#all things considered i would say it's still a happy-ish ending for them

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

IT’S YOU, HAPPY ALL THE TIME ─── jonathan breech ✧☾𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “I ask Jessica what drowning feels like and she says not everything feels like something else." — ‘Jessica gives me a chill pill’, Angie Sijun Lou.

pairing. jonathan breech x reader

summary. you’ve bared your heart to your bestfriend, jonathan, more times than you can count, whilst knowing practically nothing at all about him. what is friendship if it is not equal… what is love if it is not returned? can your relationship survive such one-sidedness?

warnings. swearing, TW mention & description of suicide/attempts & depression, very introspective/kind of a character study???, alcohol & drug use, pining, ANGST!!!!, crying, fluff, smut with feelings, p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex (f), SMUT UNDER THE CUT! 

word count. 10k (WTF??!?!!??)

a/n. the title is from “she won’t go away” by faye webster:) btw this is… rly angsty (and SO long omg im still in shock) so beware🫡 ALSO IM SO SORRY FOR NOT POSTING IN WHILE!! SCHOOL IS KICKING MY BUTT & THIS FIC WAS AN ABSOLUTE MONSTER TO WRITE LMAO

i. 

There are very few words in your vocabulary you can use to accurately describe Jonathan Breech. 

The boy is an enigma, a matryoshka doll that never ends: he is witty and lighthearted and sarcastic, but you’ll always catch that edge, the air of malaise he carries around himself, the unspoken elephant in the room that screams WHO ARE YOU REALLY?

He had always been more of a figure, a landscape; something to witness, observe-- experience without letting it do the same to you. You don’t know if that’s something you want, either: there’s an imbalance in his hilarity, and he always takes things a step too far. Jonathan lights matches and lets them burn all the way down to his fingertips; he shaves and lets the blade leave stinging little nicks, rivulets of blood running down his neck; he chainsmokes cigarettes in his room and only opens the window when he feels his heart hammering in his chest, desperate for air. 

You meet him — or, first experience him in a similar fashion: he had been in the university library, standing on top of a creaky, old bookshelf, shouting something you couldn’t understand over the music blasting through your headphones. You could certainly see him though, gesturing animatedly, dressed eccentrically in his signature winter trapper hat and a velvet blazer. That thin, effeminate figure of his was making winding, marionette-ish steps along the wood, an action that had everyone readying themselves to catch his inevitable fall. 

Then, seemingly out of nowhere and catching you completely off guard, you caught his eye. He began stepping from one shaky shelf to the next, a complete miracle none of them toppled over, before stopping on one close enough for you to read his lips. 

“Hi,” he mouthed, shifting uneasily on his left foot before regaining a steady balance, “you’re in my class, right?”

You nodded, hesitantly— yes, truthfully, you’d seen him in your Introduction to Literary Studies course a couple of weeks ago, sporting the same outfit as he did now, but you thought nothing of him. He’d been generally well-behaved then, asking slightly odd but in-tune questions that more or less answered all your inquiries, so you didn’t think the guy would have a penchant for, well… book-shelf hopping. 

He grinned, about to say something else, before something — or someone, made him flinch. A professor, probably, considering the unintelligibly muffled, booming voice behind you. However, Jonathan made quick work of the situation, sneakily climbing down and escaping out the door. 

The next time you see him, he’s sidled up beside you in your shared class. “Mind if I sit here?” a familiar voice had asked, to which you murmured a non-committal knock y’self out, before realizing with wide eyes.  His presence had caught you off-guard, as he so often did, and you sensed a pattern blooming. 

Jonathan certainly made for an odd desk-partner; his personality warped the environment around you, and it was suddenly so much easier to tear your eyes away from the lecture and land on Jonathan’s own. It’s something you never thought you’d ever do, because you adore the material being taught. 

At the end of class, he asks you out for a drink: he’s just found the best Irish stout in the entire city, and what better way to make it known than to take anyone and everyone he knows there?

Rejection is written on your face clear as day— you have class tomorrow, an essay that needs to be finished, and honestly, pubs just aren’t really your scene. 

But in the end… you still bite. You can’t help it: he’s disarming and warm and looks like he should smell like a bonfire. Somehow, that just does it for your brain; it’s here you learn of the charm that is Jonathan Breech. 

That night goes everything and nothing like you expected: you expected not to be able to predict his actions, and that’s exactly what happens. When you meet Jonathan at the aforementioned pub, it’s not actually the one he’s meaning to take you to— it’s just the closest public place to the on-campus dorm, which is where he says he’s rooming. 

“‘ve got a neighbor m’pretty sure is trying to sleep with me,” he says absently, ushering you onto the back of his bike, which had been leaning against a NO PARKING sign. “He’s always toget’er wit’ our dorm advisor, so I should l reject him before I get kicked out, if y’get what I mean.”

Now, you honestly should’ve expected this from a guy who jumped from six-foot book shelves, but Jonathan’s biking is all swift turns and jilted stops, mere milliseconds from repeatedly running red lights. You want to ask if he just learned how to ride the thing yesterday, but can’t, not with how utterly reckless and shameless he is about it, his terrible steering making you instinctively wrap your arms around his chest. 

You clutch him tightly, making him hum in approval, and you feel your ears burn flusteredly. You would’ve pulled away, but then he cut from the right lane to the left in one swift move, barely missing several cars, and you practically shrieked instead. “Oh my god!”

“Sorry,” he apologizes quickly. You can’t see his face, having shut your eyes in fear, but after hearing the blatant cheekiness in his tone, you can imagine clear as day how gleefully it contorts. You want to slap him somewhere, anywhere, but that’d defeat the point of being mad at his recklessness, so you squeeze him tighter instead, and he chokes on his breath. “Jesus-- m’sorry, really!”

When the two of you make it to the pub — alive and uninjured! — annoyingly all the way across town, your first few steps off his bike are stuttered, dizzy: “We are-- not going by bike next time,” you gasp, leaning against a random brick wall. 

“Next time, eh?” He grins, and this time you really do slap him— just on the arm, bless your self-control and niceties not to beat this oddly comfortable-to-be-around near-stranger to death. 

The pub, with its forgettable name and dingy stools, has a minimal, lackluster crowd. A kitschy neon sign flickers and dies as you walk in, making you raise a brow, but Jonathan merely drags you by the arm to a cozy corner table, then disappearing deeper within the venue before returning moments later with two pints of black beer in tow.

“Go on, then,” he gestures, setting the tall glass on the table, sitting down in the chair in front of you and taking a hearty sip of his own drink.

You let out a little hesitant sigh at his words, before relenting and taking in a long gulp of the liquid. “…Huh,” you remark, impressed. Jonathan smiled knowingly behind his glass, letting out a smug little ah, you see? 

“Worth the long ride?” he inquired innocently, as if that was the only thing wrong with the night.

“Worth the ride, but not worth almost dying for,” you rolled your eyes goodheartedly, knocking back the rest of the bitter drink and making him whistle. 

The rest of the night goes like this: Jonathan orders two more rounds of the quality Irish stout before the two’ve you are stumbling out of the pub, exploring all the nightlife there is to offer, like the crowd surrounding an out-door live comedy group performing down the street that has you and Jonathan giggling for hours after, or the underground speakeasy you accidentally find yourselves shoved into, a nasally guitarist singing on a smoky stage, several more drinks finding themselves in your system despite how nauseous you already feel.

“You-- d’you fancy him?” Jonathan slurs behind you, steadying himself by pressing his hands to your waist.

“F-fancy who?” you blink blearily, leaning into his warm touch.

“Who else m’I talkin’ about, girl? The singer!”

You shake your head no numbly, practically collapsing into his arms now, your head lulling on his chest. You’re so close you can smell the distinct scent of his skin, that unique musk everyone has, and it’s strangely familiar, like those smells that evoke old, nostalgic memories. It’s like how sunscreen summons the smell of the sun after a childhood beach day, or how vanilla extract takes you back to the smell of your mother’s baked goods on a specific winter evening.

“Reckoned you wouldn’t,” he assumes, hands coming away from your waist to wrap his arms around your shoulders, swaying to the music slightly in the crowded club, “looks like a -- right bleedin’ dope… wit’ that mop of hair.”

You giggle, alcohol riddled beyond belief, unable to formulate a response with the conflicting blurry thoughts in your head: it’s telling you Jonathan Breech isn’t the crowd you want, that you need to go home and work, that you let loose too easily— but it also tells you that you can see yourself becoming friends with him very, very quickly. 

It’s there, in that club, Jonathan Breech moves into your life and fills a gaping hole you didn’t know existed, like a hole in your stockings you only notice when you get home. You have friends, certainly, more than you can count on both hands, but they never get as close as Jonathan does. After that night, an unknown force pulls the two of you together, making you run into him everywhere, and a tight friendship blooms like a lilypad in a raging storm; beauty within the chaos. In the multitude of close friendships you’ve harbored, he is the first to see so many sides of you. The last thing that did was your mother; it had only ever been your mother. 

He is an endearing, amazing friend, both the intent listener and the charismatic speaker all at once; he knows his friends like the back of his hand, can recount their life like he can count the number of moles on his face-- but you, and everyone else, know absolutely nothing about him. 

At least, close to nothing-- you know he likes ice cream and hanging out and going to the pub; you know he likes biking and doing drugs and women; you know he hates the sea and his brother and his father, but you don’t know him. All you’ve ever seen him do is smile or laugh or shout in mock anger; there is a carefully glued mask on his face he takes meticulous caution in preserving-- he is terrified to let go, despite the blasé persona he lets on.

Or maybe the mysterious matter of your bestfriend is tripping you up for no reason; maybe you’re psychoanalyzing something that doesn’t need to be psychoanalyzed, reading between lines that don’t exist. But if you were asked to answer honestly, there’s just something about Jonathan you don’t get. There is a split seam in the tapestry of his life, missing pieces in the story he pretends to tell with utmost accuracy. There are things that he never talks about, that he recoils when asked like you’ve poked a tender wound. 

“So, what were you doing before… all this?” You ask him once, laying on his messy bed in his dorm-room and scanning the water-damage constellations dotted along his popcorn ceiling. By all this you mean going to university, being the resident party boy, aimlessly pursuing a degree you’re 99% sure he picked blindfolded (culinary science) and standing here, with you, snorting a line of something on his creaky wooden desk. 

Jonathan freezes, still hunched over. “What d’you-- what d’you mean?” he says, tone breezy but, uncharacteristically tense… jilted and preoccupied. You could’ve brushed it off as him being seriously focussed on his drugs, but the way he shifts, how his shoulders curl in like he wants to disappear, tells you otherwise. 

“I mean, before going to school here… y’know, what were you like as a dumb teenager?”

You two’re twenty, barely not-teenagers, but it still makes a world of a difference: you’re living away from home, doing what you want, experiencing (a juvenile, naive version of) freedom and adulthood.

“I dunno… kind of a tool, that's f’sure,” he chuckled, rubbing his nose roughly. He’s being funny on purpose, a jester’s distraction: he doesn’t want you to realize his answers’ not really one at all. 

You shifted on his bed, now leaning against his headboard. His answer strikes you as odd and uncharacteristic despite his attempts to evade suspicion: usually, Jonathan pounces at the chance to yap on and on. “What, the great Jonathan Breech doesn’t have any wild stories to tell? No bones broken, girls dumped, houses trashed?” 

He snorted at that, like some inside joke you weren’t privy to was brought up in your words, and he descended back down on a carefully partitioned line of white. “I broke my baby finger once,” he relented vaguely when he finished, dusting off the table and licking the remains off his hand. “I cried and I cried and I cried.”

“Did it hurt that much?” you grinned, mind trailing off to imagine a baby-faced Jonathan Breech, a juvenile highschool boy, doing something silly to break that finger. Maybe he accidentally flung off his bike, broke it because of a dare, or maybe it happened just by slipping and falling. 

“It - uh… didn’t hurt enough,” Jonathan smiled, tight-lipped and paltry. All at once the air in the room had changed, like someone attached a vacuum to the window and sucked everything out. 

Your grin fell, and you watched him carefully: perhaps, had you not been as close to him as you were, he’d have let something show. A twitch in the smile, a break in the facade. But you were, and his face stayed the same, and your thoughts ran circles around themselves. This was… something else, something belonging to the part of his life he didn’t talk about. 

The atmosphere had grown tense, taut, a rubber band twisted ‘round and round, threatening to burst, so you leave the matter of his injury alone; of his life alone. You go back to staring at his ceiling, he goes back to his drugs; Jonathan collapses within himself, and you don’t notice how badly he suffocates… how suffering in silence is also accompanied by the overwhelming desire to be found.

ii.

Sometimes, despite his self-imposed distance, Jonathan lets someone look inside his head. 

You are both the sometimes and the someone; you don’t know why it’s always you, but you chalk it up to the fact that beneath his unpredictable demeanor, the murky and unreadable feelings he holds for others, is this uncharacteristic constant: he holds a softness for you. It’s what lets you know there’s something haunted lurking beneath his happy-go-lucky surface. 

You don’t know where this softness comes from, either. But you know you see it, in lingering touches, tender duchenne smiles unlike the devilish tilt his lips usually hold, how he clasps his hand around yours after a night at the pub and walks you home because he knows you get paranoid. You see it in how he comes over to your apartment when you don’t answer anyone's calls during exam season, how he remembers what your mother’s name is and what your childhood pet was and what your favorite flowers are. How his lips brush past your cheek when he pulls away from hugs, his hands shuddering around your shoulders, like he’s afraid he’ll crush you.

You only wish you could do the same. You want to sit by his side and mend his heart, lend an ear to his most mundane fears, you want to take his hand into your own and kiss it softly, return all that he has done for you, take the same as you have given to him: what is friendship if it is not equal, what is love if it is not returned? It is something broken, unable; split halves of one heart, an imbalance in the scale, Bonnie without her Clyde, a fish out of water. 

Jonathan pours his heart into your own, filling holes you know you don’t have, and you think he may be overcompensating for something else, seeing things in you that really belong to him. It is maddening, and you just want to beg and plead he lets you in. 

But you settle for the gentle pokes, the prodding, and try to decipher the vague answers he gives you. Most days, you can’t really make sense of it. 

“Sorry,” you apologize, about to leave the outing you planned with Jonathan — studying, or, trying to study, at an intimate coffeebar the two of you frequented — “my dad’s gotten drunk with his lads and my mum needs help dragging him home.”

 “Hey, hey, don’t worry. I get it: my dad used to do that all the time,” he waves your words off casually, but you don’t miss how jilted he says used to and the pain in his tone at all the time.

“Oh, surely she was fit to go to the madhouse?” you laughed once, responding to Jonathan’s complaints about an eccentric classmate in his agricultural studies. He laughs back, he always does, but this one is hollow, forced; barely stopping a grimace from coloring his tone. 

You notice these things like it’s a shadow following someone in the sun. He is lying, hiding; about something you don’t know but it is happening. It is happening, and you are so very curious: you pick up on the littlest tendrils of him, fed wholly on any information you can squeeze out. He is a mystery you want to delve within completely; answer that question of WHO ARE YOU REALLY? and leave no room for error. 

You’d give yourself to him the very same if he merely asked; you’d whisper childhood fears and tell the origin stories of faded scars on your knees and why you check under your bed before sleeping. You’d detail your entire life from sunset birth to starry night end if he even made a passing comment about knowing; you would trust your love, your heart, your entire life in his beautiful, shaky hands. This is the relationship you have built around yourselves, and it is beginning to feel terribly one-sided. 

Alas, your curiosity overwhelms him, and you take it too far, just once. Only once. 

“Where’d this come from?” you murmur, brushing your fingers over a scar above his eyebrow. It’s something you see only now, his hair mussed and wild from the various blankets and pillows on your dinky couch. 

He’s crashing at your apartment tonight, an invited event, because you often miss him like you miss home; the boy is sneaky— he slinks away like a street cat and only comes back for food. It’s only fair he lets you wrangle him back like this, making him stay by your side at least once a week.  

Your words make him freeze, like he often does; it reminds you of hikers, who freeze when they see mountain lions— he thinks if he stops and stares and pretends to disappear you’ll look the other way, drop the question, forget him completely.

But you don’t. You don’t know what’s affecting him -- not that he wants you to -- so you just stare back into his cornflower blue eyes. You stop and stare and see right through him; you hold the question like a knife to his neck, and commit him to memory. 

“The scar?” Jonathan pales, shuddering despite it having long since been healed over. The aftershocks of an earthquake. 

You simply nod, fingers pulling away. You’re still closer than ever though, the two of you being the only things in your cramped concrete apartment, the chosen movie on your telly still running and long forgotten. 

Your attention remains on him, brandished into something dangerous, like you’ll carve the answer out of him if you have to— but the moment passes. He doesn’t say anything and you accept that as the answer. Gone is your razor-sharp focus, and there is nothing more to the matter. 

But Jonathan doesn’t register this, no, he’s thinking, gears in his head turning and creaking. His tongue grazes against the backs of his teeth, jaw chattering like it was as cold as it was when… as cold as it was back then, and he doesn’t want to tell anyone— but it’s you. You’re not just anyone. 

You’re the one he holds a certain softness for. The one he equally bares his heart to and holds the most secrets from. The one he’s most terrified to know. The only one he wants to know. 

So, he decides to tell a partial truth— something digestible. People adore that which can easily slide down the gullet: news headlines don’t detail the goriness of a murder, they give the “insider” scoop of the scared neighbor. To be able to digest information is what makes the world go round, and he does not think you could digest the full truth-- he does not think he wants you to. 

He feels ill at the thought of anything between you changing— oh, how ruined he’d feel if you began treating him like fucking glass.

This abhorrent social pressure is what makes Jonathan grit this sentence through his teeth: “I got into a car accident,” he gulps dry, “when I was nineteen. Was drunk… went fer a spin. I skidded off a -- um, an empty highway. The tall sorts; high up, y’know. Fell.”

His voice makes you look back up at him, and your eyes are beautiful and tense— it breaks his heart. He knows you’re probably thinking it was in-character, how expected that is of Jonathan Breech, how you’ll easily take this partial truth, how you’ll never know the full one until it comes in a letter under your door and he’s long gone. 

“Tell me,” you ask him, lips falling into a near-frown instead of laughing or grinning wider. It’s hushed, whispered like a secret, “What did it feel like? Falling, I mean.”

Jonathan licks his lips, bores his shaking gaze into your own, and tells you not everything feels like something else. That the word connotes all you need to know. Falling meant he was falling; his arms raised and the air took him and that was it. 

It makes your brows twist and your lips press into a thin line: his nonchalance is worrying, no more his signature characteristic— there is something wrong about this apathy toward injury, toward the potential death. 

“Is that how you broke your finger?” You murmur, and it startles him. How you pieced the two things together, how you weaved a web from what little you knew about him; how futile his attempts to hide could be.

“What?” he responds, hoarse. There is a lurking shadow in his bones telling him he’ll taint you, telling him to be ashamed, telling him how badly you will never be his. It is such a damning reality, that no matter how much he may yearn for you, he is too incomplete to meet your needs; he is too hurt not to hurt you too. 

“The car accident. Is that how you broke your pinkie?” you repeat, and you gripped his hand resting at your side, bringing it up to present the finger to him like he forgot where his pinkie was. 

Jonathan’s gaze darts from you to the finger, and he feels his insides quiver; so badly does he want to spill his entire soul to you. But that internal reminder -- hurt people hurt people hurt people -- makes him settle for nodding, parted lips locking closed. 

Nothing special happens that night, no shocking revelation or bombarded confession; Jonathan nods, keeps his lips sealed, and gets up from the couch, figure dreary and fatigued. He murmurs an incomplete excuse, something half-baked and blatantly unconvincing that he has to leave, and you let him go. You think you’re imagining the shudder in his shoulders, the shake in his voice as he says goodbye, and you let him go. 

It’s there, like that club so long ago, you discover another thing about Jonathan Breech: push too far and he shuts down, closes shop and puts up his guard forever. It’s the mere fact of how attentive you are to his words; you remember how he broke his finger, and he realizes he cannot hide from you any longer. 

You’re reaching a point in your friendship -- your relationship, no matter platonic or romantic for all lines have been crossed; nobody is so raw to one another with love not involved -- where you’ll bare your hearts on your sleeves, share your every thought and dream and fear. But Jonathan won’t be able to reciprocate, and the very thought of rejecting you, betraying you, makes his stomach twist in knots. That crestfallen face of yours would haunt him for all time, your every melancholy feature burning into his memory like the scars left by cigarettes on skin.

So he leaves, hurt people hurt people hurt people echoes in his ears all the way home; he turns into an alleyway shortcut and prays death swoops down and takes him right there. He leaves his consciousness curled lovingly in your arms; his shell walks home and prays you’re none the wiser. But you’ve already reached that point in your relationship; you already know. 

When people die, or friendships do, sometimes they end with just a goodbye, a mild, casual goodbye because you think there’ll be dozens, hundreds more-- but there won’t be. Suddenly, alone in that cramped apartment, the buzzing from the tv filling your ears, your couch still warm from someone long gone, you know.

You know you startled him, that he’s left your apartment and he’ll never come back. Your heart cools, and she whispers that you took it too far, that you crossed a line you were never made aware of, that when you see him in class tomorrow he might not sit next to you, he might not talk to you, that you might lose him forever because he is too stubborn to open up and you are too stubborn to let him go. 

Well, you were too stubborn to let him go. 

It’s three weeks before you speak to Jonathan again. Three long, dragging weeks, moments in time where he avoided your gaze, evaded your presence, slipped past you before you got too close. You certainly try, of course— you seek him out every chance you get, trying to get an I’m sorry, please talk to me out before he runs off, but it’s virtually impossible.

Once, after class, you’d caught him in the middle of a flurry of exiting students by the velvet blazer, your hands curled around the lapel. “Jonathan,” you panted, trying to drag him off to the side to escape the bustling activity around you, “please, we need to talk--“

But then Jonathan had faced you, eyes widened and spooked like he’d seen a ghost, a never-before-seen-by-you fear covering his gracefully cut features, before he tugged off the black blazer and escaped into the crowd. He had seen you, widened his eyes, left. Such a simple action tore your heart in two; it had confirmed your suspicions— you’d gone too far, he was never coming back, and you were all alone. There you stood, fingers wrapped around one of his favorite articles of clothing starkly without its beloved owner, completely alone. 

In three measly weeks, he has put up a biting winter of distance between you two. 

Your feelings are unable to comprehend themselves— they fight and sob and run circles around your mind, they make you doubt, crumble, devour yourself from the inside out; they make you ask yourself what you can do to salvage this, what can you do to fix this? What is there to make of him, of his behavior; what do you do with yourself and this guilt?

If you could imagine time was a construct, you were certain you could convince yourself this stretch of time was nothing… propel yourself into a present where Jonathan does not afflict your mind, take over your every thought— does not ruin you like so. If only you could do that, you could close your eyes and reopen them when you’ve let go. But you were always too stubborn to let him go, weren’t you?

It’s three weeks to the day before you speak to Jonathan again, and it happens through the crack of his dorm door, your arm wedged through it because you know he is not cruel; he will let you in without a doubt.  

“Please,” you plead to Jonathan, “just— I just want to talk. Please?”

He stares at you straight, expression cold and reserved, before he breaks and pulls away; bites his lip, lets you in his room, doesn’t look you in the eye. Looking around, you sense something in his dorm has changed; it had gained a bereft quality, like it was attuned to Jonathan’s state of mind and felt depressed beyond your comprehension. There was a cold air to the place, an utmost frigid demeanor to a room incredibly warm just weeks prior. In your absence, the dorm had been neglected, gutted, abandoned. 

“I’m sorry,” are the first words that tumble out of your mouth. “I- I know you don’t like… talking about -- about your life before here, and I’m sorry. But please, Jonathan, just talk to me. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you.”

He sits down on the edge of his weak bedframe, pulling his knees up and pressing his face into them. “You don’t need to-- don’t… don’t apologize. You don’t need t’make it better, either. All’s grand.” he promises, words muffled and shaky. It’s a weeping kind of tone; you could just as easily imagine him sobbing with that voice. 

Your brows knit. Your emotions are wavering, treading brutally between disbelief, despair and rancor. “Then -- then why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you avoid me? Why did you - why did we spend these last three weeks playing cat and mouse, if you weren’t mad at me? Is this your sick idea of a joke?”

“No! I-- jesus christ,” Jonathan looked up from his hands before immediately pressing two fingers between his eyes, “I wasn’t … avoiding you.”

“I haven’t seen you in weeks!” you point out painfully, exasperated. “You know, you’ve been avoiding me for longer than this. You— you push me away any chance you get. You’re afraid. I don’t know of what, but you’re- so fucking secretive, and it’s tearing me apart.”

“I’m not - afraid of anything. I’m just a private person— you know this. Would you, if I ‘pushed you away?!’” 

At his denying deflection, something within you snaps: “Why won’t you - fucking let me in? I’ve — I’ve bared my soul to you; you know me from the inside out. I trust you with my life— why, why can’t you do the same?”

“I didn’t ask you to do that! And I didn’t — I didn’t mean t’get so close to you, okay?!” He bursts, and you flinch. His hands shakily come up to his face once more; he wipes roughly but it’s no use— you’ve already seen his delicate tears threatening to spill, and it burns more holes in your heart than you thought his suffering would.

“What are you talking about?” you pry, now without any cautious reservations about his demeanor.

“I didn’t mean to get so fucking attached, because - ‘cause I…” Jonathan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, “fuck.”

“What?” you repeat, but it’s softer, concerned; how quickly his body language shifted from irritated to terrified has you scrambling to support him. “Talk to me,” you ask, taking nervous steps closer, like you were approaching a wounded animal.

He sucks in a sharp breath, and holds it, like he did cigarette smoke, before exhaling heavily. “Okay- okay. When I was - nineteen, I drove a car… I drove off a cliff and tried t’kill myself. I was-- admitted to a psychiatric hospital for a year, and when I got out I moved here f’school. I- I… promised m’self I wouldn’t let anyone get too close.”

The confession hangs in the air, a lonely little thing; it’s a bleeding piece of his own heart he’s plucked and placed in your palms. He shudders, and you want to nurture it like nothing else. This is a culmination of a year’s worth of evasion coming to a close; you’re seeing him completely, rawly, for the first time.

“But- but why? You don’t have to— Jonathan, you don’t need to do that just because you - you… y’know.”

“I’m- I know that,” he starts brashly, defensively. “It’s b’cause I am very, very aware of my - of m’own self destructiveness…” His words taper off into something of grief; the Sisyphean struggle of wanting to live, while that depressive boulder pushes him back, colors him completely. “I just… I didn’t want to - t’hurt anyone in case I -- in case next time I succeeded.”

“Next time?” you repeat, and your voice broke in a way you wish was less vulnerable, less blatantly miserable.

“This is why I didn’t want to—“ Jonathan sighs, deflates, “I’m not telling you this because I want you to - t’fucking save me, okay? I’m telling you this because you wanted to know, and I couldn’t hide from you anymore. Because you asked.”

“You didn’t need t’hide it in the first place!” you exclaimed, coming closer to him. “You’ve never had to hide a fucking ‘ting from me.”

“You wouldn’t have understood!” He said back, volume nearing a shout. “You’ll treat me differently now, you see, you’ll look at me fuckin’ different—“

It made your heart sink-- how sure his words were, how certain he was of your rejection. How little trust did he have in you? 

(You remember he wanted to sink, too-- lose himself in the baby blue sea; let it swallow him whole and never be seen again.)

“You - you really think I’ll treat y’differently because of this? You know my every crevice, my every thought-- I have never once doubted that you’ll accept me.”

“I-I… why should I - expect any of this to stay the same?”

Suddenly, you took his face into your hands. “Because I-- I fucking love you, okay? And it’s not just friendly, or romantic, even if it’s both— I’m… I love you like nothing I’ve ever loved before. I accept and adore your every skill and flaw and antic; you wormed your way into my heart and I want to worm my way into yours.”

“That doesn’t mean—“ Jonathan tried to interject, a noise all utter disbelief. You cut him off, though, continuing your sudden confession; you hadn’t been privy to these own romantic feelings of yours till moments prior, but everything being said just felt right. 

“Jonathan, I don’t care if you drove a car off a cliff or cyanide-poisoned our professor or blew something up, because I love you. You, with all your problems and great, big, beautiful life. All I want is for you to want that life; I want you to want me in it. I feel it in my bones that I’m meant to love you; you are meant to be my home, you are everything I am supposed to know. It won’t fix you or fix anything at all but I just need you to know-- I need you to know the why to my every action. It’s because I love you.”

He looked up at you, wide-eyed, head resting in your gentle hold. “I - don’t know what to say… are you - for real?”

“As real as can be,” you smiled back at him, tracing circles along his smooth skin; you could’ve drank in that attentive stare of his for hours upon hours. “I love you, and nothing and no-one, not even you, can change that.” An aching grip had clenched around your heart at his words, that blatant disbelief: are you for real? God, had you ever been-- had you ever fucking been. 

Jonathan’s mouth opened to speak, but instead, he let out an agonizing sort of cry; an exclamation of utter surprise at the loving acceptance. Then, he hesitantly leaned into your touch, as if he’d never hugged before, wrapping his arms around your waist to snatch you as close to him as possible. He held you tighter and tighter as the seconds went by, like this was all a mocking dream his yearning mind had made up; that if he closed his eyes now he’d wake up desolate, alone, without you for eternity. His worst nightmare. 

“…God, I’m so - fucking stupid,” he grumbled, sounding angry, but you could feel vulnerable, hot tears soaking into the fabric of your shirt. “To assume you, of all people, would act that way… you of all people.” He said that tenderly; you of all people certainly meant miles more things you weren’t explicitly aware of, but you still felt the sentiment. “I’m not -- poetic or anything like that… but I love you, too.”

You chuckled a beautiful, wet laugh. “You don’t hafta’ say anything sweet or special. You’re everything to me.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, before wrapping his fingers around your wrist and pulling you onto the mattress with him. He flipped you beneath him, and held himself up by the forearms laying on either side of your head. “Fuck, I love you. I love you.” Jonathan repeated the words several more times, strange and foreign but right at home being said to you. Like his mouth was made to only ever say I love you to you. 

Suddenly, you pressed your lips to his, shutting him up momentarily. You could still feel the vibrations of I love you rumbling in his throat as you kissed him. Your tongues danced along one another, an all consuming waltz; you wanted to know everything about him, down to the taste of his tongue, memorize how sweet his mouth felt on yours. Oh, how you longed for this moment; how could you ever think about love again, and yearn for it, without thinking of Jonathan?

You reckoned that’s what this had been the whole time; your love started as a little flame, something under the guise of friendship, but the two of you had fanned it, nurtured it-- all of a sudden the miniature warmth of platonic love burst into a raging, adoring fire. You’d fed this flame with tenderness, and it responded in kind; you could never again look at Jonathan without a certain intimate reverie. Perhaps that’d been why Jonathan found it so hard to cut off this relationship as he had dozens others: something primal and unconscious within him had begged him not to let you go— some higher being knew his home was only ever in your arms. 

Jonathan deepened the kiss hungrily, pressing his weight onto you and pushing you into the mattress. Your head was spinning from the lack of air, and one of your hands had to sneak beneath his hat and tug at his hair to get him to stop. “Hey,” you panted, looking worriedly into his eyes, “what’s up?”

“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly, hanging his head lowly for a moment before meeting your gaze once more, batting his long lashes. “Jus’ missed you. Thas’ all.”

“Missed y’too,” you murmured, pulling him back down to kiss you again. Your hands left the crown of his head and trailed down his backside, tracing over the curves and bumps of his frumpy yellow v-neck sweater. 

That touch of yours seemed to spur him on even more, and his kisses began to travel; along your jaw, to your pulse, down the long ravine of your neck, tongue darting out to lick the hollow of your collarbone, making you squeal. He chuckled against your skin, a genuine amusement rather than the mocking one you two so frequently practiced, and it all went downhill from there. His hands skillfully tugged off your tank top, knee between your clenched thighs, more teasing kisses being planted along your now bare -- save for your bra -- chest.

You didn’t mean to come over, profess your love and suddenly jump into a steamy, yearning makeout session (which, you were pretty sure was venturing off into sex…) but you supposed that apologizing— arguing, whatever —meant your relationship went back on track to wherever it was heading… which may have been set to end with an ardor romance anyway. This love of yours would’ve bursted at the seams of friendship; it could not be confined by such mere things as labels. 

“Fuck,” you groaned, arching into his teasing kisses along the peaks of your breasts, his hands ghosting around your clothed chest but never touching. “Please, Jon.”

You could feel his cheeky grin on your skin, “Tell me what you want, love.”

“…Take this off,” you demanded gently, referring to Jonathan’s sweater.

“Your wish is my command.” he snickered, obliging and removing the yellow knit-- as well as his white undershirt and pajama bottoms. He was left in a pair of boxer-shorts and that silly, silly winter-trapper hat, his fingers sneaking up to your supple thighs and tickling the edges of your jean-shorts; a silent plea. 

“Eager,” you mumbled, noticing his over-compliance in completely stripping, smiling and guiding his hands to the waistband of your shorts to tug the tight article off. 

When he did so, you shivered, both at the feeling of being only in your underwear, as well as Jonathan’s sharp, attentive gaze. “You’re so beautiful,” he panted, eyes exploring your every sweet feature. 

He was enamored with your bare body, not in a sexual way despite the blatantly sexual situation, but rather in a worshiping, religiously devoted way. It may’ve been blasphemous to think so, but Jonathan’s sudden chaste kisses along the curve of waist only seemed to prove you right; his mouth on you was gentle, like he’d held you before, except now without any guilt or hesitation. It was a holy way of loving you; something all-consuming, becoming the epicenter of a life, becoming the purpose, motivation, and belief all at once. 

That familiar broiling in your gut occurred as he made his way closer to the pulsing, lace-covered place between your legs; your hands were gripping the sheets tightly in pure anticipation, his hot breath on your sensitive skin. “Don’t be such a tease,” you pouted, legs fumbling for purchase along his body, trying to pull him closer to you.

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he hummed, but his fingers still curled into the band of your baby-blue panties and dragged them down in one desperate go, “but I do wanna taste you….”

Jonathan’s veiny hands pried your quivering thighs apart, murmuring an offhand already stole y’panties, don’t get all shy on me now when you whimpered flusteredly, before he descended on your dripping lips, licking a flat-tongued stripe up to your clit. 

You gasped at the sudden action, but it quickly morphed into a choked moan when he pressed himself further and parted your lips, nose to your pelvic bone; he made quick work of you, artfully curling his long tongue into your hole and slurping your slick. 

“So sweet,” he praised, the vibrations of his voice making your thighs clench around his head. He hummed in amusement at your reaction, lapping you up quicker; he kitten-licked and slobbered, feeding on your sticky cunt, tongue darting in every direction, feeling your walls and prying deeper into your hot hole, which ached for the cock straining against the mattress now. The bottom half of Jonathan’s face was now positively soaked, glistening with his own drool and your needy wetness, all of it mixing dirtily and sliding down the length of his neck. 

“Jon!” you mewled, hands tearing off his trapper hat and flinging it elsewhere before curling your hands into his mousy brown hair and pushing his face deeper into your pussy, desperate to come. You were riding his face now — or, attempting to, more accurately bucking up into him — adoring his unceasing ministrations. He was basically fucking you with his tongue, overstimulating your clit with teasing licks then pulling away, feeling along the ridges of your walls.

“Pick m’hat up later, love,” he tutted, pulling away slightly to see where you’d haphazardly thrown it, and your desperate whine neared a sob. He breathed in sharply, taking in how quickly he’d undone you: in a matter of minutes, your expression had grown wanton, eyes blown out, drooling, hair askew, bra riding up your tits and revealing your sweet, puffy nipples. 

Jonathan quickly forgot about the state of his beloved hat, and went back down on you, mouth devouring in full force once again. You rolled your hips forward, and when he pulled his tongue out of your wet hole to suckle softly on your fleshy nub, your eyes rolled back into your head and your legs shook around his face, toes curling tightly. A choked moan left you alongside the sudden climax, sounding a hundred percent pornographic and all for him. 

You panted, silent and unmoving for a moment, and Jonathan began moving to get up and let you take a breather before continuing, absolutely terrified to push you too far or do anything you didn’t want to do— he was the spontaneous one, and you were the responsible one, but that didn’t mean he ever wanted to force anything upon you. His simultaneous decisions were made mostly in part with your interests in mind; he made the decisions you were too nervous and over-thinking to choose quicker. 

However, you took a long breath, then trailed your hand over the painfully noticeable bulge within his soft boxers. “Wan’… make you feel good,” you murmured, flattening your hand against his erection. 

Jonathan inhaled sharply, pitifully affected by the minor touch but holding back with an incredible amount of self restraint. “I can wait,” he offered sweetly, one of his hands coming up to your flattened hand’s forearm to rub the skin. 

You shook your head foggily, cupping him through the fabric, slowly adding friction by sliding your hand up and down. 

“S-shit,” he bit his lip, “you want this now, baby?”

You nodded vehemently with a whimper, and to make more of a point, you reached behind and unclasped your bra, tossing it elsewhere on his dirty dorm floor, before beginning to slip off his underwear. 

The hand on your arm stopped you, though, in favor of doing it himself and pressing his weight further onto you, your chests flush with one another. You were only able to take in thin breaths, making your head spin, but it also amplified the  arousal blooming in your cunt when Jonathan slotted himself at your soaking entrance, collecting his saliva and your slick on his tip. 

Before he pushed in, however, his head dipped into the hollow of your neck, plush lips brushing past the shell of your ear. “Is this okay?” he murmured, pressing a wet kiss to your temple. 

“Please,” you whined, hands pushing flat on his back to bring him closer to you.

With that, Jonathan slowly buried his length within your cunt, making your breath hitch. “I love you,” he groaned, entering you inch by inch, relishing how your warmth swallowed him whole. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

Your hole was stuffed beyond belief, but Jonathan was gentle with you, caressing your waist with the rough pads of his fingers and massaging you, trying to ease his entrance into something painless. Obviously, with that length and thickness it couldn’t be painless at all, but his attempts helped your mind drift off elsewhere and take some of the attention off the stinging stretch. 

After a long moment of ragged breathing, Jonathan cooing words of praise into your neck as he kissed you without moving, you dug your fingers into the skin of his back: “More,” you choked out, the fullness in your cunt now feeling delicious rather than cringeworthy. 

He smirked against your skin, “Looks like you’re t’eager one now.”

“Oh, get on with it,” you rasped and he let out a low chuckle, sliding out of your hole before thrusting back in. That first movement already made your hips jerk up into him, back arching. It was like all the warmth in your body had collected in your cunt, leaving you freezing from the tips of your toes to the top of your head, but still with a needy, burning fire in your insides. 

Jonathan’s pace was affectionate and rhythmic: you could feel the tenderness in his each and every gentle roll of the hips. It made you feel like the sun, how attentive he was, but he was also so fucking slow. If anything, that had your walls clenching onto him harder than if he hammered into you— that slow build-up of friction was dizzying. You squirmed, cunt clenching and contracting around his smooth thrusts— you wanted to take him within you completely, cause more friction for you were going stir-crazy with this lazy speed. 

“F-fuck! Faster, please,” you cried out, unable to take his sensual movements any longer. Your legs were twitching with his patient movements, and you could’ve sworn you saw a cheeky grin on his lips. The bastard— even in sex was he teasing you, wanting to torture you until you gave in to the pleasure and begged him to ruin you.  

Sure, this was your first time together, and was going extremely pleasantly and sweetly, but you were actually pretty fond of the idea of letting him pound into you like there was no tomorrow… 

At the lewd thought, your walls pulsed around his cock, making him buck up unintentionally, hitting that sweet spot within you. He grunted at the feeling of your tightened cunt, while you cried out his name, pleasure running like a current through your body. Your face was on fire, reminiscent of a raging fever, and your insides were coiling— god, how did his cock just feel so perfect within you?

“Oh,” he grinned in a pant, “found y’spot, didn’t I?”

Jonathan didn’t give you a chance to speak before he pulled out so far his tip was the only thing in your hole, before slamming back in and making your eyes roll to the back of your head. Props to him-- he hit your g-spot with utmost accuracy, and you let out a long, stuttered mewl, scratching at his freckled back, legs twitching. Your wail was almost catatonic, loud and cock-drunk, dripping unabashed, filthy pleasure. 

“Makin’ such sweet noises f’me,” he praised huskily, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, “fuck, ‘ve gotta hear that again.”

He must’ve noticed your neediness earlier, when he was slow and languid, for the new speed he set was double- no, triple that: his hips were snapping against yours, balls smacking filthily against your lips, left hand pinning your hips down and letting him sink into you faster. Shocks of pleasure tore through you at the sudden increase in speed- he’d inured you so well to the torturously slow pace from earlier that this new frenzied one felt like getting hit by a bullet train. You were overstimulated and needing more of him all at once, practically vibrating with need under his touch. 

“I’ve- hnngh- wanted this…” you gasped between moans, “f-for so long…”

“Wanted m’cock?” Jonathan questioned in a hiss, feeling with his every inch how your walls absolutely soaked him. His tone was, obviously, sarcastic, but it still made you feel incredibly lewd. 

You shook your head numbly, “Wanted you… I love you, Jon!”

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he purred, fucking you faster and making you writhe beneath him, “love you s’much.”

Jonathan targeted the spongy, swollen spot deep within your cunt, suddenly filled with a renewed vigor and motivation to make you come as quickly as possible, and he pounded into that one, specific spot, watching how you twitched and squirmed, heavy moans exiting you. He was relentless, hands reaching to hook under your knees and spread you wider. 

At the new angle, his cock penetrated you even deeper, fuller, which you thought wasn’t possible with how goddamn full you already felt, but when his thick cockhead brushed up against your cervix you thought you were going to burst. Then, one of his hands came up to your tits to knead the flesh, and you squeaked when he tweaked your soft nipples. He was pawing at your sweet tits, fondling you in a needy, boyish way, like yours were the first pair of boobs he’d ever felt. 

“M’close!” you gasped, mind going fuzzy with pure ecstacy. Your skin prickled with goosebumps, cold  sweat running down your spine, a terribly stark in contrast feeling to the warmth buzzing under your skin. 

“C-can’t last much longer either,” he choked, still pumping in and out of your sticky hole and savoring the feeling of your tight warmness on his long length. He looked absolutely exquisite above you, and you lost yourself in the ethereal picture. Maybe you were in love, or maybe he really was just an empyrean beauty; you took in the sight of his focussed iceberg blue eyes, the cute flush spreading along his pale cheeks and bare chest, how he bit his pink lips to muffle his needy grunts and moans. 

Then, you mewled and convulsed around him, your walls spasming and contracting as you came undone, reaching the precipice of your pleasure. That made him fall off the edge— you had tensed all over- all over, and Jonathan couldn’t help how his hips stuttered, knees buckled, cock twitched; he only gave one last, powerful thrust into you before spilling himself inside of you. He painted your soft walls white, and you felt that familiar heat spreading within you; you welcomed it completely, and wanted such warmth to be there forever. 

You milked him for every last drop, cunt like a vice grip, and Jonathan gave you another wet kiss, this time on your lips, and your hands wrapped around his neck, allowing you to kiss him back. Your brows knitted at the sour taste of yourself on his lips, but it just made everything feel so real— Jonathan and you had “made love”. It was a phrase you always wrinkled your nose at, feeling uncomfortable and juvenile at the intimacy it entailed, but now you understood it completely. 

“I love you,” you repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, unable to say anything else that conveyed what you felt for him. 

Honestly, you weren’t sure anything could accurately do so— you felt infinitely about him, your love touching all edges of your mind, heart and soul, filling you completely. You supposed you felt about Jonathan how the sun felt about the moon— without one, there could not be the other. 

“I love you-- too,” he responded, pausing in the middle at the aftershocks of your orgasm, which had caused you to tighten around his softening, sensitive cock for a second. 

You peered deep into his baby-blue eyes, watching the utter love that coloured them; it was like submerging yourself in a great blue ocean, except you didn’t want to come out, because you knew you wouldn’t drown in those eyes. No, you knew Jonathan would always be there to pull you out. 

Speaking of pulling out… Jonathan slipped himself out of you softly, careful not to agitate that first stretch any more than necessary, before collapsing back into your arms. The two of you tangled yourselves in a messy flurry of limbs on his cushy mattress, sweaty and breathy, something that should’ve been terribly uncomfortable but just wasn’t— you swore you could fall asleep anywhere, no matter your own state or the circumstance, as long as you were with him. 

Blearily, both your eyes began to droop, until you gave into the familiar presence of deep, dark sleep. It was a dreamless sleep for you, but you had an ever present comfort at his weight on yours, something you could feel even in unconsciousness. 

Hours later, in a brisk, shuddering early-morning that you felt all over due to Jonathan’s unruly habit of opening his window at the peak of the day’s hottest weather and forgetting to close it before cold nightfall fell, you awoke to Jonathan watching you carefully, so close you could feel his warm exhales of breath on your cheek. 

There was no goodmorning or anything like that, just pure, uninhibited being, reveling in the space you two occupied together. Like you two were the only things left in the world. 

When Jonathan noticed you woke up, he shifted, presumably to extract himself from your grip. You stopped him, though, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and bringing him closer to you.

“What did it feel like?” you asked instead, for the last time. You brushed your fingers over his scar, and, knowing exactly what you were asking, this time Jonathan doesn’t flinch away. This time, he leans into your touch: it doesn’t burn, not anymore, and he wants your tenderness to swallow him whole. 

You didn’t mean what it actually felt like, of course. You meant, what were you thinking? What have you done, and what will you do to yourself? You meant, I love you.

“It felt like,” falling; not everything feels like something else; I raised my arms and the air took me and that was it-- “it felt like… giving in. Letting my desperation find its purpose. It felt like I’d reached a point of peace… gained clarity after a long stretching, wounded moment came to an end. It felt like becoming something only meant to be talked about in past tense.”

You don’t say anything to that; you know he doesn’t want you to. There’s no need for you to hush or plead or make better, you just need to listen, and love him. He knows you accept him for everything he is, all his flaws and his strengths; he knows your love is all accepting- it veers on saintly. 

At your silence, he melts into your arms and you can finally relax; there is an admission in the action, a release, an acknowledgement -- is suffering in silence not also accompanied by the overwhelming desire to be found? -- you have found him, at last, and you will never, ever let go.

You take it too far, just once. Only once. And you let him go just once, only once; never again. 

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy smut #jonathan breech #on the edge #jonathan breech x reader #jonathan breech x reader smut #jonathan breech smut #cillian murphy x reader smut

[zephyrspace]

even if you have a rosary, who will save you now?

gn!yuu, very short headcanons + scenarios

summary: yuu accepts that there is no way home and that the world will keep turning no matter what. with no worth to their name and no real purpose in this twisted wonderland, except for solving other people’ problems, they decide to stop caring.

cw: swearing, violence, blood. dm me if i’ve missed anything!

a/n: title is translated lyrics from the song US by ruby ibarra. imagine yuu as however and whoever you want!

“woe is me, prefect! i just have so much paperwork to do that i completely forgot about your weekly food allowance. however, to speed things up a bit, if you lend me a hand here, i could probably get the allowance before the end of next week!”

yuu slinks over to one of crowley’s stacks of paperwork and ruffles through it. not without noticing how some pages were completely blank, ‘probably to bulk up and exaggerate the stack,’ yuu thinks and their eye twitches.

crowley gulps at being caught. but neither of the two say anything about it.

“i’m sure at your grown age you’re supposed to be able to manage your time better than this, but of course i didn’t expect anything from you.” yuu throws the binded document carelessly over their shoulder and onto the floor.

“wha-”

“as a minor under your care, this kind of thing could be considered child labour and abuse. especially for not prioritising my allowance.”

“but, prefect-”

“in other words, this isn’t my problem, bird shit for brains. so, unless you want me to call whatever magical bullshit equivalent you have of child protective services you have in this world, go ahead, give me your work documents. i would be ever so happy to oblige.”

the prefect’s eyes were icy and the atmosphere in the office turned chilly. crowley attempts to smarten up and clears his throat.

“i will have the cheque ready before noon.”

looking down at crowley, yuu sends him a smile with no trace of warmth.

“that’s better.”

unhinged!yuu wouldn’t actively seek out to fight people unless students do it to them first, which is all the time. kind of like ‘i’m nice to you if you are to me. but the second i deem you an enemy, you’re done’ mindset.

those who knew and were ‘friends’ with yuu, didn’t believe in their newly acquired attitude at the beginning, but after a group decided it’d be funny to poke at yuu a bit during lunch, that’s when they realise that yuu was serious about not caring for anything at all.

“oi, magicless runt.”

taking a bite from their sandwich, yuu looks up at the senior holding a tray of food, “hm?”

“get up.” the senior’s friends behind him snicker.

“why?” they take another bite. ‘i wish adeuce and grim would hurry up with their food.’ yuu thinks.

“there’s no more seats.”

“mhm?”

“as your seniors, we get priority.” the senior’s smile widens.

“hm.” another bite. “ish that shou”

with crumbs and sauce at the corners of their lips, yuu wipes it off with their thumb and licks it. they gulp down the remainder of the sandwich.

“sorry, senior. but i don’t see that rule anywhere in the canteen.” they swipe off the leftover crumbs on their hands.

“i thought you’d might say that.”

the senior picks up a bowl from his tray and dumps soup onto yuu’s head.

it’s still boiling hot.

it hurts.

“scram, first year. before i do something worse-”

the senior is on the floor, on his knees and doesn’t realise blood is seeping from his nose until it drips onto the tile.

by now, the whole canteen is silent.

he doesn’t even get time to process what happened until he feels a shin connect with his side and launches him onto another nearby table, his legs dangling off the side, uniform ruined.

“why you-” one of his goonies attempt to throw a punch back at the prefect.

yuu grabs his wrist and used the momentum to throw the senior onto his back. he chokes on the impact.

the rest of the group stays at their spots. ‘smart choice,’ yuu scoffs.

the prefect walks over to the first senior lying against the now abandoned table and grabs whatever food was on the nearest plate and forcibly stuffs it into the senior’s mouth. a whole bread roll.

“oh, senior! i see you’ve found a table to sit at!” the senior had tears along his waterline from the gag reflex of having a whole roll of bread in his mouth.

yuu shoves the bread roll further down the seniors throat. twisting and turning it. the senior makes sounds of retching and pain. “although, preferably, it’d be better to sit on the seat rather than on the table, no?”

the senior could only nod at yuu’s words.

yuu pats his hair demeaningly.

“good boy.”

in essence, yuu becomes very assimilated to nrc. scarily so.

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twst #gn!reader #gn!yuu #twisted wonderland x reader

[fuxuannie]

Whaaa i love ur writing style!! Could I ask for Sampo, Gepard and Dan Heng with a very shy reader? 🥺🙏

I just love those three!!

* pairing(s) : various hsr x gender neutral reader ( plus a joke-ish caelus prompt since ppl seem to like him !!!)

* prompt : request ♡

* authors note : thank you all so much for the overwhelming amount of support recently omg ♡ you're all so sweet, and it means the world. feel free to send requests, msgs and the sort my way!

DAN HENG understood your shyness, and was always there for you in situations where it really shone through. Especially in social settings, where you'd just cling onto his arm behind him. All of it, he was used to it, and never pushed you to do things outside your comfort zone.

When you two were just friends, he really appreciated the moments of comforting silence you two would always share. He would be reading on his bed and you'd be doing your own thing on his table. Sometimes you'd catch him just taking those times alone together to stare at you. (Which he'd miserably fail to deny every time he was caught. With his hand covering his mouth, brows furrowed and clear blush on his face.)

And when the confession happened, you were surprisingly the one to tell him. You wanted to prove that Dan Heng was really the only man for your heart, the only one who got to see that smile you'd hide away from people, and the side of you that people rarely know exist.. the one you show to him. A side of you where you're free to laugh without the need to swiftly cover your mouth afterwards, the side of you that's able to talk for hours on end about the little things you're excited about.. Everything he sees of you, its for him alone. And he's happy to know that.

SAMPO was like your voice in situations where you feel shy, it's almost scary how accurate he can read your feelings and convey them to other people.

"Oh don't worry! They're truly greatful, just a little shy." And you'd nod to confirm whatever he was saying.

But Sampo likes to play a little fun, enjoying how quick it was to fluster you. But if ever you asked him to stop, he would in that very moment. He likes to tease, but also knows how to stop.

Before you two dated, things really weren't all too different. Considering how close you two were, with him being your childhood best friend and knowing all about how shy you were.. he really didn't mind. You preferred to be a listener instead of a talker, and boy did he love to talk.

And now that you are now together, it seems not much had changed. He loved to talk, but now you loved to talk with him. You learnt how to open a little and crack out your shell, after the gentle encouragement and patience that Sampo had to help you open up. You owed it all to him.

GEPARD and you were both equally shy, which made such a silly and adorable pair. The mere idea of you two holding hands together had him clearing his throat and you looking down in embarassment.

You were his second in command, many viewed you as a cold leader who rarely ever spoke unless it was needed.. when in reality, you were just really shy. But you're second in command for a reason, your leadership skills and how you'd treat everyone with kindness was something Gepard really admired about you.

But while you two were mutually pining for each other, you two were so painfully awkward that Serval was this close to announcing in her next concert that you two loved each other. She had to listen to Gepard talk for hours on end for the fact you held EYE CONTACT with him.

But those really were signs, Serval thought he was going delusional, but you were genuinely trying to hint you liked him like that. The way your eyes would stare a bit too long into his, how you spoke to him even when you didn't need to and lastly just.. the way you looked at him. You could look him straight in the eyes, when usually you'd turn away at the very second the contact was made.

And now that you two are together, it's like Gepard still hasn't accepted it. Because he acts like you're STILL just a crush. He's just so madly inlove with you that he still gets all flustered and nervous.

You were shy, and your boyfriend was a ticking time bomb that attacked anything at any given moment. Most of the time, people would never really mind you, mostly because of how much of an oddball he was.

"Caelus, please stop scaring the hotel staff.. I really don't wanna speak to them and apologize on your behalf."

You watch Caelus sadly leave the closet, but if you asked him to do anything, he will do it in a heartbeat. "Me and my partner don't argue, they tell me to do something and I listen like a dog" Him, probably, but he knows he just doesn't wanna put you in situations where you're uncomfortable.

However his random obsession with trashcans has been getting concerning and you've started to wonder how the stars in the galaxy guided you to fall for him.

#✹ ִֶָ ꐑꐑ entos paw prints #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #gepard landau x reader #gepard x reader #sampo koski x reader #sampo x reader #dan heng x reader #caelus x reader #caelus hsr x reader

[mimsynims]

Fool For Love

part 2

~~~

part 1

~~~

Author’ Note: For one, I’m still on my first play-through and this will definitely stray from canon, but hopefully some things will give a nod to some of the actual events in the game. (Also there will be no Wyll or Minthara because I haven’t gotten to know them for…reasons 👀)

(As for when this takes place, I’m thinking around late act 1, early act 2-ish)

~~~

Astarion x reader/Tav

Tags: (mild?) angst, pining, pining while fucking, jealousy, eventual happy ending

Summary: You thought knew what you were doing when you let Astarion into your bed. He doesn’t have feelings for you, and vice versa. Only… Now you do. And the question is, how will you deal with it?

~~~

“Have you been crying, Tav?”

Fuck. You should’ve known Karlach would notice. “Yes,” you admit, knowing it’s no use lying. “Nightmare,” you add, because it’s not entirely untrue.

“Ah, yeah, that’ll do it.” The hand Karlach places on your shoulder feels reassuring. Supportive without a speck of judgement. “I’m here if you ever want to talk about it, you know.”

You smile, because you don’t know what you have done to deserve such a great friend like her. “Be careful,” you laugh, “otherwise I might take you up on that offer.” Gods knows you’re in need of someone to confide in. It’s just that you’re not a hundred percent sure she’s not one of Astarion’s other conquests.

“My tent is always open for you, Tav. I hope you know that.” Karlach’s soft smile quirks into a grin as her eyes shift to look at something over your shoulder. “Oh, hi, Fangs. Trying to sneak up on Tav, are you?”

“And a good morning to you too, Karlach.” You don’t need to see him to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “Of course not, I just did not want to break up what looked like an intimate moment.”

Strange. Underneath the snark, Astarion almost sounds… jealous. That doesn’t make the least bit sense, so you brush the notion away.

“Nothing intimate about it,” you press out. “Just Karlach being a good friend.” One deep breath, and then you turn around to face him. It takes all of your determination, but you make sure to keep a neutral expression. Except you catch his eyes narrowing, and too late you realise that he, too, notices the small but telling signs of the tears you shed not even an hour ago. Unlike Karlach, he keeps his thoughts to himself, because of course he does. You’re not even sure why you’re not surprised, but deep down you knew he wouldn’t acknowledge it.

You momentarily stop breathing when the truth slams into you like a blow to the gut: he doesn’t care enough to ask. Or if he does, asking could mean complicating things he wants to keep simple.

“Tav?”

You hear Astarion addressing you, but you’re stuck inside your own head now. Of course he doesn’t want to know. Freedom and survival are the key factors driving Astarion in everything he does, and getting entangled with you beyond pleasure and safety — and feeding — could compromise both of those things. While he probably does consider you a friend at this point, it’s only surface-level. In all honesty you can’t blame him. After all he’s been through, trust doesn’t come easy to him.

You could hold a grudge for the lies he told you, but the truth is, you went into this with your eyes wide open. You could’ve called him out on it, but you were so curious about what it would lead to that you let him believe that you were fooled.

“Tav?”

A cool hand on your arm snaps you back to the here and now.

“Sorry, did you say something?” He’s eyeing you warily, and you wonder fleetingly how he would react if you told him the half-lie about the nightmares.

Astarion’s brow twitches as he opens his mouth to speak. “Tav–”

“Gooood morning, everyone!”

Gale. Of course. “Good morning, Gale.” Not letting yourself ponder what Astarion might’ve been meaning to say, you fling yourself at the opportunity of a new topic of conversation as if it was the last potion of healing in an otherwise empty pouch. “Aren’t you chipper this morning?”

“I saw a falling star just before going to bed last night, and it felt like a sign that this day would be an exceptionally good one.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Speaking of.” Lowering his voice, Gale slides closer to your side. “I was thinking of doing some stargazing tonight. Want to join me? The sky should be clear enough for it.”

You can feel Astarion’s eyes on you. “Sure,” you hear yourself say, immediately regretting it.

“Perfect!”

“What’s perfect?”

Saved by the Tiefling. “Gale says tonight should be perfect for stargazing.” When you turn around to face her, there’s no Astarion in sight. That should feel like a relief, and yet, you can help but worry. Why that is is beyond you, but the guilt is still there, confusing you even more.

“That’s not–”

“Why don’t you join us? We can ask the rest of the group too.”

“Excellent idea, Tav!”

“Mm, yes. Excellent.”

Gale sounds disappointed, but it’s better this way. If you were more callous you would use Gale to try to get Astarion out of your system and out of your heart, but that is out of the question now. During your weeks together, he has become a friend. They all have.

Perhaps you can find yourself a handsome druid when you all go back to the Grove to trade with the merchant Arron later today. If for nothing else, you desperately need to work on your flirting game because it has never been your strong suit to begin with.

“Tav?”

“Yes, Halsin?” You don’t know it, but the druid can tell that something is troubling you.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, never been better.” If you keep saying it out loud you might perhaps believe it at some point.

“Right.” His seemingly all-knowing eyes scan you up and down, making you feel like he can see into the deepest parts of your heart and mind. You’re not entirely sure that he can’t. “I heard from Karlach that you’re going to the Grove,” he continues after a moment of heavy silence. “I have other business to attend to today, but I wanted to ask if you could do me a favour while you’re there.”

Your body relaxes with relief. “Yes, we are. What do you want me to do?”

The fictitious druid can wait for another time.

~~~

#astarion ancunin #astarion x reader #astarion #astarion x tav #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #bg3 spoilers #bg3 tav #bg3 astarion #fic wip

[eirian]

yall ready for a gender journey post..

so yall could probably guess i grew up a cis girl. i didnt start questioning my gender until high school after i broke up with my first boyfriend which kind of freed me up to explore my identity as my own person for the first time. around age like 16 was when i first started identifying as trans, and at the time that meant a binary trans guy

after a couple years of getting comfortable exploring my gender i decided hey maybe im actually not a binary trans guy but instead nonbinary. still transmasc and guy leaning but not quite all the way anymore. this became a trend for the next loooong while, getting closer to the androgynous part of the spectrum as time went on

then in recent years (maybe about 5 years ago ish) i started to lean more towards femininity. this is significant for me because growing up i was always opposed to it--i hated wearing dresses, i hated putting on makeup, anything "girly" appalled me and i didnt know why. i ended up thinking its because i WASNT a girl, and thats why i was so uncomfortable with everything to do with being a girl. i rejected it so hard because it just wasnt me.

after living with eden for a while i got even more comfortable exploring the feminine part of myself. i started wearing dresses and skirts and actually ENJOYED it; i started painting my nails and wearing earrings again; i even grew my hair out to my shoulderblades (yeah thats where its at now LOL). ive even started using she/her alongside they/them. and im actually enjoying these things??? it feels like after all these years im finally able to reclaim them because i feel like im finally able to be comfortable with my gender--how my gender feels to ME, not to everyone else.

that was the problem when i was growing up--i was trapped in everyone else's perception of my gender and what it "should" be. i was trapped into a box that was made by everyone else's idea of what i SHOULD look like, what i SHOULD wear, what i SHOULD act like, etc. and it took me until age 26 to fully realize that my gender is what i want it to be, not what everyone else wants.

i dont have to be a guy to want facial hair and a flat chest and a low voice. loving pink and dresses and cute things and makeup and jewelry doesnt inherently mean im a girl. pronouns, features, clothes, even names dont inherently mean youre one gender or another. your gender is defined by you and only you and nobody should be able to put you into a box and define your gender for you.

..having said all this, im starting to explore my gender further, and im slowly coming to the POSSIBLE conclusion that i might come back around to being cis (albeit gnc). nothing would really change about me except the label tbh. if i do end up coming to that conclusion i will be very bummed about leaving the trans community, but i wont feel any less attached to it, as ive spent literally half my life as part of it. i understand what its like to be trans and to love myself as my most authentic self, and thats why im considering this possiblity!

identifying as a lesbian kind of pushed me in this direction as well--i cant remember the last time i felt truly comfortable and happy with a label regarding my orientation.. like ya damn. maybe i am a girl who likes girls LOL. it just feels right and natural for me personally??? its crazy. i love women. if youre a woman i love you no matter the flavor. i love my wife more than all of you though sorry <3

but god please dont take this as me being like "oh trans people just need to get comfortable with their gender and theyll realize theyre cis" that is a bullshit take and i am not saying that. this is strictly my own experience and journey! i am 100% not speaking for every trans person and you shouldnt either.

but ya. dan cis era???? we'll see. no official statement just yet but i just wanted to let yall know where im at in my ~gender journey~. until i confirm anything please still view me as a nonbinary girlthing! <3

#i have to reiterate i am KEEPING the name dan saiyan. and my facial hair and deep voice #like i said. these things do not mean anything irt my gender. they are just part of me #if i say im a cis woman and i have facial hair and the name dan then thats what cis looks like for me <3 #i honestly feel free as hell. im defining my gender for myself now and its the most powerful feeling in the world

[so-long-soldier-writes]

Stormy Weather

kai parker x reader

summary: the rule is always the same: thirty minutes after it storms, kai can spend some time outside. that's when most people are still in their homes and it's too muddy for the children to go out yet. though this time, his father bends the rule, just a little, and lets his son out one wet, chilly afternoon. it just so happens that something bad is about to go down at that very same time, and luckily, kai is there to protect her.

tags: abusive parents, self-harm, one line about suicidal thoughts, blood, aspd / sociopathy, minor blood tasting, non-graphic violence, threats of r4pe / noncon (nothing actually happens), threats of violence, high school bullies, kai gets protective, kai loves his sister, a few cuss words, stabbing, hurt / comfort, happy-ish ending

word count: 3.3k

a/n: i made a post about this, but so many of my works lately have had dark themes; i'm going through it right now... i'm trying to write more fluffy things because i think we could all use some fluff, so if anyone has ideas, let me know! ♥

It had rained the night before. Dew is left on the grass and there is a chilliness in the October air. That afternoon, the children don’t want to put their jackets on to go outside, nor does their mother feel like cleaning them up after an hour in the yard. They opt to stay inside instead, occupied by books and puzzles. 

That’s why Kai is allowed to take a walk down to the end of the road. Usually, he could only go out moments after the storm, when it is cold, and wet, and the children are still too scared from the thunder. And while Kai loves storms, he doesn’t so much like being in them. Today is different. His parents are letting him out nearly a whole fraction of a day later. He is grateful for that, even if that choice is only a result of his siblings’ resistance. 

“Thirty minutes,” his father says, “and stay on the property.”

Kai nods. The property is huge, so that’s no problem. It accounts for a huge field, on which the house is built, a stone perimeter, a long driveway, and an edging of forest. Kai spends his time, thirty minutes per each post-storm, on every inch of the property. His favorite place, of course, being the woods. Oaks and firs ten times taller than himself create a canopy from the sun. Part of him feels like if the sun can’t see him, neither can his father. It is dark in the trees. Sticks crack as animals dodge back and forth. The woods terrify his siblings; they never go past the pine lining. 

Kai, on the other hand, goes as deep into it as he can. The extent of the property ends just enough to block out the house. As soon as the wet, darkened trunks cover the sight of the white, country-esque looking house, he sits. His butt will be moist from the ground in a couple of seconds, but he’s come to care less about that. 

A sigh escapes the boy’s lips as he stares into the great expanse before him. He’d love to explore more of it, but the fear of an active locator spell stops him. His father would never go into the woods after him, though he’d have a beating ready the moment he showed up back home. And trust him, Kai’s considered running away. He’s debated the pros and cons of trying. But when your family is a coven of witches, and the only world you know is your own property, Kai fears luck would not be on his side. 

With another sigh and a need to take his mind off things, he pulls out a switchblade. It’s funny - he had found the knife in these very woods, kicking up dirt as a pastime. His father would never let him keep it if he knew, so he buries it in a hole in the tree against which he’s leaning. Kai admires the blade; the silver that looks back at him when he wipes off the dirt. Several times he’s considered using it as an escape from his life of hell. But if the blade is too dull or proves too small, it would be a pointless, reckless attempt. 

He cuts his finger instead. Just a pin-prick on the edge of his pointer. Blood oozes and he watches it drip, down, down, down, until he touches it with his other finger. The knife is the furthest thing from clean, but Kai doesn’t care. The relief it brings is too important to him. It’s a distraction from the pain in his mind, even if he feels a jolt in his spine with every cut. 

Every cut, he thinks, bringing his attention to where to draw next. His mother would notice his wrist; his father would see his stomach. The last time, he picked his shoulder, but when his beating consisted of the man pulling him by the collar, it risked exposure. Kai scans his body, eyes eventually landing on his belt. Neither parent ever saw below it, thank god for that. 

Kai stands up, hilt of the knife in between his teeth. He unbuckles his belt quietly, acknowledging the metal clashes are the only sound echoing throughout the words. It makes him feel dirty, though he had never done that out here. Kai shakes his head to clear his mind. A drop of water drips from his head, down his cheek. He hadn’t felt it fall from the tree. It feels like a tear, though that’s an unfamiliar feeling; Kai was fourteen the last time he remembers crying. He’s eighteen now, and feels most of his emotions like a weight in his chest. They’re there, mostly in the form of nauseating pain, but he doesn’t feel anything sharply enough to cry about it. A stark contrast to his little brother, Caleb, who cries over anything and everything. 

The boy bites his cheek. He lowers his jeans just enough to find a good spot. Right below his briefs, maybe, where the skin’s not so thin he’ll bleed to death. As tempting as the thought is, a slow death isn’t the way he wants to go out, especially if he’s not sure it would kill him. Kai takes a deep breath, then readies the knife against his thigh. He starts with a small cut, but graduates at the sight of blood being released. A longer, deeper one is made directly under it. It hurts, but as the weight in his chest eases with every drop on his skin surface, he can’t stop. Kai makes a third, and then instinctively reaches out to catch a bit from his second cut before it can stain his jeans. It runs down his leg, threatening the denim that his mother would surely see in her weekly rotation of washes - the woman demands to do his. Whether that’s his father’s order or of her own accord, Kai doesn’t know. 

He stares at the blood, both that on his finger and what gathers on his thigh. He can feel the pain - a sharp stinging now, a dull throbbing later - and lets it in in place of his emotions. The heaviness in his chest is replaced by the harsh sensation, and as gruesome as it is, it’s something he much prefers. 

Kai stands still as the blood dries in the place he left it. In another minutes’ time, he’ll scrape it off, then pick his nails with his teeth. Again, dirty. Gruesome. He’s stopped caring. He’s all alone out here anyway. 

When the time comes, he does just that. Dried blood collects under his nails, and then the dark red substance meets his tongue. His taste buds are overwhelmed with the rich, metallic taste. He’s not sure if he hates it or loves it. 

At age twelve, his historical studies consisted of lore. Aunt Maggie would visit him and Jo every Tuesday and Thursday to teach them about it. The two were homeschooled, like every other child in the coven, and taught by their elders. One particular week, Aunt Maggie hit the topic of vampires. His father told her to touch it lightly. Kai overhead the reasoning, though he didn’t understand it. “The boy is a siphon,” he reminded, “we don’t need to repeat old mistakes.” 

But whatever old mistake it was, Kai wasn’t bothered. He was used to being called a mistake, and figured that’s what his father meant. Kai then listened to his Aunt tell the lore, and the stories, but that’s all he ever thought they were. Now, at eighteen, Kai still isn’t sure what he thinks. Maybe vampires are real; maybe they aren’t. Maybe they are monsters. Maybe they’re just people burdened by the pain in their lives; people who express that pain differently, and are seen as abominations for it. 

Kai wonders if that makes him one. For dealing with his pain by cutting it out of his skin. For licking his own blood when it drips from his wounds.

What would he know? He’s never seen one. 

After two more minutes, Kai finally pulls his pants back up. He starts to fumble with the belt, knife back in his mouth, when he suddenly stops. A wind blew past his ear, carrying the faint cry of a girl. He listens for a moment, but upon hearing nothing new, goes back to his previous feat. Kai turns to the tree to hide his knife. The wicked laughter of a group is heard in the distance. The shuffling of leaves. Another feminine whine. 

The pieces puzzle themselves in Kai’s mind, and he arms himself with his knife once more. To check the sound out, at the very least. To scare them off his property, maybe, or just to scare them. 

Kai treads carefully through the woods, knowing where to step to conceal his identity. A skill his new friends don’t seem to have. He approaches until he comes across a circle of boys. His age, but bulkier - better fed - and slightly taller. The way they stand looks as if they’re trying to cower over someone - a sight Kai doesn’t appreciate, having been the one forced into submission over a hundred times in his life. One rattles off an insult. Another kicks his leg out. 

“Please stop,” the broken voice of a girl he can’t see enters his ears. She’s in the circle, he supposes. Kai watches a little longer, trying to decide how the situation makes him feel. 

A boy barks in laughter at her plea. He mocks it, then bends down to grab her. With brute strength, he lifts her by her shirt collar and pins her to the tree behind her. Her hair gathers around her, bouncing from the force. Tears sting her eyes, yet she’s brave enough to not let them fall. 

“You’re not going anywhere until we’re done with you,” he says, head pointed down to her chest.

Suddenly, the girl reminds him of Jo. Beautiful, brave. Bound to end up in a situation like this, because sometimes she’s just a little too trusting. Despite their forbearance from each other’s company, Kai loves his sister. He misses her visits, when she used to sneak into his room to play when they were children. He misses her touches, those she’d steal in defiance of their father’s direct order. It wasn’t until recent years that they drifted apart. The babies took her attention away, and she slowly morphed into a daddy’s girl. Doing right by him became her mission, which meant leaving Kai behind to rot in his room alone. 

Still, Kai loves her. As best he can, at least, as he feels each emotion he ever knew bury itself inside his soul. An overwhelming darkness conceals them, blackens them, and replaces them with nothing but the dense weight. 

Another cry escapes her lips, freeing Kai from the entrancement of his memories. The boy’s hand creeps up her sides, under her shirt. Soft skin is exposed as he bunches up a handful of the material. He pulls, and his friends egg him on. They’re just as vile as he is. 

Kai gives away his position with a crack of a stick. Six pairs of eyes whip around to face him. He leans against a tree, teasing the knife between his fingers. There’s a silent standoff for a moment, until one of them speaks. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Me? This is my property. I think the better question is, ‘what are you doing here’?”

“Run along home then. This is none of your business.”

Kai cocks his head. “Who’s she?”

“Also none of your business.”

The girl locks her eyes on Kai. She stares, hoping he’ll meet her gaze. Finally, he does, and he can confirm she’s not there on her own accord. 

“Y’know, my father has a lot of rage. He won’t like knowing that little high school boys are taking advantage of young girls on his property.”

“What’s he gonna do? Shoot us?”

“Maybe.”

“What are you gonna do about it?” Another of them challenges. “He’s not here. And we could easily take you.”

Kai steps forward. As he does, the supposed leader tightens his hold on the girl. Fear flashes in her eyes like a fire. Kai isn’t threatened, though. He keeps his eye on her, while moving to stand in between the group. They all watch him cautiously. 

“Let her go.”

“No.”

“Let her go, or I’ll fucking stab you in the neck,” he replies calmly. 

The boy wavers, but doesn’t let up. “You wouldn’t.”

Kai flicks the knife in his hand again, then points it at each of the boys. “Get the fuck out of here. I’m not asking again.”

Another minute. Suddenly, one of them bolts. He races through the forest at seemingly mach speed, barreling into trees and weeds as he goes. The one that was closest to him then follows. 

“Hey!” The boy in charge yells. “You pussies!” He turns back to Kai. “You’re full of shit, I’m not afraid of you.”

Kai doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to - the glare in his eyes does it for him. 

“Y’know, Thomas, maybe we should go,” one of the remaining four mutters. “She isn’t worth it.”

“We’ve had this planned for weeks and you assholes are bailing because of some skinny kid with a three inch knife.”

The girl’s face pales at his words. Kai’s jaw tenses.

How easily Jo could be a target just for being beautiful. 

The boys shuffle their feet, but none of them move. Thomas, the one within spitting distance of Kai, stares back at him. A smirk curls on the edge of his lips. It’s at that moment that Kai decides he’s had enough. One graceful stride lands him close enough to jab the knife into his neck. The boy had no time to react, but does so now by releasing the girl and grabbing at the wound. His friends shriek in terror. They jump around uselessly, having no clue what to do. Kai steps back and grabs the girl before she falls. To his surprise, she lets him. Her face buries in his chest as she tries to find her own strength. 

The boy, rather stupidly, pulls out the handle and throws it at Kai’s feet. “You’re fucking crazy!” He screams, as if Kai didn’t already know that. He takes one more look at the emotionless boy, then the girl gathered in his arms, and runs off into the woods. His friends scamper after him, not wanting the same fate. In thirty seconds’ time, the woods are silent again. 

“Are you okay?” He whispers, still holding her. It’s a weird feeling to him, to have a girl in his arms. Kai isn’t sure how long he’s supposed to hold her, or comfort her. He doesn’t really know what to say, either. 

She remains quiet for a few heartbeats longer, but then nods. Her head moves against his chest until she finally looks up at him. “Thank you.”

He only looks at her. 

“Are you okay?” She asks back. 

This confuses him. “What?”

“You stabbed him.”

“Oh.” Kai shrugs. “I’m fine.”

She straightens her posture, maybe to read him better. “Not a fan of bullies, I take it? Do you have your own at school?”

“I’m homeschooled.”

“Oh.” She looks down into the fallen leaves. Her eyes trace the forest floor, and then she takes a few steps back to grab something lying in them. His knife. She hands it to him. “Well, thank you anyway.”

Kai nods. Then, for whatever reason, he gives her a small truth. “My father.”

“What?”

“Not a fan of bullies.”

“Your father? The one you mentioned, with the rage… he bullies you?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” 

She takes another step towards him. “It’s not fine.”

“There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“I understand,” she says, reaching up to brush her thumb against his cheek. Kai flinches. “I’m sorry.” Her hand recoils, but he catches it.

“Don’t apologize. I’m just not used to it.”

She then takes a seat on the forest floor, patting the spot next to her. “Sit with me?”

Kai figures he still has ten minutes before he must go home, so he does. It’s quiet for a little while. They listen to the wind in the trees and feel the chill at their backs. Both enjoy the others’ company, neither fortunate enough to have it often. 

But the girl then breaks the silence by tucking her knees into her chest. The leaves crinkle around them, and Kai’s attention shoots to her movement. 

“I can’t believe he said he was planning that for weeks,” she mutters.

“Do you know him?”

“I know of him. He’s the quarterback at my school. I’m the girl that eats alone. Why would he target me?”

“Because you’re beautiful,” Kai blurts out. She looks at him, and he suddenly wonders if that comment warrants an apology after what she’s been through. “Sorry. I meant that as, like… Not in a creepy way.” Okay, that was worse. “You remind me of my sister,” he finally says. 

“I do?”

He nods. “She’s beautiful, too, and too kind for her own good.”

“She sounds sweet. Are you guys close?”

“Not anymore.”

“Oh.” 

“My family’s kind of fucked up.”

“That makes two of us.”

Kai looks at her. It’s nice to hear that someone relates. Of course, not nice for her, but there is a comfort in knowing he’s not completely alone. 

“If those boys ever give you shit again, come back here. I live around that field at the edge of the trees. You look like Jo. My father will protect you if he sees you need help.”

She nods. “What about you? Where will you be?”

“In my room. Unless you catch me on a day where I’m allowed out.”

“Which is?”

“Thirty minutes after every storm. Because my mother doesn’t want to clean the mud off my baby brother’s clothes.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Like I said.” He then turns to her. “But I’m serious. If they come after you, go to the field.”

“Because I look like Jo,” she confirms. 

Kai nods. 

“Thank you.” She takes a deep breath. “I should be heading back soon. My parents care less about me, but still don’t want me out late.”

“A statement to which I relate too much.”

“Will I see you again maybe? Perhaps after the next storm?”

“You’d want to see me again?” He’s for sure she’d be terrified of him after earlier events. 

“It’s not everyday a cute boy stabs my bully with a knife.” She smiles. 

“Okay.” She’s different. Not at all like he’d expect her to be, if he were to only judge her by her smile and bright, kind eyes. Of course, most people are able to hide their pain behind a well-designed mask. Only a small fraction become neck-stabbing sociopaths. 

Despite that, though, she isn’t afraid of him. If anything, she seems more curious. 

“Okay,” she beams. “Bye…”

“Kai.”

“Y/N,” she offers in return.

“Y/N,” he tastes her name on his tongue. Her eyes light up at the sound of her name reverberating off his lips.

She smiles, and then out of nowhere, leans forward to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, again, Kai. You don’t know how thankful I am that you were here.” And with that, she’s off. 

Kai stares after her in a stunned silence. Her lips still tingle on his cheek. His skin feels hot to the touch, warming him up despite the passing breeze. 

It takes a couple heartbeats for him to come back to his senses. By that time, she’s lost to the forest, gone, and only in his memories. He hikes back to his tree to put his knife back in its spot, then makes his way home. He’ll see her again, hopefully. Next storm, she’ll be there. She’ll become more than just a memory, but maybe a comfort as well. A friend. 

#kai parker x reader #malachai parker x reader #tvd fanfiction #kai parker angst #tw s3lf h4rm #tw minor violence #tw noncon threat - but nothing happens

[ghoststookournightmares]

Why did Nick's goodbye affect Boston that way?

I think it's hard or jarring to understand why Boston felt like he was coming undone listening to Nick when the most stuff they did was just f**king. The thing is even if they were doing the nasty 80% of the time, that 80% was when Boston was the happiest. And Nick did LOVE him, like love him. And I mean of course what Nick did wasn't just stalker-ish, it was what stalkers do!!! BUT, I think what happened is that neither of them is completely mentally A-OKAY... They both have their issues and Boston especially has always shunned connections, especially long-lasting ones, because he knows he'll leave and that is just burdensome, so he treats everything as use and throw, hurting so many people in the process.... And I don't know, but I'm speculating he also treats the concept of LOVE similarly, probably after watching his parents, coupled with the fact that Boston uses both himself and others with sex as a currency in exchange for something like a good time, a power play, a way of feeling good about himself, a trade-off, a way to obtain conquests, which at the END OF THE DAY makes Boston extremely lonely... He is a human and you can't avoid connections just like that... BUT NOBODY SEES/OR SAW THE HUMAN BOSTON, not the evil, villainous slutty, assholey Boston, but also the artist Boston, the humane Boston underneath..... UNTIL MR. NICHOLAS ARRIVES.

And I'm very intrigued by Nick's character too, I wish we got some backstory... But Nick as we can see is very naive, very impulsive, and introspective but strangely and foolishly thinks that he is clever... He has abandonment issues, and self-esteem issues too... But what he has that Boston never had was EMPATHY, intense EMPATHY, or clinically illegal empathy, with which he sees the world. And he in his own warped mind accepts Boston, good, bad, and ugly, and even if to Boston they were just FWB, those times he spends with Nick are enjoyable, happy, pleasurable (in a different, not exactly sexual way) unknowingly allowing Nick to burrow under his skin. And even though Nick loves Boston, most assuredly, still he does feel upset too... And we saw that when he told Mew about Gap... But the thing is Nick feels things deeply, more deeply than the others, and in a way he is softer, gentler, and more straightforward than probably anyone Boston has ever known.

And before Boston could even comprehend what had happened in his strictly FWB relationship with Nick, he was ALREADY ATTACHED TO him. He never considered that he would be the one pining for something other than sex, but he did, and that's why Nick's betrayal seemed so drastic for him. Because he genuinely was becoming fond of Nick. But Boston would never have acted on this feeling, instead choosing to bury it away IF NICK HADN'T GIVEN HIS FINAL GOODBYE MONOLOGUE TO HIM.

Nick changed the trajectory of their relationship. THE FIRST PERSON TO SAY SORRY TO BOSTON. To say that I appreciate you, I think you're not a terrible person even if you think so, and I appreciate your dreams and hope you achieve them one day and I love-you-enough-to-let -you-go.... And finally goodbye my lover, I wish you nothing but the best, shook Boston because not only was Nick brave, he was vulnerable, he owned up to his mistakes and he affirmed that yes, you made me happy and I see you, all of you and I still love you. It broke Boston to be 'loved' at all, but in this way by a man, he cheated on and broke his heart.... Also, I want to add, that a lot of people make fun of how Nick eavesdropped on other of Boston's hookups but poetically it is so ironic because in that moment Nick was actually grounding Boston away from another one of his meaningless hook-ups, stopping him from running away from his actual thoughts and processes... And what was very interesting was it was Nick apologizing and bidding him farewell, but it was Boston who couldn't meet his eyes. I would also like to add, that honesty is Boston's saving grace, something we also see in Nicholas in episode 9, like two peas in a pod.

Lastly, I think all credit goes to Mark and Neo for fleshing out such complex, selfish, almost-criminal characters with such finesse, humanity, and vulnerability with so little screentime.

#only friends the series #boston only friends #nick only friends #boston ofts #nick ofts #boston x nick #boston nick #thai bl #ofts #ofts meta #bostonnick #nickboston #only friends nick #only friends boston

[just--a-lurker]

what the dog doin

Dog hybrid!Leon S. Kennedy x fem K9 handler!reader

Total words: 3.6k

One of the hybrids at your new job causes a lot more trouble for you than you can ever imagine.

warnings: !!18+!! !!MDNI!! noncon/rape, biting, violence, gore, gun mention, breeding kink, somnophilia, knotting, public sex, hybrids, bestiality-ish (hybrids not considered as people despite them being mostly human), Leon is sort of yandere in this

a/n: this is technically my first fic (💀) so it’s a bit rough, and anything in this that makes you go “huh that actually isn’t that bad” is probably thanks to this getting a read-over + suggestions by the much more talented @noowayybroo​ who also writes great fics that are infinitely better than this one (they’re actually good, go read them!!)  I picture re2 leon with this but it doesn’t really matter. title is because i can’t title things and it’s funny to me (i am dying of irony poisoning). formatting on tumblr is terrible what the hell

You are hired as the new K9 handler at the local police station. When you arrive for your first day, the chief brings you to the kennels and introduces you to the dogs that you'll be training while you're here. You’re a bit nervous, this job being the first time you really get to test your skills, but you try your best to not let your apprehension show.

You come face-to-face with a group of stern-faced dogboys, who are obediently sitting, waiting for your commands. Well, most of them are. They seem to have lined up by seniority, and despite your view of the dogs later in the line being blocked by some of the bigger dogs, a light-colored dog at the very end catches your attention with all of his movement. Approaching the smallest dog at the end of the line causes him to become overexcited, jumping up to try and touch you. 

K9 recruit Kennedy, or Leon, according to the engraving his basic collar had, enthusiastically greets you by standing up and licking your cheek. His long, fluffy tail wags excitedly as he starts to... bounce? Out of happiness. He manages to stand still for just a few moments so he can say something to you, but you can tell it’s taking all of his effort to stop moving.

"It's so nice to meet you! Hi! I'm Leon! I love you!"

You’re amused by the pup’s declaration, and scratch behind his ears when he bows his head to you. You find his mannerisms charming, if a bit out of place, and you wonder if he knows he’ll be completely still and calm like the other dogs after you train him.  The chief states that officer Kennedy is the newest and youngest of the group, and he arrived after the old handler left, so he hasn't had any training at all. 

"He's eager but a bit of a troublemaker. Shouldn't be a problem for you though, of course." The chief laughs, patting you on your shoulder before leaving you to your devices with the dogs. 

You go through exercises with the entire pack, pleased to see that most of them were already well-trained and would just need practice to maintain that training. You give extra attention to Leon, who is indeed eager to follow your orders, but seems constantly distracted. He has lots of energy and seems to prefer pets and scratches behind his fluffy ears to any kind of treat. He seems to be getting along well with the other dogboys, but after a week of you being there, something about Leon changed.

He was still the overexcited puppy you knew him as, but he was a lot more distracted than normal. You catch Leon staring at you with a dopey look on his face, responding to nothing until you gently pat him on his head or he sees you interact with another dog. Leon doesn’t like this, getting into fights with whichever dogboy you seemed to favor over him, who much to the other dog’s credit, shrugs Leon off and ignores him. He constantly takes your items and hides them, his favorite item being the keys to the kennel, which he hides in what you feel like infinite amounts of obscure spots around the room. Whatever the item is, you end up being stuck in there for an extra hour until you find them. Any discipline you dish out is met with that same, stupid smile, and you watched his tail thump on the ground happily, even when you called him a "bad dog". All of this was starting to get to you, but you figured that you can eventually train him out of it. After all, he's still new, and maybe he's still adjusting to having to interact with you. At least, this is what you would have thought if he weren't getting more... physical with you.

Constantly following you around, even after you dismiss him so you can train the other dogs, he curls around your feet and bites down on your clothes to stop you from walking away from him. He shoves his face into your crotch, forcing you to push him away roughly. He takes the opportunity to lick at your groin if you take too long to push him away, and as your reaction to the sudden shock of wetness and warmth quickened, the more often he would try to press himself there. You eventually place him in a crate while you are working in the kennel as you can’t do anything productive without him tripping you up.

Leon isn’t too happy about this, and howls loudly the entire time, forcing you to muzzle him in order to prevent noise complaints from your coworkers. The muzzle only stays on until he quiets down and promises to behave, but it wouldn't even be 5 minutes before he misbehaves again, and you feel his tongue on your clothed ass. All you can do is sigh in disappointment and drag a whimpering Leon back into his crate. You would think that being publicly humiliated in front of the other dogs would act as a deterrent, but it was as if Leon didn't care at all for their thoughts.

It isn’t just his behavior that is strange. You feel embarrassed to even notice this, but he sports an almost constant hard-on, which was laughed off at the vet as "just something that dogs have sometimes, it'll go away soon." but you're glad to know that he has a clean bill of health otherwise. You're not sure why he's so naughty lately -- you wish that there would be at least some paperwork regarding his history before he came to the precinct --but it's as if they picked him directly off of the street. You're worried that his behavior is due to hormonal reasons, and if it gets any worse it can only be fixed by, well, fixing him.

You spend more time training the pack, with Leon showing some progress whenever he isn’t trying to press himself on you. You really hope that his problems won't crop up in more serious situations, and you pray to whatever higher power is out there that he isn’t called to a scene anytime soon. Of course, when all the other dogs were unavailable, you are called to bring a dog over to investigate a crime scene. You walk towards the officers already present with Leon in tow, trying to keep him at an appropriate distance. Leon is overjoyed to finally reach the site and hugs your leg after you stop in front of the two officers. You harshly pull at his collar when you feel him trying to subtly grind on your shoe, giving him a stern look. The other officers smile at you and pet Leon’s head, which thankfully makes him stop humping you.

While you're getting briefed, a shot nearby briefly deafens you as one of your fellow officers collapses, head burst on the pavement. You try to grab Leon to duck somewhere safely while you figure out who is shooting at you, but Leon seems to have gotten spooked or got lost in the chaos, as he is nowhere in sight. You can only wish that whoever was firing at you will take pity on the poor pup. You peek out from your cover to try and get more information, but you’re shoved unceremoniously on the ground as one of the instigators hits your kneecaps with the butt of their gun, before pointing the nozzle at your head.

"Not even an actual cop, just the dumb dog-fucker." They sneer, before hitting you with the gun again, this time a hard butt to your jaw.

"Guess you weren't a good bitch for him if he completely abandoned you like this."

You're completely discombobulated from the assault and you close your eyes to stop the light from making the agonizing pain in your head worse. You tear up from the sting of pain and your failure, and you can only sniffle as the gunman starts to pull the trigger.

A loud growl comes from behind your attacker, and a blur of fluffy blond tail and sun-kissed skin leaps at the assaulter. Their gun is knocked out of their hands, and you only belatedly realize that the liquid leaving their throat is their blood gushing out by the pint. You're still in shock, but the gruesome sight brings you to some of your senses and you quickly realize that Leon is going to kill that person if he doesn’t stop now. You order Leon to let go, as the assailant is definitely not going to be able to hurt anything for quite a while, but to your dismay Leon does not immediately follow your order. Leon looks directly at you, crunching down hard one last time, before trotting up to you with a wide smile that would be otherwise cute if blood and sinew wasn't smeared all over his face. His fluffy tail wagged happily, and he looked imploringly at you for a treat. 

"I did good! I protected my mate!"

You ignore his second statement, and look at Leon with apprehension. You have a fleeting thought about petting him just in case he decides to turn that aggression towards you - but your rational brain takes over and you don't want to reward him for a near-fatal mauling, and you’re kind of confident that he wouldn’t attack you at the moment. You make sure the coast is clear before quickly turning around (and holding yourself back from comforting Leon after he lets out the most pitiful whine) and call for medical attention for the unfortunate person. As the EMT whisks them away, and feeling more secure with other people around you, you scold Leon. You bring him to the drying pool of blood and make him look at it.

"Bad boy!" A light smack on his cheek.

"Listen to me when I tell you to let go!" A rougher smack on his left arm, of which he was trying to wrap around you.

"No more treats for the next month!" You force his neck to turn towards you, and are pained by his teary-eyed expression.

"But I protected you! I was good!"

"Good boys do exactly what I say."

"But-"

You push him to the ground and start walking back to the station, giving very little slack to the leash. You try to ignore his small whines of, "but I was being a good mate."

After writing your report about the entire incident, you were given a special assignment. Leon's behavior was found unacceptable by both you and your bosses, so he needed intensive training outside of work hours, or he’ll be put down. You thought that was a harsh punishment – shouldn’t they at least try to neuter him first? – but you shudder at the thought of Leon attacking some poor vet tech as savagely as he did that gunman. You were still upset at him, but you thought he still had potential, so you decided to take him to your house. You reason that Leon needs some time with you alone so he'd get his fill of your presence and maybe he'll start to act right. You set up a little dog bed for him on the ground, but he pouts and tearfully exclaims, 

"I don't want to sleep on the ground! Too cold, not near you!"

You figure that he was just nervous, and the way his ears dropped tugged at your heartstrings, so you let him sleep with you for a few days to make him comfortable.

Big mistake.

Leon refuses to bathe and insists on rolling around in your bed. He drools all over the sheets and you think he's trying to mark the bed with other bodily fluids as well, the sheets smelling foul at the end of the day. You eventually get him in the tub, but he throws a fit and never lets go of your hands the entire time, splashing water everywhere with his tail out of excitement… or spite. To top it off he gets moodier whenever you need to wash your bedsheets due to whatever it was that Leon was doing to them. 

It can and does get worse; you wake up some nights to Leon humping your leg, whimpering and drooling as he desperately seeks his release. You, waking up from some of the deepest rests of your life (Leon, despite being a nuisance, is very warm, and that was apparently all you needed for your mild insomnia to be fixed) can only muster the energy to be mildly annoyed by this, and give him a kick to make him stop. He does, and curls up in shame afterwards, but only for a little while, before he's right back to it.

Outside of your sleeping arrangement, Leon continues to be a menace. He makes a complete mess of the house, with him being clever enough to escape the crate (but not clever enough to not brag about it to you, telling you how much of a "smart mate" he is) and you think he's been taking your unwashed laundry and storing it somewhere you can't find it. You're wearing your last pieces of clean clothes before you finally find the pile behind an unused crawl space underneath the stairs, with the clothes feeling very... crusty. You confront Leon about this, but he only tilts his head and pants, the movement drawing your attention to his disgustingly hard (and slimy? Ugh, you shouldn't look too close at it) cock twitching whenever you speak to him. 

Leon continues to act strangely, and you're worried that he might be sick. While you're scheduling another appointment to the vet, Leon suddenly hugs you from behind and nuzzles your neck. You're about to harshly reprimand him before he asks you to take him for a walk at his favorite park.

"Please! Please! I'll be good if you take me! Please!"

You feel bad for him, knowing that going to the vet is an unpleasant experience for any dogboy, and you tell him that you'll take him to the park the morning of the appointment, but only if he lets you go right now. He reluctantly obliges, and you're finally able to make the actual appointment.

"C'mon boy, what's the matter?" You tug on his leash gently to get him to move, but he lets out a growl. 

The day comes, and it starts off like any normal day –well, as normal as it can be with Leon living with you. You wake up, noting no disruptions at night, but Leon was already at his food bowl jumping around. When you go to fill it, he has a concerning gleam in his eyes that you at first think is a sign of his illness getting worse. You felt bad about everything that Leon went through lately and decided to take him on a walk immediately after he's done eating, as whatever you have to do can wait.

You put the leash on his collar (and you think you hear a faint growl but chalk it up to it being early and you being groggy) and make your way to the park. It's beautiful outside, and you opted for light-weight clothing. The park was mostly empty as it was very early in the morning, and besides Leon barking at the occasional jogger that passed by, everything was going smoothly. You’re enjoying yourself, happy to have a pleasant experience with Leon for once. You think Leon is also enjoying it, but you seem to have misjudged him – when the two of you reach the very end of the park trail, he stops moving and stands very still.

He asks, "Why don't you love me? I’m a good mate!" You freeze, never having had Leon growl at you before. You approach him cautiously and crouch down to him at his eye-level. 

"Leon, of course I love you, you're just a little bit sick okay? After we go to the vet I'll bring you lots of treats and cuddles." You gently pat his head, noting the way his ears seem to be stuck stiffly upright. You give him a kiss on his cheek before turning around and walking back towards the entrance of the park. The leash is almost jerked out of your hands as Leon moves the other way. 

"Baby, what's wrong with you today? You asked to come here!" You approach Leon hoping he would give some sort of response, but as you stand a few feet away you only see Leon staring intensely at you. The look in his eyes was worrying you, only seeing him gawk at something like this when he was about to eat.

"Leon. Come on. We can't stay here all day." You walk away from Leon, but you don't get too far. Suddenly, he sprints towards you and jumps on your back, the force pushing you on your knees.

You let out a startled yelp as Leon cages you with his arms, the leash knocked out of your hands. His weight keeps you down on the grass, and you can feel his muscles working to keep you down through your thin shirt. You order him to get off of you, but he snarls and bites down hard on your shoulder. Muffled by your shoulder skin, you feel more than hear him say, "Need to show you that you're my mate. Mine, mine, mine-"

Somewhere between the throbs of pain coming from the bite, the vibrations of his groans, and the feel of the dry grass on your hands, you feel Leon's cock sliding over your crotch.

"Stay. Mate." He rumbles out after licking the wound on your shoulder a few times. He sits up on his haunches to remove your pants and underwear, your kicks at him pitiful as your legs were effortlessly held in place. Once those were out of the way, you can feel his hot breath directly hitting your exposed cunt. You feel your face heating up from embarrassed horror as he buries his nose into it. A smothered moan leaves him, the vibrations causing you to moan as well. Leon rubs his face into your bare crotch, slick soaking his face, your moans spurring him on. After he had his fill of your scent, he aggressively laps at your cunt, his wide tongue able to cup the entirety of your vulva. He pulls his head away for a brief moment, staring at your pussy in awe.

“So good. Just as I thought…”

He stuffs his tongue deep into your opening and swirls his tongue around, the wet appendage making you shiver disgracefully from the pressure. The taste was making his cock jump and drool precum from arousal. One hand gripped your hip, leaving several scratches from his claws. The other hand was moved to your clit and rubbed harshly, and the combination from the pleasure of his tongue and the pain from his sharp nails teasing your clit causes you to orgasm shamefully fast. Any fight you have leaves you as your brain completely blanks out.

Leon laps up your fluids as you shake. After a few more licks that he savored, he moves back up to your neck. He licks a stripe from your bite wound to your nose. You grind on his crotch, which encourages him to line his painfully aroused cock at your entrance. You reach around and help guide the tip into you, and Leon slides right in. You let out a squeak as Leon immediately sets a fast and rough pace. The slaps of his thighs on your ass sounding incredibly lewd in contrast to the otherwise peacefully quiet park. Leon's cock reached deep inside of you, and the unique texture only enhanced your arousal. The tip of his tapered cock lightly tapped your cervix every time he shallowly thrusted into you, and your painfully clenching uterus causes your cunt to squeeze around Leon. The pain is too much, black spots filling your vision. Before you can pass out, you reach your second orgasm, and your spasming walls massage Leon's cock as he pistons in and out of you. The orgasm only delays your inevitable fainting spell, making you hypersensitive to every movement of Leon's body. Soon you feel something thick getting caught at your entrance with Leon's frantic thrusts. You're only faintly aware of what was about to happen, finally realizing what it was as Leon mutters about breeding you full of his pups. It's as if your head was dunked in a bucket of ice water, and you try to push Leon off of you with your trembling legs.

"L-Leon no! Don't knot me! Bad dog!" Your pleas are met with a growl and Leon pulling you back into him. What feels like a baseball stretches you open painfully, and you feel blistering hot fluid deep in your nether regions, each load making your pussy throb. Leon settles down and gives small, happy licks on your face, removing your tears. He maneuvers you and himself into a more comfortable position, and between his groans you can almost make out his praises for you for taking his knot so well.

You and Leon lay there on the park grounds in this compromising position, and had the knot not been pressing and pulsing directly on your g-spot you perhaps would've cared more about being naked from the waist-down with a dog stuck inside of you for who-knows-how long, and the amount of blood you are losing from the cuts (now more like lacerations) would likely need a medical professional to stitch then up. You suddenly feel exhausted, and Leon's warmth surrounding you inside and out allows you to finally pass out on the grass. You’re still asleep by the time Leon pops his knot out and admires your gaping cunt, before dragging you into the forest that is bordering the park's edge.

Guess you won't be making that vet appointment today.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy #resident evil #this is my first properly tagged post lmaoooooo

[ask-the-royal-absol]

@Hope & Felix: Hi Hope; Hi Felix, its great to see you again. So, question to you both; Does the Underdark or Terrestria celebrate its own holidays? I'm asking because we just celebrated a couple of them just recently and I wanted to snag some gifts for the both of you and Destino as well, if I can, as I'm the Celebrate Anon.

Hope: How did that happen?

Felix: Destino being royalty means they can choose for things ta happen and their parents allow it.

Hope: That’s not…no. I’m sorry but in my kingdom, I can’t just say my birthday is a holiday and it’ll suddenly become a thing. That’s stupid. And everyone is ok with it?

Felix: It’s pretty harmless so nobody cares. All it means is that Destino is wished a happy birthday on their special day if ya see ‘em. I’m the only one that ends up givin’ ‘em a gift. Well, me, their parents and the bisharps but that’s it.

Hope: Fair enough, if it helps them to feel important.

Felix: Ya were gonna talk about ya holidays?

Hope: Oh yeah. We have a lot. It varies from religion to religion.

Felix: Religion?

Hope: Yeah. Lots of Pokémon worship different legendary Pokémon, believing certain ones are the creators of the world. Pokémon, like the one known as the Relentless Torrent or the Ancestral Guardian, have their own religious movements which means certain holidays are put in place to appease them. For example, the Day of Ash is a day where Pokémon from the movement of the Living Magma will throw ash into the volcano in order, as they believe, give it sustenance so the Living Magma does not leave the volcano.

Hope: Dad tells me to celebrate as many as I can. Not because I believe in them - the guardian informed me of how the world was made - but more as a symbol for the people of my kingdom, or at least that’s what dad says. And a lot of them are so much fun. Some have some incredible traditions too which I love taking part in. I’m kinda glad I have dad making me aware of all of these movements as it means I get to be closer to the Pokémon I’m gonna eventually rule over.

Felix: Damn, sounds like ya really care for ya subjects, considering ya have ta go ta all these celebrations and all.

Hope: I try my best. Though it does mean I can get incredibly busy sometimes.

Hope: Vacation? Ha! That would be a dream. I don’t get much in terms of “free time”. Royal duties and all.

Felix: Surely ya must get some time off. Destino doesn’t really have ta do but they still give ‘emselves a break if it’s too much for ‘em.

Hope: Destino is going to find it incredibly difficult when they take the throne then. Not gonna put it lightly but if they’re not doing something everyday, they’re not gonna last long.

Felix: I never said they were doing nothin’. Just that they like to balance their royal duties with havin’ some free time. It’s important to ‘em. They value their free time. Work life balance, ya know. They sometimes help distribute food, read ta kids, settle things between two Pokémon.

Hope: There’s no way I’d be able to have a break. It’s hilarious Destino has to have breaks when they have nowhere near as many responsibilities as me.

Hope: My days usually start with an hours worth of training, followed by a meet and greet with a group of Pokémon - that usually takes a couple of hours as I have to give a speech about myself and the royal family and how we support the kingdom. Then I visit a couple of the local schools so I can listen to the kid read and help out as best I can - sometimes I’m even allowed to teach Pokémon moves classes. Gotta inspire the young ones, you know? I have a quick 10 minute lunch before meeting other groups of Pokémon for 3 ish more hours, do a couple more hours of training, maybe meet with a few more of my subjects, then I’ll get a quick dinner, or as quick as I possibly can, then back to meeting with other Pokémon and slipping in some training in my free moments. Sometimes the meet and greets don’t last as long so I can have a quick moment to myself.

Felix: …That doesn’t sound healthy.

Hope: What do you mean?

Felix: That’s ya every day? Every single one of those activities?

Hope: Yeah. I don’t see what the-

Felix: Hope, how’s that sustainable for ya? Ya gonna end up burning yaself out.

Hope: Ha, you’re worrying too much. I’m perfectly fine. Besides, it’s all for the good of the kingdom.

Felix: Alright, so how are ya allowed ta do all of this if ya schedule is so jam packed?

Hope: My old man has no idea I’ve gone and done this. He probably thinks I’ve gone to help someone or something. Everything’s fine.

*A brief thought slipped into Hope’s mind. A memory of the King and Queen of the Underdark leaving to go and tell her father of what she had done. Shit. Perhaps he would know. It’s not like she’d get in trouble with him. Maybe she should have told her father before leaving. Too late now. Felix noticed the faintest drop in Hope’s confident expression. Even though he only just met her, hearing about how full her day was with a lack of down time made him slightly worry about her. At least Destino could manage their time well.*

#pokemon ask blog #pokemon #pokemon askblog #pokemon oc #ask blog #ask the royal absol #Felix the gengar #gengar #hope the Blaziken #Blaziken #chapter 3 #and things are starting to come to light #pokeask community

[luke-hughes43]

Stella Thinks of Transferring and Decides to Do It | Luke and Stella

(this is the second part of Luke asking Stella to go to jersey with him.)

Stella’s POV

So, it’s been a few weeks since Luke and I first talked about him signing. It has since been announced that he’ll be signing at the end of the season. I’ve briefly talked to trevor and my mom about it but nothing in depth. I haven’t told them that Luke asked me to go with him.

In the recent weeks, I’ve also had a conversation with the coaches and my trainers about red shirting. They are in agreement that it’s the best option. I mean it’s the middle march and I haven’t played in a single inning. It’s better to just save the year of eligibility rather then fight to come back before my knee is ready.

There’s so many things to consider and think about right now. I decide to call trevor and really fill him on what’s going on. I have a decent break between classes and so I call him, knowing that he’s just getting up so he isn’t busy. It rings and he picks up on the 3rd ring, “Stel?”

“Hey trev. Do you have time to talk?” I ask softly. He says back, “I always have time for you Stella. What’s going on?” I can hear the smile in his voice when he answers which makes me smile a little bit. I ask him, “So we’ve briefly talked about Luke signing in jersey when his season ends here right?”

“Yea? What about it?” He says. I say back, “He asked me to go with him.”

“Oh.”

“Yea. And I’ve really been thinking about it. I think I could just use a fresh start  and a chance to start over where an injury doesn’t haunt me.”

“Yea I get that. Where would you even transfer?”

“Rutgers. The campus in New Brunswick is in the Big Ten so if they have a roster spot, I’d be able to play. And New Brunswick is like a half hour ish from Newark so I won’t be far from Luke.”

“What does mom think?”

“I haven’t quite told her yet. You’re the first person that I’ve told about it. I just don’t know if I should do it, and I know that you would give me honest advice instead of telling me what you think I want to hear. And I wanted to have more peace of mind about it before telling mom. She’s not the best at giving me advice, all she ever says is that she just want me to happy and that she’ll support me no matter what which is great but not helpful.”

“Yea I know what you mean. Look, Stella, if you aren’t sure about doing it, then don’t. Are you happy in Michigan? Like actually happy?"

“I mean yea. Even though I’ve been hurt for the last year, I still love it here. It’s lost it’s magic but I am happy. I hate that I’m hurt and I’m pissed off about my setbacks because I should’ve been able to play by now. I’ve just been hitting setbacks and I can’t keep going in this circle anymore trev.”

“I know stel. If you think that going to Jersey with Luke is a good fit then I have your back 100%.”

“I know you do. It’s just I don’t want people to think that I chose michigan because of Luke and that I’m transferring to follow him. I don’t everyone saying that I’m not good enough to stay at michigan after my injury and that I’m following Luke because he’s about to make it big and that I’m in it for the money. That’s never been the case at all trev but you and I both know how people will take it if I transfer to rutgers.”

“I know. How long ago did Luke ask you to go with him?”

“3 weeks or so. It was a few days after my birthday.”

“Ok, I’m assuming that you’ve thought a lot about it since?”

“Yea. It sounds like a really good idea and a good opportunity to start fresh after my injury. But I’m scared.”

“I know. If you think of it this way, if you transfer to rutgers, you’d be closer to mom and dad and the family.”

“I know. That part hasn’t escaped me. It’s just, I know that no matter if I stay here or if I go to jersey, Luke and I will be fine. And I don’t wanna make this kind of decision based on my relationship but I love him trevor. I love him so much, he’s the only guy I’ve ever seen a future with and I don’t wanna lose that but I’d feel silly if I transferred just to be with him.”

“I know you love him stel. And he loves you too. So let’s do this, if you weren’t dating Luke, would you have thought about transferring anyways?”

“Probably. I feel stuck and I don’t want to feel stuck anymore. I don’t know if I’d think about rutgers, but I’d think about leaving for sure. I think I just need a new environment, and new opportunity to shine. I had the best freshman year in the history of Division 1 softball but I don’t think I have anything to show for it since I didn’t get to play this year.”

“Then you have your answer Stella. I agree with you by the way, I think you need to get a change scenery and just a change of environment. You had an unbelievable freshman campaign and unfortunately your opportunity to follow that was robbed of you. Make your own opportunity now. Whether it’s a rutgers, michigan, or somewhere else, make your own opportunity.”

“Thanks trev. I really needed that. I’m just scared to make this change.”

“I know, and I know it’s scary. But you can do this Stella, you can do anything. You’re the best athlete in the family, you got this in the bag. The next time we get a few days off, want me to come out and see you?”

“If you can make it work, I’ll never say no to seeing you but if you can’t don’t worry about it. I just needed some advice from my big brother.”

“I’m always here for you Stella. I hope I gave you the advice that you needed.”

“You did. I’m gonna talk to mom but I think I made my decision.”

“You’re gonna enter the portal and go with Luke aren’t you?” Trevor asks. I pause for a second before say softly, “I think so.”

“I’m proud of you Stella. Always.”

“Thanks trev. I gotta head to my next class but I’ll catch up you later?”

“For sure. Love you stel.”

“Love you too trev.” I say and hang up. I head to class and then practice and rehab. Later on that night, I call my mom and talk to her about it. The phone rings and she picks up pretty quickly, “Hey stel.”

“Hi momma.”

“What’s up honey?”

“Do you have time to talk?”

“Of course I do. What’s up?”

“So, Luke is signing at the end of the year.”

“I figured as much.”

“He asked me to go with him.”

“Oh.”

“And I think I’m gonna do it.”

“I see. Are you sure about this honey?”

“Yea. I need a different environment. I feel stuck here and I’ll never get back to how I was feeling stuck. Regardless of if I’m dating Luke or not, I would’ve thought about transferring.”

“Ok, if this is what you want honey, I’ll support you.”

“I know and thank you mom.”

“Of course honey. So where would you transfer to?”

“I’m hoping rutgers in New Jersey. The New Brunswick campus is in the Big Ten so we know I can play and it’s only like a half hour ish from Newark, and they have a program for me academically. I’d be a lot closer to home too. You’re ok if I do this?”

“Yes. I just want what’s best for you and if you think that transferring is what’s best for you then you’re father and I support it.”

“Thank you momma. I gotta go because I have a bunch of homework to do but I love you.”

“I love you too honey. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks momma. Good night.”

“Night honey.” I smile and hang up the phone. I let out a sigh of relief knowing that I have the support from my family. Now to tell Luke.

#stella zegras #luke hughes #umich hockey #new jersey devils

[sendarya]

Hey, hi, I love your analysis videos and have loose floating thoughts and questions and no one with whom to discuss them while Good Omens slowly consumes all of my available brain space.

Would love to know your thoughts on these! I’m sorry if you’ve already discussed these somewhere and I missed it, I can go dig around if so.

Heavenly/magical working logic of Gabriel’s transfer of himself into the fly. When he’s Jim, his eyes aren’t purple, and he also says something like his head isn’t big enough for the type of memory Crowley is asking him to recall at one point? Is he an empty human corporation? If he’s himself but just without his memory, why are his eyes different and brain capacity different? Do you know what I’m getting at here? Considering the extreme care with which so many other aspects are handled by the showrunning team, this one still evades me.

Hell is super understaffed - where are the demons? 👀 Paired off with angels in some remote corner of the galaxy? Helping God with her next, more interesting project?

Thank you so much for all the time you take producing amazing, thoughtful, well-researched content.

Hello, and thanks for the questions, and for the lovely compliments!

I actually love your first question so much, I've added it to my list of things I'd like to address in a video if you don't mind? Probably soon-ish, as well. And happy to credit you for asking the question! It really got me thinking about how the entire magic system in GO's works, and the implications all of it has, something I can't recall seeing addressed before.

As to your second question, I haven't got a good answer. At the end of s1, Bee says there are millions of demons, but then they are understaffed (and on half rations), why? I will be honest and tell you that as of right now, I have o brainwaves on that topic, but will keep it in mind as well!

Thank you again for the questions! Stay tuned, hopefully I can come up with a satisfactory answer to at least one of them!

#good omens #good omens 2 #neil gaiman #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #michael sheen #david tennant

[kalims]

aaaAAA!!! Congrats on 3k followers!! That's such a huge accomplishment- I'm so happy for you!

For the prompts, may I request prompts 2, 16 and 20 for Azul Ashengrotto, and prompts 1 and 11 for Floyd? Thank you so much <3

<- back to event page.

includes: azul ashengrotto & floyd leech.

2. jealousy — something that might just make them do not so regretful things.

16. intimacy — little intimate things.

20. no touching — on a date but they can't initiate any physical contact whatsoever, does he finish through or fail?

&

1. infatuation — little things they do when love struck.

11. flushed — when you fluster them and how they act.

thank you dear!! <33 you're very lovely

✧ azul ashengrotto

2. jealousy

as a whole I assume that his jealousy came from his insecurities and low self esteem, he just spans into this ball full of doubts and overthinking when you display a level of happiness and laughs when you're with someone else.

his jealousy can come in two ways: one that self-destructs himself, or the more likely one; competitiveness to prove that he's better in every single way. it doesn't matter whether or not he knows how to dance. if that person knows to, somehow he will as well and now he's inviting you to dance in a party hosted by the school.

one way or another the leech twins will get involved as well. they either toy with azul or give him their aid as always. well floyd will most likely be jealous if you pay more attention to the stranger as well so he most likely scares them off and solves the multitude of azul's problem.

jade is just there teasing azul and making his life a living hell, he's there for the rare chance to see his friend basically fuming and red by the face. jade intentionally leads azul on a walk where he knows he'd just 'coincidentally' meet you and that person as well.

but most of all he still does help azul, as fun as it was. it got pretty boring and the priceless face the stranger had was funny.

problem solved! if azul sees that person again though, given how they're probably a student he will spare no mercy and the day they visit monstro lounge is just unfortunately the day the percent off has already been due..

16. intimacy

looks straight in your eyes confidently when he's talking to you, most would probably think it's just common courtesy but it's hard to find people nowadays who aren't just plain arrogant. well, azul could be considered one but not at the same time.. it's quite flustering to see the habit in action so you'd either hold your ground till he looks away or you end up faltering.

wraps his scarf around the both of your necks when it's cold and you're alone. there is no way in HELL that he'd let anyone to just casually walk into his room and see him snuggling the prefect which is completely unlikely like his usual composed persona. so it'd have to be carefully planned for an occasion before he agrees, and hoping that those leeches won't try to intervene.

teaching you how to play chess. it's like a normal-ish thing but it's azul's kind of thing so he thoroughly enjoys the moments, he doesn't go easy on you when you play together so you can 'learn' but he does make exceptions to purposely misplace a piece so you can win.

20. no touching.

I think he would pull through just cause he's already used to not much physical interaction anyways and he had zero plans on initiating it with you since he's just, a little shy. and contact makes him feel a little awkward, if you end up bumping into him he sort of just.. jolts into place.

it's a breeze for him so when you tell him to not touch you on your date he doesn't really look fazed. maybe a little curious and skeptical but he thinks it's kinda funny and treats it half seriously.

anyhow he still manages to be a gentleman without contact, like pulling your chair when you're about to sit down, taking the initiative to let you order first, always making sure your interests are accounted. almost like he practiced saying every speech word to word before the date even started!

(haha)

✧ floyd leech.

1. infatuation

straight up walks out of a conversation and goes running to you when he sees a familiar flash of hair around the corner of his eyes and grinning when your delightful scent confirms his suspicions. you either distracted him from an important topic or saved a student from their worst nightmare.

the whole school knows, or just the entire hall when he discovers you because all they can hear is a big, happy; "SHRIMPYY!" and that's now an unspoken alert to start evacuating lest you want to run into the scary tall eel man.

always scares away everyone near you, intentionally this time if he's moody enough or he's just plain jealous. <- they took too much of your time and you paid more attention to them rather than him >:(

11. flushed

GRINS.

yeah it's honestly a suprise you caught him off guard in the first place and an even bigger one where there's an insanely addicting, giddy feeling.

it makes him so happy that he starts sticking to you the entire day, and it lasts for the whole week after he somehow forgets about it. he tried to skip HIS class to go to YOURS and sit next to you, he's forgetting that he's a second year and you're not sooo.. different schedules.

his homeroom teacher had to fearfully drag him back, and now they have the angry tall eel man secretly planning their demise... save them... T_T

#twst x reader #twst x you #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #disney twst #disney twisted wonderland #twst fluff #twst headcanons #twst imagines #twst scenarios #azul ashengrotto x reader #azul ashengrotto #azul x you #azul x reader #azul ashengrotto x you #floyd leech x reader #floyd leech #floyd leech x you #floyd x you #octavinelle #x reader #x gn reader #twst

[scoopertrouper]

could you write about steve and nancy's first major fight (and reconciliation) after they got back together post s4?

anon, i hope you're happy. this prompt ate my brain, chewed it up, and then decided it didn't like how it tasted and spit it out. i was at the ZOO with an adorable little toddler, watching him watch the turtles in wonderment while also thinking "yeah, but WHY are steve and nancy fighting??"

ultimately i think the characters here still need some fine tuning/fleshing out and the premise really only works if you don't think about it too hard. i will probably revisit this in the future with a much stronger editorial eye. 😬

that said, i hope you still very much enjoy this impulsive, self-indulgent 5k words of breaking up (not really lol) and making up schmoop (+ warning for tasteful-ish spice at the end - sorry if that's not your thing).

***

can’t let you slide through my hands

“I don’t like this.”

Nancy hates her voice right now. It’s a quivering, slip of a sound, and she can barely hear it over the slamming echo of her heart inside her ears. 

But Steve hears it. He always hears her, even when it’s something he doesn’t want to hear. 

And if he’s trying to ignore her – trying to pretend the slow, careful grind of whetstone over the edge of his ax has drowned out her words – well, the brief glance he can’t help but flick in her direction gives him away entirely. 

“Steve.”

“Nancy.” 

Each syllable is even, practically toneless, and she hates it. 

“Why are you doing this?” Normally she’d work a lot harder to quash the weak, plaintive note that suffuses the word why, but he’s not listening to her and she doesn’t know what else to do. How else to get his attention. 

“You heard Hopper,” he says with that awful, carelessly empty inflection. “They need all the help they can get.”

Nancy’s fingernails bite into her palms. The sting of it somehow grounds and incenses her, all at the same time. 

“He only said that after you asked him if you could go.”

And hadn’t that been a kick in the pants – Nancy, resigned to staying behind playing bodyguard at Hopper’s request, while Steve only too eagerly offered to tromp off into the woods with Team Distraction like some kind of kamikaze lamb for slaughter. 

(That’s not fair. She knows that of the two of them, she has what could be considered the more important job. Stay at the cabin. Protect El. Make sure nothing happens to her if this frankly suicidal diversionary tactic doesn’t work and they’re attacked during yet another round of psychic Marco Polo with the biggest, baddest ugly they’ve faced yet. 

And she knows Hopper wasn’t lying – they probably could use Steve’s help out there, his seemingly infinite supply of athleticism. Just like she knows that it’s actually a huge compliment that Hopper's trusting her to help keep his daughter safe. So no, she’s not being fair. But also – it’s not fair.)

Steve finally looks up, and he’s wearing that face she’d gotten all too familiar with during the last couple months of their relationship, round one – the one that says he’s trying to see where she’s coming from, but he’s getting annoyed in spite of himself. She hasn’t seen it in quite some time, but she supposes it would’ve been silly to assume it had been retired for good. Neither of them has changed that much.

“Nance. Come on. You know I’m gonna be way more useful out there than I would be here. I’m a garbage shot, anyway.”

Nancy scoffs.

“So you’d rather be cannon fodder instead?”

He props the ax next to the door to the front door of the cabin and crosses his arms, looking a little wounded. 

“Jesus, give me some credit. I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

“Sure, as long as someone’s there to follow your ass through a gate, and beat off the demon bats, and bandage you when you’re bleeding out all over the place!” 

She knows she’s probably starting to sound unhinged. She knows it. But she can’t help it. She does not want him to do this. This is not a good plan.

His face twists, and he looks like he wants to grab her – hold her like he would’ve if this were still September of senior year – but he pulls back at the last second. He does that a lot, now, like he’s still not totally sure what he has permission to do. 

She wishes he hadn’t. Touching him would be infinitely preferable to shouting at him. If she was touching him, she could grab on tight. Refuse to let go. Keep him anchored here by sheer force of will. 

“Nancy, I don’t get it,” he says, tossing his arms up helplessly instead of putting them around her. “This was exactly what your plan was the first time. Cause a ruckus. Create a diversion. Fly in under the radar. It worked once. Ish. We can make it work again, at least long enough for El to try and flush the creep out of hiding.”

Nancy’s jaw drops.

“Worked? Define worked, Steve!” Her eyes are burning. “Eddie is dead! Max is in a coma, maybe…maybe…” as good as dead “…forever. There is a gate to hell splitting the whole town open down the middle, and Vecna is still alive. Only now we have no idea where he is or what he’s doing! In what way would you say any of what we did worked?”

“Because we hurt him,” he responds immediately, low and hard. “We hurt him, and now – now we know he bleeds. We can hurt him again, Nancy, I gotta believe that.” His mouth thins. “Eddie dying, losing Max –” his voice cracks on the “a”, but he soldiers through it “– it all sucks. I hate it. But it wasn’t your fault. They knew what they were getting themselves into.” He pauses, and squares his shoulders. “They weren’t like Barb.”

Nancy’s mouth tastes like ash, and for once she can’t blame it on the air toxicity.

“Barb? Who said anything about Barb?” She’s trying to keep her breathing under control, but her voice sounds far away. “This has nothing to do with her.”

“Bullshit.” 

He looks at her dead on as he says it, like he knows she knows exactly what he means, and she sees red. She’s not sure what’s about to come out of her mouth, but she knows that whatever it is, she’s probably not going to be proud of it – and this time, she won’t be able to use spiked punch as an excuse, nor will she be granted the dubious mercy of drunken amnesia. 

“This has nothing to do with Barb,” she says slowly, “And everything to do with the fact that sometimes, I wish you weren’t so fucking stupid.”  

He flinches back like she’s slapped him and honestly, she might as well have. She feels sick. 

It’s the worst fight they’ve had – actually the only fight they’ve had – since they decided to try again, and what does it say about them that they didn’t last more than ten minutes before they started ripping out the stitches on old, barely healed wounds?

“Well you asked for this,” Steve finally replies, voice quivering minutely. “You’re the one who came to me and wanted to give this another shot. So you tell me which one of us is stupid.”

It hurts. It was supposed to. Nancy immediately feels herself deflate, like he’s sucked away all that was keeping her upright and angry. 

For once, she doesn’t have an immediate response and Steve doesn’t wait for one anyway, whirling on his heel and storming back into the house. 

He’s forgotten his ax. The blade gleams at her, mocking, from where it sits against the door frame. 

She’s a bit shaky, and she needs a minute to collect herself before she goes back inside. Everyone in the cabin is gonna know they’ve been fighting – the walls are not soundproof – and it’s humiliating.  

More humiliating is the fact that this is coming when they’ve hardly been back together two months (and when she’s barely been officially broken up with Jonathan for five). She knows what it looks like,  what she looks like – bouncing back and forth between two men on a whim because she can’t manage to choose once and for all who she wants.

But it’s not like that. Her relationship with Jonathan had been dead long before she’d been able or willing to admit it, and this thing with Steve is so new and old at the same time that it’s just – it’s hard to find her footing, sometimes. 

They’ve both changed so much, but now she’s realizing that there are ways they’ve stayed the same, too. And with the good always comes the bad.

Okay. Okay. She takes a deep breath, then two. She can’t stay out here forever. She has to go back inside, and hopefully they can awkwardly circle each other until they’ve cooled down enough to talk it over like the adults they almost are. 

Because she’s not giving up after one (shitty) fight. Rather than make her second guess her choice, Steve’s parting shot had the reverse effect – it had clarified exactly how stupid a decision it wasn’t. She had wanted this. She still wants it. 

It’s only been two months, sure, but she’s been happy, really happy (a miracle considering the world is literally ending around them). 

She hopes he’s felt the same, last ten minutes notwithstanding.

Damn it. She shouldn’t have said those things to him. That one thing. Guilt is settling over her like a blanket, thicker and more noxious than even the poisonous air of the Upside Down. 

Nancy’s not sorry about getting mad. If he wants her to be his girlfriend again – and she hopes he still wants her to be his girlfriend again – then he has to understand that she’s going to have an opinion on when and how he hurls his body into the line of fire. 

But being mean on purpose? That one, she’s pretty sorry for. Calling him stupid hadn’t been intended to do anything but inflict damage, and she knows she owes him an apology (once the thought of talking to him again doesn’t make the confused snarl of anger and regret and affection that’s all tangled up in her chest tighten to the point of pain).

First things first, though. 

Chin up, go back inside.

*****

At first, she’s grateful for how simple it is to avoid him all afternoon. The cabin is tiny, even taking into account the hastily constructed add-on that had come once the Byers realized that returning to California wasn’t an option, their house was no longer theirs and Hopper’s cabin in its original state had nowhere near enough space to house them all.

But as the unofficial headquarters for their little hodgepodge Upside Down insurgency, it’s also in a near-constant state of low-grade chaos, which is pretty easy to disappear into – or, in this case, use as a convenient excuse to avoid someone.

(That said, tension is tension, and in this case it’s so apparent that even Hopper – whose unspoken approach to any relationship that isn’t his own generally veers toward the less he knows, the better – shoots them both some pretty unimpressed looks when Steve volunteers himself and Robin, unprompted, for the second of the day’s supply runs.)

Her relief edges into anxiety, though, as they get closer and closer to nightfall and Nancy still hasn’t had a chance to get him alone or even do more than accidentally catch his eye over the sad cans of stew they scrounge up for pre-op dinner. It sits like sludge on her tongue (and based on the look on El’s face as she dutifully shovels down spoonfuls, that’s probably not just Nancy’s guilt talking).  

In fact, it’s only as they’re packing up to leave that she realizes she’s probably going to have to go out of her way to corner him, because while Hopper’s come inside to say his goodbyes, Steve's nowhere to be found. 

And part of her really, really wants to be petty and leave it at that. Wants to keep stewing in her resentment and let him go off alone because he was too much of a coward to spare her a fifteen-second goodbye.

But the larger, louder half of her brain won’t shut up about how she’d feel if something happened and the last thing she said to him was…that, so she sucks it up and stomps toward the door, flinging it open and –

– startling Steve so badly that he jerks back a step, eyes widening with alarm.

“Jesus, Nancy, you scared the shit outta me!” She can’t muster up more than a couple blinks in response, and he scuffs one of the dirty planks of the porch with his boot. “Look, I know I’m not, like, your favorite person right now, but I still wanted to come say, uh, see you later. You know…just because.”

Oh, he is such an asshole.

She doesn’t know how to tell him this in a way that would help him understand what she’s actually trying to communicate, so instead, she yanks him down and kisses him hard, something she hasn’t done in public much this go-around. It’s a frankly awful smash of lips and teeth, and may in fact be the worst kiss Nancy has ever given or received.

Regardless, she thinks it gets the point across. 

She pulls back, mouth throbbing, and stares at him again, fingers clenched in the collar of his jacket as he stands there, stunned and swaying. 

“See you later, Steve,” she says pointedly, instead of “please, come back”, or, better yet, “don’t fucking go.” He softens immediately, and inches forward.

“Nancy –”

“Later,” she interrupts firmly. “When you get back. Okay?”

Steve eyes her for several long seconds, then relents.

“Okay,” he says, then he kisses her for real this time (gently, because ow), a brief little soft–as–silk press that leaves her wanting more than she can possibly hope to have at this specific moment.

When she goes back inside (she refuses to watch them roll off into the distance like she’s some kind of war bride, she carries a gun for Christ’s sake), she pauses for a moment, debating checking for the third time since midday that her rifle is loaded and ready. 

Jonathan is there, sitting tense at the two-person kitchen table, staring out into the woods as the rest of the gang helps prep El (or "helps" in some cases).

Most of the time, they’re pretty civil with each other. The breakup had basically been mutual, and she only gets a little livid mad now when she thinks about how he lied to her about Emerson. And kept lying to her. Until the only goddamn reason she found out was because – anyway.

Most of the time, if she ignores inconsequential context like that, they’re pretty civil. 

“Trouble in paradise?” he says, almost inaudibly. 

She takes her rifle to the living room. 

****

In the end, the night and the operation are both total duds, and doesn’t that just add insult to injury?

El searches for what feels like hours, pushing herself farther and farther until her nose is bleeding thickly enough that Joyce sternly calls time on the whole exercise. 

No go, is what El says afterward, wiping blood off her face. Some of it ends up smeared under one of her darkly ringed eyes, and she lets Mike fuss over her until it’s gone. 

Whatever psychic plane she usually ducks into is dead silent, and in the corporeal world, there isn’t a single peep out of anything Upside Down-adjacent, as Hopper reports via walkie-talkie. No stray demodogs, not even an errant vine around what’s usually one of the most active sections of the gate. 

And nothing from Max, who Lucas has taken to watching like a hawk – “just in case” – whenever they can spare him. Nancy’s not sure what’s meant to follow “just in case”, and she’s always been a tiny bit afraid of what Lucas might come back with if she asks – so she doesn’t. For once, she doesn’t need answers.

It’s eerie, and anticlimactic, and it leaves Nancy with an uneasy pit in her stomach. Under the circumstances, no news doesn’t always feel like good news.

With how the night has fizzled, she doesn’t expect much when Hopper’s group rumbles down the drive – so the jagged, ugly cut she can see arcing down the left side of Steve’s forehead from even as far off as the front window comes as a nasty shock. (Though honestly, should it?)

“What the hell happened?” she demands, running to meet them before they can even climb out of the truck. “I thought you said it was quiet.”

“It was,” Hopper confirms, killing the ignition. “Not a crawler in sight. Wanna fill the lady in on what went down, Harrington?” 

The laughter is plain in his voice, and Nancy instantly relaxes. Whatever it was, it hadn’t been serious.

Steve looks downright mutinous as he crawls out of the back cab alongside Wayne. Good. See if he wants to abandon Nancy to go play Rambo after that. 

“Got into it with a tree branch,” he mutters, mortified. “Tree – one, Steve – zero.” He gestures up at his forehead. “Obviously.”

The fact that Nancy manages to mostly keep a straight face should probably automatically shortlist her for inclusion into some kind of Greatest Girlfriend Ever hall of fame. As it is, Dustin, (who’s been uncharacteristically quiet all night), does the dirty work for her.

“Jesus, Steve, is there anything you can beat in a fight?”

“Excuse the shit outta me, Henderson, but did I or did I not save your ass from goddamn Russian soldiers?”

“One Russian soldier, Steve. One. And I don’t even know if it counts when you mrrflmgh –” Dustin gurgles helplessly for a few seconds behind the iron hand Nancy clamps over his mouth before eventually giving up and going silent.

“I think what Dustin is trying to say is that he’s glad everyone’s okay,” she says with as much brightness as she can muster. “Right?” she asks pointedly, releasing him. There’s a long pause, and then he sighs.

“Sure,” he says with all the enthusiasm of a dental patient undergoing a root canal. “Glad to have you all back.” 

He shuffles back into the cabin, and Nancy knows that one of these days, someone’s gonna have to have a talk with him about his wild mood swings. But she doesn’t really want that someone to be her, so she’s refrained from bringing it up thus far.

“Someone’s gotta check that kid,” Steve utters almost inaudibly, agreeing with Nancy’s silent train of thought (and sounding more concerned than irritated). He’s sneaking glances in Dustin’s wake like he thinks he might be able to get away with following him.

Nancy clears her throat, ready to disabuse him of that notion.

“Some other time, Rocky,” she says, and she means it to be teasing, but it comes out too fond to be entirely successful. “Why don’t we get that cut taken care of, first?” 

She holds out her hand, and he only hesitates a second before he takes it firmly in his, palm to palm.

***

They stay linked like that as she leads him all the way to the tiny half-bath at the back of the new addition, and he only lets go when she shuts them in and urges him down onto the closed toilet so she can comfortably reach his forehead. 

For a few moments, he allows her to work in silence, wincing when she has to pour hydrogen peroxide over the cut (she still doesn’t know if you can actually get Upside Down rabies, but better safe than sorry with all weird dust particles floating around). 

Without the dried blood crusting it, it actually looks very superficial. Nancy breathes a sigh of relief, though she’ll still layer it with some antibiotic cream to be safe.

“I guess I just…don’t get it.” Apropos of nothing, Steve chooses this moment to speak quietly, picking up the loose thread of a conversation they haven’t even started yet. “The last time we were together, you were pissed because I didn’t want to get involved. Now I’m all in, and it doesn’t seem like you like that, either.”

Nancy’s fingers freeze on the cap of Neosporin.

“Steve.” She sets the tube aside and makes an executive decision – she needs to be touching him if he’s gonna insist on talking about this here. “Before we do this, can you do me a favor, first?” 

Nancy picks up his hands and haphazardly plants them on her hips before slipping her own up to cage his face. His brow furrows, but he doesn’t move an inch from where she’s arranged them. “Can you just…stop stopping yourself from touching me? I know we’re in kind of a weird place right now, but I promise you – if you want to, then there’s a pretty damn good chance I want to, too.”

The confused lines in his forehead don’t ease, but his fingers adjust and tighten around her sides until he’s holding her with surety. Surrounded by the warmth of him, the invisible string that’s been holding her shoulders taut all day loosens.

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” he says slowly, eyes skimming her face like she’s this entirely new person who just happens to still look and dress like Nancy. “I – of course I’ll stop. It’s not like holding you is some kind of hardship, Nance.” He looks down. “That still doesn’t answer my question, though.”

Nancy refrains from noting that he hadn’t asked a question, he’d merely made an observation. That level of pedantry probably won’t help much in her “get Steve to touch her more” crusade.

“I know,” she says instead. “But Steve, it’s not – I don’t get mad because you get involved. I love that. I think it’s…” She can feel a dull flush start to creep up her neck. “This can never leave this room, okay, but it can – it can be very hot when you go all action hero.” The flush has extended all the way up through her cheeks. Mercifully, he doesn’t comment on it, though a faint little glimmer that she hasn’t seen all day is creeping back into his gaze.

“Right back ‘atcha, Wheeler,” he returns with a trace smile, and oh! That’s flirting. That’s a good sign. “But then…why did you…?”

“React the way I did?” He tilts his head in the slightest nod. “Because I wanted you to stay with me,” she finally admits, feeling more naked in front of him now than on the night she’d given him her virginity. “The hero thing – it’s nice and all, don’t get me wrong. And sometimes it’s necessary, but I – I don’t need that. I don’t need a hero. I just…want a partner. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“Nancy…” In a blink, the amused glint is gone. In its place, he looks raw, like she’s torn him down to the studs.

There’s a lick of hair curling over his ear that she’s taken to mindlessly stroking, and it’s easier to keep staring at that than look into his eyes while she gets this off her chest.

“When we got back together,” she continues on, “you made me a promise. Remember?”

“Yeah,” he replies, and his voice is achingly soft. “I promised you we’d come out of this okay.” He turns his face into her hand, lips brushing against her palm with every tingling syllable. “I meant it.” 

“Yeah, but.” Nancy chews her lip. “If I can’t convince you that you matter more than how hard you swing or how many hits you can take, if you won’t stay with me so we can work together and watch each other’s backs, I don’t see how that’s possible.”

Abruptly, Steve’s standing, nudging his way deeper into her space, and the way he can tower over her a bit, dark and solid – well, Nancy fancies herself a feminist, but not so much that she’ll pretend it doesn’t make her shiver in a good way.

“Goddammit, Nancy,” he croaks, and then he’s folding her in his arms, curling tight around her body. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I didn’t – I didn’t even realize,” he mumbles into the nook of her neck and shoulder. “Shit, I am stupid.”

“You’re not,” Nancy chokes, tightening her arms around his neck like she’d wanted to earlier. He’s still wearing his jacket, and the zipper is digging painfully into the V of her collarbone, but it barely registers. She thinks it would take a literal earthquake to dislodge her right now. “I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry. You weren’t even wrong, it’s just that – sometimes it’s still really hard to talk about her.” 

She doesn’t need to specify who the “her” in question is. There are definitely a few tears leaking into the leather of his collar, but no one can see them, so it’s neither here nor there.

“I get it,” he says, “but I wanna talk to you about this stuff. If – if you want to. With me. I know I wasn’t there for you before but I swear I can be that guy now.”

“I know,” she gasps, because he’s holding her so tightly that it’s hard to breathe, but if the tradeoff is losing this hot–all–over feeling of his hands on her, then it’s fine, air is overrated anyway. “You are. You are that guy. I want you, I want us. I want you to believe that.”

Their bodies are so constrained in this tiny space, but there’s something wild crackling in the air, something that raises goosebumps on her arms and makes it so that one minute she’s mouthing reassurances into his jaw, and the next, he’s tilting his chin and kissing her quiet, stealing her words with one wet, electric sweep of his tongue.

Yes. She fists his hair between her fingers, soft and a little overlong, swallowing down his helpless whine as she angles his head so she can open wider under him. 

This – this is why, so far, she’s barely been able to kiss him outside of the privacy of one of their rooms. 

Because every time, almost as soon as it starts, they’re set ablaze, twin infernos trying to consume each other alive. It was never like this before, so she has no roadmap for how to cope, how to process the overpowering need that has her spreading her legs to draw him closer and shoving her hands under layers of leather and cotton to get at sweaty skin. 

“Steve,” she whimpers into his lips, rocking her hips up in a pale facsimile of what she truly wants (but it still feels so good). “I need…”

“I know,” he groans, sucking gently at her sensitive pulse point until she’s keening quietly and grinding harder into the rigid seam of his jeans. Everything is tight, and hot, and she thinks she might vibrate right out of her own body if she can’t get what she’s craving.

The night they got back together, they’d had every good intention of taking it slow, of getting to know each other again before jumping back into the physical. 

But that had lasted about as long as it took for him to get a hand under the band of her bra, and eventually he’d ended up fucking her nice and slow behind the locked door of her childhood bedroom, trailing scorching kisses from her swollen lips to the tips of her breasts until she was shaking apart into the mattress, vision white and head empty of anything that wasn’t him – his scent, his body over hers, the quivering place where he nestled inside her.

They don’t have time for that now – they hardly ever have time for that, which probably doesn’t help quell the desperate desire – so they make do, as always, with what they can. 

They make do with his hips, pushing into hers again and again in easy, dirty twists, sensation blunted between two layers of jeans but still enough to have her choking back moans, nipples pebbled hard into two pinpricks of pleasure against the stiff padding of her bra. They make do with deep, messy kisses, which also muffle the needy noises they can’t contain as their bodies strain higher and higher toward a mutual peak.

They make do with hands, scratching up his back and through his chest hair. Squeezing at her ass and guiding her movements until all Nancy has to do is hang on for dear life and enjoy the ride. 

When she finally crashes over the edge, it hits out of nowhere, in flashing, pulsing waves that come hard and fast until she’s digging fists into his shoulder blades and sucking on his tongue in a frantic attempt to stay silent. He’s not far behind, and when he tears himself away from her lips to bury his head in her shoulder, she can feel more than hear the deep shudder of his groan as he trembles in her arms.

Finally, they both still, slumping back against the wall in a frazzled tangle, and reality comes seeping in one mortifying realization at a time. 

“We‘re…still in Hopper’s bathroom, aren’t we?” Nancy asks faintly.

“Yup.” He pops the “p” against her skin, but doesn’t look up. 

“And…we’ve been in here a really long time.” Way longer than it would take to treat that cut on his head, anyway.

“Probably.” 

“My brother is out there. With his girlfriend. And his friends. Our friends.”

“He sure is.”

He sounds way more cheerful than anyone about to face down a firing squad of nosy teenagers ought to be – but then again, she’s remarkably relaxed, too.

Huh. Could it be that in the end, all they really needed was to get off?

(Probably not.) 

Steve finally shoves away from the wall and adjusts his pants, grimacing. 

“Okay, being honest, this might not’ve been our brightest idea,” he admits.

Nancy catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror just over his shoulder. Her face is flushed, and her eyes are bright. She looks pleased. Happy.

“Probably not, but can’t argue with results,” she teases, stepping back into his space and slipping an arm around his waist, under his jacket. 

He grins down at her, and he looks like such a man – handsome, and kind, and hers – that her heart skips. 

They’re not kids anymore, playacting at some great love that, in the end, was mostly smoke and mirrors. If they make it out of this, like he’s promised they will, they’ll be – they’ll be basically grown ups.

This time, it’s real. Maybe even for keeps. 

That should freak her out, but it doesn’t. 

He presses his smile to her forehead, chaste and sweet, and slings an arm around her neck. 

“Who am I to argue with the beautiful Nancy Wheeler?” he says with more than a bit of irony, and she laughs, because she wants to and he wants her to. “Ready to face the music?”

“Together?” Nancy doesn’t shield the hope in her voice. He dips his forehead to rest against hers, nudges their noses together.

“Wild demodogs couldn’t drag me away,” he says softly, sincerely, and the warm, secret feeling in Nancy’s chest – the one she’s been carrying around for months, waiting until she’s absolutely sure she has a name for it – balloons outward. 

Soon, it’ll be too big for her body alone to bear. One day, it will demand to be shared, and she’ll give it freely and joyfully. 

Not yet, but soon. 

“Come on, then,” she says.

She tugs him forward, and he follows.

***

(normalize panicking and giving an established character an extensive home reno complete with plumbing work smack dab in the middle of an apocalypse simply because you realized that the house's canon layout was not conducive to the main pairing getting it on as you had originally written.)

#stancy #stancy fic #anon reply #prompt fill #steve harrington #nancy wheeler #my stuff #plot? never heard of her #world building? we hate it #finally writing steve and nancy Together again? chef's kiss

[disruptivevoib]

I am very silly about the Eleutheromania and Lacuna AUs, I don't really have any specific questions but feel free to rant about either of those AUs :3

Eleutheromania is my so very beloved AU.

And I could say so much but. I have this ramble about Eleuthero!Whole, aka Clio. And loosely also Calliope, Eleuthero!Soul.

-- So thats under the cut!

So, I do often think abt trying to add more distinction between Clio in co-existence and Clio in fully formed Whole. Which are both things as of yet to be seen in the fanfic writing. But it will be seen, and thusly needs to be considered.

I know Clio in co-existence was very very apathetic.

He, universally, maintains that he is a loathsome person and pretends to accept this with a boastful ego but. He does absolutely hate himself.

So, I think that co-existence Clio is the more raw or realistic one.

When the self-aware loathing of Soul, the overwhelming seeping and creeping of emotion of Heart, and the harsh brutalist truth or moral/societal pressures of logic are all stripped away you ARE just indeed left with this thing writhing in misery because it cannot even really stand the idea of being where it is, being itself.

So, co-existing Clio accepts everything /he/ essentially does to himself because its what he believes he deserves. And on the vice-versa end, a fully formed Clio perpetuates the cycle because he also still believes its what /he/ deserves just.. backwards.

Where Callie has never inherently believed he deserved the treatment Whole gave him, Clio has only ever thought it was just that at least some part of himself be tyrannical over the other. Even in switching up because he was fully formed once more.

The distinction there is that he HAS all that loathing and self vitriol in him again alongside the misery of it.

On both ends he still puts up this face, and he still accepts the deserving nature of it all, but flips it into.. sort of.

"If I deserve it, and I am me, and they are me, they deserve it too."

A nonsensical and delusional mentality that at the end of the day, no matter where he is, he deserves to be, in some form, whether deeply subconsciously or right there at the surface level of basic thought, miserable.

Which likely stems from just. Who Clio is or became as a person. I do not think he has that many friends, and the ones he did have, obviously didn't notice he changed when Soul took over because by the time Calliope did so, he was already just *that* similar to Whole if only different in that he did not accept their sameness and delusionally denied the fact that he had become "himself" in a way by perpetuating the narrative that Mind and Heart are not people and that Whole is deserving of all the horrible things. Though he saw it as just because Whole did it first, regardless, they were both harming themselves.

I do think Clio likely did make songs still, and he threw himself into them for a time but idk if he ever actually did post them.

The inital concept was that, he did and such but.. ah. The evolution of the character and the disconnection I feel between him, or all of them as characters from source material or CJ as the artist, ahh blah blah. He never posts music he writes, or continues it.

He does enjoy creating, he just struggles to find a footing in believing anything he does is worthwhile- or even furthermore, that if he deserves to be miserable and self-sabotages so much... why would he ever properly pursue something that could make him happy when he is undeserving of that.

Which also side-ish note is yeah! Eleuthero aside from base root concept to me is pretty disjointed from the canon of CCCC. The AU is highly self indulgent and more an exploration of someone who struggles to even attach personhood to themself in a solid way, etc etc.

#voidthoughts #eleutheromania #Clio isn't great but neither is Calliope. None of them are great people in the au they're just struggling ig? #asks #eleutheromania au

[anderscim]

@eventide-roses asked:

I would like to drop in something that has been.....kinda bugging me??? Not really bugging, but idk if you can even make a theory off of it. It's more Xanvid inclined anyway (and ig Teruvid if you squint really hard), but it's something that I found kinda interesting imo

Ask yourself this. How much screentime did David even have before chapter 2? I find it odd (my brother and I joke about him being the "Levi" of chapter 1 - having very little screentime) that he wasn't on screen for.....really most of chapter's 1 daily life, except for when he intervened Teruko and Xander's conversation in the dining hall (where he went on about how there is so much pressure on his shoulders from being looked up to a lot). Keep in mind Teruko knows his optimistic facade is merely an act. Lots of ppl (included myself) think that David only intervened cause he was watching Xander and Teruko, cautious cause one person knew something that they shouldn't have. But that also sounds a little too cautious, wouldn't you say? Sure, as an inspirational speaker, you are expected to be always happy and cheerful, seeing the world through rose tinted glasses. But surely, as a human being, you are also not immune to being sad. His slip up in the introduction just sounded like an introvert to me. Maybe a bit of a bitchy introvert, but not......something worth total contempt from someone. Yet, David is paranoid enough to keep to himself for the majority of chapter 1 and (most likely) just watched Teruko and Xander's interactions carefully. Why would he do this? Obviously he doesn't want anyone else to know about how his facade is just....well, a facade. But it honestly seems like he genuinely values Xander's opinion about him. He doesn't want anything negative to smear Xander's opinion about him. And keep in mind, ever since the killing game was announced, David (most likely) automatically went in his head "Well, it's only a matter before we all die" yet he still desperately tries to keep up his happy go lucky facade, even when he knows he could die the very next day

I found it kinda odd he never really played a big part until after chapter 2, episode 4 where he became the so called 'leader' and started the plan to share secrets again. But wasn't this also after the end of the first trial where he says "I lost hope, I won't bother to keep it up anymore, we are all going to die here" <- paraphrasing rn, don't kill me. And yet he STILL tries to keep up the persona. I remember one blog made a post about how David's plan was actually better than what the cast could've done (sit around the let the motives be revealed or reveal them without permission) which I agree with. But then it backfired and everyone started to gain up on David during the trial. I think the straw that broke the camel's back was when Teruko said David has been faking not only his personality, but also being a good person. Like damn girl, you think he's a bad person just cause you caught him saying a few negative things to himself? It fits with her character of not trusting people, but still. All that was revealed about his 'true true' personality was that he was some mildly bitchy introvert that wanted to sleep in I have no idea where I am going with this, but these are some findings that I thought was interesting enough to share with you (hopefully I'm sending it to the right blog as well). I guess what I'm trying to say is not only does David truly care about Xander, but possibly everyone else in the cast (he probably even had some respect for Teruko, until Xander died, which is a whole other can of worms, but I also think he blames her for Xander's death and her secret he received in chapter 2 only verifies his belief) And (this is also an extremely long stretch but also worth considering) the gag comic that the dev made I think? 2021 ish? Where David received too many letters and he was worried how he would get through all of them? It wasn't even his idea to throw them out, it was Whit's (to which, David even asked him isn't that a little mean?). It shows that David still cares about his fans (again, it's a really big stretch, but still has the character's canon personalities, since the dev themself made it)

first off, thank you for the submission lexi! i hope you don’t mind that i transferred your ask to this blog ^^

and yeah, i noticed these things too, but in my opinion it may mostly be an indication that david is adamant about maintaining his persona and what the cast expects from him.

(take this with a grain of salt)

despite his (at the very least) pessimistic dialogue at the end of chapter one, i think he tries to consistently keep the “ideal image” that the rest of the cast expects from him as the ultimate inspirational speaker—leading the group, presenting that entire plan (despite likely making it up on the spot), etc—in the beginning of chapter two. similar to what you said, i think it’s a very interesting contradiction to have david act so pessimistic and say that they’re “all certainly going to die here,” and then suddenly find him within the next few days leading the group and doing everything he possibly could to keep his plan going. like i mentioned in this older post, david’s plan was likely better than any of the alternatives—and based on the fact he could potentially convince everyone to follow a separate path from what he outlined in ch2 ep4, it’s likely that he wasn’t actually attempting to “foster the right atmosphere for murder to occur,” like he claimed in episode 11.

so if he was trying to help and prevent another murder despite the (very) limited means to do so—despite him clearly saying how they’re all going to die the chapter before—it might point to the fact that david is pressured by his own reputation to act in a way that is fitting for an inspirational speaker, regardless of all of his slip-ups from earlier. after all, david may have felt that it was wrong to watch all of the discourse happening in ch2 ep4 and not do something about it, especially since he has a career that literally helps other people for a living.

however, this internal(?) pressure could imply that he sets unrealistic expectations on himself to maintain that image—which might explain why, despite his slip-up in the prologue only showing us that he was more pessimistic and lazy than the cast expected, he was paranoid enough to check on xander and teruko. as implied from the MV and all of the secrets that it has, there’s a lot of evidence that points to david not feeling human (the dolls, the albino mouse / arabidopsis / footnote 2)—instead, he thinks of himself as a sort of “model organism” and someone who’s supposed to hold up an ideal for everyone else to follow. if this is true, this may explain why he felt cautious enough to go out of his way and monitor(?) the two people who may know something past his persona/reputation—true, it is only human to feel negative emotions and express them outwardly, but in david’s case he may hold incredibly high expectations for himself as a role model and pretend that he’s immune to those emotions. after all, he doesn’t feel like he’s human.

i also agree on the “he at the very least had an iota of respect for the rest of the cast at one point” part <-paraphrased. no specific evidence for this but i might get to it later

i hope you get what i mean. (-.-;) thank you again for the submission!

#bagel’s asks #bagel’s train of thought #drdt #danganronpa despair time #despair time #david chiem #fangan #fanganronpa #slightly shorter post #again thank you for the ask!

[timeagainreviews]

The Eve of the 60th Anniversary-ish

My ability to name things isn’t the best. I overthink and end up with a five-year-old blog called “Time and Time Again.” Terrible name. “I should change it,” I’ve said for five years. Well, I am going to do just that. But in the meantime, I need to find a name for this type of article. As is tradition around here, I like to write a short article about my predictions, expectations- nay, hopes for the incoming series or era of Doctor Who. I usually label them as “Thoughts Leading Up to…” which is fine. But is there a word or phrase out there that says it succinctly? A sort of Whatchamacallit, Marsupilami, Raxacoricofallapatorius? If I do find a better name for this series, do I call it part five or part one? Davies is calling season 14 “Season 1.” Why can’t I?

In considering a new name, I have decided to return to the very first article of this type- “The Eve of the Thirteenth.” So from now on, I’m calling this my “Eve of Series.” Hopefully, you’re reading this article on the Eve of the 60th Anniversary special “The Star Beast.” Or you’re way late to the game and it’s August. In that case, enjoy your view from Hindsight Bias Tower, as you laugh at my fatuous forecasts or marvel at my prognostic aptitude. So in no particular order, here’s a list of some shit I’ve been thinking about.

RTD2

Where else to start but the man himself? And what a controversial man he’s been (especially this week!) Not five minutes into the new RTD era and we’ve already had a massive retcon in the form of Davros. While, the discourse on this situation has been its usual abysmal self,  I expect this to be par for the course. From Chibnall stans hoping their aggressors end up with egg on their faces to the far worse transphobes and ableists decrying every decision thus far, Davies is right there in the centre of it. Pushing people’s buttons. He seems like a man on a mission and if I had to guess, it is to shake the cobwebs out of our collective Doctor Who-themed sheets and duvets. 

Davies has a monumental task ahead of him. Make something both the Chibnall stans and his haters would like to watch. He could ignore the haters, but they help keep the lights on. And just as important, you don’t want to alienate the people who have enjoyed the show for the last five years. In many people’s eyes, mine included, Chibnall left a broken show in his wake. It’s my opinion that Russell T Davies plans to break it further. I’ve thought about this a lot lately, and I think it may be time for us as a fandom to question why the Doctor has so many rules. Because let’s be honest, Doctor Who’s canon is a mess and it barely matters. Why not embrace that? You think the Cushing movies and the Past Doctor Adventure books are canon? Sure, why not. You still incorporate the Faction Paradox into your version of Doctor Who? Go for it. We all have our own version of Doctor Who, why not embrace that?

The Whoniverse

Considering the popularity of muti-verses in media right now (get ready for multi-verse fatigue) it makes sense that this new Whoniverse may start embracing the many directions Doctor Who branches. This is an opportunity to explore different avenues of the Whoniverse while simultaneously fueling the ever-ravenous Mouse’s need for Content™. In other words, Doccy Who is about to get crammed down our throats like nobody’s business. If you’ve ever had someone’s business down your throat, it can be nice but can also wear out its welcome. Short breaks help.

If you’ve read this blog, you’ll know I’m a rainy-day fan. I’m here for the long haul. I am not so much worried about overexposure to Doctor Who as I am the diluting of story. So long as the stories are good, I’m happy. So far, the Whoniverse has extended in the form of “Tales of the Tardis,” a sort of saccharine introduction to classic Doctor Who for beginners than an actual series in its own right. But in its short span, this unassuming nostalgia trip introduced us to an aspect that may just be integral to the Whoniverse at large. When Ace notes the Seventh Doctor’s older appearance he replies- “Timestreams are funny things. In some, I regenerate. In others, I don’t.”

Every time Data returns to Star Trek, we have to ignore the fact that Brent Spiner is ageing. Why does the Second Doctor have grey hair in “The Two Doctors?” These issues have bogged Doctor Who down for its entire run. It’s a rigid aspect of an otherwise malleable narrative. Not only does this dialogue explain the ageing appearances of Doctors, but it also gives writers carte blanche to do as they like. In this way, the Sixth Doctor gets a better costume. The Seventh Doctor has grey hair. And Davros has always walked. It’s a show about time travel and we as fans keep treating it like we’re the Time Lords. Time travel should be weird and confusing. As the Eleventh Doctor said- time travel is damage. Perhaps the Whoniverse will allow us to see some of that damage in its own time.

Fourteen’s Familiar Face (and Teeth)

When I had originally heard murmurs of David Tennant returning, I wrote them off as the worst idea possible. It’s not that I dislike David Tennant, but rather it felt like a step back for the show. I’ve always admired the show’s capacity for change and this felt stagnant. No Doctor should be the Doctor forever. Rather cleverly then, the show introduced us to Ncuti Gatwa before David Tennant. Already my curiosity had been piqued. Tennant was returning, but only for a moment. You have my attention, Russell. They knew we would see Tennant filming in his slick new threads, and they got ahead of it. It feels like equal parts stunt casting and clever writing. It would be unfair to any new Doctor to carry the weight of the 60th on their shoulders, so let’s revisit some of the old favourites, eh?

The Children in Need special was our first look at this Doctor, and as my friend Taryn put it- it was great until the Doctor showed up. It was a joke, but the stuff with Davros was genuinely interesting on its own. As soon as the Doctor showed up, the tonal whiplash was jarring. This isn’t to say it was bad. It’s for the kiddies, it should be lighter in tone. The joke about the Kaled anagram that went on too long was evidence early on that we were about to slip into the realm of panto. The main takeaway is that David’s still got it and that Ian Levine needs very little reason to turn on you. Neither of which was unknown to us before.

Donna and Rose

One of the more annoying traits some Whovians possess is the tendency to see a selection of Doctor Who characters and say “You left out so and so.” And usually, more often than not, that so and so is Rose Tyler. There’s always someone out there ready to see more David and Billie. That’s why I was pleasantly surprised to see the return of Donna Noble. But as a nice little nod to what came before, we get her daughter Rose. I love the entire idea behind this Rose. As Sharon Davies, Doctor Who’s first black companion was first introduced in “The Star Beast,” it’s delightful to know Doctor Who’s first trans companion will be introduced in “The Star Beast.” There’s a nice symmetry to that.

I also like what Rose implies about Donna’s story. When we last saw Donna, she was getting married and about to win the lottery. Her husband Shaun and her are still together all of these years later, and they have a daughter named Rose. As a trans person, I latched on to the name aspect of Rose’s character immediately as trans people name themselves. If she picked the name Rose out of nowhere, is it possible that a dormant Doctor Donna somehow passed attributes onto her progeny? Is there more to the name than coincidence? I certainly hope so. Russell T Davies seems dedicated to telling trans stories and our names are a huge part of our journeys. If he turned that aspect of the trans experience into a wibbly wobbly timey wimey phenomenon, I might love him forever.

I’m also just stoked as hell to see the return of Donna and her family. They’ve been hush on Wilf in the trailers. I suppose they’re trying to keep some surprises for the people out there who haven’t had Doctor Who news pumped intravenously for the last year and a half. I hope that they don’t forget Donna and Shaun’s lottery winnings. It would be a shame to see Donna bumbling around trying to find temp work after all this time. I hope she never had to work another day in her life. What I want for Donna, is a lot of what the trailers seem to imply- for her to feel whole again. Her adventures were stolen from her. I hope they don’t just bring her back to kill her. Donna doesn’t need to die to leave the TARDIS, she has a family. Give her a happily ever after!

Disney+

While we here in the UK will see no Doctor Who on Disney+, the rest of the world will. This is pretty big as many younger international viewers resort to piracy as they don’t have cable and no one in their right mind would pay for HBO Max or whatever the hell they’re calling it now. Recently a bunch of the usual shitty diaper babies shat their shitty diapers over the idea that people in other countries might be able to watch Doctor Who before the UK. I highly doubt that will be the case. Just because time zones exist doesn’t automatically mean that they won’t wait to drop the episode once it becomes available in the UK. I don’t know that for certain, but what I do know for certain is it hardly matters.

I’ve also seen some people worry that Disney will have too much say in Doctor Who’s content. And while they have given RTD the occasional note, it is still Bad Wolf making the decisions. I would like to think that Disney knows to leave well enough alone. They’ve not exactly had a great year at the box office, so it’s not like their advice is valuable these days. They could tell you a hundred ways to tank a franchise, which is technically helpful. Add to that the year they had with SAG-AFTRA and I think they’re probably hurting for a bit of help from their friends in Britain. Disney’s biggest contributions will likely be calling season 14 “Season 1,” as to not confuse subscribers and a higher budget.  We appreciate the cash injection, Mickey, but please piss off.

Murray Gold replacing Segun Akinola

I wrote the exact opposite of that sentence five years ago. It’s weird how many aspects of Doctor Who have returned, but this was the first one that actually felt like a step back to me. Murray Gold is a great composer. His theme for The Face of Boe is a gorgeous piece of music. Matt Smith’s theme song might be my favourite Doctor Who theme song ever. But I am a fan of the Radiophonic Workshop and Segun Akinola was tapped into that in an exciting way. I’m just not sure what more Gold can do than more of the same.

Gold’s new intro was the second time I was disappointed by RTD’s Doctor Who. While many people were living for it, a few of my friends and I were disappointed. It gets a bit meandery and the parts you want to go hard simply don’t. I’m going to chalk this up to the poor sound of a live performance and hold my final judgement for the fully mixed version. As it stands, it’s standard Murray Gold. Nothing new. Underwhelming in its sameness. However, as I was tufting a Doctor Who rug the other day, I listened to the first six season soundtracks back to back and found myself pleasantly surprised by some of their offerings. Gold was always doing his best work when it was atmospheric and electronic. That’s the Murray Gold I’m most interested in hearing more from.

The Specials Themselves

For the most part, I’ve stayed away from fan speculation. Even in this blog, I’ve tried to stray from speculating actual plot points (save for Rose). I mostly hate it because it’s all hearsay and ultimately bullshit. There have been the supposed “leaks” about bi-regeneration and even if they’re true, it doesn’t mean it’s automatically bad. Good writing can make just about any concept work. If you were to read out the plot synopsis of any story, it could sound awful. What a synopsis lacks is gripping dialogue, compelling scenes, and filmmakers coming together to achieve the correct tone. You can't gauge how good something is going to be by description alone.

What I can see is Neil Patrick Harris as the Toymaker, pulling the strings of the Doctor’s fate. Is he the reason for this familiar regeneration? Is Beep the Meep’s status as a comic book character part of it? How meta will this go? Will the Doctor remember Beep the Meep from his Fourth Doctor days or will the Meep be brand new to him? I’ve said before that you don’t want audiences asking the wrong questions. I feel like every question I’ve had since filming began was one of curiosity as opposed to confusion. I’m excited to be excited over Doctor Who again. When they revealed the three posters for the specials, I literally jumped for joy. I was ecstatic. These posters were creative, fun, and they left you wanting more. Fantastic.

My Own Relationship to the Show

My version of Star Wars is the original trilogy. I can’t stand the prequels. But lately, I’ve tried to take a lighter attitude toward them. While I still think they stink, I also recognise that they’re here to stay. That’s kind of where I am with the Timeless Child. I still hate the concept, but I accept it’s here to stay. And I am actually trying to be more open-minded about it. Now that we have better writers at the helm it might even turn into something interesting. As I stated above, the fandom is due a shakeup. As it stands, I am pretty open to a shakeup. This doesn’t mean that I don’t secretly hope Susan will show up and be revealed as the actual Timeless Child, but I’m realistic.

Recently someone also pointed out to me that the Doctor’s watch could have turned the First Doctor into a normal Time Lord, with the usual number of Time Lord regenerations. While this doesn’t explain why the Doctor being the most important Time Lord ever was necessary, it at least helps plug a plot hole. It’s ironic that Chibnall’s questionable writing may actually lead to Doctor Who’s canon being blown wide open. Equally ironic is the fact that he has actually improved my enjoyment of Doctor Who. I call it the Chibnall Effect. After the Chibnall era, middling episodes of the Davies and Moffat era have been bumped up considerably. Sometimes it takes a bad film to help you recognise a good film. 

There’s a wrongheaded notion floating around these days that RTD fans are living off of nostalgia. While I don’t doubt there will be someone out there chasing a feeling lost to the winds of time, I should also point out that not all of us watched the Davies era as children. I was in my late 20’s when I got into Doctor Who. I have no little kid nostalgia for it. I was a junior in film school. I’ve been taught how to view art critically and I can say that the Davies era has its flaws and its strengths. I think for an atheist, he has a weird obsession with the Doctor as Jesus. And I found the schmoozy romance between Ten and Rose nauseating. But the man knows character development. He understands human emotion better than Moffat’s stunted women or Chibnall’s stunted everyone. What I’ve found in revisiting the RTD era is a consistent focus on characterisation. Without that, all of the clever writing and stellar effects amount to nothing. I love when Doctor Who is great, but at this point I’ll settle for competent.

A Personal Note

As I stated in my Monster Makeovers article, I will be covering the new episodes as they release. However I have recently started a bit of a project. I have taken up rug tufting and hope to eventually make a living out of it. Because of this, I will have to budget my time. My hope is that I will always have time after episodes to write reviews, but they may occasionally be a day late. If you’re interested in following my rug tufting journey, I started an Instagram account under the name pipedreamfasting. Feel free to drop me a follow.

In other news, I am actually planning on changing my blog’s name. I’ve been mulling a few ideas over, but nothing is final. Maybe I’ll do a poll, that is if my reader base is large enough for a poll to matter. That being said, I hope your Doctor Who anniversary special experience is a happy one! There’s been so much vitriol in the fandom lately that we could all use a positive experience. Happy anniversary to the greatest show in the galaxy!

#Doctor Who #60th anniversary #doctor who 60th anniversary #David Tennant #Russell T Davies #Murray Gold #Ncuti Gatwa #Fourteenth Doctor #Disney+ #BBC #yasmin finney #Davros #Children in Need #Rose #Donna Noble #Shaun Temple #TARDIS #Segun Akinola #The Star Beast #Beep the Meep #the Meep #Wild Blue Yonder #The Giggle #Neil Patrick Harris #The Toymaker #UNIT #Kate Stewart #Mel Bush #Tales of the TARDIS