#why not just erase every memory i have of you then. That would be easier for us all wouldn't it?

[swiftsalad]

Thought experiment, just hear me out:

So Daniel “I don’t remember, that’s why I’m asking” Molloy could be remembering bits and pieces of 70’s-80’s Devil’s minion now that he’s remembered the majority of what happened in San Fran. BUT instead of it being memories that make sense, it’s all out of order and they don’t make any sense similar to how he remembered San Fran.(this is usually how memory loss works, but not how it’s often represented in media) so what if he’s remembering Devil’s minion except for the important stuff. Then you layer on the fact that his memory has been erased so what if, even with all his will power he can’t remember Armand’s face while all the dm stuff is happening. And I can imagine the horrifying feeling of trying to explore these memories and seeing the soiled sheets, feeling the bite on his neck, feeling his hands tangled into someone’s hair and telling himself “turn your head, look at him, all you have to do is turn your head, he’s right there!” But he can’t because the man’s face is just a black hole, an erased memory, an identity he can never confirm on his own. UGH it’s violating, it’s horrifying, and yearning for more all at once.

I’m theorizing that erasing a “whole” memory(multiple events, faces, feeling, actions, etc.) is a lot harder than erasing one persons face from someone’s memory. So what if that’s why there were so many cracks in Daniel’s false memory that allowed him to recover what was lost PLUS this was made easier because Louis was helping with his own memories. I really think that if Armand just tweaked Daniel’s memory to forget his face, it would hold longer since Daniel would still remember fucking up his life, all the lows, all the highs(literally) and of course he would attribute any lapse in memory to “well I remember being high so I was probably on another bender” when in reality there is a nightmare twink standing behind him the whole time but he’s just so perfectly out of frame so Daniel doesn’t see his face. And it’s everywhere he looks, a picture has a perfect smudge to cover this man’s face, his memory has literal black spots over this man’s face, and then none of his friends remember this strange man. Like could you imagine being haunted by a faceless man that you feel a magnetic pull towards. AND even when you can’t remember, you still feel him there, he’s in every corner, every room, every bed, every lover, every town, every city, every state and every country. So it’s so real when Louis says, “You were there, Daniel.” And all he can say is “I don’t remember, that’s why I’m asking.” Cause he’s so painfully aware that he was there, he just can’t shake the feeling that someone else was also there.

[lunarharp]

"Found out" set in kind of a made-up chapter where the girls are in trouble, or something.

[anamina0]

Echoes

Part I , Part II , Part III , Part IV , Part V

Summary: Fleeing the wreckage of your heartbreak, you land in the chaos of Zaun, pouring drinks at a dingy bar. You're still facing unresolved feelings and emotions towards Ellie, but they’re easier to bury when Vi storms into your life—a whirlwind of sharp words and reckless energy. You start off bad, really bad but it's enough for you to think of something else for a bit.

warnings/themes : angst, heartbreak, lots of trauma, kind of enemies to lovers, unresolved feelings, a bit of violence, eventual smut, au

word count : 3.8k

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Back at it again, falling just where you started , completely alone , full of sorrow and regrets. Moving away to a completely unknown place was the best escape plan - literally. You knew nothing about this city, save for a few stories your best friend had told you. Yet, even the thought of staying in the same place as her couldn’t outweigh your choice - you'd rather wander off Zaun's shadowed streets, losing yourself for a lifetime than remain bound to the familiar.

City was close to what you have imagined. The fractures that happened few years ago helped to a great extent , after decades of suffering, the city had finally exhaled, though it had not lost its soul. Cleansed of its grime, its fumes, and its shadowed figures, the streets and the people remained exactly as your friend had described them—a perfect echo of her tales.

Finding a job wasn't hard , from now on you'd serve drinks in one of the city’s dim, suspiciously isolated bars—barely more than a shadow in the corner of a forgotten street. Pay wasn't good but it was enough for an apartment and food, nothing else mattered to you. You were trying your best to take as many shifts as you could, working whole night helped you not think about her , during daytime you would typically crash out , exhausted from your job. And yet, she always found a way to reappear.

At the bar, you distracted yourself by watching customers. Most of them came for a drink and a chance to ease their burdens, but for you, the real game was observing them—piecing together their stories from a glance, a gesture, a half-heard conversation. Sometimes , thought of her would reappear . Something would remind you of her scent, her voice, slipping into your mind without warning. But you had mastered the art of distraction, shifting your focus before the memories could take root.

It was in your dreams where she would visit most frequently, escape from her was almost impossible, as though she determined to remind you of what you wanted to forget: that no change of address, no new life, could erase her. She was etched into you, inescapably, a part of you as much as your own breath. But you had to move on , that's what you were best at, carrying pain and suffering throughout your life, god knows you've been doing that since the day you were born.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Can we talk?” she asked, her tone calm but firm, as she stepped closer to you.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. “Ellie,” you whispered, bracing yourself for the inevitable fallout. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.” The words spilled out in a shaky breath.

Her green eyes searched yours, unreadable but sharp. “Why is that?” she asked, her voice softer now, almost careful.

“You already know why,” you said, your gaze flickering over her face—her furrowed brow, the tightness in her jaw. Anxiety clawed at your chest, every emotion colliding at once: fear, anger, love, and a desire that burned despite everything. Losing her wasn’t an option, not like this.

“That’s the problem,” she said, stepping even closer, her boots scraping softly against the floor. “I don’t know why. You told me how you felt and then ran off, didn’t even wait for my answer.” Her voice broke slightly, frustration seeping through, though she was clearly trying to hold it together—for your sake. “That’s not fair.”

“I couldn’t take it anym—” you began, but your trembling words cut short as Ellie moved.

Her forehead rested against yours, her breath warm and steady against your skin. “I need you,” she whispered, her voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. “More than you could ever need me.”

“Nothing’s going to change that,” she said, her voice unwavering now, as if it was the most certain truth in the world.

* * * * * * * * *

Once again, your own screams tore you from sleep, Ellie had found her way into your dreams.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, the echo of her voice lingered in your ears. You glanced at the clock hanging crookedly on the wall and exhaled in relief—it was almost time for another shift.

You moved through your routine on autopilot: a quick shower, clothes and out the door. The walk to the bar felt like a blur, your thoughts still tangled with fragments of the dream you couldn’t shake.

“Hey there,” you greeted Revek, arguably only person who could be considered as your friend in Zaun , as you stepped behind the counter.

He glanced at you with that signature smirk of his, tossing his apron onto the counter. “Well, well, look who decided to show up. Twenty minutes late, no less.” Leaning against the bar, he crossed his arms and tilted his head. “Alright, what is it this time? Lost your keys? Got cornered by some hooligans? Or let me guess—lost track of time again?” His smirk widened as he tapped the counter, signaling for his usual drink.

“Cut me some slack, you asshole,” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “It’s not like they’re paying me enough to show up on time.” You reached for the shaker, pouring his drink without missing a beat. “I just… had a bad dream, alright?”

The smirk faded slightly as he took the cup from your hand, his gaze softening. “Not again,” he said, his tone shifting to something more serious. He took a long sip before adding, “You know, if you ever want to talk about it… I’m here.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said quickly, brushing him off with a weak smile. “Seriously, it’s no big deal. Now scooch—you’re scaring off my customers.”

Revek gave you a knowing look, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he pushed himself off the barstool, raising the cup in a mock toast. “Fine, fine. Just don’t forget—I’ve got a hell of a good ear for this kind of thing.”

You watched him walk away, trying to shove down the unease crawling up your spine. Fixing your hair in the reflection of a glass, you turned to face the empty bar. The night was long, but at least behind the counter, you could pretend your mind wasn’t a battlefield.

The day had been dragging. The bar was dead slow, with only a few regulars stopping by for a drink and a bit of small talk. You made an effort to keep busy—wiping down the already spotless counter, rearranging bottles, polishing glasses—anything to make the hours pass. Not until she walked in. The air shifted instantly, the tension almost suffocating as the door swung shut behind her. You froze, your hand mid-reach for a glass, and looked up. You’d seen countless faces walk through those doors. From the desperate to the careless, from the downtrodden to the troublemakers, the bar had welcomed them all. Nobody ever stood out—nobody cared about anyone else here. That’s what you liked about this place. People came in, had their drinks, exchanged a few words, maybe played a game or two, and left as if they’d never existed to one another. But her? She shattered that silence like glass. You didn’t know who she was, but everyone else seemed to. Heads turned, conversations halted, and even the usual clamor of the old jukebox seemed to dull in her presence. She strode toward the bar, brushing off the stares that trailed her like shadows. It was obvious she didn’t give a single fuck about anyone in the room. Whatever power she held over the crowd, she didn’t seem interested in wielding it—at least, not tonight. Stopping at the counter, she gave the drinks menu the briefest glance before tapping the laminated surface with her finger.

"Can I have this?” she muttered, her voice low and uninterested, pointing to a drink. Then, without looking at you, she added, “Make it a double.”

“Sure thing,” you replied, watching her as you reached for the bottle. She didn’t meet your gaze, didn’t acknowledge you at all, but that only gave you the chance to study her features: pink hair cut into a sharp mullet, light blue eyes that didn’t seem to care about much, and freckles scattered across her nose like they’d been painted there.

“Here you go,” you said, sliding the drink toward her. She grabbed it without a word, her attention flickering to the room around her. Even now, she seemed utterly uninterested in you—or anyone else, for that matter. She didn’t sip the drink so much as down it, her throat working as the liquid disappeared almost too quickly. You found yourself leaning slightly forward, unable to look away. There was something about her, something impossible to read. You liked puzzles, and she was the hardest one you’d come across in a long time.

Who was she? Some kind of criminal? Or maybe she was the exact opposite? Why was she here? Trying to get drunk, or waiting for someone? Before you could settle on an answer, she tapped the counter sharply, her empty glass sitting in front of her. The message was clear. Another. You poured the drink without hesitation, the silence between you stretching long and tense. As you set the glass down, she didn’t so much as glance your way.

“You’re welcome,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm, hoping to at least provoke some kind of reaction.

It worked—but not the way you’d hoped. She turned her head, finally looking at you, and you almost wished she hadn’t. Her glare was sharp, cutting, and filled with barely-contained anger.

“Just do your job,” she said coldly, her voice low and cutting. “I didn’t come here for chitchat.”

She turned back to her drink, dismissing you entirely, but the tension she left behind lingered in the air, coiling around you like smoke. Whatever game you thought you were playing, she wasn’t interested.

“What an asshole,” you thought bitterly, dragging your gaze away from her and down to the bar. The question lingered in your mind—should you say something? Not because you couldn’t stand up for yourself, but because, you weren’t sure if she was even worth it.

She tossed back another drink, her sharp eyes cutting across the room as she motioned lazily for someone to come over.

“Again,” she muttered, her gaze flicking back to you. For a fleeting second, it softened—just barely. But the moment was gone as fast as it came, replaced by her usual aloofness when a tall man approached her with an appearance that screamed trouble. You busied yourself making another drink, ears pricked to catch their conversation.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here, Vi,” the man greeted her, his tone carrying an edge of wary excitement.

She chuckled dryly, grabbing her fresh glass without even looking at him.

“What are you playing over there?” she asked, dismissive, like she hadn’t even heard him.

He hesitated, glancing at his buddies like he was searching for backup. It was obvious he didn’t want her involved, but too afraid to say no.

“Just some boring cards,” he replied with a strained grin. “You’re, uh, welcome to join.”

“I’ll be right there.” Her words were ice-cold as she turned back to you. “Another one.”

You stared at her silently, letting your expression say everything your words didn’t. She noticed. Of course, she noticed.

But instead of acknowledging it, she took the drink you handed her and headed over to the table of men, sliding into a seat among the kind who spent their nights gambling away the last shreds of their dignity. Vi. That was her name. At least you had that much now. But she was still a puzzle—a unsolvable one. You watched her, lost in your thoughts, until Revek appeared from the back of the bar, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on her.

“Haven’t seen her in a while,” he muttered, settling onto a stool.

“Who even is she?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop yourself.

Revek leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Remember I told you abour shit that went down three years ago? Piltover, Zaun, all that Hextech chaos?”

You nodded.

“She was part of it. A big part.”

You squinted, piecing it together. “That explains why everyone knows her down here.” You frowned, the anger bubbling back up. “She’s an asshole.”

Revek chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, you could say that. After everything went to hell, she holed up in some dump around here. Doesn’t talk to anyone. Just drifts between bars, sometimes… worse places, drowning herself in cheap booze.”

“Was she always like this?” you pressed, desperate to understand.

“That’s a long story,” Revek began, but his words were cut off by the sharp sound of glass shattering across the room.

Your head snapped toward the noise. Of course, it was her, standing over some poor bastard, yelling and swearing. Revek shot you a look and stood, ready to step in, but you stopped him with a firm hand.

“I’ll handle it,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.

“You sure?” he asked, hesitation in his voice.

You nodded, already moving toward the chaos. By the time you got there, she was on top of the guy, fists flying with a fury that could have leveled buildings. The crowd around them was frozen, too shocked—or maybe too entertained—to intervene.

“Hey!” you shouted, but she didn’t even flinch.

“Stop it! Now!” you tried again.

Still nothing. She was too far gone, lost in her rage. Without thinking, you moved in to pull her off—but before you could, pain exploded across your face, and you found yourself on the ground, disoriented.

The room went silent.

When your vision cleared, you realized, she had hit you.

Vi stood over you, her expression flickering with something almost like regret. “Shit,” she muttered, reaching a hand toward you. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Get the fuck out,” you snapped, cutting her off as you staggered to your feet.

She hesitated, her gaze locking with yours. You made sure she saw every ounce of your anger, your disgust.

“Now,” you commanded, stepping closer.

For once, she didn’t fight back. She just turned and walked.

Days passed, and thankfully, she didn’t come back. Still, every time you stood behind the bar, her face crept into your mind—her cockiny, her sharp eyes, her unbearable attitude. It filled you with rage. You already had too much on your plate; the last thing you needed was to waste energy hating some pink-haired asshole. But despite yourself, you couldn’t stop thinking about her. It wasn’t all bad, you supposed. At least thoughts of her kept you from thinking about Ellie. But replacing heartbreak with anger wasn’t exactly a healthy trade.

It was another calm day, the kind you’d come to appreciate in the wake of the chaos she’d brought. If anything, her outburst had earned you some respect. The regulars gave you a nod, a look, as if standing up to her had proven something. But the peace didn’t last. The bar doors swung open, and the room fell into an all-too-familiar hush. You didn’t even need to look to know who it was. The tension in the air told you everything.

Vi.

Revek appeared at your side almost immediately, his eyes darting toward her. “This gonna be trouble?” he asked, his voice low.

“I’m fine,” you replied, keeping your gaze locked on her as she strode toward you. There was something deliberate in her steps, something… different.

Her eyes met yours from across the room, and you stood your ground.

“I think I made myself clear last time,” you said coolly, though your voice carried that simmering edge of anger you couldn’t quite hide. “You’re not welcome here.”

“I know,” she replied, stopping in front of the bar. Her tone was calm, almost subdued. “I’ll leave. But first, I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

You narrowed your eyes, studying her. There was no cocky smirk, no sarcastic retort. Just… awkwardness.

“I was drunk,” she continued, her voice low. “That guy said something—something that pissed me off. I lost control.” She hesitated, her eyes searching yours. “It’s not an excuse, but… I didn’t mean to hit you. I would never—”

“But you did,” you cut her off sharply, though you could already feel the fight draining out of you. She was being honest. You hated that you could tell, but you could.

“I know.” Her voice softened even more. “I didn’t see you. And I’m sorry. I really am.”

You exhaled, your shoulders dropping slightly as you leaned against the counter. You weren’t ready to forgive her—not entirely. But you were exhausted from carrying so much anger.

“Fine,” you said at last, pouring her the drink she’d ordered last time. Sliding it across the bar, you added, “I appreciate your honesty. I don’t appreciate assholes, though. And you? You were an asshole.”

A flicker of surprise crossed her face as she accepted the drink. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something else. But instead, she downed it in one quick motion, set the glass back on the counter, and walked out without another word.

She started coming back. At first, you thought it was a fluke—a one-time thing. But no. A few days later, she was there again. And again.

Sometimes she was alone, sometimes with a new girl on her arm, but the pattern stayed the same. She’d order a few drinks, stay for a while, and leave without so much as a word in your direction. She’d read your message loud and clear. But what you couldn’t figure out was why. Zaun was filled with bars—plenty of them even filthier than this one. So why keep coming back to this one? Was it defiance? Did she just not care about the fact that you didn’t want her here? Then there were the moments that left you even more confused. The way her gaze would linger,as she was hanging out with some random girl, her eyes flicking over to you when she thought you weren’t looking. It wasn’t often, but it was enough to notice. Enough to keep her lodged firmly in your thoughts.

Vi was a mystery. An infuriating, captivating mystery. And for some reason, you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting to figure her out. Maybe it was the distraction she provided, pulling you away from the ache of Ellie. Or maybe it was something else. Something about the way she carried herself, the way she owned a room even when she was silent. Whatever it was, she had you hooked—and you hated her for it.

Today was no different. She strolled in like she owned the place, another girl trailing behind her—a new one this time. She made a beeline for the bar and ordered a round of drinks before sliding into a table suspiciously close to where you were working. Maybe you were imagining things, but it felt deliberate. There were plenty of empty tables scattered throughout the room, especially ones better suited for whatever this was supposed to be. An intimate date? That hardly seemed like Vi’s style. The girl with her seemed sweet. Blonde hair with blue highlights that caught the dim lights of the bar, bright eyes, a soft smile. She leaned toward Vi as they talked, her body language screaming interest. But Vi? She sat back, arms draped casually over the chair, her expression distant, detached. It was like she craved the closeness but couldn’t bring herself to let anyone in.

It was… familiar. Too familiar.

You turned back to the counter, your hands working on autopilot as you wiped down the surface. Yet, no matter how much you tried to ignore her, your gaze kept drifting in her direction. And every time it did, you caught her watching you.

You didn’t like it.

Pouring yourself a drink, you told yourself it was just to take the edge off. One drink turned into two, and before long, the alcohol made everything sharper, more noticeable. You were too aware of her—every glance, every quiet laugh, every time her eyes flicked toward you. When it happened again, you decided enough was enough. You locked eyes with her, letting your gaze trail over her features, daring her to look away. She didn’t. At first, she looked confused, but that quickly morphed into something smug—a slow, cocky smirk creeping across her face. She leaned over, whispering something in the blonde’s ear. The girl nodded, and just like that, Vi stood and headed straight for you.

“Hey there,” she said, her voice calm but carrying that familiar edge of arrogance. Her eyes bore into yours, steady, confident.

“Well, look at you,” you quipped, leaning casually against the bar. “Turns out you can talk.”

She smirked. “Can you blame me? You called me an asshole and made it pretty clear you didn’t want me to talk to you.”

“Both of those things are true,” you replied with a dismissive shrug, though the faint trace of a grin played on your lips. You blamed the alcohol.

“So let me get this straight,” she teased. “You don’t want to talk to me, but you want me to talk to you? Maybe even acknowledge you?”

“Oh, I’ve noticed you acknowledging me,” you shot back, your tone dry. “Not with words, though.” Your hand idly wiped at the counter with a cloth, pretending nonchalance.

Vi chuckled, brushing off your jab. “Fair enough. Since you’re so insistent, let me drop the ‘asshole behavior’ for a minute.” She leaned in slightly. “I don’t even know your name.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning forward to meet her halfway. “It’s Y/N,” you said, your voice firm. A beat of silence lingered between you, tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, with a small smirk of your own, you added, “Now get back to your date. Don’t keep her waiting.”

You didn’t wait to see her reaction. The sudden surge of emotions made your chest tighten, and you dropped the cloth and glass onto the counter, heading for the backroom.

Intimacy—it wasn’t something you wanted. Not now. Not with her. Even the smallest brush of warmth from someone else felt like an open wound. You were comfortable in the cold, with the pain. Examining Vi had been easy, safe. She was uncertainty and sharp edges, not softness. You closed the door behind you, leaning back against it and exhaling deeply. Maybe one of these days you’d figure out what Vi was really doing to you. But not tonight. Not yet.

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Note from author: It's my first time writing something ever please please please let me know if you liked that! I think that this fic will have 6/8 parts , so there's a lot unfold here. I kinda changed finale of Arcane, because Vi and Caitlyn don't end up together. Also, I have included Ellie as reader's ex girlfriend, so she will have more appearances in future. It would mean world to me if you shared my work (if you liked it of course) and please don't hesitate to message me, ask me questions about it or let me know what are your thoughts! Thank you!

[loganhowlettshousewife]

animal

chapter 5.5

friendly reminder that i am not a writer, i'm just a girl who loves logan howlett and wanted to write something exploring his animalistic side since i so rarely see it done. my first language is also not english, so please do not be rude when giving me any feedback.

warnings: swearing, mentions of blood, introspection

series masterlist │my masterlist

“did you mean it? when you said you would want me even if i was more like,” a pause, “like an animal?”

you hum, cuddling further into his side, chasing the warmth of shared body heat. “of course. i kind of miss it, actually. there’s something weirdly attractive about you acting on just pure instinct, you know?”

he doesn’t know, actually. his entire life he’s been told to behave in a certain way - there were those who wanted him to be an animal, a violent killer with no human morals or thoughts to interfere with his orders, and those who told him he needed to reign in the feral aspects of his mutation, who called him a monster for the way he was born.

even amongst mutants he wasn’t always treated well. they had interesting abilities, beautiful things that belonged in movies or books or fairytale stories. they could control the elements and create things from practically nothing, while he only knew how to destroy. he brought chaos and bloodshed everywhere he went.

he was the kind of mutant that made people uncomfortable, the kind of mutant people saw as a freak of nature, a mistake. people like him were the reason mutants would never be accepted within society. he was too violent, too dangerous, too much of a threat.

they would fight for mutant rights, but turn right around and tell him to hide who he was, to be gentle or kind or better, whatever they decided that meant. because his nature made everyone uncomfortable.

and he understood that. because logan hated himself as much, if not more, than they all seemed to hate him. he’s always hated his instincts, hated how it made him feel, hated the way he felt that he couldn’t always control himself, hated what they made him.

so he’s always hidden parts of himself, never fully revealing who he is to anyone. in return, he finds people who love him, or at least who claim that they do, and the need for acceptance that presses down on his heart lessens into a bearable weight.

it was why he’d been so ashamed when he’d started to regain his memories, flashes of his past showing up in his dreams. for months he’d acted on his natural instincts with you, every lesson he’s ever been taught temporarily erased from his mind. he’d allowed himself to be wild, feral, a disgusting beast that doesn’t qualify as human. a monster.

and yet here you are, telling him that you find it attractive, smiling at him as if he hasn’t spent his entire life running from himself, being hunted down for his mutation for one reason or another, either to kill or to use. he’s a weapon to some, an uncontrollable animal to others, a mutant to be trained for a new purpose every time someone new finds him.

but to you, he’s just logan.

you don’t run or hide from what he is, you accept him with open arms. and that’s terrifying, the trust that you’ve placed in him, because all he’s ever done is hurt people, and you have absolutely no defences, nothing to protect you when he inevitably fucks up again.

he doesn’t think he’ll be able to let go of everything he’s taught himself just like that, let go of the control he’s spent centuries honing and perfecting to allow his instincts to crawl to the forefront of his mind. not after so long. but it physically hurts him to hold back at times, and the thought that maybe he’s finally found a place where he doesn’t need to deal with that pain, a place where he doesn’t need to hide - it makes the constant ache in his chest lessen just the slightest bit.

he’s still traumatised and plagued with horrible memories, anger still runs in his veins like blood, but all of that feels easier to cope with when he kisses and bites at your neck, scenting you, claiming you. and you let him, giggling with your hands in his hair.

your scent is happy, bright and warm like a sunny afternoon. he’s making you happy like this, the animal in him is making you happy like this.

taglist: @mystiquesvendetta @raeinyourdreams @babey-fruit-bat @meetmypointlessaddiction @kneelforloki @deaky-with-a-c @hypermarvellove @littlepeanut03 @the-ruler-of-death @aliengutzstuff @misscrissfemmefatale @mynamesstevenwithav @teaganthemorningstar @blackkatzz @leryg0 @fries11 @forksloree @i5uckersblog @dragovegogrimborn @quillycrow @melday0105 @just-a-little-cellist @scorpiosaintt @akasha157-blog @insanesosciopath @eridektbh @trickstergabriel69 @lord-bingus666

[axiina]

what about aemond x niece reader but aegon has always been in love with her? she is betrothed to aemond and they’ve always had a thing for the other but aegon has been head over heels for her since he can remember 👀

Always the last

Pairing: Aegon Targaryen x niece!reader, Aemond Targaryen x niece!reader

Summary: The firstborn son, always the last. It was like a mockery of the gods. To give him birthright but take away the one he wanted more than anything in the world.

Words: 1k

Themes: angst, no comfort, basically aegon is obsessed with reader, kind of self harm? (too much alcohol to silence pain), addictions

Warnings: delulu fanon aegon, kind of self harm? (too much alcohol to silence pain), addictions, incest (it's targaryens so obviously)

Author's note: I'm back, and I hope for longer. At first, it was supposed to be a more aemond x reader, but I changed my mind, and it ended up as angst from aegon's perspective. I'm sucker for my delulu fanon aegon. if you want more, my asks are open!!

Aegon knew he shouldn't get his hopes up. The life he imagined with his niece by his side was simply not going to happen.

He didn't deserve her. And even if it were otherwise, nothing would come of it. He had already been married to Helaena for years.

It just didn't make sense, and Aegon was well aware of that. So why did it hurt him so much? Why then, when he heard his father's decision about the betrothals of Aemond and his niece, did Aegon feel as if his life had just been put to rest? Why did it hurt so much? The knowledge that it would be Aemond who would be able to watch her sleep blissfully, hug her, kiss her, and spend the rest of his life with her didn't allow him to function.

He is the first-born son, and yet always the last.

So he turned to drinking and whoring. Aegon was never a serious man. He was always more interested in pleasure than any duty and this time was no different either. He didn't want to think anymore.

He didn't want to think about her, so to silence those disturbing thoughts, he would get drunk to the point of unconsciousness, unable to get her out of his head.

He would do anything to forget, to silence the pain and the voice that reminded him that it should have been him all along.

Aegon drank day and night with no desire to stop it. In every spare moment, all he could think about was his niece. The girl whose smile could light up the darkest corner and whose touch made his heart beat faster.

He knew it was wrong. He knew he should forget her. After all, she was his brother's betrothed. But there was nothing he could do about it.

No matter how much he tried to push away thoughts of her, no matter how much he tried to hide his feelings, he couldn't.

He couldn't forget the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed or the way her hair fell around her face like a waterfall. He couldn't forget her scent and the smile that made his heart flutter. He couldn't forget the way her hand felt in his, or the way her fingers traced patterns on his skin. Even if it was years ago when they were children. When life was easier.

He couldn't forget her. He was completely and utterly infatuated.

And it was killing him.

Every time he saw her with his brother, every time he saw them laughing and joking together, it felt like a dagger in his heart. He knew he should be happy for Aemond, but he couldn't. He was too consumed with jealousy, too consumed with the thought that she should be his betrothed and not his brother's.

He knew it was selfish and even unreasonable. But he couldn't help it.

He couldn't bear the thought of her being with someone else. Not when he had wanted her so much for so long. Not when he had spent years admiring her from afar, unable to do anything but dream of what might have been if things had turned out differently.

No amount of alcohol could erase his memories, no amount of pleasure could dull the pain in his heart.

She was always there, on the edges of his mind, tormenting him with her sweetness, beauty and innocence.

The pain in Aegon's heart only grew when he saw them together.

The sight of Aemond's eyes brightening as he looked at her, the way he leaned in to listen closely every time she spoke, the small smile that appeared on his lips when she laughed, all of it made Aegon's insides twist into a knot.

He felt as if a cold, strong hand was squeezing his heart and squeezing it tighter and tighter with each passing moment.

He tried to look away, to divert his attention, but he couldn't. His eyes always returned to them, drawn to their sight like a moth to a flame. He tried to tell himself that he should be happy for Aemond, that he should be happy that his brother had found someone to make him happy, but he couldn't.

He was filled with a burning jealousy from which he could not shake.

He couldn't stand it.

He couldn't look at them together, see the happiness on their faces, the warmth in Aemond's gaze. It was like a thousand needles piercing his heart with every passing second. He wanted to scream, tear them apart, take her away from her brother, and claim her as his own. He wanted to sink his face into her hair and inhale her scent, to wrap his arms around her and never let her go.

But he couldn't.

He couldn't do any of those things. He was trapped, watching from the sidelines as Aemond, his younger brother, his other son, always the more loved one, was now the one who could be with her. The one who could hold her hand, kiss her, and share her life. Aegon could only stare at it, feeling the bitter taste of jealousy on his tongue.

She was like a drug, an addiction he couldn't shake off. Every time he saw her, his heart sped up, his palms sweated, and his throat tightened.

And every time she smiled at Aemond, her eyes shining with affection, his heart broke all over again.

He knew that Aemond deserved someone like her in his life. But he couldn't help it. Jealousy was consuming him. It was destroying him.

Aegon knew he was not the right choice for her. He was too weak, too selfish, too impulsive.

He was a drunkard, a lustful man, one who lacked discipline and self-control. He would disappoint her, hurt her, and ultimately break her heart.

But that didn't stop him from wanting her, from lusting after her like a drug. Every thought of her filled his mind, every memory of her haunted his dreams.

She was like a bright, shining candle in a dark, cold world, and he was drawn to her more and more because he couldn't have her.

He was the firstborn son, the eldest, the one who was supposed to get everything.

And yet he was always the last. Last in his father's eyes, last in his mother's heart and now last in the race to her heart.

It was like a cruel joke, a mockery of the gods, that they had given him the birthright but taken away the one thing he wanted, the one person he wanted more than anything.

[sunkissedscribbles]

Only Thing That Keeps Us Apart...

pairing: theodore nott x borderline!fem!reader

genre: angst

tw: mental illness, SA, suicide

word count: 1735

summary: theo has to leave you on his father's will

a/n: @inksoakedparchment i hope this is what you wanted<3

playlist: IF NOT FOR YOU – Måneskin / TIMEZONE - Måneskin / THE LONELIEST – Måneskin

masterlist

dividers by @chachachannah

You miss him. How could you not? He was your best friend, your saviour, your boyfriend. The man you were supposed to end up with; marry and have children with. How did you two end up like this? – You’re wearing the old clothes he left at your place before he simply disappeared and erased himself from your life. He left – without any explanation, a note, or any clue about where he was going.

As if he were dead.

As if your love didn’t mean anything.

Your flat is cold and empty without the sound of his stupid whistling while doing the simplest of things like chores, him arguing with the old cooker in Italian when it won’t work properly, without his bright personality he’d only let you see, or the bickering over meaningless things like what film to watch – what film to get bored of in the middle and have a better idea on what to do instead, rather.

Now that he left your life like that everything seems so dull and boring, so dark, so pallid and achromatic. Life seems to have slowed down and the once clear sky you have seen daily during Theo is grey and so overly clouded that the sun won’t shine through the thick layer.

Sometimes you feel like he was just a game of your imagination, like it has completely fooled you. But how could he have been fake? It was so real, too real, even. If you really try you can still recall even the littlest of touches, like him brushing his nose against yours in the morning to stir you awake or the way he held you against his body to reassure you you’ll be together, forever.

What a bullshitter.

There'll be no summer There'll be no spring If not for this love of mine Thornes without flowers Bars with no drinks If not for this love of mine

All the lights All the parties would just fade out Shut them down

He didn’t want to leave, but he didn’t have a choice. He had thought after Voldemort’s defeat things would be different; lighter, easier, and that he’d have a sharper vision of your future together.

Was he naive?

Why on earth had he even thought his father would get sent to Azkaban if he survived the war? Why did he think he’d get a chance to start over, with you?

He had plans, just like you.

Italy – it was his plan. He wanted to take you there, take you home with him, all the while he would have told you about his mother who he lost as a kid. He would’ve shown you all the best places and the best food, and he knew exactly where he wanted to propose to you. Hell, had he bought the ring before he got the call… The plane tickets were purchased, and his place in Italy was all set for the two of your arrival.

And all his plans now are going down the drain because of the family business.

He memorised your landline number – he remembers every time he walks past a phone booth, but he knows he has to stay sensible and responsible. He wants to tell you he’s losing his mind without you, he wants to run away from his father and the literal mafia he’s the leader of but that would only put you in danger. And that’s the last thing he wants.

But what if…

Now I know you're sleepin' Where I'm supposed to be in Wish I could've stayed Only thing that keeps us apart Is seven thousand miles, running like a mad dog Only thing that keeps us apart Is a different timezone So fuck what I'm dreaming, this fame has no meaning I'm coming home Only thing that keeps us apart Is a different timezone

You’re trying to move on – but how could you if these memories of you during Theo just won’t leave your mind?

That one time he was walking down the hallway at your place when he suddenly stopped by the bathroom. It was a thing you two used to do – leaving the door open so that you could still talk whenever either of you was in the bathroom.

“Is that blood?” he stared at you half-sitting, half-lying in the bathtub with one leg on the edge of it, a razor in your hand. His face went completely white as he thought you were hurting yourself on purpose, until he noticed the razor.

“...No?” you raised an eyebrow until you saw the red liquid along your shin. “Oh, shit, it is,” you laughed it off with a shrug. You shouldn’t have – he quickly sat down on the edge of the tub and held you an infinitely long lecture about how not to cut yourself with a razor while tending to the little wound. Little did he care that you had another leg to be done that evening.

Or the memory of your first kiss? All he said was ‘woah’ but you understood him perfectly. No wonder he went in for another to devour you.

But there was the time he tried to braid your hair. He had no idea what he was doing, and your explanation of it with your hands and sentences like ‘this over that and the other that over this’ didn’t help the slightest.

But it hadn’t always been happy all the time, either – there was a reason for him to be scared you were self-harming that night in the bathtub as you had a tendency for depressive episodes.

Before Theo, you had no idea what to do with your life – you had been down so bad you didn’t see the light anymore and your episodes were starting to get to your head – you couldn’t handle them properly and you felt like you could never get your life back from the hand of an external force. So when he found you in the Astronomy Tower with fresh cuts he wouldn’t have left you alone. You had many arguments because of this, because of your BPD.

His presence irritated you at first – he was like a lost puppy, running after you–

"Let's put that down, principessa," he stared into your eyes as he reached for the blade in your fist. There was something about his eyes, about those blue irises that were so effective of getting anything he wanted out of you, and that gaze that seemed to be staring right into your soul.

–but you got used to it after a few weeks and warmed up enough to open up to him. It hasn't been difficult to talk about your mental illness anymore, not like this, that he knew what the worst he could expect from you was. Because he showed you that he really did care about your well-being. And because he loved you, even at your worst.

Yes, he did fall in love with your worst and as time went on and your relationship progressed your mental health only improved during Theo.

You're still the oxygen I breathe I see your face when I close my eyes It's torturous Tonight is gonna be the loneliest

He fell for you. It took him some time to give in to his heart, and for you to accept that you're loveable but you did it. You both did.

He's counting the hours, the time difference – he has been since he had to go, and he can't stop thinking about you. He was a player before you, a man as well as a kid during you – but who is he now? He can't find the answers to his current existential crisis. You probably think he's dead. And you think that perfectly. His life has lost its meaning without you, no colour, no more Nirvana, no Billy Jean, no dancin' if you're not part of his life anymore.

'How could I wake up How could I sleep How could I be someone?'

So, what if...

Tomorrow, I got another plane, I'm not gonna take it Mm, instead, I'm gonna fly straight to you, I paid double for the tickets And I don't give a shit about the contracts that I signed And they can say whatever, we'll be making love, I'm fucking you tonight

Your flat is cold and empty – it's his first remark. He walks farther in, calling out for you, "Y/N? Tesoro, I'm home!" and he's waiting for the moment you run out of the bedroom or from the kitchen to greet him with a fist to his nose for leaving you and kiss him senseless right after.

He walks into the bedroom – no sign of you.

Then into the kitchen.

Where the hell are you?

He spots you in the bathtub, fully dressed. "Y/N! I've been calling for you for minutes, honey. What are you–?" he takes in your pale complexion as he walks closer to you.

Closer to your cold and lifeless body.

The realization hits him like a dozen rocks

"No, no, no," he crouches down next to you, seeing the clear and sharp cuts. "Fuck! Please wake up, please wake up! Y/N, this is not funny. Stop this... Please, baby..." he lets out a ragged breath, trying to collect himself. He lifts your hand to check your pulse.

And just waits,

and waits.

He can't let you go. "Had I not told you to be careful with the razor?" he cries out. You couldn't have died, right? You must be hearing him, must be playing a very sick game with him. No, no, you're alive. You're alive... right? He starts tending to your wounds but deep down he knows there's no point in doing so. You're not gonna wake up. He can't look at your face, he's not strong enough as he knows there won't be a smile on it. The smile he loves so much.

The smile he loved so much.

You were lost and afraid before Theo. You were happy and stable during him. But there's no after Theo. There never will be. Not for you. And you’ve known it all along.

You'll be the saddest part of me A part of me that will never be mine It's obvious Tonight is gonna be the loneliest You're still the oxygen I breathe I see your face when I close my eyes It's torturous Tonight is gonna be the loneliest

tag list: @inksoakedparchment @mqstermindswift @reys-letters @girllblogging777 @yelanare

[padmestrilogy]

about your 'the idea of Padme choosing to die remains a huge taboo' post, I suppose is because it just doesn't make much sense to just die like she did, or at least not with everything that happened. There were no signs of Padme being close to give birth before she went to Mustafar, all that stress that happened and to make things worse, Anakin quite literally choked her until she feel unconscious, a pregnant woman! It's a bit weird for jer to go through that and then finding out that wasn't the direct cause of her death, it might even be a bit of taking some of the blame from Anakin just to lessen the disgusting crime'.

I don't doubt some fans are actually being unfair to padme 's character, but I think many are just upset with lucas choices with her death, because it could have been very easy to just say the choking was the cause of death, or the pain of going to a double partum, or complications at birth, just anything but the heart broken thing. There's a reason why is always a 'Anakin killed her' in ppl's memory, or the 'Sidius sucked her life ', rather than what happened in the movie, because the first one makes more sense and is more logical than the other and it changes very, very little for the movies. Vader already thinks he killed her and in a emotional sense it is what happened, so what would change if he actually killed her? Besides making him just slightly less terrible

well i'm working on a lengthy essay about this, and hopefully in the future i can just paste that whenever people have questions. but in the meantime i will say:

-i would absolutely call anakin padme's murderer. i have, plenty of times. it is his actions that drive her to suicide. even if he does not kill her in the most literal sense, he kills her hope for the future, which in star wars is the most sacred thing of all.

-i don't think it's "lessening" anakin's "crime" to say his force choking isn't the exact cause of her death. anakin's force choking is still treated as the height of villainy within the narrative and what completes his fall to the dark side.

-i'm not against people being upset with lucas' writing choices. i am that, every day of my stupid life. i am upset with people denying padme autonomy in their readings of the text, refusing to engage with the character as written, and acting like the logic of padme's death doesn't fit perfectly within the prequel's stylistic reality: allegorical space opera, where big things happen fast.

-all of the alternatives you list, from choking to a difficult birth to sidious, deny padme autonomy and agency over her death. with her rebellion founding scenes cut, padme only makes three active choices in revenge of the sith: to have children, to go to anakin on mustafar, and to die. i wish she made more choices than these, of course. i don't think the answer here is erasing any of these choices or refusing to think about why she might make them.

-i also don't think it's helpful to go "well this would've been easier to understand, so it's the correct artistic choice." that's a non-starter. not to mention the facts of padme's death are explained to us very straightforwardly. the real illogical stretches here are the sidious theory or the anakin misunderstanding. you have to actively ignore huge swathes of the text to come to either of those conclusions.

-padme's death is perfectly logical once you accept the story on it's own terms. anakin's rage sustains his difficult rebirth as vader; padme's overwhelming grief kills her. these scenes are paralleled for a reason. it's abstract, image-reliant filmmaking that prioritizes emotion and movement. it's star war. we see the personification of unconditional love die as we see the personification of violent hate rise. this would not be improved by a space gynecologist .

[stormikitty]

Vaggie's Past

I've seen tons of fics and tumblr posts with 2 different ideas about Vaggie's past. 1 being that she had a human life before she became an exorcist angel, and the other being that she grew up in heaven and was raised by Adam and Lute and the other exorcists. Idk which 1 I like better, but I have headcanons for both. And I've sort of imagined conversations for how the other characters would find out?

1:Vaggie had a human life:

Charlie: Hey Vaggie? Are you heavenborn, or a human soul?

Vaggie: it's complicated? When a human soul becomes an exorcist, the first part of their training involves magic induced amnesia. They're forced to forget everything about their lives including their own name, and they're given a new 1. I know I was a human at some point, but I don't remember anything. Some things stick, like languages, and some strong feelings about certain things even if there's a lack of context for it, but I don't remember who I was or any of the people I might've known. Every earthborn exorcist has maybe 1 vivid memory from their life, but it never actually tells them anything about who they used to be or who they know. I think that's to make it easier to erase any individuality more quickly and make us forget if any of our morals didn't originally align with what exorcists do. Turns us into perfect soldiers quicker. If I remembered my real name, I probably wouldn't be going by the 1 that Adam gave me. He literally named me after a vagina.

Chalie: *hugging Vaggie*

Anyone else who heard this: ...

2: Heavenborn Vaggie:

Vaggie: I was never a child.

Angel Dust: What did you just come into existence fully grown or something?

Vaggie: No, I still had to grow and develop like anyone else would.

Husk: Then you were a child.

Vaggie: I was raised to be the perfect soldier since the moment I was born. A soldier isn't allowed to be a child.

Everyone: WHAT?!

Charlie: Why didn't your parents protect your from that?

Vaggie: A lot of exorcist angels are born from flowers instead of other angels. I was 1 of them. I was raised by exorcists and grew up with exorcists.

Alastor or Angel Dust: You were born from a flower? Like Thumbilina?

Husk: They took away your childhood?!

Vaggie: Yeah. I had to be a grow up almost as soon as I could start walking and talking.

Nifty: What was it like being raised by exorcists? Other than the fact that you weren't allowed to be a kid?

Vaggie: I was surrounded by high standards and expectations I had to meet and not allowed to have much if any individuality. Exorcists aren't even given names until after their 1st extermination. They have numbers until then. Also, you know how exorcists have those black stipes on their wings? Those don't appear until their 1st extermination either. Also I was taught to value loyalty and strength more than anything else. Loyalty goes above strength, but not by much. And the second I showed even the slightest hesitation to follow an order, I was cast out of heaven in probably 1 of the most brutal and painful ways possible by 1 of the people I trusted the most. So there's that.

Everyone: *ready to throw hands with some exorcists again*

Charlie: *crying*

Nifty: ... Wanna build a pillow fort and watch cartoons?

Edit: I reread the post and realized it said "gown up" instead of "grow up", so I fixed it. I would appreciate if people pointed things like this out to me in the future.

[merwgue]

"Not until the doors are truly closed"

@sjmvillainweek

The courtroom smells of polished wood and dust, like a place abandoned to ghosts. I sit, bound by chains that seem heavier than anything I’ve worn before, heavier than even the weight of the power I once held. My wrists burn beneath the iron cuffs, cold metal biting into my skin. It’s a subtle kind of pain, almost beneath notice—until it’s the only thing you feel. But I don’t flinch. I’ve lived through worse, far worse than what these chains can do to me.

I lift my head, my gaze sliding to the towering wooden doors behind me. Locked, of course. Heavy and immovable, just like the fate that presses down on me from all sides. The room is full of eyes—eyes that watch me like I’m the most disgusting thing they’ve ever seen. As if I am the monster in the story, the villain they’ve all been told to fear. The whispers of the courtroom scrape against the air, like the buzzing of flies over a carcass. They’re here for the spectacle, for the final scene in the tragedy they believe my life has become. But they don’t know me. They never did.

“Amarantha.” The judge’s voice is like a blade cutting through the silence, sharp and cold. It’s a command, a summons. My name, spat like a curse from his lips.

I lift my chin, forcing my gaze to the front, to where they sit in judgment of me. The panel of fae judges—regal, powerful, and oh-so-righteous—watch me with eyes that gleam with hatred. They are the picture of justice, cloaked in the certainty of their own superiority. The gall of it all, to sit there and pass judgment, as if they aren’t every bit as corrupt, as guilty, as me.

The prosecutor rises. His robes rustle with a kind of self-importance that would almost be amusing if I didn’t know what was coming. He doesn’t look at me—why would he? In his eyes, in all of their eyes, I’m already condemned.

“Amarantha,” he begins, his voice slick with the confidence of someone who believes they’ve already won, “is charged with the most heinous of crimes. Crimes that have stretched across courts, across decades. We all know the stories—how she seized power, how she enslaved fae-kind beneath her boot. She ruled through fear, through brutality, leaving nothing but devastation in her wake.”

His words echo in the silence, each accusation like a lash. I feel the eyes of the courtroom pressing in on me, their silent agreement, their thirst for my blood. They don’t care about the truth, about what lies beneath the stories they tell themselves to sleep easier at night. They want me gone, erased from their perfect little world.

He continues, listing each crime like a litany. The deaths, the torture, the tyranny. All of it tied to me, the Butcher of the South. The Destroyer. And isn’t it funny? Funny how they never speak of how it all began. Of why I became the thing they fear. Because that would mean admitting that they played a part in it. That they created me.

The chains rattle as I shift slightly, the cuffs digging deeper into my wrists. I can feel the blood there, sticky and warm, but I don’t flinch. I don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me in pain. Pain is nothing. Pain is what happens when you’ve been torn apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the empty shell of who you once were.

I was whole, once. Before all of this. Before him.

I glance at the door again, at the guards who stand like statues, their eyes cold and empty. There’s no escape. Not from this room, not from the chains that bind me, and certainly not from the memories that won’t stop clawing at the edges of my mind.

The prosecutor’s voice fades into the background, a dull hum as I sink into myself, back into the places I don’t let myself go. Back to the beginning, before the chains, before the courtroom, before the judgment.

Before I was the villain.

I was a girl once. Stupid. Naive. Filled with a kind of hope that makes me sick to think about now. I believed in things—love, loyalty, him.

Oh, how I believed in him.

I gave him everything. My trust, my heart, my soul. For him, I became more than I ever thought I could be. I fought for him, stood by his side when no one else would. I thought we were building something together—something real.

But then, one day, he was gone. And with him, everything I had been, everything I had given, meant nothing. I was nothing.

They don’t understand that, the fae who sit in judgment of me. They don’t understand what it’s like to give everything you have, only to have it torn away. To be reduced to a shadow, a ghost of what you once were. To be abandoned. Left behind.

That was the day I realized I had to take what I wanted. I had to make them see me. I couldn’t let them forget me, couldn’t let them erase me. So, I became what they feared. I embraced it. Because in the end, it was better to be hated than to be invisible.

And now, they sit here, pretending they didn’t create me. Pretending they aren’t complicit in every drop of blood that’s been spilled.

“We are prepared to sentence her,” the prosecutor says, and the courtroom seems to still. The tension thickens, like a noose tightening around my throat. “For her crimes against the courts and fae-kind, we propose death.”

Of course, they do. Execution. A clean end, a neat little solution to their messy problem. They think killing me will erase the past, erase all the ugly truths they’ve buried under centuries of lies. They think ending me will make them righteous again.

The judge looks down at me, eyes cold as the iron that holds me. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Defense? I want to laugh, to scream. But I don’t. What would be the point? They’ve already decided. I’ve been guilty in their eyes since the moment I walked into this room. Nothing I say will change that.

I lift my head, meeting the judge’s gaze. “You think this is justice?” I ask, my voice steady, calm, despite the storm raging inside me. “You think killing me will fix what’s broken in your world?”

His jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

I smile, a cold, bitter thing. “You want me to beg for my life? To justify myself to you? I won’t. Because I know the truth. You all do.”

The courtroom is silent. No one moves. No one breathes.

“You created me,” I say, my voice a whisper, but it cuts through the silence like a blade. “You don’t get to sit there and pretend you’re better than me.”

The judge shifts in his seat, discomfort flickering in his eyes. But it’s gone in an instant.

“You’re wrong,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction.

I laugh, a hollow sound. “Am I? You think I was born a monster? I became one because of you.”

The guards step forward, their hands reaching for me, ready to drag me away to whatever fate they’ve decided. But I’m not afraid. I never was.

I look at the doors again. The heavy, locked doors. And I smile.

Because I know the truth.

Not until the doors are truly closed.

OMGGG, firstly I wrote this with my BOYFRIEND, because yes guys I have a BOYFRIEND, And we went out for breakfast today, anywhoo, this is another law inspired fic, its honestly just about how amaranthas journey truly isn't over and like, how people tricked her into becoming evil (hybern) and how the same ppl that tricked her are now blaming her

You get the gist, hope you love it kiss kiss

[creative-crybaby]

Cross-Hatching

PAIRING: timeskip!Akaashi Keiji x fem!reader

GENRE: fluff

TAGS + WARNINGS: none, as far as I'm aware

WORD COUNT: 1.5k

SUMMARY: An eye-catching stranger on the train soon becomes your muse when you take out your sketchbook and pencil.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: omg no smut???? Who is she 😩😩😩

© creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

Train rides to work would be more tolerable if you weren’t shrinking your entire body to make room for the dozens of people crowding in. 

You’re usually lucky when entering; the transit only carries a few passengers when you first enter, and you find yourself a seat. It isn’t until a few stops in do the train doors open to anyone who needs it, and your eyes glance at the map as if it’ll pass any time. 

You’re ten stops from your destination when he enters your train car. 

A tall figure with a briefcase and a cream coat makes his way through person after person, lucky enough to catch a newly vacant seat near you. Three seats across from yours, to be more precise. After making himself comfortable, he takes a deep breath, running a hand through tufts of onyx hair, trying to clean it up. In a rush, you assume. His attempts do little to fix the mess, but you think the slight wildness suits him—juxtaposing how he carries himself.

You have to draw him.

Practicing anatomy is something you try to do whenever you can, and while drawing strangers isn’t unheard of, you can’t help but feel like you’re intruding. When they’re letting their guard down, someone they don’t know turns that fleeting moment into a memory.

But what they don’t understand is that an artist doesn’t view it like that. And with the stranger sitting only a few seats away, why not take that opportunity?

You’re quick to take out your pencil and mini sketchbook, flipping to a blank page to scratch shapes upon shapes for a human base. You occasionally glance at the map to calculate your remaining time, not wasting a second as every scratch of graphite on paper becomes more and more life-like. 

Seven more stops. Your rough sketch is complete, and you erase excess lines and circles of a skeleton. 

Five more stops. You fill in the darker spots with cross hatches, creating definition to his cream coat while adding to the mesmerizing mess that is his hair.

Three more stops. Barely done with the shading, and now you move on to all the little details, from the light hitting his glasses to the almost unnoticeable downward curl of his lips. Not upset; just pondering. 

One more stop. You rise from your seat, forcing all hesitation out of your system with every step forward.

“Excuse me,” you push the volume into your voice. Blueberry eyes shielded by thick-rimmed glasses peer up at you. 

“Yes?” He hums. You almost forget your reason for approaching him, his gaze and soothing voice tempting you to carve every detail into your memory.

Not knowing how long time has passed since anything has been said, you hastily hold the drawing out before him. “I just wanted to give you this.”

You could have said more; you probably should have. Easier said than done when your words jumble around in your head, away from your planned sentences that never got to leave your brain. 

The organ then shortcircuits when you catch the corners of the stranger’s lips tilt upwards, his sharp eyes softening as he takes your creation. 

“You drew this?” As gentle as his voice may be, you could hear it over the bustling of the crowded train car, your surroundings almost tuned out to give him your devoted attention. You don’t trust yourself to speak properly, so you nod meekly. The ravenette hums again, his focus returning to your portrait of him.

“I’d do a better job if I had more time,” you stammer, suddenly talkative. “I hope I didn’t weird you out or anything—sometimes I like to draw people when I have the chance.”

“No, no,” he insists, peering back at you. “I’m just flattered, is all.” The stranger adjusts his glasses before adding, “Had I known I would be a model, I would have cleaned myself up a bit more.”

You giggle airily: a joke, it must be. “You’re still plenty pretty to draw.”

Your words register with a slap as soon as they leave your lips, and your eyes widen. The man’s expression copies yours, with a soft pink tint caressing his cheeks.

A woman’s voice announces your stop, and you think the gods finally decided to show you some mercy. You barely stutter a goodbye when the train comes to a halt before pushing past whoever stands in your way. 

The exhale that leaves your lungs comes out like a squeak when you find your way out of the metro. The opportunity to breathe presents itself as the crowd disperses, heading to the exit or their next train. You join the former group, your interaction with the stranger playing on a loop as you climb the stairs. 

“Excuse me.” 

A hand lands on your shoulder when you make it to the top. You squeak, whipping your head around to confront the culprit.  

Your muse stands before you, his eyes widening ever so slightly in concern. 

“Oh,” you relax. “It’s just you.”

“I’m sorry for startling you,” he retracts before holding out his other hand. You turn around to face him; in his hold is your sketchbook. You subconsciously clutch your bag, feeling the emptiness those one-hundred-sixty pages filled. “You left this behind.”

You take a moment to process his words before hastily taking your book back, a string of apologies leaving your lips. “Missed your stop to give this back to me, too.”

The man shakes his head reassuringly. “This was also my stop, actually.”

You two are still at the top of the stairs, hoards of people passing by during your pause in time. You don’t hear whatever they’re saying to each other or on the phone, nor do you notice the impatient ones who emphasize their movements when they walk around you.

“That’s good.” You don’t know what else to say. 

“I also thought I should introduce myself,” he continues, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m Akaashi Keiji.” You nod, noticing his fingers fidgeting in their intertwined hold. You almost wonder what they’d feel laced with your own before responding with your name. “I figured I should tell you after you took the time to draw me.”

The man–Akaashi–offers a light smile. Even as stoic as he appeared in the short amount of time you’ve interacted, there’s a soothingness to his voice that has you relaxing your shoulders. 

“Right,” you chuckle in embarrassment. “I meant to just give you the drawing, not the whole sketchbook. My bad.”

The stranger shakes his head reassuringly before taking his first step forward. You subconsciously follow him toward the exit, eyes remaining on his portrait. 

“I figured as much,” he says, stepping away from the door to let the others pass, and you follow him. He looks down at the sketchbook. "I didn't want to take out the drawing, just in case."

A light breeze fans your face as the sun’s glow kisses your skin. If it weren’t for your new acquaintance standing in the way, you’d have to squint just to see ahead. It’s also here that you realize this is most likely where you part ways, and you refrain from frowning. You selfishly wonder if not bringing it up will make him forget and keep him around. Unfortunately for you, your boss won’t care for your pretty-boy-meet-cute excuse. You mask your sigh of disappointment as any other deep exhale.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to take any more of your time,” you tell him, clutching the strap of your bag. “Thanks again for returning my sketchbook to me.”

“It was no problem, really,” Akaashi insists. “If I could bother you a little more, could you hand me your book and pencil, please? I promise I won’t take long.”

You wouldn’t mind even if he did, but you don’t voice that. Instead, you do as he asked, waiting as he flips through the pages until he stops at one and lightly scribbles something down. Your new acquaintance returns the sketchbook to you with that same page open: it’s the one of him you drew not even ten minutes ago, and next to his head is a series of numbers in between dashes. Your head snaps to look at him once more, eyes wide and face warm.

Akaashi smiles gently. “You’re not obligated to agree to anything, but I’d love it if we could meet up for coffee sometime.” When you continue to stare in bewilderment, he quickly glances at his watch. “I’ll have to leave now, but your portrait of me was a nice start to my morning.” His body slowly turns the other way. “Have a good rest of your day.”

“Wait!” you exclaim before you can stop yourself. Akaashi halts his movements. “I usually give my art to the person I drew. I won’t be able to call you if your number’s on your portrait.”

The ravenette turns his head to face you again, a soft smile gracing his lips and a sharp glimmer in his eyes. “If you want, you can give it to me on our next encounter.”

He leaves you standing there with another goodbye, your feet planted on the concrete, face blooming with heat and sketchbook in hand. 

© creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

[ultraericthered]

I posted before about how more extreme and cartoonishly deranged artwork like what Takahashi got around to giving him in the Battle City Finals would've aesthetically improved Yami Marik's original depiction in the manga of Yu-Gi-Oh!. But then I got to thinking: was there anything Takahashi could've done to improve it textually too?

I don't think any changes would need to carry over to anime!Yami Marik. Studio Gallop could do whatever they wanted with him: if they'd rather he be an evil shadow entity born of the Ishtar family's generational trauma and suffering and conjured up into existence by Marik's psyche in his childhood after his back got branded, he could be. He's perfect like that. But for Takahashi's version of the story, I always found that explanation to be a little too out there and full of holes (Yami Yugi and Yami Bakura are ancient souls inhabiting their respective Millennium Items, so how does Marik's split personality happen? Why don't all Millennium Item holders have dark alter egos in this case, especially Pegasus who literally replaced one of his own eyes with the Millennium Eye?), so he needed to rework the idea.

The editted panel up there reflects what I'd have done: Yami Marik's not talking about his other half and his trauma as though they're separate from him, as for all intents and purposes, he's Marik Isthar as well. I think that rather than be a split personality that Marik gained through his childhood trauma, Yami Marik should've been the original personality of Marik. That Marik as a child endured so much abuse and trauma that the psychological and emotional damage kept building up inside him until his father's punishment of Odion right in front of him just made him finally crack. He attacked his father not just to save Odion, but to then take everything out on him, stabbing him and flaying him alive and enjoying every second of the thrill it'd give him. But the weight of what he'd done would then hit so hard that it'd make him mentally black out and reconstruct an innocent, "sane" personality so as to avoid dealing with the consequences of that act, and in this state of mind, blaming the Pharaoh for it all becomes much easier for Marik. So Odion would then be trying to keep the darker nature of Marik 1 repressed, but that darker nature would always be beneath the surface subtly influencing Marik 2. Much like the character of Shinobu Sensui from Yu Yu Hakusho, Marik's DID is a defense mechanism to protect his daily mental state and self image, but his original personality is the one that went mad and committed murder, and he ultimately cannot erase that fact.

So then when Marik is split into two characters in the Battle City arc's back half, the struggle between the two would be one where they both share the exact same memories and carry with them the exact same trauma, but one personality responds to that past trauma by embracing the mental instability it created in him and using it as an excuse to lash out at the entire world for funsies and gratification while taking no responsibility for his actions while the other one comes around to taking accountability for everything and accepting that while he'll always carry the trauma, it's better to manage it with loved ones who care for him, let go of the hatred, and focus on who you want to be and the life you want to live in the future rather than keeping yourself stuck on the past. 'Cause that's basically what all the finalists share in common with their character arcs: burying their pasts and looking to the future (though in Atem's case, his future is intrinsically linked to his ancient past). So when Marik 2 forfeits the final duel and rejects Marik 1, it'd be Marik saying "This is the person I want to be now. I don't want to be you anymore! I rennounce you and everything you wanted to do with your life!", leading to Marik's old insane persona vanishing into the shadows, ceasing to exist. Yami Marik being a wholly natural personality who's supernaturally enhanced rather than a supernatural entity gives Marik's personal triumph that much more weight and make it even more rewarding.

Had Takashi gone that direction, Marik would've really been the Matt Engarde of the series narrative - not as strong as the main villains to directly precede him and directly followed him, but he'd still work. As it is, he does still work....just not as much when it's his alter ego.

[baejax-the-great]

Prologue

In Patroclus’s mind, glory killed Achilles more than any arrow or poison did. Glory is what killed Patroclus, too, and caused them to spend the last ten years of their lives in a foreign land waging war when they could have been at home in comfort. In short, to Patroclus, glory was less than worthless, and it was all Achilles left him.  

He does not know how he will ever make up those years of separation and loneliness to him. He thinks, perhaps, that he cannot, and it will be something he will simply have to accept.

“Did the river never tempt you?” Achilles asks. Patroclus looks up at him, but his face reveals no answer. “Truth be told, before Zagreus came to me and told me you asked about me, I had thought you would have purged me from your memories. It was… it made it easier to while away the hours in the House thinking that you… you did not suffer as I did.”

“It crossed my mind,” Patroclus says. He turns to the Lethe that is frothing by them, and Achilles follows his gaze. It is so merry and lively for a river that runs through the Underworld, taking away the bitter memories of mortality. Even knowing what it does, Achilles finds himself wanting to dip his hands into it and feel its cool waters that wend around every small patch of land in this realm, bubbling happily. It looks sweet. He can almost imagine how it would taste.

“I think you’re far stronger than I am, Pat. If things had gone as Lord Hades and the Fates had planned and I was here in Elysium and you in Asphodel, I think once I realized you weren’t here, I would have drunk my fill of the Lethe. I wouldn’t have lasted a day or night.”

He does not want to know who he would have become without Patroclus’s voice in his head urging him to take the wiser path. No better than the exalted Zagreus fights, mindless, wanting for nothing but violence. He was accused of that while living, of loving war and killing more than any other man, of having a homicidal heart. If not for Patroclus, perhaps those words would ring true, and he would not know better to know the shame of it.

He is pulled out of his mulling by Patroclus’s soft voice. “Do you think it would work?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think if you erased me from your memory, that you wouldn’t feel the heartache anymore? I pondered this for ages as I stared at this river. You are such a bigger part of me than just memories. You were my heart, ripped from my chest. Forgetting about a wound does not heal it. I think I still would have been waiting for you, but I wouldn’t know why anymore.”

Read the rest here

[sorensolsikke]

Am i a therian? A furry?

People of tumblr, i am gently asking you to help figuring out what the hell is going on

So yeah well

The desire to look non-human accompanies me since such deep from the past that this feeling became the very home, the shelter of my identity.

Yes, of course, i am autistic, i have a paper on it, yes i have ptsd and untreated adhd and i am queer, so i guess wanting to get away from the difficulties of being part of the human society is logical, but like.

Understanding where the feeling comes from shouldn't erase the experience itself.

I recall wanting to growl and purr, moving tail and ears since i was at least two and a half. Of course, i had grown up along many animals, my parents had worked with service dogs, and in one hand, small children learn languages so easily, why would be animals' body language so different? I just got fluent in it– And in the other hand, wanting to have ways for easier self-expression is such a common autistic experience.

But these thoughts lingered, transformed, grew as years passed. Of course i always played with animal toys, or roleplayed the animal company in games with (my very few) friends, but that's not very dramatic, not like other memories linked to the topic, for example.

The very first time i got penalty in school was in the second semester of first grade, when i growled at a girl who bullied me, and then i bit her. That's very strange of a memory, because it made me feel so guilty, so childish, that i didn't let it happen ever again. But that doesn't mean i didn't think about it anymore. When i moved schools and other bullies came and i just couldn't defend myself because of extreme empathy i think, i always imagined myself as a blue dragon, growling and roaring at people. It was, and still is, the easiest way for me to understand my own anger.

What i really feel alone with is that how these fantasies, images became the very pillars of my self-image.

I remember having the idea of wanting to be a dog first, when i was the smallest. I said goodbye to that imaginery when we had to sell my first and only puppy whom i loved dearly, because he was aggressive. I got obsessed with cats instead, then horses, and finally, the perfect mixture of every kind of animal: dragons. Anyone who walks into my room mentions how many dragon related things i have in there. I emphasize that i am 17.

But the reason i started to talk about this all how it forms the way i want to look.

For instance, lately, i've got a long mullett, which i style with a hair straightener in a way it looks like i've got animal ears. While it makes me somehow relieved, at the same time it leaves me with the longing for more.

I want hoop snakebite piercings, so to give the impression of long canines. I cannot stop thinking about this, even though i know very well that my father wouldn't approve it. I just found a really small thing that would make me feel better about myself, and i want to achieve it, quickly, because yk, there are so many things i cannot change.

There are some grotesque ideas in my head how'd i want to look like since i was very little. I've always stepped on tippie toes so to raise my ankle long, up towards my knee, like it is with dogs, cats, horses. I wanted my ears to be pointy, and i crave the black line connecting the eyes with the mouth, what the cheetah's have – therefore i absolutely loved face painting from a very young age. I've always wanted wings and tail, long tongue, and defined muscles; a bunch of these are somehow managable, but others are so distant. It doesn't usually hurt me, like not having a dick hurts me on some masculine days, but the cravings are there, and i think about them a lot.

What i want to ask is: what does it make me be? Am i a furry with a dragon fursona? Am i a therian, am i experiencing some kind of species dysphoria? I know labels aren't quite needed, but is there anyone sharing my experience? Where are my people? Dunno i guess i just don't really want to be alone.

[andreal831]

Elijah's Relationships in Songs

Hayley and Elijah

Don't Forget Me - Dermot Kennedy

We know haylijah is my favorite ship and I have so many songs that are perfect for them. Some of them are happy and some sad. This is definitely one of the sad ones. They both were going through so much emotional turmoil while falling in love, it's no wonder that they hit so many obstacles.

But this song sums up their obstacles so well. It's called "Don't Forget Me," and it is perfect on so many layers. Elijah worried Hayley would forget him and start her life with Jackson. Then Elijah erased his memories of everyone and actually did forget Hayley. But through it all, they still loved each other and were drawn together.

Lately I've been living in a dream The past feels like a better place to be The days we spent just sitting by the sea Empyrean skies can't compete with those eyes The colors of that dress you loved to wear The way the sun got tangled in your hair

I wish we could have seen more of Hayley and Elijah living together while she was pregnant. It's impossible to say how long they were living together because Hayley was magically pregnant for like 12 months (the writers and their continuity issues), but it was anywhere from four to eight months. In this time we know that they bonded and considered each other friends. They both wanted more but were didn't pursue it for various reasons.

I always felt like they longed for their days, especially when they were separated by various obstacles. They longed for the time when it was easier and just the two of them. No outside pressures.

I remember everything So why do I I get this feeling like I'm fading from your memory So I wrote this song and called it "Don't Forget Me" Every time you hear it will you smile? And tell the one you're with I was that guy Ooh, even though you had to let me go Don't forget me Just don't forget me

This verse feels so much like how Elijah felt after Hayley married Jackson. He wanted her to be happy and safe but it didn't change how he felt about her. It didn't mean he wanted to sit around and watch her happy with another man either. He was watching her move on from loving him before they even had a chance. Although, she was never truly able to move on.

Elijah encouraged her to move on and focus on Jackson, even though it broke his heart. But he still wanted her to remember what they shared. It made it worse because it wasn't what either of them wanted. They sacrificed their chance to be together to protect Hope.

Every time I think about it now I guess we never really figured out To hold each other through the ups and downs The difficult nights, the times that we cried I hope he knows it's special what he has I hope he thinks it's magic when you laugh

One of the biggest obstacles for them was learning how to support each other. This is truly seen in season 2 when they are both going through such hard times. Neither one of them knows how to be there for each other. But that's what I love about them. They didn't give up, rather learned how to support the other. We see it in later seasons that they are more aware of the other's pain and grow much more supportive. They learn to grow together rather than letting their obstacles stop them.

They had such a healthy and mature relationship that they were able to step back and learn from their mistakes, rather than just making the same ones over and over again.

On that one night, it was so right You were all mine How could we let it go? That one night was my whole life And we stopped time How could we let it go?

This verse goes without saying. They had one night together and they made the most of it. This to me is all of the proof that I need what each of them wanted. Even though they both understood this was all they could have and then she would have to marry someone else to protect her daughter, they still wanted to be together. They had such a small amount of time that they could actually be together but they always took advantage of it because they knew how fragile it all was.

They had such a pure love because it was based on friendship and family. No matter what happened romantically between them, they would still be each other's families. They would still support each other and love each other.

[galaxythixf]

@unmyeoung said: ❝ you love me too much. i know how that sounds but— fucking hell. you shouldn’t care that much about someone like me. ❞ - timebomb Emotionally Charged Starters || Accepting

There's a part of himself, the part that's still mulling over how badly she's burned him, that agrees with her. He shouldn't care so much about someone that's done so much to hurt him, burn him, scab him, and yet here he is trying to talk her off another ledge. Weird, he's sure he would have convinced himself to push her off a few months ago, even if the guilt ate him alive. Deep down he knew he didn't have the heart to hate her with all of himself. All of himself would include the parts that still looked at her and saw Powder, tied to memories and feelings he could never erase no matter how much he tried for the sake of his sanity.

Those were just as loud as any other part of him and now he's learned to listen to them all. Even when he's at odds with her, she teaches him something new he otherwise would have never thought of. It didn't matter what universe they were in, she fixed him every single time like it was breathing. Ekko's never thought of himself as broken, he still doesn't, just wounded and Jinx was just as much a remedy as she was a warning. It's a give and take he's grown used to, a rhythm of hers that he's learned to take in stride and like waves in the ocean he'd ride them all.

"I'm not supposed to care about you now?" Brows furrow out of mild frustration but he relents almost as quickly as he tenses. "Maybe I shouldn't but that won't change the fact that I do. Enough to talk you off of any ledge you're trying to throw yourself off of. Enough to run this song and dance with you every single time, even if you always make fun of my footwork." His joking turns lighthearted as soon as he finishes, brown eyes awkwardly dodging her gaze as soon as the embarrassment crept in, stinging his cheeks.

Love feels like it's too scary for him to say aloud despite how easily she lets it slip, but nothing about his body language is going to deny it. "Spending time with people tends to do that." Even if she technically hadn't for a while now, Jinx couldn't erase what Powder had started. "I mean there are plenty of reasons why I shouldn't, we can both name a few but I already told you I'm making my peace with that." It's difficult, but he's getting there. While he can't forgive or forget, he can agree to leave it in the past and that's been easier said than done. The past isn't what he wanted to focus on though, and she seemed to be swimming in it as per usual. "You're so hellbent on the reasons why I shouldn't but can you even deny the reasons I should?"

[monochrome-stars]

SPOILERS THE ENTIRETY OF IN STARS AND TIME FOR THIS RAMBLE. im covering acts 1-6 so theres your warning now but the ramble is under the cut. fair warning, may not make much sense either

ok trust me on this. this song right here makes me think of siffrin because of the isat brainrot but IT WORKS. AND IT FITS SO WELL AND LET ME TELL YOU WHY

(this is also my interpretation of it and how i understand the song and link it to the thoughts and ideas in my head. im also picking out certain lyrics because its easier to explain, so i would recommend listening to the song for the full thing)

"And I placed my palm upon your collarbone, and I wished to fall asleep deep in your marrow."

siffrin craves closeness with the rest of the party and in the memory of bad touch and the garden room, for example, its clear that they have no clue how to ask for it, and their way of getting that closeness can be odd or just plain weird. like how the song says that "they wish to fall asleep in their marrow", its a very odd way of achieving closeness with somebody, almost like trying to melt into them. (this may be far fetched but it makes sense to me stick with me here)

"There's a hunger under my skin and its gripping at my bones. There's a hunger like a lions and its ripping right through my bones."

its that feeling of hunger that is mentioned over and over again starting at the beginning of act 2 leading all the way into the end of act 5 that siffrin feels and just cant get rid of

"I'm as calm as a baby lamb that is being led. I'm as blue as blood before the blood goes red."

since finding out about the loops, siffrin just accepts the fact that they wont stay dead when theyre killed, and they use it as a way to delete their mistakes. hes incredibly calm about touching tears, about slipping on the banana peel, about using the dagger, all of it. siffrin gets so used to the depression hes falled into and just feels bad all the time. the glass shard that siffrin repeatedly keeps cutting their finger on, and later in act 5, the same glass shard they use to carve stars into their skin. and it ties with the red that continues to pop up throughout the game.

"And how it hurts even in the sun. Its a goddamn joke how we can hurt even in the sun."

everything is fine from everyone elses perspective and theyre completely oblivious to the fact that siffrin is looping through time, spending actual weeks in a hellscape of their own making. hes dying repeatedly and nobody else is aware that this is happening and theyre all blissfully ignorant

"For a heart beats the best in a bed beside the one that it loves."

isabeau refuses to confess his love for siffrin, and siffrin refuses to admit that they crave touch, and yet, both sides love the other unconditionally. (not to mention they literally sleep next to each other every night.)

"Yes, a heart beats the best when in a head, death becomes irrelevant."

after a while, siffrin has become so used to death and dying that it doesnt even matter to him anymore. killing themself is just another necessary evil they have to face in order to get to the end, have the "perfect" loop, and find answers. since they found out they could loop, it has stuck itself in siffrin's mind that "oh i can just erase all my mistakes and start over again" without so much as blinking at the fact that it means dying repeatedly.

"Cause if you're dreaming about dying, then you're not really living, darling."

siffrins entire existence starts to revolve around the dying, the loops, and escaping them. he cant even be happy with the rest of his party because of how terrified he is of messing up. theyre practically conditioning themself to loop at any mistake they make, and they harshly berate themself for it too.

after doing the friendquests a couple times as well, siffrin has those thoughts of "your friends would hate you if they knew why you were doing this" and "if you mess it up, you can just loop back and try again". siffrin stops even paying attention to the present and is so anxious about getting the "perfect loop" that he isnt even concerned about the present but rather the outcome. i think that is ultimately what went wrong with the attempted friendquests in act 5 as well.

"You've gotta be starving, you've gotta be starving for it."

again with that hunger that cant be satisfied with anything. as the game progresses, siffrins thoughts surrounding the snacks and the food always come back to how hungry he is and how its just never enough. it keeps coming back and siffrin is literally starving during the game and it gets especially bad in acts 3-5

"And if you're crying by the moon, in the sun you better lift up that chin."

siffrin was so depressed for the entire game, but then after act 5, its like the sun rises again and they can finally escape the loops and understand that the rest of the party loves them. he doesnt have to bottle it all up until it becomes too much and he can actually begin to enjoy life again after the loops end.

"You've gotta be starving, you've gotta be starving for it."

everything is over, and siffrin can finally rid themself of those feelings of hunger. the feeling is replaced with a want for love and siffrin is finally opening up and letting themself be taken care of by their friends family after all that they went through. the raw emotion in the singers voice when she sings these lyrics also feels very fitting for this

if i could animate, i would definitely make an animatic of this song and the characters to show what i mean because it makes more sense in my mind. i have so many ideas in my head in regards to this song specifically and its infesting my brain

im debating whether or not i should actually post this because its a bit confusing and strange but fuck it we ball