s eyes she had had her faire share of expensive champagne glasses to calm her nerves. And then it got time for the category of best actress. The announcer had the all telling red envelope in hands opening it in exactly that moment. “The Oscar goes too” she slipped out the card “SCARLETT JOHANSSON” The theatre broke out into loud cheers and claps, Scarlett however didn’t even register her name being called she was still in a state of pure shock.

Both you and the director leaned in to give her a quick peak on the cheek and a small “You did it” before she made her way up to the stage to finally accept the thing she never thought she could get.

“You did it” You smiled at her when she made her way into her hotel room. You had sneaked off the after show party to surprise your older girlfriend. Nothing special really just a bit of champagne and lingerie but just seeing you spread out on the sheets made her crazy.

“Now what do we have here” She smirked she was clearly intoxicated and so were you. “Fuck baby girl” She groaned upon seeing your promiscuously clothed body. Later that night she had changed from the big dress to an expensive pantsuit. She slipped of her blazer placing it on to one of the hotel room’s chairs.

“You’re playing with the fire little girl” She chuckled her eyes never leaving your body. She sat her pretentious golden man on the bed side table. “I know what I’m doing” You breathed out. Your eyes meet and she down to kiss you.

Her hands slid over your exposed skin going onto your back. With skilled fingers she unclasped your bra slipping it off your shoulders only to throw it behind her. “Fuck you little slut, I’ve barely done anything and you’re nipples are already hard” Her degrading words forced a moan from your throat.

Her thumbs rolled over your hard nipples, she enjoyed seeing you squirm for her, under her. She chuckled before kissing down your stomach licking over the soft skin of your tummy.

She pressed her nose against your pubic bone taking in a deep breath. She tugged your panties from your legs tugging them into her pant pockets. She kissed your clit kitten licking the bundle of nerves. She paid extra attention to the spot because she knew how needy it made you.

She gave your cunt a few more bold licks bumping the crock of her nose against your over sensitive clit. She pushed her tongue inside your tight heat enjoying not only the taste but also the feeling of your muscles clenching around her.

“Fuck Scarlett” You moaned out your hands gripping tightly into the pillow behind your head. She kept on working you towards the edge of ecstasy until she pulled away letting you huff in annoyance all you wanted she just chuckled.

“Aw” she mocked you “Was my little girl just about to cum?” You shook your head still whining. Her eyes darted to the trophy next to you and a mischief grin was planned on her lips. You knew exactly what she was thinking about.

“Scarlett no” you said with urgency “What? I’m not doing anything” She reached out for the golden man upon closer inspection it had the right shape, you had taken bigger after all. “Well” She started her hands stroking over the stature “don’t you want to make me happy”

“I do but” Scarlett stopped me “No buts baby now spread your legs” You applied to her wishes spreading your legs for the older woman. She hummed in approval her fingers stroking through your slit collecting your wetness on her fingers.

She covers her trophy in your juices on her lips there was still this shit eating grin. She was more excited than a little kid on Christmas.

She held the cold metal against your entrance pushing the head of the stature past your hole, watching in an awe how your pussy ate the metal man.

“Fuck” She groaned as she heard the mewl sounds growing in volume the more the man disappeared. “That’s so hot” She shifted to her knees to reach out for her phone taking it from the nightstand

“I need this for my personal collection” She mumbled pointing the camera to where the Oscar was connected to your body. You both had agreed to her being allowed to videotape you, if she didn’t release it. You both knew that a leak of this video would make it onto every cover of every tabloid magazine. Did you care? Absolutely not. Scarlett even less

The feeling of the cold metal against your walls was intoxicating, you mewled and whimpered. She moved the stature in and out of your tight heat bringing you close to your release. With her skilled fingertips she played with you overstimulated clit loving how your body squirmed under her.

The camera was still on your glistering cunt the camera panting to your face twisted in pleasure. “Fuck I’m gonna cum” She smirked again throwing her phone away to pay more attention to your desperate body. “I know baby” She kissed your nipples with a few more thrust she made you see stars. She let you ride out your high before pulling out the award again watching in an awe how the cum dripped the golden man. “Scarlett” you breathed out still catching your breath “What the fuck”.

:)

Taglist:

@badbitchrebequinha @notaloserjustasnoozer @misscaptainchaos @tashakink @strawberrynatsstuff

[swanlikely]

Current Nanami Brainrot: Husband Nanami!

TW & Content: Sexual Harrassment, Violence (barely), Cunnilingus, Penetration, Usage of she/her pronouns, and bad writing?

Thinking about Nanami watching his pretty little wife sway softly to the suggestive music that hummed over the audience in the club. His eyes followed every sultry move, a small smirk playing on his lips as he nursed the whiskey in his strong palm. Nanami, being the ever-so-sweet husband he was, agreed to accompany you on your night out with your girls, ensuring your safety while secretly enjoying the view. Chuckling, he couldn't help but trace every curve of your body with his eyes, reminding himself how lucky he was. The way you moved, so effortlessly seductive, captivated him completely.

The mood and your fun were immediately ruined when a man, barely a few inches taller than you, sauntered up against you. The horrible sensation of his front pressing against your rear drove you to swivel quickly around, your face plastered in disgust. As the event unfolded, Nanami was already downing the whiskey and approaching you, his instincts kicking in.

"Please don't do that. I'm married," You yelped over the blaring music, fighting back the bitterness in your voice. The man with no manners cocked his bushy brow, appearing to be enticed by your attitude, and placed a rough hand on the side of your waist. His hold was unwanted and aggressive, causing dread to flare up in your chest.

"I don't see your husband here, do I? Besides, what's a married woman doing in a place like this, wearing that?" he spat, his eyes raking over your body with a predatory gleam. The anger surged through you as you realized he was referring to the black, tight dress Nanami had lovingly picked out for you. The dress that made you feel confident and beautiful, now tainted by this stranger's leering gaze.

"He's right here," Nanami's voice uttered reassuringly as he swatted the stranger's hand off your waist. Relief washed over you as your mountain of a husband placed his large hand on the small of your back. He wasn't just rubbing little circles or patterns; he was tracing letters, grounding you with each gentle touch.

"Sorry." He traced, so courteous as always.

"Ah, well. Maybe you shouldn't let your wife out looking like that. Gonna give someone the wrong idea," the rude stranger mumbled, swiping at the back of his hand where Nanami had gripped so tightly to pry him off you. Nanami was like a tree, towering over the pathetic man before you, both in sheer size and presence.

"Looking like what?" you scoffed, taking a step forward. Nanami still kept his hand on you but didn't intervene. He knew you were capable of handling yourself. He knew better than to stop his wife in the moment. "Like a slut," the stranger laughed, the sound actually nauseating to Nanami's ears. He rolled his eyes, knowing only a child would call a beautiful woman in a designer dress that. Only he could do that, though under different circumstances.

You rolled your eyes at the insult, mirroring Nanami's earlier gesture. With a swift pivot, you grasped Nanami's hand with your right, feeling the comforting strength in his grip. Using your left hand, you boldly flipped the bird at the stranger, your heart racing with a mix of defiance and satisfaction.

But before you could completely walk away with your kind husband, the stranger grumbled and reached out to pull your hair. Except, you didn't feel a thing. Instead, you felt your husband shift, and your eyes followed suit. Nanami was gripping the man by the back of his neck. God, did he look delicious, his arm flexing through the thin fabric of his button-up. His eyes were cold and fierce, a stark contrast to the warmth you always felt from him. You couldn't help but ogle at the way his muscles tensed.

"We shouldn't put our hands on pretty ladies, now should we?" Nanami asked the man, his voice dripping with a disgustingly sweet tone. He tossed the man onto the floor, and he landed on his rear with an "Ugh." Nanami tossed him like he was nothing. Good lord.

Nanami began to gently fold up the sleeves of his dark blue button-up, revealing forearms that could probably make angels weep. He was the living embodiment of "sex on legs." You couldn't help but notice the club's collective gasp as several eyes locked onto the scene, some surprised, others blatantly undressing Nanami with their eyes. Join the club, you thought with a smirk.

Nanami silently squatted down next to the man who was still recovering from the fall, bringing a hand up to grip his collar. Nanami whispered something to the man that you couldn't catch, but whatever it was, it made the stranger's eyes fill with panic.

"I-I'm sorry, ma'am," the man stammered out, bowing his head like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

You didn't even respond to the stuttering fool as you just looked at your husband, half-lidded. You were mad, originally. But who could stay angry when your husband was defending your honor, his chiseled jaw clenched and his eyes burning with intensity, making a heat stir in your stomach?

"Are you alright, sweetness?" Nanami asked as he stood up from his position, walking towards you. Towering over you, again. He was just so big.

You nodded and glanced at your girls, who were raising their eyebrows knowingly. They recognized that look on your face—it was the same one they gave their husbands when things got, well, interesting. They waved you off with giggles and a few exaggerated winks, clearly enjoying the show.

"Kento," you grabbed his hand, weaving through the sea of people like a determined woman on a mission. Despite his towering size and rugged masculinity, Nanami always listened to his wife with a smile. Little did he know, you were about to make him the happiest man in the club.

As you pulled him through the exit and toward his car, he started to put the puzzle together. He couldn't help but chuckle, his eyes glued to your ass sashaying in the dress he bought you. "Well, someone's in a hurry," he teased, knowing full well you were about to make his night unforgettable. "Need you," was all you could manage before yanking your husband down to your level with his spotted tie. His lips met yours in a hungry kiss, leaving you breathless. His hands found their way to cup your cheeks. His fingers traced down your neck, each touch causing your skin to ignite.

Your tongue danced on his bottom lip, and he politely allowed you to delve deeper, exploring the heat of his mouth. He tasted absolutely irresistible, a mix of rich whiskey and mint. The flavor was intoxicating, he was intoxicating, making you crave every bit of him even more. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer, so close that you could feel everything.

You could feel his heavy cock pressing against your thigh, the cool metal of the car contrasting sharply with the warmth of his bulge. He was overwhelming. "What's got you so eager, sweetheart?" Nanami mused as he pulled away, just a little, your forehead still pressed against his. His breath fanned against your swollen lips, his chocolatey eyes dark with want. God, he was perfect.

"Can't a woman just want her husband?" you purred, your voice like honey. Husband, oh how he loved when you called him that. It sent a rush straight to his cock, lighting a primal desire that made his breath hitch and his grip tighten on you.

"I guess I'll have to be a good husband and please my wife, huh?" he murmured, his voice low and filled with promise. His eyes never left yours as he reached into his pocket to unlock the car. Like the gentleman he was, he opened the car door for you, his touch lingering just a moment longer. The backseat of his car never looked so good.

Nanami and you slipped inside, and in an instant, Nanami was nestled between your thighs. He was electrifying. His teeth gently tugged your panties to the side, and his tongue working hard on your cunt. He was both sloppy yet precise, each movement sending jolts of pleasure through you. Nanami's big hands roamed your thighs, his fingers pressing into your skin, grounding you in the moment. His tongue worked magic, alternating between slow, deliberate strokes and quick, teasing flicks. The sensation was overwhelming, and you could feel the tension building within you.

Every now and then, he'd glance up, his eyes locking with yours through his glasses, a mischievous glint in them that made your cunt clench around nothing. His dedication to your pleasure was evident, and the way he moved and responded to your reactions showed just how much he loved you. You were dripping, almost sopping at this point.

"Kento, no m-more. I want you," you groaned as your delicate fingers tugged at his neat blond hair. Nanami paused for a moment, his eyes darkening as he looked up at you. The sight of you, needy and breathless, clearly affected him. He slowly rose, his lips brushing a trail up your body, leaving a path of tiny bruises in their wake. You'd scold him for that later.

"God, you're such a good wife," he murmured, his voice deep and husky. His right hand found your waist, while his left undid the zipper of his slacks, tugging them down just enough to reveal his heavy cock. Even in the barely lit car, it was mouthwatering. He was rock hard and throbbing, all seven inches of him.

As you reach to grab him and pull him into your slippery cunt, he stops you with a tut. "Be patient, sweetheart. Can you do that for me?" His voice, low and commanding, added an extra layer of excitement to the moment. You pant, "Yes sir," as you bring your hands to claw at Nanami's strong arms. Your hands looked so tiny in comparison to him.

Something in him seemed to awaken at the sound of your petname for him, ramming into your cunt. The stretch was overwhelming. His strong arms that you loved so much held you tightly, as he fucked you dumb, completely consumed by the raw walls of your cunt. Your thighs were pushed against your chest as your husband kept pounding into you, his groans and grunts sounding like a symphony.

"So good for me, so perfect," Nanami groaned into your neck, his words vibrating against your sweaty skin. As your climax approached, Nanami continued to sing praises into your ear, telling you how good you were, how much he loved you. "Gonna be a good girl for me? Gonna make a mess all over your husband's cock?" He spat as he nipped at the side of your jaw. You could barely answer, your mind already slipping into ecstasy. Nanami was completely pussy drunk, his cock dragging in and out with a pace you couldn't comprehend.

"Y-yes! Yes, oh god, yes!" you screamed, certain that everyone on the block could probably hear you. But you didn't care, because your husband made your walls gush and clamp around him. Nanami's own high wasn't far after yours as his pace somehow quickened, his head kissing your cervix. "Gonna cum," Nanami groaned.

"Gonna get my pretty wife pregnant," his voice dripped with desire as he continued. His seed was thick and warm, filling you to the brim. As he pulled out, he gently massaged the area above your cunt.

"So perfect." ________________ i need him biblically.

If any of the grammar is bad, I am so sorry. I wrote this while I was ovulating.

[thranduel]

if byler isn't endgame...

what was the point of making will in love with mike?

why was will used as a plot device to force mike and el back together and "fix" their relationship issues? (the writers literally took his OWN feelings for mike and his OWN painting for mike that was supposed to be something special between them only and made it all about... el? this is genuinely one of the most cruel, ridiculous and unnecessary writing decisions i've ever seen if it doesn't result in will getting the person he loves)

why did they clearly highlight the contrast between byler and m*leven's relationships all season? how mike makes el feel like a monster for being different vs how he does NOT make will feel like a mistake for being different? how mike and el had the biggest fight after mike apologised vs how mike and will made up and ended up closer than before after mike apologised? how mike and el don't have healthy communication and struggle to understand each other vs how mike and will always have genuine heart-to-heart conversations, understand each other so well and sometimes don't even have to say any words? how mike feels insecure in his relationship with el and has his trauma/feelings invalidated vs how will manages to always make him feel special, confident and gives him strength when he's struggling and needs help?

why are there so many parallels and similarities between will and el as individual characters AND also their relationships with mike?

why is mike's relationship with will different from all his other platonic friends? (and don't just say "because will is in love with him", because in some scenes, MIKE is the one who initiates things and goes out of his way for will. which reminds me, you know how everyone says mike does so many romantic things for el? like not giving up on her when she's missing, taking care of her, being protective over her, etc.? he actually did all of those things for will first)

why did mike vent to will about his fight with el (the fight he claims they "can't come back from") without directly saying what the fight was about? all he said was "maybe i should've said something... and if i would've said that thing, then maybe she'd want me there with her." so... you're venting to your friend and you can't even specify that your big fight was about not being able to say "i love you"? why was it kept so secretive if you truly love her and it's no big deal? you've said you love her in front of a group of people before anyways, even when will was there, so why can't you even say the words to him while venting?

why did mike vent to will (again) and say that if he would've explained himself to el, maybe she would've taken him with her? will says he thinks it's scary to open up like that, to say how you really feel, but shouldn't mike and el already know how they both feel about each other at this point? el heard mike say he loved her in season 3, and at the end of the same season, she said "i love you too" before kissing him. they have kissed a lot, sent letters to each other and do lovey dovey things, which should make their feelings quite clear?????

and what was the point of this line from will?

"because... what if... what if they don't like the truth?"

we're supposed to be talking about el here. sure, will was subtly speaking about himself, and we know that as the audience. but mike doesn't. this conversation is about el, so mike still thinks will is talking about her. why on earth would he NOD after will says the part about how she might not like the truth? mike knows that "the truth" she WANTS to hear is "i love you", so why wouldn't she like the truth? why did mike nod at what will said and why did he agree with him? what is actually even happening in this scene??????????????

why did they make all the canon couples stand together in the final shot of season 4, with mike and will standing together too?

what was the point of ANY of this if they weren't planning on making byler endgame?!?!?!?!?!

[arenee1999]

This renewal fight isn't just about Our Flag Means Death. The cancellation is part of a broader problem that has multiple arms.

Original content is being canceled, shelved and pushed to the shadows while remakes, reboots and endless sequels that can be milked well past their expiration date take precedence.

Lgbtqia+ and diverse content is being canceled, shelved and sidelined in favor of more of the same homogenized stories that have been being done for 100+ years.

Shows that have absurdly high ratings are being canceled. If a show that was being considered a flagship show for the network, that had the highest ratings for 14 weeks, that has a 94% rating on Rotten Tomatoes with a 95% Audience Score, is being canceled what hope does any other show have?

Streaming services and Networks are doing a 180° on they type of content they're interested in. Just a handful of years ago they started pulling away from the long season shows that could be endlessly renewed in favor of short contained stories that could be told in 1-4 seassons with 6-14 episodes per season. Creators have given them those stories but are still having to fight tooth and nail to get the renewals that should have been a foregone conclusion because these are the exact type of shows that were asked for. And audiences were more willing to take chances on these shows because with such a tightly wrapped story with an ending decided on before it started there's no reason we shouldn't be getting the whole story. No reason for premature cancellations when the number of seasons needed to tell the entire story was part of the original pitch that the network agreed to. No need to cancel it unless it actually does have atrocious viewership numbers. But now, these stories that were specifically asked for by the networks, that have ratings well above what's needed to justify keeping it on the air, are being canceled or shelved in favor of going back to the idea of endless seasons and spin offs and reboots of tired franchises.

You want to keep getting good, original stories that aren't just endless reboots and sequels of a once good idea that's lost it's soul? Join the email & letter writing campaign to MAX and other streamers and networks. Tell them you are interested in seeing more original content. Diverse content, lgbtqia+ content. Help save OFMD and in the process save your own favorite shows. No, one letter, one signature can't change anything. But thousands can. Be one of the thousands.

@renewasacrew

[somewhereincairparavel]

hot take but I will always hate the concept of percy getting elected as praetor with having spent so less time in camp jupiter, while jason spent the same amount of time in chb and still wasn't able to fill in the gaps percy left, but percy seemingly did for jason in camp jupiter, and how replaceable jason was shown as, despite the fact that he spent 12 years, and trained as a TODDLER. i swear if I see some "joke" about percy surpassing jason in a week COMPLETELY ignoring that it's a very obvious gary sue moment written by rick I'll get so salty. it's one of the many inconsistencies of hoo.

because not only does it scream main character favouritism from rick (with making percy fit into everything somehow with zero plot holes) people ONLY say "jason was replacing percy" but apparently acting like percy wasn't? they were BOTH sent to replace eachother, temporarily atleast.

it's the fact that romans are showed to be very choosy in selecting praetors, which is why it took jason so long to become one despite his reputation. the camp just randomly hailing percy (a greek, people whom they hate) as their leader with zero hesitation whatsoever DESPITE the presence of octavian is weird. considering how much they opposed frank, a ROMAN going on an important quest, deeming him unworthy, despite hearing mars, literal GOD giving them orders to send frank, they were still very adamant in not sending him. so we can see that romans bend their rules for no one.

yes percy accomplished something GREAT and deserved the position as much as jason did, but if you take into consideration how the romans were written in the books, they were the type of people to ignore efforts people made if it meant the people were going against their "traditional" values. going by that logic, rick made them contradict their own views just for the purpose of elevating percy, and instilling this sense of superiority over jason.

knowing that the target audience wouldn't want jason to be on the same level as percy, which is strange because rick also meant to write jason and percy as foils of eachother, so shouldn't they be given equal amounts of importance? or just don't write them as foils at all if you want percy to have leverage over jason so bad? like pick a side.

if percy can be made a praetor with a week's time and have golden treatment in an enemy camp that accepts no one in easily (as opposed to chb who's more accepting) then why ISN'T jason held up like a hero in chb if percy is? (nah don't bombard me with the "camp half blood is loyal! unlike camp jupiter, rick wrote percy getting held up to point out that difference between the camps loyalty" bs we are just making up excuses and stories to make sense of the bad writing, who knows if rick even thought through all that, considering how inconsistent he is in books after pjo)

how come chb, whos main trait was written as loyalty to the campers never changed when it came to jason being there? jason got good friends, sure. but the camp NEVER saw him as a replacement to percy and there was some tension with him popping out of nowhere right when percy disappeared. jason was accepted in camp, but he wasn't hailed like a hero there the way percy was.

but camp jupiter, who's traits were extremely traditional values and rules that was never changed or messed with in the past was randomly tailored to percy's advantage? jason was hailed as the pinnacle of the true image of rome, and them replacing him with an unconventional greek hero within a WEEK seems so contradictory and just screams bad writing. why is the fandom giving this portion of the bad writing a pass when it clearly wastes the potential of the characters who aren't percy or annabeth? also this is NOT a percy hate post before y'all flood my inbox with threats, just pointing out one of the many inconsistencies of heroes of olympus.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

Regarding the post about Marinette being punished for trusting people and the response to it, this is something I always have trouble explaining because it sounds callous? But fictional characters aren't people. It's not that their lives just so happen to get in the way leading to something bad happened the writers decided that should happen, and it's important that you stop and ask WHY this happens. If the camera is "on" per se, people assume it's relevant and will tie into something larger. So like if the camera is on and all we see is Alya revealing her identity and then the result is she's outed in the same way she was in Heroes Day, the audience naturally concludes it's connected and thus realizes the lesson is either "Alya learns she shouldn't share her identity" OR "Marinette learns she shouldn't trust people" or both.

Secret identities are a great example of this phenomenon. We're NOT shown every time a villain's plan is foiled because they didn't know the heroe's identity, we ARE shown every time a heroe's identity causes friction in their lives. As such, large parts of the audience think of secret identites as inconveniences because that's what's shown (not just in Miraculous Ladybug, in tons of other shows)

Like you are supposed to make connections in Television about what's being shown to you that no one would make in real life (or at the very least no one SHOULD make in real life) because there's a limited space to tell the story and the audience is assuming the writers aren't wasting our time.

If these were real people it would be unreasonable to say because people have their own lives Marinette can't trust them, but in a story where Marinette is the main character who is explicitly always supposed that's. An accurate way to read the story!

And I also understand that this is a very boring construction if you're making headcanons or thinking about these characters! But that's a different lens, it doesn't make the broader writing lens invalid. You're speaking different languages at that point.

Anyway I hope that helps someone, that's my two cents

You summed it up perfectly! There's a ton of valid criticism to be had of Miraculous, but you can tell from the narrative framing that almost all of it comes down to writing choices and not things that are supposed to be seen as in-universe issues even though a lot of fans treat them as such. It's really weird to see things like people complaining about everything revolving around Marinette as if it's a personal flaw of hers and not the result of her being the main character in a fictional world. "Main Character Syndrome" literally pulls its name from the fact that this is how main characters work in a lot of media. It's a flaw when a real person does it, but in terms of story telling, it's extremely normal - and often good story telling - to have everything revolve around your main character or a core cast.

The issue with Miraculous is that they chose a lot of poor conflicts if they wanted Marinette to be the one and only main character, but that's not her fault. She didn't decide to have the rules around identities make no sense. The writers did. She didn't decide to make the main villain Adrien's dad while also keeping Adrien from being involved in the story. The writers did. The list goes on and on and, because none of it reflects badly on Marinette in the writers' eyes, the show doesn't act like Marinette is in the wrong. Remember, these are the same writers who think that Derision was a great episode that added depth to Marinette instead of destroying her character and making her look unhinged. Their judgement is clearly a little skewed.

While the writers love to make bad plot choices, they are generally using proper story telling language to make those choices, which is why I can tell you how characters' actions are intended to be read. The Rena Furtive and Nino example is a great one because it allows me to show that the writers do understand how to set things up. In fact, once they've decided that they're going to do a thing, they pretty much always set it up at a basic level. It's rarely spectacular and often frustrating, but it's never shocking.

In Rocketear, Alya promises Marinette that Nino will never learn about Rena Furtive. The episode then ends with her breaking that promise via the following exchange:

Alya: (sighs) I'm still Rena Rouge. (Nino gasps.) But now I'm in hiding and that's why Ladybug asked me not to tell anyone. Nino: But why are you telling me if no one's supposed to know? Is Ladybug cool with this? Alya: I can't hide it from you, because I love you, Nino, and we share everything.

Look at how this confession is presented. Look at what the dialogue focuses on. When Marinette confessed her identity to Alya, it was all about the confession and supporting Marinette. There was no discussion of this being a problem for Chat Noir or anything like that because - in the writers' eyes - that wasn't a problem for some reason. This is why Chat Noir almost instantly absolves Ladybug of blame once he finds out about the identity reveal (see: Hack-San.) The writers didn't want it to be an issue so it wasn't:

Ladybug: I'm really sorry, Cat Noir. I should've told you. I mean, if I found out that you told someone about your secret identity, I'd... probably be upset, too. I'm really sorry I hurt your feelings. Cat Noir: You didn't hurt my feelings. You did everything right

But when Alya confesses her identity to Nino, the conversation is not just about her confession. It's about her confession and how she's not supposed to do this. That's why Nino's response is not loving support. Instead, he asks if this is a good idea and if Ladybug knows.

These things are getting focused on because the writers are telling you that this is a bad thing. It's supposed to feel ominous. When I first watched Rocketear, I assumed that the season was going to end with Gabriel getting the fox off of Alya due to Nino because that was an obvious way to raise the stakes and they'd just heavily implied that Nino knowing would be a bad thing. I was, unfortunately, right. The only on screen consequence of Nino knowing is that he outs Alya to everyone in an incredibly forced series of events (see: Strikeback):

(Ryuko successfully prevents the Roue de Paris from hitting them, yet, it flies to the direction where Rena Furtive is. This causes Carapace to panic.) Carapace: Rena! (takes out his shield) Shell-ter! (Carapace's superpower successfully prevents the Ferris wheel from hitting Rena Furtive on top of the Tour Montparnasse. But the information of Rena Furtive's active status shocks the heroes, as well as Shadow Moth.) The heroes: Rena?! Shadow Moth: (from the top of the Eiffel Tower) She's still active?

Of course the Ferris Wheel goes straight for Alya's hiding spot and of course Nino screams her name before casting his power and of course the villain overhears it. It's all so forced and unnatural, which should make it glaringly obvious how much the writers wanted this to happen. This wasn't something they were kind of forced to do because it made sense for the narrative and they wanted to tell a good story. Instead, they wrote an awkward series of events because they really, really, really wanted Nino knowing to be a bad thing that outs Alya so that Marinette loses all of the miraculous even though none of this makes much sense.

How the hell did Gabriel hear Nino's shout from so far away? Is he able to overhear everything the heroes are saying? How does Nino even know that Alya is hiding there? And since when was a Ferris Wheel a threat to these guys? Your girlfriend is a magical girl and she's in her magical girl form, dude. You could drop a building on her and she'd be fine, a thing you have to know because this scene literally goes on to have Chat Noir go flying into a building, hitting it so hard the cement literally cracks, and no one really cares. I guess it's fine if Adrien is a punching bag, but Alya must be protected at all costs...

Anyway, while the above series of events was annoying, none of it was surprising. In fact, it would have all be perfectly predictable even if Alya outing herself was that treated as a more neutral event. Her choice leading to bad things falls perfectly in line with a truly bizarre running theme in the show: outing your identity to the person you love romantically is a bad thing that leads to bad consequences. That's why Chat Blanc and Ephemeral ended the world and why Nino knowing cost Ladybug the fox and why the character they call Joan of Arc has to give up her miraculous to be with her love and why the Kwami's have this absolutely asinine dialogue in Kwamis' Choice:

Plagg: Sugarcube! Having to force them to choose between love and their mission is just awful! Maybe Master Fu was wrong to choose them. Tikki: No, they’re made for each other. Love is what gives them their strength. Plagg: But the impossible part of that love is destroying them, and I know a thing or two about destruction. Tikki: (sighs heavily) What can we do? Plagg: We must free them of that impossible choice. We must… free them of us.

This is the voice of the author telling you that outing the identities is not and never will be a good choice for the love square. Never mind that Alya is allowed to know Marinette's identity or that Gabriel finding out is what actually ended the world in the alternate timelines or that Felix outted himself in public but is still wielding or that freaking Gabriel was allowed to know half of the temp heroes' identities while they were still actively wielding. For some reason, those things don't matter to the narrative, probably because romantic love wasn't involved. The "identity reveals are a bad thing" rule only seems to apply when romantic love is a key element to the point where it's a reoccurring theme in this supposed power of love show.

[thebibliosphere]

Am I reading this right? You have been beating yourself up for not 'working more' and not 'doing enough', but, the mere act of being AT YOUR DESK is extremely painful? Sitting at your work station, just SITTING THERE, caused you PHYSICAL PAIN, but you were still under the impression that you should be able to just 'power through that' to do, what? How much more are you expecting out of yourself? A book a month? Its not like you've STOPPED WORKING. What time table were you holding yourself to???

Here's the thing, my body has always hurt.

Even when I was a child, I was in a lot of pain that was dismissed as either "growing pains" despite the fact that I never got past 5 feet tall at the age of 11 or "attention seeking." So, I learned to stop talking about it. (The trick is now getting me to shut up about it.)

And for most of my teens and twenties, the pain didn't really stop me too much. It was bad, and it sucked, but for the longest time, everyone kept telling me that "everyone" felt that way, so I just sort of learned to power through and hide it under the assumption that "everyone" feels this way.

Well, turns out that was a mistake because my body hit its breaking point, and what might have been a mild genetic disability that could have flown under the radar is now a severe one that greatly impacts my daily life to the point where sitting at my desk causes me pain (because everything causes me pain).

Couple that with some new-age religious trauma about willpower, positive thinking, and whatever the fuck else my parents thought I was capable of as an 'indigo starseed' and the fact that I was trained to mask my ADHD by being a hyper-competent workaholic-- I really don't know what a healthy baseline is.

(I mean, heck, I wrote the first book of Hunger Pangs while literally dying. I assumed it would be edited and published posthumously. Jokes on me because now I've got to edit the rest of the fucking thing.)

I didn't, obviously, and ever since then, I've been trying to learn what a healthy baseline looks like for me post-recovery, and I think I'm doing quite well at it and enforcing my boundaries when people ask too much of me.

But none of that makes up for the shrieking frustration I feel that I can't do the things I want.

I want to be creative and do fun things, but I can't because my body won't let me. I want to write more, but I can't because I'm swimming in brain fog most of the time. Yes it hurts to sit at my desk, but I also need to earn money so the financial burden of everything isn't solely on my partner. (Something which he argues I shouldn't even be worrying about right now, but it's hard not to worry as I watch him work himself to the bone taking care of everything because I can't.)

I promise you, I'm not hustling my ass into an early grave. There is, in fact, zero hustle about how I work. I am very, very slow these days compared to how I used to be. There's no timetable for one thing. I get done what I get done, and that's it.

I'm just perpetually frustrated that my hyperactive brain is trapped in a malfunctioning meat suit. And my blog is where I talk about it and work through my emotions because, well, that's what I've always done long before Tumblr was even a thing. It just so happens now I've got an audience.

[takes1]

Hi hiii :)) your writing is amazing mwah mwah. Perfection.

Anyways just wanted to request a Kageyama x reader, who just happens to be oikawa’s younger sister who is also very into volleyball. People get shocked that she’s Oikawa sister since their personalities are so different but they look somewhat alike (they’re both tall and pretty hahah). Kageyama was watching the girls teams play at the tournament since theirs finished and he kinda got obsessed with the way she plays and obviously reader looked amazing 🤭🤭 so he approaches her after the game not knowing she’s Oikawa’s sister

kageyama flirting w/ tall!ace!reader

*attempting. attempting to flirt in his own unique way. poor thing. also i love you anon and thank you sm!

warnings. none, sfw

info. kageyama attempting to flirt / tall!reader / ace!reader / oikawa's sister!reader / kageyama being dumb / kageyama crushing on reader / aoba johsai!reader / wingman!hinata / exchange of numbers / potential for a part 2 / 2.6k words

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu. my ao3. requests? part two here.

Kageyama chose to sit and watch a few more teams play their respective tournament bracket while waiting for their bus to pick them up. It would be a long ride home. He would zone out, rest, and get away from the buzzing, orange fly in his ear then.

Right now, in the middle of Aoba Johsai's last set, he kept on the edge of his seat with a firm brow.

"She's like Azumane," Hinata sighed, about a five minutes behind Kageyama's own observations.

It took not only a stellar performance, but a timeout and penalty because you broke three of Date Tech number 8's fingers with your last spike for Hinata to make that connection.

The penalty costed your team their last two points. You were called off the court for the next 4 minutes, he barely caught your dewy face made of stone. Both audiences were in an uproar- one more justified than the other- but Kageyama had to side with you because he needed to watch you play more. He might not get the chance again.

Number 8 should've taped her fingers. Better yet, she shouldn't have tried to keep blocking you.

You not only knew how to get around it, but the way you worked with your setter, and the unmatched control and strength in your swing made blocks impossible.

"I didn't think this kind of thing happened with the girls," Hinata mumbled, craning over Kageyama to get a look at you off-court.

Kageyama shoved him off and rolled his eyes at the assertion. "Obviously, dumbass."

A smattering of Johsai's male team were taking the hit harder than even you, at the edge of the bleachers.

Oikawa led Watari, Yahaba, and Mattsu, and Hanamaki in their 'Crybaby' chants. They were on their way to earning another penalty for your team, deterred only by Iwa, who was about the only person alive that could successfully shut it down.

Now both of the teams were in a tense battle, both genuinely angry at one another for taking needed players off. It was a rigid one-point dual for minutes.

He had a limited view of you as it played out- tough and stiff as just about everyone working for your team took turns talking to you; Coach, advisor, manager, teammates. Assumedly all "It's not your fault," "Keep your head up," "8 will be alright" and the like. You were their Ace, for sure.

4 minutes was enough time to assume their girls' team would meet the same unfortunate fate as the boys today against Karasuno. It was why all the Johsai guys were leaned over the railing, screaming at every play, because they just couldn't take another devastating loss.

He didn't realize how much they needed you until they let you out, unfortunately timed straight into an even-scored serve.

"(F/n)!!" Oikawa shouted, above the roar of the audience once they all realized you were released and put in the back position.

Kageyama watched you look up- that was your name? How did he know your first name?

The rest of the Johsai team joined him when he cried, "Break it!!"

Your big, pretty grin raised Kageyama to his feet. He had to see this.

Your ritual was silent and rode the time out to the very last second. A sigh of breath on the ball, another good luck spin, then up into a jump--

WHAM!!

A loud, clean, cross-court serve to win the game for Johsai. No volley. Just a brutal, final blow to Date Tech's morale. They sank into the floor as your school flew into a frenzy and celebrated a satisfying victory.

That serve was familiar, but Kageyama didn't get to dwell on its origin too much before Hinata yanked him out of his thoughts.

"You should talk to her!"

He was too close, and he could feel his face warming up, so he shoved Hinata's head to the side and started walking away.

"You clearly like her," Hinata muttered.

A quick turn of his head, with a very mean expression, shut him up- but it didn't help the heat crawling up the back of his neck, and it didn't reduce the truth in Hinata's argument. Just his volume.

No amount of brooding or pride would get him any closer to you. Caught between the choice of rejoining his team or making his existence known, he turned sharp on his heels.

And Hinata knew better than to speak and revel in his victory just yet. Kageyama would probably screw this up.

When they were coming quietly up on Aoba Johsai's designated spot, Hinata scanned the crowd of girls for you, and despite the many distractions, found an interesting twist. Oikawa let you down from a monster hug and it was clear his dark-haired counterpart was too in-his-head to notice.

Kageyama bit a shudder back at the sight of so many people crowded up. He had no real reason to approach you, no connection, no excuse other than the truth.

"I think--,"

"Don't talk to me." Kageyama snapped, short on patience. He pushed his hands through his hair and added, "Don't even act like you know me. Just... be somewhere else."

Hinata pushed a giggly smile down. He split off and decided to pick Iwa's brain for some tips.

Kageyama rubbed his hot face in his sobering absence- he'd have to gather his courage alone.

You were leaned over a bench full of various duffle bags, trying your best to quiet your mind with all the celebration behind you, when a presence broke through your focus.

When you looked up, it wasn't a teammate or one of your brother's friends- it was somebody new. Somebody cute, and tall enough.

"Hi?" You glanced around, but found that he was indeed addressing you with an unbroken stare, "Uh- nice to meet you?"

You weren't nearly as mean as the game made you. You were like Azumane, in the way that you seemed quite kindly when you spoke. You were far prettier, too.

"Hey," He muttered, glancing around for a moment in a dismissive fashion, "That was a good game."

Confusion was evident on your face, but you were grateful for the compliment anyway, "Thank you!"

You went back to packing your bag. He was nothing short of lost, fumbling hard with no desire to be upfront and equipped with no other reason to speak with you.

The proximity granted him the clarity to see that you were taller than he thought. Your face was much softer up close, your smile way cuter than the grimace you wore for most of the game. You were too nice for breaking through so many blocks and scoring so many points.

When you realized he was still standing there, you zipped up your bag and faced him again, grasping at straws for something to say. You glanced at his jacket.

"Oh! You play for Karasuno?"

He evaded your gaze shortly after meeting it. He nodded and put his hands in his pockets.

It wasn't necessarily a call-out; you realized his team had triumphed over your brother's earlier today only right after asking him. He must've been able to avoid suspicion in all the commotion.

"What do you play?" You pressed.

"Setter," He answered a little straighter.

He certainly was a good height. He met your gaze, which was more than you could say for most guys. You clocked him as a perfect stranger to start but as you glanced around his handsome features, you began to piece together those two facts-- something was off.

When you opened your mouth to ask for his name, all that came out was a startled reaction to an arm, heavy around your shoulders.

"Well, well, well!"

You rolled your eyes, "Oh my god..."

"If it isn't The King- here to rub our faces in his false win!"

Kageyama squinted, his nose a little scrunched at the nickname, the insinuation, but most of all the contact in front of him. This wasn't going at all to plan. It was like rock bottom was only getting dug deeper around him.

You shook off Oikawa's arm and, despite having no reason to, defended him, "He didn't say anything like that, Toru. Fuck off."

Oikawa huffed like the big baby he was and crossed his arms over his chest instead.

"He doesn't need to. That's just how he thinks."

"Stop projecting," Kageyama spat. He glanced between you now, wary of the fact that you might be dating.

"How do you know each other?"

You asked Toru, specifically.

When you shifted to look at him, there was a thick intensity to the air between them. It wasn't an enjoyable experience, having to brave the rigid atmosphere by yourself. It was like they needed a room.

"They were on the same team at Kitagawa!" A delightful blur of orange cut in.

After such a demanding, arduous game today, this labyrinth of a conversation and all the odd strangers were getting old, fast. You didn't have a whole lot of time to absorb every bit of information. So they went to the same middle school-- great. That did not explain a damn thing. Now this kid looked familiar, too.

Instead of keeping on that train, you took a big breath to introduce yourself to the shorter guy.

"Nobody asked you."

Your face fell. The ball of sunshine faded in a flash. Now everyone was stiff.

"That was mean." You stated, unable to let it slide after a moment of deliberation.

Kageyama looked shocked, like he either didn't realize what he said was cruel, or he didn't expect anyone to call him out on it. You figured it was the latter, given Hinata's sad, no-retaliation reaction.

"Are you Hinata?" You heard yourself guess. There were only so many 5'3 ginger players here- especially none that caused as much of a stir as him.

Hinata nodded fervently and you grinned with a hand outstretched, "Well, it's nice to meet the legend himself."

Delighted as he was, he didn't take your compliment in the slightest. He shook your hand with two smaller ones and you watched his blush spread right to his ears.

"Legend?! You're the legend! We saw your game- that was so awesome!! How do you put that much BOOM in your spike?! I didn't think--"

You laughed chiefly at the 'Boom,' then at his excited rambling.

When he said 'we,' you glanced to his dark-haired friend and pieced together that they must have been there together. He still looked like he was taking your comment personally.

It truly all fell apart at his feet. Oikawa was talking at him, but he couldn't hear a word. He watched past his shoulder as Hinata took his spot, dazzling you with his stupidity and enthusiasm with so much ease, so quickly. How did you know the runt and not the guy who threw his sets?

The thought occurred to him that he had something to learn from Hinata about talking to girls, but it pissed him off so bad that his expression begged a smartass comment.

"Woah- watch out, ugly. Your face might get stuck like that!" He cackled and jabbed a rigid finger at Kageyama's chest.

He choked when you threw a hard punch at him in the back. Hinata stopped rambling at your show of force and backed up a few steps.

"Stop being so childish! God, you're the fucking worst," You ignored his dramatic gasps of pain and looked right over Hinata's head to nod at his friend, "No wonder he doesn't like you."

Regardless of how mean the other guy was, you knew your brother was deserving of everything you said.

"I'm older than you!" He whined, "Ugh- Shit, that hurt! Don't talk to me like that--,"

It was only in this moment that Kageyama understood your dynamic was nothing to be competitive about. Oikawa was your older brother. As much as it was a cosmic 'Fuck you, Tobio,' he was relieved that your eligibility was up to speculation again. Your likeness to him was now obvious, and not a symptom of any familiarity effect.

"Then start acting like it," You rolled your eyes and ignored the yammering that ensued- you looked to that quiet, pretty boy.

He didn't even glance at Toru's impassioned blithering as soon as he felt your eyes on him, "What's your name? You never said."

"Kageyama." He muttered, soft and distant.

There was a faintness to his words, a cloudy preoccupation on his usually sharp expression whenever he addressed you. You understood his intentions now and couldn't help but feel flattered.

Once Toru realized he wasn't going to get any more attention, he deemed neither of the two idiots as a threat to you and joined his team further back into the hall. There was no way you'd entertain dating either of them, anyway.

"So," You spared a glance back long enough to know he wasn't returning, "What were you really here for?"

Kageyama looked a little shell-shocked. His mouth hung open a moment, and he glanced at the floor near your feet. His eyes trailed back up in a way that could've been incriminating, but you decided not to comment on it.

"I just- wanted to say good job. Really. Your technique... is cool."

He was so obvious. You failed to bite back a smile at his -seemingly rare- sincerity.

"It's awesome," Hinata emphasized. When you looked at him, he visibly tightened and felt the need to disguise it with more words, "Man, I wish I could hit as hard as you!"

A shy laugh found you- you covered it with your hand. Kageyama wished you wouldn't.

"I could show you sometime, if you want," You offered. Any excuse to play again was appealing, especially with someone who had this much energy.

He gasped and began speaking with only Kageyama in a big, animated fashion.

A teammate of yours tapped you to let you know your team would be leaving for the bus, soon. Before that, you hadn't noticed how much the crowd was thinning out. There were only a few of you left and you knew you needed to go soon.

You looked at your brother, eyeing your little trio from afar. He wouldn't leave without knowing you were alone and unfollowed. Especially with his antagonistic opinion on Karasuno, in general.

"I can give you my number if you want to set something up. I- really gotta get going."

Hinata's eyes grew wide and sparkly with joy- you could tell he appreciated the offer on a few levels. He quickly fumbled around for his phone and you exchanged numbers.

Kageyama eyed you like a hawk, but you pretended not to notice until you pulled away.

A brief glance at him was all it took to send him back to a broody, avoidant mess.

"Just send me a text when you wanna meet up, okay?" You slung your bag and pushed on his shoulder playfully before jogging away to catch your friend.

There was only a brief moment of silence while the pair walked to rejoin their team.

"I'll break your legs if you don't give me her number."

It didn't put the fear of God in him the way he wanted it to. Hinata, equipped with newfound courage and a dash of arrogance, laughed instead.

"What are you gonna do with it? She won't want a text from you--" He evaded the first swat, got clipped on the second, and almost dropped his phone when Kageyama lunged for his phone a third time.

Before he could succeed in a fourth attempt, Hinata took off in a sprint towards their exit with Kageyama lagging behind.

It was easier to dodge the swarms of other teams and visitors with his smaller frame, but once they reached the end of the hall, it would be up to the mercy of their team to hear his pleas and save him.

♕ VIP ♕

@integers @yuchacco

my masterlist

want a part 2 or got any requests?

[spxfav]

Orange

Summary: Post Tobias Hankel Spencer, struggling to stop taking dilaudid and spiralling in darkness finds light in the one he loves most <3

Warnings: Anxiety, drug dependency, panic attacks, depression (I think that's it, please let me know if I missed any)

Word count: 3.2k

a/n: Hi guys! This is my first time writing something longer than a bot for Spencer, so I really really hope you'll like it! The way I chose to portray his depression and anxiety here is very much based on how I experienced it, so this is very important to me. Let me know if you'd like a part two! Enjoy!

Spencer was wasting away, fading. His dark eyes no longer shone like they used to. His pretty smile was now a rare sight to see. His nerdy contributions to conversations were now scarce - that is, if he ever interacted with anyone anymore.

He felt hollow, no longer being motivated to do anything but the one thing he knew he shouldn't. Dilaudid.

That little bottle now went everywhere with him. The flask and the demons that haunted him after Tobias, clinging to him and punishing him for whatever bad thing he had done to deserve this. And he was sure he had done something. He just couldn't understand why so many bad things kept happening to him, following him from his childhood to his adult years. Even with all the science in the world, the only explanation plausible enough was that he had done something terrible in his past life and was now paying for it.

Despite the leave Hotch let him take having ended two days ago, he still hadn't shown up to work. This was new to him. He'd always loved going to the bureau, even if it was just for paperwork. Now, he could barely read three lines out of his favourite book.

Time was blurry, a haze of sobering up and searching the high once again with pauses destined for the bathroom and occasionally to eat - when his stomach hurt enough to remind him he had to. Apart from that, he never left his bed, hopelessly wishing he could sleep without being hunted by the flashbacks of his time in that shed, of the splinters he wasn't able to remove after digging his own grave. His hands were now raw in the parts he had scrubbed out the skin to take the little wooden pieces off of him. He barely felt it. He barely even felt anything.

He knew it wasn't rational, but the empathy and guilt he felt for the man who kidnapped him was so intense it did nothing but contribute to his numb state.

So, alone, he spent his days, going through flask after flask of the forbidden liquid, cursing himself for not being strong enough to stop and wishing Tobias had never reanimated him back at the cemetery.

Naturally, after dealing with a schizophrenic mother all alone as a child, and being forced to grow up faster than he should have, he fiercely believed he had to solve this problem alone, like he's always done.

You, however, didn't. With the many gift baskets sent by Penelope and the sweet voice that was enough to make his demons dissipate - at least while you talked -, the time you spent sitting by his locked door always left him feeling somewhat relieved.

Sitting on the cold hardwood floor with sweaty damp hair clinging to his forehead, Spencer listened quietly as you talked, not giving you any hint that he was there. Part of him didn't believe he deserved those acts of kindness from you, so he hid himself in the shadows, and, as if forbidden, served as audience to your stories about events he missed. He noticed, even in his usually drugged state, that you tried your best to lighten up the stories, probably afraid to trigger something in him. If only you knew there was no need for a trigger.

x

It was a Wednesday, and the pouring rain that came through the window he forgot to close and got him and his bed soaked was almost enough to make him give up on the day, even if he had been up for only two minutes and 28 seconds.

But he couldn't. Because giving up would mean he'd have to sit in the wet sheets all day, and despite everything, he still had issues with the feeling of wet things against his skin.

Dragging himself out of bed, he gave up on the challenge of changing the sheets and settled for his sofa instead.

"I'm changing ambiens. This is improving."

The lie of getting better was more of a sentence he said as a form to attract it, though he never made the effort to stop himself from deteriorating further. That was merely an excuse for the voice in the back of his mind to scold him further. It started with his incapability of getting clean. Then, his lack of shower. After, came the barely eating and now, the sulking in bed - or in this case, the sofa.

His mood was as gray and dull as the weather, and the sound of the rain falling did little to comfort him through the many nightmares plagued naps that he eventually gave up on. This was the moment of the day he went to his bedside table and retrieved the little ornate box with the needles and the bottles of the clear liquid. This was the moment of peace, of relief.

His mind was hazy, clouded by the momentary pleasure only the dilaudid was able to provide when the familiar knock on the door came.

“Hi Spence.” You said, your honey, homey voice wafting through the apartment and reaching his ears.

Automatically, he stumbled across the living room, and, in an all but gracious way, dropped by the door. That was the first time you heard him move inside as you talked to him, and as minimal as it was, it brought a smile to your face.

“I think I heard you fall. Knock twice if you’re hurt.”

No knocks. So, he was okay. Or as much as possible.

“The day was boring. No new cases today.” You start talking, the daily briefing session that grew more and more important to his weary mind filling the previously silent apartment, your voice sounding like a melody to his stoned brain.

“But I thought of you.” His ears perked up, his spine straightening as he focused intently on the next words.

“Can you believe there was no sugar for the coffee? Not in the coffee station, not anywhere in the building.” It was silly. Stupid. But it made you think of him, and if he was on your mind, he was happy.

“That’s absurd.” He murmurs, a little out of it.

You freeze, too surprised that he said something this time. It was the first time you heard him speak in almost two weeks. It was muffled, and too low for you to understand, but it was words, and that was better than nothing.

“It is.” You say, trying not to draw much attention to the fact that he spoke. You didn’t want to scare him away.

“What happened next?” He asked quietly, almost as if talking to you was a mistake. To him, it was actually a privilege he didn’t deem himself worthy of.

“Garcia went down to a local coffee shop with Emily and they stole a bunch of packets for us. They came back running as if they had stolen a bank.” You say and chuckle, hearing the faintest of laughs inside from him. He was laughing. That was good. Amazing, actually.

“Good. Can’t imagine being without sugar.” He murmurs, and you couldn’t see the small smile on his lips at the first sign of normalcy after so long in the dark.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure when you get back there’ll be as much sugar as you want.”

Silence.

You wait, and wait, and wait, but he doesn’t speak again.

“Spence?” You ask, and the only other sound you hear that day is him getting up and stumbling away.

x

“When you get back.”

Those words plagued him for the rest of the day, which he spent locked up in his room to try and muffle your voice as you continued talking on the other side of his front door. Just the thought of it terrified him.

At first, he imagined it was out of fear of living something like his experience with Hankel again. But when he passed by the mirror in the bathroom and saw how he looked, he understood the real reason.

Deep dark circles. Hollow cheeks. Lifeless eyes. Hair greasier than it had ever been in his whole life. Pajamas stained with food he couldn’t identify. Grown out beard. He had gotten used to the smell by now, but he was sure it would be strong to anyone else.

He was disgusting. Gross.

Useless. Undeserving. A junkie.

His breathing quickened, but it was like no air came. One shaky hand moved to his heart, feeling the fast and strong beats. It felt like drums in a rock song. Like the cart of a rollercoaster against the rails. Like horses running freely.

Except there was no freedom. He felt trapped, desperate. Hopeless.

And as he fell to the ground and tears pricked his eyes, he was sure he might die.

No one will understand. No one will try to understand.

Suddenly death didn’t seem so bad. But just like it happened so many times before in his life, it was an easy way out. And nothing was easy for him.

So, fifteen minutes later, the needle in his arm was the only thing capable of taming the panic attack that still coursed through his veins.

x

When he rolled around on his bed, sweating from the nightmare, the room was spinning. Or maybe it was just his brain.

Either way, the open box on the bedside table, the not discarded needle and the torniquet still on his arm were explanation enough for what had happened the night before. He exaggerated. Again.

The day after these episodes were always the worst. Sickness, dizziness. Loss of strength in his muscles. That was also when the thoughts got worse.

It was ironic, really, that he went through almost a whole flask in hopes of drowning the voices only to wake up with them stronger than ever. It was a cycle. But then again, wasn’t all of this?

The world was a blur, a mix of living nightmares and not very healthy thoughts, and in the end, he caught himself wishing you’d show up.

Laughing, whispers of love and beautiful promises. That was how the world was around you. And even through the thick wood of his front door, he was still selfish enough to crave a glimpse of the Heaven you held in your hands; of the salvation from this twisted reality he found himself trapped in.

Spencer wasn’t the most emotional of men. In fact, before you, all his research pointed to him lacking the brain connections that allowed one to feel anything remotely romantic. He was sure he was okay without love, and he was sure he would always be.

But then you came, and it was like buying his first glasses all over again: suddenly the world was clear, and so much more beautiful.

It was hard for him to describe what he felt. He could only think of one simple way to put it. It was all orange.

x

“Hi, Spence” The melody of the notes that compose your voice echoed around the apartment, making the faintest of smiles bloom in his face.

For the past three days, you had managed to make him talk more and more. At first, it was weird. Alone in his apartment, the only things his walls had heard in the past few weeks were his terrorized nightly screams and the incoherent mumbles that occasionally made themselves present.

“Listen, I brought you something” You say and wait to see if he had any contributions. When he remains quiet, you continue. “I called your mom’s facility” His eyes shot open, and he sat up straighter on the floor. “Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything. I figured if someone was to tell, it should be you” The simple reassurance was enough to calm him down the slightest. “I called to ask her for the recipe of those peppermint cookies you told me about a few months ago.”

The smell of baked sugar filled the small kitchen. Days like these were good. Days when his mom was okay. When she was his mom again, and he had the freedom to be the child his seven-year-old self deserved to be.

“I made some” Your voice cuts through the first good memory h’s had since everything went down. “I’m sure they’re not as good as hers, but they’re not bad either. I have them here, I could drop them off with the baskets Penelope brought and yo-“

The sudden movement of the door opening catches you by surprise as you stumble back, no longer having a surface to rest your back on.

He opened the door. He really opened the door.

Spencer stood there, looking down at you and seeming even more surprised than you did. His eyes flickered over your form, heart beating faster. God, how he missed the sight of this angel.

He looked different from what you remembered. Dark stubble covering his face, messy and greasy hair, sleeves rolled up to reveal an arrangement of needle punctures. For a moment, neither of you say a word, simply taking in the sight of the one person you each missed more than breathing. That was when Spencer realised it. He’d rather die in that shed a thousand times more than go another day without seeing your face. The pictures he had really did you no justice, not when you looked more beautiful than a diamond, with its carbon atoms so perfectly aligned, creating what is believed to be one of the most precious objects on Earth. You didn’t even compare to that.

“You made me cookies?” He asks, looking down at the little box in your hands, the faint smell of the cookies reaching his nose.

“Yes. Yes, I did. They’re still a bit warm, I baked them before coming here.” You stand up, quickly enough to drop your blood pressure slightly, but not enough to startle him.

When he takes the box from your hands and, without another word, walks inside leaving the door open for you. There’s no hesitation in your steps as you follow him in. And the sight that welcomes you is nothing but heartbreaking. His once so perfectly organized place – at least according to the system only he understood – was now a mess. There were books on the floor, take-out boxes on every table, dirty clothes on the floor.

He wafted through the chaos, eyes never leaving the box as he opened it and threw himself on the sofa. Carefully, he picks up a cookie, and after an experimental bite, a single tear rolls down his face. Then another, and another, and another until the dam breaks and he is full on sobbing on the sofa, crushing the cookie as his hands close into fists and his shoulders shake.

Your heart, shattered already, breaks even further, and when you sit next to him, you feel shocked as he falls into your arms. His arms are tucked between your bodies, his face buried on your chest, and you don’t have the heart to tell him he smells the tiniest bit. No, not now. You could tell him he needed a shower when he didn’t look like a vulnerable child, climbing on your lap.

“It’s okay… shh…” His brain barely registers your comforting words, too busy paying attention to the way your fingers card through his hair without a hint of disgust. He knew he loved the right person, especially because of moments like this. You were just… perfect. It was cliché, but Spencer genuinely could not think of any other way of describing you.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” His voice was almost inaudible, filled with a gut-wrenching guilt for doing this to you. “I’m s-sorry”

“Don’t be. It’s okay, you’re okay. I’m here” Your voice, the soft murmur of reassurance breaks him even further, relieving him of the pressure of the guilt he had been feeling for so long.

That day, he cried until he fell asleep in your arms. Not for a second did you let go of him, your hands always gentle and loving as you caressed his hair. For the first time in two weeks and four days, he slept with no nightmares.

x

The sound of steps moving around his apartment was the first thing he registered when he woke up. Rubbing his eyes and sitting up on the couch, he looked around, groggy and with his head pounding from crying.

You had your back turned to him as you cleaned his kitchen, the smell of something in the oven making his stomach growl slightly. Then he notices it. No clothes on the floor. No takeout boxes around. Books neatly on the shelves. You had cleaned his place while he slept.

For a minute, he simply watches you, dark eyes following your movements around the kitchen as you wash and dry dishes. Then you turn, and the small, concerned smile that forms on your lips as you walk closer is enough to send his heart racing in his chest again.

“You’re up. How did you sleep?” You ask, stopping behind the couch as your fingers lovingly brush his messy hair out of his face.

“Fine. How long was I out?” He asks and clears his throat, voice slightly gruff.

“About three hours. I didn’t want to wake you, so I cleaned up. And made dinner. You still like lasagna, right?”

His eyes stare directly at your face, and for a moment, he considers a crazy theory.

Maybe he had died that day in the shed. He died, and the last couple of days were his time spent in some sort of imbo. But now he was in Heaven. That had to be it. As irrational as it was, how else could he explain the presence of an angel in front of him so suddenly? Besides, he always thought that if the Realm of God was a real place, if his paradise was real, you’d be there.

“Spencer?” He blinks, and the world still has a happy veil over it when his eyelids open and his irises meet your face again.

“Yes. Yes, I like lasagna.” He nods, eyes fixed on you.

Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all.

x

The door closed behind you, and the illusion left just as fast. The light that seemed to follow you was gone, his world buried in darkness and numbness again. Your presence made him feel so light as you talked his ears off today. He didn’t mind. Not when he smiled more in a couple of hours than in the last two weeks. Not when you two were sitting so close, cuddling on the couch. Not when your lasagna had tasted like the best dish he ever ate.

But now you were gone, and all that is left for him to do is climb back in bed. His sheets are clean now – you changed them – and the overused pajamas on his body feel sinful against the fabric. What was meant to be a good thing only served to send him spiraling again, and as most nights, this one ended with a small pinch and the sting of the liquid as he applied it on his forearms.

Who knows? Maybe the delusions would bring you back tonight.