#writing necessities

[empydoc]

little things (headcanons) i think some of the boys do with a twist! they get angstier as you go!

this one's kinda long, but sfw ~

david, when surrounded by lots of people, will beeline for angel. crowds/meetings/etc, it doesn't matter. he's going to them.

honey likes to wash guy's hair in the shower, even after he makes several dirty shower jokes, because he goes quiet and enjoys it a lot more than they know he'd admit when they touch his hair.

elliott, when sitting beside sunshine, will squeeze their hand every so often. he always gets a squeeze back. the two always giggle to themselves when this happens.

asher has a lot of scars on his hands, whether that's from reckless behaviour or whatever else. babe used to avoid touching them, not knowing if he'd like it or not, but once they unintentionally ran their finger over the uneven skin and found it pretty theraputic to do. he's noticed they've started doing this a lot now, and likes it a whole lot.

as much as his spouse continues to tell him he doesn't have to, james loves to get them flowers. doesn't matter the day, the current season, or the holiday- if he's home late or feels like it, he's getting flowers.

sam subtly checks that darlin has enough food to the last the week, every week, just in case. they've been doing better at making sure they have enough for themselves, and he trusts them well, but it's become habit at this point.

in public places, avior holds onto starlight's arm or hand, making sure he's touching them or able to see them. he doesn't want to lose them again.

blake doesn't enjoy looking at himself in the mirror unless bestie is also seen in the reflection.

every so often gavin finds himself tracing over freelancer's features again and again, not wanting to forget them. they let him do this as much as he wants, always noticing a forlorn expression on him when he does.

vega's expression would always soften when he looked at warden. they noticed it the closer it got to his end. sometimes, it almost looked like he wanted to cradle their face, but they don't know that for sure. they couldn't ask him now even if they wanted to.

#wanted to play around with colours and gradients #anyway #yeah #i dont write angst too much but yk #it's a necessity sometimes #redacted audio #redactedverse #redacted asmr #omg i didnt write hush #criminal #redacted david #redacted guy #redacted avior #redacted sam #redacted elliott #redacted vega #redacted gavin #redacted blake #redacted james #redacted asher #redacted headcanon #redacted headcanons #headcanons #empyconcept #📼.txt

[lord-squiggletits]

I think the key component to my personal reading of post-Delphi Pharma is that he's trying to be a horrible person on purpose. Not "on purpose" in the way that people have free will to exercise their own choices, but in that Pharma's "mad doctor" persona is a performance he puts on to deliberately embrace how much everyone else hates him. Basically, if people already think you're a "bad Autobot" and a horrible doctor who just kills his patients for fun, why try to prove otherwise to people who have already made up their minds about you? Just fully embrace the fact that people see you as an asshole. Don't try to change their minds. Don't plead for their forgiveness or understanding. Just stop caring. If you're going to be remembered as a monster, you might as well be a memorable monster, and eke as much pleasure and hedonism as you can out of it before karma catches up to you and you inevitably crash and burn.

I mean, I guess you could just go the route of "Oh, Pharma was always a fucked up creepy guy and Delphi was just him taking the mask off," but I really don't like that interpretation because, for one, it feels really wrong to take a character like Pharma becoming evil under duress and going, "Oh well clearly he did the things he did because he was evil all along," as if somehow Pharma breaking under blackmail/torture/threat of horrible death was a sign of him having poor moral character. As opposed to, you know, suffering under the very real threat of horrible death for himself and everyone he cares about while being manipulated by a guy who specializes in psychological torture.

The second reason is that it just doesn't make sense to write Pharma as having been evil all along. I mean...

Occam's Razor says that the best argument is the one with the simplest explanation. Doesn't it make way more sense to take Pharma's appearances in flashbacks, his friendship with Ratchet, his stunning medical accomplishments, and the few we see of him speaking kindly/sympathetically (or in the least charitable interpretation, at least professionally) towards his patients and conclude "This guy was just a normal person, if exceptionally talented." Taking all of these flashback appearances at face value and assuming Pharma was being genuine/honest is a way simpler and more logical explanation than trying to argue that Pharma for the past 4 million years was just faking being a good doctor/person. I mean, it's possible within the realm of headcanon, but the fact is Pharma's appearances in the story are so brief that there simply wasn't room in the story for there to be some sort of secret conspiracy/hidden manipulation behind why Pharma acted the way he did in the past.

I just can't help but look at things like Pharma's friendship with Ratchet (himself a good person and usually a fine judge of character) and the fact that even post-Delphi, pretty much every single mention of Pharma comes with some mention of "He was a good doctor for most of his life" or "He was making major headways in research [before he started killing patients]" which implies that even the Autobots themselves see Pharma's villainy as a recent turn in his life compared to how for "most of his life" he "used to be" a good doctor.

And although Pharma doesn't know this, we as the readers (and even other characters like Rung) know about Aequitas technology and the fact that it actually works, so... if Pharma really was an unrepentant murderer, why couldn't he get through the forcefield too? The Aequitas forcefield doesn't require that a person be completely morally pure and free of wrongdoing or else how could Tyrest get through, just that they feel a sense of inner peace and lack feelings of guilt. Pharma has murdered and tortured people by this point, and put on quite a campy and theatrical show of how much he sees it as a fun game, so why then can he not get through?

It circles back to my headcanon at the start of this post that the "mad doctor" persona is just that-- a persona. Delphi/post-Delphi Pharma's laughing madman personality is just so far removed from every flashback we saw of him and everything we can infer based on how other people see/saw him before that, to me, the mad doctor act is (at least in large part, if not fully) a persona that Pharma puts on to put his villainy in the forefront.

To avoid an overly simplistic/ableist take, I don't think Tarn tortured Pharma into turning crazy. To me, it's more like the constant pressure of death by horrific torture, the feeling of martyrdom as Pharma kept secret that he was the only one standing between Delphi and annihilation, the physical isolation of Messatine as well as the emotional separation from Ratchet, being forced to violate his medical oaths (pretty much the only thing Pharma's entire life has been about), etc. All of that combined traumatized Pharma to the point that the only way he could avoid cracking was to just stop caring about all of it. Because at least then, even if he's still murdering patients to save Delphi from a group of sadistic freaks, Pharma doesn't have to feel guilty and sick about doing it. As opposed to the alternatives, which were probably either going off the deep end and killing himself to escape, or confessing to what he did and getting jailed for it.

In that light, Pharma becoming a mad doctor makes sense. It avoids the bad writing tropes of "oh this character who was good his entire life was actually just evil and really good at hiding it" as well as "oh he got tortured and went crazy that's why he's so random and silly and killing people, he's crazy" and instead frames Pharma's evil as something he was forced into, to the point where in order to avoid a full psychological breakdown and keep defending Delphi, he just had to stop caring about the sanctity of life or about what other people might think of him.

Then, of course, the actual Delphi episode happens, and Pharma's own lifelong best friend Ratchet basically spits in his face and sees him as nothing more than a crazy murderer who went rogue from being a good Autobot. Then Pharma gets his hands cut off and left to die on Messatine. At that point, Pharma has not only been mentally/emotionally broken into losing his feelings of compassion, he's received the message loud and clear: He is alone. Everyone hates him. Not even his own best friend likes him any more. No one even cared enough about him to check if he actually died or not. He will only ever be remembered as a doctor who went insane and killed his patients.

So in the light of 1. Having all of your redeeming qualities be squeezed out of you one by one for the sake of survival and 2. Having your reputation and all of your positive relationships be destroyed and 3. People only know/care about you as "that doctor who became evil and killed his patients" rather than the millions of years of good service that came before.

What else is there to do but internalize the fact that you'll forever be seen as a monster and a freak, and embrace it? People already see you as a murderer for that blackmail deal you did, so why not become an actual murderer and just start killing people on a whim? People already see you as an irredeemable monster who puts a stain on the Autobot name, so why beg for their forgiveness when you could just shun them back? You've already become a murderer, a traitor, and a horrible doctor, so what's a few more evil acts added to the pile? It's not like anyone will ever forgive you or love you ever again.

Why care? Why try to hold on to your principles of compassion, kindness, medical ethics, when an entire lifetime of being a good person did nothing to save you from blackmail and then abandonment? Why put yourself through the emotional agony of feeling lonely, guilty, miserable, when you could just... stop caring, and not hurt any more?

#squiggposting #pharma apologism #i'm sure the doylist reason for the writing is just that pharma was a designated villain #so since he's a villain and 'crazy' it's fine for everyone even the good guys to treat him like complete trash #i just think from a watsonian perspective taking a sympathetic approach is way more interesting and logically consistent #what i mean is like. from a meta perspective one of the best ways to show that a character is super evil and not worth saving #is when even the good guy heroes. the ones who are supposed to be kind and compassionate and wise. see him as dirt #and this is also kind of a necessity in most plots bc TF is the kind of series that just needs action villains and long-term antagonists #so not every villain is written or has a plot to be made redeemable. and pharma is one of these bc he's not important or a legacy character #so from a doylist (meta) perspective you could read the autobots' disregard of pharma as a sign of #'this guy is not meant to have your sympathy as a reader. pay no attention to him' #but from a watsonian (in universe) perspective it paints a miserable picture of pharma being utterly forsaken by the ppl he served alongsid #and like yeah i'm super autistic about pharma so of course i view him with sympathy but like #the idea of being a loyal and good person for years only to be subjected to a Torment Nexus of #being blackmailed into breaking all of the oaths you held sacred. under threat of you and all your comrades dying horrible torturous deaths #then when your comrades find out about it they focus solely on the 'harvesting organs' and not on the 'blackmail' part #and then you get literally left for dead by your comrades and best friend hating your guts #and then you get rescued by a guy who uses you as a test subject for his evil machine #this is a fucking nightmare scenario like pharma could hardly be suffering more if the author TRIED to make him suffer #and for me it's like. the evil pharma did can't be decontextualized to what drove him to that. as well as the question of like #how easily ppl can write someone off as evil and turn a blind eye to (or even find satisfaction in) their suffering bc theyre evil #and either brought it on themselves or it's just karma paying a visit #like. i feel like if pharma WERE a shitty doctor and a terrible person his whole life then the delphi situation would feel like karma #but the way it's written and the lore retroactively put in makes it feel more pharma getting thrown in a torture carousel #and THEN becoming evil. but then being treated as if he was always evil or was some sort of bad apple #bc like i'm not opposed to LOLing when a villain gets a karmic torture/death related to the wrongs they committed #but in pharma's case it feels less like karma and more like endless torture + being abandoned by ppl who should have been more loyal

[stickyspeckledlight]

Sunrise, Sunset, My Destroyed Body in the Onset [Yan!Aventurine x GN!Reader]

The cotton in your mind protects you.

Ao3

TW: Stockholm syndrome, implied/referenced noncon, suicidal thoughts (not detailed but reader does mention having them and thinking about the act), mild gore (little actual gore but the prose uses gory language), reader goes through it and let’s just say aventurine is a terrible influence, tonal whiplash for my own sanity, wow aventurine are you really this emotionally constipated

Note: My first ever yan work! This is a bit of a mess, but I’ll bet five dollars and janitorial duty at Taco Bell that it’s a good mess 👍

(Written before 2.1)

The sun sets as you both bask in the afterglow. Clouds streak the baby blue sky, hued in soft yellows, calm oranges, and blushing pink. 

(And it reminds you of his eyes) 

Sights like these made nights spent in a casino a bit more bearable. You take a deep breath, sighing in contentment and exhaustion, and you wish you could shut your eyes and stretch this moment for an eternity. To remain in the setting eye of the sun, softly breathing as you hear the gentle beating of his heart. To have his hand lazily draped over your waist, the other caressing your head, fingers softly entangled with your locks. Your tears have dried, too. Yes, you’d like to live in this singular moment, divorced from everything else.

But as you’ve learned during your time with Aventurine, time is a rapid to move with.

You shiver a bit, and he pulls up a thin blanket. The difference is small. But still, the serenity of the moment is shattered. The soft silk is meant to cage you in for whatever happens next. You don’t mind, anymore. Or, when you’re more lucid, when you let the torrent that is your mind flow, that’s what you decide.

You’re not stupid, but you wish you were. If you were stupid, you wouldn’t ever be forced to trek away from your home. Wouldn’t grab the attention of anyone smart and shrewd (though you did hear about one ‘Dr. Ratio,’ committed to remedies of ignorance). Even if you somehow did and ended up where you were, maybe your mind would be filled with cotton rather than thoughts. That you could enjoy everything all the time. 

But you’re not stupid, nor are you a genius who could hope to outwit the man who holds the aventurine of stratagem. Knowing how normal you are compared to him only makes you more hopeless, so you do your best to fill your mind with cotton again. You feel your inner voice berate you for your willing ignorance but it also cries at its necessity. 

Cotton. You needed to fill your head with cotton, because if you didn’t in time (and that time was short when you were with Aventurine) you might just sob again then and there. You think too much. So you won’t think. At least around him. Because…you still don’t want to acknowledge it in your mind. You protect yourself from the brunt of it and effectively live a lie.

“You’re clenching your jaw,” Aventurine’s voice possesses a perpetual drawl, but in moments like this it softens a little. Almost like he’s talking to a person and not something to use. “Just what could it be you’re thinking about?” 

Could you even be called a thinking creature right now? Cotton absorbs color, and right now the sun, so big it could engulf you, is so beautiful. You tell him the truth. “The sunset’s beautiful. Really, really beautiful. A lot more beautiful than the others.”

He hums. He knows you’re not lying, but you haven’t answered his question. “You’ve made your affinity for the sight quite clear,” he says, and you only notice that odd edge in his voice from your sheer exposure to this man. Whatever Aventurine has against this sight, you’re not sure. He seems to like sunrises, though, if you can trust the times you’ve woken up and see him watching it. And whenever there is no sun, you wake up to him gone or kissing you awake. Though lately, you’ve been steadily receding from your habit of oversleeping. The hand in your hair tightens, and there’s a small tug, firm but not painful, at your roots. He still wants his answer.

Your mind, chosen to be wrecked with cotton, doesn’t know what to think. You say the only other thing in your absent mind. “This one looks like your eyes.” 

You think he likes that because you feel him shift to look at it. You can’t see his face, but you assume he’s taken off his usual smile. Smiling all the time sounded torturous, and you rub your cheek at the phantom pain of your own imagination. 

“Hmm…” and you feel him shift again, and you really have no idea what he wants. From the intonation, he’s about to do something either mischievous or ‘flirtatious.’ “You know, sweetheart,” that word is heavy on his tongue. He shifts, dropping you on the bed and if this were earlier in your relationship you’d fantasize about ripping his throat for robbing you of the sunset. His hair is messed up, his smile soft but still unreadable. The sun shines on the mark on his neck, and something about the sight makes you a bit…happy. And angry. He takes your face in his hands and locks your eyes and you tense a bit out of instinct—you make a note to yourself to do more work on hammering it away—Aventurine’s full attention on you was intense and overwhelming; the bit of dried blood on his lips is proof of it. Your heart feels like it will burst. From apprehension or anticipation, you’re not sure. “If that’s the case,” one of his hands trails down your jaw, the ghost of his touch fluttering against the marks he’s painted on your neck. He’d have no issue finding more all around your body. He softly, lovingly holds your neck like he’s prepared to snap it and equally prepared to drown you in his affection, “Why not take in the real thing, hm?” His thumb finds and lightly presses on a mark. He drew blood when making it, and you blink back a wince at the pain. He notices, eyes softening before moving his thumb and kissing the irritated skin. “Sorry,” he says, but it’s said the same way a cat licks a mouse’s carcass. An empty apology made after the fact. But you don’t mind. You’ve made sure you don’t mind a lot of things, and it’s made you equally content and miserable. Though, maybe you hold onto that latter feeling in stubborn defiance, because losing that shred of yourself would turn you into something that You wouldn’t necessarily hate if it were anyone else, but it’s You becoming that; and that, that, You hate.

You hum because you do enjoy being close like this. But Aventurine is perceptive, and though his head is below you, you feel as if you’ve been chained up when you once again lock eyes. “I can hear your thoughts, darling,” He returns to his former position, “I hate seeing you all stressed out,” he says, as if his veins weren’t running with anticipation when you were saddled with debt and when your parents got hit with unfortunate ‘accidents’ that insurance couldn’t cover and he didn’t love the day you became his. “Didn’t you say that open and honest communication was important in a healthy relationship? I’m rather fond of our little romance, and I’d hate for it to crumble.” He nearly pouts—doesn’t surprise you much anymore, but there’ll always be a little bit of whiplash that doesn’t quite go away. Though, You feel a slight hint of bitterness—crumble? Some cotton burns away. Did he mean that for himself? …Or might it have been a vague threat to you…? You think, but you’re quick to fill your head back up with cotton. The process isn’t immediate, however.

“Our relationship is the furthest thing from healthy,” you point out. You don’t add in that you never sought out romance in the first place, “and it hasn’t exactly been built on a sturdy foundation.”

“You’ve got me there,” He chuckles. “Well, let’s put it like this,” he brushes a lock of hair from your face, “I see that my lover’s been saddled with all these thoughts, and it’s gotten them so awfully quiet,” Lover? No, that’s hyperbole. He tucks his fingers underneath your chin, stroking the soft, unmarked skin; the only area spared from his assault. “Makes a guy worry, you know? The last time you were this quiet was when you first moved in.” 

Yes. It was mostly because You spent the majority of your free time sobbing, leaving your voice all but spent by the time he got back. And it wasn’t like you could be the goofy and sometimes witty and sometimes not buffoonish person You were when You were so miserable. When you wanted to do everything you could to retreat into your own skin—but Aventurine simply ripped you out, exposed, bloody, and sniffling. After that thought, the cotton has completely grown back.

“…And…?” Through the cotton, you can only wonder what he’s talking about.

His smile becomes sharper, and you wonder if he might feel insulted. Does he think you want to leave him, see him get what he deserved and some actual help like You used to? “C’mon don’t you…” you blink a little vacantly, and he seems to realize something. “Or, maybe you’re…” but his voice suggests something knowing. Suggests experience. And the gears in his mind click. “Oh, I know that look!” He laughs, delightedly or derangedly, you don’t bother to differentiate. Either way it makes you shiver. 

“Huh? What look?” You asked, filtered through cotton. He doesn’t answer and cuts to the chase.

He playfully flicks your forehead, and you imagine a bullet going through it, “Riddle me this: what do you want, sweetheart?”

You blink. What do you want? When you first got here, it was security and his or your death. After some time had passed, it was peace. But now…you want whatever storm that’s inside of you to stop. But he doesn’t need to know what you want deep in your soul. So you tell him the truth, filtered through cotton. 

You do something that would’ve been unthinkable to You, and worse, it’s subconsciously without a second thought. You push him down on the bed by laying on him—flopping on him like a fish, You think, for your mind is such a silly little thing—lay your head over his heart, and take in the sunset. The sun’s nearly below the ground. “…If it’s fine, and only if you want…” you ask, because You detest the idea of being controlling, “I’d like you to…” you flush, “…h-hold me, um, like you are right now, until the sun’s down and, um…” your heart is going to burst and there’ll be a hole of viscera through your chest and maybe Aventurine will admire your pathetic, desperate corpse before burning it, “we can take a bath. And,” you look up at him, “I’ll look into your eyes, as much as you want…” You tell yourself its because you need to appease him, and easy on the eyes to boot. But you know of the primal thing that lives in your chest. 

It’s true. But Aventurine puts it perfectly.

His smile speaks of years of clawing his way up with honeyed words and masked expressions. “You’re not lying. Thank you. That’s such a sweet wish,” he says kindly (you’re no longer scared of his kind voice), stroking your head like you are an obedient dog, one that he adores and veers on despising, and then wraps his other arm beneath your thighs, “but you know I’d like the truth.” He then says, primally, ready to carve out a space in your body to inhabit, “To know what storm’s brewing in that little head of yours,” he takes in a shuddering breath, and his eyes light with perverse excitement, “if it’s begun to…crack and burn up.” He sits up and carries you away. You’re slightly disappointed you won’t be seeing the sunset in its entirety, but you’ve gotten good at forgetting. Aventurine sighs wistfully. “But…” he grasps your chin, forcing you to look at him, “I don’t mind that second proposition of yours,” his voice is husky, and he kisses you. You flush, and the cotton is the only thing that prevents you from tearing into him with your canines.

As the sun moves further and further away, You think yourself a fool for thinking it would engulf you. Aventurine wouldn’t leave anything left of you, whenever he decided he was done with you.

—

This is your only choice, and it was everything you could do to not shut down the instant you realized. 

You were in denial, at first. It was all just a coincidence, right? You’d always feared this sort of thing—financial struggle—and so getting hit with it should be something you take in stride, and come out of it either in a wreck or just barely getting by. And, if you wanted to get a little nerdy, capitalist economies have to crash into recession eventually, so maybe now was just that time of the era. No place was hiring you, and your parents were getting buried in bills they couldn’t pay. 

But, if anyone with half a brain took a step back, they’d call out the bullshit excuse you concocted in your mind, to deny the ridiculous truth. Because whatever recession was happening, it seemed to only affect you. The truth that you, you, were the apple of someone’s eye (for lack of a better term—you aren’t delusional—you’re just as disposable as the next person, as much as you wish for the universe to cease operating like it). 

Preposterous! Scandalous! You, a complete idiot, catching someone’s fancy? How the fuck did that happen?! Were pigs flying now? …You take that back, there are indeed flying species of the hog persuasion gallivanting about. But this does not detract from your point. One might say “bimbo vibes,” but you know for a fact, even taking into account your own bias and self-perpetuation of your self-esteem issues (which makes you still having them even worse, but you’ve already gone down that spiral more than you could count), that you do not have anywhere near enough bimbo energy to attract anyone with that kink. Or the looks. This was your knee-jerk reaction to when this crossed your mind. And to an extent, still is, because thinking about it like that gives the situation a bit of levity you desperately need. You can’t wrap your head around it in the slightest. But you can’t dispute fact. And the fact is that you are wanted by someone else, and you can’t even begin to understand why. Least of all the person who wants you.

The man who hides behind the name ‘Aventurine.’ That fact alone already makes you not want to be so closely associated, and it makes everything more insane and stupid. An IPC executive has no use for you. If he wants to extort you for unpaid or cheap labor, he’s already got a vast selection of underpaid grunts to do his bidding. If there’s one thing the IPC knows how to do, it’s keeping those desperate enough or arrogant enough trapped. You’re not either of those things; though you admit you’ve adapted the former trait in light of recent bullshittery, but you digress. 

Most of what you come up with is met with an easy counter. Aventurine, a sleazy businessman obsessed with sex? He has money—he can just hire someone actually knowledgeable in it AND hot. Aventurine, a man with insatiable greed? Again, he’s already rich as fuck, and the only way he’s getting any more money is if he looks up the pecking order. Aventurine, a gambler who loved seeing his opponents fall into ruin? That was actually plausible to some extent, but you’ve made it very clear you’re no gambler (not in tangible matters at least, but you keep your card close to your heart). Then maybe he wants to try and push you over the edge? Try to make you take a risk bigger than yourself? 

So, you’ve settled for this: Aventurine, a man who cannot stand to be sober from the drink called “power.” Desiring complete domination over someone. A personal matter, and briefly you hear the echo of a quote: “We desire that which we do not have.” What doesn’t Aventurine have? 

…A relationship? Well, you shoot that down easily. Whatever kind of relationship this leads to ends with you ruined and him hunting after his next prey. 

He’s a bit like a serial killer, you muse, and you just so happen to meet his criteria for victimhood. But unlike a killer, he’s merely going to make you wish you were dead. If you wanted death, it’d have to be at your own hands. If he gave you that option at all. Another thought you have is that he might use you for snuff. That’s…you haven’t pursued the thought any further.

You’ve been robbed of much of your control, but you still control the hand that knocks at the door. If you’re going down, it’ll be on your own terms. This is your last, desperate attempt to pretend you have any control at all. You make sure your bangs cover your eyes. 

You just wish your heart didn’t feel like it would explode. You wish that you weren’t actively holding back going on a complete breakdown. You wish you were made of the same steel heroes were, but you cannot be what you are doomed to not be. 

Aventurine opens the door, giving you a grin that makes you retch. He’s still dressed in his usual peacock-esque finery, and something about it makes you frown. Maybe it’s because he’s dressed in the colors you love, and it feels so wrong for something that wants to destroy you to be clad in them. “Sweetheart!” he coos out the wretched (and cringe-worthy) pet name with faux surprise; it propels you to roll your eyes even now. He knew you were coming; otherwise, you’d be detained by hotel staff. It didn’t quite help that you didn’t really bother to dress up either. It made you stick out like a sore thumb, and you’re glad that this is the only time you’ll be at a gaudy hotel. “You’ve come to visit little ol’ me! I’m charmed.  Aren’t I a lucky man?” 

You fantasize about his guts strewn about on the floor, accompanied by your maniacal laughter and sobs of elated despair. “...You could say that, Mr. Aventurine,” you aren’t foolish enough to be curt, so you settle for polite and cordial. Professional and businesslike, and you know that gives him a slight advantage. “There’s something I wish to discuss with you. I think that’s best accomplished behind closed doors.” 

He clicks his tongue playfully. “No need to be so cold. We’re friends here, aren’t we?” 

“I suggest you drop the ‘sweetheart,’ then. Friends don’t call each other that, Mr. Aventurine.” 

He raises his hand in mock surrender, and you want him to get to the fucking point before you lost your nerve. “Oh, fine. Then,” he gestures to the lion’s den. If only he were the gentleman he was pretending to be, “Walk on in, darling.” You cannot suppress the groan that comes out of you. His smile widens; you're sure he gets some kick at riling you up.

You don’t have the energy to deal with him, and you certainly don’t have enough to suppress the sigh of irritation you let out. He seems to look like…some sort of positive emotion that you don’t know what to name. You’re not sure if you want to name it.  

The sunlight catches his predatory yet enrapturing eyes. His eye twitches, clearly trying not to shut. Maybe, you muse, the sun hates him as much as you do. It brings a weak smile to your face. You make sure to take your sweet time to enter. You won’t take off your shoes, either. He can deal with a bit of tracked dirt, you think, but then you remember that he’s wearing his shoes. And you thought he was monstrous enough.

But when the door shuts, any semblance of levity you could summon dissipates, and you’re reminded of what you’re here to do. Aventurine’s hand snakes up on your shoulder, and you want to rip it off and feed it to the birds. Thankfully, he just leads you to the living room. The sun is cast overhead. 

“So,” he circles till he’s in front of you, “What could be so important that you’ve come to see me this time of day?” He’s playing with his food. It makes you abandon courtesy for curtness. 

“Don’t act like you didn’t cancel some business meeting to make this happen.”

“Oh! You’ve got me!” he chuckles, “My, you’ve already gotten to know me so well. Don’t you think we’re like two peas in a pod?” He teases, and you know he specifically means for it to piss you off. To his credit, it works.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you spit, and his hand lets you back away from him. “I was thinking about…” you take a breath—you can’t lose your nerve now, “...the ‘deal,’ you gave me a little while ago. The gamble, to be more precise.”

His smile stretches so wide it seems to crack his face, and you feel phantom pain radiating along your own mouth. His eyes, those alluring and dangerous rims of pink and electric blue, spiked with adrenaline. You wonder if his eyes are dilating, but you don’t want to look at his eyes any longer than you have to. “I knew you would come around. But I see it in your eyes—you want to discuss the terms, right?” 

He’s right. “Yes.” 

“Admirable,” he says lazily, “but before you start, you should know that I’m not budging on my reward.”

“I know,” you bitterly say, “this is about my reward.”

Interest ignites, the blue of his eye burning hot with intrigue.

“If I win, then I want you to reimburse my family, and then some, for all of the shit you’re making them go through. And then I want you to leave them the hell alone and not harm them.”

You can’t tell if he looks more interested or disappointed. “That’s hardly different from our original deal. The only difference is that you’re not getting any compensation.” At least he doesn’t deny that he’s the one the source of your family woes this time. Likely because you two already jumped through that point. You may not be sharp, but there are things even you can’t be gaslit on, and you think Aventurine realized this and decided not to bother. “Do you really hate the idea of getting money from me? You do remember that I told you that you can use me however you want, right?”

You hate how he wants to use you, and you equally hate using anybody. “Yes. You made that very clear. I know what I’m doing. Now, come on.”

“Don’t be so hasty. I’ll have to modify my will so—”

“No need. Get the gun already.” You aren’t too worried anyway. Businessmen like him know to honor their deals anyway. He’ll probably dismiss it easily and assume you’ll either donate it to charity or give it to your family.

He laughs, not so dissimilar from nails digging into a chalkboard, “You’re that eager to kill me? And you were so against it too! I wouldn’t have expected your morals to shift so quickly.”

You bite your lip. “You don’t seem to be all too worried about dying,” you point out, “You were the one who proposed this in the first place.” Another reason you don’t want to associate with this man. He treats his own life far too callously, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that the package to unpack is bursting at the seams. Normally you would’ve been sympathetic, but this is the manner of man that wants to seize you. You don’t want to know what would happen to you, under his dominion. 

Still, at least you know that he prizes adrenaline above all else. Why else would he risk his life for a hit of it? It’s useful info and also the only wrinkle in your plan…but you’re not banking on this entirely.

Aventurine doesn’t respond, but his eyes accentuate his mirthful grin. It reminds you of yourself, when you tell a joke to yourself. You do like inside jokes, but you cannot say the same for the ones you’re left out of. No matter how demented this man’s humor is, knowing what he finds funny would at least give you more to glean on him. A part of you does enjoy piecing together puzzles, even ones you can’t solve.

He produces a simple revolver from his jacket. Sleek and as dark as a moonless night, even you can tell that its craftsmanship is more than deserving of admiration. But your anxiety has spiked, and you want to dig a hole and suffocate, to feel your lungs burn like lava and to have your fingers raw when you have second thoughts and desperately try to claw your way out. You blink back tears, but you know what you must do.

He takes his sweet time with the gun, but you don’t pay attention. Your eyes are trained on the ground as you try and fail to psych yourself up. You know what you're doing. Your parents would tell you this was a bad choice, and you agree, but you weren’t given very many good choices.

A shot rings out. Glass shatters from behind you. The coffee table. You do not breathe, and something searing and hard digs into your chin, forcing you to look up. Your gaze is misty from the pain, and you’re more resilient to the cold, not the heat. 

“Sweetheart,” he smiles kindly, “I don’t like being ignored.” Despite your best efforts, a tear has rolled down your cheek. You need to get this over with before your mouth starts to uncontrollably twitch into a frown. “Aw…” he coos, and begins to lean in, “there’s no need to cry, dear.” 

You can’t stop it. You let out something that sounds like a growl, and shove him off of you. “You don’t get to touch me,” you hiss, a sound you didn’t know you were capable of, “Hands to yourself,” For some indiscernible reason, another tear falls, “you haven’t won anything yet.”

He’s not fazed. “Ah, I suppose I’ll have to concede there,” for now, “Here you go then, friend,” the gun is lodged away from your chin, and despite his claim of concession he yanks your arm up and forces it in your grip, “Let’s see who luck favors.”

You shake, a little, but you’re not shaken enough to lose all your rationality. “Is there still a bullet in here?” 

“Yep,” he pops the p, like you two were old pals, “though I suppose I should roll the chamber again. Give me a second.” He takes the gun away and gets to work. You’re both thankful and sobbing on the inside. At this rate, your ribs will be dust from how your heart hammers into them.

It’s back in your hand after what feels like an eternity and a microsecond. “Now there shouldn’t be any problems. Feel free to start shooting,” he purrs, adjusting it to point toward his chest. He begins to grip it, and you must act now. You’re shaking and you want to die—

Ah. 

Good. 

You won’t lose your nerve then. 

“Actually,” your words shake with imminent tears and ramping fears, “there’s another term I wanted to discuss.” Your words aren’t threatening, but it’s ominous enough that Aventurine pauses. He’s given you the inch, and you’re taking the mile. You take a deep breath. It could be one of your last.

You’ve forced the gun against your forehead. You’ve either gasped or Aventurine’s breath has hitched. You feel tears welling up, but you’ve made it too far for things to end here. You will yourself through your terror. “If I get shot, I win. If I don’t, you win.”

A tense silence whistles about. The air is almost electric from shock. But you know what you’re doing. You know it’s stupid, but you’re hopeless and this is the closest thing to a shred of hope you can grasp. See, you did a bit of research (on a library computer; you weren’t taking your chances). You found out that there are a few stories about Aventurine doing this—and even more about how he’s made numerous casino goers lose everything. In other words, he’s a lucky bitch. 

And you’re not that lucky. You doubt your luck is good enough for a regular gamble, but for your life? You treasure it, and sealing the gun to your head leaves you on the cusp of a breakdown. This is what you’re banking on: you’re not lucky enough to win a gamble, but you’re unfortunate enough to lose your life over something so inconsequential. Your parents would murder you if they saw you. Say you owe them nothing, and you do agree—but you can’t shake your habit of overpaying them. You’ve left a note at home for them to dig up, but it wouldn’t be an apology. If there’s an afterlife, you’ll apologize for eternity. You think the only way you can apologize is by searing your soul in the hells till nothing is left of you. 

You do have a more selfish reason for taking this approach, but it’s also incorrigible and unreasonable. So obviously it doesn’t need to be dissected. 

You think he’ll take it up. Sure, maybe the adrenaline he’ll get won’t be as great if he were the target, but so far he’s been the type to take pleasure in pushing others down a peg. He smiles at your distress, you’re sure. Surely your quivering, sniveling form is giving him a kick? Surely, he’ll want to see your eyes glassy, your expression forever contorted in a fearful, desperate sob?

But Aventurine’s voice is missing its usual lilt. It’s hard, no longer deceptively light. Not playfully pushy but demanding. Maybe this is how he speaks to his enemies, and you want to crawl into yourself. “…What?” A shard of ice is lodged in your back and makes your heart skip a beat from the surprise. But you can deal with the cold. 

“I said what I said,” you push the terrifying thing harder into your skull, “these are my terms.” You’re more adamant than ever to not look into his eyes. You fixate on your shoes. You won’t speak more than necessary.

He seemingly contemplates for a moment. You’re about to push it when he finally speaks. “Do you remember what I said when I first proposed this gamble?”

Your mind is too fear-stricken for recollection. “You say a lot of things. C-can’t remember all of them.” Shit, your mouth has twitched a bit.

Shockingly Aventurine doesn’t poke fun at that, and is unusually focused. “I don’t take deals where I’m on the losing end. You’ve skewed this far too much in your favor.”

No. Oh, no. You were wrong about something. Lava starts to sting at your eyes. If you were wrong about this, then what else were you wrong about?!

“W-what? You’re not the one risking your life!” You exclaim, and it makes you look up at him, “How are you on the losing end?!” You shriek, because you aren’t a composed person at heart.

His eyes, lifeless and intense, widen as they bore into your own, pinning you down. If you squirm, you think he would stab knives in them to keep you down. He isn’t smiling and your knees want to shake. “Let’s go through this one by one, so you understand. One: what do I want?”

“W-wha?”

He repeats himself, harsher. “What. Do. I. Want?”

You settle for the safest answer. Your heart feels dead. You’re sure it will wither to dust. “M-me?” 

“Bingo.” It scares you that he’s not saying that with a lilt. It scares you that he’s not trying to manipulate you. It scares you how there’s only a thread between him ripping you in half. “And here’s something very, very important to know about me,” his hand caresses your cheekbone, positioned to catch any tears that fall, or to crush your skull, “I do whatever it takes to get what I want.”

“Then how is this different?! You’re still taking the risk of not getting what you want no matter how you slice it!”

The smile he gives you is all at once angelic and biting. “I don’t like it when I don’t get what I want.” His pupils dilate. Your eyes well up looking at malice and…something that plunges you in ice. “If I can’t get what I want…hm, how do I describe it?” his voice begins to regain its lilt, fueled by your increasing distress. He smiles like he’s teaching a child a lesson, but you swear his eyes are growing duller. “Well, it’s like being trapped in a land without dawn,” his other hand softly holds your shoulder and it feels so wrong because you swear he’s holding back from brutalizing you, “there are chains around your neck, ankles, wrists, waist, eyes…” he chuckles sardonically, and a vindictive grin spreads as he leans in, till you can feel the ghost of his breath, “your life is a living hell, but the cold of the metal seeps down to your very bone.” You yelp; his grip has tightened. “Something stirs in your chest,” the hand caressing your face comes to rest over your heart, “begging to destroy everything and everyone that’s made you suffer.” His fingers dig into your chest, as if he’ll rip out your heart. “Tell me, my friend, do you want a man like that alive?”

You want to close your eyes so badly. Your mind is an inky landscape, blackening every single thought you hold. A soft flutter to your cheek knocks you out of your stupor. You register expensive perfume, something tickling your skin, and soft lips kissing away your tears. Immediately you shove away the opportunistic beast and stumble in your escape.

You’re in too deep. You need to make this work, because as much as you're terrified, something deep within you purrs at the weakness he’s given you.

But it’s good to know how spiteful he is. You already feel much better about your own plan. Both parts of you purr in delight: one knows you must twist the knife, and the other has been waiting for the opportunity.

“Coward,” your mouth is faster than your mind, “you coward!” Your meager wit and anguish over the past few months begin to tumble out uncontrollably, “I don’t care about your shit—you’ve hardly given me any say about anything. You’ve had the upper hand this entire time, and now you want to backpedal? This is too much risk for you?!” You heave, and you’re too enraged to care about how disgusting you must look, “You said to me there’s nothing you like more than a good gamble. Well, I’ve got a GREAT gamble for you, and if you’re upset you’ve got no one but yourself to blame! You wormed your way into my life, you orchestrated its steady decline, and you pushed me right here! You don’t get to back out of this like a coward!” You’re breathing heavily, and your vision is watery red, and you throw the gun in what you think is his general direction, and your vitriol spills out of you, “Take it and take whatever fucking risk exists! Languish for a month or a day or an hour because you didn’t get what you want like a little baby! If I’m going down, you’re coming down with me!” You’re heaving at this point, and you absently lean on the couch so you don’t collapse. Your composure is in shambles, but you’ll try to save a complete breakdown for when your choices catch up to you and you’re choking on your own blood. 

You hear a slow, rhythmic clap, and it shocks you that your ears aren’t flooding with blood at it. You hesitantly look up to see Aventurine grinning like a beast. 

“You, dragging me down…” the lilt has come back, and you realize that he likes something about this; that he’s schemed a part of it, “...so I see.” He drawls. He tilts his head, regarding you with the interest one has in a zoo. “I’ll admit,” each slow step he takes toward you makes you sink further into the couch, “I was expecting you to cave with that. Yet you still insist…sweetheart,” should you be glad he’s calling you that again? “Let me be the first to tell you that it’s a great honor to push people like you into a corner. You were correct to fear me to try and avoid this.” So you were right on one thing, but it’s only a single thing. He’s inching ever so closely, and before you can start getting away he’s pounced on you. 

You yelp in surprise and begin to thrash, “You—get, get off of me!” You attempt to be intimidating, but your intense terror makes you seem like nothing more than a child scared to get a shot. Perfume burns your nostrils. More tears are shed, but he’s merciful enough to not lap them up just yet. He still lets you look away.

He giggles and just pins you down. He waits until you're humiliated and exhausted before continuing. Your mouth twitches, and against your better judgment a sob brews in your chest. Your mind floods with ink, now. You try to tell yourself to keep it together, but the more you repeat it the more terrified you become. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d change the terms like this,” you squirm and look away—you don’t have the bravery to look at him directly right now. He lets you. “I was sort of expecting you to try and stand up for yourself, or maybe even demand I put in two bullets…but, you’ve run counter to my expectations. For one, I didn’t have you pinned to be this spiteful, nor this willing to give up your life.” You flinch and make a hateful sound as he starts to pat your head, continuing on as if this was the most normal conversation in the world, like he was the most normal person in the room, as he smiles so warmly—you’re a frog being boiled, but you’re too tired and afraid to retort, “Heh, this must’ve taken all of your guts to do, right?” The affection in his voice forms a lump in your throat. “I’m proud of you. Take pride in that,” he wipes away a tear, “and you’re right.” Suddenly, all warmness is gone and you’re blasted with heat. His grin shows his teeth, and for a moment you think you’ve really died. “I’ve always loved the thrill of going all in.” He laughs, a depraved sound of hedonism and complete despair, “If I win, it’s the jackpot. I get you, and you get me.” Get him? “And if I lose,” your head is tipped up by the barrel of the gun to look into his eyes—

You whimper. The only thing that registers in your mind is that you’ve found yourself in a fox’s jaw about ready to clamp down.

“I live with my loss at the hands of a nobody. And it’ll gnaw at me from the inside…” he says breathlessly, “Yes, that’s a risk I can see myself getting behind,” Ink has made your soul quiver further. “And only taking deals on the winning end…I do that enough for business. That's to say…” he suddenly pulls you up, causing you to stumble and lean into him. He chuckles as your addled mind and body reorient, but the arm slung around your waist prevents you from straying too far. It’s the pillar you must rely on, but one wrong step and it will crumble to dust.

It scares you. 

But.

There’s another side to your fear. What sort of things do we fear? These months have taught you that people hate that which they fear. When the fear amps up, so does the hate. You aren’t blind to how he looks at you. He’d vivisect you if it got him what he wanted. Your teeth grind. Oh, you hate him, you hate him so much. But your hate doesn’t burn, nor does it freeze. It’s a part of you, hums through your veins, thrums with the beat of your heart. There is nothing special about what is merely a fact of life. You are its vessel, and for that it sustains you.

You won’t see the fallout of your victory, but the mere idea sends a wave of ecstasy through you. 

The barrel of the revolver presses against your heart. 

“I accept your terms.” His voice edges with adrenaline and delight, but, and rather exquisitely, your instincts think, an edge that he must be the one to win this gamble—that in this moment, for him to live with loss is completely undesirable. But unfortunately for him, you’re not lucky enough to avoid a stupid death. You quiver, but not with fear. Though a part of you wonders if he’s just been testing you with his easy agreement. Should you be glad if you get full marks? Or should you hope you’ve failed?

Still, a brief feeling of levity blooms in your chest, and you seize it immediately. 

You did it. And unexpectedly, rather than further terror, relief washes over the heat and ink, because now that you’ve felt dead so often in such short time, death is salvation. But just as quickly as the water came, a blizzard freezes the sea. 

Click. His lips are against yours. 

Of course. He wouldn’t let your final moments be pleasant. 

He takes advantage of your inexperience to entangle your tongues, and his hand pushes you deeper and deeper as he tries to devour you. You gasp and tear up when he bites and bruises your lips. You’d like to fight back, but you want to get this over with. Even if it means being taken advantage of in your last moments, mother death’s repentance is merely a chamber or two away.

But still, no matter how demented you are in the moment, you are human, and the instinctual desire to survive makes you recoil.  The eye contact exacerbates it. His eyes hold a sea. On the surface, you can freely see the coral and starfish, difficult to understand but beautiful. But deeper, where the sunlight does not shine, the predators have taken to hunting one another, having wiped out the prey. And when only one is left, then it can only move up and up, until it’s the only thing left standing. And now it looks to consume you to satiate its unending appetite. Your lungs burn. 

You’d love to shut your eyes, but doing so feels like losing. At least when you do so, you can see yourself be devoured. Your awareness of yourself is the only agency you have right now. 

Click. He pulls away, and you take in a greedy breath. Your heart beats and a tear trickles; you’re not dead yet. That’s ok. You’ll be dead in a moment. 

“You look so certain you’ll win,” he observes, “it’s a good look on you.” 

You scrunch your nose. “Pull the trigger. I’m getting sick of looking at you.” 

“But, if I do, then you might breathe your last,” his eyes narrow, though you’re not sure if it’s predatory or softening, “can’t I take the sight of you in?” 

“Ha!” You cough it out. “For a man who dresses to the nines, you sure have bad taste.” 

“Aw, don’t demean yourself like that,” he mockingly reassures, “I’ll have you know you’re perfectly enchanting.” 

You decide to play along, because banter is banter and no matter how spiteful you are, you’ll take comfort and levity where you can find it. “And you’re a Knight of Beauty.” Absently, you wonder how terrible you must look. You feel your eyes still well with tears, and you’re still sniffling back bits of snot every now and then. 

You’re not sure if everything’s just catching up to you, or if the thought has propelled you to the realization, but you’re so, so, so tired. It does make your tears dry, a little, and your muscles relax. 

You see he’s starting to lean in again, and you immediately put a hand between you and his lips. “Don’t.” You growl. “Just…just shoot,” you sigh in exhaustion, “I’m tired. Just shoot. If you’re not satisfied, then you’ll have my corpse.” The implication is disgusting but he’s disgusting, and you really just want to sleep. You’re pretty sure he would’ve done it even without you saying. 

“Can’t say the image is pleasant.” Is his voice colder? Or are you finally losing it? 

“I’m already a teary mess. It’ll just be colder and a little stiff.”

He scoffs, “If I wanted someone steely, you wouldn’t be here.” 

You bite your cheek and look at your feet. “Shoot.” 

There’s a pause in the air. You wonder if he’s contemplating on saying something to you, or just getting it over with. Both would make sense. You close your eyes. You will yourself to not think, because you know if you do that your life will just flash before your eyes. And if that happens, you’ll die completely miserable.

Click. 

You’re breathing. His hand is on your waist. The gun’s pressed to your chest. Nothing’s changed. Why aren’t you on the ground choking on blood? 

“I win.” You hear. You shut your eyes when sunlight gets into them.

Oh. Oh. Oh.

You’re still here. 

It didn’t work. It didn’t pay off. Your knees give out as you finally are no longer to keep your tears at bay. You feel fluttering around your eyes, and you dare not open them. Shhh, shhh, you hear, but you only cry more. Everything has come to impale you, and you cry as you feel your organs spill. You’re his. You’re his. You want to die. Everything is coated in ink. You process nothing but the terror and rage and fear and despair and laughter and anything and everything you’ve ever experienced. You try to curl in on yourself, but you’re stopped. 

“Shhh, it’s alright…” a hand strokes you to soothe, but it’s more akin to sandpaper rubbing on raw skin, “Let it all out…we have plenty of time. I don’t have to hold back and neither do you.” 

You heave and sob. All you can think about is the unknown future which awaits you. You barely register being placed on a plush surface.

When your sobs finally quiet, you’re forced to look into his eyes. There’s a flush on his cheek, a slight inconsistency in his breathing, and his eyes have dilated with adrenaline and…and…you’ve never seen that emotion before, whatever it is. 

You wonder what face you’re making, as he smiles ferally. “You were right. That was great,” he hisses with elation, and laughs. “Oh, you’re beautiful.” 

The world spins. You’re laying, and he’s on top of you. 

Oh…oh no…You begin to flinch and twitch uncontrollably. You aren’t thinking. You flail, kick, cry, but he doesn’t budge. You need to get away get away get away get away—

“One last thing, to really seal the deal,” he smiles, insidiously kind and horrifying, “to commemorate my victory and your defeat.” 

He bites into your neck, and you scream. 

The fox swallows you whole.

—

He lets you roam freely, whenever he’s gone. To say you were baffled about it was putting it lightly, and you refrained from taking advantage of it in fear he had something up his sleeve. In fact, when you found out his spaceship-apartment-thing was mounted with surveillance in every nook and cranny, you found a cramped closet to hide in for a few days. Curling into a ball all day wasn’t easy on the joints, but you were taking any semblance of privacy you could get. But Aventurine, petty and cruel, forced you to seal off your haven with your own hands before he tore into you. If he wants you in his sight or roaming about, he should just make up his mind already.

But, for this one occasion, you choose to abuse this privilege. You usually come back around the same time he does to appease him, but you finally decided you needed a vacation after he forced you into one of his stupid gambles and forced you to fulfill another of his especially perverted fantasies; on top of forcing you to help him get acquainted with a gacha you played—and then caused your cake to burn. Sure, there are those big moments where lava and ink converge, but it’s the little things which sting and nick that pile up. The real kicker was when he forced you two to share a plate of pasta and when, of course, you two landed on the same noodle, he had the brilliant idea to suck it up at the speed of light so you guys could kiss. How romantic, kissing someone with half-chewed food in their mouth, you truly could not commend this man’s genius enough. You couldn’t keep up, which was how you ended up with pasta sauce in your eye. And there were pepperoncinis in there.

Yeah, you’re no fan of how he fucks you mentally and literally. You gladly made this choice, and all the risk it came with.

“So, this is where you’ve been.” You think he’s still a little surprised, just as you are. You haven’t done much in the way of defiance, both because you wanted nothing more than to remain within yourself, and because you feared his retaliation. The few risks you have taken never pay off. And you didn’t even go to see your parents. You tried to tell them the horrible truth and because they deserved to know their child’s fate, but every time you approached their house, something stopped you. Shame, fear, embarrassment, sheepishness…you don’t know. You almost laughed. To think, a quarter of why you’re here is because of the danger they were placed in, yet you can’t even muster the courage to talk to them. You dismiss them from your mind because you have to deal with Aventurine. You wonder if you’ll forget them, if you cast them out of your mind enough. “I’m charmed. Our special place.” 

You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself. This was mine before you ever came here, and it still is.” 

You met each other here on a moonlit night. You couldn’t see each others’ faces, but it didn’t stop you from conversing. You don’t bother to think about it more, because what started as a memory that made you feel warm now enshrouds you in a volcanic blizzard. You’ve already mulled over it plenty anyway—on how such a mundane conversation started all of…this. 

Now, the sun is setting. It calms you down.

“Darling, this is a national park. You don’t own it.”

You tsk. “Shut up. I don’t feel like dealing with you right now. And you literally called this place ‘ours,’ you conniving bastard.” 

“Unfortunate,” his arm slings across your shoulders, “because it’s been such a lonely week without you…” the other cages you by the waist. You imagine his body rupturing and exploding, and you’d dance in the blood shower. Or would you soak yourself in his organs, to savor his defeat? Maybe you’d open your mouth, let your mouth and throat be coated in his blood so you— 

Huh. Something’s off again. You are no stranger to violent thoughts, but lately, at rare times, your fantasies get accompanied by something strange you can’t quite put your finger on.

You make a face, as you look at him over your shoulder with a deadpan glare, “And you’ve let me parade about.”

He giggles. “What? I had no clue you were here till a few hours ago! Honest.”

“Says the surveillance freak.” You wave your phone, “And I’ve so conveniently kept this tracker with me.”

He drops the act. “You didn’t even try to cover up your tracks.” He sighs, “I must say, your defeatism is probably my least favorite part about you. Can’t say I really understand.”

Then why does he still keep you around? It’s already been nearly half a year.

“You and I have no illusions that I can escape you, and I lost a bet. I try not to be a sore loser.” 

“And yet you so often cry when you lose our games. Kick and scream sometimes.”

Your chest feels hollow, and you hate the feeling so much that you want to die right then and there. “What, should I be jumping for joy when you rape me?” 

Silence. You can almost think he’s a little remorseful. But then his fingers are snaking to pull at your collar. Peeling back your skin, to try and coax you out of it. More like tear you out, you scoff.

“Seriously?” Your voice carries a mix of disappointment, anger, fear, and despair. It cracks, “Hardly three minutes and right after I—”

“Relax,” he’s so soothing that your muscles tense up and your heart beats to the nines—he’s so good at this! He continues his ministrations until he has a good view of your neck, and hums in pleasure, “you haven’t been that bad.” He brushes a spot at your neck. It’s the spot he first bit you in, and thinking about it still makes you shake in pain. And he’s always sucking or biting at it to stake his stupid claim. You brace yourself. And right on cue he’s latched on, and your scream is muffled by your hand. You’d like to say you’ve gotten used to it, but you’ve never had a good tolerance for pain. And against your wishes, you’ve cried. Aventurine lunges on the opportunity, sensually licking them and leaving behind a disgusting trail of slime to dry. “You really are a crybaby…” his voice is like crawling spiders in your ear.

You desperately rub them away with your sleeves, mostly because you know shoving him away doesn’t work when he gets like this. And then your short lived adrenaline fades.

“Shit!” He’s drawn blood. Again. And you liked this shirt! But you can see why he doesn’t—it was a high collar and a long sleeve, able to cover the mural of bites and bruises he leaves on your body. He doesn’t want others to see, but in private he can’t keep his hands off.

“Sorry,” he kisses the spot, but each kiss burns you. You don’t understand why he bothers to say the word when you both know he’s not capable of feeling remorse, at least, not for you.

You groan, blinking back mist. “You’re making it worse.”

“Sorry,” he repeats, giving you a bloody peck on the cheek, “but can you blame me? You’re not wearing any of my gifts. Makes a guy a little jealous, see?” He kisses your cheek again, firmer to imprint his bloody kiss.

“Yes, I can blame you for making conscious decisions,” you coldly snap, but you’re already tired, “Once again, jewelry is overrated and I reaffirm that your taste is shit.”

“I recall my jewelry and clothes were some of the first things you complemented.”

“Aye,” it’s true, but you see an opportunity for levity and take it, “but I have since evolved from my follious self.”

He’s getting that feral look in his eye again. Why?! You didn’t even do anything! You snap. “What is it? Spit it.”

“You’re doing it again.” 

You can’t stand his touch any longer. “Doing what?” You hiss, shoving him away from you so you can face him. 

He whistles. It feeds your frustration. You assume that it’s what he usually wants from you. “If this is some weird sexual innuendo then it’s fallen flat on its ass, you affluent horndog.”

He blinks in brief shock, before laughing—his canines shine in the orange sunset, “No, no no, not this time around. Let’s put it this way, and I’ll be very clear, just for you,”

As he calms down, an angelic smile spreads in his face, and you know you’re looking straight at damnation. 

“I’ve learned that defeatists succumb to themselves. Pushing them past their limit helps, but it’s not necessary.”

…In the back of your mind, you make a horrific realization. 

You have tilled fields, so You may eventually sow them with cotton.

—

What does your face look like, right now? But for once, you think it might be bestial. You know your eyes are wide open and not flooding.

In an unexpected subversion, it is you who pins Aventurine to the ground. You don’t pay much mind to his expression: parted lips, breathless, glimmering interest and fulfilled desire in his eyes; it’s unusual and you would’ve drank it in if not for the tornado in your mind. It’s torn through some cotton, leaving the field barely alive.

“What. Were. You. Thinking?” You do not recognize your own voice. You feel your body shaking and find that you’re breathing heavily. 

He smiles. “You watch me gamble all the time, dearest.” His head tips in faux questioning, “I don’t see how that’s gotten you so worked up—and you’ve been so sweet lately.”

You grind your teeth. He hasn’t answered you. “You played Russian Roulette.”

The body of his opponent is slumped on the table across from you two. Their blood continually drips, crying out in defeat. You couldn’t care less about that, because there’s a thought playing on repeat in your mind. 

That could’ve been his body.

His eyes twinkle as he smirks, “Are you jealous?” He cruelly teases, “Did you want to kill me, or were you hoping to take the bullet yourself?” 

“No.” You’re not being sensible. The cotton in your mind is shredding. You want to balk at the idea, and You want to jump at the opportunity. “Answer my question.”

“Mmm,” he hums, and his nonchalance makes you shake, “well, I suppose I’m in no position to refuse. It was a good gamble with a good thrill, of course! I thought you knew this.”

He’s right. You know just how much pleasure he takes in putting everything on the line. Your question is answered, but for some reason it’s still not satisfied. The few surviving patches of cotton are still in your way.

That depraved feral look in his eyes only grows at your internal battle, and his gloved hand cups your cheek. “What’s wrong?” He goads. “Or have you finally come around to just how irresistible I am?”

For a moment, cotton has come. But then the scent of blood wafts to your nose, and all of your senses have increased tenfold.

Hell hath flourished, and it burns the cotton to dust.

You begin to unravel. 

“I want to hollow out your chest.” You admit, maddeningly and you wonder how much your insanity bleeds out. “And burrow into it, so I can listen to your heartbeat and feel the expanse of your lungs pressing into me with your every breath,” you think your breath has grown more erratic, “I want to breathe in your blood, taste your heart, blood, sustain myself on nothing, on nothing but you!” You’ve leaned closer, your breaths fanning on each others’ faces. Small patches of water begin to drop onto Aventurine’s face—his face that is so breathtakingly and satanically beautiful without the cotton obstructing it—your breath hitches and your mouth twitches, as you take in a quivering breath. “If you die…I might just join you, because…there’s really nothing else for me…” and then something ugly sparks in your chest. “If you die…I’m pulling the trigger, not some random sap in a casino.”

The puddle of blood begins flowing toward you. 

It completely burns the cotton, and that is the moment You are no longer safe. But hell is beautiful, you find, and you so gladly drench yourself in its flames. You are still painfully aware of how wrong it all is…but, the storm within you is starting to calm, you don’t cry with your every free moment and you no longer agonize about your parents. You…you think this is peace. To harbor obsession for the man who trapped you in this hell and tortured you and then drowned you in affection.

You sob, a sound of euphoric despair, and you confess the terrible truth,

“I love you, Aventurine,” you take in a shuddering gasp, “I love you…” you cough, no longer able to hold back as you break down, “I love you, I love you,” you hiccup and sob, “I love you I love you I love you I love you.” You’ve collapsed, curling in on yourself but resting your head atop his heart. “Don’t throw me away…don’t l-leave me…I need you, and it’s your f-fault I’m like this…please, please Aventurine, tell me you love me and won’t ever let me go!” Oh, you feel so ugly and you feel so much lighter and, and—

His breath shudders, and then swiftly takes you in his arms. You stumble, but his grip doesn’t cease, like he wants your bodies to meld into each other. He sits up, shifting so you’re straddling him. Red dusts his cheeks, a similar shade to the crimson pooling beneath you two. His eyes hold a hunger satiated and a new voracity, gleaming with animalistic intent that makes you shiver. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he shudders, holding back all he wants to do, “that was beautiful—you’re beautiful,” he’s panting, “how could I refuse such a heartfelt and adorable confession?” Your heart soars. “You’re so perfect. You’re the other side of my coin…yes,” he groans, “I’d love to bring you down with me, and to tear you apart if I’m back in that dawnless land.”

As the dawn shines on you both as he kisses you, it clicks.

He wanted someone just as desperate as him.

The whisper against your lips is almost reverent, “I knew you were the one,” His eyes are like a meadow, where you dance and sing and never leave, even as your feet howl in pain brushing against poison ivy and oak hidden amidst the grass and flowers. And now you recognize the emotion that drowns in them. That all consuming affection which threatens to erase your existence to everything but it. “Thank you, for destroying yourself for me. It’s truly an honor, sweetheart.” 

Your tears flow, but the corners of your mouth twitch upwards. Insanity has sunk its claws into you, your stress and limits explode in a desperate supernova, and your very being trembles with ecstasy. Aventurine joins you, standing up and spinning you around in his firm hold as you both laugh and laugh in the dawn’s sunlight, with red not trailing too far behind. This is a spectacle you burn and freeze and drown in, witnessed by your spectator in rot.

You're devoured, but you’ve grown your own claws and fangs.

Driven by nothing more than instinct, in the throes of your tryst, you bury your head in the crook of his neck,

And bite.

#yandere #Yandere aventurine #yandere hsr #yandere hsr x reader #yandere aventurine x reader #aventurine x reader #yandere honkai star rail #Yandere x you #tw noncon #if you’re this far into the tags then hello welcome to hell #How are you? I’m chillin out it’s pretty nice #Dreading the day I must finally become a proper tool in capitalism (re: get an actual job so I do not starve to death and deprived of— #—basic human necessities. Like nestle water) #Ha didn’t expect capitalism depression in the tags of a yandere work didja well to that I say SIKE BITCH I’ve got you #But also every other post has espresso depresso abt capitalism so it’s kinda the norm at this point #Marx is rolling in his grave #Anyway go get a drink of water it’s very very important to be hydrated #Also you do not know how hard it is to not write good girl/boy in this FR— #Destroyed Onset

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

doodled a baby Randy & First and then rapidly created an AU because baby Randy and dad First

#rc9gn #randy cunningham 9th grade ninja #first ninja #rc9gn first ninja #randy cunningham #Torn Pages AU #made up a lil synopsis for this AU in my head... might write it out later #i always game for mentor figures becoming parental figures (out of necessity) and at first being very against it but they slowly get over i #its funny because canon!first would probably be a pretty horrible parental figure but my fanon!first is basically gonna have a mando effect

[onlyhuis]

need to ride jun's abs so bad this isn't funny anymore . 💤

i soooo get you but also... what if you were riding jun's cock and right before you're about to cum he lifts your hips off of him and ruins your orgasm and instead makes you ride his abs and you have to cum from that before he'll let you have his cock again. honestly i think he would be just as into ab riding as you are, if not more (and trust me i am very into ab riding). it gives him a rush knowing you can easily get off merely by grinding against his stomach. he would hold onto your hips so tightly and drag your pussy back and forth, making sure your clit touches every single ridge of his toned abs. he would tense the muscles so it would give you something nice and hard to grind against and the entire time he would be praising you at how well you ride him (but also at the same time lowkey bragging about how good his abs are; we've seen his lives lolol and we know he loves to tease us about his abs). "does that feel good, sweetheart? which do you like more, riding my abs or riding my cock? silly question- i know it's a tough choice, baby. you want both. and i'll let you have both, if you keep being such a good girl and cum all over my abs. then you can have my cock, hm?" and then when you do finally cum, he'd make you move so you can see the trail of wetness you've left all over his body and he'd coo about how you're always so wet and beautiful and desperate for him. and only then he would let you ride his cock again

#[📮] — jun hard thots #[💌] — asks #💤 anon #junhui smut #jun smut #svt smut #seventeen smut #went a little feral with this one. because i am feral #riding juns cock and/or abs is not a want its a need its a necessity its a requirement to live #i need him carnally biblically lasciviously violently #if u have more ideas about ab riding please feel free to send more asks btw #bc i almost kept this one to write a full thing about but also i needed to say this right now #i am actually very very normal about this (lying) (rivaling pinocchio rn with how much im lying)

[ghcstao3]

drabble? fic? ficlet? i barely know the distinction atp. ghostsoap (ish), 1.1k words, on y va !

-

Soap is the proud owner of an asshole cat.

This cat—a Ragdoll named Precious, of all things—only tolerates three people in her life, and even that’s a stretch: Soap, is one of the obvious, and both Soap’s parents because that’s who she stays with while he’s away for work.

Now, Soap loves Precious. Sure, she can be mean sometimes and has left him with a few scratches, but those were just because he hadn’t respected her wishes to be left alone, obviously—because maybe an hour following those sorts of incidents, they’re back to cuddling, and Soap is back to cooing at her and giving her treats just because a particular meow sounded cute. He treats Precious like his child, and whenever he’s on leave that cat gets spoiled.

Unfortunately, however, he’s had previous partners complain about Precious just because she always swatted at them, or because she’d hissed every time they attempted to pet her without ever approaching the way strangers should—but in the end, who got to stick around? Certainly none of Soap’s exes. And that gets Soap thinking if he had to choose, Precious would always come first. It has him realizing that maybe he wouldn’t ever have a partner because of it, but he decides that’s alright. Precious is all he needs for companionship.

Soap is also the less-proud brother of two rather nosy sisters.

Usually the chain of information about Soap is passed in one way: Soap’s older sister pries something out of him, tells that something to their mother, and his youngest sister easily gets that something from their mother because she still lives with their parents. His father is often out of the loop, or tied somewhere in the chain with Soap’s little sister, and thank God for small mercies.

But regardless, nothing gets past anyone, and that’s how one of the biggest domino effects of Soap’s recent life is set off.

Back to the cat.

Even though Soap had long since decided that he wouldn’t ever need a partner, and may never end up with one, he is willing to try one last time with his lieutenant. It’s a long story with lots of rule bending, and the most awkward confession spoken by man on Soap’s part—but by the time Soap ventures to introduce Ghost to Precious for the first time, he thinks he may already be in love.

He’s nervous, though. Because he’s never wanted a relationship to work out so badly before, and if Ghost doesn’t like Precious, or wouldn’t be willing to learn to live with her and her flaws, then Soap will be more than a little heartbroken.

Then a miracle happens. Or maybe less so a miracle and more so Precious deciding for Soap that he’s found The One. Because Precious warms up to Ghost immediately, which is saying something considering it took Soap himself a while to earn her trust. But Ghost? Precious takes one sniff at his hand and essentially declares him to be her new favourite (not that she really had one of those before).

In all, this series of events ends up with Soap’s only photo of Ghost unmasked on his phone, amidst photos of the 141 and Precious and various places he’s been, when one afternoon on leave he witnesses Ghost napping on the couch with Precious comfortably curled up on his stomach, the two of them snoring like motors. Ghost never finds out about the image, Soap forgets about it, then his older sister reenters the picture and reminds him while also becoming the reason Soap’s family finds out that he’s finally dating again.

He was going to tell them. Just not yet, is all. He’d been waiting on the right time, or something like that.

Soap is on leave alone for the first time in a while. His sister pays him a visit, asks to see something on his phone, and because he’d only been half-listening, Soap thinks nothing of it to hand it over.

This is his first mistake, and, really, the trigger event to the worst month of his life by way of exasperated berating from his mother and a bombardment of questions from everyone else.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“Who’s this?”

Soap looks up from the book he’d been half-heartedly reading to have his phone shoved in his face with the photo of Ghost and Precious napping on the screen. His stomach drops.

“He—uh.” Soap blanks. He doesn’t want to tell the truth, but knows the lie about to leave his mouth would be anything but convincing. “A one-night stand.”

His sister raises her eyebrows, entirely unimpressed. “You take pictures of your one-night stands?”

Soap shrugs helplessly, fingers curling tighter around his book as he tries to casually look anywhere but the image. “Thought he looked cute? Y’ken how Precious is with people.”

“Not buyin’ it,” she says. She pulls the phone away and scrutinizes the screen herself, zooming into something, then scrolling to something else. “He is cute, though.”

“Can you just—“ Soap attempts to swipe his phone back, but she raises her arm before he can. He scowls and sets his book down. “Please give me my phone back.”

“Not ‘til you tell me who he is.”

Soap groans, scrubs at his face with the heels of his palms. Having a sister is the worst. He can’t imagine how this would go if they’d both been here.

“He’s…” Soap sighs, shoulders sagging. He grumbles, “We’re dating.”

“How long?”

“Six months.”

The gasp his sister lets out makes it sound like he’d just told her someone died. He’s then left to answer a million-and-one questions about Ghost, accidentally reveals that he is, in fact, dating the lieutenant he’d been non-stop pining over for far too long, and is eventually threatened to invite Ghost to Christmas dinner that year, “or else.”

He goes through the same thing with his mother two weeks later, once the chain has been started up again. And Ghost, the bastard, has the audacity to laugh. He just thinks it’s so funny the verbal ass-beating Soap gets over the phone until the call ends and Soap shows Ghost the reason this was all happening. Tells him he snores, too. And loud. It puts Ghost in the defensive long enough for Soap to feel a little less miserable about the whole situation, and gives him time to think about how he’s going to ask Ghost to come home with him for the holidays in a few months.

All because Soap is the proud owner of an asshole cat, the less-proud brother of nosy sisters, and the very-proud boyfriend of the best man he’s ever known.

Soap is definitely going to buy Precious some expensive treats the next time he’s home.

#john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghost x soap #ghoap #ghost mw2 #soap mw2 #soapghost #ghostsoap #secret relationship #drabble #writing #fanfic #cat owner soap is a necessity tbh

[sukibenders]

Bridgerton states from season one, through Simon and Lady Danbury, to season two, with the Sharmas, to Queen Charlotte, from the beginning episode to the end spelled out clear as day, that racism exists in this world and many of the characters of colors have been impacted by it in some way. And, supposedly, I'm supposed to believe that Marina, that Kate and Edwina, that they all had more privilege and power than Penelope? No, I don't think so, a lot of things aren't right with that statement.

#bridgerton #kate sharma #edwina sharma #lady danbury #queen charlotte #penelope featherington #penelope stans and/or polin stans do not interact if you can't be respectful! #even with her family's financial situation they still have more privilege & power than marina and the sharmas #pen didn't have the weight of finding a proper match be the end all be all for her fam (like edwina & kate) #penelope does whisltedown bc she wants too kate had to do the things she did bc she HAD to to support her family #marina even with being cousin to the featheringtons was about to be passed off to a man older than her with little guarantee that he's good #or would treat her and her child as they deserved #the whole point of the marriage market was to find someone who can provide for u bc that's your only option #literally what marina does #a common theme of all these black and brown women having to work to provide for themselves out of necessity #pen was writing before her family's situation was even known and writing nasty things primarily about women #also the “kate is a bridgerton now” falls flat bc all of this happened before she and anthony married #even still the stuff that pen wrote about her was wrong (and racially coded too) #anti penelope featherington

[all-seeing-ifer]

fred burkle is such a compelling and layered character if u exclusively watch the ats episodes that were written by women

#mere smith and sarah fain and elizabeth craft were like atlas holding up the sky with that woman's characterisation #the way they'd write the most devastating episodes in which amy acker gives the most incredible heartbreaking performance #and then the next episode would just be like idk. people like love triangles right #anyway ats making a great case for the necessity of feminism as a political movement as ever #buffyverse #angel the series #ifer rambles

[rusquared]

fist clenched so hard my bones r cracking. i do not know han sooyoung's writing style. i know she writes well. i know she writes poorly when she is trying to impart 1863 lives onto a little boy. but i don't know what she writes when she's bored. i don't know what genres she likes and i don't know what her favorite metaphors are. does she like giving happy endings. i think she doesn't. but maybe. maybe she does. maybe she likes to make stories where the cruel reality of the world isn't as visible. she's jaded and guarded and mean but she still. hopes. han sooyoung, what is your writing voice?

#im losing my mind #i have read orv but its canonically through kimcom's disjointed memories implanted into random authors. im not getting all of sooyoung. #my wall of impossible communication is there. #WHAT DOES SHE WRITE LIKE #TELL ME MORE #WHAT DOES SHE WRITE WHEN SHE'S NOT WRITING OUT OF LOVE BUT OUT OF NECESSITY AND BOREDOM AND TO EARN MONEY #orv spoilers #yeah the caffeine from earlier is hitting

[wannaeatramyeon]

No no but the question is who payed for Jake‘s teeth implants

Jake Kim x Reader: Dental implants

G/N. Response to other ask in tags heh.

Jake only allowed you to visit him once before he got his implants.

He was already too ashamed at having landed himself in juvie, at dragging you down by association.

And he knows he really shouldn't care about this, but he fears how repulsed you would be by him. By the lack of teeth and the scar, a gruesome outcome of his weakness.

You aren't stupid or naïve enough to expect high spirits when you visit, however you didn't expect to see this shadow of a man. Keeping his lips shut, giving you perfunctory closed-mouth smiles with haunted eyes, fingers subconsciously lifting to his scar every now and then.

.

.

Dental work is expensive and your savings are laughable.

Nevertheless, you approach Jerry to see if there is anything you can do with the street's help. Which is another laughable idea because Big Deal is famous for two things: their passion, and their lack of money.

Jerry's response surprised you. In hindsight you're not sure why; you know you can always depend on him and on the crew.

"Don't worry about it," he gives you an assuring squeeze on the shoulder and a warm smile, "The boys wanted to do something for Jake for his birthday."

It's not your place to deny their kindness, though you couldn't help but feel guilty about them using their own money.

"Oh, they don't have to-"

"Everyone here loves Jake," Including me, including you doesn't need to be said. "We don't do it because we have to, we want to."

#sneaky anon you know my brain rot is BAD when it gets going #so yeah its from the big deal boys. my fave gang of babygirls #or at least that was how I interpreted it huh. Now im doubting myself. Anyways- #And to your other ask in my country there is prison dental treatment which makes sense ig but implants are considered cosmetic #ig they can say its a necessity when youre pretty much toothless. and with enough money you can buy anything you want #for ptjverse lets suspend our belief for a hot sec #im extra but not extra enough to write a dental scene lol #lookism #lookism manhwa #lookism webtoon #lookism fic #jake kim #jake kim x reader #jerry kwon #lookism x reader #wannaeatramyeon

[archiveofrasa]

thinking about how ramy says, “this is how the empire connects us,” in regards to opium and he’s so devastatingly right

but also:

ramy and robin find their lost languages in each other (cantonese is bold and sharp like ramy; bangla is sweet and soft like robin)

ramy and robin share cultural new years (chinese in jan/feb, bengali in april)

(while i’m not sure if these nicknames existed in the late 1830s) very common bengali endearments carry the same root word, pākhi, which means bird. bird, birdie.

and you will say – didn’t the empire start all this, too? didn’t the british take ramy and robin’s preferred languages away from them? didn’t they rip them from their homes where they would celebrate their new years? didn’t robin choose this name because the british wouldn’t let him have his chinese name?

the british started it, but they didn’t expect there to be this level of intimate solidarity. they wanted to pull the oppressed apart, pit them against each other, but the similarities are copious bc ramy and robin have much more in common with each other than they will ever with the empire

they take the cruelty, mould it into smth they can share and build together

the empire couldn’t have that. so they did what they knew best: they took them away from each other

#you could also make this a metaphor for letty if you want :p #babel an arcane history #babel or the necessity of violence #babel r f kuang #ramiz rafi mirza #robin swift #writing ramy/robin fanfic got me thinking abt this piece by piece and i just think. r f kuang was so clever #having ramy be bengali was obvious enough w the opium trades but all these connections? bhai....

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

The whole discourse about the privacy/secrecy/support thing has been sitting with me for a few days (I mean other than it always does to a certain degree) thanks to all the excellent discussion happening and I know I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said a million times before, but I think what we're seeing and what we're going to learn (e.g. from TTPD) is that it wasn't just the support issue, but how it was shown/handled.

We've all gone out of our way to show that introversion =/= lack of support. Someone can be shy, reserved, etc. and still show up for their partner, whether in public or at home. To chalk any of the differences up to the clash between introversion and extroversion is unfair to folks who count themselves among either tbh.

@thisisctrying said something the other day that hit the nail on the head about how if that support had been offered in private, there very well may not have been a Joever to begin with, or at least not at this point in time. (Sorry for loosely paraphrasing, and for namedropping you! Long time listener, first time poster.)

If this were a case where the "shy" partner said, "I am really uncomfortable with the spotlight personally and do not want to court it, but I will support you in your ambitions and offer you whatever you need to make them happen and make the glare bearable," I suspect that would have gone a long way to making Taylor feel seen and comfortable in pursuing her goals in the way that she now has. Again, that might have been more akin to the balance that seemed to have been struck around 2019 from what we can see, but even speaking in a general sense, there are lots of couples out there, celebrity or not, that have similar approaches where there are highly driven people and busy careers involved.

(A famous example being Dolly Parton's marriage. Tbh I know next to nothing about her and Carl, but she's always heralded as an example in this regard, because her husband is famously uncomfortable with the spotlight and hasn't accompanied her to public events in decades, but she's said that she never minded that because that was always work to her, and what was important was that he supported her in pursuing all her career goals and basically ensured she had a place to call home to return to at the end of the day.)

We're kind of in a brave new world with her current relationship because it felt like, at least at the start, we were maybe watching her figure out her boundaries in real time as to what she was comfortable with or not and adjust accordingly. Like so many have said, I fully believe the extreme privacy thing was initially driven by herself and her experiences in 2016, and she needed that quiet time to recover from all of the things and figure out how to exist in the world again.

Stating the obvious, it seemed like eventually privacy was equated with secrecy, turning the relationship and the celebrity into the elephant in the room and something to never be spoken of to the outside world. People are free to choose whatever works best for themselves and their relationships, and for some the separate public lives might work, but the “kept me like a secret but I kept you like an oath” theme is all over her work and it’s clear that it’s a sore spot for her, because she’s been made to feel shame just for the life she leads so many times in the past.

What I’m trying to say is that it’s pretty obvious something Not Great was happening behind the scenes, which didn’t just amount to “she wanted to be a public celebrity and he wanted to be a private hermit.” (Also, in case anyone forgot, this is a person who also chose a public-facing career who also has to engage in press for it, but I digress.) As her career reached new heights post-folklore, if she had the support at home to do all the things without judgment and with encouragement, and in turn offer the same support to her partner, she may have very well lived just fine with that, not unlike Dolly Parton’s case.

By reading between the lines in all the press since, as well as comments on tour and general ~vibes~ with TTPD teasers, it seems like one of the issues was that that was likely not the case. There was all the stuff that we saw — the reticence to acknowledge each other in the media (particularly on one side), the lack of public support even at events at which they were both in attendance for their respective jobs, the great lengths they went to not to be photographed together at events they attended yet no problem taking pictures with other friends and coworkers, the jobs that separated them, the withdrawing from the public even for work accomplishments, etc. Which could all be manageable if a couple chooses to do so together and are not inherently a sign of trouble in themselves.

But what we’re seeing now I think is a reflection of the things we weren’t seeing then, and it seems to indicate some very deep hurt. (I know, call me Captain Obvious.) And like so many have been saying, it feels likely that that part of that hurt is rooted in that very lack of private support where a person would expect it from their partner. Obviously as a Taylor fan blog I’m going to be more inclined to understand her side of a story, but tbh, it’s also because… this is sooooooo common, and something I’ve experienced in my friend group. (@taylortruther is right when she says most breakups are the same one way or another lol.)

One partner is resentful of the other’s success, or resentful that the other’s priorities begin to evolve as new experiences unlock new goals, or feels the other’s ambitions are not worthy of pursuit, and coupled with perhaps their own struggles in the same domain, it’s easy to see where that can chip away at the other partner’s morale and faith in the relationship. I know I’m just speculating here, but I also don’t think it’s totally unfounded. (Again, because a) I’m picking up what she’s putting down and b) it happens to sooooooo many women even among us dull normals.)

With all the pointed mentions about how much Taylor feels supported in her current relationship and how she in turn loves to offer the same show of support to not only her partner but other loved ones, how she’s stepped out more in the last year to a whole host of events, how she’s mentioned feeling like she locked herself away for years and she’s just proud of her partner and happy she can show up for him even if the chaos around it is unsettling, it paints a picture of what perhaps was happening before last year.

To feel like you’re all alone in carrying the weight of the relationship (or burden of it), of twisting yourself into knots to accommodate the other person’s boundaries (or insecurities) but not feeling reciprocity for your own has to be so painful. (The idea that it may have been even darker and to have a partner not only be unreceptive to your own needs but even perhaps resentful/dismissive/belittling of them is even more painful to think of. I guess we’ll find out when TTPD comes out if that was the case, too.)

At a certain point, that lack of acknowledgement will force your hand to be able to reclaim yourself. And it feels like the further removed Taylor in particular is from it, the more she moves from being sad about the life she felt she gave up by leaving, to angry at the life she felt she was giving up by staying. Especially being in a relationship now where it seems like everything comes much easier, where she can be open about the person she’s with and show up for them, all the stuff that seemed as challenging as climbing Mount Everest in her past is nothing more than a molehill at best in her current life.

TL;DR: I don’t think it’s privacy that inherently spells doom for a celebrity relationship like this; it’s the mutual support and respect that does. If Taylor had felt that in the later years of her previous relationship, I think we could be seeing a different, though not necessarily unfulfilled, person right now in 2024, who’d be happy on tour but whose personal life would look a little different. But it seems like by losing that support she lost parts of herself, and we’ve seen her reclaim that in spades in the last year, and perhaps to degrees she didn’t even realize she could from before all the Bad Stuff started happening in her young adulthood.

I know this was extremely long-winded and unnecessary, especially about total strangers we only know through scraps fed through the media, but I just always bristle at this idea that issues like these boil down to “personality differences,” as though one person wants to live in a city and the other on a remote island, or some shit like that. The whole support (and gender tbh) issue is one that’s just very close to my heart because again, I have seen it play out with so many of my friends in long term relationships and marriages and I just think people in relationships (and women in particular in some circles) deserve better than to feel like they’re being, well, tolerated.

#thisisctrying and taylortruther sorry for tagging you two! #can remove if needed! #but you guys made me think a lot #this was inspired by a conversation i had with a friend the other day #where she relayed an argument she had with her partner #who basically felt slighted that he wasn’t getting acknowledgement for all the housework he does — which is. just. the dishes #and she was like ‘wow congrats you’ve done the dishes — i do every other fucking thing to keep this household afloat in ways you see #and don’t see and i never ask for praise because it’s just stuff that needs to get done because that’s how you support your family’ #and it just reminded me that some partners (and a certain kind of man in particular) just… think their struggles take precedence #when their partners drown in them everyday but keep things afloat out of necessity and are never recognized or supported for it #(my friends have shitty husbands/boyfriends can you tell lol) #long post #again the way i just feel like i know the vibes of ttpd in my bones are 😵‍💫 #i feel like i have a lot more thoughts but I’m trying to be more gracious and less parasocial so #also just want to again defend the introverts of the world by reiterating that being introverted does not mean unsupportive #being a shitty partner does though! #writing letters addressed to the fire #it’s also just like… i feel like if Taylor had had even a modicum of the support in private and even public she needed #she’d probably still be with you know who and wouldn’t have considered leaving let alone doing it #because it would have felt like enough and like it was what was needed for both of them #whereas we’re seeing a completely new side of her open up now because this is the first time she’s ever had that support from a partner #in her adult life at least #and it’s like it’s opening up things she didn’t know she needed or wanted

[literaryvein-reblogs]

R. F. Kuang, Babel: Or the Necessity of Violence: An Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution

#writing prompt #rf kuang #babel an arcane history #babel or the necessity of violence #babel rf kuang #quotes #literature #zodiac #star signs #horoscope #writing prompts #writeblr #creative writing #fiction

[akystaracer22]

The Exception to the Rule

Synopsis: How far do you bend your morals for someone you love?

Notes:

This is definitely a turning point to the story and is a little jump ahead of everything so far.

From here on out, there will be two different types of oneshot, flashback oneshots which happen either in Heaven or in Eden, and present day oneshots which are primarily in Hell.

This also adds a new epithet to Adams repertoire! Technically.

There are OC’s in this one, I can’t avoid it.

Heaven politics! Theres a lot going on in heaven I can’t talk about because nobody in hell knows about it, but I can finally start talking!

I listened to More than Anything, Connor’s Main Theme, and Gladiator while writing this.

In exchange for starting the extermination early, the one after would take 18 months as opposed to 12.

I have named over 60 exorcists. If you see a reference no you don’t.

Vaggie wasn’t the first angel to show mercy to a sinner.

I drop so much fucking lore in this jesus fuck.

This one shot was supposed to come so much later.

Shit

SO, MICHAEL’S INVOLVED NOW!

Hey uh, you know how I said I can’t write stupid characters? Yeah… Adam can act and think like a damn general now ig.

Adams over 6,000 years old he knows how to move quickly.

... I really like my BAMF characters huh.

Word Count: 1862

Fic under cut!

“Adam?”

“Over here Luci,” The first man replied easily, looking towards where the angel had entered the wastelands.

Well… wastelands was a bit of a stretch now.

Once he was able to improve the soil, grass was able to finally start growing and…

The oak tree Adam was taking a break under was a testament to his labour. It was still growing and would probably take another year or so with the help of Lucifer’s magic before it’d resemble the mighty trees most people knew.

It didn’t make Adam any less proud of it.

The fallen angel got up and stretched his wings as Lucifer rounded a crag and came into view.

One of Adams wings hiked up before he could shove the instinct down, it was just Lucifer.

“Charlie wanted to know if you wanted to come up for lunch or if you’re fine down here,” The devil started, “She and Maggie are making pastries from the pear’s you dropped off yesterday.”

“Vaggies baking? Better hope your daughters good then, Vaggie’s got a tendency to burn whatever she touches.”

Regardless, Adam started making his way towards the hotel, completely disregarding the unspoken offer to just teleport there.

Lucifer just laughed and unfurled his wings as Adam began the trek up the stairs, flying up beside the man.

“I doubt you have room to talk about when it comes to cooking.”

“I helped Eve cook you know,” Adam scoffed, “I had a few specialties of my own.”

“And yet Maggie can’t cook.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, plenty of my daughters can cook! Lux is extremely good at dessert foods and Needle can make some great fucking lunches.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes really! It’s Mari you have to look out for. The presentation of her food? Stunning, beautiful, gourmet even. The taste? I thought I was going to die a second time over the toilet.”

Lucifer cackled and a light chuckle escaped Adams lips as the angel almost fell out of the sky at the mental image.

“Shut up! I’m serious I thought I caught some sort of illness! They don’t even have illnesses in heaven!”

“I would pay to see that!”

“I bet you would be you sick fuck.”

“Hey! I-”

Lucifer went dead silent, and Adam almost asked what was wrong before he heard it too.

Shouting.

He didn’t even glance at his friend as they were both caught in Lucifer’s magic, bringing them both to the hotel lobby.

“I’ll stop the fight.”

“I’ll grab my fucking axe,” Adam headed down the hallways until he found the gym, carefully taking his axe off the wall and slinging it over his back before booking it to the hotel exit.

“If you’d just give me a minute-!”

“Your majesty-”

“Alastor.”

“Mom!”

“Oh for fucks sake!”

Adam slammed open the doors and jumped the stairs, “What the fuck is going on-!”

Adams brain short circuited immediately after taking in the situation.

Lucifer was frozen stiff with his wings spread wide, his head whipping around to stare open mouthed at Adam. Alastor and Lilith’s glaring contest was broken as they also stared at the first man. The princess and Vaggie were holding hands and Charlies demonic traits receded at Adams arrival.

The other residents were also still at the first mans arrival, nervousness and surprise evident in everyone expressions, even Nifty stopped moving. Under normal circumstances Adam’s gut would have twisted from all the attention.

That usual knee jerk response was completely crushed under the weight of the other three present.

Adam was barely aware of the fact that he’d dropped his axe as he took in the maskless faces of three of his exorcists.

Echo almost dropped her scimitars; her hair was undone from it’s usual bun to brush against her shoulders. She almost stepped back from him before a wing from her sisters steadied her.

Delta was much more graceful, sheathing her rapier and swallowing thickly; Adam understood how she felt. She’d recently had a haircut, her undercut looking crisper than the last time he saw her.

Nina’s war pick clattered to the ground as she brought her hands to her mouth, tears cropping up in the corners of her eyes as she took in his ruined form. In contrast to Delta, her hair had grown out; the normal buzz cut fading.

Adam stood in the silence, wings slowly folding in from where he had mantled them prior. He didn’t know what to do. These were his girls, and they were here and fuck, they were outnumbered. But… shit they were here to kill him weren’t they.

“…Sir?”

Fuck it.

The first man sprinted forward; wings spread wide as he reached out for the three of them. Weapons hit the ground as he pulled his kids into a hug.

If he was going to die, he’d like to die hugging his girls.

Adam didn’t expect the three of them to hug back. His shoulder grew wet as Nina’s tears started to fall; Echo made a soft noise as she buried her head in the feathers of his good wing. Delta’s wings were touching the tips of his own as she all but collapsed into the huddle.

Huh, seems like they were all mad here.

Adam didn’t give a fuck; he was hugging his exorcists and that was enough for him at the moment.

“So… we’re good?”

Moment over.

Adam pulled away to glare at Lucifer, “Do you fucking mind?”

“Sorry sorry! I’ll shut up now!”

“No, you’ve ruined it. Moments gone and done thanks to you,” Adam huffed, regretfully stepping away from his girls even as he kept his good wing extended to the three exorcists, guiding them by the wing towards the hotel.

“Come on, I have a feeling you three aren’t here just for show.”

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

Adam blew lightly on his tea before sipping it, leaning forward to pour the exorcists some tea as he worked to calm his still slightly frayed nerves.

He’d managed to move the girls into a private room before unceremoniously kicking everyone else out, if anything happened Lucifer would break into the room in a flash, so it wasn’t like he was in any real danger.

Besides, they were his girls, it’d be fine.

“So,” Adam swallowed, before  “What brings you three to this side of the pentagram? The hunts not on for another eight months.”

Echo swallowed thickly and Nina bowed her head, it was Delta who answered.

“I- Netto discovered that heaven knew you were alive, sir. Lute wanted to come down immediately but the rest of us were able to convince her otherwise.”

“She’s too far in the eyes of the high seraphim, if she disappeared they’d know.”

“So, we decided to go instead,” Nina finished for her sisters.

Adam stared at the three of them, horrified, “What?”

“What Nina’s saying is… we’re staying here.”

“Why the fuck would you three do that!” Adam hissed, feathers bristling at the implications, “You all have so much to lose-”

“We don’t,” Delta asserted, scowling at the window, “You know damn well what hells denizens took from us.”

Adam froze as the image flashed into the forefront of his mind.

Charlie. Echo and Delta’s missing piece to their trio. They were best friends even beyond the bonds of sisterhood. Where one was the other two were close by. Charlie was the sunshine to their storm, always taking time out of her own day to brighten up the other exorcists. She preferred to use a crossbow to keep away from sinners, something Adam was always grateful for.

Charlie’s body was missing several ribs and most of her organs, looking every part like it had been ravaged by monsters. It took effort Adam didn’t have every day to not go to cannibal town and raze it to the ground. For Charlie, for Zirco, for Steel, for Feather and Annie and every exorcist he failed.

Even-

A scream, a plea as Adam struggled against divine magic nononono please stOP PLEASE-

Wasp

Adam whole body tensed up. Fuck, Wasp. He hadn’t- shit he’d almost managed to convince himself that that had never-

Fuck.

The girls were looking at him now, Nina reaching out a hand to him.

“And you?”

The hand pulled away, “What?”

“Nina, why did you decide to come down here,” Adam rasped, “You- fuck you were planning on proposing to your girlfriend why-”

“Because your our leader,” Nina answered quietly, like she wasn’t taking Adams breath away with a single sentence, “And Regina understood, she agreed with me.”

Nina held up her phone with a sad smile, “Besides, at least this way it’s easier for me to watch out for her dad.”

Adam wanted to send the three of them back to heaven immediately, this was no place for angels. Vaggie was lucky she found Charlie immediately.

But Delta and Echo had backbones of steel, and once Nina set her mind to something there was no stopping her.

Shit, Netto and Lute were smart to send them.

Wait-

“What did you mean when you said heaven knew I fell Delta,” Adam whispered, “I should have fucking died. How did Netto find out I fell.”

Delta sighed and gazed tiredly at him, “Same way she always finds things out, she got it straight from Michaels lips.”

Adams blood froze before his mind caught up with him. Michael was involved with this. Fuck of course he was it was Michael, and if he was involved… then it stands to reason the rest of the ancient archangels had something to do with all of this too.

The first man stood up before pausing, if his gut was right, this wasn’t just about his fall. For the ancient archangels to be aware of his fall and do nothing for ten months… there was something he was missing.

He’d need to wait, maybe even bring Lucifer and the others in on this. But first…

“I’m in room 2101, Lucifer’s wing. 2100 is taken by the king of hell himself and his wife but the rest of the floor is empty,” the three exorcists perked up at Adams commanding tone, “Get set up and get settled in. Echo, send a message to the others and tell them I’m okay.”

“Already done.”

“Love that, Delta how is training looking?”

“Lute’s leading the effort sir, we’ve been working hard to fix our holes.”

“Great, get back in contact with Lute. I have a few techniques that can help. And for fucks sake tell her to use whatever prosthetic she has to her advantage; I fucking know she’s not.”

“Yes sir!”

“Nina, keep an ear out. Both for anything Netto has for us and for anything in hell. Carmilla Carmine, and the Vees are important. Especially Carmine, she’s the one with the angelic steel. Do not engage.”

“Go it sir.”

“Good, I’ll get you three for dinner. Remember, stay sharp, stay armed, and whatever you do. Don’t fucking trust the Radio Demon. He’ll kill everyone in this hotel the moment he’s off his fucking leash.”

The leader of the exorcists watched the three of them head down the hallway towards the front desk before turning and heading for the stairwell.

He had a lot to think about, and from the looks of things he still had an extermination to plan.

#hazbin hotel #adam hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel adam #worldbuilding #writing #angst #fluff #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer hazbin hotel #adamsapple #edenpoly #lilith hazbin hotel #lilith morningstar #hazbin hotel charlie #charlie morningstar #ashes to ashes dust to dust #hazbin hotel exorcists #hazbin exorcists #papa adam #bamf adam #oc character #original character #out of necessity

[cave-monkey]

A fic!

Summary: It's Stone Monkey's first night with his new troop. Except the troop doesn't see how this is their problem. Alternatively: The Six-Eared Macaque teaches the Little Stone Monkey how to build a nest. Some things are more than instinct; some things require a little care.

#monkey king 2009 #I work out some frustrations at the monkey troop in the show with some pointed incognito hurt/comfort #I don't write that often but sometimes the urge strikes. it's been ages. #anyway so I learned monkeys have to be taught how to build nests and that was my Sunday gone #did you know orangutans will make and add like - blankets and pillows and things to their nests? #bunk bed nests are a real thing! #it's pretty cool #next installment: six ears introduces stone monkey to the concept of macaque love taps #ie: smack the SHIT out of all your acquaintances to get those juicy juicy bugs out of them #and also appropriate tick removal techniques #you know: the necessities of life #stone monkey introduces HIMSELF to the concept of 'I guess I don't know my own strength' #rip six ears

[chamaleonsoul]

#this has been rotting away in my drafts and i keep forgetting #also can someone write a cake playing in the snow fic pls and thank u #it's a necessity #op #cake #moodboard!sos #a. moodboards