#I wish I could provide coherent thoughts

[mockerycrow]

Frozen Fingertips [2/2] (Ghost x GN!Reader)

ghost masterlist - part one

Summary: Ghost struggles to keep you alive through these harsh times.

A/N: I’m so glad you guys enjoyed part one!! i did not shrink the font of this one because i realized that it may strain some peoples’ eyes. this is not as angsty as i wished it to be, and it isn’t as long as i hoped. i apologize. tbh i don’t like this, but i hope y’all enjoy

[WARNINGS: Descriptions of developing hypothermia and frost bite, delirium, near-death experience(s), angst to fluff.]

THE BLIZZARD WAS not stopping and it didn’t show signs of stopping any time soon, which honestly terrifies Ghost because of your awful condition. Despite his previous efforts, you quickly slipped back into a delirious state of developing hypothermia—a state you weren’t completely aware of, but you knew something was wrong. You could vaguely acknowledge the way that you were fading in and out wasn’t normal, but it wasn’t like you could do anything about it. What you hated was the painful tingling and the weird.. harsh cold entering your lungs every time you took a deep breath. You’re so warm, yet your lungs burn cold.

You only saw times in glimpses—what you thought was likely a matter of hours, expanded across a matter of a few days. The harsh blizzard was unwavering, it’s snow falling from the sky harshly messing with the radio signals. Ghost would sit by the window with his personal radio on his vest, along with the emergency signal radio he had stowed in his pack. He would get small glimpses of other peoples voices—Price’s would come through occasionally, luckily long enough for Ghost to update him about their situation and their whereabouts, your condition; but Ghost was never able to provide an update about an exact location. The windows were frosted over and even when they weren’t, all Ghost saw was endless snow and pine trees far as the eye can see, until they eventually faded from view due to the snow coverage. Every time Ghost suddenly becomes aware of his breath, he can’t help but glance over at you; wrapped up in two sleeping bags, sitting way too close to the fireplace—sometimes shuddering, and sometimes.. not moving at all. His heart drops to his stomach when he doesn’t see your breath in the air. He calls your name loudly, firm and demanding and when you don’t answer, he scrambles from his position by the window. “Fuck,” He utters. “Fuck!”

Ghost ignores the pain in his knees when they harshly bash against the ground as he kneels next to you. He grabs your face by your cheeks, startled by the hue of blue on your lips. “Bloody bell—wake up!” Ghost snarls, somehow managing to keep his voice steady. He holds his breath until he sees your chest slowly yet shakily rise—and then you exhale very slowly, and clearly with amounts of trouble. Relief floods Ghost’s veins, but it’s quickly replaced by frustration and panic. You gasp quietly before you begin to shiver uncontrollably again, and taking Ghost completely by surprise; you open your eyes. Your eyes are glazed over, your eyelids puffy. “[Name]?” Ghost questions, his eyes staring hard into yours, silently noting your dialed pupils. “[Name], can you hear me?” If you do, you don’t make coherent indication. Your tongue darts out and wets your lips before you croak out, “I gotta pee.” Ghost huffs and shakes his head, his hand shooting up and laying on your chest—which is covered by many thicker layers, so disregarding Ghost’s hand, it’s not very likely you could’ve gotten up without help, anyway. “You went an hour ago, yeah? You need to stay layin’ down.” You groan and despite your arms being tucked into your multiple covers, something moves against the fabric as if to swat Ghost’s hand away. Ghost can’t help but swallow nervously; he isn’t stupid, he’s aware you’re in one of the stages of hypothermia, he told Price as much. He’s been able to keep the frostbite at bay, but he’s running out of firewood. It’s snowing way too damn hard for him to even pick up stray logs and sticks laying around. Your slowed heartrate, increased urge to urinate, slow cognitive functions, slurred speech, cold skin—blue lips..

It’s not looking good and Ghost doesn’t want to think about that, but that’s all he can see of you right now, so how could he not? And it’s hard both mentally and physically to stay in this cabin, seeing you deteriorate while he himself is getting absolutely fucking freezing. Ghost has had to shed a layer or two just to keep you alive. He can’t deny the way the cold air is scratching at his skin, seeping through his balaclava and into his jaw, nearly making his bones hurt. Ghost clenches his teeth as he shudders for a moment, eyes fluttering closed just long enough to gain his composure. Fuck. Ghost doesn’t want to die here. He doesn’t want you to die here, not like this. Not in a run-down abandoned cabin with shitty insulation, where frostbite is nipping at your fingers and where the cold is finally getting to Ghost’s head. He grits his teeth and sits back on his ass normally with a gloved hand to his head, his vision absolutely swimming. “Stop it,” He grunts quietly. “Hafta stay up.” Ghost takes a deep breath and grunts as he pushes himself to his feet, his boots booming against the wooden floor as he walks over to the area where the firewood is kept. He grabs a few of the pre-cut logs and he makes his way over to you and the fireplace, tossing the logs into the ashes, slowly refueling the dying embers. Ghost sniffles a little under his mask as he grabs a piece of paper and takes out a lighter, lighting it on fire before quickly tossing it into the fireplace to make a better fuel source. He crouches near the growing fire, taking his spot by your feet. Ghost sucks in a shuddering breath and rubs his upper arms, and he can’t help but take another glance at you. You stopped trying to get out of your warm enclosure of blankets, but your eyes were darting around the room slowly, unfocused and hazy.

Ghost’s chest clenches for a moment and he walks back over to your shivering form, and he already did it, but he presses his fingers against your lukewarm skin—nearly cold. Your eyes flutter again and then they vaguely glance in the direction that you think he’s in; which you’re almost right, but a few inches off. You try to speak but a quiet choked noise leaves you, your breathing shaky—finally from fear this time. Ghost puts his finger to his mask in a shushing motion, trying his best to keep you calm. “You’ll be alright, yeah? Gotta wait until the storm’s done brewing out there.” He attempts to reassure your delirious brain, but you can only make another “out of it” noise before your eyes flutter shut once again, you losing consciousness. Ghost feels an ugly and dreadful feeling deep in his gut, scratching at his veins, climbing them until his fingertips are cold both due to the temperature and panic. Ghost has always insisted he doesn’t panic, and he hasn’t—until now. Not until he fears the storm won’t pass over and help won’t arrive until you’re frozen and stiff under your fear, despite his desperate attempts to keep you warm—and alive. Ghost doesn’t want to admit it, but fuck, he’s terrified to fall asleep because out of the two of you, what if he’s the only one who wakes up?

Ghost’s eyelids flutter for a moment before he inhales in a sharp manner and his spine straightens up, his hands clenching together for a moment. “M’not going to fall asleep.” He mutters to himself as he takes his place next to you on the floor and holy hell, the floor is cold—so he silently scoots closer to you and wraps an arm around your body, and Ghost uses his other arm as a pillow. Your chest very slowly rises and falls, and he finds comfort in the sight of a sign of you being alive—you’re still here with him, and that’s all he needs.

Ghost is awoken from a banging on the cabin door. He jolts ever so slightly, but he’s immediately hit with chills, his limbs trembling. Fuck, he fell asleep. His eyelids feel like sandbags and and he can’t stop fucking shaking—and he feels so heavy.. so tired. “Ghost!” A familiar voice yells outside of the cabin. His arm wraps around your form tighter when he doesn’t immediately recognize the British accent behind the door, he grunts as he clumsily sits up and pulls you closer, his trembling hand grasping as his hip, taking out his service pistol. The door opens as he attempts to aim it, his weak and low voice hissing out, “I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out—“

“Ghost, it’s Price. We found you. Put the gun down.”

Ghost blinks slowly as he looks at the figure who slowly approaches, two others trailing behind—and it is Price—with Gaz and Soap. Ghost sharply inhaled and his arm lowers, the pistol slipping out of his grip. Gaz rushes over to him and your limp form, taking off his gloves. “We got you, Ghost. We got you.” Price assures, but his lips are pressed together as he watches Gaz. Ghost’s head rolls back for a moment, blacking out for a few seconds—Soap’s hands catching his head before it hits the floor. “They’re alive,” Gaz grunts out, leaning down to pick you up bridal style while keeping all of the layers around your body. “Barely, but we gotta get ‘em both to warmth. Now.”

When Ghost finally comes to, the first thing he notices is the smell—it doesn’t smell like rotting and burning wood; his lungs don’t burn with every breath and he can keep his fingers. The second thing he notices is the ache within his throat and his limbs, and the third thing he notices is that he is not wearing his mask. He still feels heavy, but it’s not the kind of heavy where you want to sleep forever heavy. It’s a.. comforting heavy. Someone laying on top of him heavy. It takes him a hot second to open his eyes, and another second to adjust to the harsh lights of the hospital room—oh, wait, they’re not that bad, his head just hurts. Ghost notices someone laying their head on the bed on top of Ghost, their arms under their head as a cushion. He blinks blearily as he doesn’t register it at first; the hospital gown, two IV drips for two separate patients, and the bandages covering your fingers—it’s you. His eyes widen and he lets out a quiet noise, causing you to lift your head up immediately and look at him with the most vulnerable look you could ever have, your eyes wide and bulging like when a child doesn’t know whether to believe the adult in front of them. “Ghost?” You ask, and fuck, your throat croaks. Your vocal cords sound like they’ve been torn apart and reattached, croaking with relief and pain. He swallows thickly and he nods for a moment, unable to find his voice. Your eyes soften for a moment before you whisper to him. “Hurts to talk, huh? Me too.”

Then don’t, said his silent gaze. Yet, somehow, you manage to catch on his memo. Wordlessly, you reach up to one of his hands—covered in scars and calluses, but you don’t mind. Your hands are similar as you nervously glance at him, grabbing his wrist and turning it over so his palm faces up. Ghost eyes your movements, but makes no move to stop you. You take one of your pointer fingers—the one that isn’t bandaged—and you trace letters into his hand slowly.

T H A N K Y O U

Ghost meets your gaze, and you have tears in your eyes. His hand is grossly limp as he grabs the hand you were moving away, and he instead pulls your hand closer to his face for a closer inspection. The bandages concern him, so he looks at you again. You reach for the clipboard you left by his feet and you place it in his lap, pointing to the part of the medical report about your frostbite blisters. Ghost inhales deeply for a moment before his fingers tap against your hand—rhythmically? Oh, it’s morse code.

Ghost is tapping SAFE over and over while looking at you, to reassure himself—and you. You nod in response and offer him the smile he’s been waiting to see and you tap back to him, SAFE.

#call of duty #call of duty mwii #cod mw2 #mw2022 #cod #mw2 2022 #modern warfare ii #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x gn!reader #ghost x gn!reader #simon riley x gn!reader #cod ghost #ghost cod #cod mw ghost #ghost angst #ghost call of duty #mw2 ghost #gn!reader #simon ghost riley #ghost #ghost mw2 #simon ‘ghost’ riley #simon riley #simon riley x you #crowd favorite

[starlighttheory]

I thought maybe I was getting less horny after I let myself be more free with this kind of stuff because I didn’t spend hours and hours on it yesterday but I had a dream about thighs and tummies and girls in outfits that show them off or draw attention to them and woke up so hard and needy to fuck someone it actually hurt for a minute so I guess I’m still as horny as ever actually

#not really anything specific or coherent you know how dreams are #not really a fantasy so much as my brain just providing a lot of sexy thoughts as strongly as possible #this isn’t super coherent because I’m currently still uh. ‘dealing’ with that #grinding into my mattress and between my legs while I type until I can do something a bit more effective #wish there was someone here who could help me out but I’m just gonna have to take care of it myself

[undercoverpena]

a then he almost never had

summary: there is you, though. you who’s curled against him, breathing softly with skin like silk. the t-shirt you’d stolen from him had risen up, exposing the curve of your hip and the dip of your spine. his hand along it, fingers splayed out, keeping you pinned against his chest

javier peña x f!reader an: i poisoned myself with gluten last night (i'm a coeliac) so this was written at 3am, forgive mistakes. forgive me. word count: 2.9k warnings: season two/three spoilers, angst, reader injury but ends hea. mentions of smut, growing feelings. softness, with Jo-angst.

It burns. That’s the first coherent thought that slams into you. It rises, explodes like a firework behind your eyes. And then, it all just fucking burns. 

It’s early.

He can tell because the sun hasn’t yet risen—its fingers not currently stretching out and brushing everything it can touch.

He knows this hour well, he wakes at it a lot.

As though it’s programmed within him. Inputted. 

It allows for thinking, he supposes. A chance to reminisce, to replay both the good and the bad.

He watches clips from his life, as though he hasn’t already lived them. Unable to stop them from displaying on the back of his lids, the silence providing them a high quality to torture him. 

It’s the silence he blames for why they begin in the first place.

During the day, they’re kept back through loudness, activity and busyness. But at night, when the moon hangs itself high, and the world sleeps, it allows the drawers in his mind to open—the ones with no organisation, haphazardly stuffed full of regrets, all to creep out and take chunks out of him.

Both memories and failures mixing, dancing—twirling… before shattering. Breaking into shards at his feet, occasionally piercing his soul.

There’s nothing to stop them, no noise, no disturbance. No reason provided to shove the drawer closed and hide all his problems away, tuck them deep inside of himself along with his pride.

There is you, though. 

You who’s curled against him, breathing softly with skin like silk. The t-shirt you’d stolen from him having risen up, exposing the curve of your hip and the dip of your spine. His hand along it, fingers splayed out, keeping you pinned against his chest—as if you’ve ever said you want to be anywhere else. 

Often, it’s that night he replays the most.

You pleading, all blemished with crimson and trembling. He hears it, the rattle of your voice, the wheeze. Feels the helplessness as if he’s back there.

It doesn’t matter that it was sometime ago now, the words hang in the silence when you’re frustrated with him. They blow through the trees when you smile brighter than the sun. Sometimes, they’re even there between moans of his name and silent pleas—just there, on the tip of your breath. 

It took the forced time at home to stop seeing you covered in your own blood, to stop that pang of loss at seeing you go down.

Bogotá had tried to break him, Laredo stitched him back.

At this hour, the time at home feels like a distant memory. So much so, it almost crushes him. Circles around him, reminding him—

It hurts, Javi—fuck it… stay with me. Please. Don’t leave, don’t leave me…

Complacency. It’s the reason he’d heard the words, to begin with. He’d taken you for granted, that you would always be there. Jibing him, arguing with him, fucking him.

Then, you’d met asphalt, choking words out he wanted to shove back down your throat. More spluttering from your lips, fingers clutching for him as though he could fill your lungs with breath and stop it all from hurting.  

Fuck, he wished he had been able to. Wishes he could.

It doesn’t matter that he’s countlessly reminded himself that you’re alive. You made it. He’s forced himself to feel the pulse in your neck by brushing his lips against the vein in your neck. He’s felt you breathing, hand on your back as you took copious gasps of it, feeling it dance across his ear, blending with his name. 

None of it had mattered for a while, not when he had seen you visibly hovering on the line, almost tipping the other way. Almost leaving him alone. He supposes it’s why it’s the fixed movie always showcasing in his mind.

A sick sort of reality check.

He glances at you sleeping, face blank of anything other than pleasant dreams. It settles him, for a moment. Allows him an interval to his usual tortured processing.

He’d always thought you were pretty. Had caught his eye the moment you’d tiptoed into his life.

It was only when you balanced on the line did Javi wish he had told you that more. Thankfully, because of your grit, determination—and fucking stubbornness—he was able to now.

Whispered it, dropped it into your ears. Watching you go shy, hand batting him away.

It was what you felt for him that had helped you keep your claws into him. Allowed you to grip onto the present, providing the chance to speak before blue lights whizzed you from him. 

Lazy mornings. I want lazy mornings following late nights, Javi… want to stop pretending I don’t like you being around…

When he recalls it, the present-him always wishes he had kissed you. Inwardly jeering at his former self for not doing so.

It’s why he hates this hour, how it allows him to tick over the wrongdoings, watching them but never able to correct them.

Never able to stop noticing the smaller things. How your eyes had paled and how striking the scarlet-stains were on your blouse.

How he had felt a hole open in his chest that mirrored the one gouged into your abdomen. How your hand shook in his, fear coursing through your bones—tears cruising down the curve of your cheek as you shoved more wishes and wants at him. 

…I’ll make you breakfast— You burn bread, Bonita.  I’ll burn it just for you. 

It was only when your fingers had slid from his, both pulled and yet released (all at once), did he realise he wanted it too.

All of it.

Standing in that realisation, shirt clinging to his skin. It stained with your pain—your wound, your foolishness. Your wrong time, wrong place, and his sea of regrets. Just watching the ambulance take you, making him want to sink to his knees or sink his fist into the face of the one with the gun.

Mainly, Javi considers that he should have told you that you were going to be fine, that he’d be there when you woke up.

Maybe it would have allowed for an image that wasn’t terrified eyes being all he had for four days until you blessed him once again. 

That’s what he thinks the most at this hour. 

Not Cali. 

Not getting the brothers. Not undoing it all.

Javi thinks about the fact he could have been here without you. 

Absently, his fingers twitch for a smoke, tongue desperate for amber. His body even desperate to meet your skin, feel you writhe, feel you clutch him close with fingers, lips and—

It’s a coping mechanism—a distraction. One he used to welcome, used to bury himself in until he felt numb enough to get up again. Now he does this instead. 

He ticks. 

You’ve never asked me for anything. You never seemed like you had much to give, Javi. 

You had a point. 

It still stung.

The soft smile the words were delivered with doesn't lessen the ache they leave. If you had worried or thought over why he never stayed once he’d been between your thighs, you never said until that night. Never asked him for anything, not breakfast, not mornings.

Then your resolve had melted, dissolved as though it’d been dropped in acid, made never to exist. 

I want to stop pretending I don’t want you around…

He didn’t fear commitment; he feared the risks it brought. The harm it would bring to your door, even if your door were close to his—your job just as perilous. 

It had happened all the same.

It hadn’t mattered he had kept you at arms reach, had tried to protect you. You were hurt anyway.

His fears collided into him, bruising him—fracturing bones and searing something through his soul. His worst nightmare came to fruition there in front of his eyes, and he hadn’t been able to do a thing to stop it.

You were good. Too good for him. And then you were crying, bleeding out across a Colombian road, his hand doing a poor job of stopping it from spilling out.

Javi didn’t begin healing until your eyes opened after the bullet ripped through your abdomen. Not when you were out of surgery, only when you looked at him with clarity.

The bruising he felt didn’t fade until he woke with you in his arms weeks later—his bones not forgetting until he heard you whisper those three words when he was buried to the hilt in you.

Those same three words he had thought himself at your bedside, drinking coffee—soaking himself in it, keeping sleep at bay so he never missed you waking. They churned in his throat, say bitterly on his tongue as he ran his hand over his face, index finger sliding over thumb.

He didn’t say them then, though.

Kept them locked away, the key thrown somewhere within his soul.

His focus on you waking. Now, you always wake and sleep beside him. Sometimes soundly, sometimes ticking. 

He wonders if you relive it. If you still feel it. If the scar on your side throbs the way his fictional one does.

You don’t flinch when he brushes it, unlike the first month or two. You don’t hide it as much as you once did, his eyes able to accept it’s healed, see the way it’s silvered from time. It still stands out, ever evident when you’re full of him, more so when you’re staring down, rolling your hips to spell his name. 

Eyes full of awe and wonder, a sight he doesn’t deserve but drinks up all the same.

I love you.  I know. I love you too. 

He had whispered it one morning. Your eyelashes fluttered open, smothering him in kindness and hope. It was instinct, to brush his knuckles against your cheek, feeling your smile as well as watching it rise—a prettier sight than any sunrise, especially when his sun had almost been taken. 

Your response hadn’t surprised him. 

He’d guessed you’d know, been able to tell. Hadn’t done a good job at hiding it, really. Even if he’d poured time into not confessing it, keeping it back, just wanting you safe.

Javi had said them because he liked seeing your things mixed with his—imagined them alongside his in a case. It’s why he bought a ticket for you from Laredo to Bogotá.

You don’t have to come. I know you’re done. Do you want me to come?  Yeah. I want you there, bonita.  With you or working for you.  With me. 

Those three words thrummed in him when you walked around his place, unaware of his eyes. They’re plucked in his chest when you’re close, and even when you’re not. 

At this hour, it’s too easy to let doubts swirl in. 

To allow the good to have the terrible bled into it. He doesn’t need the bad to peel more from him, doesn’t need to meet each insecurity, each fear—not while he works to protect this, maintaining the two of you.

He fans his hand out across your back, hearing you sleepily murmur. It’s instinctive, how he presses a kiss to your forehead, right across the hairline. Nose taking in the scent of his shampoo in your hair, the way you’re warm, alive. Noting how your body rises and falls in slow waves, heartbeat against his ribs, all beating, loud and proud. 

I’m here, Javi. I’m okay. 

You’d said those for weeks in the days that passed. Healing together, growing stronger.

In time, he hopes those words replace the others—smother them until they go out with a poof. The drawer able to close.

For tonight, he manages to slide it shut.

His hold on you tightening, keeping you close—flush, no room to argue, or for fate to attempt to sneak its way in and keep you apart.

Slowly, he closes his eyes, bidding farewell to the hour—knowing there’s a good chance he’ll see it tomorrow. 

Javi.  That’s the second thought which collides, forcing eyelids to open. You say his name like a chorus, feeling foreign hands and voices that aren’t familiar.  Javi. Javi. Javi—

There are several moments he can attest as to why he’s done. 

It’s not the corruption. It’s not that winning, doesn’t feel like winning.

While he feels it should be the chunks it’s taken from him, the way his soul feels fragmented—that he prickles, unsure of who to trust and who even to believe in. 

It’s not any of that. Mainly, it’s you. 

You who ask for nothing, even now. Living in the same city that almost took your life.

You who doesn’t ask him to promise he’ll be home for dinner, only asking him to be safe. No requests of days that you’d like him to make sure he’s here for.

Instead, you work around him—await a call, a heads up. 

I’m on my way home, Bonita. To me? I’m very lucky.  Yes. To you. 

Something curls out of him when he sees you, when you wrap your arms around his neck and let him taste future and happiness on your lips. It grows, widens when he slides fabric from your skin, unveiling you, allowing his eyes to drink in the sight that gets him through it all. 

A sight he tries not to take for granted, but knows he does.

He does so unmeaningly. Let’s late hours slide into late nights; enacts decisions before he realises it has taken him a night in bed alongside you.

So when he’s here, when he’s able to make you his priority, he spends every second—of every minute, of every hour—showing you

Beautiful, so beautiful, mi amor. 

He kisses the words across your collarbone, down your breastbone—he takes in the scent of you and flowery scent you tend to wear. Hearing you inhale when your walls tighten around his fingers. 

Allows to taste your pleasure from your tongue, before parting your thighs to make you scream again.

There are other way he can treasure you, but this is his favourite—and from the way you knot your fingers in his hand, he suspects this is yours too.

Fuck, cariño—mi amor. What have I done to deserve you?

He thinks it, a lot.

Says it only when you’re atop of him, hips moving with his, hand on his chest.

It’s only when his breath is caught does it hit him. Watching your body bend at the waist, the scar moving with you as you try to dress.

That’s when he realises he’s done. The final nail. The last tally.

The acceptance of it should fill him with dread. This has been his purpose, his occupancy. His goal and his fixation. Instead, the acknowledgement allows a flicker of something in his mind to attempt to grow, bloom, and flower. 

At first, it’s not clear. But then he sees you in white, a Laredo sun beating down on you. He sees flowers in your hand, and his hand wearing a ring. His mind even thinks of laughter—not just the two of yours, but one made by someone small. 

A future.

Javi allows it to play. Welcoming this new movie—not one born from the past—to display across the blank wall. Tracing the tips of his fingers up and down your bare spine, rising up from his place amongst creased sheets, tasting the sweat on your skin as he kisses your shoulder. 

“Cariño, I think—“

“It’s okay,” you whisper. 

Knowing you, you’ve likely known for a while. Most definitely knowing from a look, a glance, you suddenly give. A mediocre smile accompanies it, one he knows you’re suppressing. 

Because he knows you too.

More than he ever thought he’d allow himself to. It goes further than your coffee order or how you like your breakfast. He knows your favourite flower and that you’re a good baker (even for as bad of a cook as you are).

Javi also knows you were happy with him in Laredo—likely thinking of the same future with him as he’s just had about you. 

“Is it?” 

It comes out weak, like a noise more than words. Two words which force themselves up from his chest and out past his lips.

Your face cracks, shifting—whatever emotions you were holding back forcing their way through and erupting into small flutters across your face. 

But it’s your hand—that same one which had once reached out for him, begging and pleading as your life dangled in the balance—cupping his cheek that lets him know. Thumb brushing over the corner crease of his lips, allowing his shoulders to slide down from his ears—

“Yes,” you whisper. 

One word. Simple. 

But there’s a story embedded in between each letter. A story that has chapters and sequels, that he can tell you could ramble on about until his ears bleed and his hair turns grey. 

You don’t say them, somehow knowing they’re not needed—somehow always knowing him, even if tries to stop you from seeing that side of him.

The vulnerable side. The one full of cracks.

He knows you’ve caught glimpses. Like when he’d come back from rescuing Christina.

Instead of asking him, you just took his hand and led him to the shower, running fingers through his hair as you frothed soap and kept him close. A silent exchange of words, soft kisses punctuating paragraphs he can’t say. 

It’s like that now. A secret knowing. An understanding.

Things hanging, swinging in the wind between the two of you, not needing to be said, yet spelt out all the same. 

“I’ll finish this, then…” 

Twisting towards him, both hands cupping his face, he almost loses himself in your eyes. How the darkness makes the black larger, but doesn’t distinguish the love, the hope, the kindness… 

“And then,” you whisper. 

Then. He thinks. 

Fingers cupping your hip, thumb brushing across your scar. 

A then he almost never had. 

But won’t ever surrender now.

“I love—“

“I know,” you whisper, forehead to his.

an: still love me?

#javier peña x reader #javier peña #javier peña narcos #javi peña x reader #javi peña x you #javi pena #javier peña x you #narcos x reader #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javi pena x reader #narcos javier x reader #narcos javier #pedro pascal x reader #narcos fanfiction #javier pena narcos #javier peña smut #javi peña smut #javier peña x reader smut #pedrostories

[the---hermit]

Babel by R.F. Kuang

I got this book last year, and then procrastinated picking it up for months. I don't know what made me feel intimidated, but I was a bit blocked. And then I decided to finally give it a try. I spent a whole month on it and though my reading was slow I loved this book. I was a bit unsure about the historical fantasy before reading the novel, because I know that as an historian historical fiction doesn't alwasy work for me. But it worked so well, the author did an amazing job and I loved the setting. The fantasy element was so clever and flowed perfectly with the story providing a lot of thought provoking conversations and reflections. It is definitely a dark academia book but to be honest that was not what stayed with me at all. Its themes of language and translation as well as colonialism and racism are at the core of this novel, academia is the setting and it is very much influential but it's not the first thing that will come to my mind when thinking about Babel in the future, and belive me I will be thinking about this book a lot. I really like R.F. Kuang's writing and I will be keeping an eye out for more of her fantasy in the future. I have finished this book over a week ago and I am still unable to for coherent thoughts on it, simply because I have too many thoughts. I truly adored it, the ending was very good, though if I could change something I would have the epilogue moved before the last scene of the last chapter as I think that was a stronger ending. Aside this, my only other negative thought is that the pacing felt a bit weird at times, but it's really not a big deal. I definitely do recommend reading this novel. And I think it could work even for people who don't normally read a lot of fantasy, so don't let intimidate you. I wish this book had been published when I was in high school studying languages I think it would have been even more influential for me at that time of my life. I have also been going insane over the subtitle of the book "the necessity of violence". Talking about it would mean a lot of spoilers so I won't get into deep, but after finishing the novel that in particular really stayed with me and it's been at the core of most of my thoughts about the book. I do wonder why the Italian translation didn't keep it, as the only subtitle in this edition is "an arcane history". This review feels more like a post-reading rant, but this is everything my brain can produce at the moment. Hopefully it was enough to convince a few people to add this novel to their tbr pile.

#2024 book #book #bookblr #booklr #book cover #reading #book rec #book recommendation #book review #babel #mine #the---hermit

[yanderes-galore]

I absolutely love ratchet so may I request yandere ratchet with a human prompt 53

I love Ratchet too :) I'd love to give you a small story about him and a human! I assumed you meant my prompts.

You gave no specific Ratchet so I just did his Prime appearance.

Note: I've been doing a lot of late night writing so I apologize if this is unorganized. This is essentially me being half asleep and indulging in my favorite character. It's content purely from the heart I guess, lol. I tried to keep up the plot so I hope it came out... coherent :)

Yandere! TFP! Ratchet Prompt 53

"I left you a few voice mails, why didn't you pick up?"

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Paranoia, Overprotective behavior, Cybertronian/Human pair, Manipulation, Implied kidnapping, Dubious relationship, Deception.

Ratchet didn't used to like humans at first. He was already having to deal with three kids causing trouble in the base. When he met you, a young adult human, he wasn't sure what to think.

Turns out... you were tolerable. You genuinely wished to help out and keep the kids in line. Although even they seemed to be a handful for you.

Ratchet was still a bot who was hard to get along with at first due to his stubborn behavior. Despite this... Ratchet had begun to soften towards you over time. He began not to dislike humans all that much with time.

Honestly, it was you and the kids who helped him change his outlook.

When it came to you and Ratchet, you two could be considered partners. While Bulkhead had Miko, Bumblebee had Raf, and Arcee had Jack... Ratchet had you. Ratchet didn't think he'd ever have a human companion, he didn't even think he'd be attached...

Then he found you.

Ratchet had grown close to you because you provided companionship for him at the base. While the others were on a mission and he was meant to prepare Ground Bridges, you sat by his desk. You didn't talk unless he talked first when you were still getting to know each other.

Yet, soon Ratchet began looking forward to hearing your voice and seeing your small organic form. You just... provided him a sense of comfort. Your presence only ever proved useful when Ratchet began to stress himself out over the others.

A comment that was often tossed around was you being his emotional support. When Optimus wasn't around, Ratchet had you. You could say Ratchet cared for you at the very least.

Your companionship was different from the others. While when it came to the kids their respective Autobots acted like guardians... you and Ratchet were different. Your connection was beyond that of a guardian.

Sure, Ratchet was always protective, but it seemed like it was for different reasons. You never really knew how deep his attachment to you went yet it always felt different. You always seemed to ease him when you were around.

It wasn't hard to theorize what Ratchet really felt towards you. His softness around you felt intimate despite the differences between your species. It's some form of love, even if Ratchet never admits it.

This explanation felt the most plausible. It explained why Ratchet felt a yearning to connect with you more. Although such a feat only managed to frustrate him at times...

Your biological/biomechanical differences make it hard for him to display affection. He can only ever do small things. He can hold you, take you on drives, call you, talk to you, and he loves it but...

Intimacy, the thing he craves, is what upsets him at times when he looks at you.

Normally the thought might have repulsed him. The thought of hugging you or showing affection in the more romantic sense towards a human should be seen as foreign. Yet he wants it with you.

Such feelings are what's made Ratchet become more attached to you than a guardian. Based on how you act so positively around him, even when he picks you up... part of him hopes you feel the same. Surely... you won't mind being in a relationship with an old Cybertronian like him, would you?

He promises to himself he'll find a way to make an avatar to communicate with you with in the future.

The issue is, these feelings can also be seen as a weakness. Ratchet often grows distressed when you are away from him for too long. Yes, humans have their own lives to attend to...

He just wishes you'd spend more of your time at the base?

Ratchet didn't often talk about his problems, yet with you he felt it was important to voice his concerns. As a result you had given him a way to contact you when you're in your home. A phone number... one he often contacted.

He really didn't need the childish teasing, Primus he could hear it now. 'Ratchet's got a crush on a human'. He rolls his optics just thinking about it.

Yes, he loves you...yet it's normal. It has to be. He hasn't had a partner in a long time, if at all. Maybe he... wants to try something like that with you.

For now, Ratchet tried to focus on your safety. When he can find a way he'll share his romantic feelings with you. When he can properly convey them....

Gaining a way to talk to you made Ratchet relax a bit more. It gave him comfort whenever you texted him or gave him a call. Some say you can see Ratchet's mood change when you were on the phone. He physically relaxes his stance at the thought of you being safe and sound.

Optimus notices this change in his friend and his thought is he's happy for Ratchet. His friend has managed to find solace in a human like the others. Even if it's in a different way.

Being able to contact you is a double edged sword with Ratchet. While he's calmer with hearing your voice or seeing your texts, he appears snappy if he hasn't heard from you. Ratchet is never far from a way to contact you.

It's obsessive.

Ratchet would look distant when you don't respond right away, often looking at the screen with a frown. He hated being away from you at times. But you're busy with your own life and he is busy with his.

You'd soon learn not picking up when Ratchet calls is a mistake. Take a nap or go to work and Ratchet gets anxious. He expects you to pick up.

It would be so much easier if you were just right next to him...

He hopes he can do that some day once he perfects his hologram avatar technology.

---

"I left you a few voice mails, why didn't you pick up?"

Ratchet's gruff voice echoes through your phone. You had been away from your phone for a few hours and came back to voice mails of worried Ratchet. You originally thought it funny that he never wanted to be away from you for long, now it was concerning.

"I was busy, Ratchet..."

"Busy, huh? You're supposed to have your phone on you."

"What did I even miss? You know I have to have my own life here, right?"

Ratchet's silent on the phone, most likely grumbling to himself.

"Yeah yeah, I know. I have reasons to worry, however."

"Decepticons?"

"Yes. I don't know what I'd do if they got their hands on you."

"Nothing's going to happen, Ratchet!"

"You don't KNOW that...."

There's silence on the phone again before Ratchet speaks again. You swore you heard him sigh deeply.

"I want you back at the base."

"Why?"

"Security reasons. Decepticons in the area."

Something about his voice sounds off. His response is curt, almost rehearsed. You push it aside, thinking he's just irritated.

"Really? Alright...."

"Don't worry too much, I'd never let them touch you. I'm picking you up. Wait there, okay?"

"Ratchet, You never usually leave the base that often. Shouldn't you send one of the oth-"

"They're busy. I'd prefer it if... I brought you here, is that okay with you?"

"Sure, Ratchet. Be careful."

Ratchet says nothing, but your words affected him greatly. He appreciated the fact you cared for him like he cared for you. He hangs up on you and you cautiously wait for him. Decepticons in the area?

Were you really in that much danger?

---

It felt wrong to lie to you about a Decepticon threat. Yet Ratchet reassured himself that it could happen at any point in time. Just calling you wasn't enough.

As Ratchet drove back to the base with you in the front seat, he thought deeply about what he was doing. How long could he lie before he told you how he really felt? How long until you realize there's no real threat at this time.

Like a Decepticon, Ratchet had lied to you to get what he wants.

It felt dirty. Despite this, Ratchet could only think about you in his front seat. He could tell you were concerned.

He hoped you could forgive him for this. At the base you provide him such comfort. No one else could make him feel such a way. If he kept you there... he wouldn't have to worry. He could think about himself just this time, yeah?

Hopefully his little project would be done soon and he could convince you to stay. He could make you your own little area in the base and interact with you with a little avatar. In his eyes, you'd be a much happier human with his care.

He had his reasons and ways to have you understand him. You can't fully blame him when you learn the truth, could you? Decepticons were a threat, even if they weren't right at this tick.

This was the best way to care for you. He loves you... this would be beneficial to the both of you. You'll be safe and he'll have you.

While it may feel wrong to betray your trust now, it would yield results in the future. Ratchet stops once he rolls into the base and lets you out. After he transforms, Ratchet picks you up in his hands.

He can't hide the grin on his face when he looks at you.

You may not know it yet, but he knows you'll be so much happier beside him rather than alone.

"I'll make sure the Decepticons don't harm a hair on your head... you can relax, I'm here now."

#yandere transformers #yandere transformers prime #yandere tfp #yandere tfp ratchet #yandere ratchet #yandere transformers ratchet

[genericpuff]

Hey puff! You've probably answered this before- I know you said you're planning to cover S1, but will you be going until Persephone becomes queen? Like shifting things around so that happens sooner. Just curious!

So it's not so much that I'm covering S1, more so that I'm treating Rekindled like a time machine, if we could go back to S1 and actually weave a coherent story out of what S1 provided as a foundation, then how would that play out? It's why I also call Rekindled an AU project ("alternate universe") because it's playing completely on a 'what if?' scenario. The scenario in this case being (without spoiling too much): "what if Persephone's Act of Wrath was explored more and given real depth and consequences?" "what if Hades' past and trauma was explored more that showcases his actions and thought processes in the present?" "what if certain characters who were villainized by LO were given their justice and retribution through more focused character writing?" and most importantly "what if Lore Olympus actually retold The Hymn to Demeter in the way that it said it would back in 2018?"

So yes, to answer your question in a convoluted way, Rekindled will be covering Persephone's story from the daughter of Demeter to the Queen of the Underworld. How that story unfolds may be considered subjectively better to some than it was handled in LO, maybe worse, but much of it is written how I and many others expected or at least wished it could have gone in LO. Some things are being removed to make room for other things that feel more integral to Persephone and Hades' stories, some things are still not completely myth accurate because I'm retelling it from my own interpretation of how LO could have gone with the foundation it created in the beginning, ultimately I hope y'all enjoy the ride in the end and I hope it brings closure to at least some of the folks who felt robbed by where LO ended up (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ (but y'all will be the judge of that when all is said and done!)

#ask me anything #ama #anon ask me anything #anon ama #lore rekindled ama

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Best and Worst of Both Worlds (Part 25)

Tw: Some harsh words from Yves, homewrecking allegations

short chapter guys

damn yall this was originally suppsoed to be a "yes" option, but beyond 21 voted yall voted for a 'no', guess u guys still simp heavily for Yves to sacrifice entertainment

but 2 be fair, the outcome is pretty similar to this

emjouy

Part 26

"Well done, (name)." He praised, not out of malice or sarcasm, but out of genuine proudness. Yves was happy that you've been engaging with your critical thinking, that is something Yves does not witness very regularly.

You felt a load taken off your shoulders, finally, you have done something right today. That has to quell some of his anger, right? You hope.

You sighed and asked him if there was anything you could do for him now.

"I would very much appreciate your company. Your first class will begin 25 minutes later, I would love to hear your voice until then." His sensual, caring demeanor is back. You are so glad to hear him purr again. You agreed much to his delight.

You looked at Evangeline as she stared at you expectantly. You shook your head, gesturing that Yves does not wish to talk to her.

However, Evangeline did the unthinkable and snatched your phone out of your hands. You gasped, trying to grab it back, but all she did was pull it away from you.

She pressed the Speaker button so that you could also hear the conversation between her and Yves.

"Hello, Sir Yves? Yes, this is Evangeline. First of all, I would like to say (name) is a wonderful friend! They are also very lucky to have you as their partner."

Yves did not reply. You gave up trying to take it back, you paced around while letting her deal with the mess she created.

"Secondly, I am thankful that you have allowed my father to work alongside you. You have treated us well and we are grateful for that."

"Are you finished?"

Her blue eyes widened in shock, taken aback by the unexpected animosity from Yves. She cleared her throat and said yes.

You heard him pouring something into his glass.

"I find it quite interesting that you chose to forcefully take the phone out of their hands. You chose to switch their speakerphone on without consulting me beforehand. What was your rationale behind them?" She stiffened up a bit but eventually composed herself enough to provide a coherent answer.

"Well, I have been noticing that you and (name) are going through a rough patch. So, I offered to be a mediator. I was trying to create an open environment with adequate space for communication between (name), you, and I."

You are not sure how to feel about Evangeline's formally chatty side. You know this will not end well, because she did not once say an apology.

"Evangeline. I have worked with your father for years. I fully expected him to have taught manners. At least, fundamental ones. But I was proven wrong today by your audacity." Her smile completely dropped off the face of Earth, now replaced with a neutral but somber look.

"Deepest apologies for my offenses, Sir Yves," she spoke with clarity.

"How dare you attempt to meddle in our relationship, manipulate (name) into thinking you're helping, but all you did was nothing except drive a wedge between us? How dare you invade our privacy and touch (name)'s personal items without their permission? I am exceedingly disappointed with you, Evangeline. You were taught better, I am in disbelief that you have decided to disgrace yourself like this. To disgrace your father's name." Your jaw drops to the ground as you hear Yves dish out his scoldings to Evangeline. She seems to take it like a champ, though.

"I am sorry, sir Yves. I don't know what has gotten over me." She replied to his devastating verbal blow.

"I do, Evangeline. You take pleasure in appearing as the savior to everyone. Your intentions were never to mend or strengthen my bonds with (name), it was completely self-serving." Her gaze was downcast as soon as he told her his thoughts.

"You are too undisciplined, too careless to consider the consequences of your behavior. All was done in favour of feeding your inflated ego. You're selfish." He spat.

"You're right. My apologies. I will do better." You looked at her, she smiled back at you as if she's having a friendly conversation about the weather instead.

"I wouldn't be surprised if the rumors surrounding your homewrecking tendencies have their merits." She gasped at his remark. You did too.

"Sir Yves, I... I don't think it's fair for you to--"

"Stay away from my (name)." He interrupted her, mid-defence.

"Dear, turn the speakerphone off. I would like to talk to you in private, please." Yves reverted his tone back to the honeyed version that makes you weak in the knees, in a good way.

You did as you were told and brought the phone back up to your ear.

"(name), I do not like Evangeline nor do I trust her." Your eyebrows shot up in shock, you don't get to hear him express his disdain for someone so directly. Not even Montgomery received such hatred from him. "I want you to reduce the time spent with her."

You were expecting him to tell you to cut her off entirely, seeing that he suspected you were cheating on him with Evangeline earlier.

"I allow you to remain acquaintances, solely because you still need a degree of social interaction each day to maintain your health. You don't have friends on campus other than Jones's daughter."

The last point reminded you how awkward you are.

"It's not good to isolate yourself, (name). Even if it is just for a few more days." He added. "I would prefer it if you could befriend other students. Perhaps even join a club. But in the meantime, if you cannot help it, go ahead and interact with her. Remember not to take the friendship too far."

You told him okay.

"You still have 20 minutes left, (name). Tell me about your dreams last night." You thought it was an odd prompt. But regardless, you looked up and started to retrieve patchy memories of what you witnessed in your slumber. You began giving him the gist of it, then slowly built up until the conclusion.

That was all you remembered. You don't know what else he wanted.

"That's fascinating, dear. What do you think it all means?" You hummed and spewed out your theories, no matter how strange, idiotic, or random it is, Yves enjoyed listening to it. He was recording everything down, noting that you managed to take his bait.

Eventually, you found that you couldn't stop blabbering from topic to topic. It felt nice to let out your true thoughts, even the most atrociously boring ones-- these are things that you refrained from telling Evangeline about because you think she's probably not interested. Yves is like your journal and you still to this day could not comprehend how his influence managed to make you bleat like a goat. Like you had no shame.

The thought of Evangeline completely slipped your mind. You walked away as a chatterbox, A bag of now cold fried chicken and waffles in one hand, a phone in another.

The blonde watched you slowly disappear into a building where your class would be. Her lips are pressed into a thin, fine line. She pulled her phone out of her tote bag and unlocked it, dialing a number that you might have seen before.

#yandere x reader #yandere concept #tw yandere #oc yves #yandere male #yandere oc x reader #yandere x you #yandere oc #yandere #male yandere oc x reader #oc montgomery #oc evangeline

[utilitycaster]

Hi! I'm sorry if you've already talked about this, but I was wondering what your thoughts were on Caleb's becoming a professor at the Soltryce Academy? As compared to what some fans thought he would do (going rogue and taking down Cerberus Assembly)

Hi anon,

I don't know if I've talked about this, and I don't think I have at length if I did, so I'd like to thank you for asking me and providing the opportunity for the rant below. If you were simply looking for a brief answer that is only about Caleb, then I do have to ask whether you are familiar with this blog and my whole deal. But also the brief answer is "I think it's beautiful that Caleb carves out a place for himself that harkens back to his childhood dreams, in a world he once thought he would have to remake entirely in order to ever feel at home. The idea that this is somehow a failure, and that the secret good ending is him turning into Batman or perhaps a moderately sympathetic Agatha Christie villain seems unfathomable if you are not stupid and lack all media literacy. Unfortunately being an idiot with no media literacy is somewhat in vogue these days. In this essay I will - "

(and here's the essay)

The ending of Campaign Two felt horribly abrupt when announced: I was among the people who thought so, and who thought so loudly. Yet it finished, after a marathon session, with an ending that, at every turn, showed how profoundly the cast cared about and understood the arcs of the characters they had built and the story that they had told. They truly did, as the advice Brennan repeated recently goes, surprise us with the inevitable. I would not change a thing.

Caleb Widogast, like any good character, was more than the sum of his parts. Yes, he was a sensitive portrayal of a character who had undergone traumatic child abuse and who still was dealing with the aftermath. Yes, he was an equally sensitive portrayal of someone who is primarily speaking in one's second language. Yes, he was a wizard, which rules, and bisexual, which also rules, and he had a magic cat and a great sense of humor. But most of all Caleb was the realization of a coherent goal that was deeply tied into the setting not just of D&D 5e but of Exandria, of Wildemount, of Zemni Fields, and of the Soltryce Academy.

He was once a young man who dreamed of something better and who had a gift for the arcane, and he managed, so he thought, to find a way to rise above his humble origins. His dream was to become a teacher. Trent had other plans, you know the rest, and he woke up in his late 20s, a fugitive, with the magic powers he'd had in his mid-teens, and a life he felt he had nigh irrevocably destroyed. For a time, he lived mostly not because he wished to be alive, but because he felt his death would not serve his goal: his moonshot, to undo the mess he'd made of his past. Along the way, he met a goblin, and then he met a few people more. He started to laugh again, and to become more powerful, and encounter new ideas, and fall in love, and inch by inch, begin to heal - all without yet undoing his parents' death. He made arcane breakthroughs that had nothing to do with altering time and all to do with helping his closest friend. He tentatively found that there were other wizards he could trust, and learn from, and perhaps even care for.

And also, along that path, he learned there were others who pursued secrets about time, and possibility; there were wizards he could not trust but from whom he might have been able to learn. And he sometimes chose not to do so, because somewhere along the line, the plan changed. I don't think Caleb even realized it had until he was faced with his chance. It is worth noting that Caleb's murderous rampage through Vergesson Sanatorium, and his decision to leave Trent Ikithon alive, were separated by no more than a week.

Caleb did not end the campaign fully healed. That's not how this works; that's not even a meaningful or measurable statement. But he did end the campaign having told himself, inch by inch, that moving forward cannot happen while also moving backward. He let go of so many things, recognized they were not to be, and then he finally stood in a room with Essek with an ancient machine that said "you can do it. You can have what you've wanted for so long." And Caleb had planned this, planned it carefully, no paradoxes for him, just his parents living a quiet life half a world away, and he could have done it. In a way, it would have felt inevitable too. And he hears Essek say "Will you do it? I will help you." And he hears Essek say "But I accept my regrets, my thoughts now, and I'm here today with this knowledge, in this moment with you, because of those mistakes." And he hears himself say "Because you're not my cat. My cat is dead." And he sees himself with Frumpkin around his shoulders like a scarf in the tiny hut in the middle of the tundra. And he hears himself say "Yeah, he's always been one to control narrative. And that is a big part of holding onto power, controlling narrative." And he drags some dust up his arm, and disintegrates everything in the room, and burns what's left.

***

My brother works in a middle school (I promise this is relevant). My brother is also an openly gay man with rainbows plastered prominently on various laptop and backpack surfaces. As one might guess, he's had multiple kids come out to him. I think about this when I think about what Caleb said, about how, when the guard changes, will he and Astrid "mangle more children to feed the fields of Wynandir." And I think about what it means to the Assembly, who we know benefited from Trent's actions, who in some cases were well aware of them, to not only have one of his former victims among their number, but to have one in the very school they used to recruit. What it means that both these people publicly gave testimony. What it means to the Soltryce Academy students that there's a teacher they know will believe them.

Caleb has already struck down what he needed to of the Cerberus Assembly.

It's simple. Sometimes happiness looks like a return. Sometimes happiness looks like a boat heading towards the horizon. Sometimes happiness looks like a place to rest. And I think that it's not out of the question to say that to some, happiness does come after a righteous round of revenge. But does not look like that for Caleb, and what's more, while he took the whole campaign to discover how it might look for him - to even believe that it was a thing he could still perceive and one day have - it never, at any point, did.

#did i go perilously close to You Are Jeff by Richard Siken in one portion of this essay? yes. #did I hold myself back from writing parallel essays about the other 6 long term members of the nein? yes. #critical role #caleb widogast #oh the paragraph about destroying the t-dock: direct references to c2 episodes 141 130 120 110 and 141 again in that order #long post

[knoxmares]

perfect - cater diamond x dom top amab reader

MINORS DNI

⋆⋆⋆ cater just needs a bit of praise, and of course you're more than willing to provide it

Laying on your boyfriend’s bed, your eyes are focused on the homework sprawled out before you, but your mind is elsewhere. Any coherent train of thought you manage is once again scrambled by Cater’s dramatic sighs, who leaves his own homework untouched, too preoccupied with refreshing his MagiCam feed. 

“It’s just not fair” he pouts, no doubt still hung up on his recent post that, in his opinion, flopped. 

“What’s unfair is that you’re leaving me to do this assignment for Poison Making by myself. It’d do you good to focus on something else anyway” you attempt to physically remove the distraction, but he clutches his phone to his chest defensively. 

“Ahhh that’s so boring though. Maybe you should be focused on comforting your adorable boyfriend” he throws you a playful wink, which earns him a roll of your eyes. 

“Good to know you have your priorities straight” you tease, shifting closer to him. You suppose a break wouldn’t hurt, no matter how undeserved it was. With Cater laying on his back, it’s easy to let your lips explore his skin, trailing kisses along his collarbone and up his neck. The initial touch of your lips draws a shallow gasp, but by the time you reach his jawline it has transformed into a light chuckle. 

“Now that’s an effective distraction” he finally puts down his phone in favor cupping your cheeks and guiding your lips to his own, eagerly parting your lips with his tongue. He moans into your mouth as your hand finds his bulge, hips gently bucking into your touch. With his breathless words of encouragement, you’re soon removing his clothes, using both your lips and tongue to lavish attention on the newly exposed parts of him. 

He whimpers as your teeth tease one of his nipples, and one of his legs that you now straddle lifts involuntarily, offering a delightful sensation as it rubs against your hard on. “So perfect” you remark, taking your slow, delicate kisses further down his body until you reach his most sensitive area. You meet his lustful gaze with a smirk, simply hovering over his painfully erect length as his fingertips dig into your biceps with anticipation. 

A visible shiver passes through him when you ever so lightly kiss his tip, his eyes closing with brief bliss. His green eyes snap back open, however, when you take his tip into your mouth, sucking softly. You’ve only just twirled your tongue around his tip when he lets out a strangled moan, his hips lifting off the bed. So sensitive today. With his reactions stirring your own greedy desires you only give his length a few teasing licks before turning your attention to his puckering entrance. 

Grabbing lube and prepping him briefly with your fingers, you waste no time lining your tip up with his hole. You pause right before entering him to take in the lovely sight before you, Cater holding his own thighs to his chest, eyes communicating an aching desire to have his insides filled with you. He moans as you slowly push into him, dick twitching atop his pale stomach. You thrust into him at a steady rhythm, feeling his walls clench around you as you shower him with muttered praises of how well he’s taking you. 

“Don’t you know how many people wish they could see you like this?“ you grunt softly. "I know how much you love the attention you get on MagiCam, but it’s no use obsessing so much over one post. It doesn’t change your worth.” You grip his neglected cock, brushing your thumb across his tip, and his back arches off the bed in response. “It doesn’t say anything about how beautiful or perfect you are.” So overwhelmed with pleasure, Cater can only whimper at your words, legs wrapping around you in a desperate attempt to pull you deeper into him. 

Suddenly you halt all your movements, hand even leaving his erection. “I want to hear it from your lips, Cater. Tell me how perfect you are.” Lip poked out in a prominent pout, he whines at your words, hips bucking as he seeks the lost friction. 

“Please….” he whimpers, digging his heels into your back. Even being thrown his perfected pleading eyes you remain still. “Nngh…fine” he moans, throwing his head back. “I’m perfect just as I am.”

“Again.” You order gently, finally resuming your thrusts. 

“I’m per-perfect” he stutters as you take his length back into your hand. Despite his reluctance, the way he tightly clamps around your cock gives away how turned on he is. You hiss in pleasure as you continue to force yourself in and out of him, feeling the prickle of your coming climax. Cater’s repeated phrase turns into frantic gasps as he also approaches his own release, and you lean forward muffling them with your kiss. With a deep, forceful thrust, you spill into him. Cater’s fingertips dig into your back, and you feel his dick spasm against your stomach as his orgasm follows yours. You kiss him deeply as you come down from the high, and with heavy breathing you finally pull back a fraction to take in his beautiful fucked out expression. 

“I love you” you mutter, placing a tender kiss on the diamond that marks his right cheek. Still catching his breath, Cater manages to echo your words with a soft smile. There’s only one thought bouncing around your mind now. So perfect.

#dom reader #top reader #top male reader #sub cater #twst cater x reader #twst smut #twst ☆ cater !

[coeluvr]

2 things

1. I really like the parallels between characters, but I'm kind of afraid that it'll get to a point where I'm in a house of mirrors and can no longer see the plot

2. I'm the anon who hcs their MC writing letters to her dead family. I'm learning more about Farah and since my MC didn't burn down Farah's room, she read the letters. How would the ROs react to finding a letter to Farah in MC's box of letters? A letter saying she wishes she could have met her and is sorry for what happened. MC doesn't know who killed the queen, but she wishes she could have prevented the death. Basically saying I don't really know who's responsible for your death, but I'm sorry that I couldn't prevent it.

Once again, I don't know if my thoughts are coherent, but I hope I make some sense. I don't know who killed Farah. I don't know what Catalina was like either since MC has no memory of her, so I don't really feel like I can provide judgement.

Thank you for developing this game, Coe. I really like this story and the characters

1. Eh I think no one can truly 100% reflect another character because they haven't lived each other's lives, if they did then understanding each other would be far more easier. For example, as much as MC and Luceris reflect each other they still have a lot of differences. MC experienced a life of happiness until unfortunate circumstances changed everything, whereas Luceris never truly experienced such happiness. MC held deep affection for their siblings, while Luceris lacked that same connection.

In my opinion, the characters reflect aspects of other characters but not them in their entirety.

2. I think such a letter would bring some comfort to Helios but I don't think the other ROs would have that big of a reaction like alright. And the preventing part is funny because MC was like 4 years old how would they prevent it. Stop feeling guilt for things that weren't your fault, MC!!

Thank you, anon. 🥹💗

#coe answers

[arisatohamuko]

ok i'm gonna be a bit of a negative bitch here so don't mind me. hi

i've said it before and i'll say it again but i fucking hate having narcolepsy dude. i don't have the energy or brain power to interact with my friends or even keep up with my hobbies right now, let alone the ability to prepare for my next semester of college that's coming up next month. my head feels so heavy, my eyes are so tired, every single thought that i have feels like i'm trying to strain sand through cheesecloth. nothing is coming through, my entire body has that vague sort of ache that you get when you haven't been sleeping well, i can barely even manage to string three sentences together at this point. idek if this post is coherent, i could be typing complete gibberish for all i know right now...i truly would not wish this kind of lifestyle on my own worst enemy.

nobody deserves to suffer like this. nobody deserves to struggle through this. it makes me so angry that i lost so much of my life to this sickness even before i got diagnosed, and it frustrates me that nobody seems to take what i'm going through seriously. doctors never know wtf i'm talking about or how to help me, the government wont provide any aid for me, my own family constantly makes jabs about how tired i seem to be, and even though i KNOW that i am capable of doing amazing things when my treatment is going well, it's just...not as much as i WANT to do.

i'm always going to be at a disadvantage compared to other people, i'm never going to be able to reach my full potential, and no one truly understands how exhausted i am except for the people who have conditions similar to mine. i'm not just talking "i went to bed late" or "i have a hangover from last night" or even "i pulled an all nighter" levels of tired here, this is a kind of tiredness that sleep does not fix.

there is no escape for me. there is no cure. there's only bandaid treatments for the symptoms, and so many people see my struggle as nothing more than a punchline to a joke. i'm so tired dude...i just want to feel like a sentient human being for once. i want to be capable like everyone else seems to be. it feels like my life is just wasting away because all i can do is sleep, and all of that sleep still isn't even enough to keep me well rested.

[hehearse]

ARE WE TALKING ABOUT ORV SONGS.... this is my time to shine i have an entire playlist dedicated to this

the first one that comes to mind is the right wrong by dear hunter. the yjh song of all time.... i don't think i need to provide lyrics for this one because it's? the entire song? there isn't a single lyric that doesn't capture his character so wholly. also it's just. really good. i would recommend listening to the entire album because this is not the only song that fits. in particular all is as all should be makes me so ... i don't know if it fits secretive plotter or 51% kdj more. i lean towards the latter but my friend prefers the former. it's the way it feels like such an uplifting song sung by someone who is miserable.

another one i like a lot is icarus & apollo by ripto for yoohankim. all of the lyrics fit for this one as well but in particular i'm reminded of the start of the story/dkos arc for the first verse, 1863 for the second, and oldest dream/49/51 for the third. and that's without mentioning the implications of apollo as hsy and icarus as hsy. something about apollo being a creative god but also one of healing who presides over the passage of children into adulthood. something about icarus being protected by his father, who created the labyrinth they were trapped in, but still choosing a fate that would inevitably doom him in spite of his father's warnings, just for that small chance of getting the one thing he wanted.

this one is unfortunately not in english... but mephisto by queen bee. good lord. i'll hold back on reccing any other yjh songs since this is already the second but i can't go without bringing this one up. even just the chorus is. I’ll risk my life, I’ll give my life to you / After all, you gave me time, didn’t you? / Once I fulfill all my desires, ah, once I achieve them / I want to see you / So I wish upon a star .... it makes me so insane. i wish i could provide more coherent thoughts but i feel like i'm transcending to another realm whenever i listen to any of these songs

divine loser by clem turner. oh kim dokja... this one is about his relationship with both wos/kimcom and himself. just. I don't know how I am / I'll pay you handsomely / If I should drift away / Please don't revive me ... My god, you break the skin / But may I be thy heaven? / Will you take my sickness / While I deprive you of your health? ... My habits wouldn't heal / I had to have killed god / And my body remains / But the person is gone - all of these lyrics make me so insane. just. Agh. ow.

ok i don't want to completely overwhelm you so i will stop there ^^' i hope you enjoy these songs as much as i have!!

I'M SO SORRY MY PERSONAL ORV BABYSITTER ADVISED ME TO CLOSE MY EYES i have not finished the novel yet so i'm guessing i won't be able to enjoy the songs to the fullest yet :""D (or rather i will listen and reverse engineer all the themes which might spoil the fun)

so i'm keeping this for the future and also posting for those looking for music

THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUGGESTION THOUGH <3 keeping them as a future treat to enjoy when i will probably be half dead due to Feelings

#in tears sorry i'm only 50% into the novel #if you think i finished it you were tricked by my blind juggling i am really good at it #future treat tag

[jaijaitbinks]

May I make a continuation to this?

There's only 2 ways the remake could go:

It's a complete success. The actors are very good and it truly feels like they're watching the same old great characters but with deeper and more developed personalities. They decide to expand the lore and the plot in general seems more coherent too. Also, the animation and action scenes look epic because the effects are better than when it was first released. And if a random nobody in the street makes fun of them for watching a "kids show" they will have a nice chat with them.

Or.

They hate it. They ruined everything they loved about the show in the first place, no matter how cool it looks now. The actors just don't get the feeling across and they can't almost recognize their fav characters anymore. Genos is determined to sue the company who made this monstruity and Saitama is like "Dude, you can't go on a rampage to their studios...without me".

(The creators have to endure the heroes' speech about how they ruined their childhoods)

This has become another crack fick lol XD

BAKDJAKXBSKSMXN OKAY BUT YES.

If the remake is good, those two would praise that shit to the moon and back. They'd go to anime conventions together, they'd go to panels and signings. It'd even get to the point where they gift each other things centered around the franchise, and both of them would obsess over the gifts in their own ways. Genos would always carry it with him (if he can do so) and Saitama will either always have it on him too or he'll install a shelf just so he can put it on display 24/7. They'll wait until they're both home to watch the newer episodes together and have lengthy discussions about the latest episodes. They'd be so elated about it, the show becoming one of the largest interests that they have in common. Hell, it'll even be the catalyst for them opening up about their other interests.

If the remake is ass, Genos would be furious while Saitama would just be loudly but non-verbally disappointed. One of his few gifts, fixations that he had as a kid was ruined by corporations once again, cuz they thought they could capitalize off of a large name. He would just go silent and never spare a glance at the newest episodes when it comes on. And Genos– jfc Genos would hop on every social media platform to publicly rant so fast. He'd open up Twitter or some shit to make a thread ranting about its fuck-ups, or post Twitlonger. He'll provide a wholeass essay on tumblr, detailing everything wrong about every single aspect of the show. This franchise was one of few things he could look back on from his childhood happily without thinking about all of the things he misses. Look back on the memories he used to have of it without getting upset that he'll never get to experience/see it again. And they fucking butchered it for money.

He'd fuck that Animation Studio so fast and hard, Saitama would wish he was the studio. Genos would be going on a wholeass tirade. And while Saitama won't hop on Reddit and bitch about how shitty the remake was, he's definitely not gonna try and stop Genos from suing.

#This was actually so fucking funny and amazing to think about lmfao #one punch man #opm #saitama #genos #saigenos #genosai

[tearsoftime0086]

We'll Always Have Casablanca

Part 3 of 3

Characters: Steve Burnside, Leon Kennedy

Summary: Leon and Steve finally have their talk, and do some soul searching (ft the titular Casablanca).

Word Count: 2445 (of 4185)

Warnings: Alcohol use

~~~

Steve put the glass of water down and took the time to examine his surroundings – it felt weird doing it in a stranger’s house, but it was part of the standard checklist he ran through whenever his college buds got too tipsy at a party.

First off, the whiskey – as he’d feared, it was the same bottle from ’99 - the glob of melted wax on the left half of the bottle confirmed it. God, he still remembered how long he’d gushed about his gratitude in front of Leon back then. Sure, the man had coordinated their rescue operation out of Antarctica and negotiated Steve out of permanent government custody – he deserved every ounce of praise. Steve just wished the praise was more… coherent in retrospect.

A little wax peel rocked back and forth on the coffee table – the bottle must’ve been freshly opened. The contents were about a third empty, though it was impossible to judge how long Leon had been drinking. He turned to the man in question – still breathing regularly, so that was good.

Next, the TV. It’d been looping through the opening menu for a movie called Casablanca – some black-and-white movie, by the looks of it. There was a small stack of worn DVDs on the TV stand. The Casablanca case was spread wide open. With no other way to spend his time, Steve stepped closer to read through the titles. He didn’t recognize most of them – they all seemed to be old films. The crinkling and fading of the DVD covers were almost as convincing as the very dramatic 20th century poster aesthetic on each case.

All things pointed to Leon simply enjoying some drinks and a movie to himself in the daytime.

“Why’d you text me for advice, then?” Steve whispered, giving voice to the one nagging question that wouldn’t disappear. Leon, of course, didn’t answer. He could’ve sworn Leon had called him for some biohazard questioning – that was the only meaningful thing he could provide to the agent, after all.

Steve cracked his knuckles, pacing the dusty apartment living room anxiously. Rockfort had scarred him in ways that he would’ve never fathomed, and this was one annoying side effect.  He’d get antsy whenever stuck indoors with nothing to do, and Leon wasn’t in any state to wake up soon.

The idea was very stupid and invasive in retrospect, but Steve decided to slip into the kitchen and wipe down the dusty countertops. Again, it was the college routine kicking in; he’d generally be the one cleaning up after a night of drinking at the freshman dorm.

Once the counters were sufficiently clean, he noticed that there were a few dishes left in the sink, so Steve moved over to those too. Then he took out the trash. Chore after chore caught his eye, until he’d left the kitchen entirely and was wiping down the dining table behind the couch an hour later. The same layer of light dust covered the table – that along with the lack of furniture made the house look barely lived in.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Steve jolted towards the source of the sound. Leon was now awake, eyeing him from the sofa. How did he not hear him wake up?

Leon coughed deliberately, staring at him with mildly bloodshot but fully focused eyes.

The wet paper towel dropped from Steve’s hand. “I… uh… I’m sorry. I’m really bad with waiting and so I thought I might help out… around the house? Until you… woke up.”

It sounded so stupid, especially coming out of his rambling mouth.

Leon blinked, sheer absurdity suddenly combining with the situation’s context. His expression softened, and he stood up from the couch.

“Right, I-” he sighed, rubbing his temples, “I should be the one apologizing. I’m so sorry for calling you out here.”

“It’s all good!” Steve said, perhaps too quickly, “And if you wanted to talk about Veronica still, I’m free for the rest of the day, so-”

Leon’s brow furrowed. “Veronica?” Steve’s last statement was somehow equally as disorienting as the prior one.

“Was that not what you wanted advice on? T-Veronica? My virus?”

Leon was quiet for a long time, before walking over the dining table. He looked so weary as he pulled up a chair. A somberness clung to his slouched shoulders, with a level of gravitas that not even faded pajama pants could override. “It’s not that. You should sit down, Steve - you deserve an explanation.”

Steve obeyed, glancing back and forth from Leon and the table surface as he took a seat. Despite what Leon had said, it seemed like a proper interrogation now.

“I’ve… been out of the country on government business,” Leon started, choosing his words carefully. “Just got back a few days ago.”

“South America, right?” Steve said, hoping to be useful.

“What, no-” Leon’s grim expression broke for a moment, before settling back into a questioning stare. “Who told you that?”

“Uh…” He should really shut up at this point.

Leon shook his head. “Never mind, that’s not important,” he said, much to Steve’s relief. “It was a long but successful operation, and I got put on sick leave afterwards. Decided to spend the first day home getting drunk, and I made an impulsive decision to text you. So, I apologize, again.”

“Hey, it’s all good. Sometimes you just wanna get drunk.” It’s only partially a lie. Steve had definitely felt the urge – numerous times after Rockfort and Antarctica, in fact. But B.O.W. metabolism be damned, he was never able to reach the point of hazy darkness that could let him forget it all for a night. “And it really wasn’t a problem. I’m just surprised you remembered me.”

Leon laughed softly, throat still scratchy from sleep. “I’m surprised you’d think I’d forget. After all,” he pointed a thumb back towards the coffee table, “it was your whiskey I was drinking this morning. How has it been, by the way? Are you doing alright? With, you know…” Leon fumbled for the right words, but it was enough context.

“I’ve been doing okay,” Steve said, trying hard not to scratch at his left cheek, “Veronica’s pretty quiet – I think the viral therapy stuff helped. Almost done with college, so that’s a plus. Still infected, but… you know. Living a normal life.”

“That’s good. A normal life… I’m glad.” There’s an emotional twinge in Leon’s voice. Was it because he was still inebriated?

“You know…” Leon said, voice suddenly low. “I think about our meeting in ‘99 a lot. What you said back then - ‘In the context of everything, it was probably just an email you read. A few calls you made’, right?”

God, Leon was reciting his dumb speech from memory. The urge to squirm was only blocked by a growing alarm at Leon’s bitter tone.

“I’m… I’m glad I helped you properly back then. It’s the only success story I have.”

“Whoa whoa, you’re underselling yourself,” Steve said. He expected immediate rapport, but Leon just looked at him with melancholy eyes. “I mean, you’re the best of the U.S. military. You just came off an international biohazard operation. Hell, I haven’t even mentioned Claire, or how much Sherry adores you-”

Leon flinched at the mention of Claire and Sherry, hands on the table balling up into fists. “I could’ve done so much more for them. I still could, and I don’t. And not just them, but now… I always fumble the landing…”

“Or they could be dead.”

The speed at which Leon’s head flicked toward him was concerning, but Steve didn’t care. The sentence had the desired effect of stopping him from his spiraling words.

“Claire and Sherry could’ve died in Raccoon. But they didn’t, because of you. And I dunno about this international op... but you stopped something huge from ruining more people’s lives. Numerous times. Those sound like success stories to me.”

“Steve, you don’t understand-“

“You’re right; I don’t. We as people can’t understand the best and worst outcomes of any scenario. Everything ends up in the middle somewhere. So we just have to cling to the ones we love, and live with that. That’s what keeps me going everyday. Sure, I’m basically a zombie- it could be better. It could be worse. But I’m here. And you made that happen. And you’ll continue to do so, because I know you’re the type of person who’ll never be satisfied with that middle. So please, please don’t undersell yourself.”

Steve found himself out of breath at the end of everything. Déjà vu and embarrassment twisted in his stomach like twin snakes. But Leon just chuckled.

“You’ve gotten better at your speeches.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to mull on this,” Steve said, rubbing his foot into the ground. “I guess I really don’t know what you’ve gone through. But I hope - no, I saw enough to believe what I say, back when we met.”

“‘Never satisfied with that middle’, huh?” Leon murmured. He stood up and returned with the glass of water in his hand. “I’ll remember that. Thanks, Steve.”

Steve shrugged awkwardly. It felt weird to hear that from Leon – once an image of persistence and heroism, now vulnerable and drawn violently back to earth. But if five minutes of embarrassment was the price he had to pay for Leon to appreciate his own work, he’d take it.

“So what now? Do you need me to go, or –” Steve said.

“Would you laugh if I asked you to stay a little longer?” Leon said, taking a long drink of water. “It’s been nice to catch up. Though with me hung over, I don’t know what else we’d do.”

“No – I’m down,” Steve replied, suddenly coming up with a great idea. “How about we watch that grandpa movie on your TV, if you fell asleep while watching?” It seemed like a nice way to pass the time, even if Steve himself wasn’t super enthused about the thought of watching a drab black-and-white film.

“That grandpa movie is Casablanca, and it’s a timeless classic,” Leon gritted, with a surprising amount of hostility.

“Uh… okay? So do you want to watch it or not?”

Leon snorted, before standing up once again. This time, he headed towards the kitchen. “Sure. Let me just make some ramen for us so I can get over this hangover headache.”

“Sure.” Steve found himself with the uncontrollable urge to find out why Leon got so riled up. “What’s the grandpa movie about, anyway?” he said innocently.

Leon glared daggers at him midway to the kitchen. “If you call Casablanca a grandpa movie one more time, I will kick you out.”

“You’re the one who wanted me to stay!”

“You’ve never heard of Casablanca before?”

“No?”

“Have you ever watched a Humphrey Bogart film?” “Who?”

Leon went into a long half-drunk tirade about the significance of Casablanca while making ramen. Steve didn’t pick up most of it – something about the Warner movie lot and World War II. More importantly, it made Leon seem just like a regular, 27-year-old cinema buff, extoling a film’s virtues to a fellow friend. It suited him quite well.

By the time Leon returned with a steaming pot, two bowls, and a glass of water for Steve, his mood had become significantly more sheepish. “I’m probably the worst type of person to watch this movie with. You won’t get the full experience.”

“Well, best and worst right? This’ll land in the middle,” Steve said, having moved to the sofa and making room on the coffee table. Leon rolled his eyes and laughed.

Leon Kennedy was bad to watch Casablanca with. He’d clearly watched the movie numerous times. He matched the timing of every “Here’s to you kid” uttered by Rick Blaine, along with several other quotes. It was okay though; Steve just dug into his ramen and watched alongside him. His love for the film was infectious.

Leon hummed to himself, pouring another glass of whiskey before he realized what he was doing. “Aren’t you gonna stop me?” he asked.

Steve shrugged. “I mean, I’m a college student – it’d be sacrilegious to stop you. Plus, it seems fits the atmosphere.”

Leon tilted the bottle of whiskey over to Steve’s near-empty water glass. “You want some too then?”

“Sure – just a little though; still have to drive home.”

The two of them took a long sip alongside Rick, now drunk and despondent after encountering his lost love Ilsa. Leon lisped along to the mournful protagonist, “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine”. Steve glanced at him, watching his eyes faintly mist over. It didn’t seem right to ask who he was thinking of.

At some point, Steve forgot he was watching a film – completely transported to the world of Casablanca. From Rick and Ilsa’s icy daytime meeting, to their eventual romantic reconnection, he was pulled in, hook line and sinker. Expertly inserted between this romance were moments of human strength and resilience – he found himself resonating with the people of "Rick's Café Américain" as they sung “La Marseillaise”. And the more he watched, the more he found connections between Leon and Rick; it was clear the film affected him on a deeply personal level.

As the end of the film rolled, Steve didn’t notice Leon looking at him expectantly. He was too entranced with the final scene – the last moments between Rick and Ilsa, then the shot of the two men walking away in the rain… the very real and painful intertwining of love and duty.

“So, what do you think?” Leon asked, finally snapping Steve out of his reverie.

“You were right – I shouldn’t have called it a grandpa film,” Steve murmured, eyes still glued to the TV. “It was very good. Beautiful.”

“I’m glad you finally got to see it.”

“Do you have any other recommendations like this? I saw you had a lot of DVDs.”

Leon laughed. “Of course I do - all I do on my time off is watch movies.”

Steve’s hit with another great idea. “Hey. While you’re in town, we should watch some of those. Or at least meet up more. Doesn’t always have to be movies, but maybe other normal, civilian things. You know, get to know each other.”

Government agent Leon Kennedy would’ve politely refused the offer. The Leon he’d seen today, trapped in his darkest throes, wouldn’t even bother replying. But neither of those was quite the whole picture.

And so, Leon smiled and quipped, “Steve, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

prev

#resident evil #leon kennedy #steve burnside #temporary brainworm tag #bits and baubles #warning for potential edits! shouldn't be anything too major but a lot of this was written spur of the moment #will probs polish a little before uploading to AO3 #but if you read and enjoyed thank you and please let me know what you think! #fanfiction #resident evil fanfiction #tw: alcohol

[fromthewondersystem]

Hi there, I've suspected for a while now that I might suffer from osdd/did and I'm researching a bit before I talk to my psychiatrist, what are some signs that it's not osdd/did if you have any that come to mind? And if we're here are there any signs that in retrospect for u are obviously symptoms? Ty for answering questions it helps a lot <3

Ok, for this, the main thing that helped me with figuring out if i had did/osdd-1 or not was research, research, research.

Do the symptoms and situations in research fit what i experience (not necessarily exactly, but are they familiar)? What else could cause the symptoms i experience (psychotic disorders, other dissociative disorders, even potentially personality disorders)? Do any of of these fit what i experience better?

Though some of these can easily be comorbid with DID, so also consider that as a possibility. You can still try to differentiate symptoms in some ways, for example, auditory hallucinations attributed to my psychosis i can hear outside of my brain, alters’ voices are just in my head.

Talk to people who have DID and, if you think it might be something else, talk to people who have that too. Compare the experiences you hear to your own. I know in determining whether my gender change was due to genderfluidity or alters, i talked to people with DID and genderfluid friends, and what i experienced fit DID much better.

I can’t say much for signs it’s not DID/OSDD. But i have occasionally heard of confusing MADD or kinning for alters. It might also help to talk to people who were once questioning systems, but have realized they’re singlets. They can provide a lot of valuable insight into this question.

As for past symptoms in childhood, i’ll list a few i’ve had. One time i “slept” (read: blackout) for 25 hours and no one noticed, happened at school once too where i remember fainting but nothing after that and wasn’t at the nurse or anything. Over the years i switch between needing and not needing glasses. My ptsd symptoms didn’t really seem all that similar to what i had researched about PTSD. Instead, they fit a lot more with what i had researched about CPTSD and Developmental Trauma Disorder (not an official diagnosis but one considered for the DSM at one point). Most of my memories and dreams are in third person. In high school, I remember getting stuck in a british accent and when trying to go back to american, just sounding like a british person doing an american accent (i thought it would be a cool party trick but i couldn’t turn it on or off). Once i was crying hysterically after being locked out of the house for hours then suddenly stopped and picked the lock, which i was not able to do again since. My gender changed entirely, like a switch flipped, at 17 after a major life event. Same with other things like my passions. Not everything of course, but some of the stuff i’ve looked back at and been like “ohhhhhh”.

sorry if this answer is all over the place, i’m starting to get tired so hope it’s at least somewhat coherent. anyways, i wish u good luck in trying to figure this out.

#ask #asks #did #osdd #system #advice #hope this helps #❄️ or 🌟

[anoray]

May the Fourth Be With You

Oh, how I wish I could post a completed chapter for Spectre One Rises, but as that’s not yet possible, I hope this segment serves as a small offering on this special SW day!

The story had left off with Ezra hanging in the air courtesy of a peeved Force entity. This first awesome serpent-dragon artwork was found on https://www.deviantart.com/phoenixfireclaws  The second one I can’t seem to locate the creator. If I could mix these two together and add lots of eyes, it would provide an inkling of what has Ezra by the neck. :)

SPECTRE ONE RISES - CHAPTER 9 (Title forthcoming):

Ezra / Oroboros 2

Ezra thrashed wildly to escape the serpent-dragon’s chokehold, but it was as if the planet itself held him within its angry fist.

“Let him go!” Kanan yelled upward. “Ezra’s a Jedi!”

“Look in the Force!” Ahsoka jabbed her staff at Oroboros like an admonishing finger. “The one you seek vengeance on is dead!”

The Great Guardian flicked his forked tongue at her dismissively.

MY DESECRETOR WAS TOO CONSUMED BY HATRED AND FEAR TO LEAVE ANYTHING FOR DEATH TO TAKE.

The words thudded through Ezra’s mind like metal-heavy footsteps. Maul got chopped in half and lived. What if Palpatine was only hiding?

Ezra gagged as the Force grip on his neck clamped his windpipe shut. His pulse pounded in his ears, almost drowning out the shouts from below.

“Stop hurting him!” Kanan cried out, his hand raised in a plea. “Ezra’s not your enemy!

Oroboros hissed and steam swirled dangerously close to Ezra.

“Listen to us!” Ahsoka struck the butt of her staff against the rocky platform. “A terrible danger threatens our Galaxy and we need your help!”

Black spots danced at the edges of Ezra’s vision while his blockaded lungs burned for air.  His head flopped forward like a broken trooper doll and the ground seemed to stretch even further away from his dangling feet. Ezra shut his eyes to blot out the dizzying sight only to find two pinpricks of red piercing the darkness. The Son’s voice slithered through his fading consciousness and sent his heart hammering into overdrive.

Make this conceited, bloated worm pay for its insolence. It exists only to do our bidding!

The unnatural chill that prickled Ezra’s skin jolted a retort out of his oxygen-deprived brain. Easy for you to say--you’re not the one who can’t breathe!

He was rewarded with an impatient scoff.

Stop sniveling and let go. There can be no Middle without the Dark. Die in the worm’s grip now and everyone you love will perish.

The warning wove through Ezra’s fragmenting awareness. He’s right. The mission will fail if I’m dead. But if he let go, the Son could flow through him--and crush Oroboros into submission. And wasn’t letting go the exact lesson that Kanan and Ahsoka kept teaching him over and over? Ezra could use it now to save himself. To save the Galaxy.

Yes, Ezra Bridger. You are wise to trust me.

Ezra abruptly recoiled as the echo of a voice he’d first heard on Malachor vibrated through every cell of his failing body.

“You were wise to trust me.” Maul had coaxed and lulled Ezra into obedience with silken praise—all a ploy to steal the Sith Temple’s power and a new apprentice for himself. The scheme had failed thanks to Kanan and Ahsoka’s heroics, but the aftermath of Maul’s treachery had lingered like a poisonous fog that refused to lift.

No! I won’t let Kanan and Ahsoka down again!

Ezra gathered the last of his coherent thoughts and flung them at the Son as if they were grenades. You sense the future--you saw Oroboros attacking me because of your Darkness! And you’re using it to take me over before I need you!

Screeeeech!

The unmistakable cry of a convor pierced its way through Ezra’s muffled hearing and the sullen pinpricks of the Son’s eyes abruptly vanished.

“Morai!” Ahsoka’s call rang out with joy.

The chokehold on Ezra’s throat faltered slightly and he sucked in a ragged breath. It gave him just enough strength to open his eyes to a miraculous sight.

Morai soared out of the sky, her green and white feathers gleaming despite the sun’s weak light. The convor screeched again and dove directly between Ezra and Oroboros to perch gracefully on Ahsoka’s outstretched hand.

“It’s so good to see you again,” Ahsoka greeted their unexpected visitor with a smile. Kanan shifted closer to the duo, offering up a grateful nod of welcome.

Morai wrapped her flexible tail around Ahsoka’s forearm, then tilted her sharp gaze up to Ezra and Oroboros with an expectant screech.

Oroboros’s razor teeth rasped alarmingly before he released the Force grip on Ezra’s throat. Ezra immediately treated his starved lungs to deep gulps of air, no longer caring that it smelled worse than a hangar full of rotten eggs.

Keeping Ezra suspended in the air, the Great Guardian undulated his glistening coils closer to Ahsoka. He dipped his head in front of Morai in a respectful bow and twin curls of steam hissed from his nostrils.

MESSENGER OF THE ASHLA, YOUR PRESENCE IS A WELCOME HONOR.

Morai fluffed her feathers and hooted back a regal reply. Oroboros swiveled several clusters of his eyes toward Ezra and curled his lips in disdain.

THE SAME CANNOT BE SAID FOR THE BOGAN WHEN HE HIDES HIS FACE AND INTENT.

Ezra let out a startled yelp as Oroboros lunged upward and began sniffing him over with unnerving vigor.

ARE YOU HIS MASK… OR HIS PUPPET?

“I’m Ezra Bridger! Nobody controls me!” Ezra fired back just before his body started rotating like a skewered tip-yip beneath one of the enormous, relentless nostrils. Ezra tried to dodge the feelers dangling from the serpent-dragon’s scaly lips and failed miserably. I am so glad Sabine isn’t here to see this.

A flash of reflected light caught Ezra’s eye, and he tilted his head to see Zippy zigzagging cautiously toward the scene. Braruz’s other two holorecorder droids emerged from their own hiding spots among the steaming terraces to tag behind. Alarm bells went off in Ezra’s brain in a jarring reminder that Thrawn was on his way. And the Nihilum won’t be far behind.

“Hey!” Kanan bellowed from below, clearly on the same wavelength. “If you don’t step it up, Ezra will be the last of your problems!”

Oroboros froze Ezra in mid-turn to impale Kanan with a seething glare that even Hera couldn’t match.

Uh oh.

Whoooooosh! Ezra’s stomach lurched as air swept past him in a vortex that was sucked into the Great Guardian’s nostrils, then the massive jaws gaped open to blast out a jet of superheated steam. Ezra’s heart staggered back into beating when the deadly spray overshot Kanan and struck the incoming holodroids instead. The trio melted to slag instantly.

Ezra tried to swallow while the pitiful remains splashed into the prismatic pool, but his abused throat wouldn’t cooperate. Maybe I should’ve taken the Son up on his offer.

Oroboros snapped his teeth together in satisfaction—then divebombed directly at Kanan.

Ezra could only flail uselessly while Kanan sprang toward the peninsula that led away from the rocky platform. Oroboros dropped a translucent coil to block his retreat, snaking his head toward Kanan with a scornful flick of his tongue.

YOU DARE TO DECLARE YOURSELF THE GUARDIAN OF LOTHAL?

Kanan stopped short, his eyebrows snagged somewhere between surprise and alarm. Before his hand reached the hilt of his lightsaber, Morai flapped her wings and screeched.

“Kanan!” Ahsoka locked eyes with him and lowered her staff in a calming gesture. “The Jedi archives say that duality with a planetary guardian is very rare.” She gestured toward Morai, then back at Kanan. “Please let Oroboros confirm your bond is real.”

Kanan exhaled a wary breath and let his fingers drift away from his weapon. “Fine.”

As if we can stop him. Ezra felt like he was floating in a cloud made of pins and needles while the nearest of the serpent-dragon’s flaring nostrils inhaled Kanan’s scent from head to toe as if determined to find incriminating evidence.

“Hey!” Kanan snapped when Oroboros swayed his head to repeat the process with his other nostril. “That’s enough.” He shoved his way out of the dangling feelers like they were beaded cantina curtains.

Oroboros tucked his frill along his neck and studied Kanan with severe disapproval.

A GUARDIAN’S INCARNATION IS A MORTAL SCAFFOLD. NOT A PET TO BE INDULGED.

Kanan crossed his arms over his chest and glowered right back at Oroboros. Ezra frowned in the moment of tense silence, wishing he could hear Dume’s response for himself. Whatever the giant Loth-wolf answered, it made Oroboros rear back his head with a snort.

I ACKNOWLEDGE YOU, DUME OF LOTHAL…

Several rows of the serpent-dragon’s eyes narrowed into crescents as he peered at Kanan through the steam wafting from his nostrils.

BUT YOUR REQUEST TO OPEN SOROR’SEPTI CANNOT BE HONORED UNLESS THESE MORTALS PROVE THEMSELVES WORTHY.

“What?” Ezra blurted out. “How are we supposed to do that?” The Son’s words replayed in his ears, fanning his frustration into anger.

It exists only to do our bidding!

The Great Guardian’s molten-red gaze snapped toward Ezra just before he was Force-propelled downward. Ezra landed dangerously close to the edge of the rocky platform and Kanan grabbed his arm to keep him from stumbling into the scalding water.

Ezra shot Oroboros a reproachful glare only to receive an unsettling, razor-toothed smile in return. The frill on the serpent-dragon’s neck rippled up to encircle the back of his head like an iridescent crown.

HOW INDEED?

....to be continued....

#spectre one rises #kanan jarrus #ezra bridger #ahsoka tano #star wars rebels fanfic #fixit #kanan!lives #this chapter is very much not done #but i slog onward