#this is invading my brain capacity

[willowser]

you had only to look at me—

part one.

bakugou x f!reader

wc: 7.4k+

tags: nsfw (18+), childhood best friend bakugou, oral (f!receiving), m!masturbation, lots of "first time" talk, more angst, more virgin bakugou.

even before i was touched, i belonged to you; you had only to look at me. — the burning heart, louise glück.

this is a repost.

you and bakugou avoid each other just like you did in middle school, only it's a little too easy this time around.

he's terrible at texting back in general, and because you're not initiating any conversations on your own — or sending funny memes or bringing up all might in some capacity — the radio silence draws ever on and on.

the closest you come to interacting with him is getting a snapchat from his mom, his figure in the background at their kitchen table. all you can see is the floof of his hair and the outline of his shoulders, but you're so bothered by the fact that he's home and didn't tell you that you don't even respond.

it officiates things in a bad way; he's really, actually not speaking to you.

and it's — fucking annoying.

at least in the past the distance was mutually and wordlessly agreed upon; you didn't talk because you were busy or didn't have time or anything new to say, but whenever he's come home — because he so rarely does — bakugou has always made his usual, god-honest attempt to irritate you.

and he still is, but this time he's doing it all wrong.

you go through the five stages of grief rather quickly, jumping from denial to anger overnight. several times, you type out something to text him, each message different than the last:

i know you were at your mom's jackass ☠️

it's really not a big deal and i think we should just forget about it, if that's what you wanna do ?

if i crossed some kind of boundary with you then i'm sorry and i won't say that again so you better call me before i put your baby pictures on the internet. i'm serious.

you're my best friend and i don't think it's weird that it happened. if you're being dumb because you're embarrassed, then don't be because i thought it was really hot

unsurprisingly, you don't send any of these and instead just stew in your own aggravation. lunch with him after the whole thing had been just as empty and awkward, and you think he chose the place near your apartment just so you could walk home and he didn't have to spend another second with you.

three months go by, which isn't long compared to other stints you've spent not talking to one another, but this one drags. like a lot. the only good that comes from it is that you graduate from anger to acceptance, finalizing a future without him in it.

except for the few times he invades your brain like a little parasite, red-faced and shuddering, gripping you like a lifeline, and then your stomach flips so hard that you feel sick and it takes genuine effort to check out of that daydream and back into a bakugou-less reality.

and then he shows up at your apartment, uninvited.

his mom hosts a sunday dinner that you don't go to, for several potential reasons. one would be that you'll have to see bakugou and pretend like nothing's happened even though you're still a little peeved; two is that you'll both ignore each other, and that'll reverse all your progress because he's been ignoring you already.

three is that he might not show up, and then you'll have to pretend that it doesn't bother you all night long.

none of that sounds better than watching trash television and falling asleep on your couch, so you tell mitsuki that you're very sick and very sorry, and that you'll make it up to her later.

because of this, the first thing bakugou says to you after you swing the front door open is, "you're supposed to be fuckin' dead."

suffice to say, you're surprised to see him; still outfitted in his hero costume, mask shoved up his forehead so that his hair is wilder than usual. there's kohl smudged around his eyes, messy, and they look brighter and harsher because of it.

there's also a family-mart plastic bag in his right hand.

"what?"

he just grunts, eyes snapping over your figure, dressed down in a too-large sweater and athletic shorts meant for running even though you've never done so in them.

in his hands — still gloved — the plastic crinkles obnoxiously as he holds it out. "old hag told me to bring this to you."

a can of low sodium soup, two apples, gatorade, and something over-the-counter for nausea. there's something else at the very bottom that you don't get the chance to inspect before he interrupts with his big, fat mouth.

"y'look fine to me, so why the hell didn't you go?"

you frown at him and — don't know what to say. clearly, it seems he's going the pretend-it-never-happened route, which is infuriating because he could just as well have done that months ago. even still, he won't hardly meet your gaze, staring for only a moment before rolling his eyes and huffing, sticking them anywhere else. if you peek close, real close, you'd say his ears are a little red, but maybe you're just looking for — something.

you shrug. "didn't feel like it."

he shakes his head like that's the stupidest thing he's ever heard, eyebrow arched. "why the hell not?"

"because, bakugou, i just didn't feel like going, i don't know what else to tell you." you huff, shrugging again when he doesn't say anything. "thanks for the stuff. is that it?"

his lips twist as he thinks, giving you another once-over before sighing. under his tank-top, you watch how his chest expands, the grimace that ripples over his face as he reaches a hand to lightly feel at his right side. "need your help with somethin'."

now you're just being petulant; you snort, raising your eyebrows as his eyes narrow at the sound. "me? are you joking? you need my help with—"

he groans loud enough to drown you out. "y'gonna let me in or y'just gonna run your mouth?" and so you step aside to wave him in wordlessly.

the backpack on his shoulder dumps to the ground by the door and he strolls into the kitchen like he owns the place, despite the fact that he's never been here before. you've lived in the unit for a year, but meetups are so infrequent and showing it off to him was never considered — until now; watching him shuffle through the bag on the counter, your nerves spike at the reality check.

alone together, again. in your apartment. well after dark.

that image of him is so — invasive, sweeping in at the worst times: between your legs, face as red as his eyes, the little moan he kept trying to swallow. how embarrassed he seemed when you asked if he felt good, if you felt good, and the fact that he still admitted it despite everything.

your entire body blazes like a flame to gasoline, and you try to focus on what else he's taking out of the bag, oblivious.

does he think about it at all? the way you have? at the root of the situation, that's what has been most bothersome: is he grossed out? simply embarrassed? does he feel taken advantage of? did he enjoy it and just doesn't know how to say it? the not knowing is driving you insane.

"i got—" bakugou awkwardly angles his body, gently touching at his side again. in his hands is a simple pack of first-aid supplies, like a wound wash and bandages and medical tape. "need you to change this shit for me."

"oh?" is all you can manage to say, still distracted, and whatever is obvious in your voice has his eyes snapping to you from across the kitchen, adam's apple bobbing. you clear your throat, struggling for normalcy. "the hell did you do?"

he's — going to take his shirt off. clearly, by the way he stretches out his shoulders and then slowly reaches behind himself to grab the material by the back, carefully pulling it up over his head with a low, stinging hiss.

bakugou's always been a lean kid — guy — but pulled so taut like that, after years of working out muscles you didn't even know he had, he looks — stupidly shredded, and the slow reveal of his tight stomach is not helping you to focus.

you just never realized how hot it was, because you never looked at him like that. until recently.

his mask comes off with his shirt and he tosses both onto the kitchen counter — again, as if he pays the bills here — and his hair is a mess and he usually doesn't care, but he runs a hand through it several times before finally looking back at you, eyes outlined in black.

"y'gonna help me or...?" he shrugs, trying to appear impassive — but it's too obvious; something's shifted, for the both of you.

you don't trust your voice anymore, so you just shuffle over to him, frowning at the dirty, worn bandage that's already unsticking from his skin. with his teeth, he pulls off his gloves and it's a wonder why he even wears them, really, because his hands are filthy underneath, covered in soot and black-stained grease.

standing like he is, arm slightly raised, you can see all his sweat, muscles shifting under his skin as he breathes, and his hairy armpit is staring you in the face and you don't know when he stopped being 12 and started being 20 and when he became such a man. it's not fair, that he should suddenly be so — attractive.

"you're disgusting," you tell him — and mean it — and it's met with such hot and irritated surprise that you have to keep talking before he explodes. "you should probably take a shower before putting on a new bandage."

it's road-rash up his right side, still shiny and wet and blood red. still raw. just looking at it is enough to make you cringe.

bakugou huffs, exasperated. "okay, gimme a towel then."

"i didn't mean take a shower here!" you squawk, taking a step back as if to further yourself from the suggestion.

detonation imminent; bakugou curls his hands into fists and the same muffled warning you've been getting your whole life crackles. "okay," he says, voice thin and razor sharp. "you're coming back to mine then?"

your whole life flashes before your eyes — or at least the few minutes it took for him to lose his shit between your legs. "what? no, why would i?"

"i need your help with this, dip-shit!"

"you're saying there's no one else that can—"

"if you want me to fuck off, just say so!"

things go silent, startlingly so. totally still, except for the rising flush across his face, one that you used to read as annoyance but are now translating into something else you never could have expected from him: embarrassment. it's starting to give you whiplash, how much you're discovering despite knowing him all your life.

"closet is at the end of hall," you say in surrender. "bathroom will be on your left."

bakugou mutters a quiet, angry little "jesus" before stalking back to the front door to get his bag, and then he's disappearing into the dark of your apartment.

you slump down on your couch and — struggle. watching the tv and absorbing nothing; it's a rerun anyway. the sudden, overwhelming urge to cry washes over you as the shower spray sounds in the background, followed by a low-timbered swear and the clatter of several bottles against the tub.

it's easy to butt heads with bakugou. you don't think there is any other way to interact with him, really, because he's so argumentative and that used to be okay, but now things are — off. you don't know what he's doing, what he wants, why he's here and in your shower when he could be at home or getting patched up at his agency. all the conclusions you can come to are frightening, a little, and they're hard to fathom; is he — does he want more?

is this just because he's a guy that got some action and is looking for a second round, or is this because it's you?

this stupid situation has only added an unnecessary amount of drama to your life, and you think maybe the pretend-it-never-happened route is the smartest path, even if you can't stop thinking about him and the strength coiled in his biceps, in his shoulders, and how tall he's become and — when did he lose most of the baby fat in his face, and when did he get such a sharp jawline?

how much is he working out, to get his body like that? he used to be a skinny, scrappy little thing and now — he can probably lift a truck over his head. must run all the time, though he's always been active, and you've never looked before, but you wonder how nice his ass is.

what he looks like under the shower, soapy and wet.

furiously, you blink out of your daydream, feeling like a foreign body in your own skin; if someone would have told you only a handful of months ago that you'd be having weird, sensual thoughts about your best friend, you would have laughed so hard you'd cried. or puked.

but if anyone else stands in that picture with him, your heart squeezes painfully. traitorously. already, you've shared so many memories with him; the start of elementary school, learning how to swim, giving each other equally bruised faces, staying up all night to study for important exams, tackling middle school graduation side-by-side, him making himself at home in your first apartment, just as you had done in his.

the devil on your shoulder asks: what's a few more firsts?

it seems like the shower stops in record time, but when you hone back in on the tv, the episode has changed and new drama is settling in. distantly, the rattle of the doorknob is more aggressive than it needs to be and when the echo of a swung-open door trails down the hallway, your heart suspends in your throat. never have you had to think this much just to be around him, and it's bothersome.

clean and relaxed, he's — softer; you spare a quick glance at him when he comes to stand beside the couch, distracted by the show on screen, and his hair is damp, starting to stick out again the more it dries. his muscles aren't made of marble anymore; still there and rippling, but he breathes calmly and his skin is baby smooth, tender. you eye his tummy and the line of fine hair running down into the waistband of his sweats, and do your best to ignore the sudden desire to kiss right above his belly-button.

"since when are they talking again?"

just as he looks at you, your gaze shoots back to the screen, eyes narrowing as you try to rapidly remember what's happening in the day-to-day for stay-at-home, pro-hero wives.

"uh," you blink, distracted — and he notices, "what do you mean? they've been hanging out, like, all season."

bakugou watches the tv in silence, occasionally glancing down to the bandage in his hands as he carefully spreads it out, as he dampens the towel with the antiseptic and dabs at his wounds. 

"even after she hit on whatshername's husband?"

"yeah, that was a misunderstanding," you frown at him but he doesn't see it. "remember when they went to that dinner party and all hell broke loose because—"

his flat look serves for a rude interruption. "they go to a lot of fuckin' dinner parties."

"i know, but," you scoff, annoyed, "have you even watched this season?"

bakugou scoffs, mocking and over-dramatic, "yeah, as if i've got all day to sit on my ass and watch your stupid girly—"

"you're watching it right now."

"because you've got it on!" he huffs when you sink into the couch, resolutely trying to ignore him. “start it over then, if you’re gonna cry about it.”

you gape up at him, going as far as to pause the show so that maybe he’ll acknowledge you and all your annoyance; he doesn’t. “start it over? this is, like, episode 26!”

“so? got a hot date or what?”

he’s not at all interested in the answer and that’s obvious when he spins around and holds out the bandage expectantly, staring down at the scrape — glowing red and angry, a mirrored wound you can feel scabbing across your own skin; itchy and irritating. 

finally he looks at you properly, frowning softly and — you see him then, can feel the tension lining his body as you carefully tape on his bandage. trying to hide how uncomfortable he is, though you he’s never had to do so with you in all of — forever. it’s nauseating, and again you're struck by the image of him, only now it's of the horror that had been on his face afterwards, at what you’d done.

it pushes everything over the edge; quietly, so that your voice doesn’t expose anything, you say, “you haven’t spoken to me in three months.”

silence weighs in the air immediately, heavy, and you watch him try to appear unbothered, shrugging as he stares back at the unmoving tv, jaw tight. “phone works both ways.”

“yeah, but,” your hands drop as he steps away to pull on a loose shirt, and you curl your fists into your own. just as he has. “i’m always the one having to reach out—”

“so why didn’t you?”

“what?” frustrated, you massage your temples, trying to soothe the nuclear headache threatening to incinerate you. “are you seriously trying to—”

“what’s the big deal?” he huffs, slumping down into the far corner of the couch before cringing, swearing as he gently touches at his bandage. “you’ve gone longer than that without talkin’ to me, so…”

the tone of his voice is infuriating, as if this is somehow all your fault — and maybe it is, because you shouldn’t have crossed such a boundary with him, but — he can be such a dick.

“it’s not just me bakugou, you could have just as easily picked up the phone, too!” your teeth grind when he shrugs again, leaning his head against his fist as he looks anywhere else. it almost looks like guilt that's dragging his expression down, but you know better than to assume he could feel such a thing. “you always—”

“jesus, if i always do this—”

“shut up for a second, damn!” and then because you can’t stand the stupid look on his face, you kick him in the thigh for good measure; it garners a warning glare, his teeth bared.

he easily catches you by the ankle when you try to kick him again. "tell me what the big fuckin' deal is."

"the big deal? oh, you mean besides the fact that you totally came in your pants?"

it stuns him for a second, eyes wide and face pale, before he's yanking you across the couch, narrowly avoiding the knee aimed for his gut. "you—fucking—!" a smack lands across the back of his head when he ducks and he plants a heavy hand over your face, forcing you to close your eyes and turn away.

"you're gonna blow my head off!"

"if i wanted you dead, you—" he intercepts the hand you blindly reach up with, crossing it awkwardly over your chest so that you're pinned down like a wild animal. "you would be!"

"kiss my ass, katsuki." you snark, and it does something to him, your use of his first name, because he's still for a moment before sitting back and collecting your wrists correctly, to hold against the couch arm above your head.

"you're such a fucking—" he swoops in so low that his nose almost brushes yours and he grabs the front of your sweater with his free hand, like he's gonna shake you down for some lunch money. "fuck, i could just—" and then he groans long and loud, so annoyed he can't find the words.

"yeah, well—"

"shut up," he lightly knocks his forehead into your cheekbone with another dissatisfied sound, letting out a heavy sigh as he sinks his face down into your neck.

all your muscles tighten on instinct, waiting for the sharp bite that's due any second — but his fingers only uncurl from the material of your sweater, slowly slipping around to tangle into the hair at the nape of your neck. his pull there is a little tight, enough for you to know he's got you, but not so much that you're head is aching; you can't imagine you have a sensitive scalp, anyway, after growing up around him.

you want to say something — which is an annoying realization because now you feel like too much of a talker — but you just focus on the heave of his chest over yours, the breath that moves through him. the minute jostle of his hips as he settles further into the space between your legs, almost comfortable. the slight swell of something unfamiliar against your inner thigh.

bakugou presses his face a little further into you, warm, and the tip of his nose drags along the column of your throat. successfully sedating you, distracted by the feel of his parted lips against your skin.

your body is hot all over, very suddenly; the sweater now feels like a death trap and hopefully you don't smell weird, though it's never been a worry before, not around him, and your adrenaline is rushing and you're kinda tired of acting like you don't know why that is.

fuck pretend-it-never-happened. it's been a long three months.

he's almost entirely pressed against you, but there is a small gap of space that closes when you open your legs a little wider, hitching them around his waist as his breath stutters against your neck.

it's happened so quick, so effortlessly yet again; you give a purposeful roll of your hips upward and are lost in him all over.

only — it's different than it was before because straddling his lap hadn't done much for you, but now the weighted outline of him is right against your center and the pressure that drags across you sends tingles up your spine and has your toes curling in your socks. when you let out a tiny gasp at the stomach-flipping sensation, tension coils in every curve of his body and the grip around your wrists and in your hair only tightens.

you can't help it; you let out a "katsuki" in the same heady tone as you did in his apartment and it has him falling easily into the slow grind you've been unable to stop thinking about. what shifts across his face is obvious, against your throat, like the scrunch of his brow and the slow drop of his mouth. he tries to muffle his breathy "oh" into your skin, but it echoes throughout your entire body, has an ache beginning between your thighs that he's already soothing.

the nip comes then, teeth sinking gently into your neck as you weakly cry out in surprise, but it's only for a moment before his tongue — wet and heavy and wide — is tasting over your jugular, lips closing around your skin as he sucks experimentally. you let out a proper moan then, squirming against his hands and up into him so that the pressure doubles for the both of you.

katsuki finally relinquishes your wrists, carding his hand down your body before coming to squeeze your hip, your thigh, locking your leg tight around his waist. "yeah," he rasps, voice deeper than you've ever heard it as he presses his forehead into yours. "how do you fuckin' like it?"

being bitten, he means, vengefully, but you're spread open beneath him and he's rutting the hard length of himself against you roughly, eagerly, and panting open-mouthed and you tighten up at the aggression in his tone and in his hands and his very being and —

"fuck," you gasp, loud and wanton, "fuck, katsuki—"

and then you are kissing your best friend.

the boy from down the street that always ruined your hair and taught you where to place your thumb if you were gonna throw a punch. that used his empty pen cartridge to blow spitballs at you and mocked you for losing crane games, even though he ended up giving you the stupid stuffed animal anyway. that had to be king of the castle, with his stick-sword and cardboard shield. that demanded you be his queen, weeds he picked for you woven carefully into your hair by his hands.

katsuki kisses like he's shy — another term you've never thought of in relation to him and all his fire and brimstone; it's slow and a little delayed in comparison to what his hips are doing, as if he's in his head too much and is trying to figure how to move his lips and when. tentative and chaste, until you run your tongue along the seam of his mouth and pry him open a little more.

it's making you hungry; that possessiveness from before is creeping back in, eager to have him in ways nobody else has. you arch into him, biting at his lips and sighing into his mouth as goosebumps break out across his skin.

with a slant of his head, he deepens the kiss and you can feel his nostrils flaring, the fingernails scratching against your scalp, the bruises he's probably leaving on your thigh. he lets up only to breathe, panting into your ear when he begins to bite and suck on your skin again; your earlobe and neck and even the cut of your jaw. like maybe he's hungry, too.

you fist a hand into his shirt just to tug it up his body, feeling the strong contract of his stomach when your fingers ghost against him. katsuki gets the hint quickly, rising up to his knees to tear the material off — much more harshly than he did before, which has you eying his crinkled bandage — and you move fast to take advantage of the new space.

it gives him pause when you yank down your shorts, pulling your legs back to slip them off and fling them somewhere across the room. his face goes red again, and his heaving chest, too, and his eyelids flutter as he takes in the sight of your flimsy, damp cotton underwear. you start to pull the sweater up your stomach, but he's watching so intently — so ravenous — that you get shy, without a bra underneath the too-hot fabric.

in any other situation, katsuki would have grabbed onto this moment, your hesitation, and held it over your head to come back and poke at. cataloged this little weak spot for future arguments, but now —

not once has he ever been gentle with you in anything; it's enough of a surprise that that's even a possibility for him, for the two of you, but he presses his body back into yours and kisses you deep, calloused fingers tracing over the new skin exposed to him. he doesn't try to push the sweater up any further, but one hand slips up your back, to splay between your shoulder-blades like it had before, and he's so close and you've never known him to be this — careful. with anything.

"y'r so—" katsuki rolls his hips again and groans, whispering against your lips. "fuckin' soft."

his sweatpants are still on and you don't know why, but when you reach down to help tug them off, he grabs your wrist before they can go too far.

he presses the heat from his cheeks into your own, like he wants to share it. "you done this before?"

"have you?"

he frowns at your non-answer. "i asked first."

you have. three times, technically, though a phantom pain echoes in your stomach at the memories, and you feel an odd emptiness in your chest that makes you really glad to have the sweater still on. your answer leaves you a little ashamed, under his gaze, and you purposely turn from it. "would...that bother you?"

before, you wouldn't have cared, didn't care, nor were you even thinking of him when it happened. wherever he must have been; u.a, probably, getting ready to make his lifelong dreams a reality while you trusted a boy that didn't look at you the way katsuki is now. that didn't hold you and touch you and kiss you the way your best friend has.

he scoffs, though it doesn't sound as careless as it usually does and he squeezes his eyes shut so you can't read them. the truth that's hidden there. "no," he lies, "why would—" but he doesn't finish, just sighs.

"it was awful anyway," you tell him, offering a small smile when he peeks down at you. he doesn't say anything, so you kiss him once, twice, until his tension is melting away. "should have been you."

the grip on your thigh turns almost painful and he grinds into you so roughly that you both gasp, loud in the tight, barely-there space between you. "yeah," he rasps, sucking another bruise into the hollow of your throat. "fuckin' should have."

you try to imagine it; eighteen and nervous, naked in front of him for the first time since you were seven and got into paint from his mom's workshop, when she made you both strip down in the same room, furious. how different he might have been with you then, how much more unsure. kinder than your ex, without a doubt, even for katsuki, and he probably wouldn't have even gone through with the whole thing, considering how uncomfortable the first time is.

or maybe it wouldn't have been, with him; maybe he would have looked into it, taken the time to wind you up the same way he is now so that you were eager and wet and ready. looking down at you with his wide, almost-black eyes in the dim light of a table lamp. another first to share.

"if i'd have just," he huffs, allowing his sweats to slip down past his hips. shoulders trembling when he makes you moan out his name again. "fuckin'—grown a pair 'n told you—"

the weight of him becomes more obvious, the straining bulge he's rocking into your core, and seeing it is — really getting to you; wearing such tight boxers, you can tell just how close the pink tip of him is to his waistband, nearly peeking out from just how hard he is.

it takes a shrug to get him out of your shoulder, so you can press your lips back to his. "can still be you, katsuki," you breathe, biting on his bottom lip until his tiny frown is gone. "if you want, it can still be you."

for a minute, he indulges himself in the greedy kiss you're giving him, testing strokes of his tongue against your own as his hips stutter out of rhythm — but it's when your fingers brush through the hair at the base of his stomach, trying to slip a hand into his boxers, that he's gasping into your mouth and pushing his body up and away.

determination settles over his face then — along with his vibrant flush — and he doesn't say anything as he grabs you like it's nothing and scoots you up the couch so that your back is pressed to the arm, propped up. once he settles between your thighs, he just rests his face into the plush of your stomach — which is humiliating and has you squirming, but the firmness returns to his hands; holding your hips so that you'll still, so that he can kiss right above your belly button, just as you wanted to do to him.

heat flares in your own cheeks — and down your chest and in your ears and searing on the back of your neck — when you feel the first puff of his warm breath against your underwear, where you're sensitive and slick and aching.

this is completely new to you; your ex-boyfriend probably never considered tasting you here, certainly not with the same desire that's painted across katsuki's face. you have to slap your hands over your eyes and bite your lip, embarrassed, suddenly, at how desperate the simple press of his mouth to your underwear makes you.

"hey, hey," katsuki grunts, pinching at your hips until you peek at him through your fingers. the highlights of his cheeks are crimson and his eyes are black, glaring with an intensity that makes you shiver. "it's my fuckin' turn."

to make you fall apart, he means, just as he had.

at the first hot drag of his tongue against the material, you squirm, leaning your head back so that your expression is hidden. another grunt comes from him, you think in dissatisfaction, but he continues, laving until your mouth is falling open and the fabric between you is drenched.

he's gone just long enough to be replaced by the ghost of his thumb, touching you much too-gently. hunger has you stealing another look at him, watching behind your hands as he stares, blatantly, at the mess he's already made of you, stroking the pad of his finger against the sodden material in interest.

discovering; a curious swipe over where you're aching has you sighing and trembling and his eyes jump back up to your covered face, open mouth curling into the faintest smirk as he does it again and again and again. it's bullshit — how quickly he's figured you out, almost as if your body was meant to be unraveled by his hands — but then again, it didn't take you long either, did it?

"katsuki," you hiss, digging a hand into the hair at the crown of his head, tugging on it until his smile is dropping and his eyes are lidding. your body is on fire and your legs are trying to close around his head, hips squirming as he toys with you, like the little brat he is.

deadly serious, he grabs your underwear and holds it tightly in his fist so that you can wiggle one leg free, and then he's tugging it out of his way and devouring you whole.

it's sloppy, the mixture of spit and slick as runs his tongue through you, wet and wide, and you're so sensitive that you squeak out in surprise, fingers tightening. a groan punches from deep in his chest and your hips buck at the vibration of it, drawn so tight already.

"oh my—" you gasp, dropping your other hand from your face to grip the couch; eyes closed, you're somewhere else entirely, lost in the clumsy swirl of pleasure between your thighs.

katsuki raises his head to breathe, reaffirming your grip in his hair by wrapping his fingers tight over your own. at the shiny sight of his mouth, you can't help but to whimper with a needy roll of your hips, until he's simply sticking out his tongue and allowing you to ride it, to use it as you need to. it's embarrassing, how desperate you are, but his eyes are knife-sharp and trained on you and you've never experienced anything like this.

he moves then, slipping one hand further up under your sweater, cupping your breast carefully as his lids flutter — and the other is shoved between his hips and where they're pressed into the couch. you tighten up at just the idea of him rutting into his hand while kissing your messy slit, moaning openly, head falling back as your eyes start to roll.

this is — fuck — you've never been so turned on in all your life and it's driving you crazy; at one point in time, the thought of bakugou like this would have grossed you out, but now you think it's only like this because of him. anyone else wasn't right, not the way he is, and he's maybe a little impatient and unwieldy, but it's katsuki. between your legs with his mouth on you — something he wanted — and his fingers are brushing over your nipple and the other is down his pants, wrist flexing and —

"fuck, oh fuck, i—" you try to sit up, chasing blindly after the high, but he forces you back down. a long groan is muffled by your skin and when he lifts his chin just a little, a glob of spit falls off his lips and the sight makes your toes curl before he presses back into you and sucks.

everything goes blank as you free-fall into him and you cum quietly, muscles so taut in your body that your voice can't even squeeze out of your throat. the minute you're able to breathe, he's biting a mark into your thigh and yanking you back down under him, lips slick against yours.

tasting yourself on his tongue has you coming out of the heady haze, ravenous; katsuki helps you to shove his boxers down, though he can only gasp tightly when he grinds against you, coating himself.

"'m not—" his soft hair tickles your face when he shakes his head, arms trembling beside your head. "i won't be able to—"

"keep going," you breathe, smearing your mess over the tip of him and down his length as he groans. "i don't care, keep going."

he smashes his lips to yours, though he's only able to meet the pump of your hand a few times before dropping his forehead to your shoulder, spine curling, fingers digging into your hair. katsuki swears long and low, eventually letting out a soft sound you wouldn't have expected from him as his entire body tenses and he spills onto your stomach.

"goddamn it," he moans into the fabric of your sweater, weary, after a long moment. "now 'm fuckin' tired."

and for some reason that makes you laugh, though the lust is dissipating and your nerves are trembling at the memory of how this ended last time. katsuki pulls away suddenly, making your stomach drop, and he doesn't look at you as he detangles himself, awkwardly shuffling away from the couch and out of sight.

you frown down at the mess on your stomach, the way it's pooling in your belly-button — and you'll be damned to let him leave you like this, but just as you finishing reciting over and over what you want to say, he appears, towel in hand.

it's still damp from his shower and you tense on instinct, waiting for him to start twirling it with that stupid grin on his face, but katsuki only arranges your legs so that he can sit between them, carefully wiping you off as his cheeks burn. and you just watch him, the way he runs a hand over your skin to make sure he got it all before helping to finagle your underwear back on properly.

then he just looks at the tv, unmoving. if he's trying to appear casual at all, it's a piss-poor job — but he's never been able to keep his fat mouth shut for long.

the look he gives you lacks its usual heat, though you can't tell if that's just because he's drained or if he's withdrawn for another reason. "what now? six months, a year before you talk to me again?"

and you're annoyed all over again.

"what?" you return his weak glare, sitting up properly so that you're right in his face. "are you kidding me? you didn't talk to me either."

"the hell did you want me to say?" he scoffs and — you could slap him, for ruining everything so quickly. wipe that stupid look off his face with your fist. "'sorry i busted a nut, you free for dinner?'"

"yeah!" the shrill tone of your voice makes his eyes widen, and you throw your hands up in the air, incensed. "that sounds wonderful in comparison to coming home and avoiding me."

"i didn't avoid you," he mutters, though his eyes drift back to the tv. "just didn't have shit to say."

"bakugou," you slap your hands over your face for the second time, though this one is much worse than the last. "how is that fucking fair? what did you want me to say?"

and now — his eyes are full and furious, mouth curling down into an ugly frown that you've so rarely had the pleasure of seeing on his face; every time his mother made you go home and when you told him you weren't gonna try to test into u.a. when he overheard your girl friends teasing you for liking an older boy in your school.

when he was losing you, you realize.

"'m not doin' this shit with you," he mutters, definitive, before swiping his shirt up off the floor and standing. "not doin' this bakugou shit."

"oh my god," you groan, rising, too, because your stomach is twisting at the thought of him leaving again, no matter how angry he's making you. "what does that even mean?"

you trail him as he stomps into your kitchen to grab his work shirt and mask from the counter, trying to interrupt him at every turn, and the scowl on his face only grows when you shoot to stand in front of the door, just as he reaches for his bag.

"you can't—"

"this," he seethes, gesturing to you and then himself before gritting his teeth so hard that they should shatter. "this is why i didn't wanna fuckin' talk to you."

you knew he didn't. the minute lunch ended and when you made out his shape in mitsuki's snapchat: you knew. but hearing it from his mouth is as much of a confirmation as it is a kick in the gut.

there's more he's struggling to say, mouth shifting as he chews on the words and the skin of his lips. his gaze jumps from you to the door to something on the counter before he's swallowing again, staring down at you with brand new eyes.

the light in the kitchen makes them shine, angry and sad. "i can't—" he sighs, nostrils flaring like he's mad at himself for struggling. "go back to bakugou, not after—" a vague hand waves toward the couch. "maybe this is just, i don't know, whatever to you, but i — fuckin' can't."

tell me what the big fuckin' deal is; earlier, he'd demanded it of you, why the silence mattered so much this time when it didn't seem to matter before. in the midst of your anger, you didn't think twice about his wording but now —

he wanted you to say it. katsuki wanted to hear you say that it hurt to be without him for so long, and he kept his distance because he was afraid that you wouldn't.

"you're so stupid," you mutter it quietly, and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, enraged, but before he can get another dumb word out, you loop your arms around his neck and just — kiss him.

not crazy or wild or lust-driven, just your lips to his, slowly working him out of the shell he's tried to hide behind.

the bag in his hand hits the ground with a soft thud and then his arm is wrapping around your back, tugging you to him as he finally breathes and opens his mouth — and lets you in.

when you cup the sides of his neck, katsuki inhales sharply through his nose, pulse jumping under your fingers, and his lashes flutter against your cheeks as he opens his eyes. he pulls back enough so that you can stare at each other and you realize that eyeliner is still clinging to his lids, making him seem sharper than usual.

you're a little stunned, then, at how beautiful he is. 

"i can't go back to bakugou either, dumbass." gently, you knock your forehead into his, smiling at the pout on his face. "you've totally screwed that up for me."

"yeah, well," he huffs, "about time. only took you all my goddamn life."

"sorry i'm late."

"what else is new?" he rolls his eyes and you squeak, indignant, before sticking your tongue out at him, patience worn thin already.

you expect a bite or a pinch to the cheek or another rough violence that falls along the lines that have made up your relationship thus far — but instead there is only something soft that reflects in his eyes and the shy kiss he presses to your lips, something that he's kept safe just for you, guarded, with his stick-sword and cardboard shield.

#narrator voice: willow did not have the spoons to extend the ending #whoopsie #okie okie part 2 #✿ willow writes #✿ one shot: bakugou

[ms-scarletwings]

This Single Oversight Will Bring Irken-Kind to Its Knees

I have a little riddle for you.

What does an ant nest, a computer, and the ancient city of Troy have in common?

While you ponder the significance of this question and consider your answer, there’s a few things I want to analyze about the worldbuilding of Invader Zim.

We may have heard it said before, least I have (and agree), that the fate of the IZ universe appears to be a rather bleak picture.

Through our lens of focus, being upon Earth and an oh-so specific nutball waging his battle upon humanity, we often don’t do as much thinking about the larger cosmic war taking place meanwhile. Not between the Meekrob and Tenn, not between the Tallest and every dumb luck threat they are thrown against, but between the Irken Armada and all life in the entire universe, sentient or not.

Their intentions will not be made any more clear, between outright eradication or eventual enslavement of every lifeform they set their sights on. While they have alliances and neutral treaties, those agreements seem few and far between, as well as born from temporary conveniences. The cards have already been dealt, and all available evidence has indicated that every planet they are aware of is doomed from the moment The Massive was operational.

Though littered with inefficiencies and incompetency that could suggest an empire in internal decline, the development of the control brains and other centralized command crutches of the species suggests the Irkens can still keep a well oiled machine running, no matter how many mishaps happen along the way. At least, that machine and their plundered resources will definitely outlast the survival of their enemies, for sure.

To speak of their enemies, there has not been a single competitive race within the show that demonstrates any credible threat to Operation Impending Doom II- only those that can resist the conquest a little bit longer than others, or those who survive by appeasing Irk (or evading its detection). The fall of Vort, which stood as the homeworld of the only aliens with the technological ability to match the armada’s firepower is…. Really bad news. That’s to say the least of comparatively primitive, TINY planets like Earth or Blorch, standing zero chance in the way of what’s eventually coming. This is a war that has continued despite the death of two.. FOUR Almighty Tallests if you follow the movie’s events… and Irkens wholly are still thriving for it across the Galaxy.

So, given all of these facts, and the perception that the Irkens (like any invasive species or colonial force) don’t seem to be a society that will make responsible and/or sustainable use of their ill-gotten territory… it seems like this is how life across the universe ends in Invader Zim one day: Not with a bang, not with the whimper of heat death, but through screams muffled under the bloody boots of a dominant predator- a predator that is, itself, doomed to cannibalize its own once it hits the carrying capacity of all existence.

Bleak, concrete, and horrific as that may sound, there’s still a “however” here to consider!

Yep, that’s me about to point one of my big fat fingers to the sky and protest- Irk just might be,

Not so Undefeatable, after all!

And not only have I figured out exactly what sort of countermeasure you need to destroy these invaders, I have reason to suspect it’s a plan already long ago set into motion.

Let’s break it down,

An Irksome Achilles’ Heel

True, individually, the bug bastards are irritatingly tough to kill through conventional means. True, collectively, they are nigh impossible to outmatch. And more than most anything else, they owe this tenacity to two things: numbers, and R&D. Possessing some of most state of the art pinnacles in transportation, communications, and military equipment, the Armada found a knack for being able to steamroll most lesser planets before it.

The genius of the individual PAK unit grants each and any one Irken a theoretical path to partial immortality itself, by route of consciousness archiving. I strongly believe that kind of cybernetic progress was also one of the stepping stones that led to the creation of the Control Brains. Nonetheless, this very same strength of the Irkens’ has also proven to be the source of their greatest vulnerability.

Paks, Paks… Oh Paks. The entire race’s civilization revolves around such technology the way we do around our own brains, our own hearts, and our communicative network. For all intents and purposes, and as I’ve gone on about ad nauseum in my other spills about the show, a PAK is all and at once

• Synonymous with the holder of their soul, consciousness, being, whatever you want to call their personhood.

• Able to have their data repurposed by future generations, in the result of an Irken’s permanent death.

• A universal necessity shared by the entire population.

• Susceptible to alterations, sometimes by intelligent enough individuals (as demonstrated by the Zimvoid comic arc), but usually by a Control Brain, directly.

In addition to that last quality, there’s another way the code in a PAK can be changed, for better or worse- Via evolution. Though I am talking about digitized neurology, the actual data in a PAK is a lot more comparable to biological DNA or a “self-learning” AI than it is a rigid computer program. By this, I mean that its code is subject to certain changes over time, perhaps both directed and completely random, particularly during the recycling of its information back into the Smeeteries.

And this is actually good design on the control brains’ part, the same way not reproducing Irkens as genetically identical clones was. Genetic and digital diversity are desirable goals to keep in mind if you want a healthy and versatile stock of workers, engineers, soldiers, and everything in between. We’re talking about highly sentient, highly intelligent, and emotional organisms here. A static drone mindset is going to offer them inadequate ability to adapt to their lengthy life experiences or be unique persons. How else would social mobility have purpose in their world? How else could the cream of the crop rise so far above their peers? That positive was deemed worthy of an obvious risk, however: computational errors.

When the Bugs Get Bugs

 IZ does not clearly lay out what it means for an Irken to be defective, but it gives us a general idea. Defectiveness is not something diagnosed from a code scan for this missing value or that incorrect variable. It’s not judged by one specific character trait or quality that’s abnormal for an Irken to display. “Defective” is a judgement stamp, wielded by the Control Brains when they gauge the total sum value of a life’s contribution to the species. And it’s not one given to Irkens which are merely incompetent, no. Anyone proven to be unfit for their standing is given generous opportunity for redemption or simply reassigned a more suitable occupation. If it were based on likability, we’d have seen Skoodge sent to Judgementia years ago.

Rather, it’s given to those who are viewed as so twisted that they are proven to be an existential danger to their brethren. Irkens that are so destructive to the essence of the collective that their memory must be purged from the record and their identity erased.

I adore the enthusiasm behind fans who want to view this as an analogy for disability or neurodivergence against a conformist society, but the metaphor I’m seeing is one of extreme antisocial behavior. A defective Irken screams less “adhd/autism” to me than they do serial murderers (of their own) or outright traitors. Pardon the use of a gross phrase, but it’d seem we were talking about an Irken equivalent of what the outdated gens would have dubbed the “criminally insane”. No one on screen has ever shown Skoodge or Tak the sort of concern that would get them sent to the Spike of Judgement, but when Zim was in that hot seat? NO one was doubting what his verdict would be.

^ courtesy of “The Trial’s” transcript

I think about the 40 shmillion mistakes a lot.

It’s such a vague quantity. But it sure sounds like a hell of a big one. And what mistakes… what did the lil squirt even have to compare them to? There’s no standard one person an Irken can be. Every presentation of the flaws in that code to the control brains hasn’t ended up a flaw to him.

I only started writing this because I really couldn’t stop thinking about the 40 shmillion. There’s no chronological room for bad self-modding to add up to that so quickly.  DNA replication, nature’s own sloppy and random process of creating new life, can be excused around 120,000 hiccups when duplicating with a 6 billion pair-long protein. But this kind of shuffling is under a futuristic AI’s precise eye. Yes, defects happen, but as bad as him? From birth??? How could you possibly get that many detrimental deviations from the mechanical fucking god-queen(s) of their entire homeworld?

And then it hit me.

You don’t. Not from Irk.

The hot take I’ve been charging for this entire time is thus.

Zim is not defective by any random accident. In fact, I smell the tampering of foreign sabotage.

Not only is this guy the thing his kind fears more than any else, they have every right to be shaking in their stance.

That puzzle i posed at the beginning of this journey, have you seen what I’ve seen yet?

Because the answer I was looking for as to what similarity connects an anthill, a PC, and a city from Greek legend was a most effective tactic for taking them down.

Do you know the best way to deal with a bad ant infestation? Cuz you can lay down all the raid and crushing action you want, but you won’t really be getting anywhere unless you target the pests directly at their queen. To that end, liquid ant baits are marvelous inventions- a sweet substance hiding a small amount of slow acting poison. Poison to be peacefully delivered by the stomach of an ant to the rest of her colony, poisoning her kin, who sicken more members, on and on until the queen is destroyed and the entire nest perishes. An insidious toxin to do all the work while its user never lifts a finger, pretty ingenious.

And when it comes to computers, we also have ways to attack entire networks at source, from quietly and far away. “Trojan” was a category of malware responsible for 64.31% of all cyber attacks on Windows systems in 2022, and they still make up a majority of active malware hits today. The concept is deviously simple. The malicious code is hidden within an innocent looking program, maybe even within a legitimate software that does what it’s supposed to. Once the stowaway is invited into the system, it can get down to it some sneaky, nasty, destructive work on your device. As for what those acts could look like, well, malware exists to do all kinds of things. Mostly something involving trying to get money/information from you or hijacking your computer for whatever its creator wants to use it for. And some of them will just up and wreck your shit, disable your antivirus software to open you up to more infections, disable important operations, wipe your data. Use your imagination.

And as for Troy.. well, where do you think Trojan programs got their name? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So, Irkens have their Armada, bionic drones, and homeworld- in other words, the thriving swarm of army ants, the billions to trillions of computers they so rely on, and their nigh untouchable fortress, always at war.

And some damn crafty bastard(s) in the stars said

“Here is their sugar-bait,”

“Here is their cyber attack,”

“Here is their wooden horse.”

And one particular race is going to be getting the last laugh before long.

Nerds That Are GOATed With the Sauce

That’s right, I thought about this all the way through to finding our prime suspect. And let me tell you, NO ONE in the Galaxy reeked of fish like the Vortians did. Get over here and lemme show you my whiteboard with all the red circles and polaroids on it.

- The Means

In a way of tragic irony, Vort has contributed more than any else to the same Irken conquest that turned on them in the end. A natural talent for cutting edge engineering and technical development actually does not seem to be what Irk already came into the ring with. For how mighty and superior they view themselves, the greatest achievements of their military can actually be owed to Vortian outsourcing. When we would have gotten a look at Tallest Miyuki’s very own “finest minds” during her reign, notice something interesting about these guys below,

Zim there is the ONLY Irken to be found! Yes, transferred there because of the punchline explanation of ‘he breaks everything he touches so maybe he’ll have an affinity for weapons research’ but damn right he actually did! And still does; I don’t want it to go unsaid that Zim has shown MUCH more technological skill and innovation than near any other Irken we’ve seen.

Another fun thing to note about this is that Lard Nar was also part of this lineup, and in the transcript he was in the process of working on the blueprints for The Massive. (which leaves you with the cursed knowledge that Zim, Prisoner 777, and Lard were all familiar coworkers long before the events of the show) And that brings me back to what I’m saying about the real reason the Vort natives were enslaved and imprisoned instead of outright sweeped after conquering. The Armada needs their skills, because Vortian advancement is something their own scientists couldn’t come close to. Left to their own devices, Vort could have easily outmatched them at an earlier point in history. It’s a people that figured out infinite power sources and potentially wormhole technology, while PAKs were something a disfigured human tween with a lot of time on his hands was able to crack. If anyone could outpace and outsmart the defensive measures of the Control Brains, it’s going to be them. And what better, cleaner way to sabotage the enemy than from within. 

The very same strings of inserted code that cursed Zim with his delusions, paranoia, lust for destruction, and horrible tactics may also have blessed him with a determination and intellect higher than almost any creature alive. The saboteur gave Irk the most powerful racecar in history, and then fitted it with bicycle brakes. No matter how hard Zim tries to conform to what will give him admiration, no matter how competent he is at keeping himself alive, it’s as if he is instinctually compelled toward whatever actions will cause the MOST damage to his allies in the process. Dib may think he’s the bulwark against the invasion when, ironically, he’s fighting against the one being that’s predetermined to be the arrow that strikes Irken leadership right in their dumb, green heels. (There is also an instance in the comics where Dib figures out that Zim is the ace in the hole for total Irken eradication but that’s another fun story.)

Oh, oh HO HO, and that’s only what he’s capable of doing before the empire’s actual immune system against defects like him wakes up and notices!

Three planetary blackouts, two dead generals, and a whole swath of dead invaders was just the fucking warm up, babey! All that is merely the kind of loud disruption that you need in order to fulfil the real thing this Trojan horse exists for in the first place.

What a celebration of hubris the Spike of Judgement was. Yeah, let’s take our method of filtering the corrupted data from the hive mind, and completely centralize it on a single planet! As well, let’s have the very purging agents also be the same ones to perform the evaluations themselves, I’m sure that it would be unthinkable for any outsider to design a worm that could make it through the brains’ firewalls. Goddamn spectacular. Like inserting an infected USB into your laptop, the Tallest never realized what kind of beast they woke up by plugging that PAK into the Spike’s mainframes. Those brains were meant to handle an expected spectrum of deviation when it came to defective Irkens, never a sleeper virus of this complexity.

From here it probably won’t even matter if Zim survives much longer on Earth, his virus has already spread to the very thing relied upon to keep things like him out of the data pool in the first place. With the Judgementia brains corrupted and no higher authority to overrule them, the firewall is effectively broken, and you know what that means? Bigger cracks for future defectives to start trickling through, both spontaneous and artificial. The ideal scenario is one where a degenerating and glitched population accelerates the incompetency of the empire to the point where it just implodes on itself; nevertheless, even a disease that only slows down Operation Doom could be a game changer, by giving the rest of the little guys more time to band together a coalition strong enough to strike back when the time is right.

- The Motive

The history of these two races’ alliance is something I lament us not having more lore to pull from- how far back it goes, what the character of the Vort was like during that time, what the Irkens had offered in return- a few among dozens of questions it rears.  The implication behind how it ended lies in Zim’s creation that slayed Tallest Miyuki. Interestingly, the Empire never received the memo of what exactly went down, or, perhaps, stubbornly denied the account of the other scientists who were there that day. Neither Red/Purple nor the Judgmentia Brains had any idea that Zim’s actions led to the death of a Tallest. So, makes sense that the Vortians became the unintentional scapegoat (no pun intended) for the incident, and the rest is history.

Note: It’s also in the realm of possibility that Vort was actually the one to withdraw from the alliance instead, given that the same blob that devoured Miyuki (purely the fault of their Irken transfer) also went on to cause untold amounts of devastation. Red’s reaction to the real story stuck out to me as more telling, although.

But why am I even talking about this? Zim was decades old before war was declared on them, and either people’s regard to each other seemed strangely… respectful, if anything.

But, was Vort really a monolithic bunch? Irk was already an empire by this point, and diplomacy with those they needed something from did not mean they weren’t otherwise an aggressive force in the universe. For all we know, the alliance itself might have been coerced, or result of depraved leadership among the Vortians.  Any citizen with a conscience who could see the writing on the walls would be disgusted by giving so much aid and brown nosing to such a menace, no? I know who would have seen that writing before anyone else. Brainiacs who are smart enough to build something like The Massive and all its bells and whistles would know better than anyone just what it was all capable of in the wrong hands. The collateral damage against your own people might be a sacrifice worth making in the face of the alternative.

- The Oppurtunity

So.. that’s all well and good, yeah? A why, and a what, yet this is actually the tricky part of saving the galaxy,

Sneaking your StupidifyIrk.exe file onto the assholes’ homeworld without alerting either them or your own treacherous, weak, collaborator superiors to your actions. Infecting and releasing a random Irken alive would be far too dangerous, far too noticeable to the point where they could just be destroyed outright before given a chance to wreak real havoc.

But what about releasing a dead Irken? 🤔

PAKs are only screened for criminal flaws when errors begin to affect their body’s behaviors in destructive ways. A fully competent scientist, or soldier, or navigator performing a lifetime of loyal service to the empire and then meeting an unfortunate end? Their minds’ shadows can be accepted back into the data pool no questions asked. That’s only business as usual.

That almost makes new smeets something of a reincarnation of their ancestors. Personally, I see it kind of like replaying a video game and re-rolling your stats, even if you’re reusing your character’s name and general play style.

Either way, we come full circle to my theory about Zim’s actual origin. Maybe not “our” Zim, but the previous iteration of data that was shuffled to create his person. Whoever they were, I’m convinced that they were also an exceptional individual. They were probably pretty arrogant, but it was a more earned confidence, and they were a prodigy genius, the likes of which that was drawn to work alongside Vortian allies, as another researcher. Then, an untimely demise befell them. I couldn’t say they fell victim to some unfortunate accident, considering the cockroach durability of their body. No, I find it a lot easier to imagine they met their end in one of the more embarrassing ways for an Irken to die- A PAK stolen, disabled or forcefully detached by an assailant they might have allowed a little closer than they should have. To the homeworld, it’s a small matter. One more PAK recovered by the natives of the friendly planet, brought back home to be repurposed by the smeeteries, right?

Well, that’s what one smartass might have been hoping for.

And they really were a clever cookie, because that scheming seed is fruiting beautifully.

#invader zim #iz #vortian #irkens #invader zim headcanon #iz headcanons #planet Vort #scarlet talks about things #sci fi #long post #absolute ramblings i mean holy crap #longass post

[edgy-ella]

I recently rewatched Invader Zim with @allshaftsfall, and something dawned on me that I should’ve realized years ago: Irkens have really weak backs/spines.

Or at least, it gets worse the taller they get, exponentially more so than with humans. The only tall Irkens we ever see in the series are the Tallest (obviously) and Sizz-Lorr, all of which are noticeably hunched over.

Sure, you could argue that Sizz-Lorr’s weird hunchback comes from his abnormally large PAK and the Tallest’s poor posture comes from the extreme corseting done to their midsections, but that in turn raises another question: why in god’s name would you ever fuck up your spine like that in a society where your status is determined by your height?

This stood out to me as weird for the Tallest in particular, because height is their status, so you’d think they’d be doing everything in their power to make themselves look as tall as possible rather than the opposite. It’s also something not unique to Red and Purple—concept art shows that Miyuki and Spork, the two previous Tallests before the current duo, had the same thing going on.

Hell, even Tak, who is barely taller than Zim, doesn’t always stand up straight.

This mostly applies when she’s in her human disguise, but still. Her height wouldn’t expose her as an alien—nobody cares about Zim’s more damning features, and Dib has classmates much taller than she would be standing up straight—so she doesn’t have anything to gain by slouching. To me, it seems like she feels like she has to consciously stand up straight when out of disguise, interacting with other Irkens (as someone with scoliosis, I can relate), but feels more relaxed as a human where height isn’t that big of a deal.

Before anyone calls bullshit on Tak ever slouching, look at her posture here compared to Gaz.

None of this is an art style thing, either. The humans in the series, both tall and short, stand significantly straighter. The only human I can think of off the top of my head that slouches is Ms. Bitters, and we don’t even know if she is human.

So, what does this all mean? Why’s this important? Well, to me, it begs the question: if the Irkens end up with significantly worse posture the taller they get, why does their society run on a height-based hierarchy? It’s already a silly concept, and the fact that Irkens already seem to have weak backs is just the cherry on top.

To me, this says that this is not naturally a part of Irken culture, and that the Control Brains put it in place whenever they assumed total control of the species, and it seems like it’s there in order to make the Irkens more reliant on the Control Brains. You can’t expect to have a stable leadership if your rulers are chosen arbitrarily, so the people supposedly in charge have to rely on the giant supercomputers to handle all the hard stuff for them. We already knew that the Control Brains were these shadowy figures controlling everything from the shadows, and this is just doubling down on that. And the implications there are wild: were the Control Brains originally made by other Irkens, only for their AI to gain sentience and weaken the Irkens biologically, socially, and culturally? Were the Control Brains made by a completely different race, only to appear like gods before primitive Irkens and force themselves upon them? If so, what happened to whatever race made the Control Brains? What’s the Control Brains’ overall purpose? How far does this “meat shield used to carry the PAK around” thing go?

Unfortunately we are never ever getting any answers to these questions because the franchise is in indefinite hibernation right now and they didn’t tackle the Control Brains in any meaningful capacity when they had the chance in either Enter the Florpus or the comics. But it’s fun to think about!

#invader zim #control brains #almighty tallest #sizz lorr #tak invader zim #ella essays

[sprout-senior]

some nightmare headcanon type things, bc some thoughts invaded my brain and i needed to get them out(in depth headcanon shit under the cut)

the ‘nightmare’ we know now is a completely different person from the former guardian of negativity, though he possesses all the same memories. he goes by the same name, brings up past events, and generally acts as if he’s the same person but evil. he’s apathetic and calm in his downtime, but he becomes manic/psychotic when wreaking havoc and feeding off negativity. if he has a soft spot for the ghost child residing in his head, he will never admit it or intentionally show it.

the real nightmare is dead, but his consciousness remains tied to the entity that took over his body, an echo of a soul. he spends a lot of time dormant/“asleep” due to the pain of constantly bearing witness to this parasite’s atrocities. he will always stay awake during any interactions with dream. he misses his brother so much. there have been a couple occasions where he has saved his life by wreaking absolute havoc in his shared mind(he SHRIEKS. he screams like a banshee and will not let up for even a second until dream is safe). this takes up a lot of energy, so he reserves this method for dream only for fear of not being able to use it when it matters most. his morals have… eroded, a little; he simply does not have the capacity to truly care for anyone but dream. 500 years of being a helpless bystander to mass murder was bound to desensitize him. as it stands now, he’s not about to waste precious energy on random people, even if it brings him a nonzero amount of guilt.

they refer to each other as moon and terror respectively, to avoid the headache of sharing a name. in downtime, they’re almost amicable; neither are much for conversation, but they will read together and generally let each other exist in peace and quiet.

moon knows that the pain and misery he feels is not his alone. he is intimately aware of terror’s inner struggles, and is not afraid to use it against him in arguments. he haunts him, tells him everything he doesn’t want to hear, laughs in his face when he lashes out in anger. terror retaliates by describing exactly how he wants to kill dream, insisting that moon won’t be able to do anything about it. their arguments usually end abruptly, either due to being interrupted or just running out of steam.

moon will never be able to exist independently from terror. hypothetically, he could interact with the world etc if terror relinquished that control, but that isn’t happening any time soon(or maybe ever).

the incidents where terror lets dream go leads him to believe that his brother is still in there, which… isn’t entirely inaccurate, but not in the way he thinks. terror holds no love or care for dream, and very firmly wants him dead.

just looking at the code, you would not be able to find moon’s presence. there are some people who could deduce it based on terror’s behavior, but only if they’ve experienced it themselves(dust, cross, etc) and they’re REALLY paying attention. dust is currently the only one who knows what’s up, having walked in on terror arguing with nobody one too many times. even then, he’s only going off an extremely educated guess; he’s not about to cause trouble with his boss.

#utmv #undertale #undertale au #creative writing #undertale art #utmv art #nightmare sans #passive nightmare sans #headcanon #utmv headcanons

[opheliashur]

its before 10am and i got maybe five hours of sleep so im porting my unhinged worm take here to keep it from being lost in the discord sauce [i dont actually think this is a sensible interpretation it just forced itself out of my brain one day]

The entities in Worm can function as a counterpoint to Posadist views on alien life. In Les Soucoupes Volantes, le processus de la matiere et de l'energie, la science et le socialisme, Posadas argues interstellar travel requires a society which, if not explicitly human-defined communist, surpassed self-centered capitalist systems. Posadas implores us to view their passivity in our plight not as apathy, but an enlightened belief in self-determination; With the people's assent, these strangers among us would surely be willing to help us crawl out of the muck of poverty and despair.

In Worm, the entities take this logic and turn it on its head. Zion's ancestor remembers their homeworld as peak survival-of-the-fittest excess, a hellish loop of boom and bust cycles which leaves less left to consume every time.

"The ancestor knows this, and it isn’t satisfied.  It knows its kin aren’t satisfied either.  They are quiet, because there is nothing to say.  They are trapped by their nature, by the need to subsist.  They are rendered feral, made to be sly and petty and cruel by circumstance.  They are made base, lowly."

Through a leftist lens, this becomes a mirror for the circumstances of modern society. People are forced to scrounge and suffer and harm each other for survival's sake, ligating their emotional capacity and cauterising their descendants' livelihoods. The ancestor responds in a capitalist fashion; Rather than call on cooperation and efficiency, it proposes to its fellows that the advancement of a species depends on the necessity of constant growth and constant conflict. The conclusion they reach is to, quite literally, eat each other alive; Not simply to live, but to find new frontiers, obliterating their homeworld in the process. I find this neatly matches up with how capitalism naturally leads itself to colonialism (not to imply imperialism is solely the domain of capitalism) as the rich and powerful grow ever hungrier for new toys to hoard, new people to enslave, leaving nothing in their wake.

If the entities simply went around acting like generic alien invaders (which is 99% of the time just white people persecution fantasies and you cant prove me wrong) afterward, this interpretation wouldn't exist. Posadas wasn't concerned about the possibility of alien invasion for the same reason nobody worries about car bombs, unless they're Margaret Thatcher or a sex symbol in a Wildbow sequel. It just isn't relevant.

However, the entities aren't just machines of consumption. Their modus operandi, at least with Eden and Zion, is far more subversive. They upend the status quo with powers, or innovations, often placed in a way to cause the most possible disruption and thus the most possible conflict, or profit, with an end goal seemingly to ensure they can eat and reproduce forever no matter the cost. The destruction they wreak seems to be almost tangential to their main goals, borne not of cruelty but of apathy.

This is in direct counter to Posadas' perception of extraterrestrial life as benevolent. Despite granting great power to the oppressed, they're not a clarion call of ascendance, but instead harbingers of the end. In essence, the entities represent a form of bad-faith leftism— They take advantage of existing injustice with cloying language (their avatars) and grand yet poisoned gestures (powers), with a move-fast-and-break-things mindset utilising their generational wealth (also powers) from eons of exploitation to avoid consequence.

Unfortunately, this interpretation doesn't end with Posadas.

I found myself realising as I wrote this that the entities aren't just representative of bad-faith actors in leftism. In another sense, they are the revolution as perceived in many online circles. A nebulous rapture-like event, upending the status quo by giving power to the marginalised and downtrodden, creating people who are not only possessed of the agency to change things, but a resolve to do so as well. Agency is suddenly given to those who'd otherwise be trapped in their own cycles, subject to hunger and rent and all the little things that the complacent at the top have long since forgotten happens to other people.

And it only results in more suffering. (at this point im talking more conceptually than what happens in worm but bear with me im almost done lmfao)

Parahumans finally have the ability to speak the right things and be heard, to hurt the right people, and it doesn't help solve anything. It's all just senseless violence directed outward.

The ending, then, takes a different note from Posadas, and from the paradigm of finding the right people to kill or the right things to say. Taylor kills Zion not through sheer power, but through communication and cooperation— By forcing him to look inward, at the one void that no amount of conflict and data and profit could fill ever again. There was no magic bullet, no force from outside to save the day. Only the emotions that everyone carries within them.

A revolution from the inside. (okay that was abrupt but my brain is fried now lmao hope you enjoyed it bye)

#worm #wormblr #this was originally a shitpost but it got away from me while i was writing it and started making a disturbing amount of sense #mostly the revolution as rapture part #not the alien part #parahumans

[mariamariquinha]

Bossa Nova (Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x f! reader) - Eight

Seven | Nine

Summary: When Nick’s stuff gets in the way.

Word count: 5.9k

Warnings: Bad words, SMUT, protected p in v sex, mentions of oral sex, mention of drug crimes, violence and other things related, mention of strip clubs and slight reference to corruption.

Gatita - Kitten

Author’s Note: Took me a lot, I don’t know what happened. Eh. That’s it!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Join my taglist! Don’t forget to reblog, comment and like! As always, I would love to know what you’re all thinking! ❤

------------------------------

He didn’t make love to you - it wasn’t something you personally asked. 

He fucked you.

But it was… kinda sweet, because you didn’t ask to be treated like a whore either. He looked and acted and sounded intuitive. You could guess it before - Benny was quiet, discreet. None of his friends would be able to sell themselves to make a good impression like that. 

He had a sense of self-preservation to begin with. Easy eyes, kind hands, even if the situation itself could eventually be too heated and not very… kind. Benny might’ve had his reputation, the Borracho of his name, but if you thought that your nerdy-facts-conversation was anything but stupid, seeing him really turned on by your talking made you go for some assumptions. 

Benny didn’t need to ask permission. Right there? When he was making your skin burn from that feeling he could bring? You couldn’t care less. Dangerous or not. 

With the experience of a guy like him, he maneuvered your body to lay on the bed below him. It was like he owned the place and you, from the way his eyes stared you down while stripping you even more naked than you already were - from face to chest to belly to pussy then thighs. These last ones, he grabbed firmly, biting his lower lip while spreading them to stare straight at your entrance. 

“You look so good like this.” 

“A mess?” 

“A horny mess,” He teased, fingers brushing over your clit and making you shiver. “Nerdy horny mess, probably using that smart brain of yours to come with another scientific explanation for something.”

You smiled at that, confirming what was really playing inside your mind. He probably had a platonic crush on a teacher back in high school, you deduced as you shifted with some impatience for him to touch you where you really wanted soon. Benny grinned at your reaction, just for a moment, just to meet your eyes again and dive in to kiss your lips. 

There it was. Fuck, there it was. 

Ever since that first date, under the streetlamp, you've known why Benny has been on your mind: the kiss. He made it a thing, not just foreplay but an act itself. Of course, the first time, he had the restraint and decorum not to invade your space like that, but until then, there was the intensity of someone who made the experience worthwhile. If you were in your full mental capacity, not really thinking about the way his cock brushed your leg with signs of arousal, you'd say it could be just him doing things the right way because… Well, life. You weren’t complaining.

First, he just brushed his lips over yours - enough to make you eager and chase for more, or enough to make him smirk from that while leaning away. When he closed the gap again, though, it was different. Benny grabbed your breast firmly while giving you one of those kisses that left you wanting: languid, slow, wet, distracting enough to not make you notice him playing with your nipple, but just feel it. He massaged, pinched, testing how it would make you give him something. When you moaned against his mouth, body buzzing with his touch, Benny moved his hips just a little, just to show he was getting aroused just as you. 

His body frame was stocky, firm - you weren't as flexible, your legs had to spread with some effort to make him fit between them. And all of this ‘study’ and ‘research’ made the guy patient to prepare you; he didn’t stick the thing there to call it a day. Your nipples were sensitive from arousal, pebbled and well deserved of his ministrations. When the kiss came to a stop, he kissed the corner of your mouth, then lowered his lips to your neck, shoulder, chest… Just to suck on the one nipple which didn’t get his earlier attention. You whimpered at the contact. It was overwhelming, almost too much - titties on his mouth while he grinded against you.

A moan escaped from you again, enough to make him raise his eyes to catch the reaction. 

Whatever Benny saw, if he saw your prospect (a look of almost devotion and lust), it was enough to seal the kind of urge you two had: to get what made you both look so uninhibited of a relationship still little explored. For pleasure, maybe. Just because. Because he was nice. Hot. A good kisser. A good fucker, by all means. Attractive. Attentive. 

A small whimper escaped his mouth right after you grabbed his cock, a delicate touch to pump all of that glory because damn if your mind wasn’t fuzzy enough to create cringe anecdotes like Nora Roberts. The tip of your tongue touched his lower lip and he stared at you, then down at where you kept massaging him. Unashamed of his reactions, Benny moaned as an answer, moving his hips in motion with your hand. With a groan, he put one hand on the headboard to steady his body and, more precisely, give him the chance to play with your pussy. 

No, you were definitely not naive, not even esoteric enough - the pleasure you and he were feeling was purely carnal, coming from two people going to the right places at the right time to arouse the right feelings. Still, when Benny slipped two fingers inside of you effortlessly, it was like that feeling of being in something you barely remembered, of being able to lift your hips to make his fingers go deeper, to touch you more precisely, was the closest you got from a heavenly sensation.

You both moaned in unison against your own lips when you felt that hard-on shiver; you with the bending of his fingers inside you and him with the touch you made to the tip of his cock. He literally shivered, furrowed brows and a low groan escaping, as if you got him just right. 

“... Wanna suck you so bad, you know?” You panted against his cheek, making him hum. 

“Next time…” Benny whispered in a weak tone, not stopping his movements for a split second. “Next time you’ll swallow every drop, gatita*. Milk your throat all the way. Lemme just… Lemme fuck you, yeah? Wanna feel your pussy around me again.”

Trouble, your mind screamed, even if your body melted when he spreaded your thighs and pumped his fingers for just another moment before pulling your hand away from him. A fuckboy, you concluded, right when he put the second condom on with the precision of explicit practice, placing the palm of his hand on your chest to keep your body down and fully laid on the bed. 

Then he fucked you - entering all at once, without hesitation, and fucked you like hell. A good hell, full of his small whimpers and sweet voice cracks when he felt you squeeze his cock the right way. Deep, harsh thrusts that made you see stars, all the while with that small belly of his brushing your pubic area. To steady yourself, one of your hands grabbed his shoulder, while the other held his waist because fuck, you wanted more. Your nails sank on his skin, your body eager to have more, more, more… And he gave all he had. The force of his body, strength and energy, all modulated in the way Benny impaled you, one hand raising your thigh to have a better angle, just to go deeper. You bit his shoulder to prevent a high pitched moan - in retaliation, he sucked your neck. 

When you came, all you could do was drink the sensation while he sped up his hips to chase his own release. Even sensible, you couldn’t help but want more of that, the sound of the skin-on-skin too good to come to an end. 

“You don't want your son to hear what you're doing in the bedroom with me?” He murmured after a time, face buried on your shoulder after his orgasm. You snorted at it, hand brushing the nape of his neck. 

“I'll have to think of some treats for him after that.” 

------------------------

No one would tell anyone - nor Emma, or Nick, or any of the others. 

He left with a lingering kiss, a soft slap on your ass and a bit on your jaw. Said he would call or text; stay in touch. You didn’t believe it; thought it was one of those empty promises - Benny looked like the guy who could say that to any other girl just to not upset her or make it a thing.

You got it. 

------------------------

“Are you listening?”

“Mm?”

Emma sent you a look - a stern one. You both were resolving a situation involving another case, from other circumstances, but you couldn’t help but catch yourself with the tip of your fingers hovering your lips and blinking dumbly at her; distracted at best, zoning out at worst. 

“Really, what’s going on? What happened?”

Well, if you were being honest, really honest, she would be disappointed. You knew she would. At some point, Emma started to see you as a big ally, someone who could create limits and almost a friend. It was more like a responsibility. Instead of answering anything compromising, though, you rubbed the back of your neck, felt the still partially painful area of the mark hidden by the sleeve of your flannel shirt, and looked away.

“... Had to deal with some stuff this weekend. Sorry, my mind is kinda still there I guess,” You frowned, shaking your head lightly. 

“Huh.”

Emma wasn’t the Gil Grissom type - she could be really passive most of the time, but she used to wear her heart on her sleeves. There would always exist a face, a comment, a glance, a tone. And listen, you’d been working with her for years, you knew her better than she could imagine. It was obvious she was implying; hinting as if she didn’t like just the thought of any other distraction surrounding your personal life and making your job less than pleasant.

“... As I was saying, the prosecution asked for a survey of the photographic evidence of this case and I need you to consult it for me. This is dated in…” Emma opened the folder that she probably had left on your table when she came and checked the information with a pregnant pause. “1987.”

“Case reopening?”

“Yeah. Looks like they got a good hint and the judge signed the whole thing. Cold Cases need an expert to corroborate some evidence.”

“And they couldn't, I don't know, call one of my professors or someone really badass from Harvard?” 

“Why would they?”

“It’s from 1987, Emma. Decades. I don't have half the experience an academic could have for this.”

She gave you another one of those looks - of disapproval. Probably because you had a good point, but mostly because you were going against her decision. Being honest, with all the financial situation around the LASD and the clear preference towards LAPD conquest during the recent years, Cold Cases (from all the other Departments) wouldn’t be in the front line for the best resources. Perhaps the photos were the less important thing about this case. 

“You have a library of science books right behind you and your degree as a resource. Unless you faked it all?” She teased, half serious about keeping you on a straight line about power balances. 

“... No.” You said, defeated. 

“So we don’t have problems.” 

“What about Nick?”

“What about him?”

“Well, it will take time. I’ll need to reschedule a lot of jobs here, including what I’m doing in his case. ”

You knew that, at some instance, Emma and Nick might have been more intolerant towards each other; they’d entered the Department almost together, and knew one another from school times. Maybe that was the reason why most of those dirty looks were directed to him - always using the privilege of being an ‘old friend’ even if they stopped truly talking way too long ago - or because he really didn’t make the effort to be malleable, easy. 

She also had an opinion on what he used to do, his methods - Nick's stuff. She wasn’t happy about it, nor a touch dedicated to the idea of talking with you again, about God knows what, in favor of helping O’Brien. It could go for the other guys, with the fact that they were related to the bad sides of the man.

All that being said, you knew that, in the end, Emma could make an effort to give the consulting to somebody else, argue about how forensic science viewed five or six years as if they were the earliest periods of a career, as a newborn professional. It could ruin the Department's reputation if it was too public a case; you would be humiliated in court.

Still, she held that confident expression, sure of herself. In fact, Emma did something that she knew how to do very well and that you hated: she just ignored the consequences.

“Don’t worry about him.”

And as always, you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose in another unsuccessful try to just make her… sane. Differently from Gil Grissom, sometimes that heart of her was really spilling out of her sleeves. 

“I just don’t want this responsibility. If this is what’s gonna be-”

“It is.”

“Then you give him the terms. I’m off this discussion.”

She measured you, considered your words with care; probably cursed again for having such a smart mouth inside her Department. Your mother always said this could give you hell sometimes. 

“... Do your job.”

With a small gesture, Emma left the lab with firm and irritated steps. 

------------------------

By ‘doing your job’, she meant taking the said job home. You passed by the Cold Cases floor, caught a talk with one of the detectives involved (Marshall Ballard, a considerable old school) and got three files of evidence - they had another specialist on it, doctor’s degree and all, but the case had something to do with people full of money. Big, traditional family. The type who would be able to reopen a 1987’ crime.

“Just to be sure.”

And honestly, while eyeing the thing during lunch, you could see it wasn’t something out of ordinary. You did frowned once or twice, even muttered a small ‘the fuck’ because damn if the people back then had a weird taste for furnitures. 

“Thinking of redecorating?” 

Benny asked it closer to your ear, enough to make you jump in your seat. When you turned your head, he was grinning, already taking his place beside you and looking at the photos splayed all over the table. For some reason, you put the chopsticks into your bowl of thin rice noodles and looked around the break room.

“Cut it out,” He said, not taking his eyes off the files and even taking one of the photos to look closely. “It’ll hurt your neck.”

“Don’t want anyone to speculate.” 

“Speculate what?” Feigning innocence, Benny raised his head and looked at you with a confused expression. “Takes more than small talk for people to assume we fucked.”

“Of course it does.”

You got back to your lunch, poking the food nonchalantly and not giving him another glance. He shifted a little on his seat, as if to grab your attention - you kept the façade some more, chewing carefully or just touching the photos some more, very focused on making him squirm.

“... What’s that supposed to mean?” Benny broked first, his forearm appearing on your peripheral. 

“Mm?” Brows raised, you were the one looking at him with a fake confusion expression this time. 

“You sounded sarcastic.”

“Because I was being sarcastic,” You said. “Where have you been for the last five months?”

“Oh.” Getting your clue, he nodded his head a few times, then did a check around the room himself before leaning closer. “If I pretend we’re working on something, you’ll act natural with me?”

“I’m not acting natural?”

“You’re ready to run away from here.”

“Well, I already had my fair share with this type of gossip here. Peace would be very appreciated.” 

You didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but it came so spontaneously that it took you a time to notice your own tone. Suddenly, you were visibly impulsive and he looked apologetic - both ready to apologize. Before you could manage something to say, or the mentioned apology, you two heard Lennon getting in with a few other agents, making Benny look behind your back before avoiding his gaze. 

“I thought the Major Crimes had a special break room and shit,” Your colleague teased, enough to make Magalon clench his jaw. “What is he doing here? Inspecting your work?”

“Are you inspecting her work?”

The way the detective came up with such a defensive answer made you snap your eyes at his profile since he was looking Lennon up. You cringed at how the agent scoffed, because it seemed like a surprise to see them both so… Tense towards each other. 

“Just making sure she at least can have her lunch alone.” 

When his hand touched your shoulder in an amicable way, Benny’s eyes drifted straight at the action, as if measuring the way Lennon pressed his fingers there. Well, at first you didn’t notice it as something, but that hand caressed your back and you saw Magalon gazing between you both. 

“I don’t… mind the company, in fact. You know I like to show off sometimes.”

“Sure thing. Just don’t get too used to being around Major Crimes, you know. Some of us can get jealous.”

For those who weren’t used to Lennon's personality, he could be very annoying or even too much of a tease. You didn’t know at what instance that relation with Magalon fell into, but you knew for sure that they both shared a stern glance before your colleague went away. 

Benny side eyed you, the photos… 

He left without a word, without even caring if someone had won that subtle bickering. You were looking at his back retreating away when Lennon said that Magalon wasn’t the worst of them. 

------------------------

“When will the preliminary trial be?” 

“Already happened,” You saw Emma nodding her head. “By the looks of it, they'll have a couple more months of investigation. Being optimistic, of course.” 

“And being pessimistic?”

“A year.” 

Emma nodded again, but this time she sipped on her coffee nonchalantly while leaning against the elevator wall. You could sense her observing the place, as if ready to say something but not knowing how. Even then, you tried not to indulge. 

“Ballard has good instincts, I think he got this.”

“If you say so,” You gave her a side glance. “Perhaps that’s a detective trick I’m unaware of.” 

“I doubt you would be unaware of anything.”

“You would be surprised.” 

It happened a week after the beginning of that day - you seemed and felt tired, unfolding between a parallel case that arose (involving LAPD) and consulting at Cold Cases. If you could think about anything between this, including your considerable intercourse with Benny, you probably wouldn’t feel so stressed or on edge. You weren’t expecting anything - still, looking at Emma’s face gave you the assurance that things would just get worse. 

“I'm finding O'Brien strangely silent.” She said after a long beat of silence, eyeing you upside down. “Any news?”

“No.”

Which was true. After his discreet discovery of the photos, he became distant, as if the case had closed down on issues that didn't involve you. It was a relief.

“Did you tell him about my situation?”

“It’s not like I owe him any explanation,” Emma defended. “But no. Which is weird, he seems to appreciate your efforts a lot.”

Her voice had a lot of that venom, but not enough for you to take it personal. Well, most of the things she or anyone would say to you there should be taken personal, but Emma was Emma, so you knew she used that tone for the sake of proving a point: that Nick was one of a kind. A bitch kind. 

“... Efforts seems to be too specific a word.”

“What would you use?”

“Patience. Or the lack of it.”

She smiled - truly smiled. Which was rare when the topic of the conversation was Nick. Sometimes she would smile for whole different reasons (specially the ones when he made a slight mistake and got reprimanded because of it), but never for a funny snarky comment about his mannerisms. Humored or not, Emma didn’t like to give him any kind of space, even when he wasn’t close. 

“I still have the feeling something is coming our way.” She added with a sour face, eyes on the panel right above your heads. 

It caught you by surprise, so you didn’t hide the shock. With a shrug, she watched the doors opening and held them for you to pass by. 

“Why would it come our way?” You asked when Emma started to walk away to her office, loud enough for the women to listen. She turned, brows raised, then came closer enough to keep it… low.

“Because you were right. Maybe 'efforts' isn't really the right word.”

------------------------

You stared at the woman with seriousness, camera between your fingers while you waited for Mark, the doctor in charge, to finish the explanations of the injuries. You would nod your head every now and then, even if the words didn't make any sense in your head - Isla Clark, 25, mother of two and with two feet deep into drug traffic shit couldn’t look at anyone in the room. 

Different from the first informant, the one who died, she seemed to have some personal motives that involved the children's father, but you didn’t enter in detail because of the circumstances. She had been in close contact with the police since the Long Beach homicides and-No, not with the police. With Nick. She was Nick's informant. For over two years.

Glancing at the doorway, you saw him there, watching with a blank face and crossed arms. Isla averted her gaze when she noticed, eyeing her own wrist handcuffed to the gurney. 

Back then, when the first person died and Nick almost took you out of your divorce audience, he mentioned something about you being able to handle it. From all the mentors you’ve had through your life, from your father to teachers to professors to… Emma, per se, everyone had one thing to say: you knew how to handle any shit. If you felt bad at certain types of cases, if you cried because of them, no one ever knew, probably because it almost never happened. 

With Isla, you didn’t feel sad - you were angry. Angry with Nick, because he was being careless and clearly obsessed with one more moment of glory. She had dropped the kids off at school when she took a lucky shot in the leg and an even more miraculous one in the side of her neck. 

“Well, okay. I'm going to need you to leave so I can take the pictures privately.” 

From the cops inside the room to the nurses and the doctor, you saw from your peripheral vision that everyone left. You stood there, beside the gurney, taking the equipment with care and a passive patience - for the sake of that fucking moment. 

“You too, Nick.”

“Me?” He asked as if it wasn’t obvious. 

“I wouldn't ask for privacy if I was going to leave you there watching everything.”

Beside him, you could see Benny too. He measured your stern expression and averted his gaze to the floor, murmuring something about grabbing coffee or talking with the witnesses. With hesitancy, O’Brien retrieved himself, but not before glancing at Isla one last time - the air was suddenly different… not in a regular way, tho. 

Huh. 

“I'm going to need to photograph all the wounds, is that okay?”

She nodded. 

“If it hurts somewhere, let me know.”

Again, a nod. 

Back in college, during your time as an intern, you saw similar cases, and it used to be the same way every time. The women, most often young, with an empty and detached look, who did not allow herself to be observed without feeling ashamed. You hated the feeling. Even though Isla wasn't in that parameter, the perception you had was that she could easily blend into this type of tragedy. 

You didn’t say anything more than small excuses or apologies when she hissed at the accidental touch in a sensitive area. This lasted half an hour.

“We’re done,” You announced, hands gripping the camera strap. 

“Mm-hm.”

Well, looking now, pretty closely, she really looked like… 

Huh. 

Without another word, you grabbed your stuff and left, just in time to see Nick and Benny looking curiously in your direction. If they knew you were mad, you couldn’t tell - by the time you started to walk away through the corridor, though, you’d heard them following your steps. 

“What do you think?” O’Brien asked by your left side.  

“I take it you already talked with Dr. Mark?” You answered, feet fast and tone obnoxious. 

“Perhaps you have another opinion.”

“He’s a doctor, I’m forensics. Nothing I can say right now could doubt his diagnosis. If you want a conclusive result, I’ll tell you exactly what he said: Isla had two close range shootings.” 

You heard O’Brien’s sigh with every word, as if he was being tortured with the idea of Isla being there, almost unalive, without a chance to be back in the game. For some reason, that made you even more angry. 

“When you think ballistics will-”

“It's becoming a trail of blood, Nick.” You couldn’t even recognize your tone, nor the way you stared right at his face. Everyone stopped abruptly, you staring at O’Brien and Benny beside the scene, watching. “Don’t expect me to have good updates about your leadership when they take the case from you.”

“Listen, you don’t-”

“No, you listen! You fucking listen, O’Brien, there’s a huge difference between free violence from drug gangs and you being incompetent. It's people's lives at stake here.” There was a finger pointed to his chest. 

You could feel Benny getting closer, sense the 6’1 of pure annoyance radiating from Nick’s and going straight at you. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said through gritted teeth. 

“So explain to me. Go on, Nick, tell me I’m seeing another person here in less than three months.” You lowered your voice just enough to make him retrieve. “And you better have a good answer because you’re not giving me the best expectations here.”

“I don’t owe you any explanation.”

“... No, you don’t.”

The smile you gave him was bitter, full of sarcasm and a particular rage. 

“That’s all you are, a cop without rules to follow or explanations to give. That's how people perceive guys like you and the… I don't know, Merrimen, you're so alike. I bet if you put your record side by side, just like that…” You raised your open palms in front of his face, putting them side by side. “The only difference would be the fucking badge.”

With that, you passed by him - purposely bumping into his body - and headed out of that corridor. If you saw Benny preventing himself from going after you, it didn’t matter. You were so fucking pissed. 

------------------------

You couldn’t sleep that night; didn’t for the next two or three days. No one mentioned the episode in the corridor and you suspected that if Emma knew about it, she decided not to make it a big deal. She gave you a way-too-long tap on the shoulder the day after - the closer you got to know that she knew, like a ‘told you so’. 

The guys avoided you as much as they could - taking Nick’s side, probably. Just as the beginning, the only person you didn’t see was Benny, but you tried not to think about him as well, aware of the fact that you had fun, the type that could create bounds not so strong than what he used to have with his fucking boss. 

“You look like trash.”

It took you by surprise, his sudden appearance in the parking lot. You were in the middle of another shift, dark circles under your eyes and physically tired, so the comment had no effect on your condition. You raised your eyebrows, shrugged.

“I look how I feel.”

Benny nodded. 

“Taking work home?” He pointed at the files below your arm.

“... Something like that.” It was your turn to nod. “Just double-checking, you know?”

“Got it.”

For a moment, no one said anything. You thought he would put an end to the conversation, go back to wherever he was going, so you opened the back door of your car to organize your things there. Imagine your surprise, when, out of nowhere, Benny materialized by your side and held the door firmly with his hand. 

“Did you have lunch yet?”

“What?”

“Lunch. I’m half sure that that Greek restaurant is open mid-day.”

If you had it in you, the first question that would come out would be ‘why would I want to have lunch with you?’, but given the circumstances, all you did was stare at those dark orbits staring fiercely at your face. 

“You’re not the one who owes me an expensive meal, Benny.” You rolled your eyes, a small smirk playing on your lips.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t dare to touch that nerve. Consider this a… gift. From friend to friend,” He gestured between you two with a smile plastered on his face. “What do you think?” 

You could say no - maybe you should. All things considered, you were tired, not in the mood and conscious of the fact that you weren’t on good terms with Nick to go fraternize with Benny like that. But hey, Benny wasn’t Nick, right? He was… Benicio. And if you remembered right, you two fraternized pretty well not so long before. 

“You’ll pay.”

“Sure thing, gatita.”

While walking with him to his car, you considered that a bad idea again. Benny was quiet and having enough common sense, he didn’t try to bring up any topic - nor the thing with Isla, or the thing with you. He wasn’t one to curse the traffic or talk about the weather just for small talk; when you both noticed that the said restaurant didn’t, in fact, open mid-day, it led to a small number of curses and a firm apology. 

“There’s a Burger King not so far away from here.”

Which led, then, to the comfortable scene you set yourself in: both you and Benny sat on the bench of a park, both of your legs crossed and body turned to him. Again, no one really talked - you shared the fries and the only moment of true interaction came when he grabbed your fingers playfully once and that was it for quite some time. You wouldn’t admit out loud, but the idea of being there, away from all of that crisis and stress and crazy work hours… It calmed you. 

The questions never stopped inside your head, though. You should expect a reaction from him, something related to the way you spitted Nick’s incompetence on his face. For you, Major Crimes had that type of bond, camaraderie, the protectiveness you saw on the other guys; it made you wonder how Magalon positioned himself in the middle of it all unconsciously. 

So you surrendered to your inner desires: you said something about it. 

“When I said Nick was incompetent…” You offered. “I wasn’t talking about you or any of the other guys.”

When Benny turned to you with a frown, no longer holding that relaxed expression on his face, you regretted ever mentioning the situation. Ashamed, you lowered your eyes to the half empty cup of diet soda in your hands. 

“I didn’t think you were.” You saw him getting closer just a touch, enough to make himself seen. That was probably a mannerism of his. 

“The others disagree.”

“Who are the others?”

“Well, the guys,” He snorted at your statement, so you raised your head and saw him with nothing but amusement on his face. “What?”

“You say it like we’re a pack or something.”

“You are not?” The teasing in your tone didn’t pass unnoticed by him, which made you smirk. 

“I’m not willing to accept this title.”

A pregnant silence followed the small laughs you two shared, so when the moment died, you stared away, watching the people around the park and feeling the shame start to settle in your guts. 

“... Nick is pissed.” Benny got your attention abruptly. He shrugged at your raised eyebrows and surprised expression. “I try not to… You know, interfere a lot.”

“You would be in your right if you did. He’s your buddy.”

“But we both know it’s better to pretend than to start an argument with the guy,” He stated, measuring you up and down. “Or just one of us.”

Instead of giving him a smart answer as you planned, you just turned your eyes back to the park, sipping on the soda to avoid his intense gaze. Those motherfuckin eyes.

“Did you know her? Like, in person?” 

Benny didn’t say anything right away, not until you looked at him. 

“Saw her in pictures once, then at the hospital. It’s Nick’s stuff.”

“You all have this?”

“This what?”

“Stuff. Specific informants or whatever.”

“It’s what makes every detective, basically. People from your childhood neighborhood, old friends from school or first jobs… Nothing odd,” He shook his head. “It bothered you?”

You sighed, thinking and reconsidering before expressing exactly what gave you the strength to react like that back then. It was like having a big warning sign in front of your eyes or Emma’s voice alerting of the drama it could cause if you told Benny. 

Fuck it. 

“Isla looks like Debbie. A lot.”

Magalon tilted his head to the side, studying your hesitant expression. You couldn’t read right away what he was looking for or what this information did to his mind, but then you saw him biting his bottom lip to prevent a smile. 

“Fuck, you really are smart.” 

You frowned. 

“Wha-What do you mean?”

“Did she tell you something? Or you just connected the dots?” He pressed. “I’m sure you did it all by yourself, seems like your type.”

“Benny, what the fuck?”

“... Nick is fucking her. Or was, I don’t know anymore.”

It came like that, easy like… like something easy. You blinked dumbly at him, waited for the guy to laugh it off, say it was a joke, but nothing came. 

“... And this is… not odd? For detectives?” 

“Depends on the detective. I don’t know exactly what made them start this, but we found out one day and it all started to leave us on edge. It was… weird.” 

Perhaps Emma knew, it could explain her behavior on the elevator the other day. Perhaps, going even more deep, Nick was doing it before divorcing Debbie officially, which showed you a considerably different version of the guy, one that made you frown because of obvious personal reasons. Well, you weren’t dumb - you knew about their escapades, the strip clubs, the drugs (at a safe distance), things that were already a statement towards certain cops around the Department. From your point of view, you wondered how much of this stuff Debbie dealt until finally finding out about Isla, if that was the case. 

And honestly, you didn’t even need a proper answer - Benny had this contemplative ugly face, staring at his own feet. 

“So Nick is pissed because I told him he’s the dick we all know he is?”

“Well, he’s not an exception in this line of work. He’s the rule.” 

“And you include yourself in it?”

There wasn’t hesitation in his answer. 

“I do.” 

------------------------

Taglist (no pressure)

@cheesybadgers 

@thesandbeneathmytoes​

@nerdyreaderpapi

@thoroughlymodernminutia​

@the-hinky-panda​

@mysoulisasunflower​

#benny borracho magalon #benny magalon x reader #benny borracho magalon x reader #den of thieves #den of thieves fic #maurice compte #female reader

[bagelvangr]

releasing my sketches into the wild as mentioned

they don't like being interrupted when they've retired to their chambers, so whatever this is better be important 😤

↓

this is probably the roughest one, oof

my first ever attempt at drawing Eivor and Randvi.

No idea what I was doing back then. I hadn't consistently drawn for......... more years than I care to divulge, and yet I immediately dived in without establishing a style, with no studies, no attempt to understand their characteristics, clothes, build, etc. lolol

Just purely trying to remember them from my dumb gay brain because they had invaded my entire thinking capacity and never left

where better to start than the first ever drawing though 🤷

#oof this was so long ago #I think I was barely into the Ledecestre arc #oh sweet little bagel you knew nothing back then #randivor #randvi #eivor #eivor x randvi #randvi x eivor #eivor wolfkissed #eivor varinsdóttir #eivor varinsdottir #ac valhalla #ac: valhalla #assassin's creed valhalla #assassins creed valhalla #some could argue I still haven't established a style to this day #it's me I'm 'some'

[sportsthoughts]

Pair him up with tristan and have some love triangle drama with kris and tristan

Anon, I love this. For believability (lol) I feel like there would have to be some sort of forced team bonding activity to get Jarry and Bunting into the same space - otherwise our mean girl Jars is not socialising with the new kid, thank you very much. Maybe Bunting moves to a place near Jarry's house and Sid leans on Kris/Jarry (established pair obviously) to carpool with him so he feels welcome. Kris gives into Sid (duh) and Bunting gets shoved in the backseat of their car to and from the rink and Jarry is just evil eyeing him in the mirror the whole time. Kris actually starts warming to the new guy, mostly because he's really enjoying the reaction it gets out of Jars OR as i'm writing this my brain was invaded by a more interesting a/b/o scenario where all the alphas on the team are At Capacity and Sid simply cannot take on a new omega after Jake (broken heart etc.) so Kris just has to take the new guy under his wing and Jarry throws the mother of all hissy fits because WHY should he have to share. Then they both go into heat at the same time and

#ask away #michael bunting

[mywifeleftme]

321: The The // Soul Mining

Soul Mining The The 1983, Epic

I’d hazard Soul Mining is the only The The album most people have heard and, while it amply demonstrates definite article Matt Johnson’s capacity for genuine brilliance, I think that’s generally fine. The others have their interest, but Soul Mining is the only time Johnson consistently limits his compulsion to wallow in baroque self-loathing to the lyrical arena. Though the words frequently sound like the prequel to My Twisted World: The Story of Elliot Rodger (“You’ve been a ‘PROSTITUTE TO HUMILITY’ / She’s invaded your life and you’ve got to live apart / In order to SURVIVE”), the music has an irrepressible vibrancy to it, its cutting-edge for ’83 electronic beats garlanded with unexpected touches of accordion, fiddle, xylimba and more. It’s the juxtaposition that gives Soul Mining its immense charm, the fact that its form and content frequently don’t align, the sense of a man working on music for people to dance and make love to despite his brain’s persistent efforts to eat itself alive.

Soul Mining is defined by its singles, “This is the Day” and “Uncertain Smile,” two of the greatest of the ‘80s, of all time in fact. “This is the Day” is about nothing less than those hinge points in life where something inside you shifts, and you know that things are going to be different, even if the full ramifications of that change may take years to come into focus—a song of such tender empathy that just listening to it can be enough to bring one of those shifts on from the deep place it lay, waiting for a sign. “Uncertain Smile” also places its finger directly on an ineffable, almost inexpressible sensation, the uncertain moment when an emotional block inside has begun to thaw, and a feeling that’s been absent so long you’ve forgotten its name returns. The album version climaxes with a bravura piano solo from former Squeeze Jools Holland that would get my vote for the instrument’s finest moment on a pop song.

Of the rest, the song that comes closest to these peaks is the near-ten-minute closer “Giant,” a simmering 12”-single style head-nodder that rides one nasty bass synth lick, gradually layering on tricky, interlocking analog and synth rhythms. Johnson famously didn’t have a sequencer at the time, meaning he played a lot of the album’s “loops” manually, and the hands-on approach means he’s constantly switching up his patterns in a way you don’t always consciously register. Two-thirds of the way through he drops everything out for a while to let former Orange Juice drummer Zeke Manyika take an extended drum solo—when he finally brings everything back up a few minutes later I want to throw shit around I’m so hyped. Johnson intended it to close the record, but much to his ire international versions of the record (like my Canadian pressing) tack on contemporaneous single “Perfect.” A pop gem somewhat in the vein of “This is the Day,” it makes for an amazing cooldown from the last few tracks of clattering psychic angst, and the album’s lesser without it—it’s one of Johnson’s best.

321/365

#the the #matt johnson #this is the day #uncertain smile #jools holland #'80s music #art pop #synth pop #post punk #new wave #electronic music #vinyl record #music review #zeke manyika

[allzelemonz]

Fog: Eobard Thawne X Gender Neutral Reader

Request came from the Kinktober stuff I did. I was intending on making this a smut, but I just didn't have the mind for it. I'm sure I'll write some spicy OG Eobard stuff at some point.

Something’s wrong.

It’s been a long time since you’ve woken up to the smell of breakfast foods wafting in the air. Years now, traveling with the Legends, not a single one of them made any kind of food that could possibly float all the way to invade your senses in your room. That doubt is cleared up when you open your eyes, but you are all the more confused.

These aren’t your sheets. That’s not your pillow. This is not your bed.

Not for a while at least.

Eobard Thawne, you little speedy shit.

When you pull the covers from yourself you see yet another something out of place. That’s not your T-shirt. It’s yellow and has a rather familiar lightning symbol on the chest. As much as you’d love to parade around with your boyfriend’s logo, it’s just not the best thing to do when you live with his enemies on the Waverider.

Before your feet can touch the floor there’s a flash of red lightning and you’re back in bed again, covers tucked in, and a note sitting on your chest. A yellow sticky note. Wow. No telling who wrote this.

The note simply reads ‘can’t have you spoiling the surprise’ which leaves you more confused than before. Did Eobard speed you off the Waverider and back to his latest hideout? Did you just have a night not to be remembered?

You’re answered relatively quickly when you notice what sits on your bedside table.

A ring.

Eobard didn’t just steal you away for a night. Whatever this is, it’s long term.

The sight of Eobard standing in the doorway takes your mind away from the racing thoughts in an almost mystical way.

The Spear.

“You used the Spear on me?”

“More so your team, all I did to you was…” He smirks a bit and gestures to your attire and location. “Never seen a better sight.”

Eobard with his blond hair and the smile that could go from sweet to sinister and back again in seconds is never a bad sight, but your concerns are too big to ignore. Even with that face staring back at you.

“Where’s my team?”

“Alive, passive torture, nothing too big.”

“What, did you make them servants?”

“Kind of.” He nods. “Breakfast?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I made different eggs, there’s different breads, you have a lot of choices.”

“Funny.”

You stand and follow Eobard to the table where, as he said, there is a multitude of choices for food. Eobard has a smile on his face that shows how happy he is with himself. The Legion probably has everything they could ever want.

But there’s something wrong. Your brain is foggy. It’s like the more time you spend with Eobard, the less capacity your mind has to remember all the things about the Legion and the Legends. Just a minute ago you could remember things like the layout of the waverider, Ray’s morning routine, and Nate’s annoying song choices. But those memories are fading. Where the med-bay is, Ray’s fluff time for his hair, and Nate’s dumb little dances are slipping away.

But you distinctly remember every interaction you’ve had with Eobard. The settings are fading though. Some details make you think the meeting took place on the Waverider, but everything else tells you it happened at Jitters.

“Did you give me fake memories?”

Your hand had absentmindedly gripped onto one of the chairs and your knuckles are now turning white. There’s a foggy shadow that blurs over your vision on the Waverider. You can’t clearly picture anything anymore. That AI’s voice begins to fade. You can’t even remember its name.

“I did.” He admits. “They shouldn’t be changing much. Just a fake wedding and a few little things that I wanted to do, but never got the chance with you on the Waverider.”

“The what?” You ask.

Eobard quirks an eyebrow. “The Waverider. The time travel ship.”

“I can’t-” You clutch your head as your knees give out.

Eobard catches you before you hit the ground. He presses a hand to your forehead and you can faintly see his eyebrows narrow. In an instant you’re back in the bed and Eobard is gone.

Your brain continues to fill with fog. Names slip away from you more and more. You can remember a woman, blonde with blue eyes, but her name escapes you. There’s vague memories of a room, the posters are solid but the walls they’re pinned on are unclear.

You sit up, unsure of what’s eating away at your brain. All you can recall is Eobard waking you up for breakfast like he does every morning. Where did he go, he’s never one to miss breakfast.

#eobard thawne x gender neutral reader #eobard thawne x reader #eobard thawne #x reader #x gender neutral reader #x male reader #x female reader #the reverse flash x reader #reverse flash x reader #flash #dc legends of tomorrow #legends of tomorrow x male reader #legends of tomorrow x reader #legends of tomorrow

[deerydear]

Psychosis and Personal Mythology, by Rory Neirin Higgs

Following the rise of the biogenetic model of psychosis, psychiatric doctrine has held that the cluster of experiences so-encompassed – voices, visions, unusual beliefs, and other non-standard modes of perception – are little more than chemical noise, devoid of any real meaning or relationship to a person’s life. Many clinicians maintain that encouraging patients to talk or even think about the content of their psychosis feeds an illness that should be starved, constructing psychosis as a kind of malignancy that invades and cannibalizes the afflicted’s senses. But this explanation doesn’t always fit comfortably to the contours of lived experience. Since my own diagnosis, I have come to think of my psychosis (or, as I have sometimes preferred, “personal mythology”) not as a disease that hollowed out my capacity for self-knowledge, but as a strange and lovely cipher.

For me, the grain from which voices, visions, and unusual beliefs take root is typically an inner impulse that I am not yet able to address directly. I am confronted with a reality that is too threatening or confusing to assimilate into my conventional belief system, and the thematic kernel of it finds other ways to communicate itself. For instance, while reflecting on an instance of childhood abuse, I recently found myself wondering whether there was something inherently wrong with me that could have provoked it. Unable to sit still with the possibility that others chose to harm me of their own volition, my thoughts paced towards alternative explanations: perhaps, as a child, some kind of mind control beacon was implanted in my brain that caused people to mistreat me despite their best efforts? On its face, this is an impossible contortion of logic. But in that moment, it was the only way I could translate my feelings of self-blame and denial about the cruelty of other people into a tolerable narrative about my life. Once I calmed down, I was able to reassess this belief – but made note of the autobiographical information woven into it, in the threads of insecurity, shame, and betrayal.

Traumatologists maintain that a central characteristic of traumatic memory is that it is incompletely processed and integrated – more of a gallery of disjointed images than a coherent narrative. Accordingly, research suggests that traumatized people are less able to articulate our experiences verbally. If ordinary life events are remembered, it may be more appropriate to say that traumatic ones are dismembered. To draw again from personal experience: some months ago, I decided to start talking to others about an abusive relationship I had been in, spanning several years. I was stymied by the realization that I didn’t know where to start. There was no beginning or end to what I could remember, no backbone of “and this is why it all happened” to bind the story together. I found myself with only scattered vignettes that I struggled to gather into a legible shape, like crushed glass rendered from what must have once been an ornate cathedral window.

It wasn’t long before peculiar beliefs began their restless turning over in my skull. In the past, these beliefs – or delusions – had grown rampantly where they sprouted, elaborating into something vast and sprawling faster than I could prune them. This time, they merely flashed through me, like the spark of some secret metabolism. I’ve learned that this reflex to mythologize is how I come to tell my formless stories. Literary trauma theory has investigated the idea that both autobiographical and fictionalized life-writing are a way of synthesizing meaning from traumatic debris, and psychiatry itself has employed related clinical practices, particularly during its psychoanalytic heyday. Delusion, I would argue, behaves similarly. It pulls symbolic and exaggerated elements into the orbit of an essential truth in order to describe its gravity. In storytelling about my life – even or perhaps especially in this abstract, subconscious form – I am drawing maps between memories, across the black and foaming gulf that would strand them.

The emerging field of narrative therapy has similarly embraced the power of storytelling. Narrative therapy holds that the stories we internalize about ourselves inform how we interact with the world, and that exploring the origin and significance of these stories can guide us in establishing new ways of thinking. Likewise, cognitive psychology has suggested that memory is not a photographic but a constructive process, involving the incorporation of our preexisting ideas – or narratives – about the world, and that recounting events to others helps us to recall information about them later on. To me, this again demonstrates the importance of storytelling in organizing memory. Perhaps, for those of us who have never had the opportunity to tell our stories in our own words, who have become accustomed to the grisly work of dis-membering, the personal mythology of delusion offers a sanctuary: a domain in which we are free to speak about our injuries without the intrusion of outside perspectives. Society cannot or will not follow us into this magical-metaphoric thicket. Here, we are free to imagine and reimagine our experiences in ways that would otherwise be forbidden to us.

I think of the stories I told, glossolalic, through my psychosis. I think of how documenting this mythopoetic otherworld was, for me, a kind of testimony, laying claim to my role as author and narrator of my past. And I think of how psychiatry’s response of enforced silence and forgetting only intensified my need for meaning-making – how urgent it became to excavate the things I had interred. Psychologists have observed that the content of an individual’s psychosis is often related to past experiences, but I would take this conclusion a step further. My voices, visions and beliefs have been not only a distorted reflection of life, but their own vital truth, running parallel and symbiotic to my “sane” understanding of the world. I am re-membering the past, now, returning the red and beating soul to the sterile, lifeless history I had cleaved from it. I no longer hold the beliefs that characterized my psychosis as literal truth. But I have great respect for the stories I have told, and will continue to tell.

#citations in article #psychology #psychosis #schizophrenia #mental illness #trauma #abuse

[dxncingxqueen]

GET TO KNOW YOUR ADMIN !!

name — I'm Jay!

pronouns — she/her!

preferred comms — Discord IMs are the most efficient for me! You can also invade my inbox because I check that daily as well

name of muse — Nayako 'Naya' Hayashi!

experience in RP — I first really started roleplaying on Amino (shocking, I know), which then migrated to enclosed rping with one of my close friends until I got to tumblr arroouuunndd 2019-2020?? I think??

best experiences — I think my best experiences can be traced back to when I had Ruby Rose from RWBY as a muse, probably because she's the only canon muse I've had to date hfifgifgf, but I made a lot of really chill friends in that rpc!

pet peeves / dealbreakers — I don't have that many- they're less pet peeves and more what intimidates me, but if I had to say I guess grammar?? Walls of text and uhhhhhh general standoffishness as a mun I guess idk

muse preference ( fluff, angst, smut ) — I really like writing all three, it gives me good writing practice! It's also fun to explore how my different muses would react to certain situations. It's fun!

plot or memes — Memes, please. I do not have the brain capacity to sit down and plot something, I've tried, I'm just not capable kfjuheifguy

long or short replies — Depend on the type of thread honestly fjhufguyfg, if it's not a crack or silly thread, I'd prefer at least two paragraphs

best time to write — Any time is fine with me! I'm here all the time!

are you like your muse — In so many ways dkuieudfhfid I'm incredinly awkward to people irl and I have zero social skills lmfao

tagging: STEAL IT!!!!

#;dash games

[a-witch-in-endor]

I mean, depends on if those aliens treated me well, gave me a really large enclosure that allowed me to go outside and roam a bit like how they do in some zoos, and provided me the enrichment and stimulation my brain and body desperately needed. If so, I might be cool with it. But the thing is, humans are way harder to properly satisfy in terms enrichment and mental stimulation than many other animals. Not because animals are stupid, but because we just have a way bigger brain capacity. It's hard to compare a cat to an adult human or older teenager, because humans and cats are just on vastly different levels intellectually and how they interpret the world is different enough that we can't really put how *we* would feel about long term captivity and assign it to how cats do. Anthropomorpism is highly discouraged in science because it has notoriously led to bad judgement calls and prevents us from understanding what's actually true. Also, it would depend on whether someone just plucked me up off the street or I was born in captivity - and still treated well - in which case a person's view would likely be radically different.

Plus, we already do keep some people predominately inside, like in nursing homes. Which can suck, yes, especially if their caretakers are bad at their jobs, overworked, or don't like engaging with them, but is it an inherently a bad, unethical idea even if we properly provide for their physical and mental needs and if so we have to ask what are workable alternatives for people who need long term care - or containment, because shitty as prisons can be and as shitty as the justice system can be throwing in people who don't deserve it, there really are some people like serial killers who can't be allowed to move freely if we don't want them killing more people. Not that cats need jail, that was just a human example of people who we irl keep indoors. But many cats, like elderly ones and ones with medical issues that make it unlikely they'd survive in the wild do have analogous human living situations.

(Context: I said I think cat-toddler comparison is logically poor, but I'm not actually interested in the indoor/outdoor debate or telling you to go freeing all the hamsters. Alien anon responded earlier to say that if the world was invaded by aliens and they had been bopped on the head and couldn't understand it, they would be okay with being kept in captivity as long as it was comfortable. I responded by saying that cats understand danger just fine, and also said big yikes to the idea of being okay with human captivity.) I'm gonna be honest, anon, this is off-the-wall to me.

Yep, humans and animals are different, and also animals are different to one another. That was my basic premise and the reason I didn't like the cat-toddler comparison, so we're on the same page there.

You're saying you would be okay with being in captivity if you didn't know any better, but outside any comparisons to animals, that might be okay for you, but surely you wouldn't argue that it's morally neutral?

If you want to make those comparisons between animals and humans, then they fall apart pretty quickly: 3. a. Comparison to humans who require care. We don't put people in situations of care against their will unless they're actually unable to make choices and look after themselves. (Or, at least, we shouldn't do that.) This might be comparable to some breeds of dog who've been messed up by human intervention, but since we're talking about cats: domestication hasn't changed them enough for experts to reliably tell the difference between their version of wildcat and the "domesticated" versions. They can look after themselves. We're not doing them some huge favour or in a position with no alternatives. 3. b. Comparison to prisons. Society is generally okay with keeping some people in captivity who would otherwise be dangerous. We also keep a whole bunch of people in captivity who aren't dangerous but broke rules and we think it's a convenient way to deal with them, and I think that's morally reprehensible. Regarding the comparison to animals, there's really nothing to say on cats... unless you mean they're bad for the local fauna, in which case, maybe the better option is to stop breeding them like crazy in environments that aren't used to them? (FYI, the UK environment is used to outdoor cats. America, as I understand it, is not.) I guess you could say tigers are dangerous to people, but we also have the option of conserving areas of land for them to live instead of putting them in cages in zoos. We might keep them in zoos for other reasons (trying to nurse them back to health or away from extinction, for example), but "to keep people safe" isn't really part of that equation in any meaningful way.

#the cat toddler debate #please just block this tag if you're hating this

[reiding-writing]

Hey can i ask for cold!Reader where someone calls her heartless and stuff like that, cuz u know, she has that reputation, and then Spencer finds her crying and comforts her?? cuz she has feelings but it is hard to show them

BREAKING THE ICE [ONESHOT]

/ˈbɹeɪkɪŋ ðiː ɑ́js/

Sometimes people just cry, there doesn’t really have to be a reason. But when you have a reputation for being cold and uncaring, being emotionally vulnerable with other people isn’t very easy. Spencer doesn’t care though, he’ll get through to you either way.

spencer x cold!reader | hurt/comfort | 2.3k I series masterlist!!

WARNINGS: fem!reader, depictions of a panic attack, reader is a lil mean to spencer but it kinda comes with the territory

a/n: cold!reader is my roman empire i love writing emotionally complex characters man (i also feel the need to let everyone know that this fic was originally called ‘micheal in the bathroom’)

main masterlist!! ⋆｡°✩ part two!!

You hated crying.

You hated the way it made you look, with tears staining your cheeks and a blotchy complexion from your fluctuating temperature, the way your shoulders trembled like a leaf in the wind.

You hated the way it made you feel, your throat tight and constricting your airflow, your head pounding with an impending headache from your irregular breathing and the constant dread at the idea of somebody finding you in the state you were in.

The worst part was you didn’t even have a valid reason to be crying. You hadn’t gone through a life-altering trauma, you hadn’t lost anyone, hell you hadn’t even had a mild inconvenience today; But here you were, crying in the unisex toilets during your lunch break, because apparently the gods had decided your life wasn’t miserable enough already.

Your hands gripped the edge of the sink like it was your only anchor to the physical world, your hands tensing so hard that your knuckles were turning white and the tips of your fingers were beginning to ache.

Your laboured breathing was echoing through the stalls, reminding you of just how pathetic you sounded and only amplifying that sinking feeling in your chest that decided to invade your mind for no apparent reason and rip your brain to pieces until the only thing you could think of was how horrible you felt.

You weren’t just crying anymore. It was like your body was trying to tear itself up from the inside out. And there was no reason for any of it.

Then there was a soft knock on the door, almost quiet enough that you couldn’t hear it over the sounds of your own anguish.

It was to be expected at some point you suppose, you’d locked the outside door instead of just locking yourself in one of the stalls, providing you with complete privacy for your breakdown but also inconveniencing the rest of the office by taking up twelve stalls instead of just one.

Still, you weren’t ready to unlock the door yet. There was no way in hell you were going to let one of your coworkers walk in and see you bent over one of the sinks like the pathetic failure you felt.

You had a reputation to uphold. They could find another bathroom to piss in.

You weren’t ‘heartless’ by any means, but you were strong, and that is what your coworkers needed to see, not this.

You didn’t mind being called an ‘ice queen’ by Morgan every morning if it meant that they didn’t see you like this. You didn’t mind keeping a barrier up between you and the rest of your team if it meant that you didn’t break down in front of them. But god sometimes you wished they’d see you as more than a wall of stone with no emotional capacity so that you could actually have someone to lean on in moments like this one.

But you suppose that half of it is your fault. They wouldn’t see you as some emotionally removed robot if you weren’t presenting yourself like that in the first place.

There’s another knock at the door, joined by a voice this time, Spencer’s voice, and it was calling your last name.

He was literally the last person you wanted to see.

Of all the people on the team, Spencer had been the one to slowly chip away at the obsidian shield you protected yourself with, and with no force whatsoever. He’d settled for taking place besides you and letting you acclimate to him in your own time. He never pried or pushed, he respected your boundaries and your wish to not get emotionally attached, and he never judged you for how you presented yourself to the world.

He was the best type of person that you could surround yourself with, and that made him the worst type of person for you to see right now.

You’re trying to compose yourself, not make your emotional rampage worse at the hands of someone so caring that your walls may as well be made of glass and have them shattered the second his breath hits their surface.

The knocking doesn’t stop whilst you mentally curse Spencer’s kindness in your head, nor does his voice, but he’s transitioned from calling your last name to calling your first. It’s not helping.

“I’m fine Reid,” You strain your voice so it doesn’t crack under the weight of your emotions, closing your eyes so you don’t have to face your reflection in the mirror. “Just give me a few minutes.”

“Are you sure?” You can hear the concern lacing his voice even through the way it’s muffled by the two inches of wood between you. “The average time taken by women when going to the bathroom is 4 minutes and 39 seconds, you’ve been in there for over 12 now,”

Curse Spencer Reid and his inherent ability to make everything logical.

“I’m fine.” Even in a state of absolute distress you still manage to push absolutely everyone away.

“I really don’t want to pry but you don’t sound fine,”

“Reid, leave it.” You know he’s not going to. He might stop trying to verbally get you to admit your feelings, but you know for a fact that when you open that door he is going to be waiting for you on the other side.

You’d given Spencer a bit too much leeway in not enduring the wrath of your psychological defences, and now he’s slowly becoming impervious to your dismissals.

He’s not as intimidated by you as he was four years ago, and it is not doing wonders for your attempts at keeping people at an arms-length.

You’re going to have to face him eventually.

You take in a deep breath as you resign yourself to your fate, inhaling until you can feel the pressure of your lungs against your diaphragm and letting it out slowly through your mouth, forcing your heart rate to slow to an acceptable level as you swipe your index fingers under your eyes to rid your cheeks of the mascara stains painting your face.

You glare at yourself in the mirror as you try to make yourself look presentable again, wetting your hands and pressing them to your cheeks to cool down your face and fixing the wrinkles in your shirt from having been bent over in an awkward position for so long.

You’d say it worked to an extent, and the natural narrowing of your eyes in your resting expression helped to hide the pink irritation from you rubbing them constantly over the last ten minutes, but you worked with profilers, so you’re sure they’d be able to see right through you.

Alas, you’d made your bed by crying in the office bathroom in the first place, now you had to lie in it.

The clicking of the lock as you open the door stirs Spencer’s attention, and he stops leaning against the wall with a furrowed expression to stand straight in front of it like a pet waiting for their owner to come home.

You’re fairly confident in the stability of your emotional state as you open the door to enter back into the office, and that confidence is immediately ripped away the second you meet Spencer’s eyes.

The look on his face is nothing less than absolute concern for you, and it causes the wafer of your remaining emotional shield to disintegrate as soon as those hazel eyes lock onto yours.

You swallow back a lump that rises in your throat at his gaze, averting your eyes from him as you feel them prick with tears again and turning your body back in the direction of the bathroom you’d emerged from, fully intent on locking yourself back in there for as long as it takes for you to get yourself under control.

You cannot believe you just allowed Spencer to see you like that.

“Hey-” Spencer catches the door with his foot as you try to close it on him, most definitely causing him pain in the process from how quickly you tried to slam it behind you. But his expression didn’t show that, it continued to show that soft, sweet kindness that was entirely concerned for your well being. “You’re not fine…”

“No shit Sherlock-” You take in a sharp breath through your nose as you speak, your tone harsh and icy as you turn your head over your shoulder towards him. He knew it was an emotional defence mechanism, but it still stung just a little.

Spencer sighs softly as he follows into the bathroom after you, locking the door after him like you had done earlier to provide you with at least a bit of the privacy you desired. He wasn’t exactly sure to to approach the conversation about what you were feeling with you, afraid that if he misstepped he’d only push you further into your emotional pit of solitude.

“Did you know that a person’s emotional state is best presented in what they wear?” Resorting to statistics was always the first choice. “Studies have shown that the type and material that a person’s clothes are, as well as they way they’re worn, correlate with the type of emotions they are feeling,”

You’re wearing a shirt and slacks, which most would agree was fairly typical office attire, he was wearing almost exactly the same. But you’d undone an extra button on your collar today, presumably to try and help alleviate the restricting feeling against your throat, and your slacks were wide-legged instead of straight-legged like usual which was likely again to try and help with the constriction you were experiencing.

If he had to wager a guess, he’d say you woke up on the brink of an emotional breakdown today, which meant that it wasn’t caused by something that had happened during the day. That usually left the only explanation as something much deeper at play than just some off-hand experience.

“And let my guess, my clothes are displaying complete patheticness?” You gesture your hands exaggeratedly as you turn around to face him once more, the tears rolling down your cheeks illuminated underneath the overhead lighting. “Because that’s how I feel right now,”

“Being upset doesn’t make you pathetic at all-” Spencer sounds genuinely offended at the idea of you finding yourself pathetic for feeling regular human emotions. There was nothing wrong with crying or being emotionally overwhelmed. “It’s a beneficial part of human nature,”

“It doesn’t feel very ‘beneficial’ to me,” You lean your lower back against the line of sinks as you continue to blow of his attempts at opening an emotionally vulnerable conversation with you, but you also weren’t completely shutting him down either.

Spencer takes a step closer, his eyes still filled with genuine concern. "I know it might not feel like it now, but allowing yourself to feel and express these emotions is healthy. It's okay to not be okay sometimes."

You let out a shaky sigh, feeling a bit of the tension ease out of your shoulders at his words. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to stop pretending everything was fine when it wasn't. "I just... hate feeling like this," you admit quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Spencer nods in understanding, his expression softening even more. "I get it, I really do. But you don't have to hide what you’re feeling because you’re trying to protect yourself. I'm here for you, whatever you need."

His words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment you feel like your mind is just going to give in and forget everything that had become a staple of your character so that you could feel that emotional connection that you knew was going to be good for your mental health.

But if wasn’t exactly that easy.

You offer him a small, tentative smile, grateful for his unwavering support even though you weren’t going to actually take it. Not entirely anyway. "I appreciate that,"

He returns your smile with one of his own, small and awkward and the perfect encapsulation of Spencer’s character. “Of course,”

He knew you weren’t just going to magically change your personality and start emotionally leaning on him, but he was glad that you were acknowledging his efforts in at least trying to be a pillar of support for you.

You’d stopped crying now, so that was a good sign in itself that the conversation had benefited you in some way or other, and for now, that was enough.

You could think about the complications later.

part two!!

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid angst #criminal minds angst #mgg #asks 🫶