#you can come to your own conclusions about this but just remember will has held himself accountable for everything he's done in that period

[static-scribblez]

if i had a nickel for every time people attempted to cancel or deplatform will wood over stuff blown out of proportion just before a big ww event i would have two nickels, which isn't a lot but it's weird that it's happened twice

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can you write Benji x wife newlyweds fluff?✨✨💗💗

Just Benji being such a sweet, soft sucker for his spouse.

Reader is fem but it’s used very loosely.

It hadn’t been long since you and Benjicot were wed and the butterflies within your stomach has yet to subside, but a small part of you had grown partial to the feeling, especially when that feeling was brought back tenfold as you looked over at Benjicot on the bed; only to see him staring at you adoringly.

‘What?’ You asked, feeling a little exposed beneath his gaze and giddy that you got to be the recipient of such a sweet, genuine gaze as his.

‘This isn’t a dream is it.’ Benji asked softly as he reached out to grab ahold of your hand, pulling you to stand in between his legs, ‘please tell me this isn’t a dream. I don’t think I can handle it if all of this is just something I shall eventually awaken from unfairly.’ He adds as you crane your head down to rest yours easily against his own.

‘This isn’t a dream husband of mine.’ You reassured him softly as you stroked your thumb across the back of his hand, watching fondly as Benji’s face visibly relaxed at the sound of your voice, a soft smile hatching across his lips that left your heart melting every time you were blessed with it’s appearance. ‘What makes you think that any of this could only be achieved through a dream?’ You asked, curious as to know how his mind went that that conclusion because to you everything leading up to now has felt all too real to be a dream, you felt too awake to believe that you were in some way in a deep sleep.

‘You.’ Benjicot replied. ‘You’ve always felt like a dream come true to me since the day we met, and in such a way that I could never describe accurately, at least until now that is.’

‘And that is?’

Benjicot got up from the bed and moved his hands to securely hold your face between his calloused palms as his eyes flickered across every aspect of your face, almost as though he were committing this very moment to his memory, like he was scared that he was bound to forget all about it sooner or later and he was desperate to remember how your face looked now; hopeful that it will force his mind to remember the best moments of his life all over again. ‘That you were always meant to be apart of my life. It is as if the old gods made you and I to one day be bound in a shared fate that concludes with us still being together when it all ends. You are the other half of me that I can’t live without.’ Benjicot says as he peppered soft kisses across your face, making you smile at him warmly and reaching your hands to rest atop of his own.

‘You’re too sweet to me my beloved.’ You murmured as Benji pressed a kiss to your lips. ‘You must’ve been a poet in a previous life.’ You added cheekily before squealing when Benjicot playfully bit your lip in retaliation.

‘I meant that in a good way!’ You cried, lightly snacking his bicep.

‘To you it does, but to me it sounded very much like a playful jab made at my expense.’ Benjicot said and moved his hands to your waist, where in which he gave a swift tug and you were brought tightly against his chest, but you weren’t in any position to complain as you quickly latched your arms to his waist and rested your head firmly in the crook of his neck, kissing on it a little as a content smile blossomed across your face while sinking into his warmth.

‘Agree to disagree.’ You said, voice muffled against your now husband as the lull of sleep began to weigh heavily on your eyelids. The excitement of the day had long since drained you and all you wanted to do was to sleep in the arms of your beautiful husband, you couldn’t help but feel giddy calling Benjicot your husband no matter if it was aloud or to yourself, it just felt right.

‘Agree to disagree my love.’ Benjicot echoed as he helped you to bed, pressing a kiss to your forehead, nose and lips before getting under the covers to join you as he held you protectively in his arms, just a pair of lovers spending their first of many nights cuddled up to each other as though fearful of being separated from one another.

[saintpavlov]

he doesn't mean to make you sad, you know that. it's just that, when atsumu's upset it becomes everyone's problem—yours especially.

you don't know how it starts. atsumu had been bouncing off the walls just a moment ago, drunk off of booze and the afterglow of victory. you don't know which one of his teammates had invited her to the after-party, just that right now, you can't help but hate them.

it's just for a second, but you catch it. the way his eyes immediately dim, how his hand falters around yours. you don't want to jump to conclusions, but it's obvious—atsumu's in love with her. painfully so.

he drops your hand as if burnt and turns away, letting himself be carried off into another conversation. atsumu laughs loud enough to be heard over the music, a deafening house mix that thuds through your chest like a second heartbeat. anyone else might not spare him a second glance, but you know that when atsumu laughs that loud there's something he's trying to hide. then, as if remembering that you're still there, atsumu turns over his shoulder. you answer before he can ask the question.

"no no, go ahead. go have fun!"

atsumu tilts his head, though you know he's only asking to be polite. "are you sure?"

you smile. "no worries."

it's a bold-faced lie, but atsumu's never been that good at paying attention. he returns your smile with an excited nod, letting himself be led away by the shoulders. "don't go anywhere!" he shouts, though you know later on he'll forget to come find you. that's the way it always is. always has been.

you nurse your drink against your chest—water, you don't have the stomach tonight—and try to look on the bright side, if there is one. atsumu had been the one to invite you, hadn't he? and though you're still "just friends", he'd held your hand earlier, so that has to count for something, right?

it's useless. you down your water in one go, figuring that if you treat it like alcohol it might work like it is. it doesn't, and now you're alone at this party with an empty cup and an even emptier hand.

you sigh and snake your way out of the kitchen, making your way up the stairs to the first door that opens. the upstairs is off-limits, but you hope that whoever owns this room is drunk enough to be forgiving. you don't even bother to turn on the lights, and instead flop backwards onto the bed. you feel the music downstairs rather than hearing it, a steady thump-thump-thump that shakes through you from head to toe.

you close your eyes, trying very hard not to think about atsumu and the girl he's still in love with downstairs. it's not your place to be bothered, that you know, but something in your chest still aches at the thought. you've loved atsumu since before he met her, after all. it's a shame he hasn't noticed. or maybe he's not noticing on purpose, which is considerably worse.

"woe is me," you say to no one, your voice biting with sarcasm. you're not shocked at how things are turning out, moreso that you thought it'd turn out any differently. with a sigh, you close your eyes. atsumu will find you eventually. and if he doesn't, then someone else will. you'd rather be cursed at for trespassing than anywhere downstairs, faking a smile as you wait for atsumu like a well-trained dog. at least here you can lick your wounds in private.

you don't know how much time has passed when you feel something press into your side, warm and solid. arms wrap around you: one slung over your waist, the other snaking its way under your head. you turn in confusion, seeing nothing in the dark.

whoever's holding you down reeks heavily of liquor, and their arm feels like a dead weight around you. when you try to pull it off they hold onto you tighter, mumbling something incoherent under their breath. "um, hey," you say loudly, voice hoarse with sleep. "get off of me."

the person beside you stirs, and the bed dips slightly as they prop themselves up. they mumble your name under their breath, and in the dark you can make out the vague outline of a face.

with a start, you realize you recognize that voice. "...osamu?"

he lies back down, bringing you along with him. "h-hey," you start to protest, but osamu's grip grows stronger in response.

"don't leave," he mumbles, as you try to sit up.

"but—"

"m'head hurts. shhh." osamu shushes you, curling up against your side. his hair tickles the side of your reddening cheek.

"hey, osamu." you try to move out from under his arm again, to no avail. "you're really drunk."

"and?" he counters, pulling you closer, almost possessively. "just pretend for a little while."

that catches you off guard. "pretend?"

"it's dark, so it's easier," osamu refuses to elaborate. "c'mon. it's my birthday."

"osamu, your birthday's in october."

"is it?" there's an uncharacteristic cheekiness to osamu's voice, one that makes you turn your head towards him in surprise. you can't see him, but you can tell from the warmth that his face is only inches away. "well it's somebody's birthday, somewhere."

something touches your cheek—osamu's hand? no, his face. somewhere near his chin, guessing by the stubble that scratches your skin. "just do me a favor and pretend i'm him," osamu says, and in that moment he sounds scarily sober.

"wh-what?" you can't help the way your mouth hangs open at the request, your stomach feeling like it's about to drop out of you.

"you heard me," osamu mumbles, back to being drunk again. "pretend i'm him. you know what i mean."

"you—what—that's not—"

"am i wrong?" osamu presses, raising his voice like he's imitating his brother. it works. osamu's fingers trace across your face, reading the shock on your face like braille. you turn your head and press your nose to his neck—no cologne, only the soft smell of skin. it can't be atsumu, but for a moment, you're fooled.

osamu tilts his head and sighs, slow and sweet. and when his lips brush your forehead, it's like everything you've ever dreamed. "i'm right," he breathes, nestling his head against your shoulder. it's not a question anymore, but a fact. "i'm right," he sing-songs, still painfully drunk.

"osamu—"

a hand covers your mouth, warm and firm. softer than atsumu's, and just a bit bigger. "don't say my name like that," he whispers, his voice hot against the shell of your ear, "say it the way you say his."

you swallow an audible gulp. "osa—osamu?" you try again.

osamu shakes his head. needy hands pull you in by the waist. you feel osamu's lips kiss up the side of your neck. "not like that," he murmurs.

"o-osa...mu..." you're breathless and dizzy. you feel osamu's smile against the underside of your jaw.

"better," he grins, and this time, his lips find yours.

it ends before you can even react. osamu pulls away with a shaky exhale, as if he's slowly waking from a dream. his eyes shine back at you in the dark, wide and unblinking.

he opens his mouth to speak. "i—"

"you're drunk," you say immediately, and push him away by the chest.

osamu doesn't let you. he brings his hands over yours and keeps them there, and under the thin cotton of his shirt you feel his heart beating rabbit-fast. "so? i'll still want you when i'm sober."

his words choke your own out of your throat. "osamu...i can't—"

"so don't. don't do anything. just stay the night." there's a desperation in his words that makes your stomach flip. osamu holds onto you like he's afraid to let go. "please."

it's late, and you're tired. atsumu's in love with someone that isn't you, but osamu's arms are warm enough to make you forget. you think to yourself: is it selfish if he's willing? are you cruel for wanting to pretend?

you wrap your arms around his neck and osamu relaxes, melting into you the same way butter does on toast. he's soft, comforting. familiar, but not the same. osamu's lips brush on your neck again and the impact shudders through your spine like electricity. he takes his hands and rubs them over your arms, thinking that you're cold. you don't want to tell him that in reality you're burning up, feeling hot everywhere he touches.

"thank you," osamu murmurs into your hair.

"for what?"

"stayin'."

and when osamu kisses you a second time, you don't have the heart to push him away.

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

as soft as a misty rain

cw. f!reader (no specified anatomy), recently established relationship, allusions that sanji's past is more complicated than he lets on, reader has a defined devil fruit ability

pairing. vinsmoke sanji x reader

synopsis. it is all typical sanji; there is no deeper meaning to his actions. until it isn't all typical sanji and now there are many meanings to everything he does.

notes. a back to school treat for pookie @hash-slinging-slasher-trash because we both survived the first week of the new semester. title comes from rain by swv, it just felt like it would really the vibes i was going for because established relationships are sweet, but the buzzing honeymoon phase of a recently established relationship can be a bit sweeter

Sanji has always handled you with care.

There is nothing to realize. It’s an objective fact that has been apparent from almost the very moment you met on Charmed Enclave. Aside from children, there are very specific individuals Sanji will always be gentle with. An enthusiastic softness, eager and ready to serve at the drop of a hat.

I’m not special, you had told yourself, clutching Zoro’s previous warnings tightly. He does this for every woman, with or without a pulse.

It didn’t matter how many treats he brought you, reserved solely for you.

There was no deeper meaning to when he held out his hand to help you down a few steps.

Nor did it matter if he’d push Zoro onto a puddle for you to walk across like a coat taking in all the liquid, amusing as it had been.

It’s all typical Sanji.

The question is raised when it isn’t typical Sanji; that is what makes your skin buzz as Sanj’s fingers thrum across your own. What makes your chest warm as you watch as he wraps a cloth around your palms and your fingers, how he touches you as if protecting a thousand treasures.

“I won’t lie and say the Nervy Nervy Fruit isn’t useful,” Sanji murmurs with a sigh. “But if you can’t feel pain, how are you supposed to recognize your limits? Like the other day.”

You chuckle sheepishly and Sanji’s expression is uncharacteristically sharp, unamused at the display. You are sure he will be sour about your turning off your pain receptors to test the heat of the stovetop a while longer. The blond has been fretting over you like a mother hen even since. “I’ll try to be more mindful,” you promise when your chuckles subside, letting your gaze rest on your connected hands. As of now, you’ve only dulled your senses to a light discomfort. Enough to feel everything without wanting to croak from your injuries. “But this time I was distracted, I normally don’t singe myself when I check how hot the stove is.”

That does little to sway Sanji in your favor.

“I’ll be more careful,” you dramatically let your head hang as if you’re being reprimanded by your boss.

“You’ll make Chopper sad otherwise,” despite his words, Sanji sounds satisfied with the conclusion. “Think about Chopper. That’s what you told me, remember?”

Your shoulders shake with hearty laughter, “don’t use my words against me,” you beam brightly with a hint of challenge. “And you should be thanking me. Quitting smoking is going to help you in the long run. What if they started calling you Black Lung Sanji? What would you do then?” Not to mention with how impressionable the young reindeer is, the last thing you want is to see him attempting to take a smoke break between patients.

With how hectic things tend to get for the Straw Hats, it is too easy to envision.

Sanji’s cigarettes and lighter had to go for the greater good.

As your laughter subsides, a comfortable silence settles over you both.

“So,” you feel possessed to break it. Comfortable as it may be, you fear you’ll drown in it. Sink deeper and deeper in it until you do something foolish, whatever foolish thing that may be. It’s easy to drown as a power holder, it is why you are always careful around the water’s edge. What happens when you find a piece of the ocean you aren’t afraid to fall into, however. You’ve never been prepared for that. “Have you always wanted to become a cook? I know that’s what you were doing before you joined the crew.”

At your query, Sanji’s eyes shine like a child’s, “it is.” As if he’s water flowing over a dam, Sanji tells you about his home in the East Blue. The floating restaurant, the Baratie ー a concept you’ve never certainly thought possible ー and the fighting cooks that reside in it.

He tells you about Zeff and the many cooks that joined his ranks over the years. Laughter falls from your lips as easily as the stories leave Sanji’s. 

The Baratie sounds more like the Waffle House restaurant chain throughout your home island than anything else. At the tail end of Sanji’s story about how a line cook named Peter got into a fist fight with three drunks and a cranky chicken, you finally ask, “what made you love cooking so much?”

“I’ve always enjoyed it, but I’d say my mom is the one who really encouraged it,” he tells you thoughtfully, his hands moving slower against your own as he recalls the woman. He should have long since finished, you know, but you don’t mind that he’s stalled in his 'wound tending efforts'. It’s nice feeling as if it is only you on the ship when in reality you are just the only ones awake. “I liked making her lunches, not that I was always good at it. But even if it tasted like garbage, she always ate it,” the blond’s dark eyes are miles away from where you sit on the Sunny. “Then she’d ask me to make her something else again.”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” you try to imagine what such a gentle person looks like. I think you probably look a lot like her. A good portion of the woman’s character certainly had been imbued in her son. He’s always been gentle and kind, you’ve seen it in how he treats Chopper.

It’s easy to baby the crew’s smallest member, but there is something unique in how everyone does it. Vinsmoke Sanji was meant to be a father. It’s a thought that flusters you, but you know it is true regardless. It’s a bit too soon to think about that though.

“It,” Sanji’s gaze doesn’t meet yours as his thumb brushes over the back of your cloth-covered hand. You aren’t able to dwell long on what exactly your newly minted boyfriend means, however, as he continues on. “will probably be easier meeting Zeff than my mother. He’s a stubborn old fart but he means well. You’ll like him. Just don’t believe anything those jackasses at the Baratie tell you about me. I just know they put up that god awful wanted poster of me where everyone can see it.”

A giggle slips from your lips at Sanji’s distressed expression and you recall how he begged for you to pretend the portrait didn’t exist. 

It’s easy to imagine all the cantankerous characters he mentioned growing up with. Zeff, Patty, Carne and you can easily picture the boisterous men hanging Sanji’s wanted poster for all to see like proud parents and uncles. Ones very good at teasing their group’s baby. The men who made Vinsmoke Sanji ‘Vinsmoke Sanji’.

“I can’t wait to meet them.”

Sanji pauses at your words before he lips stretch into a dreamy smile and you let yourself arrogantly assume he’s picturing the same things you are. “I can’t wait to introduce you to them.” With that, his tending to your hand is finished, cloth gently knotted so it can’t move. “I’m no Chopper, so he’ll probably have to redo it once he wakes up.”

You smile at his handiwork, “thanks again.” You think that will be the end of your little moment, but rather than let your hand go Sanji holds your fingers a touch tighter.

“Can I kiss your hand,” the cook asks earnestly, dark eyes reserved yet hopeful.

“You don’t have to ask permission for that,” your chest burns a gold the color of Sanji’s hair. It’s unfair how easily he gets your heart pounding like a drum. In spite of your words, he doesn’t lean forward an inch. “Of course you can,” you grumble, eyes darting to a particularly interesting piece of wood in your embarrassment.

The hair of his chin dances across your skin like raindrops.

[postmoe]

Borisin Warhead Hoolay x Reader - All You’re Good For

: cum, piss, degradation, blood (lil bit), aphrodisiac, Hoolay is a gross meanie :( , but he’s also a powerful tyrant so :)

This was all written on my phone during sleepless nights haha I can’t fix the spacing ;-;

It’s hard being a foxian in this world run by borisins. Allies are far and few between, even amongst your own kind. All it takes is one threat, one little push and you’re being sold out or used in the worst ways.

It had been days and you’re exhausted, paranoid and running on nothing but a few berries you have yet to see if are poisonous. It’s been a few days and nothing, so you’ll try some more tonight… if you make it out alive.

You were part of a group of foxians that plotted to run from the farm you were held in, what’s started as 11 now dwindled to five as most of you were either captured and killed in the escape or gotten too sick and died along the way. It had been a plan in the making that would have been perfect, had it not been for one factor:

Hoolay was coming.

Everyone knows the visit of the borisin warhead always lead to large feasts, having most of the ‘stock’ dead by morning. It was either make a break for it then or succumb to certain death.

So, you fled. Which leads to now, having you shaking beside the campfire, fingers anxiously brushing through matted knots in your tail, and the four men now looking to you like you were a burden.

“All I’m saying is that there’s no use having dead weight when borisins could jump on our tail at any second. We all play a part in this pack, but, what do you do?” One stated as though it was a matter of fact, hand held out in expression.

It was true you hadn’t really contributed much, though one could argue you found the berries, you were the only one brave enough to try them. You did plan on sharing if they were safe; that’s out the window now. Your lips thin as you refuse to make eye contact. Trauma has rendered your vocabulary useless, you don’t remember how old you were when you last spoke. Now, only pitiful sounds are able to escape your mouth, little hums and grunts of pain.

They took this as another sign of weakness, one of the other foxians scoffing, “You won’t even make conversation with us? We want someone we can rely on, not a pet.”

Everyone seemed to have different opinions of your value, all of which lead to one conclusion: you’re useless. It wasn’t until the fourth of them spoke that anyone even considered otherwise, “C’mon, guys, don’t be so harsh, you know she’s a mute. She can’t help it if she’s… underwhelming. Females are only made for one thing after all. Surely I can’t be the only one feeling lonely.”

It was that comment that made your heart pound most of all. A debate broke out of whether or not you’d be worth keeping around for something as trivial as sex when their lives were in danger. You look to starry sky above, the smoke pluming through the canopy as you think about their accusations. You were the most quiet of the bunch. You watched one of your comrades get their head stomped in right before you and didn’t even scream. One of the men here almost got everyone caught because a centipede crawled past. All in all, it could only be boiled down to blatant sexism. Their entire lives they’ve been slaves, and now there’s a taste of freedom and they want to turn the tables.

You’re being regarded again, everyone awaiting your answer, “So, wanna spread them legs and we’ll keep you safe? Cmon baby, you can trust us to protect you.”

It was a no brainer on your part, though you’ve never been one for conflict, you were prepared to fight them on this. Exhausted, paranoid, starving. You a pop a few berries from your pocket and into your mouth, thinking this might be your last meal if things go south as you shake your head in a silent, ‘no’.

The main perpetrator loses his smirk, obviously not amused by your response. He stands and cracks his neck, “No? I think you just need a bit of encouragement, baby.”

Immediately, you stand to take the defensive against him. You wonder if you could outrun them, given that you’re all in the same state of distress. One of the first foxians stands too, holding his hand out in hesitance, “W-whoa, hold up. Don’t start a fight here. Besides, you can’t just force someone to have sex with you.”

Another stood up, following the others straps as he comes to crowd you, “No no, I actually agree here. I think she needs to show us some gratitude.”

The last one merely sat in silence, avoiding his eyes from the scene, looking visibly uncomfortable but not wanting to step in.

Your eyes darted between the two approaching and you threatened by taking a deep breath, mouth opening as if you to scream. Their eyes panicked, not wanting any sound to alert unwanted attention. Regardless of their beliefs on your voice, they didn’t want to risk it.

A slight freeze from them was all you needed, you turned tail, beginning to run when a critical mistake caused your foot to get caught on the log you were sitting on. You went tumbling down, only barely managing to turn on the ground when you were tackled by your former comrade. His hand already over your mouth as he laugh, straddling you, “See? Pathetic! You can’t even run away by yourself. You need us.”

Your hands tense as your nails sharpen, ready to thrash when the other grabs your right wrist, pinning you down. Not long after, the first one grabs your other, his instinct telling him this was better than having you fight back and alert their position.

It wasn’t until his hand trailed under your shirt and caressed the bare skin of your stomach that something truly snapped inside of you. Pupils dilating, mind quieting and teeth sharpening, you managed to tilt your head enough to bite painfully into his hand, blood quickly spilling from the punctures.

His scream was loud, startling, the one on your right wrist jolting enough for you to wrench your arm away. Just as you were about to scratch at him, he gave you a swift punch to your face, nose cracking and pooling blood over your mouth. It disorientated you enough for him to grab at your throat, holding you down, “Fucking bitch. Maybe it’ll be easier to use you if you’re not breathing.”

His taste for violence was the perfect opportunity. As his face drew closer and no one retrained you, thinking you were knocked out enough to not need it, you thrust your hands to his head, nails digging into the back of his skull as you pushed him forward and impaling his eye over your thumb.

The others stepped back now, stunned and scared, leaving you to leap forward before he could recover and drive your teeth into his throat like a wild animal. Frenzied, scared, hurt and adrenaline coursing through your veins, it was enough to drive anyone to do drastic things.

You didn’t notice the rustling of bushes, the way your comrades bolted from the scene. Too busy focusing on ripping his throat out and showing him that you’re not just some foxian that’s going to roll over and heel. Tears streaming down your cheeks as the taste of blood came rushing over you, you are going to fight, too.

Once he goes limp is when you stop clawing and attacking, sitting back with a squelch as you reach up to wipe the water from your eyes. You were drenched. Blood painted from the lower half of your face, down your throat and over your teeth. Nose bruised and broken and leaking. Nails filthy and you’re sure there is flesh under them. You’re not a killer. You never wanted to be a killer.

And then the clapping began. Thuds of heavy footsteps rush past you as you look up, paling and almost vomiting from the surprise. There’s no mistaken that the borisin that stands before you now is Warhead Hoolay, and beside him is his right hand man, Mok Tok. The pack with him was chasing down the others that ran before.

Hoolay seemed very amused, crouching down and grinning as he picked up the foxian’s head by the ear before letting it hit the ground again, “Only the strong survive. This whelp was nothing more than all bark and no bite. You, however,” he gazes back to you, standing, “I’m impressed. Even foxians in the fighting ring have more compassion. You truly didn’t hold back.”

Running isn’t an option. In the fight he had gotten a few good hits and kicks in, your ankle throbbing in pain. Not to mention the stench of blood on you. Foxians had a great sense of smell - Borisins, an even better one. Your only option is to fight, and even you know the single outcome here is death.

Mok Tok stepped around, standing behind you as he examined your state of well being. He hummed gingerly before saying, “Dine in or take away, master?”

Another once over from Hoolay had him walking over to you. He didn’t have a care in the world, hand larger than your head reaching out towards your face. It was enough for you to kick into gear, using what was left of your strength and latching onto him with all the fight you had left. Your teeth barely dug through the fur on his paw, nails only strong enough to hold you to his arm without so much as pricking blood, your legs feebly kicking into his large chest. It probably felt more like a massage than any form of pain.

You tried with all your might and the only response you got from him was a boisterous laugh. He easily yanked you off and threw you to the ground, rolling until you hit Mok Tok’s foot, “Take away. This one amuses me, see to it she doesn’t succumb to her wounds.”

In no time you had some form of metal around your neck, clasping with the rattle of a chain. You’re dragged a few feet before being hauled onto your aching souls. Mok Tok handles you with little care, tugging you to a pace you couldn’t keep up with.

…

It was only you, the bystander foxian that didn’t stand to help, and the initial foxian that tried to keep everyone quiet that remained. The lackey of the culprit you fought had been tied at the end of your chain link, only to fall to his wounds and die on the road. The borisins had snapped his portion of the chain off like it was nothing, leaving his carcass to rot in the mud.

You were at the front of the line, trudging behind Hoolay and his bitch boy with your hands cuffed in front of you, connected to a chain on the thick collar around your throat. A longer, thicker chain trailed behind you to the others, walking in a single file.

It was quiet, the night turning from black to the blueish hues of morning. In the distance thunder rumbled, promising the relief of rain to come. Your feet were filthy from the mud, having lost one flat, uncomfortable shoe days ago and tossing the other at a wild animal that tried to bite you. It turns out bare feet was only marginally more uncomfortable. At least the dirt of the road and squelch of the mud was nicer than sticks and brambles in the forest.

Every closing of your eyes almost had you tripping in sleep. You tried not to blink but since the adrenaline was wearing off, all the pain and exhaustion was coming forward tenfold. It was probably stupid, but the man behind you decided to try their luck with a conversation, “Are we-“ they coughed, their voice a lot scratchier than you anticipated, starting again when they noticed their ears pricking back to listen, “Are we going back to the farm?”

Mok Tok was the first to sneer, his scarred face glaring at him as he snapped, “You weren’t given permission to speak, whelp.”

Hoolay raised his paw to silence him, “It’s fine. Let them wonder, the smell of fear is a welcome sense.” Once the smaller borisin bowed in submission, Hoolay glanced at you from over his shoulder, his intimidating size only making you feel all the more caged in this otherwise open countryside, “The farm owner doesn’t want runaways such as yourselves. You’re coming to our den. Those who can’t serve as servants will be meals before battle.”

One of the men behind you whimpered in fear, the chain slightly rattling as they quaked. You wish you could have the energy for such an emotion. You felt yourself lagging, needing to pick up the pace if you didn’t want to end up lunch for the trip back. With a pained sigh, you skipped forward and listened as they continued questioning, “Did you search for us on purpose, or was it all a coincidence?”

It seems Hoolay was in a generous and talkative mood as he humoured, “Your previous owner informed us of the escape. Such a foolish plan, don’t you know we wolves love to hunt little foxes like you? You couldn’t have picked a worse time to…”

As Hoolay spoke you were progressively losing focus. The sunlight peeked behind a cloud and pierced your eye, a strain feeling like it was hitting your brain. Your hands weren’t low enough to see if you had any surviving berries in your pocket, food maybe being a cure. By this point it was difficult to make out the words anyone was saying.

The next moment you know is your face in the mud. It’s cool to your cheeks, comforting from the recent events. Mok Tok’s voice cuts through incredulously, “Me? Master, she is just a pitiful fox. I suggest we eat her and be done-“

“Are you questioning my decision, Mok Tok? I’ll gladly fight you over it, think you can take me in a battle,” Hoolay says, already knowing the outcome.

Mok Tok surrenders immediately, breaking off your chain and throwing you over his shoulder. Your lungs are pushed of air, and though he isn’t careful in the least, you despise how warm and inviting his fur is. It isn’t long before you’re drifting off, passing out in the hopes that this is your end and you don’t have to experience another day in this hellhole.

…

It was a long ride, your trio of prisoners thrown on the back of a wagon full of leftover foxian meat when it was established you were walking too slow. Most of it was wrapped in cloth and sat on crates with misshapen ice inside to keep relatively fresh. It only became hard to stomach when one of them got hungry.

A few borisin were striding alongside the cart, keeping in pace with the quieter man of your group. They were shoving an amputated foot in his face, laughing and urging him to try it. “You’ll never know if you don’t have a taste~”

You did your best to keep your gaze away, he may be an arsehole but you still regarded the corpse’s leg with the dignity you feel it deserves. Though your kind believes the spirit moves on, it was still hard to witness in the living realm.

It seems your ignorance of the scene didn’t grant you any relief. However, instead of the group of mutts hounding him, you were graced with the mighty presence of the Warhead himself. He held out an arm to you, fingers daintily hovering before your face, calloused skin proving their hard work in life. Hoolay eyed you with interest as he said, “What about you, small one? Have you developed a taste for your own kind?”

The stains of mud and blood still remain on you, your nose only having a brief look at once you reached the wagon of ‘goods’. If your aggressive fight had taught you anything, it was that living prey wasn’t your ideal meal. You shook your head and turned away from him, hoping he would give up this pointless endeavour.

Hoolay brought the arm to his maw, ripping the flesh and chewing loudly, as if to accentuate just what exactly he was eating. Without warning, his sharp claw drags roughly from the base of your skull and down your neck, stopping between your shoulder blades when you jumped forward in shock, the chains rattling as you eyed him with malice. Whatever he saw in you made his lips part in a smirk, then he laughed loudly, the rest of his pack watching their leader toy with you in silence. “What do they call you?”

Even if you could talk, you wouldn’t want to tell him your name.

He raises an eyebrow at you, “Oh? Even still defiant over such a simple question?”

Mok Tok was clearly more offended than his leader, “How dare you ignore our Warhead Hoolay! Master, please allow me to show this whelp just how grateful she should be-“

Sensing the growing tension, your other prisoner comrade interrupted fearfully, “Sh-she doesn’t talk, lord warhead. She’s been silent for as long as we’ve known her.”

This seemed to interest Hoolay even more. “Oh?” With ease, he jumped onto the wagon and sat opposite of you, right next to the prisoner who had spoken on your behalf. Teasingly, he caressed his face with the back of the foxian’s hand, “Then you can tell me. What is her label?”

Shakily, he looked to you as if you could help, too scared to move away from the amputated hand. You merely shrugged, then sure what to tell him, so he said what he could best remember, “I think… I think she was part of B block so… it may have been B132.”

You’re not sure with how you got away with not being branded. Perhaps it was because you kept your head down and didn’t cause trouble, mixed with the fact that they forgot. The farm wasn’t the best run, order and structure not something they’d place in their résumé.

Hoolay looked back to you, “Is that correct?”

Again, you shrug. You were told it once and then never again. The only ones who really remembered were the branded ones.

Hoolay picks at his fangs with the nails of his meal, humming in thought before tossing the arm far away into a field, “I suppose it matters not. Servants will be renamed, as will food.” Another amused rumble comes bubbling from his chest as he stands, a large paw grasping your injured face and turning it from side to side, making you wince as he growls lowly, “Food always tastes better when there’s… personality.”

You took that as an omen for your future.

…

The rain and humidity was a horrible combination, though you found yourself enjoying it more as the grime was sort of washed from your face and your wrists were lubricated from the blood that was washed down. Quietly, you had been working on wriggling your hands out of the cuffs to give you some more space to work with when you try to escape again.

There was nothing you could do about the choker around your neck, however if you could at least get your hands free then you’d have the ability to use the environment around you easier. That, paired with the fact that your chain was no longer connected to the others thanks to Mok Tok, you think you had a fighting chance.

Or else you’re condemned to be food.

It stung, the way your flesh ripped and teared when you shimmied it back and forth in the metal. The others had seen you but didn’t speak up, thankfully, not wanting any of their attention.

You felt sick with anxiety when the new blood made it easier to pull through, almost slipping out, your bones bruised and aching before you pushed your hands back in to avoid them being freed completely.

The rain had lessened, which wasn’t ideal but you could tell it would stop soon and you wanted to go with as much covering as possible. You were in another dense forest, it would be the perfect time. So, you got work, stomping your foot on the wagon to get someone’s attention.

It was Mok Tok who turned, glaring at you with a harsh, “What?” Your tail was squeezed between your thighs, jumping up and down to indicate you needed to pee. He seemed he was about to refute it when he had a second thought, turning to Hoolay and saying, “Master, the last toilet break for the prisoners was 12 hours ago. Shall we stop once more or wait until we arrive to the den?”

Your stomach dropped, did that mean you were close to their home? It really was now or never. Hoolay looked back to you, and you tried hard to show how desperate you were to go. He motions for everyone to stop, coming to you, “Fine. You two take the other prisoners. I’ll handle this one myself.” Like a giant claw - and you suppose it technically was - he grasped you by the top of your head and lifted you from the wagon, placing you down in the mud, your toes sinking into the mushy soil.

He had to nudge you to walk as you panicked. Why was splitting you up now? Every other time it has been one borisin watching you three, you were counting on that to have their attention diverted. Now the Warhead himself wants to watch you pee?

You get a considerable distance before he stops, staring at you with a heavy gaze. When you make no move he scoffs, smiling with a row of sharp teeth and a flick of his tail, “What, you can piss in front of my grunt but not me? Do I really make you that uncomfortable?” His voice lowers to a dangerous octave, “You flatter me.”

Now’s not the time to play his games. You turn around, using your tail to lift up the long, tattered dress that was uniform for everyone at the farm. Due to the first toilet break, a borisin had ripped your knickers off and tossed them so they wouldn’t have to keep doing it whenever you needed to go, so all you had to do was squat and bunch the cloth in your hands once you were low enough to reach. You glanced over your shoulder, seeing him watch you with boredom, huffing and averting his eyes lazily.

That was the best you were going to get. From this angle, it could be seen as you adjusting your clothes again, yet you were slipping your damaged wrists out of the cuffs. It was a little harder since the last time but you managed to do it, eyeing him from the side to see him focused on the raindrops off a leaf. Taking a deep breath, you bolted head on, scurrying over logs and bushes.

There was no noise behind you. As far as you’re aware, borisin aren’t silent hunters, they like to toy with their prey. So why wasn’t he chasing you? Not that you’re complaining, you hope to never encounter his kind again-

The reason for your lack of chase became apparent as you came skidding to a halt. You were at the edge of a canyon, forest on this side and a large, dusty and rocket desert on the other. Along the walls of the canyon were layers of stairs, openings, borisin. Not to mention the foxian slaves, digging and picking, holding food out to guards. Along the floor of the deep canyon is a rushing river, fast enough to be swept away should one fall in.

Hoolay casually walked up behind you, “the outside of our den. On the inside is long, winding halls and plenty of rooms. Should you get lost, there’s no telling what your fate is.” You were still in despair when he grabbed your hand, holding it up as he brought his nose down to inhale your wounds. Your fearful eyes looked to him when he licked up the torn skin, the saliva and pressure on his tongue stinging the sores which you tried to pull away from. He groaned in delight, yanking you closer to gently bite on the flesh, squeezing more blood out, “You think I can’t smell the difference between old and fresh blood? We knew of your little plan from the beginning. Even so,” his large hand slides up your back, claws tracing your spine tantalisingly and forcing you to push into his hard chest as he growls lowly in your ear, “You still tried to run from me, a bold move. I’ve decided, I’m going to keep you, personally. I will train you from a savage foxian into the obedient pet you were born to play.”

To be dismembered or to be a pet? Which is worse is hard to say. Your chattering teeth grit, the fear turning into desperate anger. Quickly, you duck under his arm to escape, only for him to grab the base of your tail and hold you in place. So you change tactics, trying to hit the base of your heel hard enough to hurt his chest and loosen his grip. However, as your foot makes contact with his torso, he doesn’t flinch and instead grabs your ankle and turn you upside down.

You’re left flailing in the air as he carries you like meat on a hook, holding your dress between your legs as you struggle so that you’re not blinded by the fabric. There really is no use. His pack watches in amusement as their leader returns with you, dropping you back into the wagon, “This one is mine. No one is allowed to touch them, understand?”

Frustrated and scared tears stream down your cheeks as they reply with a clear, “Yes, master!”

…

You’re not sure where the others went. Once you made it over the bridge and into the den, you were given to a purple borisin who commanded a bunch of servant foxians. She had supervised your wounds being treated before ordering them to take you to the bathhouse and clean you.

No one made eye contact, no one spoke to you or each other. It was frighteningly quiet, so you kept your head down as they scrubbed your ears and brushed out the knots in your tail. The tub you were in was cramped, a wooden bucket essentially. Hoses came out of the walls and a long gutter was imbedded in the ground to drain the water out somewhere. Even if it was awkward and daunting, you couldn’t deny how good it felt to get scrubbed raw by water that was almost too hot. Even at the farm, room temperature water was the highest form of luxury.

You actually felt clean for once.

Once you were done and dripping dry, the borisin from earlier reentered with a fluffy towel. She looked you over, clawed hand throwing the towel over your head, “You know how to dry yourself, yeah? I don’t know what you did but our master has taken a liking to you. Come.”

You wetly follow her through the winding halls with plaps of your feet hitting the floors, the servants behind you trailing diligently. You were too focused on trying to memorise the path that you hardly dried yourself by the time you reached your destination. A room was opened to you, chests and clothes along each wall, a mirror standing on the floor.

One glance at the mirror was enough for you to turn your head, not wanting to see yourself as the captive you are just yet; surrounded by slaves and a vicious wolf. Out of the corner of your eye though, you saw the enemy rummaging through chests until she found what she was looking for.

When she came back, she began putting golden chains on you, hanging from a gold collar around your neck, falling down your biceps, down the curves of your naked breasts, low enough to fall just past your hips. You dared another glance in the mirror, wondering if something so cold and with no fabric could still be called lingerie.

“Done. Let’s go,” she shoved at your back, the chains clinking slightly from the jolt as she pushed you out. The metal felt kind of nice, slinking along your skin with every step you took. The collar got hotter with your body heat, being a little uncomfortable but who were you to complain when you had no rights. It wasn’t until you were stopped beside her, a VERY long table with various foods and alcohols, mainly meats and few vegetables - don’t look at the foxian torso and thighs, don’t look at the foxian torso and thighs - that were slightly skewed from everyone picking at it that you felt a shot of self-consciousness. She bowed her head and addressed the warhead, “Master, she is clean and adorned for you.”

Since the day you were born, you were taught that nakedness and privacy didn’t matter. Farm animals didn’t get that decency, foxians don’t get that decency. You can count on one hand you’ve felt the need to cover yourself in front of someone, yet somehow right now, you feel like you need to cover every inch of skin and curl up in a hole to stop the eyes of their leader from clawing into you. Everyone stopped to stare at the new meat that had walked in, yet it was Hoolay that openly ogled you like you were more than just food.

You pretend not to notice the twitching under his belt, cloth moving over a large mound that you were hoping wasn’t for you. He grinned and leant forward, hooking his index under your collar and pulling you towards him, “Perfect, you’re dismissed.”

She and the slaves bowed before leaving you alone in the room full of beasts.

“C’mere,” Hoolay demands, already pulling you tightly against him, sitting you sideways in his lap. He’s so large, colossal, from his shoulder to his elbow alone almost the size of your body. He brings a chunk of meat to your lips, demanding you to eat. When you don’t part your mouth, he huffs and wedges a claw between your teeth, forcing you to open, “Relax, it is just bird.”

Sure enough, you’re inclined to agree, taking the meat from his hand so he’s no longer shoving it down your throat. As you slowly nibble on the meat, you’re lost to the words everyone is speaking around you, their language a mix of your common tongue and their own. You’re pretty confident, however, that they’re discussing about his new prize - you - and how you’ll taste.

Hoolay laughs after someone says something, easily moving you to sit flush against his torso with your back, spreading your legs wide over his thighs. You almost drop the bird meat when you see what he’s doing, releasing the confinements of his half-hard cock to hang over his leg. A low growl rumbles from his chest as he strokes it, moving it to stand hard and leaning against your tense torso. His knot is throbbing between your legs and the tip of him is poking the underside of your breasts, you can’t even imagine what he would feel like inside of you that doesn’t involve pain.

A slave comes beside him with a platter and a golden jug. Hoolay grabs it roughly before pouring the contents over his cock, the substance oozing out and over his dick like a sheer, golden syrup. He tosses the jug away with a clank, disregarding it in favour of smearing the liquid over your thigh, lightly squeezing, his giant maw hotly breathing against your cheek, “Go on. Have a taste. I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

He’s so large that there’s no way you could swallow him more than his tip. You go in for a taste, holding the heavy weight below the glands to dutifully suck. The pungent under taste that you’re expecting is overshadowed by whatever he had coated his dick in. The pupils of your eyes blow wide and suddenly you’re suckling on the head like you’re trying to coach his cock to dispel more of the deliciously sweet substance.

Hoolay laughs at you, a low, growling groan emitting as his paw pets back the ears on your head, “Fffuck. That’s a good girl.” You whimper around him when he pushes you down, choking on what little you could swallow. His pre is enough to guzzle down your throat and bubble out of your mouth, it doesn’t ready you for when he cums, buckets of semen forced down your throat and into your stomach. He must’ve been pent up because even after he pulls away, he’s still very much hard. He opens his mouth beside your head, his jaw wide enough to encompass your skull if he really wanted to, laughing at the visage, “Such a tiny mouth for a pitiful creature. I wonder if the hole between your legs will be more accommodating, hm?”

You’re lifted and placed on your back, glistening in syrup and cum under the dim lighting by the candles around the room. Everyone stares in amusement as you dazedly bring your fingers to your mouth, sucking on the digits to get some more of the sweet syrup and hoping to overthrow his taste. It isn’t until you feel a rather large tongue lick up the slit of your pussy that you jerk, a string of saliva connecting to your fingers as you pull them away to gaze between your thighs.

Hoolay’s claws touched as they held one of your thighs up, out of the way for him to get a taste. You were already so wet and waiting, the desire to consume was rushing all throughout your body. Air was forced out of you when he let his heavy cock thud against your stomach, a little cum seeping from the corner of your mouth. Graciously and carefully, he slides a finger inside you and worms it around, stretching your cunt and causing you to moan, “So defiant you were on the ride here. Now look at you, arching into my hand like a pet looking for love from its owner. It feels good to give in to instinct, wouldn’t you agree?”

Even if you could talk, you wouldn’t need to as your tail swishes side to side underneath you, as though accepting his declaration. Your stomach is so full that even with just his fingers you feel you’re about to pop. Your legs fall open for him when he pushes his cock head down your slit and into your hole. You’re so grateful he helped you with the aphrodisiac, even if you wish you hated it, you know being absolutely torn apart would be too brutal to handle.

As a mercy, perhaps for being such a good girl, he takes it slow but doesn’t stop - not until he’s reached as far as he can inside you. Your legs are now propped up and of your stomach wasn’t distended from the mouthfuls of cum before, it certainly was from the massive dick inside you now. Your cheeks puff when he puts pressure on the lump he forms, “I’m impressed, little fox. Even with the amount of syrup used, I didn’t think you’d be able to hold out.”

It’s not until his hips start snapping against yours that you cringe, the movement jostling your insides, motion sickness hidden behind layers of pleasure. Your mouth is open, panting, the cool air the only thing keeping you from losing your mind. However, as ‘kind’ as he’s been, he seems to want to take more from you. His long, flat tongue enters your mouth, you’re gurgling around the muscle in this ruthless kiss. Your eyes roll back and hearing wavers as the oxygen in your lungs is stolen away.

Heavy balls plap against your arse, cum and syrup creating an odd, warm, wet sensation over your skin. You hadn’t realised you were clawing at Hoolay’s face until he retracted, his paws holding your biceps flat in the take with a heavy chunk to hold you down. Bruises were the least of your concerns as you could finally breathe again and consciousness came back, adding with a strong seizure of pleasure corrupting your body. Your clit pulsed and your pussy tightened from the euphoric buildup of oxygen and cock breeding your insides.

A round of cheers and clinking steins was heard in the background during your orgasm, but it was too intense to care and Hoolay had no intentions of stopping. The way your cunt suckled his dick was more than enough to keep him going.

Of course, it wasn’t the last time you would cum in his cock. The way he nipped at your skin and kissed you and licked over your body like he was getting ready to devour you; it all shot straight to your aroused core. Whenever you could form a single thought, though, you would concern yourself with the inevitable worry of his knot.

Hoolay’s knot was swelling to a considerable size and pretty soon you doubt you would be able to hold him. He seemed to realise this, however, because his thrusts were getting deeper and stuttering more often as his knot struggled to enter and escape your cunt. It wasn’t too soon that his hips closely hit against yours, balls tightening and jerking with every spurt of cum. His knot kept him stuck deep inside you, the low growls and groans making you tremble. Your legs were hiked and your stomach was folded, you felt like you were going to throw up as your stomach got fuller… and fuller… “Just look at you,” he grunts, pushing himself against you and making you groan, “Fucked out of your mind, at the mercy on our dinner table. Foxians like you are only good for one thing.”

You couldn’t keep it in, with the amount he was breeding you with, and the position he had you folded in, it was only a matter of time before it came back up. It wasn’t vomit, it was more like his cum didn’t make it all the way down. The semen you swallowed poured out, as though the cum he fucked into you had overflowed out of your mouth. Tears streamed from the corners of your eyes in shame and confusion, your chin, chest, stomach, legs, everything was dirty and smothered in Hoolay’s dna.

He laughed heartily at your pitiful display, cool still nestled deep in, one hand coming under the arch of your back to lift you up and rest against him. He sat back on his chair, idly dragging a claw down your spine, your skin alight with goosebumps. His voice seemed a lot more content now, “Bring out the slaves. It is time for everyone to enjoy themselves.”

You barely recognised what was happening, your consciousness slowly returning to you over time. Crying, means, laughing, scared whimpers were all present thought your minor rest. Eventually, you had the strength to lift your head, seeing you’re not the only unfortunate soul to be used as a plaything. This place truly is horrible.

Finally, Hoolay’s knot had reduced enough to be plucked from your hole. He grabbed one of the chains around you and half heartedly threw you to the floor. You were confused and struggled to push yourself up, only to halt when a hot stream of liquid hit the top of your head. Piss. He was pissing on you, making sure to cover your body in his stench. The face you made could almost be described as betrayal, save for the fact that you had no faith in him to begin with. Once finished, he lets go of his half hard cock and stares into your eyes, “Everyone will smell who you belong to. You will not be able to take one step in this place without me knowing where you are.”

All you can do is grit your teeth, nails digging into the ground. The piss makes the wounds on your wrists sting like crazy, your hair and fur drenched in both cum and urine. It stinks. The bruises on your arms were forming nicely and you can only wait to see how pretty they’ll bloom by morning.

To add salt to the wound, Hoolay pours water into an empty bowl and places it in there for beside you, “You can bathe again later, we must let it soak in so the pheromones stick.” He stands, cocking his head in admiration of his work on you, smiling wickedly, “It’s about time I got myself a pet. And I know you’ll be such a good girl for me.”

Your head falls forward in this defeat, eyes making contact with your exhausted reflection in the water bowl.

[pillarsalt]

hi um

I was? transmasc but recently I’ve been seeing a lot of really misogynistic sexist transphobic stuff from trans community and it’s just been totally accepted, even by other transmascs. It’s been going on for a while but recently there was a murder of a nonbinary afab person and yet the whole trans community here has been silent, instead screaming about a transfem user being banned or something? This isn’t the first time an afab trans persons suffering has been dismissed, but now right after this awful death, i see transfems making posts about how transmascs talking about their oppression are terfs.

I didn’t want to think about it but all i could think about was that it was weird how despite everyone claiming trans men have all this privilege, trans women always come first…they get the most representation, they get the fame the admiration and the opportunities, their voices are always the loudest and their problems always always come first no matter what.

But despite popular belief trans men’s issues aren’t actually less significant, in some cases we suffer far more than trans women especially in regard to sexual violence. Yet we are silenced. We are frequently left poor, we are discriminated against for our sex we are discriminated against for being trans we are discriminated against for being perceived as lesbians. Yet we are made to be silent?

Why are our voices less important than trans women’s?

And all I could think about was that this is how females are treated in every other area.

I don’t know what else to say… I tried so hard not to reach that conclusion because I don’t want to be transmysogynist but I kept coming back to it and I couldn’t find an argument against it. This is how females are treated. This is what male privilege look like. And if trans women have male privilege, then why the fuck am I sitting here letting them talk over me?

I just feel really really angry. Your a blog who I liked your art but I blocked you when I discovered you were a radfem, but I sort of had you in the back of my mind for some reason and now I feel lost and confused, and I don’t think I want to be part of the trans community anymore.

Hey anon, firstly I really appreciate your willingness to have an open discussion with me. This must be weighing on you pretty heavily.

Secondly, holy shit, you're right. While the entire website is treating this user's ban as a national travesty, I haven't seen a single person talking about Nex's murder despite how much they claim to care about trans people. That's really fucking low, and this situation does very much encapsulate the state of misogyny within the trans community.

And you're right, this IS how females are treated in every other area. Throughout history, the suffering and injustice women face is minimized, laughed at, ignored, and when we want to talk about it, we're shut down and told we're making people uncomfortable and our pain isn't that bad. And here we are again, with a female person's death outweighed by a male person's inconvenience.

The denial of sex-based oppression that permeates trans spaces is a blatant lie that can only be held together if nobody is allowed to acknowledge it, and those who do are punished. If the trans community truly stood behind what they say, discussion would be encouraged! The foundation of their movement would be backed up with facts and replicable science! But instead, they'll call you a bigot for pointing out systems of oppression you can see with your own eyes. Because if you do, transwomen's position as Most Oppressed, and therefore the final authority on what's right and wrong, collapses. You are correct when you say that it seems like transwomen always come first; I don't remember who said it first, but just look at magazine covers featuring trans people -- the transwomen are fully clothed CEOs, athletes, movie stars, but transmen mostly get on magazine covers for... being pregnant and half naked. Misogyny is built into every society on earth, and individuals simply calling themselves something else doesn't change that. And when you give male people free reign to be as misogynistic as they want without consequence, they'll grab that opportunity and hold on like their lives depend on it. The way they weaponize transmen's sex against them is indistinguishable from what 'cis' men do to 'cis' women, but if you ever speak out about it, somehow YOU'RE the one hurting THEM. They do not want transmascs to find solidarity with other female people, because then they would have to face the reality of their own place in a patriarchal world, and face the fact that there are experiences exclusive to female people and that we have the right to speak about it. I mean you see shit like this and the motives become completely transparent:

I do find it funny how hard the trans community and their allies work to prevent anyone from hearing what radfems have to say in case they "corrupt" you with mere words. A lot of the time, it's simply listening to transwomen themselves that sparks the feeling of "something's not right here" in your brain. That's what happened with me too. I'll tell you that most of us also used to be proponents of trans activism, many formerly identifying as trans too. You are seeing through manipulation, and I know it's quite shocking to realize. Even when I first started having doubts about trans rhetoric, I thought "well everyone else agrees about this, so I need to shut up and be nice about it even if I don't agree." It's an unpleasant place to be in. The cognitive dissonance is exhausting though, and it becomes impossible to ignore.

The mistreatment of transmasc people in the trans community by transfems is brutal, and It's hard to watch from the outside because I just want to say "Hey, you know you don't have to take this shit, right?" And you really don't. You are not at all a bad person for recognizing the frankly absurd amount of misogyny in the trans community. Feeling lost and confused is shitty, but it's normal for this situation. The best thing you can do is keep observing, keep reading, form your own opinions, and never let anyone tell you to shut up. Above all, prioritize yourself and your mental wellbeing. If you need to remove yourself from gender-related spaces and discussion for a while, that's totally alright. Just know you're not evil or a bigot for not blindly agreeing with everything the trans community has told you. Your opinions and experiences are worthwhile too.

[sunnytarg]

Could you please write more for yandere husbands Aegon 1 and Maegor?

I’ve come to the conclusion that writing for Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor has become my destiny.

Aegon I (The Conqueror)

You learn quickly that being married to Aegon can be suffocation. Considering the man has two other wives and is trying to unite Westeros, you have no clue how it still feels as though he is breathing down your neck all the time.

Aegon is a hard man to say no to. Before the two of you wed, he was always bringing you jewels to wear or requesting that you go flying with him. Specifically on his dragon, despite the fact that you had your own. So when you finally said your vows, you didn’t know why you expected things to be different. He insisted on breaking fast with you every morning and falling asleep with you every night. Even if he had just fucked one of his sister-wives, he would find his way to your bed afterward.

You thought that perhaps over time he would loosen his grip on you. Perhaps he held on so tight to you because he was taking Westeros and was afraid that any enemies might come after you or because you were newly married and he didn’t want you out of his sight. After a few years had passed and he was named king, though, you soon realized that that wasn’t the case. In fact, it seemed that the longer you were married to Aegon the more possessive and controlling he became. He was just so sweet about it that you hadn’t noticed it at first. Like when he would become upset when you left your chambers. At first, he said it was simply because you hadn’t told him. That he wanted to go on a walk with you and that it felt as though you were ignoring him. Eventually, though, you began to notice that your door would be locked sometimes during the day and all through the night. You wanted to ask his sisters about it but Aegon had slowly cut off any contact you had with them as well.

At the beginning of your marriage, you found yourself close to Visenya and Rhaenys but soon Aegon decided that he didn’t want you to be influenced negatively by them. When you asked him about it, he only smiled charmingly at you and told you that his sisters are wanderers and that he didn’t want that to rub off on you. What he didn’t tell you was that he had warned his sisters to stay away from you and not to give you any ideas about leaving.

It wasn’t long until you learned to stop fighting against Aegon’s orders. He wasn’t cruel, just overbearing and he didn’t demand heirs out of you, especially after his sister-wives both gave him sons. You were just to stay in your locked chambers and wait for Aegon to visit you. If you didn’t think much about it you wouldn’t even remember that it wasn’t your choice to stay locked away.

Maegor

Maegor is an intense man, so it only makes sense that he would be an intense husband. Your marriage to Maegor was not one that you agreed to but you had put up little fight as you had seen how he had forced his other wives to wed him. In the beginning, Maegor was exactly as you had expected. You remained in your chambers and only saw your servants, who were instructed to not talk to you, or Maegor when he decided to visit you and try and make his seed take root in your womb.

You had only ever seen his other wives at the wedding and at the bedding ceremony and when you finally worked up the courage to ask Maegor why you couldn’t see the other women, he only replied that they would corrupt you. He saw you as sweet and innocent. Never hearing of you plotting against him and never denying him access to your body. Soon, Maegor began to spend more time with you. Eventually, he insisted that your belongings be moved to his chambers. It was where you spent most of your time. Not being allowed into court or being allowed to converse with the few people you saw.

Maegor eventually stopped leaving your shared chambers at night, no longer visiting his other wives and instead spending his time in bed with you. When your stomach began to swell with a child, Maegor allowed you a few more liberties. When you asked to walk in the gardens, he hesitantly agreed, stating that you were free to do so as long as you were with him.

Maegor hovered over you most of the time but he made sure that you didn’t see many of the things the kingdom whispered about him. That was until eight moons into your pregnancy and you had finally met another one of his wives. She had introduced herself as Tyanna. You weren’t sure what it was about the beautiful woman, but you didn’t trust her. Over your shared meal together, at the end of the day, when Maegor insisted you tell him of your day, you had brought up Tyanna. Maegor froze briefly. The motion was so quick that you thought that perhaps you had imagined it. You had asked if it was okay that she visited you to which he curtly said that it was fine.

Of course, you had no idea that that night as you slumbered Maegor had brought Tyanna to the dungeons and tortured her, trying to find out why she sought you out. His love for her once great was now gone that he had you as his wife. He was now clear to see who Tyanna really was and he knew she had not visited you for no reason. Maegor did not tell you any of this, though, instead, you only woke the next morning and found a wooden box on your table. When you opened it you saw a bloodied heart.

Had this happened earlier in your marriage or perhaps even before you were with child, the sight of something so horrific might have made you scream but instead, you had only shut the box and waited for your husband to return to your chambers. You were caressing your large, swollen stomach as he asked what you thought of his gift. You knew there was only one answer to his question, so you easily slipped a smile onto your face and told him that you loved it and that you appreciate him looking out for yourself and your unborn babe.

[eyrieofsynapses]

good evening, all. it is May the 25th. our lilacs are blooming, just as the ones at the Watch House did. and I am thinking about remembrance of the fallen, and GNU, and the love in commemoration.

y'know, I read Night Watch… oh, maybe a year ago and some months ago. and the lilac symbolism, the remembrance of the Watch, has always struck me with the depth of the emotion of it, the tangibility of it in the flowers. but I wasn't aware that today was the day until I saw commemorative posts, all that gorgeous artwork and more, on my dash.

I was also not aware, until now, that fans commemorated the day not only because of the book reference, but in support of Terry Pratchett and of those with Alzheimer's. which knocked me over a bit because of course, of course the group that would use GNU to honor him would do that. and… I've been thinking about GNU a lot, lately, and this caught me again.

I read Going Postal a bit ago, and reread it recently. both times, the parts about GNU made me tear up. this idea of the names, the memories, the lives of the clacks workers who dedicated themselves to ensuring that people heard each other's voices—all those names spoken again and again and again by that which they poured their souls into, winging along in the air as they could not, an eternal reminder that they were loved—how could that not touch a person's heart?

when I found out that fans online used it to memorialize him, I damn well cried. hell, I still tear up just thinking about it. do you know, there's a code for an HTTP header "X-Clacks-Overhead: GNU Terry Pratchett" written by Reddit users to put in webpages, where it goes unseen by the average user? and in 2015, when Netcraft took a survey, there were eighty-four thousand websites using it? it's eight years later—how many thousands upon thousands of websites have this now, do you think? how many little cables of light has his name flown along, now? how many times?

that alone is absurdly and unimaginably lovely in its own right, but… there's something else to it. there's something about remembering with the lilac sprigs every year, just as Vimes and those who were there remembered their dead. something about how, when we take up our lilac sprigs, we carry a little piece of the characters in our hearts, too. I kept trying to put my finger on why that makes me tear up the way it does. the conclusion I came to is this:

what greater way to honor a writer is there, but to honor them the way they did the characters they poured their heart and soul into? what better way to say we know you and you are not forgotten and your work and words and gifts to the world are held in our hearts forever than to remember them by their own words, their own vision? how else could we say you embodied all the good you believed in and wished to see in the world, but to memorialize them after the little pieces of their soul they wrapped in ink and put upon the page?

it is a knowing of the writer, to remember them in their way. it is not a worn-out faceless platitude, but a reminder that their work has been read and will continue to be, that the characters and world they loved enough to bring to life last just as their name does. such remembrance is warm and loving and delights in their memory even as it grieves.

and now Pratchett's name has been written in his tradition, over and over and over, across the vast plane of the Internet, where it will—with any luck—continue to fly for generations to come.

there is no way to truly express the beauty of that… but perhaps we can catch a glimpse of it in the lilacs, both ours and the Watch's.

[glaciertea]

Masterlist here

Tales the Songs Weave

Ch.19<< >>Ch.21

Notes: Miguel reflects on everything and nothing all at once.

CW: Slight mentions of masturbation. Miguel is sad.

Artwork done by Cassandra_zim on Insta.

Chapter 20: Oh Father, Tell Me...

Word count: 6.3K

He did the right thing.

He had to do the right thing.

 It was the right thing to do.

He hated that he had to do it. He always hates making the most ‘moral’ of decisions because that's how it presumably goes. He always has to make these gut-wrenching sacrifices, all because he was forced into this position.

Your face was now forever engraved in his mind. Those last moments of torturous vacancy and heartache. That repentance he was struck with the moment you closed the door on him. He replayed everything he told you. It was to protect you. He didn't mean to yell. He didn't mean to get so heated. He never meant to hurt you. He never means to hurt the ones he cares for, but it always happens. Every. Single. Time.

It was difficult. He remembers heading back to the HQ after standing in front of your door for a few minutes, debating on knocking, before coming to the conclusion that he did not want to cause you any more pain. 

How he begrudgingly called up Jess and Peter to his office, alerting them of the new status of the relationship, and despised how pitying of a conversation that was.

“We're sorry, Miguel. We really are. Letting go of someone you care for is one of the hardest things to do.” Jess rubbed her stomach, her eyes staring into his tensed back. “You're not alone; we will get through this. You will get through this.”

Peter's arms were crossed, his eyes darting back and forth between Jess and Miguel, determining what would be the most crucial and befitting thing to say, but he held back to let Jess do most of the speaking.

“But things should be back on track, right? Time heals all wounds. It may take a while, but it will come.”

But he doesn't know when it will begin. Does it begin with him? Or will it happen on its own? What happens if it never comes?

Jess rambled off more tasks and briefings before voluntarily dismissing herself, leaving the two Spider-Men alone.

“I'm not going to continue judging your choices. This was the decision you felt as if you had to make, and I understand. I want you to know that it's true; you aren't alone. It's okay to be scared of the unknown and to run from things that you feel will hurt. I'm not going to give you the whole ‘leap of faith,’ ordeal. I just- I just want you to know that I've been down this road before. And... and I'm here for you, Miguel.”

Peter waited for any response, only to turn and leave in the end to give him space.

And that was it.

Days passed as he overworked himself.

Dishing out more missions for himself and others, more reports filled out, and his eyes rarely vacated those burning orange, iridescent monitors. Always watching, always viewing, always seeing.

He was running himself ragged into the ground because that's where he belonged. Buried alone and away from wounding others. His temper flared up even more from astoundingly new extortions and nuisances.

The anomalies were still rampant as ever, and Gwen's perpetual badgering and long-winded palavers about visiting him ceased when he finally snapped, compromising that if there's an anomaly in that universe, she can go. He knew there was a one in a billion chance of that happening, but she seemed content with that answer.

And that damming itch.

The biggest hindrance was that the itch was vexingly meandering. He took care of the problem; he removed himself from your life, so he couldn't comprehend why it was still stationary. Was it because he still had strong emotions for you?

He thought they would have shaved away the second things ended. Well, he struggled to convince himself that, but he was well aware that's not how these eventualities occur. Far from it. They don't disappear overnight as much as one imagines. They don't vanish in a day, a week, or even a month. Some may never disappear at all.

And he wasn't helping that wound. He was only jabbing and ruining it even more.

He keeps your messages open, rereading all of the texts several times a day. It was godly unhealthy, and he knew it, but he didn't give an ounce of fucks in the world. A part of that dignity died when he walked out of your building for the last time.

He holds those moments of weakness by wanting to text you random things, but always shuts them down and backspaces his thoughts. He would stay on your page, praying to hear anything from you. Even if it was a purely hateful message, he wanted something. The pressure of guilt and his sins weighed down on his back.

He stopped going back to his own apartment because he would replay all of the record albums you gifted, especially the Selena album. He resorted back to sleeping in his office, a habit he slowed down on when you two got into a relationship, but now that you're gone, his damaging routines throttled full force.

He hasn't felt this way since he lost Gabi. He hated how this was for your own good. For everyone's own good. His own good.

And as those days became two weeks, things have been even harder around the HQ.

Before, the other spiders hopped along, usually avoiding the broken eggshells and glass whenever they were near him, and if one managed to slip and step on one, they bore the pain for a second and continued on as if nothing happened. It was common practice for everyone. But now, the field has gotten broader. Along with the remnants of eggshells and glass, mines now lay next to them. A volatile war zone whenever anyone even dares to step into that domain. One wrong move, and it will trigger devastating explosions.

The office appeared more scarlet, while others believed it appeared to be a cobalt blue. Either way, it certainly matched his mood.

Now only a handful of spiders would be brave enough to speak to him, yet they would still be terrified of his reactions. Some would have competitions over who would have to converse with him, as their spidey senses never turn off when he's around.

His office was thrashed more due to his new charged-up temperament and impatience. Claw marks made their way onto machines, and his yells when a poor spider would accidentally make a mistake could be heard halfway through the establishment. 

Things have been very difficult for everyone.

It got to the point where E-616 Peter scarcely brought Mayday due to his offsets.

But the rumors were still spreading. Word got out about why he could be easier to provoke and how his short temper increased into utter wrath.

“I heard he was dating a Spider-Woman, but Jess fired her.”

“I heard it as a regular human from a whole different dimension. Very much a Romeo and Juliet story.”

“Don't they die in the end?”

“Oh yeah. So not like that, but similar.”

“I heard he would sneak her in here. I wonder how they got in without being seen. Surely more would've noticed.”

The telephone line never ended; they made sure to keep hush whenever he stepped out of his den, which became even rarer at this point in time.

But there was a reason for his increased fury. Miguel had that moment of impotence. That hint of shame.

The day he saw you at the park.

It was a quiet night in his office when he decided to drag the video of him and Gabriella into view. He wanted something to smile at, but only for a tiny bit. He chatted with his osita as always, asking about her football game or any ideas on what they should have for dinner.

It was going fine until, in the corner of his eye, he caught sight of you beaming into the camera before it shifted over to him as you both shared that genuine laughter. It was an ingenuous moment you created.

That's when he blanked, knowing all of that was too good to be true. His brain taunted him, whispering how he managed to not only trick you but himself as well.

His hands acted faster than his brain when he sent that money off to you. He had to give you something; he needed to. 

He waited for you to respond. It took several minutes before he received a message from his bank stating that the money he gave was deposited back in his account. 

He remained staring at that screen.

And that's when those dots finally appeared. His heart nearly leapt out. Then it immediately cracked when he read those words about how you didn't want or need him anymore. He was fully glazed over. He needed that fresh air. He wanted to go to the gardens but decided against it. 

He walked out the back. The correct way. He let the rain drench him; he didn't care anymore. The park was his escape from it all, but now it's only a crucifying, hollow memory.

He sat at the bench where he first accidentally laid eyes upon you. That first mistake. That one slip-up that caused the downfall. The one that nearly ruined and destroyed everything. The one who took the perils away from him.

Miguel stared at the streetlights, the empty pond, the violent rustling from the trees, the shrubs with flowers that were pelted by the rain and were likely going to lose their petals…

And you.

He was stunned the millisecond your eyes met. The adrenaline of terror and tribulation that coursed through him was miserable. Even in the pouring rain, you were as enthrallingly beautiful as ever.

How he wanted to rush over and keep you warm, to protect you and keep you dry. How he wanted to question why you were out in your pajamas so late at night and how you needed to get home before you caught a serious cold were all stuck in his throat. How nothing was the right thing to say or do deeply stabbed him.

The profound stares you gave each other as a sharp pang of self-reproach hit him harder than any punch he has ever received. He didn't even remember how long it lasted, but he knew he couldn't be around you anymore. He was hurting both of you; he was still breaking you.

He waited and waited for you to blink, to avert your gaze onto something else, but that unbending persistence you held was proving itself. That vice grip you had, so he had to be the brigade.

The minute you slipped up and released that unnerving cry, he used his speed to conceal himself in the trees as he monitored your well-being. He didn't want to evade your space, but it was required. You didn't leave immediately, but he didn't mind. He would sit for hours if it meant he got to be near your presence, even if it was from a distance.

He kept his eyes open for danger; he didn't want a repeat of the first night you two crossed paths. When you eventually did head off, he followed you until you were safely back. You were okay and free from any harm. Free from any uncertainties that would have jeopardized your life in any way or form.

That was when realization struck him, when all the detrimental waves crashed into him. You were truly free from him. Unimpeded by his marred claws, mind, and body—all of him.

When he returned to his 'safe haven,’ he yanked one of your shirts from your drawer in his room, cuddling it and smelling it. Hot tears flowed down as Santana's Love of My Life joined in with its own flow. 

Miguel was cracking each and every day.

As a new week approached, things were still the same. The increased anger, the despairing sadness, the rife of anomalies, and that gutting itch made themselves all at home.

Miguel startled himself awake. His vision blurred as he rubbed some crust out of his eyes.

“Mi Luna?” He gazed around the room, trying to get some of his bearings back. 

He was all alone. His moon wasn't around anymore. He hates that his own head would conjure up those nightmares to frequently patronize him. How they have to be nightmares instead of wondrous dreams.

He cracked his aching bones from the uncomfortable position he slept in again. His body was sore all over, but he, of course, didn't care. Allowing a minute to pass so he was semi-up, he stared at his main monitor, expressionless. The two smiles he misses. The smiles he missed making.

He expanded the recording of Gabi, mostly maintaining his focus on her, barely observing himself.

“Buenos días, osita… Espero que hayas dormido bien. Te extraño mucho… I—remember that very sweet person you met a while ago? Well, she and I will... We are no longer together.” Miguel balled his fist and achingly shuddered.

“No, no, no fue tu culpa; te lo prometo. Papa made a very...” he tried to find the right words. “He made a very bad mistake. It was pretty bad. Yes, that big of a bad. But I didn't want to hurt anyone else, like how I hurt you, mi osita.” He found himself caressing the screen.

“I don't know if she'll forgive me, but I know she'll remember you. You are stil- would've been the bestest of friends. I just wanted to tell you if you ever ask about her.” His workstation held a few droplets. “Yes, I will miss her... Maybe. It was still too early, but I would've loved to have made her your…”

He froze, but had to continue on.

“I would've loved for her to have been your new mama.”

He tried not to peek; he didn't want to see it. It was there, hidden in plain sight. His hand began to gravitate toward the video before he caught himself. Rapidly telling Gabi he had to go, he exited the recording and pushed the monitor away to the side.

His trembling fingers began to type and swipe around, surveying the spectrum of dimensions. The eternal vastness of such fleeting lives for those who experience the ordeal of not knowing they're being guarded. How lucky they are to live out their mindless days without a fear of knowing what's truly out there. How they can go about and love freely without the consequences of the world collapsing on itself.

The sacrifices he has to make for them. 

He went on about his daily tasks; no one bothered him unless he would specifically alert them to missions or other duties to fulfill. But for most of the day, it was noiseless. Nothing. Keep watch. This is how it's expected to be.

“I'm surprised your platform is on the ground instead of suspended in the air.”

So much for a quietude time. 

Peter charily bounded his way over to Miguel, taking heed of the many empty coffee cups, styrofoam take-out containers, and a lone red blanket hastily shoved underneath the desk.

“Jeez, Miguel, when was the last time you cleaned? Do you want me to send one of the janitors or no?” He leaned in a bit, getting a good glimpse of his friend's face.

Miguel hasn't shaved from the very noticeable five o'clock shadow that overtook him; he reeked of empanadas and one too many cups of joe. And he obviously saw that he wasn't either barely getting sleep or if any at all.

“Miguel, when was the last time you exactly moved from your station?”

He ignored the spider, his eyes still attached to the screens, doing his best to pretend that Peter didn't exist. He refused to allow any more distractions in his life. That is a lesson he must abide by.

Peter cleared his throat and scooted closer, bringing his voice up some. “Miggy, when was the last time you showered or had any other forms of healthy nutrients running through your body?”

Miguel didn't avert his line of sight, but the scruffy spider was still in his peripheral view.

Peter was becoming marginally irked by his boss blatantly snubbing him. This wouldn't have been the first time he's done this, and Peter wasn't going to have him surrender to his own self-imposing defacement.

“Alright, let's go. To my dimension.”

“Go away, Peter. I'm not playing your stupid little games.”

“You call them ‘stupid games,’ I call it, ‘helping out a good friend who is very distressed and forcing him to do some self-care.’ So stop whatever you're doing and let's go.” He began to fiddle with his watch, setting it up to go back to his world.

“I'm not going anywhere. Leave. Me. Alone. I'm not repeating myself.”

“I'll tell MJ to fix an extra plate. I think we're having stir-fry.” Peter was playing Miguel's hand by brushing off his words. Miguel knew the tactic, and it pissed him off.

“Peter, I'm not going anywhere with you–”

“Oooh, she's doing shrimp stir-fry and hot and sour soup? Man, she is pulling out the stops tonight.”

“I'm not going!” Miguel was about to boil over.

“Maybe we can throw in some desert too. I can order a molten chocolate cake with some vanilla ice cream we have–”

“Peter. I'm not fucking goin-”

“What type of drinks do you like? Do you like lime soda? A good red wine? You know, maybe we should stick with water to help cleanse your system.”

“I'm not going anywhere, Peter! What don't you fucking understand?!” Miguel raked his talons through his metal, creating that ear-wrenching, grating sound.

“I'm not going to stand here and watch you suffer again!” Peter slammed his fist down, creating his own deep indent in Miguel's desk, startling the giant man.

Machines, other voices from spiders, and heavy breathing whisked through their ears as Peter tried to control himself.

“I'm–I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-”

“Don't. Don't bother apologizing.” Miguel slumped down, with Peter sliding down right beside him.

The two sat shoulder to shoulder, both starting ahead at nothing. They were still for a minute, knowing someone had to break the ice if they wanted to get somewhere, and Peter was aware it was going to have to be him.

“I'm worried for you, Miguel.”

Miguel held that deadpan look to him but still heard him out.

“I've been there; I've been here before. When you're faced with a challenge you don't know how to handle, you could either face it head-on and fight it, or run away.” Peter stared at his hands before closing them.

“When MJ first said she wanted kids, I was so scared. I was so scared of bringing another being into the world because I genuinely didn't know if I would be ready to face such a huge responsibility.” He chuckled at the irony.

“So I ran at the first sign. I ran, and I was so afraid to look back. I told myself that it was okay, that this was the right thing to do and it'd blow over, and that no matter what, I would always keep getting back up because that's who I am and that's what I'm supposed to do.

“But there was… something so funny about that. Physically, I was able to get back up and up and up with ease, but mentally… mentally I was down. I was kicked and on the last leg, struggling to keep that stance. I lied to myself every day, saying to myself that I was in the best tip-top shape that I could ever be in and that all I needed to do was keep going.” Peter ran his hands through his hair.

“That was the most hurtful thing I could have ever done. I didn't care for myself; I didn't care about a lot, actually, but I kept sticking those white lies in my head to keep moving ahead. Those temporary markers that I would attach onto, and if one fell off, I would tack another right in its place.”

Peter hesitantly grabbed Miguel's hand, weary about the talons sticking out, but didn't care if he accidentally poked him.

“I'm not having you go through this agonizing pain again. You are hurt because you had to do what you believed was the right thing.” He squeezed it tightly. “I know you're scared, I know you miss her, and I know you love her–”

Peter felt Miguel's claws dig into the back of his hand, but he fought through the unpleasantries. “And she loved you. And I would like to believe that she wouldn't want you to rot away. Even if you aren't together, I know she would want you to take care of yourself.

“Others would want you to take care of yourself. Many may not show it here in the society, but it's there. I want you to care for yourself. So please, don't fall into the same despair. Let others help you, Miguel. You aren't alone; you don't have to face this alone. Even if it's just a smidgen, a peek, let those few see inside; don't try and keep it all in. It will only fester more sorrow than the lies of convincing yourself that you're okay.”

Peter saw right through the mask. Right under the engraved stoicism of a leader lies the dispirited hero, who's worn down, afflicted, and fearful of the outcomes that entangle themselves in his webs. For the ones who don't know the true faith that has befallen upon them when they get caught in it.

Miguel peered down at their entwined hands. His brain was in a frenzy. He didn't know what to do; he knew he shouldn't leave from here; that one step out of line will have it all cave in. Yet Peter's words rebounded in his ears and his thoughts. Has he not learned from you?

No. He hasn't.

“Only for tonight. But then you leave me be for the rest of the time.” Miguel removed his hand from Peter's, who was beaming and wiping that invisible drip of relief off his forehead.

“Deal. But I don't think you've had MJ's cooking; ah man, it's the best. And I'm still ordering the molten cake. She told me that we can't give Mayday too much sugar, but this is for a special night, so I think she'll let it slide.”

Peter rambled on as he thought about what Peter said about you. Would you still care for him? Are you still caring for him after all he did to you? He knows he would still want you to take heed of your health.

Disturbed from his thoughts, he peered up at Peter calling his name, and a portal opened up leading to E-616.

“I said, are you ready?” He nodded his head at the multitude of swirls and colors, confirming that everything was okay.

“Uh, I-I suppose I'm ready…” he stood up before gazing back one more time at the monitor. “Yeah. Let's go.” He plucked his phone up and gradually made his way into Peter's world.

• • •

“So that's when Webslinger went, ‘hands in the air, Parker,’ so me, and like thirty other Peters, we all threw our hands up and simultaneously yelled, ‘We're reaching for the sky!’ In the crappiest country drawl. And I swore I saw him die a little on the inside, but it was all in good, positive fun.”

MJ and Miguel nodded along as Mayday laughed while being fed by Peter. The two were uncertain on how exactly they got on this subject, but they spared him from the questions, not wanting to ruin any excitement or entertainment he was creating.

When Peter and Miguel strolled through the portal, MJ was ready with shampoo, conditioner, a strong body wash, fresh razor blades, and more for Miguel to go clean himself. He attempted to dodge the products, claiming he was only joining for dinner, but that stern, earnest outstare she presented and the assertiveness in her tone made him suddenly reconsider that a shower and other things were beneficial to him.

The water was nice on his skin, despite how he'd nearly towered over the showerhead itself. He didn't register how grimy he was on the outside, but he undoubtedly knew he was inside. The sounds of thunder rumbled along with the shower, Miguel being lost in thought throughout the duration as his mind kept leading back to you.

He dazed into the streams that rushed or trickled down the sky-blue walls, eyeing the inconsistent patterns in how they ran down the drain. He began to think about how you would see something as simple as water going down. Would it be grand? Or would it be that simplistic notion of water leading to the sewers?

He then ventured further downward. Those shower discussions would lead to scrubbing each other thoroughly as he imagined lathering your body, making sure to take his time running his calloused claws over each dip and curve. Purposely slowing his movements over your sensitive spots, hearing your soft whimpers and whines, bringing out that primal reaction from him. He would grope and cup every part of you, pushing you up against the wall and pinning you until you were fully trapped.

Hearing your needy moans, he'll bring his head down, crashing his lips into your soft, pretty ones, your nails raking against his harsh skin, your cries echoing around him, your gentle body pressed against his as you will beg out for more of him—

Miguel had to cut the shower short when he realized he was tugging and his body was hot and sweaty, despite the water being freezing cold.

He was still as disgusting as ever.

He was cleaned and given fresh clothes from Peter's dresser; they were a bit tight on, and he did complain, but eventually came around. When dinner was served, Miguel didn't eat much at first, but Peter coaxed him by dramatically saying the reason why Miguel wouldn't eat was that he was implying that his wife's cooking was atrocious. 

He only ate to shut Peter up.

But Miguel was appreciative, even if he wouldn't admit it. MJ was cool and collective throughout the meal. The two chatted about Peter's habits and other ordeals at the establishment, as Miguel helped out with May's not wanting to eat her vegetables. Peter was a bit jealous when Miguel got her to eat two-thirds of her carrots and peas, but held his tongue as he didn't want to snark on him too much.

“Oh, MJ, even though we didn't really talk about this, I'm ordering dessert—mmm, that's some good mushy rice, isn't it Mayday?” May babbled and wiggled her fingers.

“Peter, hun, we talked about this.” She drolly said, gesturing to May.

“Okay, yes, I know! But—and hear me out—special occasion.” His blithe tone and smile tried to overpower her while gesturing to Miguel, who wanted no part in this.

The two went back and forth in a lighthearted disagreement as Miguel awkwardly finished the rest of his soup. They eventually settled on a compromise that Peter will deal with May if she suddenly goes hog off the walls.

Another train of imagination rode through his head. Would there have been moments of you and him having silly debates about feeding the kids too many sweets? Would you have caught on if he snuck them a few extra? A dour look on your face as a roguish grin will be placed on his. But he will promise to handle them if they start ricocheting all over the place.

“Miguel!”

His head snapped out of his reverie, and attention was all on him.

“Do you like cherry vanilla or just plain vanilla?” Peter held up the tubs of ice cream, weighing them up and down.

“I- plain, please.”

Peter nodded and pulled out the ice cream scooper, blathering away about whatever as Miguel hardly paid any attention to it. MJ and Peter exchanged a shared glance as Peter went on, adding Miguel to the mix and forcing him to mingle.

Dessert went exactly as expected. Peter barely gave May even a teaspoon of ice cream and cake, and she was scuttling on the walls. MJ and Miguel examined the scene with plenty of amusement, as he did everything to wheedle her into her pajamas and to drink some water.

“Do we help?”

“I usually give it five more minutes.” MJ nestled herself on the couch, sipping her tea. “He'll learn one of these days. We'll get there eventually.”

Miguel joined beside her, still observing the humorous incident. “Thank you for having me over.” 

“Of course. I'm not going to let anyone suffer through something like this alone. Especially when one is a good friend.”

They listened to Peter cooing Mayday over, only for her to shoot a web directly at his face and scramble up the wall faster, screeching with laughter.

“Things like these have to pass, just as time does, but as someone who has been there, you start to lose that faith that it will never pass. Your days will still come by, but it will still dangle.” MJ kept a keen eye on her child as Peter began to shoot his own webbing at Mayday, but she managed to dodge every single one.

“Maybe this is how things presumably go, and you'll have to be forced to live with it.” She glanced down at her tea, staring at her reflection. “Or it can lead to more, and what you expect can lead to the unexpected.” She turned back to her husband and child, a twitch of a smile showing on her face.

“Okay! You win! MJ, please help!”

“Alright, I'm coming. Did you learn now?” 

Miguel blocked out the two and turned to the lone teacup on the coffee table. That is how the canon works. It dictates the outcomes of not just his life but the other spiders’ too. There are no unplanned paths; there's only a foreseeable future.

That's how it goes. That's how it'll always be.

Then, when he turns to MJ and Peter, cradling and soothing May down for bed, he floats back to you. You were unexpected. You were not meant to be, yet, everything fell into place, and everything was okay.

He needed to leave.

After MJ finally settled May into her crib, Miguel made an excuse about heading back to his post when Peter forced him down on the sofa with his strength, coercing him to spend the night and to relax. Miguel broke out in a discourse, and when he was met with two pointedly blazing looks, he figured he wasn't going anywhere, much to his dismay.

Peter and Miguel were slumped on the comfy cushions, senselessly watching some baseball game. MJ went to bed, and Peter decided to keep his boss company, not wanting him to sneak off or be alone with his thoughts for too long. Not many things were shared—a question and a quick answer—but that was about it. Peter tried to lure him out of that pit, but nothing seemed to work.

So he decided to try the worst of plans: small talk.

“Thanks for coming again. I hope the food was to your liking.”

“It was fine.” Miguel didn't bother to look.

“Just fine? Come on, there must be some other adjectives loitering around. It was only fine?”

“Delicious. Grand. Tasty. There. Does that satisfy everything?” He huffed and scrunched his face into a scowl.

Peter wasn't giving up. “How about the dessert? That cake was super sweet. My gosh, it tasted like they added thirty pounds of sugar! Maybe that's why Mayday went bonkers. I… should've seen that coming.”

“It was fine.” The water was already at the top of the pot.

“Come on, Miguel, there has to be more adjectiv-”

“What are you–!”

MJ flung a door open, a scathing glare directed at the two. Miguel knew that face all too well. The very iconic, ‘in the name of all that is holy, if you wake my baby,’ look.

“My… apologies. I'm sorry.” Miguel gave a remorseful nod as she slowly went back into the bedroom.

Miguel glowered at the man as Peter twiddled his thumbs, his eyes burning into the television. “What are you getting at here, Peter? I respect that you're trying to help, but you pressuring me into having dinner with your family and spending the night? Do you really think this is helping?”

A draining exhale releases from Peter. “I don't want you alone. That's all. Like I said, I've been here, Miguel. Secluding yourself from others and telling yourself shams that you're fine will destroy you.”

“I don't need the help. I am fine. This is what my canon says. I'm only letting you ‘help’ just so you can get off my back.” He muttered the last sentence.

“I swear, you are so stubborn. It's okay to admit you aren't fi-”

“Will—will you please just stop?! Just stop! This is how it's supposed to go. It will pass. She will pass! She will just be another thought. This was an error that's been fixed, so we can all move on.” Miguel's talons popped in and out, doing everything in his power to not slice the furniture.

Peter was ready to refute him about you being this ‘error,’ and how you're clearly more than just some drifting conception, when Miguel's phone pinged loudly and buzzed on the coffee table, startling Peter.

They both stared at the device before Miguel swiped it up and turned it on.

And that's when his heart nearly exploded. 

“Who texted?” Peter tried to pry, but Miguel didn't answer.

It was you.

His mind was instantly unbridled with floods of aches and emotional discomfort. His hands puppeteered to your name and clicked it. His fingers responded just as fast as he received.

Then he dropped the phone in horror. His ears rang as Peter patted and shook his shoulder, trying to bring him back, until he snatched up the phone for himself. His brown eyes nearly launched out of his sockets when he saw exactly who it was and what Miguel did.

“She's asking if you want to grab your things.” His head twisted toward his friend, who was having an internal panic attack.

Miguel was far gone. His eyes were bulging out, there was turbulent heaving in his chest, and his leg bounced crazily. Peter went between the cellphone and his boss on the verge of a full-blown breakdown. He sat it down and went to console his friend.

“Hey, it's okay; I'm here. Breathe, relax.” He hovered both his hands in front of Miguel, but created enough space to not overwhelm him further.

He tried to swallow, but a giant cork seemed lodged in his throat and head. He didn't know how to unscrew and pop it out without it rebounding all over, spewing the contents that'd been shaken in the already damaged and tenuous glass bottle. 

A mess that would manage to spray all over, and if he were to unlodge it, would the cork just fly off as streams of liquid words would pour out, flowing onto the floor? Or if the bottle would simply rupture, as hazardous shards and the stickiness would tarnish the surrounding area.

Miguel was stuck; he didn't know what to do; he didn't even know why he replied with zero hesitation. Peter never took his sight off Miguel; he carefully took his hands when he noticed that his own claws were penetrating the sweatpants and his thighs.

“Okay, here, big guy. Come on, I got you.” Peter scanned the holes and the impaled wounds. “Miguel, I'm here; you don't have to face this by yourself.”

He bit his lip when Miguel's talons pressed into the back of his hands, but he persevered through the excruciating pricks. “Ready?”

Miguel's irises were redder than anything Peter's ever seen, his pupils enlarged, and his face inflicted with tension and anguish. Peter began to inhale and exhale, letting Miguel take his time before he started to mirror. It took a few times, but he was able to get him to do it and calm him from his high.

“There we go. Okay, doing better?”

He could only nod.

“Alright, good. Good. Now tell me, did you mean to respond, or was it a spur of the moment thing?”

Miguel side-eyed him and sunk himself back into the couch.

“Right, stupid question. Well, do you want me to text her and tell her I can pick it up? I think it'll be easier for you both to not try and see each other, even though I would advise you to try and talk it out, but right now, I think it'll be-”

“Tell her I'll come by and pick up the stuff... And I'll drop her things and the key off.” Miguel didn't even bother to look at the screen.

“Are you sure? I really don't think that'll be healthy for you to try and see her no-”

He seized the cell from Peter, wrote the message out, and sent it. All Peter could do was quietly gape at how Miguel was acting out on impulse. Eyeballing his hands, he typed out a long-winded paragraph about something before deleting it all and returning a message with three straightforward words.

“I'm seeing her. I'm going to see her in the upcoming week. I'm–” Miguel's claws found his head, sharp stabbings in his skull. “Dios mío, Peter... ¿qué he hecho?”

The TV was the only noise in the living room as Peter cradled Miguel, fearing what could possibly happen next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@elle-janehaven @sanguwuxyoonbummy @prozacgooble

[anonymousewrites]

Portal to My Heart (Book 1.5) Chapter Thirteen

Loki x Reader

Chapter Thirteen: Out the Window

Summary: (Y/N) makes her escape, Loki gets worried, and Valkyrie comes to an (incorrect) conclusion.

            (Y/N) opened the blueprint of the building and ran through the multiple levels of living quarters.

            “What are you doing?” said Loki, standing in the doorway and watching her.

            “Working,” said (Y/N).

            “(Y/N), you stormed out of the stadium. Grandmaster noticed. That didn’t keep a low profile,” said Loki.

            “Don’t care. I’m over this,” said (Y/N). “I’m find Thor and going with him to Asgard.”

            “What?” Loki’s voice sharpened. “Don’t you remember Hela is there?”

            “Yeah, that’s exactly why I’m going,” said (Y/N). “I can’t just let her hurt innocents.”

            “What about Sakaar? What about the people here?” said Loki. What about me?

            “Hela is the bigger issue. She’ll try to conquer everything,” said (Y/N). “And that includes Sakaar. I have to prioritize. I’ll come back to help the people here after the crazy lady trying to rule the Nine Realms is stopped.”

            “You can’t fight Hela,” said Loki.

            “Like hell I can’t,” scoffed (Y/N).

            “(Y/N), you can’t run towards your own death,” said Loki. He was trying anything to get her to stay, to not run into danger.

            “Someone has to stop Hela, Loki. And who else but you, me, and Thor?” said (Y/N) furiously. “Just because you are going to hide here and get some power from the Grandmaster and then just wait until Hela comes for you and the rest of the universe doesn’t mean I’m going to wait. I’m going to do something.”

            “Please, (Y/N), don’t be a fool,” said Loki. His words came close to pleading. He couldn’t stand the idea of (Y/N) hurt.

            “Someone has to be.” (Y/N) smiled. “And I’m very good at it.” She brushed past Loki and walked out of the room.

            Loki looked down at his feet. If only he had the bravery to reach out and pull her back.

l

            “Alright,” said Valkyrie. “Here’s the deal. I’ll listen to you…” she held up a bottle. “Until this is empty.”

            “Can I have some?” said (Y/N), clicking a button on the keypad. The field let her in.

            Hulk, Thor, and Valkyrie paused and turned to her.

            “Hi,” she said, raising a hand.

            “How did you…?” Thor stared at her in confusion.

            “Hacked the system,” said (Y/N) with a shrug.

            “You’re one of Grandmaster’s favorites,” said Valkyrie, tilting her head. “You’re Loki’s girlfriend, right?”

            “You two have finally gotten together?!” said Thor excitedly. “Congratulations!”

            “We are not dating,” hissed (Y/N). “It was a cover so Grandmaster would stop flirting with us.” Her face was bright red.

            Valkyrie shrugged, not buying it. “Just so long as you aren’t one of his lackeys.”

            “Ew, no, I don’t bow to men,” said (Y/N).

            “She doesn’t. Loki once nearly killed her because of it,” said Thor.

            “…And you’re with him now?” said Valkyrie.

            “I’m not dating him, damn it,” muttered (Y/N). “This is not why I’m here.” She crossed her arms and turned to Thor. “I’m here to help you. God knows you need it, you and your brother are helpless without me.”

            “Great!” said Thor boisterously. “Now we have a team!”

            “I’m still not with you. You have to convince me,” said Valkyrie. She held up her bottle again. “So get talking.” She tipped back the bottle.

            “Asgard is in danger, and people are dying,” said Thor. “We need to get back. I need your help…” He trailed off. Valkyrie was already done. “Wow.”

            That was strangely attractive.

            “Finished. Bye.” Valkyrie tossed the bottle to the floor, let it shatter, and turned away.

            “Odin is dead,” said Thor. Valkyrie paused at the door. “Hela, the Goddess of Death, has invaded Asgard.”

            “If Hela’s back, then Asgard’s already lost,” said Valkyrie.

            “I’m going to stop her,” said Thor.

            “You and (Y/N)?” said Valkyrie incredulously.

            “No, the team is all of us. Me, (Y/N), you, and the big guy,” said Thor.

            “No! No team. Only Hulk!” shouted Hulk.

            “It’s me, (Y/N), and you,” amended Thor.

            “I think it’s just you and (Y/N), who’s insane enough to date Loki and work with you,” said Valkyrie.

            (Y/N) groaned. Clearly, no one was listening to her.

            “Wait, just listen,” said Thor. “The Valkyrie are legend. Elite warriors of Asgard sworn to defend the throne.”

            “I’m not getting dragged into another one of Odin’s family squabbles,” said Valkyrie.

            “What’s that supposed to me?” said Thor.

            “Your sister. Her power comes from Asgard, same as yours,” said Valkyrie. “When it grew beyond Odin’s control, she massacred everyone in the palace and tried to seize the throne. When she tried to escape her banishment, he sent the Valkyrie in to fight her back. I only survived because…” She shook her head, banishing the memories. “Look, I already faced her once back when I believe in the throne, and it cost me everything. That’s what’s wrong with Asgard. The throne, the secrets, the whole golden sham.”

            “And what about the people?” said (Y/N). “I’ve met them. They’re innocent in this. And Hela will destroy them for her own power. How can we leave them?” She wouldn’t.

            “(Y/N) ruled. I turned it down. We both care about the people of Asgard, and I know you do, too,” said Thor, stepping closer.

            “Just forget it. I have,” said Valkyrie, shoving Thor back. She didn’t like the feelings she had suppressed for so long dragged up.

            “Thank you,” said Thor.

            “For what?” said Valkyrie.

            “For this,” said Thor, holding up a small device. “Didn’t see that, did you?” He flicked a button, and the disk in his neck powered down. “That’s better.” Thor pulled it off his neck. “You know, go ahead. Stay here and enslave people for that lunatic. Keep drinking, keep hiding. But me?” He caught the ball Hulk was throwing around. “I choose to run towards my problems instead of away and not away from them.” He threw the ball at the window. “Because that’s what—” It bounced back and hit him in the face. Thor jumped back up and ignored the unimpressed expression on Valkyrie’s face and the smirk on (Y/N)’s. “Because that’s what heroes do.” He ran and jumped through the window. It shattered, and he went sliding down the side of the building.

            (Y/N) leaned out the window and watched him jump leap from building to building and slide to the junkyard below. “Well, now that he’s down there.” She held up a hand and waved it. A portal appeared to Thor below. “Bye!” She saluted and stepped through, letting it close behind her.

            “So, what’ve you found?” said (Y/N) to Thor in the junkyard.

            “The Quinjet,” said Thor. “It must be how Banner got here.” He huffed. “But none of my names let me into the system.”

            “Stark probably gave you a nickname,” said (Y/N).

            “Damn him,” said Thor.

            “Relax, I’ve got it.” (Y/N) tapped the screen on and worked for a moment as Thor hovered behind her.

            “Welcome, ‘Genius, Playboy, Billionaire, Philanthropist.’ ” The AI’s voice spoke out.

            “He would call himself that,” said (Y/N). She smiled. “But I’ve got it working!”

            Crunch!

            “Friend stay!” Hulk pushed into the Quinjet, destroying it as he went.

            “No, no, no! Stop!” shouted Thor.

            “God damn it!” said (Y/N), throwing up her arms.

            “Stop! Stop breaking everything!” said Thor.

            “Don’t go!” Hulk had barreled through everything.

            Thor pressed random buttons desperately, and a video log appeared. It was Black Widow.

            “Nice work, Big Guy,” said the recording. “We don’t know where Ultron’s headed, but you’re going very high, very fast.”

            Hulk slowed as he gazed at Black Widow’s face.

            “So, I need you to turn this bird around, okay?” continued Black Widow. “We can’t track you in stealth mode, so I need you to help me out. Okay?”

            Hulk grunted and winced. He grabbed his head and winced. The recording halted and skipped, but it had already worked its magic. Hulk slammed into the walls and punched his head. As he thrashed, his body shrunk and grew. The Hulk was leaving; Banner was returning.

            “No! No, Banner!” cried Hulk. After he threw himself against the wall a few more times, he collapsed to the ground, and his green body faded to leave Banner.

            “Banner?” said Thor hesitantly.

            “Yikes,” muttered (Y/N).

            “Hey, hey, hey.” Thor calmly hushed Banner as the man looked around in confusion. “You alright, Banner?” Banner jerked in fear. “Sh, sh! Sun’s going down, sun’s going down! That’s it, breathe! I won’t hurt you.”

            “And for the record, I won’t either,” said (Y/N), waving.

            Banner groaned and rubbed his head. “Thor…”

            “Yeah,” said Thor.

            “What happened to your hair?” said Banner in confusion.

            “Some creepy old man cut it off,” said Thor.

            “It looks good,” said Banner. He saw (Y/N). “…Is that the hostage Loki took…?”

            “It’s a really long story,” said (Y/N). “I’m (Y/N).”

            “I’m Bruce,” said Banner. He was too confused about everything else to deal with seeing (Y/N). “Where are we? How’s Nat?”

            “Uh, Nat is good, I’m sure,” said Thor.

            “Is she okay?” asked Bruce. “And what about Sokovia?”

            “Sokovia?” said (Y/N) in confusion.

            “The city, Sokovia, did we save it?” said Bruce.

            “Banner, listen,” said Thor. “Sokovia, Ultron, that was two years ago.”

            “Wow, I really missed a lot with my time on Asgard,” said (Y/N).

            “What…?” said Bruce. “I’ve been Hulk for two years?”

            “I’m afraid so,” said Thor.

            “That sucks,” said (Y/N).

            “What the hell happened?” said Bruce. He stood, thankfully holding Hulk’s kilt around himself, and walked to the console.

            “Banner, there’s something you should know,” said Thor.

            “What do you want?” said (Y/N).

            “Ship’s Log,” said Bruce.

            (Y/N) typed in and brought up the videos again. The record showed Hulk pulling himself up in the Quinjet as it flew away from Sokovia. It had a fearful Hulk confused about where he was heading.

            “Where are we?” said Bruce.

            “Well…” Before (Y/N) could say anything, a large hologram of Grandmaster appeared.

            “Sakaar, hear ye!” he said dramatically. “Attention, please. I have some bad news. My beloved exhalated champion has turned up missing, as has one of my favorite guests! Take to the streets. Celebrate my champion!”

            “Who’s that?” said Bruce.

            “Grandmaster. He’s the tyrant who runs this place,” said (Y/N).

            “You and (Y/N) lived in his house for a while,” said Thor.

            “I did?” said Bruce. Poor guy was confused.

            “Yeah. Quite a lot’s happened. You and I had a fight recently,” said Thor.

            “Did I win?” asked Bruce.

            “No. I won. Easily,” lied Thor.

            (Y/N) snorted.

            “Doesn’t sound right…” said Bruce.

            “Well, it’s true,” said Thor.

            (Y/N) mouthed “it’s not” to Bruce.

            “It seems that the criminally seductive Lord of Thunder has stolen them away!” continued Grandmaster.

            “Seductive God of Thunder,” said Thor, sulking.

            “We need to find another ship,” said (Y/N). “We can’t get back into the tower, so I can’t get to Grandmaster’s ships, but it’s worse to just stay here.” She wasn’t about to be caught by Grandmaster.

            “This is bad…this is really, really bad,” said Bruce. “I think I’m freaking out…”

            “No, no, no,” said Thor hurriedly, pulling out Stark’s spare clothes and pushing them into Bruce’s hands. “Don’t freak out. You’re okay. Put these on.”

            “Hurry up,” said (Y/N). “The first place they’ll come is here, and I don’t want to be caught with someone’s pants down.”

l

            Loki kept his face expressionless as he and Valkyrie approached the Grandmaster in his throne room. He needed to keep calm and remain in the Grandmaster’s good graces so that he could go and find (Y/N). Then he’d have time to create a story that annulled any possible accusations against (Y/N).

            “I’m upset!” said Grandmaster. “I’m very upset. You know what I like about being upset? The blame. Right now, that’s the mindset I’m in. And you know who I’m blaming?”

            Loki stepped forward. “Grandmaster, I can—”

            “Hey!” Grandmaster cut him off. “Don’t interrupt me!”

            His right-hand woman, Topaz, held up the melting stick. “Here you go.”

            “Why are you handing me the melt stick?” said Grandmaster in confusion. “He was interrupting. That’s not a capital violation. Where was I…?” He cleared his throat. “My precious champion and favorite, most attractive guest—” Loki bit his tongue and fought not to narrow his eyes “—have come up missing, and it’s all because of that Lord of Thunder.”

            At least he hasn’t figured out (Y/N) is working with Thor, thought Loki.

            “It’s all because of him. Your brother,” said Grandmaster. “Whatever the story is, adopted or complicated. I’m sure there’s a big history.” He pointed at Valkyrie. “And your contender!”

            “If you were to give me twelve hours, I’d bring my…uh, (Y/N) and your champion back safely, and Thor will be delivered to you alive,” said Loki.

            “I could do it in two,” said Valkyrie.

            “I could do it in one,” said Loki.

            “Let’s stop there,” said Grandmaster, though he wasn’t not enjoying them vie for his favor. “You know what? I woke up this morning thinking about a public execution. But for now, I’ll settle for this sweet little ‘Who’s gonna get ‘em first?’ So you’re on the clock.”

            Loki and Valkyrie didn’t wait around and were walking at full speed out of the room.

            “What have you done?” said Loki. The short timespan would drive both of them into danger.

            “I don’t answer to you, Lackey. And I thought you’d want to quickly go and find your girlfriend before Grandmaster realizes she’s definitely not been kidnapped,” said Valkyrie.

            “It’s Loki,” said the god of lies, grabbing Valkyrie’s wrist. “And (Y/N)’s not my girlfriend, just a fool running into danger that I need to stop.”

            Valkyrie pulled away from his grip, and the two parried blows until she hit him in the face and smirked.

            “Why would you let her go with that oaf and that creature?” said Loki. He was furious that Valkyrie had let (Y/N), clearly a Midgardian, go off into danger with a green creature and Thor of all people. He was more furious at himself for not stopping (Y/N), but he was good at projecting.

            He extended a knife and lunged at Valkyrie. She pulled out a dagger and dodged. They blocked and slashed at each other, spinning around the room. Loki caught her arm and saw her tattoo.

            “You’re a Valkyrie,” he realized.

            Valkyrie ducked out his hold, and they fought once more until Valkyrie kicked him into the wall.

            “I thought that the Valkyrie had all died gruesome deaths,” said Loki, lashing out as his own feelings bubbled over.

            Valkyrie pinned him to the wall with her knee in his throat. “Choose your next words wisely.”

            “I’m terribly sorry. Must be a painful memory,” said Loki.

            He grabbed her forehead, and Valkyrie was thrown into the memory of her and her love’s battle against Hela. Every death and painful injury replayed.

            Valkyrie jerked back to reality and fell back. Loki stared at her and realized what he’d done. He could hear (Y/N)’s disapproval, and his heart clenched. Valkyrie turned back to him and slammed him into the ground. With a single angry punch, she knocked him out.

            Loki’s last thought was that (Y/N) would have given him the same treatment.

Taglist:

@alexpangender

@technikerin23

@kikster606

@neenieweenie

@h-l-vlovesvintage

@chronicallybubbly

[not-goldy]

Ngl I hate people blurring out the other soliders faces. So many times we get leaked pics or videos everyone else is afforded basic privacy and the tannies are expected to be on display and then one time everyone gets posted and we play where's Waldo with jikook people jump in to hide everyone else's face instead of posting as is. They're all supposed to be equals right now either faces are allowed to be seen or not but these dual expectations blow me

Sigh. I welcome your thoughts and do feel free to share your frustrations and worries with me. It beats the "Jimin is strong and can handle anything tone deaf outta touch squad over there."

Apparently, "Jimin is so strong it's okay for anyone to violate his privacy cos he can handle it. He has a black belt, he's rich, he can protect himself you know💀

his brain is made of vibranium membranes what's a little privacy violation gonna do to him

Feeling gaslighted yet? Welcome to my life on these streets.

Tae must have been late on his wakadan taxes cos dude was low on vibranium the day he threatened to shoot poison needles at reporters who violated his privacy💀

Jungkook reporting those stalkers is crazy cos dude has enough muscles that only rivals that of Kangoroos- you'd think a guy like that would let a little privacy violation pass🥴

It's the dehumanizing that goes with that for me.

They are protecting those other people because they are civilians who have not signed away their right to be respected and treated as human beings. Something about them being civilians reminds them of their own sense of humanity.

However idols can be so- rich, so pampered, so privileged, so objectified, so commodified, so commercialized to feel human let alone be thought of as human in our subconsciousness.

It's why its easy to tear into them and call it review, constructive criticism, when we detouch them as idols we fail to remember they are people's sons, brothers, partners, friend, mentor- worse? They won't fire back. They won't fight for themselves tear into them right back, defend themselves because their station in life requires utta resignation of their personhood.

Why won't they block out their faces? Because THEY KNOW they can get sued for publishing their images without authorization, they can be held directly accountable but not these famous folks. They don't deserve a right to privacy because they have perpetually given those rights away as idols.

This level of dehumanizing of idols has become so normalized in internet spaces we don't even blink or think twice before participating in it.

Somehow we've come to the conclusion that being a public figure means giving up your basic fundamental human rights and that not only is it okay to consume them in ways that violates them, that somehow hyper scrutinizing their very existence, bringing them apart so recklessly and putting them back upside down is okay and all part of their work hazard.

That somehow fame is proof of their consent to be placed on a pedestal so out of realm of human possibilities because that's the only way we can adore them is if they are over and beyond us- beyond human beyond the stratosphere.

I've been trying to protect my own mental health by detouching from certain conversations around these boys because it cuts too close to home. And I don't want to hear she's projecting her queer traumas onto them as if breach of privacy, the blatant micro aggressions, dehumanization isn't a universal struggle- why do i gotta queer to know how that feels? Why can't I just be a fucking human being who relates to another human being?

Imagine a few of us expressing concerns over some of these mental torment they have to endure in there through no fault of theirs only for people to tell you in the face, these men are stronger than they look, they are not victims, they are not damsels in distress- WELL THEY ARE NOT ROBOTS EITHER SO WHICH IS IT?

As if we need people's permission to express concerns, as if there's a threshold of pain these boys, Jimin, is expected to endure before its okay to worry for them and only then would it be okay to worry for their mental health, breach of his privacy and other gazillion bs they are bound experience in there- the hyper masculinty, the toxic masculinty- these boys, Jimin, have gone through so much to discover himself, to break away from toxic gender ideologies, to be okay with who he is, to accept himself and all that is going to chip away at MS and these nutheads are out here telling us he's strong he can handle it. They lack context, can't even comprehend context or nuance IT'S EXHAUSTING.

It's the worst form of bigotry, policing, dismissiveness, anti intellectuallism packed as alternative view points, I've ever encountered in my life. They metamorphorizing, shape-shifting to hide who they truly are at their core.

If I hear anyone jubilate over an untwinked Jimin or untwinked anyone in BTS I WILL GO OFF.

And yes I'm sensitive about this, I've ever had a melt down over the fandom cheering because JM muscled up, I won't have a meltdown this time- I WILL BLOW THIS WHOLE THING TO THE GROUND WATCH ME.

But yea, go off Anon. Get things off your chest💀

[randomshyperson]

Yellow Curtains - Chapter Seven - Wanda Maximoff Series

Summary: Wanda Maximoff's senior year at Novi Grad School is duly planned for her. She has good friends, good grades, and a good system to hide who she really is. Or, the one based on Evak from the Norway Skam series, where Wanda is queer and tries to survive the last year without anyone knowing about it.

Warnings: (+18), general warnings about language and violence, legal drug use, mentions of underage drinking, high school, internalized homophobia and discovery of sexuality, explicit mentions of mental disorders (bipolarity and depression), dysfunctional family, making out, and eventual smut.

Skamverse | Series | General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

--//--

Chapter Seven - The Truth

Četrtek 14:11 (Thursday 2:11 pm)

A beautiful landscape extended in front of Wanda. She adjusted the blanket around her shoulders and blew the tea inside the cup she held, staring at the view while she could hear the sounds of her family playing in the house behind her.

She had been miserable for days after the fight, and Natalya had come up with the suggestion that they all go south of Novi Grad, to the part of the country where Django and Marya, Wanda's aunt and uncle, lived. They had two children, Ana and Mateo, who were very naughty children and whom Wanda liked very much.

It was already the last day of Hanukkah, and since the Maximoffs were not Jewish, Wanda left the table and went to a high spot on the hill in the backyard, and took advantage of the privacy to pray in silence.

She was admiring the landscape now; it would be a lie to say she wasn't thinking of you. She has, without exception, been remembering you every day. But Carol's call the day after yours, made her stop phoning.

"She's not feeling very well right now, Wanda. We're still in the hospital. With the holidays, her psychiatrist is on vacation. And she can't use a cell phone here so don't expect her to call. Just, hold tight okay? Know that she is safe. And surrounded by people who love her. She'll talk to you when she can."

Carol didn't answer any of her questions, and in a way, only made new ones come up. But Wanda was trying not to despair over the whole thing, and being around her family again made her breathe easy.

Pietro was still acting strange, but to her surprise, he was the one who took the first act toward reconciliation.

"I wouldn't want to start the year at war with you." He said - The peace offering being fruit he picked from the Maximoff garden in a decorated pot that Mateo probably helped him build. Wanda offered him a small smile, leaving the tea on a makeshift log as a table, and accepted the fruits. Pietro understood that he could approach. "Did I interrupt your prayer?"

"No, I was done." She murmurs, tasting one of the strawberries. "Did you complete yours?"

He nods, looking at the landscape before turning his gaze back to her. "How are you?"

Wanda chuckles weakly, placing the pot of strawberries next to the tea to hug her own body under the blanket. 

"I keep wondering if I'm the problem." She confesses sincerely, and he stares at her the same minute, frowning. Wanda swallows dryly. "Maybe Y/N is right, and I am just too much."

"Wanda, you're not too much." He assures. "I'm sure she'll explain this story straight out, you can't jump to conclusions."

Her eyes filled with tears. "But it's like you said isn't it Pietro? What if I'm just playing the innocent, and not seeing what I'm doing? I called her a lot and lied and hurt her and now she hates me-"

"Hey, forget I said that I didn't mean it." He interrupts guiltily, pulling her by the shoulders. "You're amazing. You're my favorite person in the whole world. I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry, okay?"

She sniffles slightly, running a hand over her face to wipe her tears. "You're nothing like Dad, either. I shouldn't-"

He denies it with his head. "Yes, I am." He interrupts with a sad smile, "And it's okay. I'm more like him, and you're more like Mom. It's just the way things are. The difference is that he hurts us on purpose, and I never intended to do that to you." Pietro says. "Can you forgive me, Wanda?"

She nods, hugging him. Her twin responds at the same time, caressing her back over the blanket. 

Pietro sighs a moment later. "I don't know what will happen between you and Y/N, but know that you won't be dealing with this alone. I'm here for whatever you need, sestra."

Wanda sniffles against his chest.

The family on Wanda's mother's side had Romani origins and were at their most devoted to the pagan faith. When Natalya married a Jewish man, it was a shock to both sides. The marriage also ended in scandal - Erik turned up with a mistress and a daughter. The divorce was peaceful after all, but it was safe to say that nobody liked Erik very much at that lunch table.

When Django asked if the twins would like to join them in traditional Wiccan celebrations, Pietro immediately refused. He had always been more connected to his father's Jewish faith than Wanda ever had been, and the girl, although she said she didn't know the customs very well, was more curious and open than her twin.

Yulefest had already started, but it went on until the first day of the new year. There was a big celebration in the nearby village, and Wanda had a good enough time to keep her thoughts away from you for the next few days.

Pietro did not participate in the celebrations but was respectful about everything. When they finally left the house of the days in January, he even surprised Wanda with some items he had asked his aunt and uncle to take home as a present to Wanda - She kept them near her bed.

–//–

Sobota 08:50 (Saturday 08:50 am)

Wanda was checking the New Year's Instagram stories of all her friends when you texted her for the first time in weeks.

"Can we meet? I want to explain everything."

Her heart leaped, and it didn't stop beating hurriedly for many minutes. Her immediate reaction was to type yes, but she hit the brakes before hitting enter.

How dare you disappear and then demand a conversation? She can't remember the last time she slept properly, not since that conversation.

She threw the cell phone on the bed, leaving you with no answer, and went into her brother's room.

Pietro was playing video games in the bedroom, and Wanda had to nudge him to get him to take off his headphones.

"I've already had coffee-"

"Not that." She interrupts gesturing briefly. "Y/N texted me."

He pauses the game on the spot, looking at her in anticipation. "So?"

Wanda crosses her arms. "She wants to meet me."

"Oh, do you need a ride or something?"

"No, I don't know if I want to go."

Pietro makes a confused face. "What, but you've only been talking about her all holiday..."

She grunts impatiently. "Yeah, that's the point!" She retorts. "She's been driving me crazy. And now she can't just text me and expect me to come crawling back. It hardly  fair."

Pietro sighs. "I think you're overthinking it." He retorts, turning his attention back to the TV. "You'll keep suffering if you stay here, and you'll never find out what really happened if you don't go to her. Besides this, it's a chance to be honest, no? You can tell her you don't want the relationship to be like this or whatever."

Wanda sighs in defeat, knowing that Pietro is right.

"I'll take the car." She declares, receiving an indignant exclamation in protest.

"No, it was my Christmas present, not yours!" He yelled in protest, but Wanda had already grabbed the keys to the refurbished car gifted by Uncle Django from the door and fled from the twin through the house.

–//–

Sobota 9:15 (Saturday 9:15 am)

She was surprised that you got there first, and thought that maybe you were waiting for her and working up the courage to send her a message.

The place where you asked to meet her was the municipal park, less than a hundred meters from the Novi Grad Cathedral, where all the commotion started. It didn't make Wanda feel easy.

She parked the car and approached unhurriedly, watching from a distance your restless posture as you checked your cell phone for new messages and looked around for her.

When she was close enough, you spotted her. Your face immediately lit up, and Wanda decided to ignore the way her stomach jumped.

"Hi, Wands."

She kept her hands in her pockets. "Hi? Is that all you have to say to me?"

You grimace softly. "Well, that's how you start a conversation."

Wanda tilts her head to the side, a dry laugh escaping her lips. "Do you really want to make jokes now? After the way you treated me?"

You swallow dryly, denying with your head and taking a step forward. "No, I want to apologize." 

"Yeah, can you clarify for what? For the way, you spoke to me, or for not returning my calls? Or maybe for sending your sister to be your errand girl or instead of having the balls yourself!" Wanda accused angrily, but you only looked guilty yourself.

"Yeah, all of it." You retorted with a sigh. "I wanted to explain everything, but I just didn't have my cell phone and-"

"What the fuck are you talking about? You called me to say you wanted to take some time away from me! I almost died of worry over the damn church video, and instead of telling me what happened, you told me to mind my own business!" She feels like she is on the verge of tears, but you take another step forward.

"Wanda, I'm sorry!" You suddenly firmly. "I wanted to call you again, and take it all back the moment I turned off my cell phone, but the nurse came into my room and took it away and I there's nothing I could do about it."

Wanda shakes her head in confusion, pushing the emotion away. "What happened to you? Why are you in the hospital?"

You look away from hers, swallowing dryly. "It was a misunderstanding. They thought I was going to jump off the church."

Wanda frowned. "Weren't you?"

You laughed dryly. "I may do some acting but if I was going to kill myself it wouldn't be so dramatic."  

Wanda stares at you. "Don't joke about those things." She tells you seriously, and you swallow dryly.

"Sorry."

"What were you doing on top of the church anyway?" She questions, and you sigh in return before pulling your cell phone out of your pocket.

"I wanted to take a picture." You say typing on the device. "I was thinking about our conversation, about faith and all that. I found out that the Cathedral in Novi Grad was built exactly in the center of the city so that everyone would be the same distance from God. And I wanted to take a picture for you from the top. I just thought, even when we are apart, or if we have disagreements, I would always be close to your God, and in this way, to you."

The photo was beautiful, she could see all the architecture of the Cathedral, but Wanda looked at you with concern. "That's almost a hundred meters off the ground. You could have fallen."

You put your cell phone away, shrugging. "I've practice Parkour since I was a kid, it was no big deal."

"No, Y/N, that was very dangerous." Wanda insisted. "It was insanity to take that risk for a photo."

You cleared your throat, taking a step back. "Okay, I understand it wasn't safe, okay, I've already heard that from the police, and the doctors, I don't need to hear it from you." You retort uneasily. "I didn't come here to talk about the church, I need to tell you something."

Wanda sighs faintly, watching you intently. You are acting so strange, and she can't define it.

"What is it?"

You take a deep breath, and then let out a nervous laugh. "Damn, I... I had this whole speech prepared, but this is so hard." You mutter, more to yourself than to her. You clear your throat and take heart. "Well, all this time I've been trying to find the right way to tell you, but I didn't know how, and I never seemed to find the right moment. You know when... I get intense, too impatient, or impulsive?"

Wanda frowns slightly. "Like the church? Or now?"

You chuckle weakly, nodding. "Yeah. Or how suddenly I get kind of gloomy... sad?" You ask, and she confirms with her head. You swallow dryly. "Well, it took a while to get the official diagnosis in my teens, but this doctor in California came to a final opinion. I have an illness. Mental one. It's called BD, which stands for Bipolar Disorder. " You count staring at your feet. "And I don't know, I didn't want to tell you because when I'm feeling good, I believe that there is nothing wrong with my brain. I talk, laugh, and really enjoy the people around me and I can forget that it's temporary while it's happening." You continue with a sad laugh, "I do everything as I should. Exercise, and socialize, and I don't drink or smoke, and I take my meds, but... well, it will never go away. There is no cure, and it's genetic, so I'll have to deal with it for life. Which doesn't mean that people have to, so I didn't want to tell you. I kept imagining your reaction, the face you would make which is very similar to the one you are doing now..."

Wanda looks away, completely in shock. You sigh and wait. She swallows dryly. "I-I don't... I don't know what to say..."

You force a small smile, shaking your head. "You don't have to say anything." You assure her sadly. "I just wanted you to know that it wasn't about you, that you never did anything wrong. I have to go back. I ran away from the hospital to talk to you. See you at school, Wands."

She was too overwhelmed with the revelations to ask you to stay.

–//–

Sobota 15:07 (Saturday 3:07 pm)

Natasha was not surprised, because Carol told her about you as soon as she returned from vacation. Apparently, the Maximoffs were the last to know.

Wanda would have been angry, but she was busy researching what bipolar disorder was with her best friend.

A dozen or so sites opened with descriptions, explanatory videos, and infographics on the computer Natasha held in her hands, and Wanda was upside down, lying on the bed next to her friend.

“Some people with bipolar disorder will have episodes of mania or hypomania many times throughout their life; others may experience them only rarely. Signs and symptoms of a manic episode include excessive happiness, hopefulness, and excitement. Sudden and severe changes in mood, such as going from being joyful to being angry and hostile. Restlessness. Rapid speech and racing thoughts. Increased energy and less need for sleep. Increased impulsivity and poor judgment, such as suddenly quitting your job, ending a relationship…”

“Turn it off.” Wanda asks and Nat pauses the video immediately, watching her friend adjust herself on the bed correctly to bury her face in the pillows.

"Hey, don't be like that. It may look bad now but maybe you just need to look at it another way..."

Wanda chuckles humorlessly, pulling the pillow off her head to look at Nat. "How else would you have done it, Nat? Haven't you heard anything? Impulsiveness, poorly thought out decisions. Like leaving her boyfriend."

"Wanda..."

The brunette sits up. "No, I'm serious!" She insists on the verge of tears. "What if... what if she doesn't even like me? If it all just happened because of one manic episode? I'll end up alone, that's what will happen."

Nat shakes her head. "Wanda, what are you talking about? How would that determine her feelings?"

Wanda sniffles softly. "I don't know, Nat. But just think about it. You've seen the videos. What if she only believes she likes me, but I'm just a fantasy? She may have grown bored of Peter and put it into her head that she could have fun with a girl now. And then she'll get tired of me just like she did of him. And who knows how many people have gone through that."

Nat sighs. "But that's falling in love, isn't it?" She reasons. "You fall in love, and you don't know how long it will last. With or without bipolarity. The insecurity you have now is the same insecurity I have about Carol. We're together today, but I don't know what will happen when we go to college for example." Natasha says, and Wanda falls silent. Her friend smiles, leaving her notebook on the bed. "Think about this, sweetheart. I'll get us something to eat."

–//–

Ponedeljek, 10:20 (Monday, 10:20 am)

"Have you talked to her yet?"

Wanda looked away from the group of people surrounding you, probably peppering you with questions about the church video, to Clint, standing beside her with a soda she asked him to pick up on his way to the cafeteria. The boy had a snack in hand, which Wanda refused a piece.

"What would I say?" She retorts half upset, making room for Clint to sit next to her on the bench in the courtyard. Pietro was a bit back in the surroundings, playing soccer with other classmates, and Natasha was with Carol making out in some bathroom.

"You can start with hello." Clint jokes, but Wanda only returns him a small smile, playing with her straw. She's not very hungry all morning. He clears his throat lightly. "Hey, what's the matter? Is this about her condition?"

Wanda sighs, shrugging. "I've been researching about it, and I think I get more scared every second." She comments sincerely. "Maybe I'm not the best person to deal with it. I don't know if I could."

It's Clint's turn to sigh. "Hey, but it's always like that when you google something, isn't it? Put in a headache and it'll make it sound like you're with terminal cancer."

Wanda gives a weak laugh, muttering a low 'I guess'. She steals glances at you from across the yard again, laughing at something they say to you. You look fine. Normal and healthy. 

"I think you could manage, Wanda." Clint says. "In the end, it's just about liking someone, and you wouldn't have any fears if Y/N said they had diabetes or something."

Wanda twitches her nose. "That's hardly the same thing-"

"Isn't it?" Clint interrupts with an arched eyebrow. "If she had a cardiac problem, you'd have to be careful about physical stimulation next to her. No effort. You could say goodbye to outdoor walks with everyone. Any blood disease, and she wouldn't be able to go to some restaurants you like. She is bipolar, which means that sometimes she will be more intense, and sometimes she will need to be alone, or you to keep her company more than you usually do. It is no big deal. Sick people just want to be well, and there are medicines for that. Carol said she's been on treatment since she was fourteen, so I imagine she can help you deal with that too."

Wanda absorbs her friend's words for a long moment, and Clint offers her a small smile before returning to eating. A moment later, Wanda moves closer to rest her head on his shoulder, and hug him from the side, she keeps her gaze on you from across the room.

"When did you get so wise, Barton?" she jokes, making you laugh.

"I'm a smart boy." He retorts, and a moment later, lets out a soft exclamation, causing Wanda to turn away to look at him curiously. The boy pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. "I almost forgot I found something for you. My stepfather needs an office apprentice at the construction company. It's boring but money is money. Would you be interested?"

Wanda's eyes widen. "What, of course, Clint! Thank you!" She hugs him tightly, both of them laughing. He mutters that she would still have to do the interview and that it was nothing guaranteed, but Wanda is too happy to call.

Ponedeljek, 11:00 (Monday, 11:00 am)

"Let's sit in the back." Natasha whispered to her as soon as they entered the history class, and Wanda laughed because she knew her friend was only asking to keep texting with her girlfriend.

Nat took the window seat, and Wanda was taking off her coat to sit beside her when you entered the room. Your gazes met from the doorway, but before she could smile at you, someone was whistling loudly and attracting your attention.

"Romeo's back from the dead everyone." Mocked Ikaris, one of your colleagues. A good portion of the room laughed, and you lowered your face, holding your backpack tighter. 

But the boy's teasing didn't go unpunished - The guidance counselor Mrs. Harkness was standing behind you at the door, precisely escorting you into the room, and the boy turned pale when she pointed her finger at him. 

"Come into my office, now." She ordered, and he came out clutching his backpack, bumping his shoulders into yours. The room filled with burbling, but Agatha called for silence. "We do not tolerate bullying or harassment of any kind at this institute, am I clear? Any mention of incent before Christmas will be punishable. Good day."

But Agatha's request may have made things worse, because those who were not aware of the video, spent the class searching for the matter and sharing it with their classmates. Wanda noticed how you seemed to cringe with each nasty whisper that circulated.

As soon as the bell rang, you practically jumped out of your seat and some people chuckled from the escape.

"You should talk to her." Natasha told Wanda, but it wasn't even necessary, because the girl was already grabbing the materials and going after you.

As the period ended, the halls filled up quickly, and Wanda had a little trouble getting through the crowd of students and catching up with you in the outer courtyard.

"Y/N, wait." She urged and had to tap your wrist to get you to stop.

You turned to her in irritation. "What do you want?"

Wanda was taken aback by the aggressiveness, but she couldn't blame you. Not after the taunts. "Hey, don't listen to those assholes, okay? They don't know shit."

You laugh dryly, looking away. "Right, because it wasn't the least bit freaky what I did. You said it yourself, it was dangerous and stupid."

Wanda frowns. "Yeah, but I didn't know..."

"That I was crazy? Well, you know now. And it clearly bothers you, because you've been ignoring me all morning!"

"N-no, I just-"

"Look, Wanda, I don't need your coup de grace." You interrupt her. "If you don't want anything to do with me, just say so, stop being a fucking pussy."

Wanda opens her mouth in shock, and you roll your eyes. She grimaces. This attitude makes her blood boil. "Be reasonable, you told me something meaningful, but I still don't know how to give you an answer. I'm still trying to understand what it all means."

You snort angrily. "I told you the truth because I'm in love with you, that's what it means!" You suddenly confess, and Wanda feels her heart stop. "And you're clearly just a fucking coward who can't handle it and doesn't feel the same way. Stop wasting my time."

"I-I didn't... I never said-."

"That's pretty simple, though, Wanda." You cut her off again, adjusting the backpack on your shoulder. "If you felt the same way, my bipolarity wouldn't matter. But you don't. Fuck this, I don't need you. Or anyone."

"Y/N..."

But you practically ran out, and Wanda had no way to call you back.

Ponedeljek, 14:05 (Monday, 02:05 pm)

With no sign that you were back at school, Wanda was leaving the courtyard alone.

Pietro was going to Clint's house to play video games, and although Nat and Carol had invited her to their apartment, Wanda hardly wanted to see her friends making out.

She was finishing putting away her belongings in the locker when Steve Rogers approached her.

"Wanda, glad I caught up with you." He said half uneasily, looking around. "Has your brother gone home already?"

"Yeah, he and Clint went to Barton's together." She replied. Steve sighed.

"Well, I guess by now you must have heard about but Tony managed to get the recording of the market."

Wanda frowned immediately. "What are you talking about?"

Steve makes a confused expression. "The fight, at Nat's birthday?"

Wanda's eyes widen in amazement. "Wait, is it serious? I thought the recording was just a rumor! How did Tony get it, and more importantly, who hit my brother?"

Steve hesitates. "Look, if Pietro didn't tell you, maybe I shouldn't..."

"Spit it out, Rogers." She demands seriously, and Steve swallows dryly before pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. He searches for a moment for the video in the chat room with Tony Stark and then holds out the device for Wanda to see.

It's a security video from a market parking lot. Wanda recognizes Pietro laughing and talking with Barry Allen outside, imagining that Clint and Bucky were inside buying the beers.

And then Barry is grabbing Pietro by the collar of his shirt and kisses him on the mouth. Pietro is clearly surprised but corresponds before pushing him away with a giggle. It all lasts less than five seconds. There is a car stopped a few feet away from them, and from it, three identical boys that Wanda recognizes from the Synagogue get off. 

"Hey, fags!" The audio is precarious but still audible, and it is the tallest boy who steps forward. Wanda thinks his name is Jake, but she's not sure. Of the triplets, Wanda only liked the shy Steven. Jake laughs when the two boys turn around. "Oh my god, is that you Maximoff? Does your daddy know what you're up to?"

Pietro freezes, completely terrified. Jake advances against him, so Barry pushes him away. And at that, the fight escalates.

It's left to Steven to pull the brothers away when Bucky and Clint leave the market and interfere in the fight, the market owner armed with a bat. The action doesn't even last 3 minutes, but Pietro is the one who ends up the most injured.

Steve puts his cell phone away. "Pietro didn't want to press charges, he didn't even want to tell us who the boys were." 

"It's because of our father." Wanda explains, pressing her hands to her face for a moment. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Hey, Tony said he's not going to do anything he doesn't want to." Steve says placing a hand on her shoulder. "But these things shouldn't go unpunished. We have the video, but the complaint has to come from the victim."

"I'll talk to him." Wanda assures. "Thanks, Steve."

"Anytime."

Ponedeljek, 20:31 (Monday, 08:31 pm)

"You took your time."

"Jesus, Wanda!" Pietro gasped in fright, having opened the bedroom door to his sister waiting for him inside.

Wanda rolled her eyes, and got up from the bed, dropping her cell phone and crossing her arms.

"Close the door."

He raised an eyebrow. "What's that, are you going to kill me or something?"

She rolls her eyes, and uncrosses her arms, moving him out of the way to close the door herself. Pietro looks at her with confusion.

"You're going to press charges against Jake Lockley." 

Pietro turns pale before his face flushes with irritation. "How did you... No, you know what, it doesn't matter. You're a damn meddler, aren't you?"

"Pietro-"

"I'm serious! I told you to forget that story, why do you care anyway?" He retorted angrily, stepping aside to take off his sweater and shoes. Wanda crossed her arms.

"You are my brother! I care about you, and whether you are safe outside our house!"

He rolled his eyes stubbornly, but Wanda stepped forward. "I'm serious. This isn't right, Pietro. He can't get away with it!"

"Daddy would kill me!" Pietro squirms with tears in his eyes. Wanda's eyes widen. "You don't... It's different for you, okay? He may say those horrible things, but you're still his little girl. He wouldn't hurt you. But me-"

"Except it's not like that." Wanda insists seriously. "That's the fear talking. Daddy has already hurt me, you know that. And he would have hit me again in that restaurant if you hadn't said anything." She recalls, and the boy looks away. Wanda sighs, moving closer. "Pietro, is that why you told him I liked girls? To find out how he would react when you told him about yourself?"

He nodded sheepishly. "I like girls too, Wanda. I just...I thought I could pretend I didn't care about boys because I'm into Crystal. But that's not how it works. No matter what I do, this part just won't go away."

"Oh, Pietro, there's nothing wrong with liking both. Come here." She sits down next to him, hugging him. He sniffles, seeming to finally relax after many days. "We'll deal with this together, okay, and with Mom, too."

Pietro sobs softly, but nods in acceptance. Wanda holds him until he stops crying.

[tumblingxelian]

I feel like a big part of the issue with Ironwood's imagery is how, fact is, the "It's just how Ironwood views himself" isn't that well communicated at all, and we have every disabled character he's contrasted with either have a less severe disability (Yang) or cured (Winter), making it look as if the disability ITSELF is the problem.

If we count Penny as disabled, then we have her "rewarded" with a flesh body before dying as human (presented as preferable to her living in a mechanical body), while Ironwood's disability is indirectly referenced via Winter casting off her mobility aids to LITERALLY rise above him. With Winter's disability being used to visualize how Atlas has bound her to Ironwood (and the creator commentaries regularly referring to Taiyang's advice to Yang as positive and constructive), and Theodore's own ableism (with him only hating Ironwood for being WEAK as opposed to Ironwood's fascism or duplicity), and it comes across as less "Ironwood himself considers cybernetics a sign of humanity" and more "the writers relied on cybernetics to make their dictator scary and 'other' without considering the fact that there are cyborgs in real life".

Like I've said before, there's a cyborg I follow who actually dropped RWBY over this after Penny was given the flesh body, because everything about how the storyline was presented felt less like a critcism of Ironwood's view of cybernetics and more like the show itself was calling them an inhuman monster for having so much metal in their body.

Thus, if their intention was that Ironwood himself has an uhealthy view of cybernetics, then they fucking failed to convey that.

(There's a reason I have said that Robyn Hill should've been a cyborg instead. Even more visibly than Ironwood.)

(Also, as someone who had to pretend to be allistic to avoid getting bullied, I don't like implication that hiding one's disability to avoid ableist harassment is a moral failing. Especially not when Blake isn't held to that standard when hiding her ears. Remember, the Headmaster Ironwood was EXTREMELY reluctant to call on for help canonically considers disabled people subhuman. All indication is that, in-universe, Ironwood's issues with his prosthetics began and ended with his CRITICS using the "more machine than man" accusation, because what would leftist hypocrisy be without bodyshaming?)

I mean, I completely disagree, I feel it was communicated well, hence the little essay I was easily able to bang out on a whim. While I could give you the severity angle, I also think its a reach given Pietro is like, constantly dying because of what happened to his Aura. & I am sorry swap but I need to stress this so much. Winter was not ever disabled. That was a conclusion you drew that was incorrect.

The writers are not at fault for a headcanon being wrong. What's more, as a result, all of your Winter takes are functionally invalid as a result, because you are drawing the analysis materials from your own imaginings not what is on screen. Sorry but I really need to make that clear. It was a fine headcnon, but it was not canon & so it does not influence the framing or themes of the show.

Similarly, I don't know if Penny is considered disabled, but honestly based on how the show handles her character I honestly don't think the writers wrote her with that lens in mind. I can see the connection, I can see why people think that; but like with Winter that does not mean it was their intent.

Plus as I outlined elsewhere, while Penny enjoys the increased tactile sensations in a huge, she sure as fuck didn't enjoy them when getting blasted by Cinder. & without her mechanical body she was ultimately far more vulnerable and ended up dying. That's not "Being rewarded with a flesh body". That's, "They tried an experimental surgery to keep their friend alive & while it nominally worked, they were far more vulnerable afterwards & as a result died in their next fist fight."

I'm not touching on some of the other stuff mostly because I either haven't read the novels, or in regards to Tai-Yang feel that is both an entirely different subject and also gets far to speculative, IE, if CRWBY's doing a double bluff with him they aren't gonna reveal it in the commentary. Though I will say, Ironwood's prosthetics are never presented as "Scary", literally his most badass and heroic scene has him showing off his prosthetics more than at any other point in the show. Again, this take does not make coherent or thematic sense to me.

Your friend is entitled to their feelings, obviously, but what someone took from it VS what the author intended to communicate VS what was reasonable to extrapolate are all very different things. We don't take people who ditched the series cos Adam was a bastard seriously after all. I am not saying your friend is at that level, just using that to convey my point that "X left this show cos of Y" is not by itself a meaningful statement given how much one's decision making process can be rooted in simply not picking up on a theme or story beat & then being angry about it.

Again, I think they succeeded so (Shrugs)

(I am aware of your desires on the Robyn front, it also has no bearing on this conversation as we are discussing the actual show.)

(Swap, I'm autistic, I have to mask constantly, it sucks & I was very bad at it. Thus I was ostracized for most of my time at school and even outright attacked once; though I was big enough to be able to scare them & other bullies off at least. What's more, I was explicitly targeted by some teachers for harassment to the point where I was suicidal.

Do not try and guilt trip me over something I never said.

I never once indicated Ironwood is a coward because he hid his prosthetics, I highlighted that out of all the cast, Ironwood is the man most discomforted 'by' prosthetics. Hence it making far more sense that the authors statements reflected his biases and not theirs.

What's more, your "His leftist critics" stuff is at best, wild extrapolation from like, a comment of Qrow's that would have applied equally if Ironwood had zero prosthetics. Same for you conflating Ironwood refusing to call for help because of Theodore, even though he never referenced the man, Vacuo or indicated he thought of them as any different to anywhere else. If you do that level of head-canon & then get mad at the show for themes and characters beats it never included, rather than what's actually on screen, then that is on you.

Finally, do not put words in my mouth again. I have zero patience for it.)

[makingspiritualityreal]

9th Tara Bala - The Wind Under your Wings

Tara Bala is a Vedic Astrology concept, that talks about Nakshatras of a different planetary rulership consecutively affecting each other in various, subjective ways. Notice, that this concept has nothing to do with traditional Planetary Rulership when it comes to the classic friend-enemy relationships. It is simply a Jyotish concept, that describes the dynamics of Interdependent Nakshatra relations.

In order to understand Tara Bala, you have to first know the order of the Nakshatras, which I personally start with the Sun, but what matters really is the order, as the Nakshatra Wheel is an Infinite Circle with the end being simultaneously the beginning. For those who don't know, the order is as follows:

Sun

Moon

Mars

Rahu

Jupiter

Saturn

Mercury

Ketu

Venus

Since the Nakshatras go in their consecutive order on a loop, every Nakshatra ruled by the same planet is gonna share the same relationship with other Nakshatras ruled by this same planet. Which brings us back to my conclusions, that friend enemy relationships don't agree with Tara Bala. For example, traditionally Sun and Venus are enemies but Venus Nakshatras are best friends of Sun ruled Nakshatras. Such contradictions can be quite interesting to observe.

In the Table in the Picture you can see Jyotish Names of what Tara Bala relationships represent. In this article I'm focusing on the most beneficial one, but here is a quick breakdown of all of them. Notice, that just because a relationship is difficult, doesn't mean it doesn't have its merit. Fun fact, most yoni consort Nakshatras have a difficult Tara Bala, showing how that tension in a relationship can contribute to sexual attraction. Also, remember that this judgment of Nakshatras is totally relative, what is one Nakshatras best friend is another Nakshatra's enemy, depending on what it is trying to achieve.

Janma "of the same origin" - Nakshatras Ruled by the same planet tend to go into conflict, because of what I like to call a sibling rivalry effect. They're similar yet different, so they fight for space and supremacy. But just like siblings, there is an unquestionable element of sameness.

Sampatha - Support. Shoulder to Lean On.

Vipatha "going away". Ultimately wanting different things and heading in different directions, separating despite initial attraction. Many Yoni consorts share this relationship, and it creates a specific push and pull effect, that can lead to reproduction.

Kshema - Protection. The qualities of this Nakshatra protect the interests and goals of the original Nakshatra.

Pratyaka - Held Back, Reproached, stunting the growth of the Original Nakshatra.

Sadhana - Wealth, Manifestation, Opulence. Allows the Original Nakshatra to Blossom.

Naidhana - Death, deadly effect on the other, killer to its best interests.

Mitra - Friend, they're best interests are mutually friendly towards each other.

Paramitra - Best Friend, offers best possible support towards the other's interest.

The most beneficial Tara Bala relationship of all is Paramitra, best friend. Having observed it in real life, the workings of it are quite fascinating. 9th Tara Bala is the Nakshatra that gives your Birth Nakshatra that extra edge, that special, unique something that makes Your own Purpose Shine.

Fun fact, if you possess the 9th Tara Bala in your own chart, you attract support in that area easily through people represented by that planet, and are in a way energetically self sufficient, even if through the other. You don't really do anything to work for it, it's just karmic luck, and you could manifest support of a given planet easier. Otherwise, you rely on other people with a given Nakshatra more desperately to get the boost, which is what life is for the most part, most human beings generally need each other to survive and take things to the next level.

I will now give you a Tara Bala example, with allusions to Vedic tradition and mythology, so you can understand better how it works.

Punarvasu is Uttara Bhadrapada's best friend. Claire Nakti pointed out interesting themes of the Cinderella trope linked to Uttara Bhadrapada. Punarvasu is known for being the embodiment of fairy godmother. So Punarvasu, Fairy Godmother, is Cinderella's, Uttara Bhadrapada's, best friend, because she's the one who magically transforms her life when no one else helps and everything seems bleak and hopeless. Punarvasu is the one that makes Uttara Bhadrapada's potential shine out, so that the public can notice it.

Saturn exalts in Swati, and in an interesting research Claire Nakti recently pointed out this Nakshatras connection to bugs and insects. And isn't it so Saturnian, the concept of insects. They disgust some, we take them for granted and kill them easily, they are small individually, but they are absolutely indispensable to our planet's ecosystem and survival, and can be deadly in masses if provoked. Punarvasu, ruling caring for the environment and renewing the ecosystem, will be the one to appreciate the insects' selfless service the most. What makes insects so useful is their movable nature. Insects travel to random places, spreading pollen, and bringing it back to their nest. Sometimes, in a true surprising Rahu fashion, they might just bring something magical and unexpectedly helpful, and thus they contribute to evolution. From my real life experience, Swati people tend to just randomly bring home something small but useful, that they picked up on their spontaneous journeys, from the flea market, vintage stores or discount sections. Since Punarvasu rules recycling and renewal, Swati being able to find something nourishing even in what other people reject is the ultimate champion of providing material for Punarvasu to renew.

As you can see from the examples above, the ParaMitra Nakshatra is something that greatly enhances the quality of fulfilment of the reference Nakshatra, a gamechanger that brings its existence to a whole new level. Naturally, you have to watch every planet in your chart, as every planet is going to matter, together with its conditions or potential afflictions. Below, you can consult your own Nakshatras, and see if you have any of these relations in your chart.

List of "Best Friends" of Each Nakshatra:

Kritika - Purva Phalguni

Rohini - Uttara Phalguni

Mrigashira - Hasta

Ardra - Chitra

Punarvasu - Swati

Pushya - Vishakha

Ashlesha - Anuradha

Magha - Jyeshta

Purva Phalguni - Mula

Uttara Phalguni - Purva Ashadha

Hasta - Uttara Ashadha

Chitra - Shravana

Swati - Dhanishta

Vishakha - Shatabisha

Anuradha - Purva Bhadrapada

Jyeshta - Uttara Bhadrapada

Mula - Revati

Purva Ashadha - Ashwini

Uttara Ashadha - Bharani

Shravana - Krittika

Dhanishta - Rohini

Shatabisha - Mrigashira

Purva Bhadrapada - Ardra

Uttara Bhadrapada - Punarvasu

Revati - Pushya

Ashwini - Ashlesha

Bharani - Magha

[autisticwriterblog]

FOR THE REQUEST THING: please, Tor and G = fistfight, i wanna see him deck someone xD

This ended up much longer than I expected. Something about writing for these three makes me ramble on and on.

Title: Drugged

Summary: At a party, someone spikes Bob’s drink with intent to hurt him, but thankfully the Anderson brothers rescue him in time. But as Odin tries to look after their confused, semi-conscious friend, Tor is more focused on hurting the man who drugged his bandmate.

Warnings: Non-consensual drug use, attempted rape, violence, recreational drug use.

Wordcount: 3.1k

Also written for @badthingshappenbingo. Prompt: Drugged

Fic is under the cut. Or you can read it on ao3 here!

When you’re absolutely off your head on speed, it’s very easy to lose track of your surroundings. That is Tor Anderson’s excuse for how he sees Balder and Odin one minute, only to turn around and realise he’s lost them. But they’re grown men who can look after themselves, so he tries to get back into dancing and flirting and contemplating smashing something at their latest afterparty.

Although he doesn’t have long to continue having fun, because his brother comes hurtling into the room, almost colliding with Tor as his balance fails him.

“Bro!” Odin says in his head, either for privacy or because nobody can fucking hear anything with the music so loud. “D’you know where Balder is?”

“Nope,” Tor replies. “Why?”

“I lost sight of him, and I didn’t wanna worry about him cos he can look after himself and all that, but I decided to peek into his mind just in case. And his thoughts are scrambled, bro. He doesn’t know where he is. And I think he’s scared. It’s fucking disturbing. There’s no way it’s from the speed. Unless he’s having an overdose.”

Tor’s stomach drops. He nearly had an overdose once, and only survived because Balder noticed and called an ambulance. So, the thought of the same thing happening to the man who saved his life makes Tor want to puke.

“Shit,” Tor says aloud. “Okay, let’s go look for him.”

As Odin rushes up the stairs, Tor heads out into the yard. Things are perhaps even more chaotic out here than inside, lots of people fucking and doing dangerous shit under the influence, but none of them are Bob Balder.

“Bro!” Odin yells in his head only a few seconds later. “Bro, get the fuck up here!”

Disturbed by the sheer anger and fear that radiated from his brother’s voice, Tor hurtles back inside and up the steps, taking them two at a time. As he reaches the top of the stairs, he hears voices from one of the bedrooms.

“I said get the fuck back!” Odin snarls.

“Hey, hey, this is all a big misunderstanding,” says a man whose name Tor can’t remember. He might be a member of their crew.

“No, it fucking isn’t! What the hell did you give him, you motherfucker?!”

Tor runs headlong into the room, stopping dead at the scene before him. Odin stands in the middle of the room with his back to the bed, hands held out like he’s ready to throw a punch. The man has stumbled backwards into the wall, blood leaking from his nose as he holds his hands up in surrender. And Balder… fuck, Balder sprawls on the bed, barely conscious, his eyes glassy as he watches them with a dazed expression. And his belt is unbuckled. Shit.

“What’s going on?” Tor says, even though his mind has already come to a horrible conclusion.

“Found this fucker on top of Bob,” Odin says, not taking his eyes off the man. “Trying to get his pants off. And given he looks like he’s dosed up on god-knows-what, it’s pretty obvious what happened.”

“I keep telling you, it’s not like that,” the man says. “We were just gonna fuck. Why don’t you mind your own business? Or d’you have a problem with men fucking?”

“Oh, you’re not gonna pull that card, asshole,” Odin snaps. “Look at him. He’s barely awake. There’s no way he wanted that. You wanted to rape him.”

For the first time, someone speaks the word that had been hanging in the air. And Tor already suspected that was the bastard’s intention, but after his brother said it, the whole thing feels so much more horribly real.

“You’ve got no fucking proof of that,” the man argues. And even if Bob wasn’t semi-conscious, Tor knows that’s a lie.

And he knows exactly how to prove it. As Odin sits down on the bed and starts trying to rouse Balder, Tor steps closer to the asshole and slips into his lying mind.

Instantly, thoughts begin to swirl around him, and Tor catches snippets of them.

“…Too nice. Too trusting. Never suspected a thing…”

“…An easy target…”

“…A little white pill…”

“…Why’d these assholes have to spoil my fun…?”

And as his anger builds and builds, Tor knows what he has to do.

“Bro, get Balder outta here,” Tor says in his brother’s head, clenching his hands into fists.

“Got it,” Odin replies.

And as he blocks the man from Bob, allowing his brother to throw Balder over his shoulder and drag him out of the room, Tor approaches the fucker who roofied and tried to assault his bandmate.

“I know exactly what you did,” Tor growls, “and what you wanted to do. There’s no point trying to deny it, asshole.”

And before the lying bastard can argue, Tor winds back a fist and punches him hard across the face. Luckily, Tor didn’t take off the rings he wore to perform, so he cuts a nasty gash in the bastard’s cheek. The man cries out in pain, staggering to the side, but he manages to stay on his feet.

“What the fuck?!” he says, blood pouring down his face.

He flings a punch at Tor’s face, but Tor deflects it easily with his arm—although he doesn’t see the follow-up attack coming. The man’s fist slams into his ribs, knocking the air from Tor’s lungs.

“Fuck…” Tor gasps, but he manages to grab a handful of the guy’s shirt.

And as the bastard tries and fails to get away, Tor winds back his fist and punches him in the jaw, so hard the man yelps and bloody spit begins to leak from the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck you!” Tor roars, punching again and again and again.

He doesn’t stop. Not when the man screams for help. Not when the guy’s legs give out and he collapses to the floor—instead, Tor just straddles his chest and continues punching. He doesn’t stop even when someone races into the room and yells for him to get off the man. Tor only stops when multiple people tackle him to the ground, pinning him down to stop him beating the now unconscious man to death.

He knows the police will probably get involved. He knows their manager will be pissed off if Tor causes another scandal. But he doesn’t care. All that matters is Balder is safe and Tor got to beat the shit out of the man who drugged him.

---

It’s honestly incredible how quickly their evening turned to shit. One minute, Odin was comfortably high and wondering if he should hook up with someone, and the next he read Balder’s mind in time to hear his confusion and terror and Odin stumbled upon someone trying to rape his drugged bandmate. He took a swing and broke the bastard’s nose, but Odin was more interested in keeping Bob safe. So, he left the fighting to Tor, and focused on calling 911 to take Bob to hospital.

As he waits for the ambulance, Odin sits with Bob in the living room, trying to focus on his friend over the haze of drugs. He managed to scare everyone into fucking off when he carried Balder into the room, so they sit in relative privacy in an eerily silent room after someone turned the music off. Balder lies slumped on his side, his head propped up on a cushion, breathing slowly and heavily as he struggles to keep his eyes open. At one point, he pukes, but Odin doesn’t care—this isn’t his house, after all. When Balder groans and whimpers, Odin puts his hand on his friend’s head, stroking his hair. It feels stupid, but having his hair petted sooths Odin, so maybe it’ll help Balder. Or perhaps Odin is just out of his fucking depth and doesn’t know what else to do.

Upstairs, the shouting gets louder, and more and more people rush up there to investigate. Hopefully someone will stop Tor before he kills the guy—not because Odin cares about the bastard, but because he’d rather not his brother go to jail for murder. After a lot more shouting, he hears someone yelling about calling the police, and then the noise stops. Well, it seems the situation has been resolved one way or another.

“Odin…” Balder mumbles, his voice slurred. “Wha’… what’s going on…?”

“You’re… you’re sick, man,” Odin lies. “Just stay awake for me, okay?”

“O-Okay,” Balder says. His belt is still unbuckled, a constant reminder of what Odin walked in on. “I… I don’t feel right…”

“Like I said, you’re sick. But an ambulance is gonna be here soon,” Odin says. He feels like a fucking coward for not telling Bob the truth, but he doesn’t know what to say. It’s honestly better that Bob doesn’t remember what happened to him, in Odin’s opinion.

But then Balder proves Odin wrong with a sentence that stabs Odin through the fucking heart. “He… he tried to…”

As an embarrassing lump lodges in his throat, Odin bites his lip. “I know, man. But he can’t hurt you anymore. Tor’s gonna make sure of that.”

And it might be because he’s on some unknown drug that has left him barely conscious, or simply because he doesn’t care what happens to a man who tried to sexually assault him, but Balder the pacifist doesn’t seem bothered by the implication Tor will kick the shit out of the man. Instead, Bob just mumbles, “Okay…”

He doesn’t want to leave his brother to what will probably end up with his arrest, but Odin also doesn’t want to leave Balder alone in this state. So, when the ambulance shows up, Odin hops in after Bob and keeps his friend company on the ride to the hospital, hoping his brother will be okay.

---

Bob’s memories of the last few hours are foggy. He remembers wandering off to get some air when the pills he’d taken started to make him feel a bit sick. He remembers some guy chatting to him. And then… then it gets fuzzy. He started to feel really, really sick, his head swimming as everything got wobbly. But couldn’t have been the booze or the speed that did it to him. He remembers the man offering to help, and Bob’s addled mind didn’t see the red flags. Bob thought the man would help him to the bathroom in case he puked… but then he was dragged into a bedroom. And pushed onto a bed. And kissed. And hands were on his waist, unbuckling his belt. He was so terrified, but everything was fuzzy and Bob couldn’t even remember to scream. And then Odin was there, and the man was gone and people were yelling, and then more yelling and Odin threw Bob over his shoulder and he thinks he passed out, and Tor was screaming and then Bob came to on the couch with Odin and he puked and he remembered hands on his body and he was so fucking scared… And Odin’s fingers were in his hair, soft and gentle, and he kept Bob company whilst they waited for an ambulance to show up.

He must have passed out again, because Bob’s next memory is waking up in the emergency room and a nurse taking a blood sample from his arm. Another gap in his memory, and then a doctor asking him to drink this disgusting black liquid that made Bob puke up what looked like squid ink. Which is exactly what Odin said, probably to make Bob laugh—and it worked, causing Bob to giggle even as he retched, whilst the doctor raised his eyebrows. He remembers asking Odin where Tor was, but Odin was purposefully vague. Bob wondered if Tor had been arrested but he was too busy puking to focus on it. He felt fucking dreadful, and kept mumbling apologies to Odin and the doctor for being disgusting and making a mess, dangerously close to tears (the drug just totally scrambled his brain, it seems), but the doctor just said he’d seen worse, whilst Odin rubbed circles against Bob’s back and reminded him that Bob had seen Odin puke before so he had no reason to be embarrassed (and that was when Odin threw up on Tor, which is far more embarrassing than accidentally missing a bowl on his lap).

For the first time in years, Bob finds himself wishing for his mother. But she’s all the way back in Washington, and he wouldn’t want to worry her by letting her see him like this. Still, he misses her cuddles. They always made him feel safe. And he wants to feel safe now, when the drug is messing with his head and he keeps thinking about lips against his own and hands on his belt and a horrifying voice whispering about “you don’t know how long I’ve waited to do this”, his breath hot in Bob’s ear. Just thinking about it nearly makes Bob puke again, even though his stomach is empty after throwing up the black stuff.

But he tries not to think about that, instead focusing on how the Anderson brothers saved him. They’re such good friends. And in this fragile state, his emotions going haywire after a traumatic event, Bob bursts into embarrassing tears and slumps against Odin, thanking him again and again.

---

The hospital decides to keep Balder in overnight for observation, and Odin is very pissed off that they won’t let him stay with his friend. So, he returns to the waiting room and calls their hotel on the payphone, hoping their manager can explain what happened to Tor. To avoid any unwanted publicity, their manager convinced Tor and that rapist fucker to not sue each other, leading to Tor walking away with just a slap on the wrist. Although that does mean that the fucker escaped without punishment (well, other than being beaten half to death by Tor Anderson), which he can guarantee Tor isn’t happy about. But their manager was insistent that his band weren’t getting themselves arrested mid-tour, so Tor didn’t have much choice in the matter. Odin is just amazed that Tor didn’t get arrested.

Honestly, he’s just grateful that things didn’t go worse than they did. Tonight could have ended with his brother going to jail for murder and poor Bob getting raped by that bastard. Of course, he doubts Bob will ever forget what he went through, but at least Odin got there before the creep could go further than fumbling to undo Bob’s pants. Although he dreads to think how long it would have taken them to find Balder if not for the Anderson power. Never has Odin been more grateful for his weird fucking power to read thoughts.

---

A couple of hours later, Tor shows up at the hospital, because Odin still refuses to leave the building even if they won’t let him see Balder. Tor drops into a seat beside Odin, resting his hands in his lap. Dark bruises pattern Tor’s knuckles, a reminder that he got into a violent fistfight to avenge Bob.

“How’s he doing?” Tor asks.

“Okay as he can, I think,” Odin says. “Doctor said it was… ketamine he got drugged with, a pretty high dose too. They’re keeping him in overnight, but the bastards won’t let me stay with him.” Affecting a mocking tone, Odin adds, “Oh, sorry, sir, it’s family only. Well, fuck you too, asshole.”

Tor snorts, but he smiles. “I’m glad he’s gonna be okay.”

“Me too… Anyway, how was your evening?” Odin asks.

Shrugging his shoulders, Tor says, “Meh. Not like I haven’t nearly been arrested before, bro.”

“That’s true. How’s the hand?”

“It fucking kills, but I don’t think anything’s broken.” Tor holds his hand out to Odin, allowing him a better look at the purple bruises spreading across his swollen knuckles. “But I don’t regret it.”

“I knew you wouldn’t.” Ever since they were kids, Tor has gotten violent to protect people he cares about. And he never apologises for injuring people who hurt his friends and family.

And Odin would never expect him to. As far as he’s concerned, that bastard got what was coming to him.

---

When Bob gets discharged from hospital the following morning, he still feels like shit. But the fog has lifted from his mind, allowing him to think clearly. His throat hurts from being sick and he’s got a nasty headache, worse than any hangover he’s experienced, but Bob will take both of those symptoms over how he felt last night.

He winds his way back to the emergency room, planning to use the payphone to call a taxi (or perhaps their manager to pick him up). But to his surprise, Tor and Odin sit in the emergency room, slumped in their chairs fast asleep, heads resting together. At least Tor being here means he wasn’t arrested. Bob’s stomach twists when he notices the nasty bruises on Tor’s hand, as he got those wounds attacking the man who drugged him. They look exhausted, and Bob suspects that they stayed here all night.

Bob almost doesn’t want to wake them, because they saved him last night and the least he could do is let them sleep. But they could have a much better nap back at their hotel. And Bob would rather get out of here after spending all night in hospital. So, he approaches his bandmates—his friends—and gives Odin a tap on the shoulder.

Odin startles awake, in turn jolting his brother into consciousness. They both stare at him with bleary eyes, scowling in confusion. But when Odin recognises him, a huge grin spreads across his sleepy face, and even Tor smiles.

“Balder!” Odin says, lunging forward to grab Bob by his upper arms. “You’re back, man!”

“Y-Yeah, I’m back,” Bob says, a little flustered by the attention. “Did you stay here all night?”

“Sure did. Did you think we’d fuck off back to the hotel and leave you alone? That’s not how we roll.”

“Good to see you looking better, Balder,” Tor says. Unlike Odin, who saw him in the ER when he was a bit more lucid, Tor last saw him when he was semi-conscious on the bed. So, there must a huge improvement in his appearance from Tor’s point of view.

“Still don’t feel great, to be honest,” Bob says, because there’s no point lying to these two (he’s convinced that they can read minds or something). “I wanna go crash in the hotel.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Tor says, giving him a thumbs-up.

“I’ll go call us a taxi,” Odin says, stumbling to his feet.

As Odin runs off to use the payphone, Bob sits down beside Tor.

“Did you hurt him badly?” he asks.

Tor smirks. “Sure I did. Gonna lecture me about violence, hippie-boy?”

“Nope. I was gonna say ‘thank you’,” Bob says, smiling.

And Tor laughs and pulls Bob into a careful headlock, ruffling his hair.

[darkfictionjude]

Yes, Hello, My name is Elder Grant and I’m here to ask if you have time today to speak about our lord and savior Nia—

In all seriousness, I’m just here to pop in with some Nia love. Mostly because it was getting me thinking, I believe you said at some point that sometimes Nia is hard to love, and it’s just been kinda slow table turning like a microwave plate in my head and part of thinks it’s by design (of also hers, not just yours). And then another part of me thinks it’s a conclusion she’s come to herself. And part of me wonders if she’s selfish in love because she kind of knows what it’s like already to have all of someone’s attention, and for it to be real attention. Not, attention for this sort of façade that she built (still very much her, but a her for the masses, a her that won’t get stained with any of their messy fake ideas of her), but attention on the most transparent version of her she’s ever been willing to show. She’s literally mc’s only friend, and perhaps it wasn’t normal attention, or maybe it didn’t seem like it was total the way someone else’s attention felt. But she has to know that it was as total as total can get, when mc who can’t be paid to remember normal shit about their family or their lives, and regularly forgets things that happen to them and that they’ve done has this little mental notebook with her name on it, just living rent free in their head. It’s been a year, a hellish year, mc can’t tell you shit about what Percy gets up to, only that it’s “Percy stuff” but mc can still clock a lot of her behavior. But only as they understand it, maybe not as it really stands. Part of me thinks, it doesn’t so much make her hard to love because as much as she might have double standards about certain things, it feels like her main focus is that reciprocal balance of selfishness and love in a relationship. She wants all that she can get for herself, and she wants to be held on that pedestal as well for like an mc in a relationship. But in a way, doesn’t that kind of mean that she does the same with mc (don’t get me wrong, I’m hardly saying Nia is the poster child of equality)? Like, wanting this from this mc more than she does from anyone else, doesn’t that also kind of put mc on this pedestal? Like finding someone you finally think is worthy of you almost? And doesn’t it make sense too kind of? (And don’t we kind of see a bit of that if mc runs after her?) And what does it say about her strength of emotion and the regard she holds mc in, that she isn’t afraid of them (and she’s certainly seen some shit) when mc’s own dad is? Mc will never be her meaning in life (and they shouldn’t be) but if Nia believed in that weird soul mate shit even a little, their probably as close as anyone will get. A, “I breathe with you, rather than for or because of you.” And I find that more compelling.

Like it feels like most of the relationships she has, the ones that aren’t her choice, are dictated by what they can do for other people more than for herself. She’s routinely told/talked to about how amazing and better she is, and how it will benefit other people and get her the things she wants. She’s got like a direct value type of interpretation for herself. If her presence is going to be used for the benefit of others, why shouldn’t she take them for all they have? And why wouldn’t she feel this desire to hoard as much genuine feeling as she can get from someone she respects and wants to be around? She’s spoken to by her parents like a living investment, a living legacy of them, not even of herself. Who wouldn’t want to be a little selfish faced with that?

(Lo siento por el ensayo, pero no porque Nia es un tesoro. Bien hecho con este. Cuídate prima 💛)

Damn this was a whole character analysis essay. You should’ve started this off with “in this essay I will”

Yeah to me Nia is the most mysterious of the ROs. You don’t get much from her, only through the lens of how mc interprets her words and actions. I think it’s an interesting interpretation to think that Nia holds mc on a pedestal, it could be so. Or it could be that Nia can’t love unselfishly. She was never taught and doesn’t want to learn. Like a succubus she wants every last drop without giving much away herself. Some people might say that isn’t love but I believe that if you’re a person who can feel romantic love, then it’s coloured by your personality. Love isn’t only pure, if it were we’d all be the same.

Gracias por tanto amor a esta que es más helada que un témpano de hielo 💜