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svtskneecaps · 6 months

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lukewarm take of the evening: y'all care too much about being ""outdated"". fellas this smp moves inhumanly fast. it is ok to CHILL holy shit CHILL. y'all are like "(posts BANGER ART) super late guys sorry" friend i am hitting you with a blanket i am snapping you with my metaphorical towel WHAT DO YOU MEAN SORRY. "(posts BANGER FIC) rip this is outdated now" WHO CARES???? I LOVE YOU, OK. ohhhh woe is us as the fandom at large for having MORE HAPPY PILLS ARC CONTENT oh no how outdated!! how could you be writing speculative fiction about how forever felt during happy pills :( slash SARCASM!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN!!!! THERE ARE SO MANY BANGER ARCS, WHAT, YOU THINK WE'RE COMPLAINING????? FOR GETTING MORE OF THE CONTENT WE LOVED????? oh no we're past the period where everyone thought green gay ninjas were like Dead Dead, my work is now outdated and noncanon :( WDYM. GIMME. A BANGER IS A BANGER IDC IF IT TAKES THREE MONTHS. you think rome was built in a day?? fuck you, baltimore, GIMME. my ass has been cooking a goddamn backflipo family fic since july when it was ALREADY outdated do you think i fear god??? "oh no, you're making an edit of slime's (attempted) egg murdering spree?? how could you, that was months ago it's irrelevant" SAID NO ONE EVER.

save your wrists kidlings ok carpal tunnel is no joke. CHILL!!!!! CHILL!!!!!!!! TAKE YOUR TIME SHEEEEEESH OK LOVE YOU <3

#qsmp #shut up vic #block game brainrot #IT IS OK TO NOT ALWAYS POST SHIT THIRTY SECONDS AFTER IT HAPPENS!!!!!!!#for god's sake we have MONTHS of lore and bangers ok???#i still have a mental image of an art i wish i could make from BOBBY'S NIGHTMARE #HE HAS BEEN GONE FOR M O N T H S and you bet your ass if i can make it I WILL BE POSTING IT #SO. MUCH. SHIT. HAS. HAPPENED. who cares if it was months ago!!!!!!#it's ok to be a few days late!!! it's ok to be a few months late!!!!! don't tell me sorry for feeding me!!!!!!#part of me still lives in I'M NOT HOLDING A FUCKING FUNERAL CHAT #part of me still lives in maxo's final song for his son!!!!#part of me still lives in the day we thought ramón was gone for good #part of me still lives in cellbit sprinting to his son only to be ripped away back to the feds just as richas turns to write a sign #part of me still lives in the flooding of the copacabana ocean #THESE ARE BANGERS. REMEMBER WHEN FIT FOUND PAC E MIKE IN PRISON. BANGER.#oh dear new work expanding on a canon moment i super liked that happened months ago how late smh SAID NO ONE EVER #TWO CAKES!!!!! TWO CAKES MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!! WE LOVE PASTRIES DON'T EVEN WORRY ABOUT IT #COME ON Y'ALL. METAPHORICAL KISSES. LOVE YOU. HAVE A GOOD WEEK.#long tags

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twig-tea · 6 months

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screencap stolen from linked post by @burnsuncomet ; I was going to reply to your post but then I just kept writing and I didn't want to fully derail so I made this separate post instead!

I've skimmed the tag now and I'm going to need more people to be as obsessed with this mostly-unsmoked-cigarette-in-the-cake shot as I am. Mork quit smoking because the smell bothered Day, and we've since seen how much emphasis Day puts on scent so we know it really did matter to him. And when Mork was in an emotionally vulnerable moment after playing matchmaker for the man he's in love with to get together with someone else, he asks for a cigarette in a moment of weakness. But this shot shows us that he mostly resisted, and went for a walk instead, and it was the thought of Day's happiness (the birthday party and his relationship with August, as represented by this birthday cake slice) that helped him suppress his craving even as it drove him to emotional distress in the first place. Even while Day was worrying about him regressing, Mork was thinking about Day and doing what he thought was best for Day's happiness. Day didn't actually need to find Mork to help him stop smoking.

Plus just like, it's a cigarette put out in a cake slice. Rendering both unconsumable. Nobody will want to eat that cake now, and that cigarette cannot be relit. I can't stop thinking about it. It's fantastic. It's such a tiny and non-disruptive tantrum while simultaneously being an act of care. The ash tray is right there, but Mork said no, I'm ruining both of these things at once, because I can't have anything I want and I don't want anyone else to have them either and I'm mad that they will but I won't stand in their way so I'm taking it out on this symbol instead [because it's the merging of two symbols: what August did for Day (throwing the surprise party; performative) and what Mork did for day (quitting smoking; truly meeting Day's needs/wants)].

And as a visual bonus, it kind of looks like a candle, except it's a cigarette AND the wrong way round! Like the world's saddest and most disturbed birthday celebration.

And of course because Day is blind, he wouldn't be able to see it, and so he wouldn't know that Mork had signalled that he didn't actually smoke much of the cigarette.

OB.SESSED.

#last twilight #last twilight the series #bl meta #typed so i can stop thinking it #fr though this image of the cake with the cigarette is going to stay with me for ages #I think there's even more to this visual metaphor I haven't unpicked yet #it's poetry #it's the ceci n'est pas un pipe of visual shots #i said what i said

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womenaremypriority · 7 months

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Yet to see a convincing argument for an “ace spectrum” that’s not just rape culture

#My post #they’ll pull out the cake metaphors and think they did something #Asexuality #my bangers

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beanghostprincess · 8 months

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reiju being the only vinsmoke child that has feelings and can empathize is pretty much obviously referencing the whole "unlike boys, girls are emotional" thing that has always been said to disregard women's positions of power and strengths, assuming that empathy is not a strength itself.

from men's pov, girls are: emotional, weak, sensitive, empathetic... they're the ones doing the "simple" house tasks like cooking, cleaning, taking care of things instead of destroying them.

that sounds, kind of, exactly to what sanji is. sanji's "failures, weaknesses, malfunctions..." are literally what is expected to see in women.

they tell him to man up. to be stronger. to stop crying because boys don't cry. how could he cry?! how could he dream?! how could he cook and be nice to others and feel? how could he be a good person when he's a man and men are expected to be bigger than anyone else. he should take up space, not give it to the ones who need it. he should scream at the top of his lungs, deeply and loudly, not gently. he should take and take and take and he should not give because men are meant to own, not to offer. he shouldn't be clever, he should act. he shouldn't be sad or in pain because men are supposed to take it and swallow and bear with it. he shouldn't be hungry. hunger is for the people who lack food and if you lack food you're weak and if you're weak you're not a man. and lack means wanting, but why's he craving something when he should just take it and take it and take it? so he shouldn't eat because eating is meant to be for pleasure only, if you're a man, and if you need it you're weak because he shouldn't need. he should want and take and never need.

he cries when they kick him and he begs when they take someone away from him. because he's weak. because he loses and loses and loses and never wins only because he isn't man enough to cheat. he goes through life asking first, acting second. he doesn't play dirty, like a man should, but lives in a clean state of pureness and delicacy. he has to be clean to cook, of course. clean to be good. but men don't cook and they are allowed to be as bad as they want. but he isn't, is he? because he feels. and feels and feels until it's too much. so much that it explodes and it breaks and his soul shatters. soul that he shouldn't have in the first place because men are a fortress with enough strength to ignore what's inside. and he is weak. he is small. he is hungry.

god, he's so hungry. but not for power or money or women- well, he is hungry for women. for their soothing voices and soft touches and angry glances that are always a bit too much for his poor heart to handle. he never asks much, just a bit of them. crumbs to feed his starving heart. he finds comfort in women the same way a man destined to death would consume his last meal. he's on the verge of falling but he can't, because men do not fall, they are the ones to push. so he's hungry, but he doesn't eat because if he did, that would mean he needs it and then he wouldn't be a man.

men should fight and not defend, but he's always protecting and never fighting. he fights to protect, never himself, always others. he fights to defend his weak self, but it can't be called fighting when the only thing he does is taking. and he learns to take it without a single word or prayer escaping his lips because a man should not do that.

he's different. a failure. a mistake. a good for nothing. not a man. not powerful like a vinsmoke should be. not godly and royal like his family is. machines built to kill and destroy and take and take instead of living. but sanji likes living. he likes breathing and eating and smiling and feeling and giving and giving and giving until he doesn't have anything to offer. he likes being alive and feeling.

so he has to be human, if not only a malfunction in their mom's womb.

human, but not quite, because being human means being like the rest. the definition for human is "not a vinsmoke", in his perception, so he has to be. he is. he is human. he wishes to be, at least, part of the mankind.

man. man. a man. that's what he should be. that's what he is. vinsmoke men are not just men. they're men. and being only a man should be different, but it isn't. it will never be.

he is human, but not really. he's not a vinsmoke, that's for sure. but he's not human, either, he's still different.

because when he gets out of there, the fire of the stove still burns his hands. and he can cook. yes. he realizes he can cook and he can enjoy and live and give and give and it's liberating to know he can and will live. but he can't dream because dreaming of impossible things —like blue, deep, magic seas— isn't meant for rational men. he's following the recipe wrong, all over again, and he doesn't know what the hell is going on if all the ingredients are right.

then he is hungry again. hungry for life. and food, too. and he has never felt weaker and less of a vinsmoke, but more of a human. he bleeds and cries and begs and starves like any human would and yet... he isn't a man. he isn't a real person. and maybe it's still in his blood, despite having ran away, the malfunction in his veins. there is something deeply wrong with him. down to his core.

and he can't figure out what, but he can starve. so that means he's human. but he's not a man. because men don't starve. they take what life gives them and don't need to eat if they can't. zeff is strong and wide and the manliest man he has ever met. and yet he's hungry, but he doesn't eat. he doesn't eat because he gives. he gives food to a kid who doesn't even deserve to eat. he gives food to a kid, not a man, because if he was a man he wouldn't need to eat.

so he just needs to grow up and become a man, he thinks. that's it. time. time. that's what he lacks and what he should take. years.

but he doesn't become a man.

he grows fond of women as years pass by. they're gorgeous. pieces of art. delicate, emotional, calculative, strategic, pretty, soothing, and perfect in every way. they're everything a vinsmoke shouldn't be. they're everything sanji is- wants to be. he isn't like them. he is a man.

he likes watching them and giving them the pleasures he's refused of, because at least he gets to taste the other end of the stick when dreaming about impossible things turns out to be something too emotional for him to handle as the man he has become.

skirts. dresses. high heels. make up.

it must be hard to fight in those. that's why men don't wear them. because men are meant to fight. girls are meant to just exist. they give peace and love to a world full of destruction just by breathing, they don't need to do anything in order to give.

nami's ruthless. like a storm. and pretty, obviously, like a faint, calm rain. gorgeous and bright, like the sun. and she's feminine in such a strong way that it makes sanji shiver and get on his knees quicker than any woman has ever done. because she's different, too. she's a girl but she's not a girl. and she's not a man but she's more of a man than sanji could ever be in a million years, he realizes, because she's not afraid. and men shouldn't be afraid.

sanji always is. he just doesn't show. showing emotions is a cry for help and boys don't- men don't cry.

she's a girl without being like any other girls. so that means sanji can be a man without being exactly like the rest.

and yet, he's still not a man.

because dresses aren't meant or men, and still he can easily run wearing high heels without any problem. and they feel good, too, not because they fit in but because they fit him. they match the dress and the lip gloss. the world used to be black and white but now it's fucking pink and it makes him feel good and brave and strong and he's not afraid.

then the world shatters again. pops like those bubbles again. and again. like the day he lost himself to the pleasurable feeling of comfort he's been fighting his whole life. because he's a man and comfort means not being able to handle pain. and he fought pain that day until he gave in to his desires. but desiring something is only a thing men can afford, and he didn't actually desire it. he needed it. needs it to breathe and to laugh and to live. needs it because he can't handle pain and if he can't handle pain he's not a man.

so he goes back to hiding and wanting and giving and giving but without needing. and he doesn't take, because he's not a vinsmoke, but he is a man, because he only eats the crumbs women throw at him.

it's raining when he hears it, and he can't help thinking about nami. ruthless, strong, gorgeous and feminine nami.

pudding wouldn't. nami wouldn't.

he wouldn't marry himself either, if asked.

and there's gotta be something wrong with him. something that doesn't work. because he's not a vinsmoke but he's not a man and he's not human and he's not even a failure. he isn't a failure because his mom said so. and if someone as honest and good and kind and feminine as her said that, it has to be true.

and yet he's not a man. he looks at himself from far away. he's always seen himself like that. like a soul flying around an empty body. a shell.

and then it breaks.

it's still raining.

luffy is beautiful. and he is a man. but just like nami isn't a girl, luffy isn't a man.

because he dreams, bigger than anybody else. he shines, brighter than the sun. he feels, louder than any woman. he fights, with his whole heart and fists and punches way harder than any vinsmoke. and he's hungry. luffy's hungry due to a promise. a promise lead by loyalty and love and passion and everything sanji wishes he could let himself feel.

the thing is, luffy can feel all of those and still be a man.

if sanji feels, he won't be a man. nor a vinsmoke.

niji called him girl once. because he cried. and the punches hurt, but for some reason the thought of being allowed to feel if he were to be a woman made the wound heal faster.

luffy sees him cry.

and dream and wish and ask and beg and break.

and he's trying to give, but luffy is asking him to take and be selfish. he wonders if taking something for himself will turn him into a man, finally.

but he cries again.

"i want to go back to sunny."

and he's not a vinsmoke. nor a man.

he isn't sure exactly what he is.

and then luffy says: "that's just how you are!" about him being too kind for his own good and too empathetic for him to be considered a man.

luffy smiles when he says it, as if it was the most brilliant quality of the cook.

he's not a vinsmoke. he's not a man.

sanji lets himself dream about what he could be. lets himself feel what he truly is.

he has never liked feeling weak because that's just what women are supposed to be. delicate and soft and meant to be rescued by the prince he should be.

luffy looks at him like he's the most beautiful thing to ever be under the rain. dirty and messy and crying and shattered. but still beautiful. and clean. and pure. and soothing. and everything a woman is and everything he wants to be and everything he could be.

and it's a very complex recipe and perhaps he still lacks some ingredients and maybe he could use less of others and let it cook for a bit longer.

but it tastes good. to dream. to feel. to exist. not like a mistake but as a human.

as herself.

#what is thissss #it's 4 am and i'm still awake writing this bc i had a sanji kinnie breakdown #this was supposed to be a 'reiju has feelings bc she's a girl and so that's like a metaphor for transfem sanji'#but as you can see i got a bit carried away #i'm not reading all of this again if you find any typos just ignore them #i love transfem sanji wholeheartedly #she's so important to me #genderfluid any pronouns sanji my beloved #one piece #sanji #black leg sanji #monkey d luffy #lusan #lusan?? kind of??? the last things are very lusan and i did it thinking about them romantically #whole cake island

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ceilingfan5 · 9 months

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[id: a stock photo with the watermark still on it of a wedding cake and two groom figurines on the ground]

PENULTIMATE REVENGE PLUS ONE CHAPTER HERE AND NOW GO GET IT

Surely revenge is sweeter than wedding cake.

#taz #taakitz #tazb #the adventure zone balance #the adventure zone #fan5fics #taz balance #taakitz fic #they dont actually get to destroy the cake but i was having a hard time finding a good pic. please understand the cake is metaphorical #although im sure it does get smushed. later #off screen #tell your friends

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bananaparlor · 8 months

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I was just thinking about how “The Star” could be a double entendre.

Marceline is a star because she’s the daughter of the Vampire King, and in another universe, she’s a rock star.

But, to Bonnie, she’s the shining star in a world that’s so dark.

#I could be overthinking this but I’d like to think it’s a gay metaphor :)#bubbline #sugarless gum #otp #fionna and cake spoilers #fionna and cake #Marceline #Princess bubblegum

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cranberrymoons · 10 months

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my birthday too

prompt: cake (@steddiemicrofic) word count: 311 rating: explicit (18+) cw/tags: sex toys, bondage, general D/s stuff going on here (all in 311 words?! goodness.) notes: guess what! we're coming up on my birthday, and i am going to take full advantage of this month's prompt over the next week and a half 😈 please enjoy this extremely loose, metaphorical interpretation of the word cake

[read on ao3 or below]

On Eddie’s birthday, he presents Steve with a vibrator.

This is not, of course, the benevolent gesture it appears to be on the surface. They’ve been together for a few years, and Steve knows him better than most by now. He's also good at sensing a trap, and this, a gift for Steve on Eddie’s birthday? This feels like a trap.

“What’s this for?” he asks, narrowing suspicious eyes at him as he rips the wrapping paper off the box and blinks down at it. He lets out a laugh. “Jesus Christ.”

It’s enormous, and hot pink, and has ten speeds according to the surprisingly-tasteful packaging.

“What does it look like?” Eddie asks, smiling at him sweetly. He takes the box from Steve’s hands and opens it. “All I want for my birthday is to make you feel good.”

And Steve, against his better judgment, goes along with it.

Which is how he’s ended up here, tied down to their bed and shaking, clenching every muscle in his body as he fights to hold off the orgasm that’s threatening to rip through him. Eddie tuts in mock concern, clicking the vibrator to a higher setting. A strangled shout tears itself out of Steve’s chest.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

Steve unlocks his jaw enough to grit out, “Please.” It turns into a sob. “Come.”

“Oh, is that all?” Eddie asks. “You should have said. I didn’t realize you were waiting on me.”

And Steve hates him. He hates him, he hates him, he hates him. “Permiss...ion.”

“Yes, baby, I know,” Eddie says soothingly. “You’re very good at following your rules, aren’t you? My good boy.”

“Please,” Steve gasps again. His whole body feels like it’s on fire.

“Okay, baby. Go ahead.”

And Steve comes so hard he arches off the bed, and Eddie– keeps going.

Fuck, he knew this was a fucking trap.

#steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddiemicroficaugust #my fic #in which the cake is literally just steve's ass; lmk if this is too metaphorical lmao but #happy birthday to us all #steddiemicrofic

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featherlouise · 9 months

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Been thinking about this song w/ petrigrof recently and realised something

They both think they’re the moon

They’re so hopelessly devoted to one another that they’re orbiting around each other, they’ve each tied their self worth and identities to the other to the point that they genuinely cannot fathom living a life without the other.

GOD I’m so ill about this couple

They’re SO UNHEALTHY, they’re the PRIME example of “sometimes love isn’t enough”

And they DO love each other, SO much, to the point that they’re hurting each other

It’s like, they don’t realise they’re each other’s suns, so they keep burning the other by accident

#am I going too far with this metaphor?? maybe #do I care?? NO #THIS SONG IS PERFECT FOR THEM OKAY #feather speaks #adventure time #fionna and cake #petrigrof #simon petrikov #betty grof #ice king #magic betty #at #at simon #at betty #golbetty #take a shot every time I say other #Spotify

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whumpiary · 9 months

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technically a follow on from this piece. could probably stand alone. this piece has been 80% done in my google docs for three years so if you see any big holes in it uhhh. no you didn't.

if you've ever wanted some vague exposition on cass' powers or choices, then this is for you

content warning: mentions of death, victim blaming, aftermath of violence/assault, referenced dubcon/noncon, brief mind control

The common room at Bergen Estate gets quiet at night. Most of the charges prefer their own rooms as it gets dark. Hiding from the bogeyman.

But Harley liked the large, dark emptiness of the common room.

The curved chairs, the pillars, the rows of books and video games lined up along the shelves. The big oak tables. Bean bags in the corner. Rugs here and there. The whole place had the energy of some sort of bizarre combination between a kid’s playroom and a university library. But Harley wanted a space to think, and this was the easiest one.

Their intuition had been right and wrong in equal amounts tonight. They’d known they would be called to Christopher’s lounge tonight. And they were. And they knew that they would be fine after. And they are. But… if they were so fine why do they feel so God fucking awful?

“Harley can go, right? It’s not like we need them.”

Every time they try to push the memory from their head, it bobs to the surface again like an apple in water.

“I have to say, Harley… I really am so disappointed in you.”

They stare out the large bay window, at the leafless trees silhouetted in the mix of light from the garden and from the moon. The whole thing looks ghostly. Gothic. The dark through the glass makes the whole window reflective; a giant mirror just waiting to show them their face. But it’s dark in here too. It’s a dark room reflected on a dark night. That’s why it’s so obvious when there’s a shuffling flash of light behind them, making their heart skip.

The door opens, someone steps through, and then it closes. Dark again. Harley stiffens, freezes, trying to catch another glimpse of who it is in the reflection of the window but it's back to shadows on shadows on shadows.

They listen as the person shuffles to one of the cushioned seats. Shuffles. Like it hurts to move. They sit so carefully that Harley can barely hear them. Then there's quiet. Stillness. An exhale.

Harley doesn’t move. They know stillness. They know silence. Have known it for longer than they’ve been here.

But then there’s another exhale.

And another.

Any hitch of breath that might be happening in between is more or less silent. Which means, usually… crying.

Harley feels themself cringe. The Bergen Boys don't cry. Those are the rules. Not Christopher's rules but the deeper, unspoken ones between the lot of them. You don’t complain, you don’t ask for help, you don’t cry. Or if you did, it got beaten out of you quicksmart. Everything else was a free for all as far as Harley has ever been able to tell.

So the shadow person has come to the common room in the middle of the night. Assuming, like Harley had, that it would be empty. That it would be safe.

Guilt washes over them all at once, guttural and nauseating and they realise all of a sudden that intentionally or not just by sitting here, listening, they're imposing. Intruding. Doing the wrong thing. And then the fear beneath that, on top of that, around that, that if they wait too long and the shadow person notices them, they may well end up on the wrong side of thrown fists. Again.

Harley shifts on the couch where they sit, exaggerating the whisper scrape of fabric on fabric, and leans back on the left side where they know the leg creaks.

The shadow person's breathing stops immediately and Harley hears them stand.

"Who's there?"

Harley freezes again, regretting making their presence known. Cassius.

"I can see you. On the couch. Get over here." His voice is sharp and violent. Deeper than usual. There's a childish part of Harley, not as far beneath the surface as they’d like, that wishes desperately they’d just stay silent and hidden. Safe.

But, like they were told, they uncurl their legs. Stand. Turn. Start to walk.

Harley can see the moment that the light from the window must catch their face. Cassius' face softens, eyes fluttering closed and body sagging with what was maybe relief.

“Harls,” he says, running a hand over his face as he sits back down. Harley doesn’t miss the wince. “Jesus Christ, man, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” The apology flies out of them like a verbal flinch. “I’ll leave.”

“No, ple-” Cassius stops himself, eyes shuttering closed. Harley watches him take a deep breath, brow furrowing briefly. You don’t cry. You don’t complain. You don’t ask for help. “You can stay. If you want. I don't mind.”

Harley hesitates for a moment, glancing around half-uselessly, before choosing a seat across from the other charge and folding into it.

“What are you doing up so late?” Cassius asks, as though they’ve bumped into each other at a truck stop. At a bar. Fancy seeing you here.

Harley shrugs. “I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep. I kept…” thinking about what you were doing. They bite down on their tongue to keep themselves from saying more. It’s stupid.

They trail off as Cassius looks up at them and the dull light from the window catches the shape of his brow. At the blood smeared along his temple. The bruising already flaring up along his cheek. “Did… did Beauche do that to you?”

Cassius huffs out a half laugh, running his tongue between his teeth and the obviously bruised tissue of his cheek. He drags his hand up, knuckle brushing softly against his brow. “Yep. What a gentleman, huh?”

“But Christopher said he wouldn’t be violent.”

Cassius scoffs, “Yeah and Christopher’s such a shining beacon of truth, huh?”

Cassius sits back in his chair, eyes hard, and Harley holds their breath. With the shadows of the trees outside dancing across his face, the shading of the bruises and the swelling there, Cassius looks half monster.

Then his expression softens, his body relaxes. “Nah, it was my fault." He lets out a sigh, hand running back through his hair. "The guy wanted me to cry.”

“And did you?” Cassius’ glare is immediate. Has Harley slamming their jaw shut so quickly their teeth click together. “Sorry.”

Cassius shrugs a shoulder in acceptance of the apology and leans back in the chair. He closes his eyes and all at once it’s like some mask comes down. He looks exhausted and hurt and… young, actually. Harley always forgets that. He’s younger than them. About a three year gap between them.

“Why are you up?” Harley says, after the silence gets unbearably fragile. “Here, I mean. I thought you’d be…” They struggle for a tactful way to put it. “In the other wing.”

“Nah, he didn’t want me to stay, thank fuck. And Christopher doesn’t like me coming in af-... Um. He doesn’t like me coming in too late,” Cassius says, picking non-existent dirt out from under his finger nails. He clears his throat a little as his face flinches in and out of a frown. “Plus, the sooner I see him, the sooner I have to… you know…”

He gestures loosely at his face and Harley frowns. The sooner he’d have to do what? Get rid of the bruises? Get rid of the pain that keeps making him flinch and close his eyes? None of them talked about it but they’d all seen it. Bruises fading on Cassius just to bloom on his brother in minutes. Always after a visit to Christopher. Always without a word spoken.

Harley can’t help their own contempt, “Isn’t that a good thing for you?”

Cassius looks at them with an expression Harley can’t place, dark eyes flicking between both of Harley’s, as though searching for something. He looks angry. Murderous. Violent. Then he snorts and it’s gone. “Yeah. Sure.”

He drops his head, hands fidgeting between his knees. With the angle and the shadows, Harley can only just make out the shape of his nose, his eyes half hidden behind his hair. It sticks out at awkward angles around his head like a terrible crown. Frizzy waves in some parts, kinked curls in others.

It'll suit him more when he leaves and he grows it longer.

The thought comes unprompted, unbidden and with the utmost certainty. Like the predictions always do. Just a slice of truth falling into the head with the right prompt. An understanding that that's just… how things will be.

It's not the first time Harley's thought something like it. That Cassius will do much better once he leaves. The notion of it is almost horrifying. Cassius has been here longer than they have. It’s hard to imagine Bergen Estate without its golden boy.

Harley chews on their cheek and “If I ask you something, will you answer truthfully?”

Cassius shrugs. Smirks. “Probably not.”

Harley rolls their eyes and looks away, annoyance settling in their gut. They don’t even know why they bother with Cassius. He’s always the exact same. They're about to stand up to leave when Cassius clears his throat and-

“I’ll trade you for it,” he says softly, dark eyes shining with something unnameable in the dim light. “You ask me something, I ask you something. No lies.”

“Promise?”

Cassius just shrugs. Which is probably as good a promise as Harley’s going to get, really. They sigh and trace the patterning of the rug with their eyes before pursing their lips together and looking back up at Cassius with a focussed sincerity.

They swallow. Inhale. Hands grip the arms of the chair. "You hate it here.”

Cass’ eyes skitter to the side and back. "That's… not a question."

"Why don't you leave?"

“Same as you, dumbass. Legally binding contract.”

“No, I mean-” Harley bites down on their cheek and tries to figure out the right words to say what they mean. “You can make him do whatever you want, right? You can make anyone do what you want. So why don’t you just… make him get rid of you."

Cassius exhales in a way that could almost be a laugh. But probably isn’t. “It’s… complicated.”

“Because of Henri?”

He shrugs, looking bored as he meets their gaze. “Sure.”

“No lies.”

Cassius sighs, leaning back slouched in the chair. He shrugs. “Just because I can make someone want to do something, it doesn’t mean they’ll do it.”

“Like… he’d resist you?”

“No.” Cassius pulls a face. “I mean yes, maybe. But no… It’s like…” He makes a sound hallway between a sigh and a groan. He rolls his neck, eyes roaming around the room like he’s trying to figure something out. He leans his chin on his hand, fingers skirting over his lips before looking back to Harley. “Hᴀʀʟᴇʏ, sᴏʟᴠᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ.”

Harley stands instantly. They turn on their foot and move to the door and for the first time in their life everything is certain. Everything is clear. Everything makes so much sense and all they have to do is… Is to…

“Um…”

Cass half smiles. There's something vicious and cruel behind his eyes. “Dᴏ ɪᴛ, Hᴀʀʟᴇʏ. Sᴏʟᴠᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ.”

They step forward, compulsively, and for some bizarre reason they start raising their arms in front of them, as though their body can’t figure out a way to solve the issue even though they want to and as soon as that thought hits them the frantic desire starts to dissipate, filling instead with deep dread and panic.

They turn their head towards him, eyes wide. Frozen. "I…"

Cassius’ gaze is dark and heavy. Hungry and calculating. His jaw sets. “Hᴀʀʟᴇʏ, ɢᴏ ᴋɪʟʟ Cʜʀɪsᴛᴏᴘʜᴇʀ.”

The feeling that floods them is white hot and immediate. Desire and rage running through them like lava. They’re not sure they’ve ever moved so fast, wheeling on a foot, making it to the door, but no sooner are they reaching for the handle then-

“Nah, ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ɪᴛ. Cᴏᴍᴇ sɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ.”

All at once the desire dissipates, and the panic sets in like shame. Like failure. They come back over. They sit back down. Then their thoughts catch up and they look at Cassius with fury. How dare he do that? How dare he go into their head and make them feel that?

Cassius just smiles. Shrugs. “Sorry. Figured I’d show not tell.”

‘’I could’ve killed him.”

Cassius shrugs, unshaded and unconvinced. “Nah. You would’ve got halfway down the hall and changed your mind.”

“But what if I didn’t?”

“Then you would’ve gotten to his room and realised you didn’t know how. You wouldn’t have killed him.”

“I might’ve,” they protest, still indignant.

Cass shrugs, smile lazy and tired, “But you didn’t.”

They try, for a few moments, to hold on to the anger. The indignation. It’s so, so easy to hate him when he’s far away. When they can’t see him or only see him at a distance. It’s much much harder three feet away from him, where the moonlight show the bags under his eyes as dark as the bruise blossoming above his temple.

“He takes you away from here sometimes,” they say eventually. “You could… when you were away from here. You could leave. Make him let you leave. That’s not that hard.”

Cassius just looks at them, chin resting on his hand, fingers covering his mouth. He raises his eyebrows at them expectantly, foot bouncing like a motor. He’s probably trying to look annoyed. Sarcastic. But he just looks like a sad little boy.

Understanding clicks in.

“But Henri…” Harley voices for him.

Cassius shrugs a shoulder. A tear manages to make it all the way to his cheekbone before he swipes it away with the side of his fist. The Bergen Boys don’t cry. “Told you. Complicated.”

This isn’t how things are meant to be. Cassius is meant to stay in the other wing, up on his damn pedestal and away in Christopher’s bedroom. He’s not meant to cry in the common room. He’s meant to be the golden boy in his golden room. It’s meant to be easy to hate him. He’s meant to be arrogant and selfish and mean and rude and-

“Your French isn’t better than mine,” they say suddenly. They can’t quite say where the compulsion to say it comes from.

Cassius blinks, “What?”

“In the office before, you said your French was better than mine. It’s not.”

He looks at them for a moment, frowning and annoyed and then suddenly he’s laughing, eyebrows shooting up in exhausted amusement, “You’re weird as fuck, you know that?”

“What? No I’m not,” Harley spits, suddenly self-conscious and antsy.

“Yes you are,” Cassius says. “I did you a fucking favour and a half tonight-“

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“And you know what, you’re welcome by the way.”

“I never asked you to-”

“Oh, save it. Yes you fucking did. You know what I can do. You know what I can feel. You were basically fucking screaming at me.”

And that, they do remember. Closing their eyes. Drowning Christopher’s voice out in their head. The huge loud static of I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this.

The air stills. The atmosphere between them settles like dust in the shadows and darkens again. Guilt creeps over Harley's shoulders and rests with heavy claws. They shouldn’t have said anything.

“My French is more usable than yours,” Cass mutters.

They’re truly unsure if he’s being genuine or just trying to break the ice that’s frosted over. They try for the latter, “Your grammar sucks.”

“Yeah, well we didn’t get much further than ‘voulez-vous coucher avec moi’, so I don’t think I did fine,” he gives them a dead-eyed smile that they assume is meant to cast the comment in humour. They don’t really find it very funny.

After a few awkward beats, Cassius gives up the ghost. He clears his throat, “Alright. My turn,”

Harley readjusts in their seat, straightening their spine, tucking their hair behind their ears to listen for the question. They wait one moment. And then two. The whole time the golden boy seems to scrutinise them, looking into their eyes as he sizes them up, makes some sort of assessment.

Cassius’ voice is low and jarringly sad as he finally lands on a question, “Why do you hate me so much?”

If it was possible for Harley to feel every cell in their body crystallise… that was what this feeling was. “I don’t hate you.”

Cassius smiles. Tilts his head. The blood along his temple catches in the light. “No lies.”

Harley frowns and looks away, turning their head to look out the window across the other side of the room. They wonder if he remembers the day they met as well as they do. It was in this room. Just a few feet from where they were sitting now. He’d been sitting on the arm of the couch making some smart mouth comment to someone and they’d thought he looked friendly. And then his eyes had met theirs and prediction hit like an epiphany:

You’re going to kill me one day.

Unprompted, unbidden and with the utmost certainty. A slice of truth falling into their head.

You’re going to kill me one day to save yourself.

They knit their fingers together in their lap, pressing knuckle to knuckle. They press their lips into a thin line. Something with wings — a bird or a bat, they can’t tell — takes flight from one of the trees outside the window. Darkness reflects darkness back.

After it becomes clear they’re not going to answer, Cassius prompts again, “Was it something I did?”

They shrug one shoulder. Like he does. Look down at their hands. The shadows across the room dance and shimmer.

“Is it because of…” out of the corner of their eye, Harley sees him wave a hand at himself. “You know. What I do.” A pause. They see his Adam’s apple bob. “The way I do it.”

Harley frowns, ducks their head lower so they don’t have to look at him, even in periphery. They manage to shake their head this time.

“Is it…” Cassius stops and starts. Stalls. Clears his throat. “Is it something I’m going to do?”

Harley finds themself looking up, despite themself.

They meet his eyes. Time stops for a second.

Cass looks so full of grief for a moment that Harley’s certain the rest of the world must’ve been robbed of it. All shoved into one person to hold for a second. His voice sounds wrecked, “I’m sorry.”

They almost believe him, too. And they hate him all the more for it.

Did he have to be so perfect at this, too? Did he have to be forgivable for this, too? Can’t they just hate him? Can’t they just hate his guts and let him get whadt he’s owed for the things that he’s done, does, is going to do? They want to ask him. They want to tell him. All of it. They want to see his face as he tries to figure out how to respond. They want to know how he feels when he finds out he’s gonna be a murderer.

“It’s okay,” is what tumbles out of their mouth instead.

“Yeah,” Cass laughs and another tear makes it out of him. They hate him for it. He swipes at it with the side of a closed fist. “No it isn’t.”

They hate him as he stands up.

They hate him as he cuts the conversation short.

They hate him as he passes and gives the back of their chair a pat.

“See you around, Harls.”

They watch the window for the flash of light as the door opens, a yellow glow spilling into the room for a moment like blood from a cut. And then the door shuts with a click. And the room is back to its inky darkness. And the golden boy is gone. And Harley isn’t.

And their hatred is an unspooled ball of yarn in the middle of the floor.

#harley #cassius #bergen estate #implied or referenced noncon #victim blaming cw #death mention cw #violent cw #wip to wob #this is your reminder that you can go back and finish an old piece and post it #for free #may your abandoned wips be more of a prodigal son to you #im mixing metaphors like cake batter babeyyy #we are the daughters of the wips you forgot to burn

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istherewifiinhell · 2 months

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um... uh ummm. happy birthday to the birthday fool (honourary) and follow blogger in arms......

[ID: digital drawing of matoba as an anthro ferret, dressed as kuromisa. dress, hair and shawl kinda blowing in the wind. head tipped up, looking to the side, and one hand out as if testing the weather. in the other he holds an umbrella handle, but the umbrella shape is instead a eye like golden disk, surrounded by red (sclera) and black (lid). the disks corona reaching beyond this shape. red arrow like shapes in the background are coming down like rain. END]

i know u said natori in a dress but. gears were in motion

sketches v

[ID: 1. pencil sketch of same concept, standing in profile, hands clasps in front, layer skirt, neutral look. 2. ms paint sketch, now mostly same composition. END]

u can see my first immediate instinct was victorian dress dghbdjhfs. sorry. love this guy. whats he look like? and at some point it got windy. u best believe theres a tf cropped 2cm to the left of the mspaint one

#some shit #medium wise im somewhat wanting of an envelope i can pack with various things & note. and metaphorically run away from #and asks dont have sotta voice #UM. [sits here for five minutes] happy to blog at the same time as u #gestures. this. uhhhh. hopefully communicates that? im not sure of the etiquette..#UM! i hope u have a good BIRTHDAY? i already know u have cake.. so i just hope ingeneral you have a good time.#thanks for translating one of ur guys into a furry that one time 👍🏻#yes clearly i didnt want to draw an umbrella. the accidental eye imagery when trying seemed youknow?#i will be logging off now and whatever happens. happens

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