#you don’t need to ADVERTISE your ignorance of things either

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

At a certain point blaming the school system for failing to teach you every fact becomes an excuse to absolve yourself from learning on your own time as an adult. Maybe you had bad teachers and curricula, maybe you never did the assigned reading, maybe you were taught propaganda, but it’s okay to start now. It’s okay to learn geography from online games. It’s okay to get entry level books from the library on a subject. It’s okay to explore Wikipedia and other reputable websites as a start. You can learn as an adult. You should continue learning as an adult.

[euphoriaslux]

two’s a party.

summary: you recently transferred to stanford, and decide to tutor a tennis player in your class. he has a friend. severe indecency ensues.

word count: 3.3k

warnings : smut, threesomes, f!oral receiving, swearing, smoking, drinking. slight cuck energy if you squint (i’m sorry ((no i’m not))). no challengers spoilers!

a/n: this fic got away from me big time but this movie has rotted my brain and as a result i have written utter debauchery that i will not apologize for. just had to get this out of my head, enjoy!

-

stanford science hall. monday , march 3.

You swear the last thing you’ll hear before your body is lowered into your grave is the process of lactic acid breakdown.

It’s 2:30 PM. Kinesiology 189 with Professor Wilson, a lanky middle-aged man with a PhD in exercise science and a half-grown beard that you don’t think will ever fully grow in, is almost over. He’s teaching Extended Studies of the Human Body in a humid classroom filled with student-athletes, most of whom are trying to stay awake, trying to hide that they’re taking a nap, or making no attempt to hide that they’re on their phones. You don’t really blame any of them, because the professor’s voice is so soft and monotone that it feels like he’s begging everyone to pay attention to anything but him. You’ve managed to stay somewhat on course with the thread of today’s lecture, the notebook in front of you filled with scribbles of incomplete molecular structures and somewhat legible drawings of the muscular anatomy of a hamstring.

This class is required for your biology major since you’re on a pre-medicine track. You don’t know why you’re doing it, the whole doctor thing, but you’ve developed a weird fixation for this class. The functionality of the body, how muscles stretch and tear with each movement, and how amino acids work to build them back even bigger.

And, possibly because of the tennis player who sits four rows ahead of you every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

His last name is Donaldson. You know because of the faded label on the massive bag he throws on the floor every time he walks into class, at least ten minutes late with a backward Stanford Tennis cap on his head. His first name remains a mystery, partly because he never talks in class, and mainly because you’ve made no attempt to speak to him. You like to think it’s because you’re so focused on the curriculum.

Professor Wilson knows your name, though, since you’re in his office hours every Thursday at 11 A.M. In part because he gives out most of the answers to his homework, and because you just transferred to Stanford your last year and very desperately need a letter of recommendation for medical school. Hence why you agreed to tutor a student with lower than 60% in the class during one of your meetings. And why everyone in the class was staring at you right now.

“... first come first serve, so reach out to her sooner rather than later.”

You give a tight-lipped smile, glancing around the room. Most people have looked away, back to their distraction of choice, but you meet eyes with the fluffy blonde-haired tennis player.

stanford library. wednesday, march fifth.

It’s 11 A.M., and you feel like your brain is about to explode if you look at another practice set.

“Hey”.

Your head whips around to the harsh whisper, only to be met with the blue-eyed mystery from your class. He has that large bag slung over his shoulder, with the end of a tennis racket peeking out of it. His hair is slightly stuck to his face, and his compression tee is slick to his chest like a second skin.

“Hi,” you whisper back. He smiles before tossing his bag on the floor and sitting in the chair across from you, either unaware of or completely ignoring the glares he’s receiving from the other students studying.

“You know,” he pulls out some kind of nutrition bar from his bag, unwrapping it and taking an aggressive bite, “for someone advertising their services, you’re pretty hard to find.”

“You’re in Mr. Wilson’s class, right?” you ask, hoping your subdued voice will remind him that he’s in a notoriously quiet place. He hums, pointing at you with his half-eaten snack.

“And I’m trying not to fail, but you didn’t leave your number anywhere in the classroom, and you bolt after every class. So how am I supposed to patronize your tutoring services…” he trails off, his volume the same level as when he walked in. You furrow your brows as he leans back into the chair.

“That’s when you say who you are.”

You feel a burn on the back of your neck as you tell him your name. He glances down towards the problem set you’ve nearly finished.

“How do you turn in any of those, I can’t get halfway through one of them.”

You pause for a moment before leaning slightly across the table to whisper:

“This new weird thing called studying. I think it just got approved by the CDC.”

“Very funny,” he shakes his head as reaches for your binder with your class schedule printed out on the front of it.

“Why are you taking so many bio classes?”

“Because I’m a biology major,” you can’t help the sarcasm dripping from your voice, and he looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry, you’re making this too easy for me,” you raise your hands in conceit.

“I have practice every day at five so you can tutor me for like an hour beforehand,” he says before standing up, crunching up the silver wrapper and stuffing it into the front pocket of his blue jeans. You scoff at his sentence.

“Well, thank you for so generously fitting me into your schedule,” you roll your eyes, turning the page in your textbook. He grins.

“Tell the coach you’re there for Art. They’ll let you through.”

stanford tennis courts. friday, march 7th.

It’s 4 PM, and the California sun is sweltering. Your shorts feel like they’ve become a part of your legs, and your bag feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. By the time you make it to the tennis courts Art is already on the green concrete, shirtless with beads of sweat dripping down his face and chest. You hear his grunts as he sprints across the court, hitting the ball toward a slightly taller brunette with dangerously short red shorts. You watch them at the entrance for a few minutes, slightly entranced as the two play so seamlessly, as if they know every move the other person is going to make. You force your eyes away as you walk up the bleachers, stepping over leftover water bottles and chip bags to sit down and grab your notes from your backpack. It takes a couple more minutes for Art to notice you, yelling your name after he turns around to grab a ball his partner had hit particularly hard. You wave, and he says something you can’t hear to the brunette before the two of them jog across the courts and up the stands to where you are, blocking the sun as the two stand side by side.

“Who’s your friend?” you ask as you stuff the problem set you were working on in between the pages of your notebook.

“I’m Patrick,” he says, with a toothy smile and his ears poking out from under his hair. He has a bit more of a boyish charm to him than Art does, whose eyes are glued to his brunette counterpart.

“Are you in Mr. Wilson’s class too?”

Patrick opens his mouth to answer but Art speaks first, slightly pushing his friend with his shoulder as he says “He doesn’t go to Stanford, too busy being a tennis pro.”

Patrick rolls his eyes but his smile doesn’t leave his face. You notice how different this Art feels from the one in the library, how direct his playfulness is and how close he and Patrick stand together, their sweaty torsos nearly melding together.

Interesting.

“Like, Andre Agassi level pro?” you smile as the two of them laugh. Patrick raises the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, and you can’t help but take a glance at the exposed skin just above his waistband.

“Sorry, he’s like the only tennis player I know.”

“No, no I’m taking that as a compliment that you think I’m on the level of Agassi. No takebacks if you see me play,” Patrick points at you.

“Will do,” you salute, turning over to Art.

“You ready to study?” you ask him as he makes a comically loud groan, his head falling back. Patrick laughs, reaching over to ruffle his friends hair.

“You do remember that’s why I’m here, right? Midterms are in two weeks.”

“I definitely have not forgotten that.” he says. You purse your lips just as Patrick’s eyes seem to light up.

“I’m staying at the Courtyard Hotel for the weekend. You two can come over and study, I need to review my last match anyway. Kill two birds with one stone,” Patrick suggests.

“Just studying?”

“Just studying,” Art says, wrapping his arm around his friend's shoulder. You glance between the two of them, trying to decipher the unspoken communication they seem to be doing. But you can’t crack it, so you shrug.

“Sure.”

“Let us finish this set, and then you’ll have me all to yourself. Sound fair?”

“Wow, what a privilege. Don’t take too long, it’s hell on Earth out here!” you yell the last part as Art jogs down the steps and back down towards the net. You look up once you realize that the sun is still being blocked, and Patrick is still standing in front of you.

“You ever play?” he grins, flipping the tennis racket in his hand.

“Tennis? God, no, that would not be a pretty sight. I’ll stick to what I’m good at,” you gesture to the books and notes in your lap. Patrick nods.

“If you ever want to learn, I could teach you sometime, you know if-” he’s cut off by Art yelling his name, and you both glance to see him with his hands on his hips.

“Go, don’t keep your boyfriend waiting,” you wave him off, and you swear you can see him blushing. Must have been the glare.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he runs toward Art.

courtyard hotel. saturday, march 8.

It’s 11 pm. There’s a cold shiver in the elevator as you wait to get to the fourth floor, your tennis shoes tapping against the floor as one hand plays with the handle of the pack of beer in your hand while the other crumples and re-crumples the piece of paper with the hotel room number Patrick scribbled on it.

what are you doing?

You don’t have time to think about the consequences of your actions as the robotic voice signals that you’re on the fourth floor, the elevator doors fluttering open. It’s like your feet have a mind of their own, as you find yourself almost mindlessly wandering through the hotel halls until you’re planted in front of room 4B. You raise your hand to knock on the door but before you can make contact with the wood it’s thrust open, and Patrick is standing behind it. His dark hair is slightly tousled around his face, his striped shirt unbuttoned and his black boxer briefs low on his waist. He’s smiling, that same big smile as before, but his face is a little flushed, a gentle pink hue touching his cheeks. The two of you don’t say anything for a few seconds, as if you were both testing to see who would concede first to acknowledge the other’s presence. You raise the pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in your right hand.

“I brought studying fuel.”

You were never good at waiting.

Patrick laughs before he moves slightly out of the way to allow you to walk into his room. It’s small, with a queen-sized bed and a tiny desk, and the A/C emits an odd rumbling sound as it smacks against the window. Clothes and scorecards are strewn across the floor, and the scent of cigarettes permeates the room. You place the alcohol on the floor before deciding to sit on the bed, kicking off your shoes as you cross your legs. Patrick seems to stall for a moment, smiling to himself before closing the door behind him. He doesn’t lock the door, but you didn’t notice.

“Art’s not here yet?” you ask, watching as Patrick walks over and tears open the cardboard case, cracking open a can. Taking a sip, he leans against the desk as he smiles.

“Art can be bad with time.”

“As I’ve noticed,” you reach your hand out to motion towards the drink and Patrick hands it to you, staring as you take a large sip.

“Well,” you wipe the side of your mouth, “I told him to bring the topics he wanted to study, so I guess we can’t do anything until he gets here.”

Patrick nods with a slight pout, his fingers playing with the pop tab of the can. “I guess we can’t.”

“How’s tennis… stuff,” you laugh as you finish the question, not sure of exactly what to say.

Patrick seems to tense a little at the mention of the sport, moving over to sit next to you on the bed. His knee grazes your leg and you feel a slight buzz at the contact as he takes the beer from your hand.

“I’m kinda fucking it up right now,” he says, and you furrow your brows.

“How? You were like, really good yesterday.”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. He hands you the beer and you finish it off, placing the empty can at the bottom of your feet.

“I’m good with Art. It feels so fucking natural and easy with him. But in my other matches, I don’t know. I just … can’t replicate it.”

You nudge him with your leg.

“Sounds like you two were made to play tennis together.”

He makes a noise of agreement, his hands slowly moving to ghost over your thigh.

“You and Art are pretty close?” you ask as he plays with the bottom hem of your shorts, but he doesn’t say anything. You take his silence as a yes.

“Do you ever get jealous?”

“Of Art?” he asks, almost incredulously. You shrug.

“Yeah, or jealous of the girls he’s with. Either or.”

Patrick sits on that for a few moments before smirking.

“What’s mine is mine, and what’s his is mine.”

You laugh at that, a real deep laugh, and Patrick giggles next to you, the both of you tipsy from the can of beer you finished. You reach over and put your hand on his flushed face, rubbing your hand across his cheek.

“What were you doing before I came?” you feel his face warm even more against your skin as you position yourself closer to him.

“Practicing- or, sorry, rereading my scorecards from my last match.”

You tutted as you moved your hand to the back of his neck, gently running your hands through his hair.

“You can tell me the truth, Patrick.”

He turns his head to press a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand before looking up at you as if to check if that was too much. Whatever your expression is gives him the confidence to move down to your neck, his tongue licking your skin.

“I think you know.”

You feel a pull in your lower stomach at his words, muffled by his mouth nipping at the sensitive spot just below your ear, and he sucks hard enough for you to put your hand around on his face at the pressure. Pulling his face up, the two of you stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and his eyes glance toward your lips. You wanted to wait, to make him beg and plead for it, but your body seemingly pulled you forward as your pressed your mouth onto his.

You were really quite bad at waiting.

He tastes like tobacco and faintly of the fruit medley in the dining hall, and you sigh as his lips interlock with yours and his hand grabs the back of your neck, pressing you into him. The kiss gets messy and hard, his tongue gliding over your bottom lip and into your mouth as you lift your leg to straddle Patrick, grinding into him. He whimpers into the kiss as his calloused hands drop down to the waistband of your shorts, hesitating for a moment before dropping his hand into your underwear. You grind just a little bit faster as his fingers press circles into your clit, covering your mouth with your hand as you moan.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as he uses his other hand to guide your hips, and your move your hands down to tug firmly on his hair. You can feel your climax building, the pressure in your stomach getting closer and closer to taking you over the edge-

You both jump at the sound of the hotel room dor slamming shut. Art is standing there, in that damn backward cap and a Stanford tee shirt as he crosses his arms over his chest, saying nothing as you and Patrick sit up straight, him adjusting his crotch and you smooth down your shirt, avoiding his gaze. Finally, the silence is broken by Art laughing.

“Christ, I’m not the cops,” he slips out of his slides as he waltzes over and opens a can of beer, drinking about half of it in one go. You look at him, and at Patrick, and then back at him, not knowing what the hell you just got yourself into.

“You want to fuck him right?” Art asks, and you can’t help your small gasp at how easily he said that. You glance at Patrick, hoping he’ll know what to say, but he’s just staring at Art.

“I-um,”

“So, no one’s stopping you,” Art cuts you off, taking a final swig of his beer and moving to stand directly in front of you. You open your mouth to try and explain, but before you can talk Patrick’s mouth is on yours again, his hand roaming your body. His grip is firmer now, his fingertips digging into the side of your stomach. He tugs at the bottom of your shirt and you separate, breathless as you pull your shirt over your head and toss it on the floor. Patrick’s mouth moves down to your neck, then your collarbones, and then your chest as he reaches around to take of your bra, and you feel on fire from Art’s gaze across the room. As Patrick kisses down your stomach and yanks down your shorts, you turn over to meet Art’s eyes.

“Come here.”

Whatever resolve Art was holding onto crumbles as he quickly takes off his shirt and slips out of his Nike shorts, tossing his hat on the dresser. In a flash Art’s hands are on your neck, tilting your head around to kiss you as Patrick lifts up your hips so he can take off your underwear. Art’s lips are softer than Patrick’s but he kisses you a little bit harder, his hand cupping the base of your neck. Somehow, they both taste the same. You moan into Art’s mouth as you feel Patrick’s tongue swirl around your clit, rolling your hips into his mouth as Art’s cock presses into your back. It’s just so much so fast, and that familiar buzz starts to pool in your lower stomach.

“Look at him,” Art turns your head to Patrick and you look into his eyes as you cum, Art’s hands hold your head forward as a wave of euphoria crashes over you. Patrick’s hands are digging into your hips as he stares up at you and Art. Your chest heaves up and down as you try to catch your breath, leaning against Art as Patrick leans back up, his mouth a few inches from yours.

“Who do you want first?

[loveandmurders]

Hello🖤

If you're accepting requests i may have a fun idea. I've had this scenario in my head for a while but dont have the writing skills for it.

So basically billy, stu and reader (all three were ghostface) escaped from the police and while on the run (let's ignore geography for this) they come across a kind (but a bit strange) man who carries roadkill on the back of his truck and he kindly gives them a ride to the nearest town - Ambrose. Slasher shenanigans ensue

The reader can be gn, the gender doesnt really matter. You can choose if you want to write a blurb, headcannon and stuff

Im sorry if this too much to ask and you can tottaly ignore this

Hello, love sorry it took me so long to get to your request, but here you are! Hope you'll enjoy <3

SOME INTERESTING HOLIDAYS (Ghostface x GN!reader)

Warnings: no proof reading, mentions of sexual activities, of blood and violence

-You hadn’t thought things would go so out of hand. But now the more you thought about it, the more obvious it was that your plan wasn’t a flawless one… you actually forgot the essential (like in most horror movies): a good ending - especially for the killers.

-You killed everyone - no final girl for once.

-And your two lovers would have enjoyed playing with you in the blood of their victims and glory of the victory, but you quickly realised you had to leave before the cops could find you.

-So here you were, with your two lovers - Billy and Stu - running away as far as possible and as quick as possible from Woodsboro.

-Billy was a little bit annoyed he was forced to leave the city. He hadn’t really thought of the consequences of all of this, and maybe it was also why he was feeling so upset. He was supposed to be a mastermind.

-Stu was laughing, he was so proud of what happened and adrenaline was still pumping into his veins. His hands were happily roaming your body as Billy was driving.

-As long as your boys were safe, you were happy too. You kissed Stu with fierce passion until you heard Billy groan.

-You sent him a little look, quite curious about why he was so grumpy now. “Don’t distract me” Billy finally said and both Stu and yourself started to laugh and to tease him.

-Your life was a dangerous one and you didn’t even know what you were going to do with yourself now, but as long as you were all together, you didn’t really care.

-The three of you drove for days and weeks; you were starting to get bored actually, and there was no plan on when to stop or even where. Until you saw some advertisements for a “House of Wax”.

-Billy didn’t want to stop for this but you whined so much - and Stu supported you - so he finally gave in. He rolled his eyes and reminded the two of you you were children.

-It was then you met a truck on the other side of the road. The driver stopped at your level and lowered down his window “All good?” he asked you in a very heavy southern accent. You peered into the truck and could see roadkills, but the man looked sweet.

-You knew you all looked innocent as well though; so you knew better than to judge a book by its cover.

-Billy explained to the man that you were on holiday and you wanted to visit the House of Wax since you saw the advertisements. He also asked if there was a motel nearby. 

-The man - Lester - said there was no motel near the House of Wax, that you would need to go into another town for that. However, the museum was a really interesting place. It appeared that his late mother and brother were taking care of it.

-You all politely thanked Lester and agreed to follow behind his truck to not get lost on the roads. The man was nice but you all felt something was… amiss.

-When you arrived in Ambrose, you all exchanged a look.

-“If that’s not a killer on the run dream…” Billy muttered as he looked around “No one could find us here” he continued.

-“But there is no motel around either.” you hummed “And it really looks… deserted. I didn’t even see Ambrose on the plans when we looked at the last gas station.” you added “How could people still live here?”

-“Well you'll quickly know it, because we’ll try to stay here, at least for a little while. No one can find us.” Billy replied and you pouted.

-“We’ll get bored here” you whined but the boys gave you a look full of promise; how could you get bored when they were around?

-You all got out of the car and thanked Lester again. He also introduced you to his big brother, Bo.

-Bo instantly watched you all with great interest. You were young, you were hot and he was certain you would all look amazing in the House of Wax.

-No need to say that the twins were very surprised about how good you were when they tried to kill you, and that you were now the ones trying to kill them. With Lester, you were clearly on equal strength.

-You had discovered that the town was empty apart from the Sinclairs and the wax statues and you started to understand that it was like a massive deadly trap. But you were good with your knives and you actually were crazy enough to enjoy it. It was like a workout for the three of you.

-At some point, you managed to jump on Vincent and to put a knife under his chin. Bo aimed at you, Billy aimed at Bo with a gun he found and Stu blocked Lester from coming closer.

-“Alright, alright, how ‘bout we talk ‘bout this?” Bo finally offered. He noticed that Vincent didn’t try to get away from you, so it meant his twin could tell you would slice his throat open if he tried anything.

-“You’re the ones who attacked us” Billy argued back.

-“Is it like a playground for killers?” you hummed and Stu smirked.

-“Who the fuck are ya?” Lester frowned.

-“Who we are doesn’t matter, what matters is that we are killers. Just like you. But right now, Y/N is the best of us and they are going to kill your brother if you don’t let us go” Billy replied and you looked up at Bo with a dark smile, drawing a little bit of blood from Vincent.

-Bo instantly lowered his gun, put it on the ground and Lester moved away a little as well. They both put their hands up. You exchanged a look with Billy and Stu before moving from Vincent. You were all facing each other now, wondering what to do next.

-The Sinclairs had never met people like them, especially not people so brutal, so smart and so dangerous than you all. They felt curiosity, even more when Billy wrapped an arm around your waist and you moved your head on Stu’s shoulder. You looked like the lovers of Death. So young and so good looking, and yet so deadly.

-“Ya’re on the run” Bo hummed “And ya were lookin’ for somewhere to stay” he guessed. Vincent signed something to his brothers. Lester didn’t seem too happy about it and Bo thought his twin was losing it.

-“What did he say?” you asked with an arched eyebrow. No one answered you and it annoyed the boys “They asked you a question” Billy growled.

-“Vincent’s invitin’ ya over… he’s really interested in ya’ll” Bo finally replied.

-You were always the one enjoying playing with fire the more so you quickly moved closer and shook hands with Vincent.

-“I’d like that. I’m Y/N, nice to meet you, I guess” you smirked.

-Vincent and you got along pretty instantly, even though you didn’t know ASL. He wrote to you so you could communicate. Your shared love for knives helped a lot as a discussion starter. And then, your love to sneak around and kill people. And then, your love for every kind of art. You wanted to hide in Ambrose now and Vincent was more than eager to welcome you here. It would be nice to have people around who were understanding his way of life. And there were so many houses that could be your new home, at least for as long as you needed to hide away.

-Bo and Billy weren’t too happy about it, because it wasn’t part of the plan, because they couldn’t trust anyone, because they would need to be even more careful than usual so their favourite people wouldn’t get hurt.

-Stu was happy if you were happy, even if he was a little bit jealous of the attention you were giving to Vincent, at first. So he joined the two of you in your conversation, and he actually started to have fun as well. Lester noticed how Vincent seemed to be relaxed and it warmed his heart. It never happened before that his brother was so at ease around strangers.

-You all ate together in Sinclair's house. Bo stayed quite silent, observing you all, just like Billy. At some point, he asked: “So what, ya ain’t surprised my brother’s wearin’ a mask?” he asked. He just wanted for you to say something that would upset Vincent so they would kill you all in your sleep.

-But the three of you just shrugged “You’re kidding, masks are super cool. We’ll show you ours tomorrow” you smiled and the boys nodded “What’s a killer without a mask anyway?” Billy agreed “It’s classic horror” he added “Yeah so lame of you, Bo, to not wear any mask, by the way. You could have been the masked twins, ugh such a missed opportunity” Stu continued.

-Lester started to laugh and he thought he quite liked you all. You were some fresh air in Ambrose, fun and crazy. He knew it was the beginning of a new era for his family.

-Bo was bewildered but he guessed you weren’t so bad then. You had been polite with Lester and you weren’t judging his twin, so you could stay. Maybe he would even learn to love you.

-Vincent was eager to keep you all in Ambrose, forever. Maybe you could even help the Sinclairs build the future. You were going to be part of the family, he could feel it because you were different from usual people.

-You were monsters, too.

[billlydear]

SUPERNOVA - BILLY HARGROVE X READER (PART ONE)

word count: 3135 // masterlist | inbox (please request) | WIP list

Summary: max's english tutor has a black eye and a shitty alibi. billy sees right through it.

Contents/Warnings: fem!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual happy ending, mentions of abuse, injuries mentioned (black eye), reader is abused by her mother just like billy is by his father

A/N: thank you for 300 followers!!! have this as a little gift from me to you <3 basic biology part three is in the works, don't worry! i just wrote this in a fit of sleep deprived passion the other night after thinking about it for a week or so and i wanted to share :) i hope you enjoy! the ending of this is pretty straightforward and, though i plan to write more parts, this can be read on its own for now.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)

There’s never a good reason for Max to stomp into Billy’s room. It’s always either her demanding a ride somewhere, asking for money, or shouting at him to turn his music down. This time, though, there’s no music playing, and it’s nearing 11:00 PM, so he’s not sure why she’d need money or a ride.

He glances up at her, really more of a glare, through his eyelashes, reclined against the wall as he lounges on his bed. He’s got a magazine in hand and the pages are as boring as the cover was, but he’d rather stare at faded jet ski advertisements than read the book he’s supposed to be working on for English.

She stops just inside the doorway, jacket on and shoes laced. He narrows his eyes at her, something of a question, and she sounds just as venomous as he looks when she replies.

“I need to borrow your window.” She mutters, piercing eyes set on him.

He’s heard her say a lot of weird things since they started living together. Mom, I can’t find my left rollerskate, Why is my bra in the freezer?, and We’re not going in the theater, we’re going to sit outside and talk, have previously topped the list but this is off the charts.

“Sure, Max,” He drawls, fingers tightening against the waxy magazine paper, “Just haul it back in here when you’re done, okay?”

“You know what I mean,” She huffs, already lunging for his bed. She practically topples him in her overzealous attempt to reach the window, and he shoots a hand out to steady himself as the mattress rocks. He has half a mind to kick her onto the floor but he watches her click a flashlight open from her jacket pocket, and stares with suspicious intrigue instead.

“Come on, come on,” She huffs, clicking the light on, off, on, off, “Where is she?”

“Who?” Billy leans forwards, peering out the window into the blackened neighborhood, “Jesus, Max, don’t go shining lights into people’s windows at night, they’ll think you’re some creep trying to watch them change.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you know that from experience,” She grumbles, shoving his hand away when he tries grabbing the light.

“I’m not kidding,” Billy seethes, muscled arm coming to combat her defenses, nearly shoving her off of the end of the bed, “What are you even trying to do, anyways?”

“I’m trying to talk to my tutor,” She snaps, landing a sharp slap to his thigh that reddens the skin there, “Butt out, butthead.”

“Assface,” Billy grumbles, rubbing at the tender spot on his leg with half a mind to whack her upside the head. She ignores him completely, desperately flicking the light at a ground floor window.

“Do you really need tutoring help now?” Billy groans, the incessant clicking preventing him from what was supposed to be his before-bed relaxation.

“She wasn’t at school today,” Max explains in a huff, “Or- like, she didn’t show up at my school. She called this morning to say she was sick, but she sounded fine, and I heard someone in the parking lot say that they saw her outside her house, just sitting there, like, really late last night.”

“So she was getting some fresh air,” Billy deadpans, “Now get out of my room.”

“Would it kill you to cooperate?” Max turns to him with such a judgemental stare that Billy’s surprised he doesn’t wither away right on the spot. Hell hath no fury like a teenage girl scorned, he thinks, annoyance bubbling in his chest.

“She’s obviously not coming,” Billy reasons, his patience wearing thin after almost two minutes of flashlight nonsense, “She’s probably sleeping. She’s got the flu or something, and you’re gonna wake her up and make her even more sick. Just leave her alone, and leave me alone.”

“I’m not asking you to be a part of this!” She gushes, jaw set in a hard frown and eyes rolling when he props his elbow up on the windowsill, cheek smushed into a bored expression against his palm.

“I just want to see if she’s okay, because she doesn’t normally get sick, and I haven’t seen her window open all day, and I really think that something might be wrong, so-”

After a staggering two minutes and forty-six seconds of morse code from hell, your curtains part. Max practically lights up at the sliver of light that appears between the drapes, but when your face pops between it, her breath hitches in a gasp.

Your eye is bruised. It’s swollen shut and purple, an ugly stain that blooms down your cheek, like a rose that sticks its thorns straight into Billy’s chest. His posture, previously saggy and bored, stiffens until he’s nearly pressed against the glass, brows furrowed in horror as his lips part ever-so-slightly.

“Oh my god,” Max breathes, and you regard them both with a weary gaze.

Max lifts the lower half of Billy’s window, slipping out the gap with such agility and speed that Billy doesn’t have a chance to try to stop her before she’s already outside. He rushes to follow her, cringing as his bare feet land in damp piles of leaves.

“What happened to you?” Max runs to your window, bracing her hands on the sill.

“Nothing,” You try to smile, and it pulls at the skin around your eye, finishing the expression off with a wince, “I just- it’s silly, okay? I slipped and fell on the ice out front and I hit the stair rail on the way down. I was too embarrassed to go to school, ‘cause I knew everyone would ask, so I just called out sick. I’m sorry, Max, I know today was our day, but I’ll do double time once this heals.”

The more you ramble, the quicker you spew your pre-determined speech, the more the thorns lodge themselves in Billy’s gut. It’s familiar behavior, having an outlandish excuse at your disposal, reciting it like poetry, blaming the bruises on a misstep down the stairs rather than a rage-fueled fist. He’s done the same to countless teachers, all staring down at him with a condescending sneer, assuming he’d instigated another fight.

Max might not be well acquainted with different types of bruises - and god he hopes she never has to be - but Billy certainly is. And your black eye is not from a stair railing, he knows that. It looks the same as his does whenever Neil decides he’s in a fighting mood, and it doesn’t seem like you have the frozen peas that Billy usually medicates his marks with.

“It’s okay!” Max promises, and thankfully she commands enough of your attention to where you don’t notice Billy’s grief-stricken stare, looking for all the world like he’d been punched in the gut.

‘It’s okay, we can just meet up some other time. Or- or I can come over to your house! So you don’t have to show your face anywhere. And I won’t tell,” She insists, hands dug snugly into the pockets of her jacket, “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

So are you, Billy notes, just not to the people with the same ones.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” You frown slightly, biting the inside of your cheek, “This really hurts, and it’s kind of giving me a headache, so… might be best to just meet when it’s healed.”

“That’s fine,” Max nods, reaching up and through the window to sling her arms around your neck in a rushed hug, “Just- call me when it’s better, okay? My teacher set us this new essay, and it’s got some stupidly complicated prompt, so I need your help figuring out-”

Billy watches as your head ticks up, eyes widening slightly as you tune into the sounds of your house. He knows the look all too well, you’ve heard someone coming.

“That’s great Max,” You stammer, reaching for the window pane to close it, "I’ve gotta go!”

“-how to… write it.” She finishes, face wrinkling in confusion when you slam the window shut, yanking the curtains closed, “Feel better…”

“Go,” Billy jumps to action, hearing a raised voice from within your room, not your own, “Max, move!”

He pushes her along the side of their house, shoving her around the back until they’re out of the line of sight from your window. He peers around the corner from behind an overgrown trellis, one that lets him see you without you seeing him. He waits with bated breath, ignoring Max’s indignant protests and slamming a hand over her mouth.

She licks his palm, but he manages to stay calm and keep it there. He will smear it on her cheek later, though.

Sure enough, Billy watches your curtains fly open. There’s a woman in the window now, and you’re standing behind her, expression unreadable. Then you speak, and Billy can’t hear it. Your voice must be soft, gentle, calming. The woman barrely reacts, eyes scanning wildly for whoever you’d been talking to. But Billy keeps Max quiet, pinching her hard when she tries escaping his grip.

Billy watches the woman in your window with a hatred he’s only ever felt towards Neil. She acts the same, menacing glares and a puffed-up chest. You react just as he does, a personified tension-diffuser as you shrink in on yourself and give steady, slow answers. She’s shouting, you’re mumbling. She’s advancing, you’re backing away. She’s grabbing your wrist, forcing you close to her, and you’re squeezing your eyes shut.

Billy’s stomach churns; he can’t watch this any longer.

He herds Max to the other side of the house, keeps her restrained with one hand and pries at her window with the other. It opens smooth and easy, no squeaking that would alert their parents to their escapade.

Once they’re both inside, she flips.

“You asshole,” She huffs, “You manhandled me! You really couldn’t just let me have one nice conversation with my friend? You had to yank me away like some psychopath?”

“She wasn’t going to come back,” Billy murmurs, a glint in his eyes urging her to lower her own voice, “And she didn’t fall down the stairs. Go to sleep, Max.”

He feels a pillow hit him in the back as he strides out of her room, and each step down the hallway towards his own feels like he’s numbing from the inside out. The role reversal of his own life had been so mind-shattering, watching a scene from his household happen in real time in front of him instead of a torturous memory in his nightmares.

By the time he reaches his room, his fingers are too numb to shut the door. He kicks it closed instead, staring out of the still-opened window to watch your own. The curtains are drawn again, shutting you off from the world.

He stands there staring for what feels like seconds, but is probably minutes with the way his brain is warping his thoughts. Abuse felt so lonely, it was a soundproof room with padded walls, but they stung like hot coals when his dad came stomping in to shove him up against them. His family, his safe space, his padded room, came with the irony of only existing alongside pain, fear, and anxiety. And knowing there was an identical room beside his for god knows how long, thick layers of insulation drowning out each of your cries and blocking out each other’s existence, makes him sick.

His eye stings with the residual image of your own, a feeling he knows all too well. His hand, on instinct, tingles with a cold sort of sensation, the same that he got from grabbing the ice-covered peas out of the freezer.

He’s off to the kitchen in a hurry, feet padding carefully across the floor so as not to alert anyone of his presence. The biggest challenge is opening the freezer door quietly, but he’s a pro at it by now. He takes the peas back to his room, but this time he doesn’t curl up in his bed with them pressed to his eye, he clutches them tightly and heads for the window.

Max’s flashlight is discarded on the sill, and he wraps it in his free fist. He clicks it on cautiously, testing the sound to see how it echoes in the empty space between your house and his. It’s not obnoxiously loud, hopefully no one can hear it.

He flashes it against your window, only for a second, then ducks beneath the sill. He waits, expecting an explosion of sound as your mother reaches out to grab him. But nothing happens, so he straightens up to his full height. The wind nips at his bare arms, goosebumps erupting over the skin not covered by his muscle tank. He waves the flashlight once more at your window, covering it with his thumb to flash it instead of clicking the button rapidly. 

He hears shuffling from inside, then silence. Then shuffling again, a little closer, and silence. Then more shuffling, and the routine continues until he hears your fingers scrape at the window pane.

You duck under the curtains this time, easier to slip back inside and shut the window instead of drawing the curtains, “Max, I can’t-”

Billy doesn’t know what to say when your eye catches him. He blinks, once, twice, three times, watching as your anxious eyes rove over him. Only then does he register the chill in his hand, the peas.

“Here,” He murmurs, voice soft and slightly raspy, as he holds the package out to you, “Ten minutes, then turn the package around, then ten more minutes. And if it’s still icy, do it over again.”

You take the peas because you have to, because he’s pressing the cold package into your hand. Your fingers wrap around it and you peer curiously at the image on the front, only glancing back up at him when he shifts in his stance, leaves crushed beneath his feet.

“The package rustles,” He warns you, “Be careful. Don’t get caught.”

“I won’t,” You finally murmur, breaking your stunned silence, “I- Uh, thank you. It’s.. Billy, right?”

“Yeah,” He breathes, nodding once. He’s half aware that his curls aren’t exactly perfect like they typically are, because nodding sends one of them tumbling into his eyesight over his forehead, “That’s me.”

“Y/N,” You mumble, and this time even Billy hears the heavy footfalls in your hallway. They set you on edge again, and he yanks his fingers back from the windowsill so that you can snap it shut, “I gotta go.”

“Bye,” He whispers, voice lost to the night as he stands outside your window. He ducks beneath the sill again, where your mom can’t see him if she decides to search the premises. He doesn’t hear anything from your room, though, and he takes it as a good sign when the footsteps retreat. Then he hears the soft crunch of the package of peas, muffled beneath what he assumes is your blanket as bed springs creak from within.

His eyes snap shut at the sound, envisioning you curled up beneath your comforter, hugging the bag of peas to your bruise. It’s a position that feels so natural to him he almost replicates it, back slumped against the siding of your house. The rustling stops; you got yourself settled.

Only then does he move, climbing back through his window and shutting it for the night. He can’t sleep, though, eyes drifting towards your window from his seat on his bed. He watches, he waits, he stares until his eyes sting, every second that passes a blessing for the lack of commotion it causes. When he does fall asleep it’s after the upstairs lights of your house have shut off, because only then is it over, only then is it safe. He sleeps in solidarity with you, knowing that the click of the lightswitch puts you at ease just like it does him; if there's someone else awake, it’s not safe to sleep. He’ll wake up tomorrow morning with a stiff neck from sleeping up against the wall, but his eyes will flutter open and the first thing he’ll see is your window, hopefully open to showcase peace inside.

Never in his life has he felt connected to someone his age. That’s what abuse does, that’s what Neil does. He isolates Billy, keeping him under his thumb so the boy can’t escape his clutches. But now there’s a glimmer of hope right next door. Hope, he supposes, isn’t the right word. A muddy black eye isn’t hopeful. It is, though, when it’s matching his own, when your scars and bruises line up with each other’s to map out constellations of torture. He wants to chart them, find out where the patterns are, spit out the stories behind them.

He’s spent enough time stargazing his own past, picking a new ball of fire each night to examine. To pick apart, to wish he’d have acted differently in, to regret. Now there’s a whole other sky mere feet away from him, and he yearns to chart it, to explore its patterns in the desperate hope of finding companionship. Oh, that cluster? A missed curfew. That bright one? Backtalk.

He’s always felt like a potential supernova. Like one day, all of the hurt, rage, and despair inside of him is going to burst forth in an explosion of color, blood and guts paired with anguish and heartache. 

And now, knowing there’s another ticking time bomb beside him, two panes of glass separating the two dying stars, he has hope. Maybe it’s morbid, to want to explode in tandem. To seek connection in even destruction. All Billy knows is that if he can’t get out, he’ll die.

He thinks about it for a moment; getting out. Shooting across the galaxy, hurtling over the inky black sky until the swirling black hole that is Neil Hargrove can’t suck him in anymore. Landing somewhere where he burns bright without the threat of explosion. 

And for the first time since that vision began, he sees two stars. One yours and one his, twin flames, both rocketing towards a safe corner of the universe, one where no one else can dim your glow. 

Billy knows right then and there, he has to get to know you. He’s never tried making real friends, never wants to get close enough to have to reveal that Daddy hits him and Mommy - New Mommy - doesn’t care. But you’re the same as him, a dimming star puttering along with the desperate hope of migrating instead of exploding. And if you can feed off of each other’s light, merge into one, he knows you’ll be strong enough to escape together, to go out without a bang.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)

[alexa-fika]

Chilly Prisioner ( Kuzan x Hellhound!gn!Reader)

A/N Here we are with another dark ish one, and first one with out freeze lord, I already have a part two maybeee a part three? I just have to exit them, depending on how you guys like it ill speed those up.

Part 2

This is a testrun on a hybrid oc with reader? ‘Reader’ is replaced with Dokusha here wich stands for Reader in japanese, let me know your thoughts on it afterwards, just trying new things and maybe finding a balance for including both Oc and reader without leaning too far in either direction but I also don’t want to like you know try that and fail at appealing to both so let me know, though that begs the question what should I advertise it at, eg, Kuzan x reader or Kuzan x oc?

Dividers by @/saradika

They roll their eyes, watching as Kuzan enters the Ship’s dungeon, approaching the cell where they were held and dropping himself to the ground in a lazy manner

“What do you want? I told that captain of yours already I have no intention of helping you and your rag-tag group of idiots

“Ara, Ara, are all hellhounds this uptight? I don't care about that. I'm not here to talk business; I'm just here cause I have nothing else to do right now. I just wanna chill and chat a bit."

They scoff

“You can’t stay silent forever. Besides, isn’t talking to me better than just sitting in a dark dungeon and doing nothing?”

They look away from him, ignoring him entirely

“Fine, if you wanna sulk, I’ll just sit here and relax.

“I’ve got nowhere to go, nothing to do. So I don’t mind just sitting here for as long as I need to. I can just wait for you to get bored of your grudge and start talking to me like a normal person.” they glance at Dokusha for a while

“Hellhounds are supposed to be resistant to fire, right?”

They glance at them for a second at his words but look away quickly, returning to ignoring him, hoping he will eventually give up

“Wonder how you would fare with the cold?” he stated

They wince as the room’s temperature quickly drops as ice begins covering the cell

“Hm, pretty sensitive, it seems,” he mumbled.

He then stood up and got up close to the cell bars.”

“You know, I’m kinda wondering what are you so sour about?”

They glare up at him, trying to keep their flaming ears and tail out of the ice

“you kidnapped me for no clear reason, you threw me in a cell and drugged me so I can’t use my fire at all, and now you're trying to freeze me to force me to talk to you because you ‘are bored,’ so you tell me Kuzan.”

“Hm, you’re quite feisty, aren’t you.”It was mean what you did, trying to set the entire ship on fire; I had to take some measures to keep you in check. Besides, you have a pretty dangerous power; it should be evident that we can’t just let you out to roam freely.” he stated, glancing at the shivering hellhound

“It was self defense” they growl

“You know, I’m not going to let you go. Even if I have to freeze you entirely, so you can either start talking right now, and I’ll lower my guard a bit. Or you can continue to sulk, and I’ll just freeze this cell completely. Your choice, really.” He tells them ignoring their outburst

They start inching backward as the ice begins approaching them, chills running down their skin

His eyes narrow as he watches them inching backward.

“The cold getting to you?”

Another gust of cold air surrounds them as the frost grows closer, almost touching their skin.

“You know I can easily unfreeze people, but I wonder if that's the case here; seeing how you’re trying so hard to protect those flames of yours, im guessing it’s game over for you if I put your fire out, so I would reconsider your choice and soon”

They growl, making their flames bigger, attempting to ward off the ice, a panicked look growing on their face as the flame flickered until only small flames remained

“The drugs I gave you are pretty potent; I would like to see you maintain those flames.”

His hands spread, and the air got colder, the frost growing faster now.

“So… are you ready to talk now?”

“Don’t you have anything you should be doing?”

“Nah, I told you, I have nothing to do now. So I’m just chilling here.”

His tone is laid back as if nothing is a problem

“Besides, the way I see it, I’m doing a nice thing and keeping you company. I’ve been told I’m quite the interesting and charming person.”

They groan as the ice reaches them, slowly freezing their feet and making its way up

He watches the frosts slowly creep up their body.

“Hm, it seems you’re not going to cooperate. Too bad.”

His hand gestures towards them, and another burst of frost shoots toward them, making the ice crawl up to their ankles and up their legs.

“All im asking is for you to talk to me and answer some questions.”

They shake their head, a cloud escaping them each time they took a breath as the temperature continues dropping; unable to move their legs, they hug their tail tighter, trying to protect the blue flame on it’s tip

“You know when I said I was going to freeze you entirely. I wasn’t kidding. I can do that and more.

I’m sure those flames must mean a lot to you, right? What would happen if, say, I were to extinguish them?”

Kuzan pauses, and the ice stops crawling up further.

“So, Would you like to talk now?”

I lowkey feel like idk, like Dokusha’s personality is not consistent? Or maybe it’s Kuzan’s personality that dosent quite fit and jumps all around the place, thoughts?

Taglist:

@imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

[theambitiouswoman]

Being in your feminine does not mean you can’t be rich.

I might be in my feminine but I still want to make more money than any man I know.

There are plenty men who make a lot more than them anyway.

The difference is I don’t care to compete or advertise or prove myself to other guys- where as when I was in my masculine. I absolutely did. But that was not the way. There’s no happiness in that either and me having been in both energies, can and will say that.

Being in your feminine not only makes you so much more confident- but makes life so much easier when you’re in a male dominated niche. And that’s really the absolute difference. Let’s look at femininity a different way, since there are a million views on the internet about what femininity is.

Being educated, elegant, soft, strategic, in control, and un-apologetically you. Being a presence when you walk into any room. Having boundaries, setting standards. Having everyone’s respect. Never action out of character. Doing what you love. Being unbothered. That’s so sexy.

You don’t have to be a career woman. You can also be a stay at home mom/wife. The difference is you are living your truth. The life YOU want to live that fulfills YOU. A lot of people, men and women, lie to themselves about what they want and how they feel. They ignore the negative feelings instead of addressing them. And those feelings make ALL the difference. They tell you that something is NOT right.

Femininity is being your best most aligned version of yourself. Being completely in tune with your body, emotions, thoughts. That’s it. Sounds easy but the truth is that a lot of women aren’t in their most natural state. Other women have the look down but don’t carry themselves this way cause they haven’t done the inner work.

Most women try to compete with men and have a chip on their shoulders to prove themselves. When the smart thing to do is to take the dynamic at face value and make smarter moves. You, as a woman, are not meant to struggle. In fact nothing in life should be forced, period. For anyone. We have to do plenty of hard things to voluntarily impose more unnecessary ones.

There’s a huge misconception that being feminine is weakness, or not being smart etc and that’s such a false narrative. I’ve never felt more powerful. Imagine if instead of arguing and complaining and fighting to get your way, all you need to do is bask in your feminine energy. Say very little. Never get out of character etc and get things done. This is the way.

[cosmicanamnesis]

everybody loves a(n as yet untitled) coffeshop au pt. 2

[part 1] [part 3] [part 4] [read on ao3]

“You’re late,” Keith said as Steve came in.

“What? No I’m not,” he said, confused, and pulled out his phone to check the time for good measure. “Yeah, I’ve got like, two minutes.”

“Yeah, I know. Hurry up, though, I need to take my break.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

He quickly hung up his coat in the break room and pulled his apron on so he could take over for Keith before he got yelled at some more. The second he was at the register, the door chimed.

“Hi, welcome in- Oh, hey Eddie. You… Hang on, don’t you normally come in, like, three hours ago?”

“I did, you just weren’t here to see me,” Eddie smiled, hands shoved deep in his pockets. 

“Oh, um. Alright. What can I get you, then?”

“Just a small hot chocolate. Um… Did you know you’re wearing the wrong name tag?” He tapped his chest a couple times in the same spot Steve’s name tag hung on his apron.

“Huh? Oh, yeah!” Steve laughed, grabbing a cup to make Eddie’s drink. “I’m covering for Robin right now. We started doing this thing, ages ago, where if one of us covered for the other, we’d uh… We’d swap name tags. It’s kinda stupid.”

“That’s hilarious, actually,” Eddie chuckled.

“Yeah, we have fun with it. It’s funnier on her than it is on me though.”

“Oh, cause Robin is a kind of androgynous name,” Eddie guessed.

“Yeah, and Steve really isn’t. So, hot chocolate, huh?” Steve asked, changing the subject. “Didn’t expect that one to be yours.” He passed the drink to Eddie at the end of the counter. Eddie smiled, almost laughing as he took it.

“Yeah, I’m not really a coffee guy. Shocking, I know, based on the,” he gestured up and down at himself. He always dressed more or less the same, with big heavy boots and ripped jeans and an old leather jacket with a denim vest on top, covered in pins and patches advertising bands that Steve had never listened to. “Y’know, all of this.”

“Yeah, you don’t really look like a hot chocolate guy. So the whole huge order, that’s for everybody else in the tattoo shop, yeah?”

“Ah huh. I just started apprenticing there, which means I’m the store gopher.”

“The store what?” Steve laughed. Eddie smiled and sipped his drink, still standing at the pick up counter. Fortunately, there was no one else in the cafe.

“Gopher. Like an errand boy. Y’know, hey Eddie, go for coffee, hey Eddie could you go for lunch, stuff like that. Gopher.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever heard that before. That sounds like a pain in the ass.”

“Eh, it’s not so bad. I should probably get back, though,” Eddie said, tapping the counter. “It was good to see you, Steve. Got kinda worried when you weren’t here earlier.”

“What? Why?”

Eddie turned back to him, walking backwards, and shrugged. “You’re my coffee guy,” he said simply.

“Well, just a heads up then, I won’t be here at all tomorrow either,” Steve smiled. 

“Alright, good to know. See you around, Stevie.”

Stevie?

“So did you get his number yet, or what?” Keith asked, coming back up to the front.

“Shut up.”

“So, no?”

“Isn’t it, like, unprofessional for you as my boss to be asking me that?”

Keith just shrugged and started wiping down the counters. The bell on the door rang again, drawing both of their attention as Eddie ran back in, drink still in hand. 

“Wait, if you’re free tomorrow-” Eddie slammed his hand down on the counter to stop his momentum as he caught his breath. “Do you want to come to a party tomorrow night? It’s not a huge thing, but my band is playing and it’s like, a bunch of their friends, so it’d be cool to have somebody else I know there.”

“Oh! Um. Sure?” Steve said, trying to ignore Keith staring at him. “I didn’t know you were in a band, that’s really cool.”

“Thanks," Eddie smiled like he wasn't actually expecting a yes. "Here, can I put my number in your phone?”

“Yeah, of course!” Steve opened his phone and passed it over the counter.

“Phones are supposed to stay in the break room, Harrington,” Keith deadpanned. Eddie, apparently only just noticing Keith, giggled quietly as he added himself as a contact and handed the phone back to Steve.

“Okay, for real this time, I gotta get back to work. Just text me so I’ll have your number!” Eddie called, again walking backwards out of the cafe. As soon as he was gone, Steve immediately headed back to the break room to text him. He burst out laughing halfway there. 

“What’s so funny?” Keith asked.

“Look what he saved himself as,” Steve passed Keith his phone to look at the new contact.

hot chocolate guy

“You want to kiss him so bad, it makes you look stupid,” Keith said, ever unimpressed.

“Appreciate the support, Keith,” Steve said sarcastically, ducking into the back.

He shot a quick text to Eddie as promised and immediately texted Robin after. He didn't expect a reply, assuming she was on her date, but she answered within seconds.

Got his #

who

Eddie, the guy none of you like.

WGAT

WHAT*

FR???

Yeah, he invited me to a party. Apparently he's in a band.

oooo sounds like a date ;)

Stop it. It's not a date. 

could be a date ;) ;) ;)

Stop.

"Steve!" Keith yelled from the front. "Quit texting your boyfriend and get back out here! And leave your phone in the break room this time, please?"

Steve huffed and slipped his phone back into his coat pocket so he wouldn't have to listen to it buzz on the table his whole shift.

"I was texting Robin, actually," he said, coming back up to the front. "Dude. There's no one here, why the rush?"

"I like making your life hard," Keith shrugged.

The next time Steve got a chance to look at his phone, he had a text back from Eddie, two from Robin, seven from Chrissy and one from Dustin for some reason.

hot chocolate guy:

Hey, it's Steve!

hey there coffee guy

Robs:

Stop.

you love me

warning: i told chris so she might blow up ur phone

Chrissy (work):

Oh my god Robin said you got whats-his-face’s number??

And he asked you out?

And he's in a band? That’s so cool!!

I take back what I said about not knowing what you see in him. 

I do NOT take back what I said about him being weird though.

Oh Keith made you put your phone away didn't he?

I ask as if you could respond if the answer is yes.

Lil Buddy:

hey Steve, what are you doing tomorrow night?

He decided to respond to Dustin's message first.

I'm going to a party. Why?

oh, that's cool. we're throwing a party at the house too, I was going to ask if you wanted to come but if you're busy then don't worry about it.

Let me find out what time the party is, I'll see if I can swing by your place too!

Honestly I'm not sure how long I'll be at the other party, I'm only gonna know the guy who invited me.

who invited you?

Just a regular at work.

the one you have a crush on?

Oh, fuck off. But yes.

;)

Stop. God, you've been spending too much time with Robin.

sounds like a you problem.

Steve rolled his eyes. He loved the kid but god damn was he a handful. He decided to move on before he got sucked into the text-based slapstick comedy that was a drawn out conversation with Dustin Henderson.

He moved on to Chrissy's messages.

Haha, yeah, I did. Don't listen to Robin, he didn't ask me out. He invited me to a NYE party.

How is that not him asking you out?

Because it's not a date!

;)

Jesus Christ, is Robin paying all of you to do that?

Do what?

Nevermind.

He'd see Robin later so he didn't overly feel the need to text her back, instead opting to stare at Eddie's text trying to think of something to say that didn't make him sound desperate or insane. It wasn't going well. Every time he got a free minute, he would type something, stare at it for a while, and backspace the whole thing. By the end of his shift, he still hadn't texted him back.

He and Keith had managed to get the whole cafe clean and ready to close without anyone coming in right after they finished cleaning the espresso machine, which felt like a miracle, and they actually got out on time. As he walked back to his apartment, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out to check quickly as if it were an emergency. It was from Eddie. A somewhat blurry photo of Steve, taken from inside the tattoo shop. Another message popped up as he looked at the image.

saw you :)

Haha, hey. Yeah, I just got off work. Sorry I didn't reply earlier, my boss made me put my phone away.

rude ass

Tell me about it.

so the partys tomorrow at 7. no dress code so just come as you are. i can come pick you up

If anyone asked, Steve wasn't blushing, it was just cold. 

You don't have to, I do own a car. I just live so close to work it's not worth it to drive.

good to know. but apparently the neighbors get mad when theres too many people parked on the street so were trying to carpool as much as we can

also its gareths turn to drive the band van and his driving scares the shit out of me

Steve laughed to himself as he climbed the stairs to his third floor walk-up. He didn't know who Gareth was, one of Eddie's bandmates he imagined, but he had friends like that too so he understood. He let Max drive his car one time and one time only, and in her defense they did all get home in one piece, but never again.

Haha, alright, you can pick me up then.

:)

He dug his keys out of his pocket and let himself into the empty apartment. It was a tiny little two bedroom thing, but it was just him and Robin living here, so they didn't need that much space. And despite being a walk-up, it was actually pretty nice. The living room had big windows, they had a balcony, they couldn't hear their neighbor's every move through the walls, it was great. 

He tossed his coat over the back of the armchair in the living room, which was the chair's sole purpose, and flopped down on the couch. His phone buzzed in his hand. Text from Robin. 

omw home, bringing a friend

if you don't want to hear anything you can't unhear then leave

Gross.

you've been warned. eta 15

Steve didn't really have anywhere to go on short notice. He had half a thought to text Eddie to see if he would be off work soon, but thought better of it. He didn't want to freak the guy out. His phone buzzed again. Speak of the devil and all that.

wyd

Trying to figure out something to do to get me out of the house in the next 15 minutes. You?

getting off work

why do you need to be out of the house in 15 minutes lol

Robin's bringing her date home. I don't want to listen to… Whatever they end up doing. 

i thought you were dating robin?

Nah, we’re super platonic. We just live together.

oh

wanna hang out?

Apparently Eddie didn't have the same reservations that Steve did.

-------

Well. That blew up.

Howdy? I'm Lichen. I shipped Steddie so hard it brought me out of a several-year-long writing dry spell. I have this fic in progress and a oneshot series that's like. Halfway done? But I am on AO3 as Lichen_Not_Moss and I've got a few complete fics up right now, so far all for Stranger Things

Ode to the Dungeon Master - <1k words, angst, not Steddie

I'll Come If You Call - 4k, angst, Steddie-adjacent

Brown Eyes, I'll Hold You Near - 132k, all over the place, longform Steddie fic

Tagging (everyone who replied to part one, whatever you asked to be tagged or not:)

@original-cypher @avacrebs @dangdirtydemons @rainydays35 @changenamelater @phantypurple @alienace @renaissan-vvitch @krazyperson @dreammetheworld08

[thesiblingsoftheblackandwhite]

How do you guys feel about T’noy Karaxis being infatuated/obsessed over one particular human and, by proxy, his family? As it seems like the rest of you don’t seem to share their ideals, or at least you don’t express them as much.

(I’m thankful at least one of you asked a question that won’t get you torn apart.)

Oh, you want to hear feelings? My older brother is nothing but an uncreative one trick pony who traps the same victims - if you could even call them that - in his fancy glorified yellow box over and over every other timeline so he doesn’t have to deal with them and work more than he has to. None of his victims are actually valuable, either. He says he’s doing us a “service”, but he’s not the one eradicating the Pauls across timelines or pitting humans against each other. Instead he’s stuck with the same horny family for the 300th time and I can’t even get the Woodwards back-

Bliklotep, they get it. Also, you’re not the one getting rid of Matthews, either.

I respect Pokotho’s methods.

You laughed at the singing ice cream shop. And the subsequent singing coffee shop.

OK? I don’t like ice cream or coffee. Sue me.

If you can’t already tell, Bliklotep has opinions. He runs his amusement park for the variety of humans, not for the shitty fried food.

My carnies work hard on that food!

If they make so much, feed them every once in a while. They’re delicate brainwashed humans, that need enough food to keep up a decent facade. You don’t want a repeat of Snoozle Town.

Don’t talk to me about food, snuggle-poo. You know how loud your Sniggles are? You just had to keep them in the Black & White when they’re not advertising?

They’re enthusiastic.

Ignore them, they like arguing. Speaking of which, we all have our own modus operandi. Even Nibbly. But our oldest brother is very selective with his prey. The Spankoffskis aren’t the first ones he’s messed with in terms of torture and enslavement; there were other families before them, of course.

Of course, Blinky himself’s not the most modest of us, either. No matter what he says, he prefers Watching the Woodwards to anyone else. He ‘likes their dynamic’, allegedly. I think he’s just projecting.

Extremely long story short, Tinky controls space. He can mess with whoever he wants for, really, as long as he wants, and there’s not much we can do about that. He basically only messes with them because he can. That, and he always looks in the bottom of the barrel for any of his Boxed victims. We’re…not exactly sure why.

Like Blinky said, T’noy Karaxis says he’s doing a service to us. And the people in Hatchetfield. In a way, he sort of is - one less citizen to watch out for. Well, him and his brother. And the elder Spankoffskis.

Mhm. That was some trillion timelines ago. They became too big a liability, according to him. They’re…also somewhere in that Bastard’s Box of his.

As for us-

We couldn’t care less. He’s older than any of us. That, and he doesn’t really meddle too much with our plans. We don’t get in each other’s way. Other than what you see on this blog thing, we aren’t in the same places in many specific timelines. If he does mess with any of our chosen toys, then it’s a big issue.

As long as he doesn’t do anything’ near the Honey Festival, I’m fine with it.

He’s what you humans would call protective over the Spankoffski brothers, we know well enough not to do anything to them. That’s the agreement.

Though if we ever want timeline business done, we have to ask him, and that’s the tricky part.

[justice-is-a-weapon]

In vino veritas [Dazai x gn reader]

·•━━━━━━━⋆⋅☆⋅⋆━━━━━━━•·

Chapter 15 / ?

previous | next

TW: mentions of depression

Walking outside I took a seat right next to the door. I took in the view I was presented with. To my left a run down car. It must’ve stood there for god knows how long, considering it was overtaken by rust, the black paint chipping away. I heard some birds chirp nearby. I, however, was not in the mood for chirping.

I took a look at my watch. 4:38 pm. It had taken me exactly 20 minutes to calm down from the fight. At least I had now calmed down so much as to not bash in Dazai’s face when seeing him again. Now I tried focusing on what exactly he had done to avoid letting him trigger me like that again. I recognized a pattern. Dazai will at first ignore any issue he faces while also being completely aware of it, then, when he needs to actually face it or is confronted with the issue, he may snap. This usually leads to the other person involved giving up when they can make the decision to do so. This is the route I assumed his colleagues usually took. Well, it was the easiest way out. But sometimes the easiest way is not the right one. I took route two: Confronting the issue head on. That was my error. Or maybe it wasn’t. It definitely made Dazai turn directly against me. Dazai is very likely to attack even those who he cares about when he feels threatened. I’d need to stay away for now. No provocation. First thing is making him feel safe, not threatened.

I still need to clean that bathroom though. He needs a shower. Or a bath.

I had also been too harsh on him. Maybe I should apologize. Yes. I will apologize.

I took another deep breath. We both fucked up, I thought. I could check his mailbox while I was at it. Nothing except for some bills to pay, advertising and some sort of weekly news subscription. With that I sat down again, leaning back against the wall, closing my eyes.

I imagined Dazai walking out the door, sitting down next to me. He'd first complain about the bills but he’s also saying sorry in my imagination, sorry for causing me all this trouble. I’d tell him not to be sorry, he’s just feeling intense emotions and this meant stuff like this could follow. I don’t blame him. Although him saying sorry would help me immensely. It’d be proof we’re both merely human.

But I’m taken back into reality.

Dazai is not sitting next to me. Instead I’m met with two long legs. My gaze follows from the brown dress shoes, over the beige dress pants, up to the black collar and lastly his face. I’ve settled on calling his hair “piss blonde” by now. He doesn’t like me anyway.

“So why are you sitting out here? Thought he probably ghosted you too.”

It’s more of a statement than a question.

“Well he did,” I finally answered, “But I’m more of a ‘I’ll break into your house if I need to’ type of person y'know?”

“Makes sense.”

I don’t question his response. An uncomfortable silence follows.

“I know you don’t like me.”

He looks at me, not quite expecting me to talk nor my sudden honesty. I just roll my eyes.

“Don’t act like I can’t be honest for once.”

A pause.

“I know that you know that I don’t like you.”

Now it was my turn to quirk a brow at him. Thankfully he answered my unspoken question.

“Dazai told me.”

This made me whip my head towards him. I hated how much I reacted to the simple mention of Dazai. I suddenly felt a bit caught.

“He gave me quite the verbal beating the day after.”

“He did?”

“I’m usually not afraid of Dazai but he seemed pretty determined to change my mind.”

He took another look at me. I prepared myself, thinking harsh words would follow. Kunikida didn’t like me. He didn’t trust me and I knew it.

But I was surprised.

“I don’t completely hate you. But I don’t like you either.”

He sat down next to me. Right where I imagined Dazai just a minute before.

“Just seeing you sit here tells me you’re determined too. I like determination. It’s part of my ideals. I’m a man that is determined to follow my ideals. They give my life meaning.”

“I’d call that fanaticism.”

“To some it might be yes. But that’s not the point I’m trying to make. I was actually trying to tell you there’s traits I like about you too.”

“Oh wow. Thanks for the compliment.”

I said rather sarcastically. I looked up at him, our eyes meeting for a second. He seemed softer. He was serious.

“Thank you for putting up with him. I know he can get a bit difficult.”

I hadn’t expected such kind words from Kunikida. He then shook his head and continued.

“To be honest I don’t get how or why you do it.”

With that he let out a long sigh and rested his head against the wall, looking towards the sky, then closing his eyes. I exhaled, slightly laughing.

“I just try again and again. Why? Because he’s my friend. Of course he’s an ass but I’ll make sure he’s doing okay.”

“You’re something for sure.”

We sat in silence for a second.

“I miss him too, yknow.”

Silence. Then his eyes widened.

“Please don’t tell him I said that.”

Now this made me laugh.

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

I wanted to ask him another question but didn’t know if it would be too invasive. After some thinking about it I decided to do it.

“Why are you here though?”

“Mainly to check up on him I guess. But someone beat me to it.”

Again, comfortable silence.

“I used the premise of giving him his work stuff. Mainly a lot of documents. But I really just wanted to see if he’s doing okay.”

For a man so focused on ideals instead of emotion Kunikida seemed to actually have a heart. This made me happy. It was proof that I was not talking to a robot.

“Is… Is he doing okay?”

“I think it’s a depressive episode.”

“Oh… I see.”

“But we’re making progress.”

He looked me up and down.

“If you’re making progress, why are you out here?”

“Sometimes getting your ass kicked is also progress.”

A small chuckle from Kunikida.

“How far did you push him?”

“Insulted me, yelled at me, tried to tell me I’m nothing-“

“Oh I see. He’s frustrated.”

“Very much.”

Again we sit in silence.

“And how are you doing?”

This question made me think. How was I doing? Good? Bad? Something in between? To be honest I had no idea.

“Fine?” Was my final answer but it came out as more of a question than a real answer.

“Take care of yourself.”

I said nothing after that.

“Should I go in again?” I asked quietly. “I don’t want to upset him. Or worse, I could flip at him too. I don’t want that.”

“I know you don’t.”

I looked at him shyly.

“What do you say?”

He chuckled quietly, fixing his glasses.

“Get your ass inside.”

·•━━━━━━━⋆⋅☆⋅⋆━━━━━━━•·

[There it is! The long awaited chapter! Thank you for your patience. For anyone wondering what’s going on in my life please go ahead and read the author’s note. Take care!]

[theamateurartistblog]

The Sad Tale of an Artist's Burnout

I have been burnout over a lot of things but being burnout because of art hits differently. Art burnouts are the worst. Imagine just losing your passion for something or having to force yourself to do so. If this sounds like something you’re going through have no fear, I’m here. Imma tell you how to prevent a burnout and some tips that will help you get back into shape in no time.

Stop Drawing

Mcutie are you serious? Yes, I’m not joking. Stop drawing. Your brain is tired of doing the same thing over and over again, give it a break. Find another hobby, play a game, watch a movie, catch up on a comic or manga (if you want some recommendations I got you;) maybe then you will find inspiration to draw.

Ease your mind a little. What always helps me is ASMRs, find a channel you like and relax to them or put on some Lofi tunes, whatever it takes for you to get your mind out of the sketchbook. Don’t think that when you stop drawing you’re gonna lose your talent, you can’t lose talent but you can lose passion.

Stop looking for likes and views

They'll come eventually, I'm still in the baby stages myself and sometimes it's disappointing not to see any likes or views but that just takes the fun out of art. Social Media is tiring especially with the algorithm doing whatever it likes. If you run an art page why not give it a break a little, maybe the stress of putting out too much content is getting to you.

Also, the self-declared “art critics” don't help either (baby artists please ignore these people, pay attention to the ones who really give you solid advice) so drop social media for a while and post your art unless you want to.

“But Mcutie I need to advertise to get commissions!” (in a future post, I'll give you tips on how to make money with your art). I hear you, but the posts you have in your feed are already enough to tell your audience about what you do and which commissions you’ll take. My advice is to shake it up a bit, instead of Instagram try Twitter maybe art station or deviant art, they have some nice communities on there.

Or better yet create your little website and build a community around it (I'm currently trying this one on Tumblr so follow me on my journey if you want) who knows maybe you’ll find people who respect and admire what you do. ^^

Don’t Compare Yourself!

HA! I need to take my advice. It’s easy to compare yourself with others and let’s be frank there is always gonna be a better artist or athlete or dancer but there is never gonna be another you. The way how YOU draw is different from other artists, no two people are the same and no two artists have the same style unless one artist copies from another. However, it's good to try out new styles and see how you can implement them into your drawings. You may find something that can add an extra spice to your art.

Find Inspiration - Outside!!!

AHA! You thought I was gonna tell you to take up Pinterest and browse huh? Nope! I need YOU to TOUCH SOME GRASS! Look at the clouds find shapes in them, take a walk in the park or something. “But what if it is snowing?” Who cares?! Sit at your window and watch the snowflakes fall you may just find something that inspires you. Doing this motivates you to take up that pen and paper or tablet or whatever kids use these days and draw.

Sleep!! - Please Sleep...

Once again…….I need to take my advice. But let’s face it have you ever gone to bed and suddenly at exactly 3:00 am you get the urge to get creative? That’s what you want! Therefore, get some rest, take a nice bath, rub on your favorite lotion, put on your favorite PJs, and sleep it out. “I suffer from insomnia….” So do I but if it is chronic go and see the doctor maybe you need medical assistance, if not try playing rain sounds or as I said earlier find your favorite ASMRist and just close you’re eyes and fall asleep.

In Conclusion....

At the end of the day, something is gonna burn us out whether it is work, hobbies, or just life in general but the thing is we do not want to stay in a burnout. Besides if you stay in a burnout you’ll just shrivel up and die. So try my tips and if you have anything to add say it in the comments so others can benefit from them. Until next time stay healthy and stay cute.

(〃＾▽＾〃)

[onceuponanaromantic]

it's a long story (tell me anyway)

(Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt FFF226: By Any Other Name. Enjoy!)

Fire licks at her hands where she presses them into the burning hull of the spaceship and curses. Fire twists through the ruins of her jacket, biting at her undershirt as she works through the combustion equations in her head, pulling at the wards to admit her new ward as they spiral rapidly through the atmosphere. She calculates the propulsion through rapidly decreasing oxygen levels and increasing heat, ignoring the light and smoke.

In the last few moments, it takes as she sings to it, using the last of her oxygen. And the darkness takes her.

“Hell of an entrance, Ira.” She wakes to the horrible pungent smell of the healing ward. Herbs and antiseptic make for a terrible combination, but they also make for an efficient combination so she bears with it. “Welcome home.”

A hand pats hers, and she squints at the physician treating her. The rough callouses from scalpel use brush against healing skin. The room spins around her as she tries to see through the haze. “Don’t sit up. The smoke did a number to your lungs and your bloodwork made Healer Kyrie curse all sorts of things when it came in, so I recommend you take their instructions.”

“Rest, Ira.” She doesn’t know what expression her face must be making but it’s enough that Dr Kaiyan laughs. “I know you’re not familiar with the concept but it really will help.”

            “It’s not like Rin is going anywhere.”

            Something beeps in the background. Kaiyan curses.

“I need to go now, but let me know if you need anything and,” she hesitates, “it really is good to see you. I wish it was under better circumstances.”

I love you too, she would have said if she had any voice to say it with, as the door closes.

Let’s talk about a hypothetical situation. Let’s say that you’ve spent years staring at warding because you were never that good at making friends anyway. Let’s say that you tell your older sister, who is also your guardian that there’s a problem. That in twenty years’ time, there’s going to be a problem with the magic because there’s an error in the original flow structure that initially imported magic over from a different world. Say, no one takes either of you seriously because what arrogance, to presume that you knew better than the warders who set up the initial system.

Say it happens in six years instead of twenty. Say the systems begin to crumble, and there’s panic and there’s no solution to be found. Say your sister by this time is a priestess who finds a way out through an ancient book. Say she twists the magic to rely on her soul through an ancient spell that converts a death into eternal sleep. There’s a way to get out from it, true love’s kiss, but it will undo the original spell.

They hadn’t even bothered to call her. It was just a letter, mixed in with bills and advertisements for other conferences and new boba tea shops popping up in different nebulae. Just a letter with a plain font.

-

“Ira.” Her sister’s fiancée gets up from beside where her sister lies sleeping. “They told me you were back.”

“Right, I don’t think they told you the part where I fell out of the sky.”

Ana grins, despite the dried tear tracks and the wrinkles. “Oh, Kaiyan did mention that too. You look different.”

“You look different too.” She looks down at herself, taking in the stains from where she had been working through the theory again, checking her wards.

If nobody was going to take her seriously, well, she was going to come up with a solution anyway. It’s not like she wanted to be an academic full-time in the first place.

All she had wanted was to keep her sister safe. And it turns out she hadn’t even managed that.

(She hid the grief for her selfishness in balls of pain in her throat. She knew she was selfish. She could have come back earlier. She knew she could have, when her sister first told her the thing she had predicted was happening already. She knew. But it had been so nice, to be someone other than Rin’s sister. To change her hair, to change her name and her eyes and pretend it wasn’t running away when she had left. To refuse to answer Rin’s messages, because it was an old life and it wasn’t like Rin could come after her anyway.)

She notices the ring around Ana’s finger. “Congratulations, by the way.”

Ana breaks her gaze. “We’re not married. Just engaged and well, she thought we should have rings. I thought she told you.”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat.

“Have they found an alternate solution to the problem?” She winces at the harsh change in subject.

Ana spreads her hands. “Have at it.”

She turns away, mind already spinning ahead in threads and numbers and calculations. “And Ira? Come have lunch sometime. It’s been a while.”

It takes her twelve days, running around the city and not sleeping or eating except for a great deal of caffeine and the occasional snack bar. But she solves it. She sets the plan she had been working on for the last three years in progress, and she executes it perfectly.

She gets through the final result long enough for it all to click into place, for her to get to the room in the temple her sister sleeps in, for her to see her sister begin to stir.

“Oh good.” She says, and passes out herself.

            She wakes up to yet another argument being carried out over her. They all turn to her as she wakes, and she blearily glares at them.

            “How did you get over the true love requirement?” “Why isn’t there anything collapsing?”

            “Math.” She squints at them and then goes back to sleep.

            The next time she wakes, it’s to Rin and Ana talking quietly over her. Rin is the first to notice her, even though the premature wrinkles twist at the edges of her face

            “You look different.” It’s been a while. I’m sorry.

            “Hello, stranger.” Rin says, “I’ve missed you. What’s your name now?”

[chrismerle]

came up with a couple OCs on a whim, decided to use them for writing one shots/super short fiction. they are not going to be written or posted in any sort of chronological order or on any sort of schedule, and many of them will be inspired by prompts I find or am given. I don't describe what either of them look like in any detail in this ficlet, and I plan on doing that in another ficlet so I won't fully describe them here, but to help with your imagination: Ragnarok is basically Frankenstein's vaguely-reptilian centaur creature while Adam is, like, an anime-style dog man. Frankensteinian horror paired with Just Some Guy with dog ears slapped on top. anyway, this one is set pretty early in their story chronology, but not quite the BEGINNING. it's based loosely on the prompt 'I had to be brave or else I wouldn’t be the only one affected.' editing consists solely of me rereading it once while distracted by Youtube.

Adam hasn’t really spoken since they got back to Ragnarok’s flat. Ragnarok knows he can—he did a bit as Ragnarok pulled him out of his call, and he bit out a few words in the glimpses of Alabaster’s strange little show-and-tell Ragnarok managed to steal—but his words have all dried up for now.

Instead, he’s sitting on the floor, huddled in the corner. Ordinarily, Ragnarok might assume it’s because none of his furniture was chosen with bipedalism in mind, but not just now. Just now, he’s pretty sure Adam is just trying to pretend the world isn’t so big.

Ragnarok leaves him to it and putters around his daily routine, as if it had never been interrupted and as if that interruption isn’t watching him from the corner with eerie, wolf-like eyes. Ragnarok feels those eyes on him the entire evening.

Eventually, with the flat still smothered in silence, Ragnarok climbs onto the couch and falls asleep. It takes a bit longer than usual; falling asleep is a bit strange when he knows there’s someone else there, silent but staring. Even so, sleep does eventually creep over him, restless and uncomfortable though it is.

When he wakes up the next morning, Adam is still watching him.

“Why did you get me out?” Adam asks abruptly, the words pushed out in a rush the second Ragnarok shows any signs of life.

“G’morning to you, too,” Ragnarok grumbles, mentally beating back the urge to exclaim, ‘He speaks!’

“Someone had to,” he replies once it’s apparent Adam isn’t going to say anything else until he has an answer, “and it certainly wasn’t going to be Alabaster.”

“But no one actually had to, is the thing,” Adam says, and it turns out today he has all of the words. “I wasn’t hidden. He paraded me around in public; it was a key part of his advertising. Either it wasn’t illegal, or he was so sure he could hide any illegal aspects as to render them irrelevant.” He tips his head to the side, canine ears finally partially standing up from where they were hidden in his hair. “So, no, someone didn’t have to help.”

Adam doesn’t re-ask his question, but it’s still pretty obviously hovering in the air between them, hanging heavily enough that Ragnarok can’t justify ignoring it.

“Sometimes our decisions don’t just impact us,” Ragnarok reasons. “Once I knew you existed, any choice I made to not get involved would also necessarily involve you.” He shrugs and finally climbs down from the couch, four sets of talons settling on the carpet. “Sometimes you’ve gotta be brave because you don’t want the alternative on your conscience.”

Ragnarok waits for a moment, but Adam just regards him in skeptical silence, disbelieving but nevertheless all talked out. Ragnarok gets it, though. It was a lot when he first got out, too.

He heads into his tiny kitchen, leaving Adam still curled in the corner. Ragnarok supposes he’ll need to actually order some regular chairs finally.

[aeoki]

Atlantis - Divine Bridge: Chapter 3

Location: Yumenosaki Student Council Room Characters: Touri, Shinobu, Mao & Yuzuru Season: Winter

Touri: …Anyway, there’s no use complaining about it now.

But why are there so many people running for student council president? It’s so annoying having so many rivals I gotta defeat!

Putting that ninja aside, I’ve never even heard of most of the candidates’ names.

I’m taken aback since these guys just popped up under the radar and started blocking my path all of a sudden.

Shinobu: That would be because you didn’t do enough research, right…?

Touri: What’d you say?

Shinobu: Eek! Um, they should be nothing compared to you since you took part in the “SS” Main Stage and there are also lots of units at school…

It seems those representing the slower units and the like have all started moving at once to gain power over the next generation.

It’s going to be a thorn in your side… No, it’s like they’re waiting for the amazing upperclassmen to graduate before they aim for the top of Yumenosaki in one leap.

Besides, the Yumenosaki idols basically monopolised “SS” the other day so…

It’s become important to gain titles such as the student council president of Yumenosaki or Yumenosaki’s most popular idol.

Touri: So you’re saying those riffraffs are motivated because they want those titles and distinctive labels?

Shinobu: I don’t think that way of putting it is exactly correct, but it’s more or less like that.

Also, there are some from the new “producer course” who are running for it too ~de gozaru.

If anything, they seem to stand out more right now.

Touri: The “producer course”. Hmph. Now that’s a real rising power.

Shinobu: Yeah. It seems doing political things is also part of their job so we can’t make light of them, either. They’re really good at manoeuvring behind-the-scenes to gain votes.

Touri: Anzu was terrible with that sort of stuff, though… She’s an airhead and just ended up handling it in a similar fashion.

But it means the “producer course” will be doing it intentionally and practically.

They’re still a “newcomer that’s just appeared” but we can’t ignore them…

Our generation probably can’t afford to.

Shinobu: Yeah… At the end of all these ulterior motives, there are a lot of candidates who have started advertising themselves.

There isn’t a limit to how many candidates there can be, so the number is likely to increase but right now, there are currently fifteen student council president candidates – including us both.

Touri: That’s so many… Looks like being student council president is pretty popular.

Mao: Hm? Oh, ahaha ♪ Are you praising my work?

Touri: It’s the other way around. They must be looking down on the position, thinking it looks easy enough for them to handle.

Mao: That still makes me pretty happy. The bar’s gotta be low enough for the next generation.

Touri: Eichi-sama also said something similar when he created “SANCTUARY’.

(...That’s what “fine” was supposed to be in the first place.)

(Unlike the transcendental geniuses, the “Five Oddballs”, we were the representatives of the “incompetent and unfortunate”.)

(Even if they couldn’t become the “Five Oddballs”, they could become “fine”. That’s the sort of unit “fine” was supposed to be at the very beginning.)

(I know this because I was a fan of “fine” and Eichi-sama from way back.)

(When did we become a noble and elegant unit akin to an angel that looks down on others?)

(Timing-wise, it was after Hibiki-senpai, me and Yuzuru joined, right?)

(Did I change the “fine” that I loved so much?)

Shinobu: A–Are you okay, Touri-kun? You don’t look well.

I don’t think you need to be so worried. The official voting day is some time away. Anything can happen in the future.

Rather than stopping in your tracks because you’re worried about how things will turn out, it would be more helpful to think about the future instead.

Touri: …Don’t be so arrogant – you’re just some ninja.

Shinobu: I–I don’t mind you making fun of me, but I won’t allow any slander towards ninjas!

Touri: Right. Sorry.

Anyone wouldn’t like it if someone started saying bad things about the stuff they love, right?

Mao: Anyway, let’s move on – someone called “Hashidate” is taking the lead in terms of the theoretical interim results.

In second place, it’s Sengoku, who’s popular for some reason and just barely behind.

Shinobu: This is all so strange… majority of those in the upper ranks are people from the “producer course”.

Maybe there are some people who think it’s better for the student council president to be an idol, and that’s why they’re voting for me.

Touri: Then they should just vote for me instead.

Mao: Himemiya, you’re moved from sixth to seventh place. It’s not bad but personally, I’d like you to try a bit harder.

Touri: I am trying… I’ll be able to leap straight into first place if I combine my votes with the ninja’s. In other words, I would’ve won if he didn’t take all my votes.

Shinobu: It makes me sad to see you branding me as a thief… Wouldn’t it be better for you to focus on the one who’s in the lead right now? That Hashidate person?

Touri: I don’t even know who that is. Who are they?

Mao: Who knows…? The “producer course” feels like a whole ‘nother country, so even I don’t have that much information on them despite being the student council president.

I was curious and asked Anzu about it but it looks like this Hashidate person is acting on their own and isn’t affiliated with the “Peace Party” – the strongest power in the “producer course”.

It looks like they’ve just transferred to the “producer course” recently.

Yuzuru: A transfer student at this time of the year?

It should be normal for transfer students such as myself and Anzu-san to transfer during the new school year instead.

Touri: Anyway, why is a transfer student getting so many votes? Isn’t that weird?

Are they someone famous in another industry or something?

Shinobu: It’s a mystery. I was thinking the same thing so I looked up celebrities and well-known people, but I couldn’t find someone who ticked all those boxes.

There isn’t enough information and I have the feeling that someone is purposely manipulating the information on them.

Mao: So this unsung individual who’s just appeared out of thin air is suddenly at the top at Yumenosaki? Did they get reincarnated from another world or something?

Touri: Don’t talk like one of those manga geeks. …Hm~ Something’s bugging me.

Hashidate, Hashidate… Hmm. I have a feeling I’ve heard that name before.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ← Previous Chapter ᠂ ⚘ ˚⊹˚ ⚘ ᠂  Next Chapter →

[imnotgoodatthis]

The things I am not good at list includes makeup and hair style stuff as well as art. So here's some selfies of my exploration of both in my work bathroom. Recipe blog style blah blah blah under cut.

I want to be clear. The stuff written below is meant in a "healing from generational trauma" and NOT AT ALL in a "reclaiming my dark feminine energy by being a trad-wife" way. This blog is not a safe space for TERFS, the alt-right, or whatever the latest re-packaging of mandated gender roles is.

I was raised by a woman who had a lot going on. Her relationships with her parents, religion, men, the hippie movement, cults, mental health, troubled teen industry, etc., etc., etc., all came together in so many ways that obviously left their mark on my sister and I. The mental health genetic lottery didn't help either.

Where my sister got restrictive eating disorders, a yearning for attention that eventually led her to being credited on a Grammy winning track, and hyperfemme tendencies, I got basically the exact opposite. Food is equivalent to comfort, I'd really rather not be perceived too much, and I was so disconnected from all things feminine that when I first tried the (extremely hyped) Il Makiage foundation quiz I ended up with a bottle of foundation that made me look downright pumpkin-y.

I was raised to believe the following, in retrospect, absolutely insane things about what it meant to be a woman and a feminist.

Never enjoy butterflies, unless in a biology/entomology way.

The reason was that, as my mother claimed, only women in abusive relationships actually like butterflies. The symbolism of the cocoon was likened to the work needed to be done to escape an abusive relationship. If I adorned myself with a butterfly printed t-shirt, or perhaps those butterfly shaped hair clips that were so trendy when I was young, I was basically advertising that I was more likely to be susceptible to the manipulations of abusive men. The same basic fear applied to hummingbirds, tank-tops/singlets, dreamcatchers, stained glass windows, and any sort of baking beyond brownies and birthday cakes.

Makeup exists only as a way to market an unrealistic and unattainable beauty ideal to women.

Okay, my mom lowkey popped off with this one. However, it led me into a phase of nausea inducing not-like-other-girls behavior in my teens. Luckily, I was crushed under the weight of mentally pleading with everyone around me to ignore me, so I don’t think I owe any apologies to anyone besides myself.

Doing your hair is a waste of time.

Why should I fawn for male attention? A ponytail is perfectly reasonable and efficient. Why would I need anything beyond that?

Are you getting the picture? I was goblin-core before it was cool. The weird girl that was painting Warhammer 40k miniatures, only knew how to apply goth/raccoon style eyeliner, and was forever wearing cargo shorts and a Darth Maul t-shirt? That was me. I could recite pi to the 38th numeral, but had no idea how to simply say "thank you" when a teacher commended me on my essays. Sure, I had a black belt in both Tae Kwon Do and Kung Fu, but I didn't know how to go bra shopping until I was in my mid-twenties.

I was the shittiest version of the "raised to be strong" girl from so many YA novels (also deemed "stupid" by my mother, by the way).

In a topsy-turvy way, my mother's brand of feminism was insistent on stripping me of my femininity.

My mother told me that blue eyeshadow is for prostitutes. I think it could be for anyone.

[boytickler35]

Outer Banks Tickle Show

JJ watches the young man squirm, laughing his ass off. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Pope’s mouth hanging open, eyes fixed on the screen, and he isn’t paying hard attention to whatever John B is saying. They look like they’re made out of wood, sanded down, and the padding looks like some kind of insulation but it probably isn’t what it actually is, some kind of foam for sure whatever it is. Towels will probably work well enough anyway. The lock is a basic padlock as far as he can tell, and John B can scrounge up something to work with. After that it’s a matter of the tech equipment, a camera, computer to stream it-

“JJ.”

“Hmm?”

“Can you do it?”

“Probably. I’d need two weeks probably. Max.”

Pope chimes in. “I don’t like this idea.”

“Don't be a chicken. This is the easiest money we’ll ever make.”

“No it isn’t! And why does it have to be JJ and me?”

John B gives a shit eating grin and replies, “Cause it’s my idea.”

He ignores their bickering and focuses on the video again. It should be doable. Get some wood, borrow a saw from the impound, a sander too. Making the frame will be easy and then he can… yea it should all work out. 

“Give me two and a half weeks. I’m not getting the computer or camera, and you two are figuring out how to get people to watch. We can film at the Chateau next Tuesday. I’ve got to go get things and start. See you later.”

OBX OBX OBX OBX OBX OBX OBX OBX

JJ sets the last padding in while Pope fiddles with the camera, and John B sits on the computer announcing, “People are coming into the lobby.”

Testing the padding against his wrist and says. “I’m done.”

Pope groans. “If I say I’m not, can we give up?”

“Not a chance, I want that money.”

“C’mon Pope, I’ll be here the whole time.” John B says it with a smirk and JJ rolls his eyes.

“Are you trying to comfort him or make this harder?”

Pope opens his mouth when JJ gets in front of him.

“Listen. You want to walk, you walk, but then you don’t get a cut. If you stay, think of it as adding to your college fund. I don’t care either way, but you have as long as it takes John B to get me in to make up your mind.”

He moves back over to his masterpiece: a pair of double stocks. Honestly if Pope backs out, JJ’s going to be pissed he went through the trouble of making it a double but he’s been Pope’s friend long enough to know that the threat of exclusion will almost always get the desired result. Sure enough, as John B finishes settling the padding around JJ’s ankles, Pope is slipping his ankles into the other set of holes, grumbling but still doing it.

John B straps him in without saying anything, returns to start the camera, and then moves to sit next to the stocks where he isn’t in the shot and can see the computer screen. He’s impressed; the image isn’t as good as the video they watched but it isn't bad. He can see his and Pope’s feet front and center, and the rest of their bodies a little further back. On a tray under their feet are various tools. He was sent to pick a few up with Pope who of course freaked out the whole time.

The stream lobby is already filling up, fifteen viewers with pockets ready to pay them to get tickled… or do the tickling in John B’s case at least. Considering that it’s only been open for a minute, fifteen isn’t that bad; he guesses their advertising campaign worked well. Well, if you can call him and Pope modeling their feet for John B to take photos of and post their sizes with a shitty feather graphic advertising. Still, it got a ton of comments and promises to be there and it seems at least some of those were open.

“Alright,” John B announces to the camera, his voice relatable and cheerful for the watchers, “we’re going to get started in just a few minutes, let’s just go over the rules. For a donation of five dollars, you get fingers on whichever pair you want for three minutes. For ten, you can make that six minutes or use a tool for three. For fifteen, you can do a tool for six minutes. If you just want to let us know you’re liking all this, say it with a dollar.”

The chat is already exploding with comments, no money yet, which is a bummer, but the interest is there. His toes curl and flex absently as he reads people wanting to see his feet tickled. There are some weirdos in the chat for sure. Next to him, Pope looks terrified.

“The donations are open, tell us what you want to see.”

JJ watches as a message pops up, five dollars for him. John B reads it, sets a timer, and starts in. He has no problem tossing his head back and laughing as dull nails scrape up and down his soles. He’s glad he’s high right now or else he’d probably hate it more, but there was no way he was going into this sober. If this all works out, he’ll be rolling in dough. John B doesn’t have much technique anyway despite knowing that his friend watched videos on it. Basically he’s just scraping his nails up and down JJ’s soles and he’s ticklish enough that it works.

It isn’t a bad three minutes, actually it feels pretty short but it’s also only the first round and when John B lets up, he’s able to read chat which is calling him cute, and talking about how great his laugh is which feels pretty nice. They’re also talking about how cute his feet are, but he supposes they’re allowed to be weird since he’s making money off of them. Another dono pops up, ten for a brush on Pope’s feet. 

He watches, and laughs, as Pope’s toes curl all the way up and he tries to back away, but JJ made the stocks escape-proof. John B grabs the brush even though Pope lets out a series of warnings for him not to come any closer. At first contact, Pope is howling.

JJ can’t really turn to watch it live, but he can watch the playback on the computer and watch the comments section. They’re meaner to Pope and call him a bitch but several comment that he also has a nice laugh and one says that chocolate soles are better looking.

It seems the time is even shorter when Pope is getting tickled because the timer goes off so quickly.

There’s a bit of a back and forth, donos. It’s not bad. Mostly he thinks the haze of weed helps, at the very least it’s probably giving him an edge over Pope who freaks out with every touch.

Things get amped up when a ten dollar donation comes in with no request for tickling, but instead oil on both sets of feet. Pope starts protesting and saying that isn’t in the options but John B doesn’t pay any attention as he picks up the bottle of baby oil and douses JJ’s first foot. The rubbing feels pretty nice honestly but he’s busy reading the chat and not paying too much attention except when John B hits a sensitive spot.

Chat’s going crazy though. Apparently they like when he flaps his feet, which is one of the only movements he has in stocks. He decides to do it once John B finishes oiling up his soles and moves on to Pope, who protests. His efforts are rewarded by several dollar donos, and more comments about how cute he and his feet are. Personally, he thinks they look weird all shiny but if it gets them more cash, he’s not above doing it.

When John B moves, he can see both his soles and Pope’s in the feedback from the stream, both now shiny and dripping with oil. Apparently, chat finds it hot, and lets them know. JJ wiggles his toes as he reads off the list of donos to John B that they got during the oil application. 

“They’re all for you?” John B asks, confused.

He shrugs and replies with a smirk, “That’s what I get for showing off the goods I guess.”

It drives chat even more nuts even though Pope rolls his eyes. The other boy seems happy to be left out of the current tickling.

John B sets about using the variety of tools and techniques on his feet and, simply put, it tickles like hell. He bursts out as brushes on his heels turn to paintbrushes between his toes, fingers scratching his arches. The tickling continues for quite a while longer before John B breaks off. He’s panting, but he figures out why he gets a break when Pope breaks out with panicked laughter.

With the attention shifted off of him, JJ is able to go back to reading chat. They’re making fun of him and Pope but whatever, the shit they say has nothing compared to what he’s been called at home and honestly, it’s plain funny.

When the tickling comes back to him, it’s pipe cleaners between his toes -- which is a bitch -- but listening to Pope deal with it next is fun, so whatever.

Just when he thinks chat can’t get any weirder, a dono pops up, twenty dollars. The dono message is straightforward but JJ has to read it three times. It promises to double that amount if John B licks Pope’s feet. 

When John B reads it, Pope protests right away.

“No. Not happening. That’s gross and weird.”

“It’s my tongue!”

JJ frowns and says, “Suck it up, that’s a ton of money!”

“Gross!” Both reply in unison.

“He showered before this. C’mon on, that's a huge dono to just waste!”

“It isn’t your foot!”

“Or your tongue!”

“It is my wallet. Make with the licking.”

Finally, John B does the sensible thing and lets his greed get the better of him and he turns back towards Pope’s feet, in the preview of the stream, JJ watches Pope’s toes curl and then hears the sharp burst of laughter as tongue makes contact. When John B’s head moves away, JJ can see the shiny trail of saliva on Pope’s foot as both look disgusted but a forty dollar dono arrives as promised.

In all, the stream lasts an hour and by the end of it, JJ’s soles are bright red from the tickling and his voice is hoarse but fuck did they make a lot of money. He’s pocketing a hundred and fifteen dollars and that isn’t bad. John B ends the stream and lets them out. Pope complains but he won’t when he puts the money into his college fund, and after that JJ might be able to convince him to get stocked again next week. He could get used to making bank like this!

[bobfloydsbabe]

Hey! So about the blocking blogs that don’t interact with fics thing- just wanted to say potentially if you’re comfortable doing so maybe consider not blocking immediately. It took me a couple months of reading fics to get the guts to reblog. Which I know is kind of shitty and why I ultimately pushed myself to do so!! But since I like reading a lot of smutty fics it felt like advertising my kinks to strangers (who may or may not want to see that- I’d never reblogged nsfw content on my blog before that) which scared me a bit. I definitely got over it and now I reblog everything I read. So I guess I just mean that just because someone isn’t reblogging now doesn’t mean they won’t in the future, and blocking them would lead to missing out on potential future reblogs.

With all the posts going around letting people know that sharing helps, I think more people will start! Those posts helped me see it was worth getting over my anxiety about it! Of course after time if you notice constant serial liking (and people aren’t going back later to reblog) then that probably won’t change with those users. And I know sometimes people have really bad experiences and you just need those boundaries and if that’s the case then ignore this of course! Just wanted to bring up something to consider, as it was my first hand experience with the subject! 💕

Hi there!

First, I want to thank you for being so nice and respectful about this. It's rare I get people who phrase these things like a suggestion as opposed to a demand, and more often than not, they're incredibly rude about it. I appreciate your kindness.

As for the blocking of people who don't interact with fics beyond a like, I completely understand the hesitation, especially regarding smut. I have several friends who don't reblog smut altogether because they don't feel comfortable having it on their blog. I respect that, but they'll still reblog fluffy and angsty fics.

Me blocking serial likers or people who have yet to reblog a fic are on a case-by-case basis. I look at their blog and if it's blank, I immediately block. If they have an age indicator (18+ because I block minors without hesitation) in their bio along with something like just here to read fics, but their blog is blank, I block them. If your blog is like the second scenario, I encourage you to make a text post explaining that you're figuring out tumblr (if you're new) or building up the courage to reblog fics. A post like that means you're less likely to get blocked.

However, if you serial like every fic on my Top Gun Maverick masterlist, for example, and I check your blog and see that you've reblogged fics in the past or that you actually have content on your blog, I won't block you. I give people the benefit of the doubt, but if your blog is blank, I probably won't. I've had people lash out at me, and fellow writers, for having this boundary in place. People don't owe us a reblog, but we don't owe them access to our fics, either.

Once again, thank you for being kind and respectful about this. I hope my answer helps you understand where I'm coming from.