#you know im a minor

[inkskinned]

the thing about some men is that they want you to remember, at all times, that you are underneath them. that with one word or look or "joke", you will stay beneath them. that even "exceptions" to the rule are not true exceptions - the commonly cited statistic that one in eight men believe they could win against serena williams.

women's gymnastics is often not seen as real gymnastics. whatever the fuck non-euclidian horrors rhythmic gymnasts are capable of, it's often tamped down as being not a sport. some of the most dominant athletes in the world are women. nobody watches women's soccer. despite years of dancing and being built like a fucking brick, men always assume they're faster and stronger than i am. you wouldn't like what happens when they are incorrect. once while drunk at a guy's house i won a held-plank challenge by a solid minute. the party was over after that - he became exceedingly violent.

what i mean is that you can be perfect, and they still think you're ... lacking, somehow. i hope you understand i'm trying to express a neutral statement when i say: taylor swift was the possibly the most patriarchy-palatable, straight-down-the-line woman we could churn out. she is white, conventionally attractive, usually pretty mild in personality. say what you will about her (and you should, she's a billionaire, she can handle it), but a few things seem to be true about her: 1. she can write a damn catchy song, and 2. the eras tour truly was a massive commercial success and was also genuinely an impressive feat of human athleticism and performance.

i don't know if she deserves the title of "woman of the year," i'm not debating that in this post. what i am saying is that she was named Woman of The Year, and then an untalented man got onstage at the golden globes and made fun of her for attending her boyfriend's football games. what i am saying is that this woman altered local economies - and her dating life is still being made into a "harmless" punchline. the camera panned, greedy, over to her downing a full glass of champagne. congratulations taylor! you are woman of the year! but you are a woman. even her.

fuck, man. write better material.

a guy gets onstage at a college graduation and despite the fact like half the crowd is made up of women, he spends a significant proportion of it warning these people - who spent possibly hundreds of thousands of dollars on their education - that they were lied to. that the "real" meaning of femininity is motherhood. that they shouldn't rest on the laurels of that education-they-paid-for but instead throw it away to kneel at a man's heel. imagine that. sweating in your godawful polyester gown (that you also had to pay for!), fresh out of 4 years of pushing yourself ever-harder: and some guy you've never met - who knows nothing about you - he reminds you this "win" is a pyrrhic one at best. you really shouldn't consider yourself that extraordinary. you're still a woman, even after years of study.

god forbid you are not a pretty woman, but if you are pretty, you must be dumb. god forbid you are not ablebodied or white or cis or straight or good at swallowing. you must be beneath a man, or else they are not a man. the equation for masculinity seems to just be: that which is not a woman or womanly (god forbid). anything "feminine" is thereby anathema. to engage in "feminine" things such as therapy, getting a hug from a friend, or crying - it is giving up ones manhood. therefore women need to be put in their place to ensure that masculinity is protected.

this is something i have struggled to explain to terfs - they are not doing the work of feminism, but rather the patriarchy. by asserting that women and men must be (on some secret level) oppositional and in conflict, they also assume that being a woman is akin to being another species. but bigotry does not stem from observational truths or clarity - that is what makes it bigotry. there was nothing in my childhood that made me fundamentally different from my brother. we are treated differently nonetheless. to assert there is some biological drive that enforces my gender role is to assert that women have a gendered role. men do not see women as equal to them not because of biological reality - but instead because the core tenant of the patriarchy is that women aren't full, realized people.

we are told from a very young age to excuse misbehavior as a single man's choice - not all men. it is not all men, just that one guy. all women are gold-digging bitches who belong in the kitchen - but if a man is mean, bigoted, or violent to you, it's just that particular guy, and that means nothing about men-as-a-whole. it is only one guy who got mad when you gently rejected him. it is only one guy who warns her this trophy is heavy, are you sure you can hold it? it is only one guy who smashes her face into the cake. it is only one guy talking into a mic about hating our bodily autonomy.

i have just found that they often wait until the moment we actually seem to be upstaging them. you sit in a meeting where you're presenting your own findings and he says get me a coffee? or you run to the end of the marathon and are about to finish first and he pushes your kids out in front of you. you win the chess game and they make some comment akin to well, you're ugly away. we can be the billionaire and get the dream life and finally fucking do it and yet! still! they have this strange, visceral urge to say well actually, if you think you're so great -

it's not one just one guy. it's one in eight.

[afterthelambs]

In another (happier) world, I think Muhen would've been Akechi's Sojiro. Akechi would've lived above Jazz Jin just like how Joker lived above Leblanc. Muhen would've taught him how to make the drinks and close up at night. They would've bonded over music. And Akechi would finally have an adult looking after him. Because Muhen does care about him in-canon. He's the only character in the epilogue that mentions Akechi, he notices who Akechi spends time with, and he wishes to see him again.

It's so sad that Akechi assumes nobody cares about him or wants him around and yet this random jazz club owner does. Do you ever think about Muhen seeing Akechi at the Jazz Jin sometime in December, not knowing it would be the last time he ever would

[madamemiz]

sad: falling out of a hyperfixation

tragic: watching your beloved friends and mutuals fall out of the hyperfixation while you're still in it

[head---ache]

Hi quick message for any minors that see this. As an adult in fandom spaces I get a lot of minors (i dont know if theyre kids or teenagers and frankly its none of my business) wanting to befriend me fairly often. I can tell you I don't intend on harming you at all, but the thing is, you dont know that for sure, in fact, you cant be sure about the intentions of anyone on the internet, so please, for your own safety, be careful when approaching adults in fandom spaces. I'm not saying you can't interact with us, in my case you're actually welcome to interact freely with my posts! But be mindful that there's people who could harm you, and these people will take advantage of the fact that you want to approach them. So please, take care of yourself, and always keep in mind that this person you're interacting with, if they're an adult, they naturally hold a position above you, that's just how things are, you are a child, they're an adult, so don't give them the chance to take advantage of that position.

[boycaca]

I think the reason people believe chuuya would be the more open and affectionate in soukoku (as like. A romantic relationship) is because they believe him to be the mentally stable one and i think the reason people seem to believe he’s one of the few “mentally stable” characters in bsd is because he does not let himself be seen as vulnerable, and the few times we do see him go through something genuinely horrible and having a moment of vulnerability he does not really have the time to truly process it and ends up “moving on” pretty quickly (for example when he was at the flags’ funeral and adam interrupted him, or how when the sheep betrayed him dazai was immediately at his side trying to convince him to join the pm). And even if he does process it and thinks “man that was pretty fucked up wasnt it” it is never shown on screen so i feel like a lot of viewers end up seeing it as him not being bothered by these events and just a pretty chill dude that doesnt wallow in grief or self pity. But i think him never wallowing in grief or self pity is kind of a problem because in the end all he is doing is suppressing all that trauma and not really trying to acknowledge it, but at the same time when he does he ends up pinning the blame on himself (how the sheeps betrayal was his fault, the flags dying because of him). I feel like this impacts how affectionate he is too because he has built up so many walls that at the point when the flags make a party to celebrate the one year anniversary of him joining the pm he gets suspicious, then surprised and then flustered and tries acting like he doesnt care about it. All this is to say that i think him believing he cant show weakness and has to maintain the facade of being “the strongest” makes him seem like some regular degular guy (if he’s not fighting dragons) ends up him getting viewed as some mentally stable, communicative guy with maaaybe just a bit of anger issues when in reality he got so embarrassed by dazai’s corny speech in mersault that he shot him in the head with a gun

[deadsetobsessions]

This is based off of that one tiktok from @sorruna where it’s the audio from Spider-Man: Into the Spider-verse.

——

Dick Grayson was a sneaky, intelligent little shit.

He was also dumb. These things are not mutually exclusive.

To this day, one of his best kept secrets- one of the many, many that he had now- was something he’d take to his grave.

Or to Jason’s grave, at least.

Dick sat down and began telling the story to ears that would never truly hear it.

——

Batman’s voice rumbled behind him as Dick, in his Robin suit, stood blankly on top of a roof.

“I know you snuck out last night, Robin.”

Dick froze, train of thought about his dinner derailed. Holy busted, Batman! Quick! Play dumb!

“Who’s Robin?” He asked, the years of performing in front of a large crowd coming to save his ass.

Not that dumb!

Batman sent him a dry look, reprimand already poised on his lips. Dick, however, was nothing but a good performer. Nay, a dedicated performer.

Quick! Do something out of character! He shouted at himself, panicking visibly. He stepped backwards, an idea appearing in his head. In his defense, it sounded like an amazing idea at the time. He had no idea it would blow up into a Justice League issue. If he had known… Dick would have lied better, probably. There was no way he was going to let B bench him for weeks!

“Who the fuck are you?!” He yelped. Dick apologized mentally to Alfred and his parents. Batman paused, stunned.

“That’s my question. Who are you?!” Bruce asked, immediately hostile. His son doesn’t curse. Well, not in any normal way anyways. Dick quickly backpedaled by yelling at him with a heavy Vlax dialect, missing his parents terribly as he screamed stranger danger in rudimentary Romany. After this, he was going to have to convince Bruce to get him a language tutor. He refused to forget one of the only ties he had left to his parents.

“Wait, wait- you’re my son.” Bruce replied back, in perfect Romany. He looked more convinced but still skeptical.

“My dad is a circus performer! Not a flying rat!” Dick screeched back. He couldn’t help but feel touched about Bruce seeing him like a son.

“Oy! Keep it down out there, you assholes! Some of us like our sleep, damn!” A random Gothamite screamed out of their window.

“Yo, shut the fuck up! The vigilantes are helping to keep the rent low, motherfucker!” Another Gothamite shouted back.

….

Needless to say, Bruce quickly brought Dick back to the cave- with precautions to make sure he didn’t figure out where the Cave was if Dick was actually someone else.

——

“You would have loved it, Little Wing. B was running around like a headless chicken. The memory loss protocol was actually made because of me, you know.” Dick chuckled, sniffling as he talked to the carved gravestone.

It did not reply.

——

The blood tests came back. Yeppers, Dick sarcastically thought, who woulda thought I’m me?

Reinforcements were called in.

Meaning, Batgirl.

“Watch him while I contact Justice League Dark.”

“You think it’s magic?” Barbara asked.

“Yes. There was no one else near our vicinity that could affect Dick like this. He has no head wounds.”

“Eesh. Okay, go. I’ll watch him.”

Bruce disappeared in his zeta tube, looking harried. So, to everyone that’s not a Bat, he looked absolutely terrifying.

“What did you get yourself into now, Boy Wonder?” Barbara sighed. Dick was careful to keep any signs of recognition out of his face.

“Stop calling me that! Where are my parents?!” He asked back. Barbara coughed and looked uncomfortably away.

That’s right, Babs. I’m pulling out the orphan card. Feel bad. Dick hid his feral grin.

“They’re… uh, busy.” Busy being dead, Barbara thought, immediately wincing at her own thoughts. Apparently, Dick thought the excuse was lame too, and he sent her an incredulous look.

“Would you like refreshments, Master Dick?”

“What?”

Alfred held out some cookies on a platter, giving Babs a quelling look as she tried to reach for his share.

“Oh, wow, these are really good!” Dick said as he shoveled cookies into his mouth. He tried to replicate the reaction he had when he tried these for the first time, and from Alfred’s satisfied look, Dick nailed it.

——

“Robin doesn’t remember who he is.” Batman rumbled as he all but dragged Zatanna and Constantine by the scuff of their jackets towards the zeta tubes.

“Hey, wait-”

“We have no time.” Batman snarled, tossing the two magic users into the zeta. He punched in the destination.

When they got there, he glared at the two magic users until they got into the cave.

“Damn, Bats. Really living up to your name, huh?”

“Not bad,” Zatanna said as she looked around.

“Robin,” Batman- Bruce- reminded them. He did a quick glance over to check on his kids, and found them satisfactorily uninjured. Though, Barbara was looking worse for wear. Bruce quickly found out why as she stalked to him.

“You deal with him.” She muttered. “I’m going home.”

Bruce blinked and nodded. “Get home safe.”

Zatanna and Constantine followed Batman as he walked towards Robin. It was odd to see the normally laughing child frown.

“It’s you! The kidnapper! Where are my parents?!”

Bruce winced which, for him, was akin to a full body flinch and recoil. No wonder Barbara was so tired.

“Fix it.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Batsy.” Constantine grumbled.

“Well help, Batman. Though… I’m not sure if he should be doing that.”

Bruce sharply turned his head back to where Dick was. Emphasis on was. Because now, he’s halfway up the giant dinosaur the Robin had insisted they keep.

“Robin, get down from there!”

“Stranger Danger!” Dick hollered back.

Batman- Bruce Wayne- sighed.

“That’s high level magic,” Zatanna hummed. “I can’t feel anything, but I know for sure that he won’t die. Magic like that either dissipates naturally or…”

“Lasts forever,” Constantine finished.

Bruce groaned, shooting off a grappling line and swooping upwards to catch Dick as he fell from the giant dinosaur.

——

“I pretended to get my memories back later,” Dick chuckled. “And pretended to forget the whole thing. Bruce was so relieved that I stopped knocking things over and trying to do cartwheels in high places that he totally forgot I snuck out.”

Dick patted the headstone.

“But between you and me? I’m pretty sure Alfred knew. I think B pissed him off that week.”

[kernsing]

never over the fact that han yoohyun remains also a victim of child neglect/abandonment/having adult responsibilities foisted upon him too young even as he grows up under yoojin’s care. it’s not yoojin’s fault, he did his best and he did good raising yoohyun but. you’re not supposed to be able to hurt your parent, you’re not supposed to learn how to manage your parent’s emotions/wellbeing/public image, you’re not supposed to have to fear for their physical safety and desperately try to figure out a way to protect them, you’re not supposed to be capable of real cruelty toward them, not supposed to be able to fuck up their life. but your parent is your brother who is only five years older than you, and suddenly the new and dangerous world demands you (you who are new and dangerous too) in its spotlight, and you are just a child and he was just a child. the world is so wholly unjust to both of them and i will never fault either for how their relationship was in shambles for three/eight years, even when han yoohyun makes his terrible decisions with terrible consequences, paving the road to hell. you’re not supposed to be able to hurt your parent like that. you’re not supposed to be a brother that he needs to rely on, just as much as you rely on him, both of you abandoned.

haven’t even mentioned yet how you’re not really human you don’t understand humans you try your best for your brother but you Don’t Get It, how and why society works and the full emotional harm its hatred can wreak. you might see it but you don’t get it like physical danger and there is so much of that latter danger in the world now. you might see him and keep tabs on him but you don’t get your brother, that he needs you like you need him because of the very fact that you need him and children realizing their parents are complete emotional beings is not something that should happen before you learn to stand on your own. and learning to stand on your own, paradoxically and inevitably, takes much longer when you are forced to grow up too fast. you are forced to mature too early and so you are immature in ways invisible. so many flavors of terrible responsibilities foisted upon them that no one should ever bear (raising a child while you are a child/the world is on fire and so are you/your parent also needs you to bear your shared emotional burden).

it’s so unfair. i’m bundling them both up in a blanket. han yoojin’s childhood was stolen away so he could give this simulacrum of a childhood to his brother but the world is terrible and yoojin is just a child too and it’s not possible it’s not his fault that the wonderful beautiful childhood he built is not, cannot be the bulwark in the face of brutal reality, that delicate childhood shaped by hands still so small too.

[stagshipping]

i wish the tiktok proship community was more like the tumblr proship community, bc on tiktok it's all 13 year olds trying to be as edgy as possible. im so sick of every post being "bandit 🍇s bluey but she likes it" like i doubt that you even ship that you're just trying to post the most vile "headcanons" you can come up with. proship just means "ship and let ship", it doesn't mean you HAVE to post dark headcanons about children's media. also the fact that most tiktok proshippers are around 13- there's no space for adults? as far as ive seen anyway.

[messrsrarchives]

i am ONE minor inconvenience away from deleting my account i am going INSANE

make it worth it for WHO??? FOR WHOOOOO 😭😭😭

[the-broken-pen]

Hey hey

Could you perhaps write a snippet where the building hero is in, gets bombed? Its bombed as an assassination attempt to get them, however the people in that building die and hero, succumbed to their injuries couldn't save everyone of them. At last they watched the last ambulance left without them, even as they called for help

Villians villa is just few kilometres away

Thankfu hero's legs aren't broken

They begin walking

The problem? Vil is way to composed and prim and perfect to let all of hero's blood get on their expensive carpets and fabrics. They could even be mad at the hero for reddening their porch if they hero stood their asking for bandages. What now? And the fight the two had yesterday that ended with "never see me again" and "don't ever talk to me"s.....vil was stopping hero from attending the event the building....

Will vil help them? They can just ask for bandages and leave.

What hero doesn't know: vil would literally destroy the world for hero, and there's no way in hell are they leaving hero on their doorstep.

(Anon you were cooking with this ask, thank you!)

The hero realized the building was going to explode a split second before it did, which wasn’t enough time to do anything other than brace.

They tensed, and there was a horrible screeching of metal and brick, followed by a deafening silence that covered them more completely than the rubble did.

The hero coughed once, weakly, pain rocketing through their chest, and shoved a piece of concrete off themself.

From somewhere else in the building, a soft, terrified wail began, broken around desperate sobs.

The hero coughed again, hand rising to their ribs. They didn’t have the energy to be surprised when their fingers came back coated in blood and dust. They grimaced at it, struggling to their feet–

And oh, god. That hurt.

The hero had a surgery once, the kind that resulted in bandages and a care regime and a set of stitches, and when they had woken up in the recovery unit, it had felt sort of like this. A moment of loopy half-awareness, and then a pain that had knocked the breath out of them, hands clenching into the sheets as a nurse tried to figure out if they needed more medication. 

This was worse. Their vision swam, and they blinked it back with a hiss.

Because someone, somewhere in the wreckage, was crying. And if one person was crying, it meant there was someone who survived. Which meant it was likely there were other survivors–ones too hurt to make any noise, ones knocked unconscious, ones still too shocked to do anything other than lay there–and it was the hero’s job to find them.

It took them far too long to locate the source of the crying. Longer to dig them out, vision going white as the person slammed into the hero’s chest in some facsimile of a terrified hug.

“You’re okay,” they managed, voice like gravel. “It’s okay. I’m going to get you out, and you’re going to be just fine. Were you with anyone?”

And then again, and again, and again.

The hero panted, hands on their knees as their body fought them in an attempt to just collapse onto the concrete below. They just–they just needed a minute. Just one, maybe, and then they could–

This time, the hero wasn’t even aware of it before it happened.

The remains of the building shook, then disintegrated into itself in a plume of dust and rock. The hero shielded their eyes with one hand, blinking against the onslaught.

What little air they had managed to get stuttered out of their lungs in something close to a sob. They had done this enough times to know there wasn’t anyone in that building left alive. 

They sagged down against the nearest thing–more rubble, maybe? They didn’t know–and this time when they rested a hand on their side, there was a considerably larger amount of blood.

“That’s…not great,” they said, and their fingers blurred in front of them slightly. There was an ambulance right there. Just a couple feet away. They had already helped most of the survivors, so maybe it would be okay for the hero to–

A paramedic rounded the back of the ambulance, and the hero lifted a hand, reaching–

“Please, wait, I think–I think,” it hurt coming out of their mouth, “help. Please I need–” they trailed off as the paramedic took the step up into the ambulance.

And closed the door behind them.

The hero wasn’t even that surprised when the ambulance began to drive away.

“Help,” they finished weakly, then sucked a breath in through their nose.

They were supposed to be good at this kind of thing. Surviving, no, thriving in catastrophe. A pillar of light. The one with the plan. 

The kind of being that didn’t beg for help on the ground.

The hero wasn’t entirely sure how they managed to get themselves back to standing. It was as easy as that–one moment they were on the ground, gravel embedded in their knees, and the next they were up and shaking but they were up.

“If I stay here, I’ll die,” they murmured. They had hoped maybe the threat would keep their legs from buckling again. It didn’t.

They weren’t near any place that could be trusted. There wasn’t a safe clinic for heroes on this side of the city, and even if there was, the hero wouldn’t trust them. Couldn’t afford to.

But as for near…the hero swallowed the nausea as it rose in their throat. There was one place they could go. One person they could go to.

Four miles. They could do four. There was no other option.

Where the hero had had some blurry recollection, or at least, a good guess of how they got to standing, they had absolutely no clue how they made it onto the villain’s porch. They managed a blink, retching slightly as they stared at the villain’s wavering door, then had to freeze just to bite down the pain that had come from the gagging.

They tried to knock and ended up collapsing against the villain’s door, knees giving out entirely as their fingers scrabbled for purchase and left behind smeared bloody marks on the wood.

They weren’t entirely sure how that happened either, or how long it took the villain to answer the door. Just that it hurt—so, so much, it hurt so–and that they managed to shove themself back into some semblance of standing right before the villain pulled the door open.

The villain’s face did a sort of spasming thing as soon as they saw the hero, jaw dropping slightly in what the hero could only really read as shock.

There was a very considerable amount of blood on the door. They were cold.

“I–” the hero tried, but they weren’t really sure where they had been going with that sentence, and after yesterday and the screaming and the fight the villain probably didn’t want to see them at all, didn’t want to ever see their face again, so–their mind blanked. “I got blood on your door.”

They tried to gesture towards it, but that hurt, so their hand simply twitched slightly from where it hung by their side.

They glanced down at their feet, because they didn’t want to see what the villain’s face was doing, especially if what it was doing was anything resembling anger.

“Oh.” There was blood at the hero’s feet. “And on your porch, too, I guess.”

They looked up at the villain, but they were still staring at them, brow furrowed, hand clenching on the doorframe.

“I’m sorry.”

There was a very faint quiver of tears when they said it, and the hero knew better than to hope the villain didn’t catch it. 

Were they saying sorry for the porch or the door or yesterday–

“Holy shit,” the villain finally breathed, and it sounded like it had been punched out of them. The hero froze, panic rising in their chest.

“I’m sorry,” the hero blurted out, stammering. “I’m–I’m so sorry, I’ll go, just–could I maybe have some bandages? Just–just one, maybe, please? I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” they said uselessly, head swimming. They couldn’t even remember what they were doing here. The villain was perfect in every sense of the word, stoic and proper and collected in a way the hero would never be; a marble statue brought to life. The idea of them letting the hero–the personification of a train wreck in motion–in to bleed all over the villain’s soft carpet and nice shoes and cause irreparable damage to their very expensive house was almost laughable. 

If they had had the breath to laugh.

More of the hero’s blood dripped onto the slats of the porch, and they stepped back. “I’m sorry–”

The villain reached for them, and the hero flinched, taking it for the dismissal it was–

The hero blinked, and it stuck for a moment too long as the world tilted, and when they pried their eyes open again the villain was staring at them with something the hero was too out of it with pain and possibly delirium to identify. Their gaze drifted back to the blood smeared on the door, and the villain’s grip tightened on the hero’s bicep–when had they grabbed the hero’s bicep?–until the hero’s gaze returned to theirs.

The villain said something, but there was a roaring that had started up in the hero’s ears. They seemed to take the uncomprehending blink the hero gave them in return for an answer anyways, and guided them down until they were both sitting on the cool wood. A tug, and the hero was resting against their own propped up knees, villain’s hand still firm on their arm.

“How much blood did you lose?”

It was like screaming underwater, the hero reasoned. Or through a mirror. But they heard it nonetheless, and that was their villain, and even in hatred and war they would always answer them.

“Was ‘supposed to be counting?” If they had any more energy–or maybe slightly more blood–in their body, the slur to their own words would have been concerning.

The villain’s lips pursed into a thin line, and the hero felt them begin to run an assessing hand over their injuries, cataloguing them, brow furrowing further with every second.

“M’sorry,” they managed, tongue thick. The villain didn’t pause.

“For what?”

“Bleeding on your door,” they managed. The villain stopped them from raising their head from their knees. “And your–porch.”

“I don’t give a shit about either of those things,” the villain said, simply, easily. Like it was nothing. Like they didn’t feel the weight of it as they threw it into the air.

The villain sat back on their heels, clearly having learned what they wanted from the hero’s injuries.

When the hero didn’t immediately look at them, the villain grabbed their chin, gently turning it until the hero faced them.

“How far did you walk,” they said slowly, and the hero had never been more grateful for anything in their life.

“Four miles,” the hero said, and they couldn’t hear their own voice above the roaring, but the villain obviously could from the way their eyes darkened.

The hero wanted no part in making the villain angry again–I never want to see you again, do you hear me? If you ever try to talk to me again I will kill the both of us, I promise you that–, but when they attempted to push themselves up to leave, the only thing they managed was a piteous whine and a stab of pain so intense they forgot to breathe.

“Idiot,” the villain hissed. But oddly, the hero didn’t sense any anger coming from the villain.

They blinked–too long, again–and found themselves in the villain’s arms as they walked through the house. Their head lolled back onto the villain’s shoulder, and the villain glanced down as if–to make sure the hero was okay. That they were conscious, and breathing.

Oh.

Oh.

The villain wasn’t angry.

They were afraid. For the hero.

Which didn’t make any sense, because–

I never want to see you again–

“You’re mad at me,” the hero reasoned, and it came out half strangled and petulant. The villain looked down at them, and the hero caught the tiniest flinch in their jaw.

“I’m not mad at you.”

“That’s not what you said yesterday,” the hero whispered, and the villain flinched.

“I wanted to stop this from happening.” The villain settled them onto a bathroom counter, lights flickering on as the hero leaned back against the mirror. Blood began to dry, sticky, between their fingers.

The hero’s mouth went dry, and it caught in their throat when they tried to swallow it.

“You could have just left me there.” Their voice only shook a little bit, but the villain’s head still snapped up from where they had been digging through a drawer.

“What?”

“On the porch,” the hero clarified, clearing their throat. The lump didn’t go away, and they had begun shaking at some point, and they couldn’t stop. “If you didn’t want to deal with me you could have just left me there–”

The villain’s face had darkened into something the hero almost didn’t recognize. 

“I would burn the world for you, and you think I would leave you to die on my porch?”

“You said you didn’t want this to happen.”

“No, that’s not–” the villain rubbed a hand over their brow, and the hero winced at the blood it left behind. “No. No, that’s not what I meant. I was trying to keep you from going to that stupid event and getting hurt. I knew it was going to blow.”

“I would have gone anyway.”

The villain stilled. “I thought maybe if you never wanted to see me again, and you knew I was there…”

“I would,” the hero repeated. “Have gone anyway.”

The hero watched as the villain’s face rippled through a dozen emotions, settling onto something unidentifiable.

“Why?”

“Because you were there,” the hero said easily, shrugging one shoulder. Because when it came to the villain, it really was that easy. They could scream, and shout, and hold a knife to the hero’s throat, and the hero would still follow them into hell. That was their villain.

The villain looked like the hero had stabbed them, face draining of color. Their fingers went white around the edge of the counter, as if it was the only thing keeping them upright.

“What,” the villain’s voice was hoarse.

“I went because I was hoping you would be there,” the hero said honestly

“Stop,” the villain raised a hand between them, a shield, voice breaking. They sucked in a breath, then another, like they were trying to keep themself from breaking down onto the tile.

“You would have gone to the event no matter what, just to see me,” the villain said slowly, and the hero nodded

“Yes.”

“Even though I screamed at you?”

“Yes.”

“And told you I hated you.”

“Villain, please–”

“Now you know,” the villain interrupted, voice incredibly soft. “Why I would have never left you on that porch.”

The hero forgot to breathe for a moment, tongue going numb in their mouth. The villain couldn’t mean–

They blinked for a moment too long, and then the villain was standing between the hero’s knees, hand on their chest.

“You love me,” the hero said a moment later.

“Ruinously,” the villain agreed.

“So you–”

“I was trying to save your life,” the villain’s hands were gentle as they began to patch up the hero’s side. “And now I’m saving your life in a new and unanticipated way. But there is nothing you could ever do to stop me from saving your life.”

The hero’s heart clenched. 

“Really?”

The villain caught their chin, eyes boring into the hero’s. They brushed a piece of hair off the side of the hero’s face.

“Really.”

The hero sighed, and the villain caught them as they slumped.

“I thought you hated me,” the hero said, and they hated how raw they sounded. The villain made a choked little noise.

“I’m so sorry.”

The hero sniffed.

“Don’t do it again.”

The villain simply hummed, and smoothed the ends of a bandage down against the hero’s abdomen. The hero could feel their hands shaking.

You scared me.

A second later, their hands settled on either side of the hero’s head, and the villain rested their face into the hero’s hair. They pressed a kiss to the hero’s temple, tension easing from their shoulders.

I’m sorry.

The hero clutched the front of the villain’s shirt between their hands, drawing them closer. The villain went willingly, loose limbed with affection and the rapid draining of terror from their system.

“I would have never left you on that porch.”

The hero had never believed anyone more.

[lemon-russ]

General PSA that I love and support trans people, the whole of the LGBTQIA+ spectrum, disabled people, people of all races and nationalities, Neurodivergent people, people of any and all genders and identies, and the laws that protect and support all of them.

I am some of those things. I love people of all of those things. I support things that support me and people I love.

I love you all. My blog is a safe place for everyone. If you don't agree with these things, which feels like a low bar to me, feel free to no longer participate with my stuff.

[casualavocados]

An idiot like you...an idiot like you...

KISEKI: DEAR TO ME Ep. 9

[thesunisatangerine]

against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part five

alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader

warnings: explicit sexual content, angst (i'm sorry)

(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]

word count: 3.2k

Today’s the day you were going to talk to Alexia about it. 

You had about two weeks left of your additional three weeks and with each passing day, your stay in Barcelona was drawing to a close and Alexia knew it, too. During the period of time you’d gotten to know her to now, Alexia’d put in the same effort in trying to get to know what you did outside of sports photojournalism. You’d told her, of course, and even showed her photos of your previous photojournalistic coverage, although you’d kept the more graphic ones away from her.

Despite the fact that she had jokingly tried to convince you to stay in sports photojournalism, Alexia had been nothing but supportive of your job. The thing was, she just didn’t know yet what it was you’d be returning to: you just got word that you–among other colleagues–were bound to head over to a conflict zone in a region going through civil unrest and military aggression. But it wasn’t like the thought never crossed your mind. 

Sports photography had been a welcome reprieve from the violence and depravity that came with human conflict, a typical scene to witness while on the field. And although unplanned, Alexia had played a part in your enjoyment with this side-project–so much so that it was on top of your list for alternative careers down the line. Be that as it may, you knew deep down that you wouldn’t trade your current career for anything else. 

This was what you wanted to talk to Alexia about. Well… among other things but you wanted to ease her into the conversation with a home-cooked meal and a gift. Even though it was difficult to do with Alexia around, you were able to finish making the latter a few days ago. The gift was something similar to the one she gave you: a bracelet with the colors of the flag of your country and instead of a diamond, you used a small, silver, hollow rectangular charm to represent you and your camera. And with that dealt with, you only needed to grab the ingredients for the former which brought you out to Mercat del Centre on this fine Barcelona highnoon. 

With paper bags of groceries in hand, you were thinking of grabbing something from that sushi place you’d passed on the way to the market but just as you turned the corner, you saw three women walking ahead a few paces away with their backs turned to you. 

They were all wearing matching tank shirts, shorts, and ankle socks but the one with the cap stood out to you and instantly, you recognised it to be Alexia. Knowing that and from the Barcelona matches that you’d been to, you recognised that it was Mapi and Patri flanking her. 

Excitement filled you immediately although you wondered for a second what they were doing there until you realised that Estadi Johan Cruyff was only a few blocks away. The instinct to call out Alexia’s name and reach out for her didn’t go unnoticed by you but you managed to stop yourself in time before you accidentally did.

The both of you never really talked about where the both of you stood and there was no clear label for the nature of your relationship. If someone had asked you this when you just met her over two months ago, the answer would’ve been clear; it was merely physical with a dose of infatuation. Now, it was more than just sex to you: you wanted her in every possible way, you wanted to know and to be known by her, you wanted to be the person she’d tell about the most mundane of things to–to be the person she’d allow to fall for her because you already know you were on the brink of falling. So apart from your job situation, this question was the other half of the conversation you wanted to have with her.

Though you meant to go to the same direction, you didn’t want to risk Alexia noticing you not because you didn’t want her to or that you were afraid she’d ignore you–no, you just didn’t want to accidentally interrupt her time with her teammates. She’d come to you later anyway so you’d just tell her about this then. You were just about to turn around when something in their conversation got your attention. 

“So, Ale, are you dating that photographer?” Patri asked, her question oozed of mischief. 

“What photographer?” Alexia replied with a flat tone.

Mapi snickered. “You’re too smart to play dumb and when you do it on purpose you just sound stupid.”

For that, she got a punch to the shoulder from Alexia but Mapi only giggled. 

“Fine, fine. And, no, I’m not.”

“Oh, come on, Ale! If she’s not, then why does she always take the best photos of you? Right, Patri?” Mapi whined.

“Exactly! Oh, remember those matches when you weren’t even on the pitch? And the way she always looks at you after a match? I’d say that’s something!” Then as if she just had an epiphany, Patri’s eyes widened, hand clapping over her opened mouth. “Wait! Unless…”

Patri didn’t even need to finish her sentence, her suggestive tone was enough to communicate what she meant by it and your ears burnt at the implication. 

“Oh, shit. Are you, you know?” Mapi exclaimed, finally catching on, eyes just as wide as Patri’s. 

“Keep your voices down, assholes,” Alexia growled in annoyance then she grumbled something you couldn’t quite hear. In response, the other two women just laughed.

“Love you, too, Cap,” Mapi said in a saccharine tone.

Alexia sighed. “Okay. Yes. Are you happy now?”

The other two women hooted and patted Alexia on the back.

“Ha! I knew it!” Patri exclaimed.

“Do you like her though?” Mapi’s question stilled your breath as you anticipated Alexia’s answer.

“No,” Alexia shook her head and she shrugged. “She means nothing to me.”

“Ouch! Not even considering dating?” 

“I can’t deal with that right now.”

“Damn… So does that mean she’s one of your girls, then? And here I thought you finally stopped.”

“I’m not even going to answer that.”

You didn’t hear anything after that. Alexia’s words rooted you to the spot and you watched as the three of them walked on. 

She means nothing to me. She’s one of your girls. She means nothing to me. She’s…

Those same words echoed in your mind in a ruthless cycle but what stuck to you the most was the way Alexia said them. You’d never heard her that cold… that detached. Your hands shook, a chill ran up your spine and you shivered while the world blurred in front of you.

You brought a hand to your eyes and felt warm tears on your fingers.

Oh.

And without even asking you got the answer to your question. 

––––––

The moment Alexia stepped foot into the house that night, you grabbed her by the lapels of her jacket and pulled her down for a searing kiss. She gasped in surprise as you pushed her against the door and you took that opportunity to deepen the kiss, your fingers now tangled in her hair while your front was pressed firmly against her.

It wasn’t enough.

You bit and tugged her lower lip before you nipped a path along her jaw down to the base of her throat where you sucked at her pulse point. Her muscles responded and rippled beneath your palms when you traced their lines along her sides and stomach under her shirt while Alexia gasped and moaned from your touch. 

It wasn’t enough.

By the time the both of you reached the bed, you’d stripped Alexia off her clothes. She landed on her back on the bed when you pushed her, gasping as she did so, and you immediately crawled on top of her. Wasting no time, you sucked and marked the expanse of skin in front of you: her neck, her chest, her breasts, her stomach. You nipped and bit as Alexia writhed and keened beneath you.

It wasn’t enough. 

When you felt her large hands along your sides trying to tug the hem of your shirt to strip it off you, you grabbed her wrists and pinned them on either side of her head–a rejection to her offer, one that you never thought you’d do around Alexia. But just the thought of being completely naked made you shudder, and not in a good way. So you pressed a bare leg against her core to distract her to which Alexia keenly responded to by arching against you while her wetness burnt like a brand against your skin there. 

It wasn’t enough. 

When Alexia cried out your name while your fingers worked deep in her core, neck straining and muscles tensing, the pit in your chest only seemed to yawn wider and dug deeper. 

It wasn’t enough. 

When Alexia clung to you as she dozed off with her soft breath caressing your clothed stomach, tears burnt in the corners of your eyes as you watched her glow in her slumber, so peaceful and beautiful. Emotions bubbled in the base of your throat, a string of words coiled themselves tighter around your tongue, but something else burnt in your throat that you found difficult to swallow. 

In your desperation to get closer–to make Alexia forget about whoever else that she was sleeping with–you’d used sex as a tool for possession not for intimacy, and the streak of shame that that knowledge left behind pained you more than you could ever thought it could. You weren’t like this. This wasn’t a person you wanted to become, especially when it came with Alexia.

But… you wanted more.

You wanted so much more. 

But wasn’t this what you already convinced yourself of? Deep down, you knew all too well that this was too good to be true–too good of a love to be yours. 

You brushed away a lock of blonde hair from Alexia’s temple, admiring the strong slope of her nose, the fierce slant of her eyebrows, the gentle curves of her eyelids, the elegant bow of her lips. You soaked as much of her as you could because this would be the last time you’d be able to see her like this.

It was a blur, the journey back from the marketplace to the house earlier today, and your mind was a cacophony of words but a single thought was in clarity: you needed to leave. So the moment you got back, you did two things: you emailed Derek and booked your flight home.

There were no details included in the email you sent to your brother as to why you were coming back early–it was extremely unprofessional but an apology was the only thing you could come up with. You’d never not seen a project through to the end no matter the circumstance but this was different; you felt as though you were more equipped to navigate mortal peril than this dance with Alexia so leaving was the only option. 

Tomorrow at midnight, you’d be gone, two weeks ahead of schedule. You didn’t know if Alexia would get here tomorrow before you depart but that was a question for then. For now, you would allow yourself to savour this moment when Alexia was still right here beside you for the final time.

You brought one of her hand to your lips and pressed a light kiss against her knuckles.

A line from a poem fleeted through your mind.

these, our bodies, possessed by light

––––––

Everything was already packed by the time early evening came and even though the caretaker was scheduled to come early tomorrow, you  made a point to check around for anything important you might have forgotten and to ensure you’d sufficiently tidied up after yourself. Finally satisfied, you went downstairs and just after you ordered an Uber to take you to the airport, a knock came to the door and the door handle turned.

Shit.

“Hey, the door’s unlocked! Look, I didn’t know what you wanted to eat since you didn’t text me back so I just grabbed us some–”

Alexia’s voice floated into the room and as she passed through the doorway with her bag of takeaways in one hand, she stopped in her tracks as she saw you and your luggage. Then her face turned cloudy, concern and a question in her eyes.

Her hair was still damp, cheeks still flushed from training, and you longed to reach out to tuck that loose hair behind her ear but instead, you clenched your fists at your sides as you watched her mouth open a few times before she seemed to finally settle on what to say.

“Is… everything alright?” She regarded your luggage for a moment longer before she met your eyes again.

“Yes.” 

It was only one word but your voice trembled nonetheless, and you hated that it did. Alexia’d must have heard something in your tone because her brows furrowed even further as understanding began to seep in. 

“You’re–” Alexia’s throat bobbed, “you’re leaving now?”

“Yes.”

As each second passed, you could see the way Alexia’s walls began to climb.

“You said it’s not until after two weeks–” 

“I lied.” 

At that, the remaining warmth in her eyes flitted away and left her hazel eyes flat and cold. Then she scoffed, hurt clear in her voice when she asked, “were you even planning to say goodbye?”

A heavy silence settled in the air; an answer in and of itself. You could feel the distance between the both of you widen as the moment stretched on, the air so thick from tension it hurt to even breathe. Then a notification from your phone disrupted the quiet and it gave you an excuse to divert your eyes from Alexia’s.

Your Uber just arrived. You sent the driver a quick message to wait, that you’d pay them for the time, before you faced the music again. Clearing your throat, you moved to get the paper bag addressed to ‘Ale’ from the counter–the one you originally planned to leave by the door once you’d left–then you stood just out of arm’s reach from Alexia and offered her the bag. 

“Before I forget, here.”

Alexia’s eyes bore into yours before she eventually dragged them down to the bag in your hand. She placed the takeaways beside her feet before she grabbed the bag in your hand, her fingertips brushed against the skin of your knuckles and you fought the urge to flinch away.

You watched as she peered inside and you bit your lip as you hoped she wouldn’t see the pictures and the letters you wrote; it was bad enough she got here before you left to begin with, how much worse could this get if she saw them in front of you. Oh, how you wouldn’t be able to handle it.

Once she stuck her hand inside to grab something, you held your breath. Then you saw the way her jaws worked at what she found inside. She lifted it enough for you to catch a glimpse of it over the edge of the bag: blue and scarlet, her Barcelona jersey. 

Alexia sucked in a breath, ragged, before she breathed out with a trembling voice. “Oh.”

“I did promise I was going to return it.”

She looked up at you, her eyes now glazed over and you were sure with the way your eyes burnt that yours were just as red. 

“Why?”

There were so many ways you could answer her question, the words because I could fall in love with you were poised at the tip of your tongue but you bit it off before they could slip out and leave you more vulnerable than you already were.

“Because… it was fun while it lasted. No strings attached, right?” The words sounded so cruel to you and immediately, you wanted to take them back. To reduce those moments with her and the memories that were now permanently a part of you to a passing fling felt abysmally wrong. You wanted nothing more than to step into her embrace, to tell her how much she’d come to mean to you, to tell her that you could fall for her if she’d just let you… but you never really had a chance did you? You knew that now and you couldn’t keep pretending you didn’t want more. 

Alexia’s jaw worked again as her chin quivered, her tongue skimmed over the corner of her lips, a habit you noticed she did when she was upset–whenever she wanted to stop herself from crying. 

“Is this it, then?” She whispered the question and at that, a tear fell down your cheek.

“I guess it is.” 

And in the silence that followed, as if guided by an invisible force, your hand began to reach out for Alexia but your presence of mind came back to you and you quickly retracted it. Instead, you grabbed your two bags and began to head out the door. You passed by her and you were already a few steps away when you heard Alexia speak.

“Will I ever see you again?”

You knew she knew the answer to it; you knew she wanted you to say otherwise.

You didn’t turn back when you said, “goodbye, Alexia. Take care of yourself.”

––––––

The flight back home was nothing short of a fever dream: one minute you were at Barcelona-El Prat Airport nursing your head in one of the bathroom stalls as you cried, the next your plane was touching down at your home country’s landing strip. 

Derek was there to pick you up and he looked like he was about to bombard you with questions but upon seeing the state of you, his gaze softened, brows furrowing in concern and there–in place of your business partner from a moment ago–was your brother. 

He pulled you into a tight hug and you closed your eyes revelling in his comforting scent while you willed yourself not to cry. Although his arms brought solace to your aching heart, the ones you longed to hold you belonged to someone who was a thousand miles away. 

Over the next few days following your arrival, you ignored everything and went off the grid, deleting the social media apps on your phone lest the temptations would convince you to check how Alexia was doing. So instead, you busied yourself with catching up with your mother and your friends, and buried yourself with work while Derek hovered in the background, protective and concerned but respectfully giving you time to come around and tell him what happened. 

You told yourself you would–that it could wait a little longer. But you never got around to it because the next thing you knew, you, Gilda, and Jones were on air to the conflict zone for journalistic coverage. Once your plane landed, the current malaise from your personal life seemed infinitesimal for it was nothing compared to the afflictive catastrophe of war. 

[feketeribizli]

the orange pez brothers

[autisticaradiamegido]

day 39

a redraw from a couple years back that was originally a redraw from 2014 so thats a FULL DECADE OF PROGRESS, BABEY!!

[writinganon1]

@cokoweee

Ya’ll ever have a dream so lifelike it feels aggressively real until one thing goes a little too wrong and then you start to realize that maybe you’re in a dream but it’s also too real to convince yourself it’s not real that you can’t wake yourself up? 

TW: panic attack, I say gun, uhhh blood ig? Bishop says a kinda weird thing but that's just him bein him

can I say blood? last time I did it marked me as mature...

-

Her heart thumped against her chest, lactic acid building in her legs as she ran. She tapped furiously at her phone, fingers slipping over the screen as she tried to deploy Sheldon. 

Donnie says “no no no” chimed a pixilated picture of Othello, his finger waving back and forth. 

“What the-” She slammed against a wall, her shoulder crunching against the brick. 

His stupid programming on the poor thing to keep Sheldon at his house. Maybe she could override it? 

No, not enough time. She was just going to have to run and hope for the best. 

Her shoulder screamed in protest as she climbed the ladder in the alley. Scrambling over the side of the building to catch her breath, she tapped at the screen again. 

There had to be something she could do to foil his programming. She wiped at her nose, the cold still not quite gone even after days of bed rest. Bullets flew over the edge of the building, seemingly locking on to her body heat. Throwing herself at the ledge at the last second to force the bullets to crash into the wall she coughed violently, phlegm coating her throat.

Stupid sickness. 

Stupid Othello leaving her with the stupid rabbit farmer.

She pushed herself off the ground, arms struggling under the weight of herself. It was as if every muscle in her body was on fire, each fiber screaming at her to stop. She gulped raising her head over the ledge. Agent Bishop was standing on the adjacent rooftop, his face curled into a sneer, eyes unblinking despite the sun in his eyes. 

He waved at her, fingers waggling in the air as he pulled a small gun from his pocket. Aiming it directly at her chest he grinned, his eyes flickering with something distinctly unhuman. 

She stumbled backward, her feet skidding over the concrete as he seemed to lock onto her. Loose rock dug into her knees as she clambered over the rooftop. 

Away.

All she needed to do was get away. 

She placed a hand over her stomach, feeling the raised bump of the scar, as she moved.

This was…

This was wrong? 

It didn’t happen this way. 

No. She didn’t need to get away, she needed to get out. 

The bullet ripped into her skin, tearing away at muscle, and shattering the bone in her rib.

She screamed, blood pouring from the gaping hole in her chest, as Bishop moved closer. He walked to her side, footsteps clanking against the concrete. 

Clawing at the ground she dragged her body along the roof, rocks digging under her nails. Bishop laughed, his foot trampling her hand, digging it into the ground. She gasped, breathing shallowly as she fought to get loose. 

He grabbed her hair, wrapping it between his fingers and tightening his grip as he pulled her from the floor. 

“Oh, this is wonderful.” He smiled, voice dripping with venom. “Such a pretty little thing I caught this evening. I’ve been dying to chat with you.” He pulled her hair up, forcing her to rise. “I wonder if she’ll do any tricks?” 

She spat in his face, her ears filled with an all-consuming ringing. 

Away. 

She needed to get away. 

It didn’t matter how. She needed to get away. 

He said something else, flaunting some sort of mechanism he had hidden in his shirt. She tried to focus on his words, but her breathing was too shallow, her limbs too shaky, the ringing too loud for her to hear a word. 

She clamped a hand over her chest, a sorry attempt to staunch the flow of blood from the gaping hole in her body. Cursing softly she watched as the red seeped into a slithering pink fleshy mass. 

She stifled a scream as the pink turned an orange maroon, her own blood fueling some sort of monster. 

“Shhhhhhh.” Bishop whispered against her ear, “It’ll be done soon. Just one quick slash and you’ll be out of my hair for good.” 

The mass jumped forward, faster than she could comprehend, her body spasming in pain as she scrambled back.

Was this the Krang she’d heard so much about after she’d left the jail? Weren’t they supposed to be mindless or something? 

It lunged forward again, tentacles lashing toward her face. Bishop shook her in front of him, like a toy for a dog. 

“Kendra?”  

She screamed as he tightened his grip on her, shaking her around like a bag of flour. The world around her turned hazy, her vision blurring in and out. 

She wasn’t going to go out without a fight. 

Throwing her head back she jammed her skull into his chin, breaking the grip he had on her hair. 

She clawed at the ground, a strange silky feeling coating her fingers. Pushing away the softness of what was sure to be Krang, she kicked at the mass as it wiggled unnaturally. 

“KENDRA!” A familiar voice shouted at her, a gentle three-fingered nubby touch against her arm. 

Her eyes flew open, arms flailing to the sides to swat at what was left of the Krang matter, as hands held her back. She gasped, her chest heaving as a sinking feeling hit her gut. Dread splashed over her head like a wave, drowning her, leaving nothing but fear.

Eyes widening she looked next to her for Tello, horrified as darkness encroached on her vision, leaving her staring through a pin hole. Nausea rolled through her stomach as she gasped for air, her chest shuddering to keep up with her breathing. 

It hurt. It hurt so bad. 

“Hey, hey, hey.” He whispered, hand placed against her back. “It’s ok you’re home. You’re with me.” 

She jerked backward. He was loud. So so loud. Even with the ringing in her ears, he was too loud. 

Breaths were punched from her lungs faster than she could finish taking them in. Tears streamed down her face as her eyes blew wide. Her chest tightened, lungs twisting as she shook. 

She’s dying. She has to be dying. There’s no other explanation. 

Dead in her room from a nightmare-induced heart attack,  

Her eyes flickered back and forth over the room, not focusing on anything, just wildly scanning for danger she knew wasn’t there. Willing her arm to move, she let out a chocked warble. 

The room seemed to melt around her. Things blurred together, a fuzzy abstract painting of almost-real-life. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she tightened her muscles. 

Her whole body shook as she tried to take steadying breaths. 

“Did you know softshell turtles only have half a plastron?” 

She was in the middle of dying. 

She most definitely did not need turtle facts right now. 

“Technically a full one, but it’s covered by skin, rendering it effectively useless for plastron purposes.” He shrugs. “Same deal as the shell.” 

She looked at him, confusion breaking through the panic. 

“Makes us really flexible though. Wanna see?” 

He got off the bed, walked to the middle of the room, and bent backward. He smiled upside down at her from the floor and smoothly brought himself back up. 

“Pretty neat huh?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Bet no other turtle you meet could do that.” 

Amusement rippled through her as she watched him demonstrate his stretches and various yoga poses.

“I’ve never met another turtle like you.” She breathed, some of the panic melting away. 

“Precisely! No one can do it like me!” He said, pointing his finger at her triumphantly before his face softened. “ We starting to feel a bit better?” 

She brought her thumb and pointer finger close together. A little 

He nodded. “Am I good to come back up or do you need some space?” 

She patted the bed next to her, inviting him closer. She waited until he was seated comfortably before slumping against his shoulder, exhausted. 

He shifted slightly, reaching for his phone with one hand, the other wrapped around her. He let them sit for a moment, reminding her to breathe every few seconds before Sheldon zipped into the room. 

He whispered something to Othello before zooming out of the room. She watched passively as it happened, her body still not quite connected to her soul. 

Sheldon returned moments later, a bag of ice, a bottle of water, a cookie, and tub of lavender lotion in his little propeller arms. 

Othello took them from him, patted his head, and shooed him away. Taking one of the ice cubes he flattened out her hand and placed it in her palm. 

She jerked slightly at the sensation of cold in her hand, surprised when he placed another in her palm. 

“Focus on the melting.” He said, voice low and gentle. 

The ice filled the lines of her hand and dripped over the sides and down her arm. She shivered as the water pooled in her hand. Othello grabbed the cookie from the pile he had created and broke off half to give to her. 

“Thanks?”

He watched her carefully. “What does it taste like?” 

“A cookie?” She said through a mouthful, her hands still full of TV static. 

“I need details.” He pressed. 

She paused, taking a moment to consider the flavors in her mouth. “Vanilla, chocolate chips.” She took another bite. “ Like I left it in the oven a minute or two too long and overcooked them just slightly.” 

She’d have to make another batch, this time keeping an eye on the time. 

He pressed an uncapped water bottle into her hand. “Drink.” 

She pressed the bottle to her lips, feeling the way the cold blossomed against her skin as she held it there. Quietly observing the way she could feel it go down her throat and into her stomach. 

“Are we feeling more alive?” 

She nodded, running her hand along her thigh to feel the fabric of her pajama pants as she pressed her head against his side. 

“Good.” He murmured, sleep creeping into his voice. “You had a panic attack I’m pretty sure.” 

“...Sorry it was for something stupid.” 

“I get worked up over stupid stuff too.” He mumbled, eyes half closed. 

“Your stuff isn’t stupid.” She countered. 

“Then neither is yours.” 

She stopped, lifting her head to look up at him.

He grabbed her hand, flexing the fingers for her. “You feel ok?” 

“I don’t know.” She answered honestly. 

He nodded and guided her to a lying position. “Tell me five of your favorite things.” 

She paused, looking around the room. “Hmmmmm. You.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Mhm. Uhhh, lavender. The color purple. Satin jackets. Baking. Messing around in the lab. Oh, I guess that’s more than five.” 

He tapped her shoulders rhythmically, “You can keep going if you need to.” 

She took in a deep breath. “I think I’m ok now.” 

“Positive?” 

Nodding she pulled the blankets over herself. What she really needed was rest. She was so exhausted from the whole ordeal that the idea of doing anything else felt impossible. 

He got off the bed again, searching beneath the bedframe for something before he pulled a large purple blanket from under the bed. She blinked in surprise as he placed it over her, a weight holding her down to the bed. 

“I should’ve mentioned it was weighted.” 

She pulled her hand out to give a quick thumbs up as he climbed back into bed. She shifted to hold out her arm for a hug. He smiled and pulled her close, wrapping his arm around her waist. 

“You smell like you’ve been using my soap.” She grumbled against his plastron. 

He shrugged. “ I like the way you smell.” 

Rolling her eyes she tugged the blanket higher over her shoulders smiling as soft chirping filled the room, the sound he always made right as he fell asleep. 

“Good night Tello.” She whispered.

His plastron vibrated as he churred back, gently running circles through her hair. 

She was home. And she was safe.

~

squad don't write stuff at four AM I'm pretty sure this only makes sense to me at this point. Anyway I was listening to my pretty princess playlist while writing this 💁‍♀️

the reason why this was written is in the tags btw