#i just wanted it to be underlined lol

[vargaslovinghours]

Fandom: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac (But really Vargas lol) Rating: Teen and up Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

What, exactly, did Scriabin take from Edgar when they separated?

My first multichapter fic for Vargas! :D Yay!

(Pls read Ch. 1 first - Ch. 2 is also recommended, but as long as you're caught up on the first, you're good to go!)

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Side B

What the fuck.

"It's, it's possible that if, maybe whatever happened earlier, whatever caused all that blood and for us to be knocked unconscious-"

What the fuck.

"-and if I suffered a head injury, then maybe-"

No. That's enough.

Scriabin pushed away from the closet door he'd defensively pressed himself up against and put his hands on Edgar's shoulders, which quieted him. He looked at him expectantly, with eyes that Scriabin somehow only just now realized were casually guarded, curious, uncertain in a way that denoted inexperience. That was so messed up, that was completely wrong. Edgar should've been on guard, absolutely, but only because he knew exactly what Scriabin was capable of. He really didn't want to look at him right now if this was what he was going to be seeing instead.

He spun him quickly and pushed him out the door before he could protest. He got one last look at those wide, confused eyes before he slammed the door behind him, bracing it shut with both hands for good measure.

What. The fuck. His head came forward, making a dull thud as his forehead connected with the door. He doesn't remember me? His fingers curled on the door. What does he mean he doesn't remember me?! How could he not know me?! One hand pushed through his hair; his scalp tingled and that was so weird, he felt it and it was so weird- We literally just- He literally just-! As if pulling him screaming into life wasn't bad enough, now he had decided to play some sick prank!

This can't be true. It's just like him to try and make jokes at the worst possible time, he has no tact.

There was a timid knock on the other side of the door. Scriabin jumped as it resonated through his skull, his elbow, pressed to the door with his hand buried in his hair, set his jaw. Then silence.

If he was really trying to get back in, clear things up, say he was only kidding, he'd actually try.

Nothing.

Scriabin's blood was ice as he went over it again. The way he'd said his name. The vacant look in his eyes as he said it, like his mouth knew its shape but none of the meaning. No fear, no realization, nothing that really felt like Edgar, just sound, just noise.

Maybe he really had-

Oh god. His knees gave out, and his arms had no practice at holding him upright, not yet. His hand slid down the door, his other hand guarding his head as his hair fluffed against the grain.

How could he do this

This is all his fault

Stupid, idiotic

He can't do this to me

I can't believe him

I can't believe this

How dare he leave me alone like this

Thoughts spiralling, and all he could do was hold himself down, press his fingers into the back of his neck, force his chest to his knees and maybe he wouldn't immolate under it all. He was shaking, from tension or fear he couldn't tell, his mind too hazardous and loud to cut through it all. He was shaking, dizzy, and if he moved, letting go would surely kill him.

He can't do this to me.

He breathed. And breathed. And swallowed. Eyes closed, heart pounding, sure. Confusion and dismay, whatever. Pain. Fine. So be it.

This isn't like me. A hand untethered from his vice grip in his hair, and he stayed attached to the floor. It connected with the carpet below him and became a new lifeline. He pushed up and away into a limp sit, arms already burning slightly from holding himself up after all that. He shook his head mildly. This isn't who I'm going to be in life. His body, this fear response be damned, he was in control now.

Regroup. Let's- a mental pause, barely a quarter of a second long as he turned the word in his head. Let's pretend it's all true- what does that mean?

He flopped over, leaned upright with his back against the door, heels of his fists pushed down into the carpet to scootch closer. Moving was so awkward still, very unfitting.

He was acting normal. Well, Edgar's baseline for "normal" had changed considerably, so maybe put an asterisk on that. Not that he was ever normal to begin with, but normal-for-Edgar, -ish. That means he has to have some memory.

Scriabin held out a hand, arm slung over his knee, one finger held out. He had recognized his glasses. One. The apartment. Two. Which key to use. Three. He had said Todd's name. Four.

His stuff can be discounted, he's had all that for a while. Back down to one. The kid is a new fixture. Which means he remembers the last couple months at least. He shook his head and brought his hand up to comb through his hair. Well...it's fuzzy for me, so it probably is for him, too. Scriabin remembered everything in as much clarity as the last couple months allowed, there was no way Edgar would know more even if he had all his memories.

Speaking of which, Scriabin could remember everything. He flipped through; the last two months and bringing Todd in, Edgar's parting words to Johnny, his and Devi's conversation - he grit his teeth - and further back, everything along the way, all the way back. False dreams, shared childhoods, everything that was once Edgar's alone, he still remembered it. Nothing was out of place which made it all the more strange!

This is so fucking weird, if I remember everything, then why would he-

He stopped short. His purported purpose had been to replace Edgar. Take him over completely. If he bought into the conceit for a moment, just to play in the space... He was alive now. That was not as intended; it shouldn't even have been possible.

Did he...give me his memories? Like, all the way? Not just to borrow, to shape him, give him legitimacy - he was alive now. His own person. Separate, embodied, and whole. Was this the price of life?

That's stupid. But possible, he couldn't discount. If this - he brought his hands up and looked down at them, watched himself touch his own chest and felt it beneath his coat, shirt, the nerves firing as his slid his fingers up himself - if this was possible, then...

He continued for a moment, curious and reverant, all of him new and privately exciting, to exist and to touch, to feel, smell, see, all of it clear and fresh and penetrated deeply into his mind, as if a layer of film had been lifted from his senses. The moment passed as the memories, unbidden but important, cluttered in around him again.

There were still a lot of questions, and most of them couldn't be answered without Edgar, ugh. If getting anything out of him before had been like pulling teeth, he was very sobered to think about how it might be now. Depending on how much Edgar remembered, maybe he could start piecing things together.

Did he do it on purpose? Did he know this would happen? There's no way he would have been willing to if he had- But he couldn't ask him things like that. Even if he did remember, admitting something like that...

He was just spinning his wheels at this point. Better to gather what he could from the man himself. He looked up, preparing to stand.

Ah-

The room was still in something of a state.

Edgar would be annoying, or at least distracted by trying to pick up the clothes and uncarefully unpacked items strewn about the floor from Scriabin's very successful excavation of his old glasses. The clutter would have to go if he wanted his full attention.

He grumbled as he pushed off the door to pick up the first few things. First day of life and I'm already his maid. Figures. He's always needed me to clean up after him.

Silence.

Somehow it only just hit him. Thinking alone in the late hours, planning things behind Edgar's back, it was nothing new. But a barb unsunk into his mental flesh was left out in the wide emptiness, poised to stab whoever happened upon it next, and he was the only one here.

He felt very small all of a sudden, and he didn't like it at all.

His eyes blankly scanned the room, looking for nothing, until they settled on the toy at Edgar's bedside. His toy.

He dropped the items he'd bundled into his arms and made his way over. He picked up the small simulacrum, turned it over in his hands once, and stared at it.

He wouldn't know this. Not really. He brushed a thumb up and over the little mouth, the contours of its small face. Retroactively, I've never been this at all.

I'm no one to him.

Does this mean we can start over? The thought struck him like lightning, freezing his heart in his chest. He was fixed solid, staring down at the small figure in his hands.

Before he could even think, he'd already thrown it through the open closet door, landing noisily in the box he'd dug through with a clatter. He grabbed up the fallen clothes and items and stuffed them back in the box, burying the toy in mundane detritus, then closed the cardboard flaps and slammed the door of the closet for good measure.

His breath was laboured and he glared, like wishing it gone would make the closet itself disappear.

Answers. He needed answers, more than anything.

He ripped the door open, and there was Edgar who looked up, staring dumbly back at him and carrying the clothes he'd shed earlier over his arm. Something in his mind clicked over, and he didn't think about it.

"Alright," he caught his breath for half a second, "what do you remember?"

Edgar just kept on staring, mouth open, eyes unconfident behind weak glasses. Scriabin huffed irritably, I don't have time for this, and moved towards him, arm outstretched.

"Come on." Edgar gave a small startled sound behind him as he grabbed his collar and dragged him through the doorway. He threw him across the room, not bothering to watch his arc as he closed the door behind him. The bed was that way, he'd be fine.

When he turned back, Edgar had managed to catch himself, though already halfway on the bed. Scriabin stood with his back to the door, feet planted and he crossed his arms. No more speculating around impossibilities, tangible and present as they might be, it was time for a proper interrogation. It was at least preferable to-

Edgar made a face at him and scooted back, offering a seat next to him on the bed. Equal footing briefly flashed through his mind and while he wouldn't consider it ideal, nothing today was really going his way. He sighed, then made his way over and sat across from Edgar, who was eyeing him with a certain degree of caution. At least the feeling was mutual.

"Spill." He re-crossed his arms and leaned towards Edgar. "What do you know?"

Edgar hesitated, apparently thinking, his hands laced and fingers agitatedly if quietly rubbing the backs of his hands.

"I want to verify some things first."

Scriabin snorted dismissively. Where had Edgar's overly-trusting nature gone? A serial killer, well he's an honoured guest, but Scriabin? He didn't even distrust him for the right reasons.

He gestured with an open hand, Go ahead, then tucked his arm back in.

"Todd's last name?"

Pfsh. At least it was proof enough that anything Edgar knew, Scriabin did as well. As expected.

"Casil. His stupid bear's called Shmee in case you forgot that too." Edgar shook his head. No he hadn't? If only he could just check!

"Do you know our phone number?" Obviously he did, so he rattled it off quickly, Edgar nodding in turn. He flipped his hair in time with the last digit, careful to keep his eyes covered. It was a bit of a timid attempt, being the first in this body, which was a minor blessing he supposed.

Edgar mulled over what he'd given him for a moment, then a moment longer, then a moment even longer. His eyes searched absently, gazing down into his own hand, his other on his chin, lightly thumbing his goatee. He was focused on names and numbers, but those were child's play compared to everything, everything Scriabin still wanted to know. It was frustrating on a visceral level, watching him struggle with such simple innocuous nothings while the most important person in his life was sitting right in front of him.

He was supposed to be the most important.

It was frustrating.

"You really don't remember anything, do you?" He didn't hide the sneer as it shaped his voice - odd the way his body just did that now, did things without him actively thinking them into being. Even things like the little waver that made its way in that he pushed back down and under. He was frustrated, angry, tired - any emotionality could be attributed to those, nothing else.

Edgar didn't answer, just kept his gaze locked to his face. That was almost worse. Watching him fumble through things, it wasn't fun, but at least he wasn't trying to pry. He could see him try to look past his bangs, and the fact that he didn't know better...

Scriabin looked away for a moment, then thought better of it. Best defense is a good offense.

He reached for Edgar's face, for those damn scars, ever-present reminders. Edgar shied away, not wanting to be touched suddenly by someone he didn't know. As if Scriabin had ever cared about that.

Well, things were different now. Maybe he didn't really want to touch him anyway. Not yet.

"Do you remember these...?" Instead he framed his face with his hands less than an inch from his skin, and even there he could feel the heat coming off him. Edgar reached for his face, looking away from Scriabin as he touched the angry red marks. He winced minutely, then glanced back at Scriabin, searching him, his expression guarded again. Scriabin could hear his own pulse in his ears.

"...Johnny?"

"Fuck." Fuck! "Of course you'd remember him but not me." God damn it! It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, just because Johnny came first by a hair's breadth, just because he wasn't in Edgar's head, with Edgar's fucked up little obsession with the murderous stick figure- It limited what he could get away with too, if he remembered that far back. Absolutely nothing was going in his favour.

"I'm sorry..." He sounded genuinely remorseful, and it stuck in his throat. Disgusting. "So you know Johnny, too."

"Unfortunately." Scriabin tucked his chin to his chest, arms crossed again in close proximity. This sucks. Edgar just kept rambling, unaware as ever. His excuses held this time at least, one point in his favour, no points for bringing his annoying habits with him despite everything.

"I don't think I've seen him for a couple months now? Everything's awfully..." He gave a vague gesture and Scriabin uncurled slightly. He was giving him room to contribute. He shook his head.

"You haven't."

"Have you?"

He returned to his tight coil of sulking. Not like he was keen to meet up and chat, but he couldn't explain why he hadn't had the opportunity to either.

"I remember he called, too."

"Ugh," barely above breath. Enough about Johnny! Again, Edgar continued obliviously.

"Although I don't really recall what we talked about, not for a while..."

Of course not. I took over for half of those.

He perked a bit, and Edgar focused more on him, patiently setting his hands in his lap.

"You know."

He could play this to his advantage. Give Johnny some well-deserved karmic justice for fucking him over so many times. It was almost better that Edgar didn't know - Scriabin had been trying to get him away from Johnny all this time, and if he really had forgotten everything, not just the moments when Scriabin took over but every moment they had shared, then that meant it coincided almost perfectly with his first meeting with Johnny. Blank spot after blank spot after blank spot, all lined up immediately after getting his face slashed.

He could work with that.

"It's probably trauma." Edgar startled and his hand shot to his temple, lightly touching his hair.

"Like, head trauma?" Scriabing almost laughed. Yeah, probably that too. But that wouldn't help his case.

"No." He leaned in, taking a more intimate, secretive tone. "Think about it. When did things start getting fuzzy?" If he was right on this - which of course he was, but not being able to verify, not being able to see that he was right, it was disconcerting - but if he was, Edgar's memories of Scriabin should start with that first fateful encounter, give or take. A bit of reframing here, a touch of implication there... It probably wasn't even an outright lie; if Edgar's memory were perfect after experiencing everything Johnny had put them through, that would be some kind of twisted miracle.

His only real concern was their "childhood" - how much had Scriabin pulled with him? Would that throw off his story? But that was so far back, there was no way Scriabin or Johnny could be implicated in that. As long as Edgar didn't bring it up before he thought his way around it...

Edgar stayed quiet for a long while. His eyes raced behind closed eyelids, searching, scanning, retracing - Scriabin could almost see the moments where he hesitated, stopped and went back, then starting recollecting again. He wished he could see it for real, watch him unfold himself, touch those memories again, hold up his own in contrast. Even just hear Edgar's thoughts as they went by, feel the emotions he felt. But he couldn't, so he just stared as unblinkingly as this new body would allow, just watched as Edgar went over everything on his own.

He finally opened his eyes, staring back into Scriabin's though he was sure they were still hidden. He felt naked and awkward and Edgar still hadn't said anything. If he could just see like he was supposed to, or if Edgar would just tell him, he wouldn't have to ask. I have to do everything around here.

"It was after you met him, wasn't it?"

"You think it's...mental trauma?" An unspoken 'yes.' Relief flooded him, and he pushed ahead.

"Edgar. He stabbed you." Edgar gripped his shoulder, his eyes closing again and he looked to be in pain. That was a very effective reminder at least. "Do you even know why?" He shook his head and spoke throught half-grit teeth.

"I must have made him mad, but I don't remember-" Of course not, I did that.

"Your mind is trying to protect you." Not. But one of us has to with your inexhaustable deathwish. Scriabin reached out to touch him properly, but Edgar pulled away. He didn't follow, still not yet. Play up the pity. "He messed you up so bad," with a curl in his tone, an I told you so that barely made it to words even privately; how long had he been holding that in? "Surely you must've felt like you wanted, you needed to get away from him, that he wasn't good for you, that you-" He'd told him so many times, some it must have stuck, some of it had to have-

"Then-!" Edgar's eyes shot open, wide and desperate with an edge of disbelief. A strangled gasp escaped him, half-choking him as he tried to speak. "Then why can't I remember you?!"

He almost began rolling off the cuff, but really, he still didn't know for sure. And it definitely wasn't like he could tell the truth even if he wanted to; who, who hadn't lived it, would believe him? Edgar certainly wouldn't, not with his lack of imagination. He had to dress this up, weave a narrative that was plausible, had the perfect mix of truth and falsehood to stand up to scrutiny.

Huh. Ironic.

"I..." No. Some of this was Edgar's fault too. "We...argued."

"Argued?"

"I... Mng." He wanted to aim for some kind of levity, but his throat had tightened on him. He just wanted to tell this stupid inside joke and not have it affect him, not have it mean anything, and here he was getting emotional? He'd say it and fucking mean it. "It's not like I'm in your head, so-" spat out in a rush, there, he'd said it. Haha, isn't that so funny. He swallowed harshly, pushing down everything he felt into his stomach acid. He was in control. He was fine. This didn't shake him. "I can't know for sure," another humourless laugh inside, "but I was against your relationship with Johnny. Maybe you shut me out so you could keep seeing him with no pushback."

It certainly wasn't outside the realm of possibilities of what Edgar would do to avoid taking Scriabin's extremely basic advice about fraternizing with serial killers. How many times had he been ignored up to this point, only to culminate in the ultimate 'I don't know what you're talking about.' Pfeh. I bet he wishes he'd thought of this sooner. It did nothing for his painfully stuttered pulse.

"You know, I've been trying to convince you to stop going back to him for a while, but, well..." He waved his hand at Edgar's hand still death gripped into his shoulder, and Edgar averted his eyes guiltily. At least he showed some remorse. Better than his nigh constant apologia.

He stayed quiet a moment longer, and just before Scriabin made to fill the silence again, Edgar struck him with an intense look.

"What are you to me?" Ugh. Of course. There was not a single good answer for that. Even if he told him everything- no, especially if he told him everything, there was no way Edgar would believe him. But coming up with a convincing lie on the spot, when they were so clearly something to each other - even he needed time to come up with something workable. How could he have ever prepared for a situation like this? It was never meant to happen, so many things were never meant to happen!

He continued at Scriabin's silence. "You know Nny," Ugh! Even his awful nickname. "And Todd. And...me." He couldn't refute it, so he nodded tightly. "Do you live here?"

Technically he had, and technically he hadn't. Still, going forward, it would be easier to let Edgar assume that he did. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go at the moment anyway.

"Yes."

"Are we..." He searched him, looked him over as much as he could and he wasn't subtle about it. If only Scriabin had his proper glasses, he'd let him look as much he wanted, behold his spectacle! As it was, he just felt self-conscious and it was very unbefitting. "...family?"

The baggage on that. He did not feel like opening that particular can of worms in either of their current states. He turned his head and flipped through any number of halfway decent ways to phrase it until he hit on something Edgar would remember. Better not to contradict for now.

"You told Johnny you have no family when you met."

"That's true..." Edgar blinked, processing. "Wait, did I tell you that?" Scriabin startled. Even after he'd accounted for his memory! Of course he had to pick his story apart now, he never knew when to leave well enough alone.

"When you-" No, he had to be involved. "When we bandaged your face."

Edgar mulled on that for a few seconds, taking on a thoughtful pose. "I only remember being alone."

"You don't remember me at all. What do you want from me?" He huffed.

"No, sorry, you're right."

"Thank you." He was right!

Where had Edgar expected him to be? There was something weird about how he'd said it. He filed the thought away for later.

"So, if you've been living here, where..." Edgar looked around the room, then back to Scriabin. "Where have you been sleeping? Todd's already on the couch..."

Scriabin couldn't help as a smile sprung to his face. If he was going to present him with such a perfect opportunity, well, he'd better take it. He even had the decency to look nervous in response! This was too good.

"Would you believe me if I said right here, in bed?" He again tucked his chin, playfully this time, his hair falling further in his eyes. Even through the dark tangles he could make out Edgar's face immediately bristling with heat.

Ooh. That's such a fetching shade on you, my dear.

"But-! I, I haven't been sleeping on the floor!" He was visibly sweating!

"Correct." His smile grew. This was too easy, and he needed an easy win right about now.

"W-" He leaned forward on his legs, though refused to get any closer. When he spoke it was a harsh whisper. "Why...?"

Scriabin shrugged easily, not bothering to reign in his smile in the least. "I mean, where else, right?" He leaned in since Edgar refused to, and oh. He was blushing all the way up to his scalp. Hilarious. "You certainly didn't seem to mind." He couldn't hold back the slightly musical tone or his eyebrows inclination to move on their own. His body knew what he was getting at, and he could see it only increased Edgar's fluster. All the better.

"Well I do now!" Edgar darted up and away, stumbling in his hasty retreat. "If you'll excuse me!" though he was already practically in the hallway by the time he said it. What a display, and Scriabin's laugh was loud and natural.

Finally, something positive. He'd managed to fumble his way through, not his best work in lying or manipulation, but he'd set some important groundwork. He'd gotten some answers, and he could start to shape some more believable stories around them.

The biggest hurdles were Johnny and Devi. As long as Edgar didn't meet with them too soon - or well, at all would be preferable, but he doubted he could just keep him locked up, as much as the idea appealed to him. There were so many things that were possible now, things that he had the ability to do, given the right circumstances... All of that in due time. For now he had a yarn to spin.

He listened as Edgar fumbled in the hall, the sheer sound of cloth being pulled and folded over an arm barely perceptable. Was he really going to try to sleep on what little was left over? Maybe he'd give up once he realized the pickings were thin and beg Scriabin to let him sleep with him. Hah.

While he was out, Scriabin made his way over to the pajamas drawer. They were all old and soft, even just to his hand. They'd do for now, until he could get his own. It wasn't like he hadn't worn all this before anyway.

By the time he'd finished dressing, his clothes discarded on the opposite side of the bed to where Edgar had set up his little nest, Edgar had finally gotten himself a set of pajamas. He wondered for a moment if he'd dress with Scriabin in the room again, though maybe his intense stare drove him off. Who could say. He patted the bed with a wide grin when he returned and was dutifully ignored. He settled down to the side, and Scriabin laid on his arms to look down at him.

"Ugh, lame."

"I don't-"

"Yeah, whatever." He'd heard it all before. At least he could literally look down on him like this. He folded his hands and leaned just a bit further, looking him over. A desire he hadn't realized he had surfaced in the dark and quiet. "Give me your hand."

"Sorry?" Scriabin held out his hand expectantly.

"I used to hear your heart beat every day." Edgar looked at him incredulously, but Scriabin was unperturbed. "Let me hear it again."

He hesitated but eventually slowly offered his arm. "...Okay."

He pulled his arm up and placed his thumb against his wrist. He felt a strange mismatch - where he'd been expecting one heartbeat, there were two. He covered his surprise, near shock at the realization that of course he had his own body now, by pulling harder on Edgar's arm, directing him up to his ear.

"Wh-"

"Shh." Quietly. He had wanted this, wanted this body, this separation, this freedom for so long, and now... He spoke quietly, his voice betraying nothing. "I'm listening."

Edgar's pulse was erratic, but he hardly paid attention to it. His own fingers on Edgar's skin, warm and pliant, and Edgar's fingers twitching in his hair, he could feel it, he was trying not to touch him- This hesitation was killing him, every jerky movement away not from fear of what Scriabin could do to him, just uncertainty, like he was still a stranger- He pressed him harder to his head, and he could feel goosebumps under his fingers. He wanted to just hold him there until all the memories they'd shared poured back through him, into his blood, into his breath.

Where are you?

But he replied in that same uncertain, guarded tone that indicated he didn't know, not really.

"C...can I have my arm back now?"

He pushed him away. "Fine." Edgar curled his hand protectively against his chest, and he noticed he rubbed it slightly, he probably hadn't even realized.

He mumbled out a harried "Good night," and it was almost enough to make Scriabin smile. Almost. He could still affect him but this wasn't enough, it wasn't right.

He laid his head on the pillow, not bothering to pull his arm up over the side of the bed. If he twitched in the night and touched Edgar, well, that could mean anything. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he did it on purpose. Plausible deniability was one of his greatest assets.

As it was, he was just tired. Maybe he didn't pull it back because he hated the thought of sleeping alone, pushed out and forgotten, and hated it more that he was even thinking something like that. How pathetic. He didn't need anyone, especially not Edgar.

But he was tired. Not in his right mind.

Does this mean we can start over...?

The thought echoed and died, and he slept.

#💟 #Fanfiction #Blank Slate AU #Edgar #Scriabin #Todd #Shmee #He's technically in there but once again no speaking lines :P Yet anyway lol #It's fanfic time again! I fell into yet another writing fugue and finished Chapters 1 and 2 in like four days lol #If you'll notice tho ♪ Neither of those chapters are featured under the cut :3c Pls do read Ch. 1 at least to get caught up before diving in #This one took a bit longer but that'd be because it's Almost as big as both previous chapters combined lol #I'll update it to the chapter list in a few days! Y'all get a preview here :D It'll be the same there with slightly different formatting #Decided to try something new since tumblr doesn't normally allow underlines but it's very important to Scriabin's syntax #I promise they're all just links to the first chapter lol - you're welcome to check but I promise I didn't put a sneaky link anywhere lol #My one gripe is that it doesn't look as good on-blog :/ Fine on the dash! But I'm not willing to sacrifice the dark colouration on the links #Italics were chosen as the only light feature for a reason ♪ #I mean at least it's not Bolded lol I'll take it #These were a lot of fun to write so far ahhh <3 I've been wanting to dig a little deeper for a long while now! #I mentioned this idea offhandedly in the tags of Incoming Outgoing but ahhh it's very rewarding to put to words :D #Fun Fun Fun

[solradguy]

Whenever I see someone being transphobic on twt in a bridget thread i reply with three pictures of my mains: ky kiske from ac+r, ky kiske from rev 2, and ky kiske from strive.

it self selects for people who actually play the game. it’s canon that he’ll fight off transphobes with the blade. and if they actually played guilty gear they’d get the underlining messages

While it can be really funny to bully these guys back, please keep in mind that nothing you can say or do to these people will hurt them or waste as much of their time as what they say will stick with you or waste your time. It might be funny to send them a bunch of Ky pictures, but what they're doing is laughing that the only response the people they hate can give them is sending a bunch of pictures of anime boys.

The only thing that works is blocking them. They've turned being an asshole into a recreational sport and getting any sort of response in return is a victory for them.

#asks #Unfortunately I was an asshole on the internet once (not a vicious transphobe just a basic internet asshole) #I know exactly how these people function because I was there once... #When you don't take the person you're arguing with seriously it's very easy to laugh at every single thing they do #Which is what these guys are doing. It doesn't matter how well thought out the counter argument is. They don't care and they won't care #All you can hope for is that they're young and they grow out of it (I did) #I feel bad for them because I think about what led to me being like that decades ago. Are they going through the same thing? #I was like that because I was in a hopeless situation and hated myself and hated everyone else #People arguing back just proved my point that everything sucked and my hate was justified #It's an awful feedback loop. People being kind to me felt disingenuous. Why should they be kind? I hated them. They had no reason to be nic #I had to get to a point where I was willing to help myself crawl out of that pit before I let anyone else even get near me emotionally #I still remember the day when I realized I was being a fucked up little shit to everyone lol #Early June 2011. It was sunny with no clouds and there was a cool breeze. I was listening to In This Moment and I realized #'What the hell am I doing? Do I want to be like this forever? Get your shit together man' #It was a slow process from there but I did get out of it. Slowly. Very slowly. #There's a lot I did that I regret and can't ever apologize for because it was so long ago and the names and faces are gone now #Apologizing at this point would be selfish and only for my benefit anyway. I can only hope that what I did didn't hurt people permanently #Anyway. I've never talked about this on here before because it's the kinda shit that gets put on callout posts out of context #So. I am laying my naked soul bare and raw for the sake of underlining my original point: Internet trolls don't care

[not-poignant]

I can't stop thinking about the last daily excerpt for UtB you posted, it just filled me with so much rage on behalf of Efnisien!! Like how dare she(whoever she is!)!! And the chapter is so far in the future, such torture! Hahah

That's definitely the next really big bout of drama that we have coming in the story! And it's a pivotal turning point as well.

Once James' family comes back into the picture, it opens the door for Crielle to come back into the picture as well, which has made me realise we're definitely well over halfway!

#asks and answers #underline the black #underline the rainbow #efnisien ap wledig #dr gary konowalous #i'm going to work on the next chapter soon #i've just been playing with a puppy lol #but i did write a chapter yesterday #and i'm hoping to do it again today! #administrator gwyn wants this in the queue

[sennamybeloved]

seren (+ others) || he/she/it || irl sentinel of light

blogs . . tags . . carrd in bio (non-optional read)

#self ship promo #pinned post #this is blunter than my usual intros but i wanted it to be shorted #which means plss read my carrd if ur new here all of my relevant info is on there 🙏🙏🙏 #self ship community #self shipping #selfship #the link is not to the carrd btw it’s to lucian’s theme lol #i just wanted the underline for emphasis

[tired-and-triggered]

I'm back! Happy New Year to all my mutuals, followers & everyone who sees this!!! 🎉🎊 Wishing you a peaceful, prosperous, safe, and joyful 2024! 💗

#i'm back #hi i'm back #i hope y'all missed me #lol #also i'm sorry i couldn't make the text cute & colorful like last time #tumblr is automatically underlining colored text now #apparently #& frankly it looks bad 🙄 #so that's why i didn't use colored text #like i just wanted colored text dumblr #NOT colored AND underlined text #🤦🏻‍♀️ #anyway #happy new year #happy new year 2024 #2024 #leap year #we got an extra weekday this year y'all #ugh🤦🏻‍♀ #ugh fuck #ugh why #ughhhh #ugh #ugh ugh ugh #but at least today's a Monday AND a holiday 🤩 #new year #year of the dragon #mutuals please interact #trending #for you

[swordcreature]

Looks at you like this

What do you think the tieflings are like with a tav/reader that’s rlly quiet in bed until they’re really suddenly not?

ahh i hope you like this! i had some trouble finding my way at first but we got there in the end lol

Dammon, Rolan, & Zevlor - Partner's Noises

back to mostly smut y'all heheh. MDNI/18+ most definitely

How the tiefling boys react to a quiet partner who gets loud

Dammon:  

Dammon doesn’t mind how quiet you are during sex. He is fairly perceptive and can tell through other means if you are having a good time.  

He’s not the type to let something like that ruin the mood. He trusts that if something were wrong you would tell him, because he trusts you. 

That first little groan you make startles him and he checks in to make sure it wasn’t a bad sound. 

You notice a satisfied, almost smug, grin as you get increasingly louder.  

Every time you let a noise slip past your lips it sends a jolt straight to his cock, making him a bit feral. That first time you definitely notice how his hips rut into you like a wild animal when he’s seeking his own release.  

He pulls you aside and tells you just how much trouble he is in if you keep making sounds like that. 

Because whatever he did, he’s going to be burning that into his memory to try again.  

The next time you fuck, he begins softly, like he would any other time. But, with a devilish grin, he starts repeating whatever it was that made you start to lose control.  

He eats up every sound, loves the way you feel almost screaming against his lips. It doesn’t lose its appeal a second time. Or third. Or fourth for that matter. 

He starts to experiment with different ways to hear those noises, and he secretly has a small paper tucked into the pages of his smutty book listing different things that make you noisy, underlining his favorites.  

His personal favorite? Overstimulation. He could fuck you with his mouth for hours on end just to hear the way you keen so loudly. 

If you try and muffle it all, he’ll stop you. The only way he lets you stifle the sound is when you take his tail into his mouth to play with the sensitive tip. He’ll definitely sacrifice some volume for that. 

Of course, not every time has to be a noisy night, he still appreciates the moments you have together that are sweet and quiet. But he does often find himself craving getting between your thighs and fucking you until the neighbors are sure to hear your shouts across the street. 

Rolan: 

The first time you have sex, Rolan is worried something is wrong. That you don’t really want him, that you’re not really enjoying yourself. If he could lose just a bit of his self-doubt, he would be able to read your face, your body, and tell that you are in fact having fun.  

 But he wants you so badly he finds it hard to let go of those little fears, especially when you’re quiet.  

You assure him everything is okay, and he listens, though still a bit apprehensive when inside you.  

I think after some time Rolan becomes more relaxed and starts to believe that you are just quiet in bed and not having a subpar time. 

One night, when he tries something new, or overstimulates you, or just hits a spot in you that hasn’t been touched in a long time, you snap. The noise stops Rolan in his tracks.  

He looks down at you with a raised brow, questioning, and he tentatively repeats his motions.  

I think Rolan would cum really quickly after a couple minutes of hearing you cry in pleasure.  

But dear god does it change something in him.  

He would try to draw those noises from you every time he has you and at first it would be really fun. But I think, depending on how well you read him, you’d notice that there’s something wrong in his eye as he works for your cries.  

When you ask him about it, I think he would admit sheepishly that he still thinks that unless you’re screaming his name to the heavens above, you’re not satisfied. And he wants to satisfy you any way he can. If that means overexerting himself to have such wild sex, then that’s just something he’d put up with for you. 

You reassure him again that your quiet sex is still good – great actually, completely and utterly perfect even – and sometimes you prefer it. Not every night has to be some big production.  

Rolan starts to calm down after that, starts to luxuriate in your quiet intimacy just as much as your loud sex. You even notice that the quiet times are even better than before as he truly accepts that you want him regardless of whether you are silently gasping or crying out so loud that Cal and Lia can hear you several floors below.  

Zevlor: 

I think Zevlor is a more reserved guy when it comes to sounds during sex. He’s not dead silent or anything, but he himself keeps his moans breathy and low, trying to preserve some decency lest anyone hear him.  

So, when you are quiet in bed, it’s not an issue at all for him. In fact, it doesn’t even phase him.  

You’re giving him a form of intimacy that he desperately craves – you want him and that’s the only thing running through his mind as he takes you.  

He’s surprised, to say the least, when one night you moan his name out loud as he touches you. 

The blush on his face could be seen from space, and that’s saying something for a person with red skin. 

When he continues his work and your voice rises again and again, he’s trying to hush you. Not because he doesn’t like your noises. No, he likes them. Very much so. 

But he knows he won’t last if you keep making them.  

Does he actually stop what he’s doing that makes you get loud? Nope. Not at all. 

Because even though he’s so achingly close to cumming inside you, and he’s almost certain someone can hear you as your moans turn into screams of bliss, he’s never had a partner cry for him like you. He can’t bring himself to stop. 

But of course, always the honorable man, Zevlor clasps a hand around your mouth to try and keep most of the sounds contained so that he can enjoy them and no one else. Those noises are meant for him alone. 

After this, he’s prepared. The next time he starts with the touches he knows will break you down, he has his palm clamped over your mouth before you make one peep.  

Every once in a blue moon, when you’re about to rush over the edge of an orgasm, he takes his hand away and lets your voice raise to its full volume, no matter who may be listening.  

Because at the end of the day he’s just a simple man, and what man wouldn’t want others to know how well he takes care of his love? 

#my writing #bg3 #bg3 smut #bg3 dammon #bg3 zevlor #bg3 rolan #dammon #zevlor #rolan #requests/suggestions #hcs #cakeboxie #dammon x reader #rolan x reader #zevlor x reader

[kazvha]

Okay but blue lock character(s) after seeing that their name in your phone is just “name surname” after you send them a ss of something and they are like “Excuse me??????” (Bachira totally wouldn’t go all pouty and mad because he has you as some cheesy as shit with million emojis)

Summary: Isagi's & Bachira's (separate) reaction when they see that you saved them as their surname

Notes: This was long due, I'm so sorry for taking so long!!!🥲

Isagi

• You showed him the picture you set as the background for your chats

• It was a pic of you and Isagi being all lovey-dovey on one of your dates

• He loved it, his background is also a picture of you two

• But he was surprised when he saw your contact name for him

• 'Isagi'????

• He wasn't sure if he should ask you about it or not

• He pondered about it the entire time you spend together

• Before you could say goodbye though, he finally asked you. It just took him a few hours🥲

• "Earlier when you showed me your phone, I saw that you saved me as my surname? Can't it be something... more intimate?" He sheepishly looked to the side

• You thought it was really cute of him

• "You're saved as 'Yoichi<333' now! Happy?" You gave him a side hug.

• He smiled. "Yeah."

Bachira

• You noticed that Bachira chose a new ridiculous profile pic like he always does

• Intrigued, you took a screenshot of it and texted your boyfriend about it

• "Megu, what in the world is wrong with your new profile pic?"

• "Oh this is? This is just me running away from some aggressive ducks after I noticed I don't have any breadcrumbs anymore. Doesn't it look funny?"

• After cracking up for some minutes about this memory, he noticed the contact name he had in the screenshot you sent him

• 'Bachira Meguru'??? Seriously??

• No nickname, no hearts, no nothing!?

• Did you want to break him?

• "Babe what is this :("

• "What?"

• He sent you the screenshot you took again, but this time his name was boldly underlined with a red color

• "THIS!😤" "Don't you love me anymore?? Is that it???😭😭😭

• This guy... Being dramatic as always in your relationship

• You quickly replied before it escalated more

• "Noooo😭 That's what I saved you as when I got your number, I forgot to change it lol"

"Change it now before my heart breaks completely🥺😔"

• You really didn't have the energy to deal with a sulking boyfriend. It was already tiring to deal with him in his 'normal state'...

• So you changed his name to 'Honeybun🍯💛' and sent him a screenshot as a proof

• "Much better😍 I guess I won't have to break out of the Blue Lock facility anymore😃"

#blue lock x reader #blue lock headcanons #isagi x reader #isagi yoichi x reader #bachira x reader #bachira meguru x reader #blue lock fluff #blue lock x poc!reader #blue lock x black!reader

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Three for One 5

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, cheating, customer service abuse, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As a customer service associate, you’re used to work with a wide variety of characters. Your efforts to go above and beyond draw the attention of a certain set of customers who want more than what’s on the shelf.

Character: Andy Barber, Lloyd Hansen, Ransom Drysdale

Note: How are these getting longer lol

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me 💞

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

If you thought the darkness was torturous, the light proves to be worse. You look at your surroundings. It’s eerie. A room curated for one. For you.

The white fluffy stool in front of a matching vanity. A picture of a woman in white sitting in a meadow, flowers all around and a stream flowing through the lush field. A vanity painted with flowers, the night tables matching; the bedspread under you similar woven with pansies. The trim at the top of the wall is pink petals on white and a soft rug under the foot of the bed.

It’s all very cute but deranged. You’d love to have all this and more but you’d rather your apartment. If the price is those three men then you’d rather a gutter. Most importantly, you want your dog.

You can’t even make your demands. The walls can’t give you what you want. You doubt your captors will either but you can try. You can wear them down. You can be nice sure, you prefer that, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be your own brand of evil.

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. The noise needles in your ears and you hear the mechanism click. You raise your head to watch the door open and the one with the beard enters. Alan, Arnold? Ugh, you don’t care.

He doesn’t break the threshold. He crosses his arms and stares at you. A ripple in his forehead underlines his thoughts.

“I’m going to bring you out but you have to be good,” he says.

You close your eyes and drop your head. You fill your chest and let out a blasting wail. He grunts and stomps to the bed. He grabs your shoulders, shaking you until you nearly swallow your tongue. You bite the tip as he sits you up and you’re forced to face him.

“No, no more of that. Or you don’t get your first present.”

“I don’t want any of your presents,” you sneer.

“This one, I think you do,” he intones, “I’m asking you to give me a chance. Let me show you that this isn’t just for us. This is about you, honey.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” you hiss, “why can’t you just let me go?”

He shakes his head, “it’s too late for that.”

“I won’t behave. I swear, I’m going to scream–” you inhale and he quickly covers your mouth, his other hand coming around the back of your skull. 

He hushes you as his blue eyes darken, “honey, I’m being nice right now, so you need to go along with this. If you don’t…” he pauses and looks over his shoulder, “I don’t know what they’ll do.”

You furrow your brow. Getting out of this room is one step closer to escape. You can be good. For now.

You let the tension leave your body and soften your expression. He senses it and slowly slides his hand away from your mouth. You flick your lashes, putting on your best pout.

“Okay, Alan, I’ll be good,” you avow.

His brow tweaks and his cheek ticks. His nostrils flare as his chest rise and falls, “it’s Andy.”

“Right, I’m sorry, I’m really freaked out,” you show your teeth sheepishly, “that other guy… he hurt me.”

“Which one?” He asks.

“Er… stache guy.”

“I’ll talk to him,” he huffs, “can I untie you?”

“Yeah.”

“No, honey, I’m asking,” he looks you straight in the face, “you’re not going to try anything, right?”

“I can be good,” you squirm, “my wrists hurt.”

“Alright.”

He lays you back and rolls you over. He pulls the tape away from your arms, then your ankles. You think of the trick from the van. You know his weak spot but it’s too soon for that. Timing, it all comes down to the right opportunity.

“Let’s go,” he takes your hand and helps you up.

You get to your feet and let him lead you out. His large hand clings to yours as he pulls you after him like a child. As you go into the hall, you examine every inch of the place. He takes you into the front room, a low din that in any other circumstance would be cozy.

It looks like any other living room. A sectional and an armchair, an artificial fireplace set into the wall, a mantel trimmed in tinsel, a rich carpet spread over the dark hardwood, and shelves of books along with a television mounted to the wall. The tree in the corner stands bare over a red velvet skirt.

“We can decorate the tree tonight and see if Santa leaves anything for tomorrow.”

You hold back a scoff, “um, I know Santa isn’t real.”

He chuckles, “it’s a joke.”

“Is this the surprise?” You deflate. Sounds like work to you. Of course, your apartment is too small for a proper tree but you’re less than excited for a pastime you always longed for.

“No, not the only one,” he lets you go as you tug on your hand. “Honey, we did this all for you.”

You turn on him, “I didn’t ask you too.”

“Hey, hey, why are you acting like this? You’re such a sweet girl.”

You swallow tightly and hear beeping again. Then a clamour that includes a scramble, some scraping and the thump of a door against something else. You try to see past Andy as you feel cold air rush in from outside. You want to race past him but he’d be on you in a moment.

You hear a familiar growl before another voice wafts in from the entryway.

“Ah, he bit me. Again!” One man says.

“You think I’m having fun at the ass end?” The other retorts.

“Woah, oh, shit–”

There’s a duller thump and you hear claws and paws on the floor. Your heart leaps and you look around Alan– Andy as you hear the heavy breaths bounding towards you. 

“Ernie!” You squeal as the Saint Bernard lumbers in, furtively searching before he spots you. “Ernie, my boy. Oh, baby boy.”

He nearly knocks over Andy as he barrels into your arms. You hug him around the neck and inhale the scent of his fur. His collar tinkles and let his warmth ease your fear. You were so worried about him, more than even yourself.

“You said it was a puppy,” the bare-faced man snarls as he shakes his hand.

“I didn’t know…” Andy says.

“He is a puppy,” you insist.

“Who let the pussycat out?” The mustachioed creep asks.

Your eyes shoot darts in his direction and his hand shields his pants, almost instinctively. Ernie drags his large rough tongue up your cheek. He was scared too but now you have each other.

“Surprise,” Andy says, “so now, honey, you’re going to be good, right?”

You look at him and chew your lip. His eyes fall to Ernie and you put your arm in front of the dog. He doesn’t need to put his threat into words.

“Shit, I’m bleeding. That thing got shots?” Scarf asks.

“What about the girl? She got me good,” Mustache snickers.

“No, but maybe I should get checked now,” you snip.

“Woa-ho!” Mr. Caterpillar exclaims, “she’s got a mouth.”

“Honey,” Andy warns, “we’re being good, right?”

You huff and nod.

“So, apologise.”

“What?” You burst out, “he–” You stop and look between all three men. You have Ernie but you’re more worried about him getting hurt than knowing he’d hurt them in an instant. Even then, he has his head low, a steady rumble brewing in him.

“That thing needs to calm down,” the naked faced one whines, still cradling his hand.

“He’s confused,” you defend your son, “okay? And I’m sorry, er, dude, I’m sure you don’t have any communicable diseases.”

“The fuck? Disease– Alright,” the man steps forward, “that’s it. First she bites me, then she kicks me in the dick and now–”

“Lloyd,” Andy puts his hand up, “no. We’re all just getting used to each other. You’re not exactly easy to be around yourself.”

“Fuck that, I’m funny,” the fuzzy lipped man, Lloyd, argues.

“Everyone just quit,” Andy demands, “alright? Did you get the food?”

“Food?” The bare-faced man shrugs out of his jacket, “what food?”

“For the dog? I told you–” Andy begins.

“Ah, shit, knew we forgot something,” Lloyd chuckles, “he’ll be fine. He can eat chicken, can’t he?”

“He has a sensitive tummy,” you say.

“Jesus,” the third man grumbles as he hangs his scarf over his coat. “I’m not going back. It’s late.”

“Can he have rice? Carrots?” Andy suggests.

“I guess, I don’t know if he’ll eat 'em,” you look at Ernie as his deep brown eyes meet yours. You pet his head to keep him calm. He doesn’t like these men any more than you do.

“Fine,” Andy huffs, “go get the decorations,” he orders the others.

“Why don’t you get the decorations?” Lloyd sneers.

“She needs to change,” Andy explains.

“Like we can’t help her,” the other man challenges.

“I don’t often agree with him, but he’s right. We’ll get her changed.”

You grimace as your eyes ping pong at the back and forth of their conversation. This isn’t good. You don’t enjoy being talked about like you’re not there.

“How about I get myself changed?” You offer.

The men turn to you. None of them seem impressed. A sudden peel of thunder fills the room and you look at Ernie. His bark echoes in your ears.

“Shut that thing up,” Lloyd snaps.

“He’s quiet,” you say, “he was just saying the same about you.”

“Really?” He goes to take another step forward and the other man stops him, “Ransom, let me go.”

“I’ll take her, you two go get the decorations,” he says.

Andy frames his hips and sighs, “fine. We all know the plan. Let’s stick to it.”

You want to raise your hand and clarify that you do not, in fact, know the plan but you suspect you’re not a part of the collective. You keep your hand on Ernie and gulp. He nuzzles your hip.

You bend and pet behind his ear, “it’s okay.” It’s not. You move to face him, “sit,” you raise your voice, “stay. I’ll be right back.”

As you stand, the dog obeys. He’s a gentle giant, at least with you. You pat his head and turn away. The men watch you.

“That thing listens?” The one they called Ransom asks.

“He can.”

“Come on,” he beckons you with two fingers, a smirk ghosting on his lips.

“This is bullshit,” Lloyd mutters as Andy approaches him.

“We can keep talking all night,” Andy pats his shoulder, “or get things moving.”

“Whatever,” the man smooths his mustache.

You reluctantly move towards the third man, the one with no personality grown out on his lip or jaw. A baby face if you ever saw one. The way he leers makes you uncomfortable. He smells like Armani.

“Not smiling now, are you?” He says under his breath as he ushers you down the hall.

He points you into that same bedroom. You stop just inside and he shoulders past you with a grumble. You watch him go to the wardrobe and open it. You look between him and the door. You could make it.

You wait a few seconds as he pushes hangers over the bar. You take a step. He doesn’t notice. Another and he’s bitching about colours. You didn’t think men were that picky. You get right in the frame of the door and back out. He looks around the open wardrobe.

“Bye,” you wave and pull the door shut.

You know he’s probably swearing at you but you can’t hear him. You hold onto the handle and hit the little lock icon in the corner of the keypad. The deadbolt rolls into place.

This is it. You edge out to the living room. You don’t see anybody. Ernie sits where you left him, sniffing the air. He sees you and perks up. You wave him over and he lifts his rump, taking careful steps across the room.

You grab his collar and take him with you to the front door. You twist the handle, it doesn’t budge. You flip the lock over it, still nothing. You don’t know what to do. What the hell?

You search around you. The windows are barred, you can’t get out that way. There’s a small box right beside the door. You flip it open to reveal another keypad. Fuck.

“And where are we going, pussy cat?” The question nips your ears as a plastic ornament pings off the wall beside you. You spin and face the mustachioed menace. 

“You know, I just need some fresh air.”

Ernie growls and puts himself between you and the man, keeping the distance with his body. He prowls around, snout low as he paces back and forth. Lloyd steps closer and the dog mirrors him.

“Call that thing off,” he demands.

“Why would I do that?” You challenge.

“Well I’m sure you wouldn’t like it if I made him stop,” he opens and closes his fist.

“You wouldn’t hurt a puppy–”

“I’ll do what needs to be done,” he tilts his head.

“Ernie,” you call the dog, “quiet. Sit.”

The dog lets out a wispy boof but listens. He flops his butt down and glares at the man. You put your hands up and step forward.

“You’re mean. How can you threaten an innocent dog?”

“He drooled on my Jimmy Choo’s,” he says, “come on,” he grabs you by the back of the neck, “let’s go get the dumbass out.”

Ernie barks as you whimper. You flutter your hand at him as Lloyd’s fingertips pinch into your tendons, “Ern, it’s okay, I’m okay. Stay.”

He must hear the panic. He remains, restlessly shifting his front paws. You march beside the man back to the hallway. You reach to touch his arm and he only squeezes harder.

“Shouldn’t blame you for trying,” he says, “but I will.”

#andy barber #lloyd hansen #ransom drysdale #dark andy barber #dark lloyd hansen #dark ransom drysdale #dark!andy barber #dark!ransom drysdale #andy barber x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #lloyd hansen x reader #the gray man #knives out #defending jacob #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au #series #multifandom

[nanaminsmoon]

what do you think about suburban eren & hood princess reader 🤭 people think that we running shit but in reality and especially behind closed doors it’s a different storyyy + he’s a little mean

heyyy so this took a while because life was really lifeing and girl i wasn't sure how to write it because i'm also from the suburbs in england so i felt like writing about babes from ends wouldn't translate properly. but i hope it's okay lol😭

cw: pnv, fingering, unprotected sex, n word usage, orgasm denial, eren lives with his parents but they're out of the house doing rich people shit idk😭

wc: 1916

”’r-ren, i said i’m-m sorr-rry”, each word you slurred out only left your mouth because eren was fucking you hard enough to knock it out of you. eren’s hips moved quickly, but he was still so deep inside you that you could’ve sworn you could feel him in your damn lungs—his tip slamming all the air out of them. your fingertips desperately tried to grapple at the desk underneath you, as one of eren’s hands wrapped around your throat and the other sat on your hip. the minimal lighting coming from his desk lamp ricocheted off the layer of sweat on your body to illuminate your skin and, any other day, lip shaped patches of moisture would join it. but today was unlike other days, because today was one of the few days where your chill, romantic eren reminded you that he wasn’t a doormat.

”’cause i live in a house like this you think you can keep playin’ with me?”, eren moved his hand from your throat to rub on your clit, and your head fell back to lean on his chest. there was no way you could give him a verbal answer, so you just shook your head furiously.

”hm? i’m too nice to you, you think you can walk all over me? ‘s that it?”, he asked, both his fingers and hips still not letting up. so the aggressive head shaking that followed that question was both in response, and frustration.

”fucking answer me when i speak to you”, his own jaw clenched, just as his grip on yours tightened. and, although eren was making it harder for you to speak with both the way he was fucking you, and the harsh hand on your jaw, you tried your best to whine out an answer,

”n-no”, in which eren would reply with a kiss to his teeth.

from the outside looking in, eren was your bitch. that’s what everyone called him; to your friends, and family, he was your sweet suburban boy that did everything you told him to, with no arguments. he opened doors for you, pulled chairs out for you, bought you gifts, paid for your hair and nails, and spoke to you like you had placed every individual star in the sky. he was harmless in every essence of the word. maybe even too harmless. you knew how to handle yourself, and took no shit from no one, so spectators would assume that you were eren’s protector; if there was a problem, you were the one to solve it for him. for example, sometimes he just didn’t seem to understand that not everywhere was like his gated community, because this boy would walk to the corner store by your house with the sunlight bouncing off his watch, and his chain just swinging in the wind.

”eren, tuck your fucking chain”, you grabbed the gold jewellery, and put it in his shirt, telling him he had to be careful before he got his shit snatched. in response, eren just shrugged and went about his day.

even though they joked about him being helplessly naive, your friends and family loved eren. a big part of the reason was that they knew he would take good care of you and let you do whatever you wanted to do with no questions asked. and you’d agree, jokingly commenting about him being your ‘babygirl’ or about him being ‘submissive’ when he wasn’t around. underline ‘when he wasn’t around’. because eren was everything but passive—he was just reserved. eren let you pretend you ran shit in public, because he enjoyed watching you dig holes for yourself by acting like you had him on a leash when, in reality, you had to beg for his permission just to nut. other people’s opinions didn’t concern him, but what did was your behaviour. because telling people he was your bitch was one thing. but acting like he was, was another.

like at the party you and eren had gone to with your friends. things had been going great until you started shaking ass on who you thought was ymir. but when you went to look back at it, your eyes were met with those of one of your male best friends. of course you pushed him off you but, the relief that it wasn’t some complete stranger meant that you did so very gently. some would say too gently, and too giggly, for a woman with a boyfriend. but the only thing on your mind at the time was going to the bathroom so you really thought nothing of it. you hadn’t even noticed the green eyes burning holes into the side of your face, until their owner’s hand wrapped around your wrist.

”what was that?”, eren pulled you to the side, and your eyes just rolled. you’d been there for far too long, and you just wanted to go to the damn bathroom then go home. the last thing you needed was drama.

”not now, eren. just leave me alone”, you brushed him off, and eren’s hand quickly released your wrist. others would see eren it as conceding, but you knew better than that—he wasn’t done with you, you’d just have to deal with him later. but that was later you’s problem, so current you was just going to live her best life. that attitude made for an interaction between you and your man that your friend found to be particularly hilarious,

”bitch, i wish my man would listen to me like that.”, she joked, and you laughed back at her.

”right, don’t you just love an obedient nigga?”, you had joked back. of course eren heard everything, but he’d just scoff and head to the door to leave.

even though he opened your car door for you, once you got in the car, eren did not speak a word to you. even as you’d steal glances at him and stroke his thigh, or shoulder, or arm, or cheek, he’d remain stone-faced and keep his eyes on the road. when you finally got back to his house, his silence would persist as he walked you to the door, before taking his shoes off and making his way to his room. he’d left you at the door, so you had to follow after him, with an exhausted scowl on your face. and once you got to his room, you decided to be the bigger person and speak to him first.

”eren, i grew up with him. you need to chill the fuck out”, you yawned, walking over to him. but he’d just scoff at you before his hand would be on your jaw. even still, your mask imitating an unphased expression would not fall. despite the pool of arousal in your underwear at the sudden movement.

”who you tellin’ to chill?”, he spoke lowly, eyes locked with yours. your heart was starting to race, but you wouldn’t back down.

”you. now what?”, those were the words that placed you in the position you were in now; your orgasm denied five times, as your toes painfully dug into your slippers. the van cleef necklace he had bought you slapped into your chest over and over again, as you moaned out his name and ignored apologies. you were forced to endure all of this because eren felt like you weren’t sorry enough. meanwhile, he had already cum once, and he was nearing his second. your pleasure had always been eren’s priority, but today you were just a cocksleeve to him. and he was happy keeping it that way.

begging and pleading for eren to go slower, or be more gentle with you did nothing because he’d just maintain his pace. eren loved you more than he loved himself, so he hated fucking you in a way that insinuated otherwise. but his mind wouldn’t stop replaying what happened at the party; the way that guy touched you, the way you laughed with him as if eren wasn’t literally right there, and the way you made him out to be your lap dog. all that anger travelled to the place where you two connected, and he didn’t realise how hard he was fucking you until he felt his dick twitch inside you.

”i’m gonna cum—”, he groaned onto the space between your neck and shoulder, finally giving it a small kiss. the lewd sounds of skin meeting haphazardly would repeat three more times before it’d cut out, only to be replaced by the sounds falling from your boyfriend’s mouth as he filled you with his seed. he’d stay still so his dick could act as the plug that kept all his nut inside you. confused, and on the brink of getting your own release, you’d just start moving to fuck yourself on his dick. it took eren a few seconds to realise what was happening before he’d hold your hips still, and pull out of you.

”’ren, what about me?”, you cooed, but it all fell on deaf ears as eren was too focused on using his middle and ring finger to collect any dripping nut, to push it back inside you. your entrance practically sucked his fingers inside you, and he wouldn’t fight it. instead curling his fingers and hitting the spot he knew would cause your undoing.

”what about you?”, he chuckled into your ear, kissing and sucking at the lobe. before he’d bite it, earning a wince from your parted lips, ”obedient, yeah? i’m obedient?”, he said in a low taunt.

”y-yeah, you are”, after all that apologising you’d just been doing, eren was surprised to see you being this rebellious. especially towards the same man who was stroking your release with his fingers. that was the same man who reached another hand around to rub your clit again, and started smirking at you tightening around his fingers, signalling your release.

”shit, ‘ren, i’m cumminngg”, you cried out, as your back arched against him.

”hmm”, he pouted, stamping one final gentle kiss on your shoulder before speaking again, ”well then”, were his words as he removed his hands from you.

”what’re you doing?”, you turned to him to see a shit-eating grin on his face. eren hadn’t just robbed your orgasm from you, he had let you get a taste of it, before pulling away when you needed him to continue most. it was like lighting a firework, then throwing a net on it just as it was air bound.

”you asked me to leave you alone, so i’m being obedient and leaving you alone”, he smirked, kissing your temple. he could see the anger growing on your face, and that kiss wasn’t meant to calm it, it was meant to feed it.

”eren, i wanna cum. please”, you pleaded, tears almost falling from your eyes. eren would take one look at you, before he’d start pretending to think about it. the charade ultimately ending in an annoying shrug.

”find an obedient suburban boy to take care of it”, he took a pause to yawn, before pulling his boxers and jeans up, and falling onto his bed, ”i’m tired.”

© Rights owned by nanaminsmooninc. Do not repost without permission.

#nanaminsmooninc #aot x black reader #aot x black y/n #eren x black fem!reader #eren x black reader #eren smut #aot eren

[perplexingly]

would u recommend witch hat attelier? the art looks really nice im wondering if its got queer themes or at least strong female characters?

im not someone who needs things to be canonically sapphic to enjoy a project but i am at a point where I search out works that have a queer/feminist slant. Honestly just an interesting work without in my face straight romance or misogyny would be sick lol let me know if you think it fits that niche!

Yes, I would highly recommend it!! The first several chapters are a bit tropey and serve as an introduction to the world building and it’s laws - initially introduced at face value - but eventually the author uses this world as a means to discuss real life issues (eg about the education system and where it fails, about how hostile the system and the infrastructure are towards people with various disabilities, about abuse, poverty, the obstacles that queer people may encounter etc), and seems like recently her characters started questioning the establishment itself

There’s one canonically queer couple in the series - they’re side characters but got a decent amount of spotlight

There’s a good amount of female characters (well, 4 of the main 6 characters are girls, but even beside them, there’s a good amount of adult women in the series as well), and there is one side character through which explicitly feminist issues have been discussed

The series has a quite diverse cast in terms of gender presentation, skin colour, disability and character age

Also by the way — when I mention side characters through which this and that has been discussed, I do want to point out that it’s one of these series that will leave the main cast to talk about the side characters for 60 pages straight, so by no means they have a small role.

(Also I do need to underline that the first several chapters are an introduction to the world and its system, the beginning feels like it’s filled with tropes that serve to bring the protagonist to a specific place - but I like the stories that the author tells after reaching that place)

#also I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the main cast was revealed to be queer as well #Agott is already often drawn in a gender non comforming way #witch hat atelier

[graceful-starker]

Tony the Friendly Ghost

Summary: Peter's house is haunted by a very friendly, very horny ghost.

Warnings: mild dub-con for a second there, Tony is a ghost, mild come inflation, mostly just an excuse to write ghost porn ngl.

Notes: Blame @the-mad-starker for this one, ngl lol. I might add more to this AU, but I wanted to get the first installment out on Halloween. Happy Halloween!

~~~

Peter isn’t crazy, okay? His apartment is just haunted. He doesn’t care that MJ rolls her eyes in disbelief or that Ned laughs at him for believing in ghosts. There’s definitely, 100%, for sure a ghost in his apartment. 

Peter winces as his ghost moves his couch loudly, the legs screeching horribly against the floor and thudding into the wall. “Okay, that’s really unnecessary!” Peter yells, walking into the living room and putting his hands on his hips. “I can’t afford to leave, you’re stuck with me, okay? You don’t have to rearrange all my furniture in protest.”

He doesn’t get a response; he isn’t sure his ghost even can. He’s never seen it, never heard it. He can only see what it does to his home. So far, at least. The couch is pulled back from the wall and slammed back into it again.

Peter sighs in annoyance, cocking his head to the side and staring at the couch. “Whatever, it looks better there anyway.”

The couch skirts across the floor, back to its original position, and Peter rolls his eyes as hard as he can. “Oh, fuck you. You’re just being annoying for the sake of it now.”

There’s no response, and Peter puffs out another sigh. “Stop rearranging my furniture, we’re going to get a noise complaint.”

There’s no response yet again, and Peter hums and turns to go back to his room. “Thank you,” he mumbles softly. He opens his door and gasps. “You asshole!” he yells, looking at his clothes flying out of his dresser. “Stop that!”

His ghost doesn’t, so he angrily grabs a towel and slams the bedroom door behind him to leave his ghost to their temper tantrum. 

He locks the door to the bathroom as if that will stop the ghost from coming in and turns the shower to be extra hot. He strips and puts his clothes in the hamper, grumbling to himself under his breath. 

He takes perhaps the angriest shower of his life, scrubbing furiously at his body and aggressively lathering his hair. “I should have known the rent was too good to be true,” he mumbles to himself, getting out of the shower and grabbing his towel. He’s calmed down a bit, has resigned himself to his fate of refolding all his clothes. 

He finishes drying off his hair and wraps it around his hips, looking up at the vanity. He blinks, cocking his head to the side. In big blocky letters, drawn out in the steam on his mirror, is TONY. 

“Tony?” he asks, and watches it be underlined. “Oh, your name is Tony,” he mumbles. “That’s a nice name.”

He doesn’t get a response, and Peter hums in thought. “I’m Peter,” he offers, feeling a bit silly. But Tony started it. “This doesn’t have to be a bad thing, you know. We can get along.”

YES appears on his mirror, and Peter smiles at it. “See? This’ll be great.”

~

Tony likes to talk to him, Peter has discovered. He likes leaving messages on the mirror whenever Peter showers, likes to ask questions and get Peter talking for long periods of time. 

It got to the point where Peter decided: why limit this? He buys three white boards, sticks them to the walls in his kitchen, livingroom, and bedroom. Tony is very happy with these purchases, and has a preference for the red marker. 

Peter has decided that Tony is an asshole, but he isn’t all that bad really. He’s kind of sweet too, and a good listener. He cares about Peter’s life, asks questions about it and encourages him to talk about it to Tony. 

As far as ghosts go, Peter is sure he’s lucked out. 

Peter laughs as he reads the question left for him in the bedroom, shaking his head fondly. “No, MJ isn’t my girlfriend. And she doesn’t even believe me when I tell her about you, she’s a real asshole like that. She’s not coming over any time soon.”

MJ IS NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND?

“No, I don’t have one,” Peter says, shrugging. “I was dating Wade for a while, but we decided to just be friends instead.”

BOYFRIEND?

Peter frowns. “Oh, god, what time period are you from? I didn’t think to ask. People can do that now, it’s fine to be gay or whatever else now.”

NOT AN ISSUE.

“Oh, good,” Peter says, grinning at the board. “Because you’ve really grown on me, it would be a shame to find out my favorite ghost is homophobic.”

YOU KNOW OTHER GHOSTS?

Peter snorts, rolling his eyes fondly. He sits on the bed, crossing his legs. “Jealous?” There’s no response, and Peter giggles softly. “I don’t know any other ghosts, it was just a joke.”

I’M ALONE.

Peter frowns, taking in the words slowly. Tony must have been terribly lonely, before Peter came around. “Well, I’m here now. And you aren’t getting rid of me any time soon, we’ve already established this.” He tries to joke, but it sounds sad. 

It’s quiet for a long time after that, the marker hovering in the air as if Tony is holding it limp at his side. Then the marker is placed down, and the door to Peter’s room shuts. 

Peter sighs sadly, deciding to use the privacy while he has it; since Tony is invisible, he never knows for sure if he’s watching. He only knows if Tony does something like that; closes his door, or moves stuff around in another room. 

~

Peter hums to himself as he gets out of the shower, drying off and wrapping his towel around his waist. His toothbrush is knocked over, and he looks at the mirror with a frown. 

WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

“No where,” Peter says, turning and opening the door. “I just wanted to get clean.” He makes his way to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He opens a drawer in his dresser, before he looks over his shoulder at an insistent tapping noise. The marker is tapping against the whiteboard, and Peter sighs and walks over. 

NO PLANS?

“Nope,” Peter says, turning back around. “Let me get dressed, we can talk-hey!” 

Tony has ripped his towel away, throwing it across the room and leaving him naked. The marker is back on the white board, so Peter doesn’t know for certain where Tony is. 

“Asshole,” he mumbles starting to walk towards his towel again. “You don’t-hey!”

Tony’s never touched him before this; it’s a little unsettling. Everywhere Tony touches him is extremely cold, and it sends a rush of adrenaline through him. One hand is wrapped around Peter’s wrist, twisting his arm behind his back and the other is on Peter’s hip. He’s bent over the bed, and the position brings a blush to Peter’s face. 

“Hey!” Peter says, trying to wriggle free. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

Tony doesn’t. Instead, he moves his hand from Peter’s hip to his ass, petting at the flesh a couple times before spreading Peter’s cheeks apart. 

Peter gasps and shivers at the feeling, trying to close his legs. “Tony! What are you doing?!”

Tony’s leg must go in between his, kicking his feet apart. Peter gasps and shivers, his legs shaking. Tony’s finger pets over his hole, and Peter whimpers. 

“Tony, you can’t-you can’t! What are you-let me go, Tony!” Peter whines, trying to push off of the bed. Tony has never tried to hurt him before, not even when they weren’t talking yet and Tony was still trying to get rid of him. He’s more confused than scared. 

Tony pushes his knee in between Peter’s thighs again, pushing up until his own thigh is pressing against Peter’s cock and rubbing back and forth. 

Peter chokes and gasps, his hand clenching the sheets. “O-oh,” Peter chokes out, grinding down against Tony’s thigh. It feels so fucking wierd, so very cold but still so very good at the same time. Tony’s thigh rubs against him for a few minutes, and Peter continues to grind against it until he’s fully hard.

Tony pushes his finger in to the first knuckle, and Peter gasps. “Wait, don’t-oh god, oh,” Peter groans and pushes back into it, his cock leaking on Tony’s thigh. He can feel Tony’s cock hardening against his hip, and it’s so weird. This is so weird, he can’t even see Tony and Tony is about to-

Tony’s finger pushes deeper, and Peter whimpers. He can’t decide if he’s scared or not, can’t decide if he wants Tony to stop. He wants to tell Tony to wait, at least, to use lube. But then he realizes-

There is no friction. His hole is just stretching around nothing, there’s nothing really there. 

“Oh, fuck,” Peter gasps, hanging his head and arching his back. “Oh, please, more. Tony, please.” 

Tony pulls his finger out and Peter whines, but then he’s pushing two in. Peter’s head throws back, and he gasps loudly. Tony’s fingers start moving in and out of him quickly, already scissoring him apart. 

Peter wonders if Tony can see himself, or there’s nothing there for him as well. If he just has a view of Peter’s hole being stretched around nothing, or if it looks normal for him. “Oh, fuck, Tony. Please Tony, please, more, I need-oh fuck, please!”

Tony lets go of his wrist for the first time since this started, pulling his fingers out abruptly. Peter whines at the loss, scared that Tony’s going to leave now. He worries himself for nothing; Tony simply picks him up and turns him around, and Peter lands on his back halfway up the bed. 

He doesn’t like this position as much; he can see that no one is there. It’s freaking him out, making him think too much. “Tony,” he chokes, chest heaving. He gets up on his elbows, digging his heels into the bed.

Invisible hands push his thighs far apart, and Tony’s cock presses bluntly against Peter’s hole. It pushes and pushes, until it slips past and slides up Peter’s balls. 

Peter gasps loudly, closing his eyes and throwing his head back. It feels so weird but so good, and if he closes his eyes he can just pretend it’s fine. “Oh, fuck, Tony. Please, please fuck me, please get inside me, I want-oh my god!”

Tony had pulled his cock back to try again, pressing insistantly until the head finally popped past Peter’s rim. 

Peter’s mouth falls open, and he has to fist the sheets to stop himself from screaming. It feels so fucking good inside of him, so incredibly strange but in a pleasant way. “Oh, fuck,” Peter gasps, sucking in a desperate breath. 

Tony starts to slowly push forward, and forward and forward until Peter feels like he can feel it in the back of his fucking throat. 

“Oh god, Tony, oh fuck, how fucking big are you?” He can’t see it, can’t know how much there is left to go. “Oh, stop, it won’t fit!” Peter cries. 

Tony doesn’t listen, continues pushing in until his hips finally slap into Peter’s ass with an audible slap. 

Peter groans loudly, his legs shaking, his chest heaving. “Oh god, Tony,” he gasps, opening his eyes and regretting it immediately. There’s no one there, there’s no body attached to the cock currently splitting him in half, no hands keeping his thighs apart. He’s just being filled up by nothing, his stomach is protruding with a cock that isn’t there. 

Tony starts to slowly pull back out, and Peter watches in fascination as Tony’s head visibly moves down his torso. “Oh,” Peter moans.

Tony only pulls halfway out before pushing back in, his hips slapping hard against Peter’s. 

“Oh, fuck,” Peter gasps, throwing his head back again as Tony sets up a brutal pace. He feels like he might actuall die, like Tony is actively fucking him to death. He’s so fucking big, and the pace is brutal, and he’s fucking Peter so hard he’s being pushed up the bed.

Tony’s left hand leaves his thigh, after moving Peter’s leg around to grip around his waist. Instead it presses down harshly against Peter’s stomach where his head reaches when he goes as deep as possible. 

Peter moans, almost screams, watching his torso with dark eyes. It’s the only visible proof he has, the only thing proving that he isn’t batshit crazy. He’s being fucked by a ghost; a ghost hung like a horse besides. “Tony!”

Tony somehow speeds up, slapping his hips so hard against Peter’s that it hurts, and he knows he’s going to be feeling this for days. 

“Please,” Peter moans, moving one hand to wrap around his cock. “Oh god, please, I want it. Please! Please Tony, please come inside me, I want it so bad!”

Tony’s right hand tightens on his thigh, enough that the skin goes white and he’s sure it’s going to leave a mark. His hips stutter, and he fucks into Peter a few more times before burying himself balls deep and grinding there. 

It feels so fucking weird. It’s still cold, but it’s definetly real and wet inside of him. Peter’s eyes go lidded and he strokes himself quickly, enjoying the feeling of being stretched, of how deep Tony is, of being filled up.

Peter almost doesn’t notice at first, but Tony hasn’t stopped grinding into him and filling up for longer than a human would have. His eyes widen as it hits him, his hand stilling on his cock. “Oh, god, Tony?” 

Tony pulls half out and slaps his hips back in, grinding again. The hand on Peter’s stomach leaves to start stroking Peter instead. 

Peter’s stomach starts to distend, and his jaw drops as he realizes just how much Tony is filling him up. “Oh, fuck, Tony! Tony, it’s too much!” 

Tony speeds his hand up on Peter’s cock, and Peter whines loudly. He finishes to the strange feelings, hands gripping the sheets desperately and head thrown back. He comes so hard that it hits his chin, and Tony wrings every last drop out of him. 

Peter pants heavily once it’s over, groaning at the sight of his come painting Tony’s fist white. He can kind of see it now, see the outline. He already knew from the way they felt inside of him, but Tony’s fingers are thick. 

He’s still buried to the hilt inside of Peter, and Peter whines as his stomach continues to grow. He feels some being fucked out of him as Tony grinds, and he’s so overstimulated at this point. “Tony, ‘s too much!”

Tony finally finishes filling Peter up minutes later, when Peter’s stomach is pudged and he looks like he has a small baby bump. Oh, and isn’t that a new idea? He grinds into Peter once more, keeping him plugged up apparently. He really wishes that Tony could talk to him.

“I’m too full,” Peter complains, nudging at Tony’s torso with his knee. “Get out of me.”

Tony pets at Peter’s stomach, and maybe he’s just as turned on by the sight as Peter is. Peter’s spent sock twitches, but it’s way too soon for him to go again. 

“Tony,” Peter whines, clenching around him. “Out.”

Tony hesitates once more, but finally pulls out slowly. He leaves his head insides, teasing Peter’s rim with the widest part.

Peter moans at the feeling, before whimpering again. “Tony, please, it’s too much!”

Tony finally takes mercy on him, popping his head out but keeping Peter’s thighs spread open. 

Peter whimpers, face red with embarrassment, knowing that Tony is staring at his hole. He wonders what it looks like right now; wonders how much of Tony’s come is leaking out of him, how gaped open he is. 

He reaches around himself, ignoring Tony squeezing his thighs, and stuffs a few fingers into himself. Tony squeezes tighter, before finally letting him go. 

Peter pulls his fingers out, eyes lighting up when he realizes he can see Tony’s come on his fingers. Physical proof of what Tony did to him. 

He clenches around nothing, winces when he feels some more of Tony’s come slide out of him and onto the bed. “Fuck, Tony,” he whispers, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking curiously. It tastes about the same as normal, it’s just cold. A little gross. 

Peter pulls his fingers away and gasps when Tony’s hand cups his cheeks, and he thnks Tony is kissing him because his lips are cold. He tries to kiss back, closes his eyes so he doesn’t feel like he’s kissing air. It’s much easier when his eyes are closed for his mind to accept this. 

Tony finally pulls away, and Peter falls back on the bed with a final pant. “Fuck,” he whispers to the room. 

Peter looks when at the tapping noise against the board, snorting when he sees it. “Now you ask?” he snarks, rolling his eyes. 

CAN WE DO THAT AGAIN? Stays on his board, unerased, even the next time they do this.

#starker #my writing #fanfics

[not-poignant]

This Thursday has been thursdaying the hell out of me but I’ve been holding on because I knew UTB was coming and here it is!!

Eeeeee, thanks anon! It's always gonna be a Thursday (when it's not a Wednesday because about once a month I have a busy Thursday lol).

I get so excited when Thursdays roll around though, I love putting up Underline the Black chapters.

I'm sorry your Thursday was mean to you though! *Thwacks it into shape* It's the day of Jupiter, and I feel like as a day of expansion, it really should be kinder!

#asks and answers #fae tales au #underline the black #tbh i've always been quite fond of thursdays #because they are a day of expansion and i just #absently consider them days to reflect and think about things #it's weird the relationships we can develop with days of the week! #i often really look forward to mondays too lol #administrator gwyn wants this in the queue

[twogyuu]

From the prompt list: 9 + Wonwoo please!

pairing: wonwoo x reader

09. ""so what are we exactly?" // "I mean, since you're asking . . . We could be more than this. I mean . . . I want to be more than this."

genre: fluff, crack, producer!wonwoo, singer!reader

wc:

a/n: Wonwoo has become so fun to write because of you, friend LOL🫶🏻

Please pick a SVT member and a number from this prompt list, and I'll write a drabble for you :)

. . . .

You know that TikTok trend going around?

'Bro if they looked at me like that, I'd ask them, 'what are we?'"

That's exactly what you feel right now with the way Wonwoo is looking at you through the window of the recording room - and you can't seem to tear your gaze away.

To be honest, he looks a little ridiculous. The fact that he woke you up at 3AM to come record this, also meant he didn't have time to get ready. He sported a blue oversized flannel - the buttons were uneven, and the white shirt underneath had some . . . interesting red ink stain on it. Not to mention, he also probably did not comb his hair. He had cut his hair recently, the stylist probably went a little too short, his bangs were choppy and hardly covered his forehead. The back ends were sticking out in all sorts of direction. With his thin-wired glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he looks kind of . . . insane.

Insane, but also . . . love drunk?

Maybe?

Perhaps it is just 3AM (well, now 536AM) delusions.

He's trying his damn best to suppress the goofy smile threatening to unveil itself, the edges of his nose crinkling in the process. Even if his lips didn't betray him, his eyes certainly did with the way they curved into crescents.

You clear your throat and tap on the recording mic to get his attention. Wonwoo perks up expectantly and grins now. You can hear him through your headset, he's . . . laughing.

You feel a rush of adrenaline through your veins, and suddenly you're feeling bold. Or perhaps, it's anger.

Why the hell not?

The ever growing tension between you and him is gnawing away at you. From the first song to the second to the third - the lyrics that you wrote together and somehow served as a thread that wove your lives together, each word seemingly a stitch in the quilt of your lives, your story.

A soft-spoken, little known producer who was just trying to make ends meet and finally, somehow, managed to get his shot with nation's most beloved vocalist because their manager liked his song at a jazz club, he didn't mean to stumble into.

It was . . . incredibly cliche, but alas, he's here with you.

Your eyes zero in on the music sheet, the word yours underlined several times. The gray of your pencil was already starting to smudge.

Yours, or more precisely, if you're okay with it, could I be yours in every lifetime?

You wonder who Wonwoo wrote it for if not you.

"What are we, exactly?" you ask softly. Though your voice is quiet, the question itself is loud, seemingly a blurt, and filling the room.

There are about ten different expressions that cross Wonwoo's face before he settles on one: satisfaction. His grin settles into a tender, toothless smile as he runs his hands through his hair sheepishly and adjusts his glasses on his nose.

He presses a button and leans into his microphone. "I mean, since you're asking . . . We could be more than this. I mean . . . I want to be more than this."

Wonwoo sits back and scratches the back of his neck, leaving you in silent shock. Your lips hang apart slightly as you're taken aback by his . . . forwardness. You fail to notice the way the tips of his ears tint pink.

Maybe 545AM recording sessions made you both delusional.

Thoughtlessly, you slip off your headset, letting it clatter to the floor. Everything feels so slow despite the hustling mess you're turning into trying to get to him. You even trip on the leg of the chair in the room, but you're not letting a stupid stub of your toe keep you from reaching him.

You throw the door open and Wonwoo quickly stands to face you.

There's a pause as you stare at each other, breathless.

Then, you're not sure who moves first, him or you, but a few footsteps later, Wonwoo has his arms wrapped around your waist and yours around his neck. He holds you tighter and you hear him laughing again - heartier and louder this time, somehow lighter.

"Took you long enough," he whispers.

"You could have just said something!" you argue back, though you're not as upset as the accusation seems.

"I think I said more than enough if you didn't catch the hint," Wonwoo presses a soft kiss on your cheek. He pulls back, his eyes hopeful and bright despite the bags underneath them. You must look a little crazy too right now.

"All those songs were for you, about you."

#wonwoo x reader #wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo fluff #seventeen x reader #seventeen scenarios #seventeen fluff #twogyuu:writing #twogyuu:ask games

[ughgoaway]

don't you think of me?

plot; snapshots of your breakup, with one letter underlining it all.

word count; 6.9k-ish

content warnings; swearing, dramatic overreactions, distressing dreams, depression, blood, general sad vibes, drinking and no happy ending (oops <3)

a/n; guys... angst is SO HARD. idk how people write it sooooo well. this fic is inspired by the songs "Sad Beautiful Tragic" and "I Almost Do" and the storyline is based completely on those songs! but there are a few other Taylor song references in the fic too. anyway, this kind of jumps around a lot, perspectives and timelines. so if it's completely incomprehensible, I am so sorry!! lemme know if it's so awful I need to have a re-write lol. I really hope the flashbacks are clear, and that this timeline makes any sense whatsoever <3

(p.s this is basically dedicated to 🍪 anon and bff anon, ty for riding so hard for this fic lol)

(this is non-canon)

✿❀✿✿❀✿✿❀✿✿❀✿✿❀✿✿❀✿✿❀✿✿❀✿

The cold wind hurts Matty's face as he battles against it. Each gust feels like needles prickling his cheeks. But still, he pushes through, not really feeling much of anything these days anyway. The paper in his pocket scratches his hands as he burrows them in deeper, but he just grips it harder. The scratches made him feel more human anyway. They convinced his hazy head that maybe life was still happening around him. 

The red post box in front of him is almost taunting. He stands frozen, gripping the letter he’s worked so hard on tightly. He has the passing thought of just letting it go, watching it blow away in the breeze, and never having to think about it again. 

He never has to think about you again. 

But he knows that's unrealistic. How can he never think of you again when you're all he thinks about? Every waking thought he has is about you. He still thinks about how your breathing changed when you slept next to him. The way your lips curved into the smirk he loved whenever you teased him. The flush that covered your cheeks when he did it back. 

Every morning, he still gets out 2 mugs. He still grabs your favourite wine at the shops and doesn't say yes to plans without thinking if he should check with you first. The last time he saw you was still burned into the back of his mind, and he was not sure it could ever leave. 

And to be honest, he doesn't know if he wants it to. If healing means forgetting you, forgetting everything you built, then maybe it is better to live in the pain. Each time he begins to heal, he picks up the scab over and over again. The sting reminded him of you, so he picked and picked. Blood poured from him relentlessly, but that was all he could do. Bleeding for you was all he had of you anymore.

He shoved the letter in and walked away briskly. He fought every bone in his body telling him to go back. To smash the post box and filter through every letter until he found his. He imagined a world in which he hadn't sent it, where instead he turned around and marched back to his house. 

Or maybe there's a world where he marched to your house instead. Maybe he finally got over himself and told you everything in person. He begged and pleaded for you to forgive him, to look him in the eyes and tell him you've been hurting just as much as him.

Matty isn't sure that world exists, though.

✿✿❀✿✿❀✿✿❀

3 days later, when it arrives, you stare at it endlessly. You move it from place to place in your apartment and try to visualise opening it there. But soon enough, that just becomes you avoiding that room like the plague, and you start to treat parts of your flat like they are infested with a deadly virus. But they're not, really. They're just filled with a small envelope with your name on it and a return address you know all too well.

You decide you aren't going to read it 2 days later. You hold it over a candle and watch the amber flames lick the bottom of the envelope. But before you can set it ablaze, some instinct takes over, and suddenly, it's the most important object you've ever owned. You pull it from the flames and put it out with your fingers, not caring if the fire sizzles your skin. You cry and beg for it to be okay, tears streaming from your cheeks as you frantically pull it open, “No no no. fuck, please.” 

But the letter inside was unscathed, just the corner of the envelope was covered in a thin layer of ash. As soon as you see that handwriting, though, you feel the unspeakable urge to burn it again, to set it on fire and watch it burn. 

You don’t. 

You lay it on the table and go to bed. You decide tomorrow will be the day you do something with it, even though you promised yourself that every day since you got it. But you're sure tomorrow will really be the day. It has to be.

You return to the warm solace of the bed you've grown to know too well over the past few weeks, and the duvet welcomes you in like an old friend.

✿✿❀✿✿❀✿✿❀

It's a few days after he sent the letter and the day after you received it when he sees you for the first time, and he can't quite believe it. There you were, standing in the coffee shop you always went to together. 

He wondered if the baristas had noticed you both started to come in without the other. Maybe they started gossiping about it, “Did those customers break up? I never see them together any more” and he could almost see someone else saying “I hope not. They were cute.���

Even though he knew no one would ever actually say that, and that the baristas hadn't noticed anything.

Some force that he couldn't explain pulled him towards you, and before he knew it, he was reaching for your arm. “Hi” he breathed out heavily, staring at you like he wasn't sure you were real. He wasn't convinced that you were anything but a figment of his imagination. Has his delusions about you already gotten to the point where he's having visions? He thought it would take a few more months for that.

“Matty?” You say gently, tracing your eyes over the man in front of you. Hearing your soft voice after months without you felt like heaven on earth for Matty, relaxation washing over him just at the soft dulcet tones of you.

Matty smiled softly at you, and you immediately returned it. He can see the cogs turning in your head on how to greet him. Was a hug too much? Is a wave too little? Is a handshake too formal? Overthinking was one thing you were so good. Matty was sure you could win an award for it. So he decided to take the decision into his own hands and wrapped out up in a hug, burrowing his face in your hair and smelling that familiar floral aura he'd fallen in love with.

Your whole body tensed when he first touched you. The once familiar feeling now was slightly cold and awkward. But Matty felt you relax and couldn't help the grin that spread across his face the the feeling of your head in his neck, the place you always used to lay. He swore he could feel you breathe him in, but soon convinced himself it was wishful thinking.

Reluctantly, you pull away, looking up at Matty with glassy eyes. The barista next to you clears his throat, bringing you both back to earth and out of whatever haze you were in. “your tea is ready” he says awkwardly, eyeing you and Matty with a sly smile on his lips.

“Right! Sorry, yes. Thank you” You grab your cup and turn back to Matty nervously. He can see the anxiety radiating off you, just like it always had. He never thought it would be directed at him, but he tries not to overthink it too much.

“Do you-” You clear your throat, shaking your head as you try to process that you're seeing him again. Seeing your Matty. “Do you want to sit with me? Catch up?” 

Matty can see your hands shaking around your cup and the nervousness swimming in your eyes. “Of course,” he says easily. He could never deny an opportunity to spend time with you. Especially not when he hadn't seen you in so long. And certainly not when you still take up his every waking thought. 

The conversation flows like you had never left, easily chatting and catching up like you always had. You tell Matty about the cat you adopted and how she loves to sit on top of the fridge to scare you. He tells you about his mum and her latest drama. Her kitchen cupboards were the wrong colour of grey, and it was the topic of conversation for much longer than he thought possible.

The first bout of silence comes when you ask about Annie, and Matty can tell it took every ounce of strength to force the words out of your mouth. You felt like someone had taken one of your vital organs when you left her, and you can still see her face in your mind whenever you close your eyes.

“she's good. Misses you, though. Especially because she doesn't see you at school anymore since you got a new job” he says with a solemn smile. Matty tries to hold eye contact, but he gives up a few seconds into it, instead staring at his coffee as if it was the most interesting thing in the room. 

Thankfully, soon enough, the once stilted silence becomes easy chatter and laughter all over again, Matty welcomed the warm conversation with open arms, missing your presence more than he ever thought possible.

But Matty's mouth soon got ahead of him, “so when was the last time I saw you?” he asked thoughtlessly. His brain was on autopilot, and the words poured out of him before he could stop it. The very topic you'd both been dancing around was now laid out in front of you, and it couldn't be ignored. 

Matty saw something in your demeanour change, your once soft smile morphing into a faux-happy grimace, “Don't you remember? You screaming at me in the kitchen? And then storming out after saying what you did? Maybe you remember smashing a plate on the floor?” Matty pauses at your words, not quite believing you're deciding to re-hash all of this in the middle of a coffee shop, especially with a massive and slightly creepy grin on your face, but he answers anyway. 

“Of course, I remember. And there's not enough words to say how sorry I am but-” he stutters as he tries to explain himself more, but you cut him off, gently placing a hand on his arm.

“Are you sure you remember? When you left me? Abandoned me? Left me sobbing and alone? What about the 30 phone calls you ignored?” You kept talking, and Matty couldn't get a word in, your voice increasing in volume with each desperate question. 

“Look I’m so sorry-” Matty desperately looked around him to see if people were staring at your raised voice, but the cafe was empty. The once bustling coffee shop is now like a ghost town, with no evidence of another human ever being in there. 

He flicks his head back to yours, only to be in his kitchen, forced back to that night. He stares at you in your pyjamas, tears streaming down your face. He flicks his eyes down to see him dressed in the same liquor-stained clothes, and he can taste the red wine on his tongue.

“Why” you whispered over and over again, gradually getting louder, eventually shouting at Matty as he stood there motionless.

Matty wakes up in a cold sweat, panting wildly as his brain fights to figure out what the fuck is happening. He scrambles to his phone and realises; it's still the same day. It was just another fucking dream. He knows nightmare would be the better word, but he can't bring himself to describe anything with you in it as a nightmare. 

With a heavy sigh, he flops back to his pillow, gripping his phone desperately and trying to fight the urge to call you. It almost doesn't work, and he clicks on your contact and lets his thumb hover over the call button. He sees the unanswered calls and the pleading messages. He can feel the desperation through the screen. 

He thinks your new boyfriend must've blocked his number because that's easier than thinking that you just hate him. Each time he reaches out, there’s no reply, and he feels a part of himself die.

He hadn't tried for a few months now, but he still had that urge to type out his every thought, to send it and call you until you answered. But he doesn't. 

It doesn't occur to Matty that the real reason that the reason you don't answer isn't because of a new boyfriend or because you hate him. Instead, it’s because you know you can't deal with another goodbye. You can't risk all this happening again. You were already practically ripped open. You can't risk tearing the very stitches you worked so hard to sew closed.

But matty doesn't know that, so with a huff, he clicks off you and onto George, and this time, he lets the phone ring.

“Huh? what-” he hears the groggy voice over the phone mutter, and it's then he realises maybe ringing George at 3 am because he had a nightmare wasn't the best decision. But it was too late now, and he could practically see George's expectant face from the other side of the phone. 

“Hi. it um- it happened again” Matty said with a huff, falling back into the pillows and staring at the moonlight dancing across his ceiling. He heard George's heavy sigh and the distinct sound of ruffling sheets, George had sat up instinctively, knowing something was up.

“What was it this time? Did everyone in the crowd turn into her again” George says softly, rubbing at his tired eyes and fighting a yawn. 

“No, it started off really nice this time. I saw her again at that cafe we always went to, you know the one near the studio? We were just chatting and catching up. But then she wouldn't stop talking about that night, telling me what happened all over again. And then I blinked, and I was back. I was in that kitchen again, just staring at her.” Matty follows the moonbeams with his eyes, lingering on the two beams crossing over, only for their paths to separate once again.

It reminded him of you and him.

“I think you need to get some lavender oil or some shit. You need to sleep. And these nightmares aren't helping” George says firmly, Matty would usually fight him tooth and nail at the suggestion.

He claimed it was because that stuff had never worked for him, but George knew it was because he saw it as still having a part of you in his life. Even if you were there in the form of his demons, at least they all looked like you.

But to his surprise, Matty immediately crumbled, “Yeah, you're right. Will you come to Boots with me after the studio tomorrow?” George agreed quickly before Matty could change his mind.

But he didn't try to, Matty simply said, “Thanks. Okay, I'll let you sleep now… Bye.” And before George could tell him it was okay, and he’d stay chatting as long as Matty needed, he was gone. 

Tears leaked from Matty’s eyes, wetting the same pillow where you used to lay your head. This loop of healing felt endless, and Matty wasn't sure if fixing this was possible when he knew you were still out there without him. Forever wouldn't have even been enough with you, but now he has nothing. What is he meant to do with no you?

✿✿❀✿✿❀✿✿❀

As Matty lay awake in Manchester, you were in the same position in London. The same lonely bed, but different cities. Unlike him, you haven't managed to sleep yet. Instead, you can't stop your brain from imagining what is in that letter. Your mind falls back to that night, and you replay the events over and over again. Every word Matty said was etched in your mind, so it played easily, the same script ringing in your ears all these months later.

//////////////////////

Matty shut the door delicately. Getting home at 2 am. was already bad enough. He didn't want to wake you or Annie in the process. But when he saw the light pouring out of the kitchen and heard the distinct hissing of the kettle, he knew you were awake. And he knew you were waiting for him.

He walked into the kitchen silently, leaning on the counter and watching you potter around, he remember when he used to sit here for hours and dream of you in his house. Now he's not even sure the last time you said I love you to each other. You continue to ignore Matty, but you getting a second mug out of the cupboard tells him all he needs to know. This is going to be a long night. 

“At the studio late again?” You ask, passing Matty his mug and leaning across from him. Your eyes trace up his figure, and you can't help but think you don't recognise the man in front of you. His clothes hung off of him, and heavy bags sat under his empty eyes. His hair was standing on end, once perfectly manicured curls now frazzled beyond repair.

“Yeah, George wanted to fix this harmony. Sorry I'm back so late” he knew lying to you was wrong. He really did. But he couldn't bring himself to explain where he actually was, drinking alone in a bar rather than at home with his family.

“Oh. okay.” you pause and wait for Matty to correct himself, giving him a chance to be fucking honest for once. But he doesn't, so you push again.

“That's weird though, because I asked Charli where George was 2 hours ago, and she sent a photo of them together. In bed.”

Matty's eyes widened. He knew he'd just been caught, but he wasn't ready to give up the lie yet. He just needed a few more weeks away, and then he would come back. Then everything would be made right again. So his tipsy mind comes up with a new lie and pleads with whatever God there might be that would believe him, “Oh did I say George? I meant Hann, you know how I get when it's late”

“Matty. You stink of booze. Do you think im an idiot?” You sigh, placing your tea down and crossing your arms over your chest. The anger bubbling within you was threatening to spill over. You felt as if every word from Matty was a stab, yet he kept just pushing the knife deeper.

“So I had a drink at the studio! Sue me, Jesus Christ” Matty sneers at you as he talks, slamming his cup onto the counter, ignoring the burning on his hand from the tea falling over the rim.

“Liar” you click your tongue at Matty and cast your eyes to the floor. Staring into his eyes as he lied to you was agony, and you're not sure how much more pain you can take.

“I'm not lying. I swear I just-” he tries to argue, but you refuse to let him keep going.

“I know you're lying. You're always fucking lying! You weren't at the studio.” you sighed heavily flicking your eyes up to Matty briefly, but the tension was too much, it hurt to look at him.  

“Baby, cmon, calm down. It’s okay, yeah? I’m here now,” Matty moved towards you, grabbing your cheek in his hand and moving in to kiss you, prepared to make this all melt away just like he always did. You try to push him away, but Matty stands strong. He had to fix this. He needed to kiss and make up. It was all he knew how to do.

“Would you just fucking listen” you shout, pushing Matty back across from you, “I don't even know who you are anymore! These past few weeks have made you into a man I don't even fucking recognise.” You look up at him with crazed eyes and scoff at the sight of the man in front of you. 

You were done with it all. The lying, the running away, the sleuthing around. Done. You were having this conversation, and you were having it now.

“No please don't say that. You know me. I don't know who I am without you knowing me,” Matty begged, sobering up quickly at your words.

He needs to bring this back, claw what little life you had left in you to the surface. Everything that left Matty’s life has had claw marks in it, and he would be damned if he'd let you go without the same scars.

“Don't you understand that's the fucking issue, Matty? You don't know who you are anymore, I don't know who you are anymore. You need to be a person without me.” your words struck Matty in the chest like a bullet. 

Were you seriously suggesting what he thinks you are? Do you actually want to break up with him?

Matty baulks at your words. Every feeling he’d had over the past few months was catching up to him, crashing into each other in his brain as they fought to be let out. Anger won because, of course, it won. It seems to always win.

He decides that if you want to break up, then he'll do it himself. He can't let you beat him to it. He knows it's childish, but he doesn't fucking care. He needs to win this. “Please, I've been a person without you for 30 fucking years. I’m a fucking dad! I don't need you to tell me who I am.”

“Annie needs both her parents, Matty. We need you back, please.” The mention of Annie makes outrage bubble within him like it had never done before. He can't believe you'd practically threatened to break up with him one minute and then beg for him back for the sake of his daughter the next. Because that is what she is, she's his daughter.

“You don't know what it's like to be a parent y/n,” Matty mumbles under his breath, but he might as well have screamed it at you because that's how loudly it rang in your ears. He knew he'd fucked up as soon as he said it, but there was no going back now, and he could see that in your eyes.

“I don't know what it's like to be a parent. Are you fucking kidding Matty? What the hell have I been doing here for the past year? Just fucking around? I can't believe you could say that to me.” You hear your voice wavering as you force each word out. 

“Annie is just as much my daughter as she is yours” you whisper desperately. The regret of mentioning Annie was building in your chest, and it felt like a rock impeding your lungs, each breath fighting against the weight. but it was too late to take anything back now. Both you and Matty knew it.

Matty scoffs at your words, rolling his eyes as he fiddles with his fingers. He tries desperately to cool his raging mind, but he can't. He figures if he is already in this deep, why not stoop a little lower?

“Just as much your daughter? Please. You weren't here for fucking any of it. Where were you here when she was born? How about when she was sick for the first time and wouldn't let me put her down without screaming bloody murder? Or- or how about when she broke her arm and she cried when she couldn't have a pink cast? Or maybe for any fucking time apart from the last 12 months. I know you liked playing happy families y/n, but be fucking real for 5 seconds. You were her teacher, maybe a fun friend, but nothing more. And if you think you were, you're more delusional than I thought.”

His chest heaved as he finished, not taking a single breath during his rambling speech, he could see your wet eyes and he felt his heart aching but he just couldn't stop himself, words tumbling out of his mouth. "Even if you stayed, even if you never give up on us, on this. You could never be her mother.”

Both of you pause, the silence thick and heavy around you. How long could you stand like this and pretend he didn’t say that? Maybe if you just stayed there and listened to your ragged breathing, something would change.

But nothing did.

“Fuck you. You told me I was practically her mother a month ago. You said to me I was it for you, that your family was complete. I can't believe-” words poured out of you, streaming helplessly as you paced the kitchen. 

Matty tried to cut in, desperate to get a word in edgeways. The need to defend himself was all-consuming. He needed to know that you understood he said it in the heat of the moment. Words fall out of his mouth without thinking. He can’t help it.

“y/n, love-”

“I’m not her mother? Tell that to the time I took her dress shopping for your mum's wedding. Or when I took her to A&E with suspected appendicitis. and-”

“y/n. Stop, just listen to me, please.” Matty begs, he almost inches closer to you, but some ineffable force keeps him where he is, watching you pace helplessly.

“Listen to you? Oh, I've done plenty of fucking listening Matthew. All I do is listen to you! But you never fucking hear me-” 

“Can you just shut up for 5 fucking seconds” Matty shouted, grabbing a plate from beside him, throwing it against the concrete floor, watching it shatter into a thousand pieces. He just needed you to look at him, to tell him you could fix this, but you wouldn't stop talking.

A gasp from you pulls him back to earth, and he feels his heart break into as many pieces as the plate below his feet. Your wide eyes and tear-stained cheeks glare back at him, and Matty has nothing to say. He has no fucking idea what just came over him.

Matty gingerly takes a step towards you, trying to avoid the ceramic splayed over the floor. His fingers shake as he reaches his hand out to your cheek, wanting to thumb away the tears falling.

But just as he does, he sees you flinch. It wasn't even a full movement, practically a micro-expression. But you fucking flinched. And you both knew it. The veil of silence over you is thick as you both stand there motionless with no idea what you could say to fix this. To make the last 10 minutes disappear. 

Matty’s touch used to calm you. It was the only reassurance you needed. But now the mere thought of it filled you with some twisted sense of fear. The woman he had planned the rest of his life with was scared of him. And it was all his fucking fault. How had this all become his worst nightmare? How had the very thing he sacrificed so much to build crumbled and destroyed itself so deeply?

“Matty wait- I’m sorry, I was just still on edge. It's okay, im okay. See?” With a shaking hand, you grip his, bringing it to your face despite his protests. You can feel him trying to pull his arm away, but you fight him at every tug. Forcibly placing his hand on your wet cheek.

As soon as your hand drops from his, Matty wrenches away from you. The feeling of your cheek against his palm felt as if his skin was burning. The pain touched his every nerve. 

The air is charged with pure fear as you stare at the other, both of your chests heaving and your eyes glassy with unshed tears. Without thinking it through, Matty storms off, grabbing his keys as he pushes through the house. You chase after him, ignoring the blades of ceramic impaling your sock-covered feet, “No don't leave, Matty, please. Stay, stay here.” You reach to grab his arm, but Matty snatches it away before you can even feel his skin against yours.

“I’m leaving. I’m staying at George tonight. Tomorrow I’ll come pick Annie up from school. You will call in and take a sick day. Start packing your shit. I’m done. You're out of my house by tomorrow.” Matty demands, and with that, he leaves. Slamming the door behind him. 

Bloody footprints lay in a trail behind you, and your socks start slowly becoming sodden from your weeping wounds. But still, you stood there, unmoving. Shock coursing through your veins.

It was all over. Just like that.

////////////////////

The letter was taunting you from the other room, the blacked corner flashed into your mind whenever your eyes finally fluttered close. The image of you burning the letter played behind your eyelids like a movie, and you almost wish you really had done it.

But you didnt, so it still sat on your living room table, torturing you.

Eventually, you drift off to sleep, tears dampen the pillow below your head, but you ignore the thumping in your head and finally let sleep pull you under.

✿✿❀✿✿❀✿✿❀

You know you're dreaming when you're back in that kitchen. But you can't stop it from happening. The hazy filter that covers your surroundings is the only thing assuring you this isn't real, that this isn't all happening again.

Matty stands in front of you just as he had that night, but he looks different. His once frizzy curls sat in perfectly ringlets around his face, the streaks of grey dancing through them more prominent. His unshaven face was now neatly trimmed, and you admired the salt and pepper hairs within it. You can see the tears brimming in his eyes, glittering on his waterline. 

“So you'll forgive me? We can move on?” he says desperately, smiling and moving towards you with tears falling down his cheeks.

You try to speak, but your mouth doesn't move, your lips stay pressed together against your brain's protests. Not even grunts escape you. Silently, you stare at Matty, completely motionless. 

“y/n? You forgive me. I can make this right again, can't I?” Matty begs desperately. He grabs your hand but recoils at the cold feeling on his skin, your fingers cold as ice in his grip.

You fight to speak again, to tell him yes. To tell him you forgive him, that you need to try again. But still, nothing leaves your lips.

Matty scoffs at you, ripping himself away from you, “I can't believe you're ignoring me. I thought you'd be more mature than this. Call me when you can actually have an adult fucking conversation.”

He storms off, but all you can do is watch him helplessly. Every nerve in your body is screaming to move, to chase after him. And you almost do, but some inexplicable force is keeping you there, motionless in the same place where your life ended all those months ago.

So you watch him leave again, the haze surrounding you soon becoming darkness. 

You know it's a dream, and you keep on telling yourself that. But when you wake with wet cheeks and a heaving chest, it feels pretty fucking real.

You swear you can feel him next to you, awake and staring at the same ceiling. But when you turn to see him, the piled-up duvet is all that's there, along with a cold bed beside you.

It's then you decide to finally give in to that voice in your head, the one screaming at you to just read the letter, to get it over and done with. The one begging you to throw it away and never look back is nearly silenced, and it soon becomes nothing but a whisper in the back of your mind.

The letter stays exactly where you left it, and whilst you know it couldn't have moved, part of you wishes it had. With shaking hands, you grab the pile of pages, and you can feel your heart racing the very same way it used to when you saw him.

The city lights shine onto you as you finally open the pages, looking at the handwriting you knew all too well. The same handwriting that used to give you butterflies, that used to detail how much it loved you, filling pages with adoration. 

Now you're not so sure what it entails. But you read anyway, ignoring every screaming signal telling you to stop.

///////////

Hi darling,

I know I don't have the right to call you that anymore, but I can't bring myself to call you anything else. It's been a few months since we've spoken, and I've felt every minute of it. I've filled notebooks writing about you, writing to you. I must have practised this letter a dozen times, and I know this still won't be right. 

So, instead of trying to write the perfect letter, I've ripped out some pages from my journal. My therapist told me to write like I was speaking to you, so that's what I did. I’m sure she would be pissed that im sending this at all, but I need to do this for us. To remember what we once were. 

Anyway, I hope it makes you understand what this time without you has been like for me. You can ignore this letter completely and I wouldn't blame you. I won't hold it over you if you burn it and never look back. But if you do read it, I just need you to know im sorry. For everything.

(3 weeks without you)

To say the past couple of weeks have been hell for me is beyond an understatement. There is this festering part of me that thinks I will love you forever, and the knowledge that we will never be like we once were kills me, but it has to kill me. Because if I felt anything other than agony, I would come crawling back to you, and you don't deserve that. And I know that. But fucking hell, that doesn't make it hurt any less.

You know me, I don't know what it's like to have surface-level emotions. I either feel it all, or I feel nothing. and with you? I fucking felt it all. I felt every touch, every smile, every fight, every screaming match ending in tears. I fucking felt it. and for some reason- I'm still thankful for it. because at least I felt you.

I wonder if you're at the point where you miss me when you hear my name. And I can't help but think about you hearing my songs, do you change the station? Even if they're about you? But if I’m honest, they're all about you. Every one of them. Even before I knew you, they were about you.

(a month and a half)

I wish you could forgive me. I think if I knew you didn't hate me, I could move on. Or maybe it would do the opposite. I don't know. All I do know is, I miss you. 

(2 months)

Sometimes I miss you so much I can't handle it. I go driving and find the places we used to go, I sit there, and I can still hear your laugh. I can feel that all-encompassing warmth that surrounds you. but then someone speaks, or a car horn goes off, and suddenly, it's cold again. I mourn you like you're someone I've lost forever, and in a way, I have.

You know I still feel you every day, everywhere. Because you might have left, but you never really did. I still find your socks down beside the bed, and your hair ties around the house. I accidentally used your shampoo in the shower this week. You know that ridiculous Jasmine one that you pay too much for? 

It was like having you around again, I never thought the small of some shitty shampoo would be the thing that brought it all back to me, brought you back to me. Yet it was. But still, you were gone. 

So apparently, I decided to fall into the breakup trope of crying in the shower. For 45 minutes, which made me feel slightly pathetic. And it didn't help when George knocked on the door and washed my hair again. with my shampoo. But I still find myself smelling jasmine even when it's nowhere near.

You haunt me in ways I never thought possible.

(3 months)

It's 3 a.m., and I can't stop picturing your face. Just knowing you're still out there makes it so much fucking harder. I don't know how to cope knowing you're there and not here, with me. Even months later there's some sick part of me that hopes leaving me was the hardest thing you've had to do. but I hope loving me wasn't. 

I know that's selfish, and that this is all my fault anyway. so I want you to move on, even if it kills me. it's hell thinking that the one person you could never forget is fighting to forget you. 

But I hope you find the love of your life. I hope they make your tea just how you like it, and buy you those crazy expensive candles you love. I hope they will follow you to the ends of the earth, just like I would. even now. 

(3 and a half months)

I want to say you don't know how it feels to miss you, you don't know how hard it is. but I have to keep hoping you miss me just as much. because if you didn't, if you just moved on without a second thought; I couldn't cope. the fact that we will always just be an almost will live with me until the day I die. I don't want you to be an almost. I want you to be an always. but it's over, and I know that. or at least I'm very good at pretending I know that.

(4 months)

Recently, I've been thinking about “what ifs?” Despite my therapist telling me I shouldn't. But you know what it is like after breakups. It's this all-consuming thing, and you can't help but imagine if things were different.

I think in another universe, we worked out. I got over my massive ego, and you worked through your past, and it fixed itself. We got married, had another kid, and got that cat you always wanted. We'd go to Annie's graduation together. Her wedding together. you'd cry as I walked her down the aisle, I'd smile and kiss away your tears. and I know that's not this universe. but fucking hell why can't it be?

(4 and a half months)

My mum misses you. She asked how you were doing today and if I had reached out yet. I got angry at her and stormed out. If only she knew how many times I’d dialled your number and then turned off my phone. Or how many unanswered texts I've sent. 

Annie misses you too, by the way. She's finally stopped asking when you're coming back.

I wish she still asked.

(today)

I don't expect you to read all of this, and if you've just skipped to the end, I don't blame you.

but I'm sending this letter because I think I'm finally at a place where when I think of you, I don't take it as a sign from the universe that we were meant to be together. instead, I think of it as a past life, as proof that we were an almost.

Next time I see you, I hope it doesn't hurt as much as the last time.

Goodbye, my love,

Matty x

///////////

The distinct sound of dripping tears hitting paper was the only noise in the room. You watched helplessly as the ink distorted under the little pools of wetness. A million thoughts race through your mind, and you can't help but fucking hate him for sending this.

How could he do this to you? All you've been doing for months is healing, but he keeps ripping open old wounds carelessly. He has to know you can never go back. You can't trust him.

All you left behind you was a mess. You were both better off this way.

With a scoff, you grab your lighter and cigarettes, stepping onto the balcony with the letter gripped in your shaking hands. You have to flick the lighter a few times before it works, the bitter wind fighting against it. 

But soon the flame comes, you sigh happily, moving it up to the cigarette delicately balanced between your lips. You suck in a deep breath, revelling in the feeling of the smoke filling your lungs. The slight crackle brings you more relaxation than anything else these days, but you still have to fight to ignore the familiarity of the scent.

You flick the lighter again, huffing annoyed as it goes out. Once you see the distinct glow of amber, you don't hesitate before placing it against the paper and watching the pages in front of you burn up.

Ashes sizzle your skin, but you couldn't care less. In fact, you welcome the pain. A sick smile comes across your face, grinning around the now-lit cigarette in your mouth.

Isn't it funny how little words mean, when they're a little too late?

#here it is... i am nervous <3 #like i had fun writing it but is it any good?? time will only tell... #angst is difficult but very interesting to write #matty healy fanfic #matty healy fic #matty healy fanfiction #matty x reader #matty healy angst #the 1975 angst #the 1975 fic #teacher au!

[getoed5725]

"Even so, Gojo's gaze, covered under the white bandages, had always, always, been staring at the shape of Geto's soul" - JJK0 Light novel (Japanese original version)

i feel like a lot don't know about this particular part in the light novel so I might as well share since I got the original Japanese version ^^ I like this part as much as their final moments. This is when Geto finished his war declaration and flew away with his family.

(including spoilers for Shibuya!)

(The thing is my country has released a translated version of the LN but its translation is very... straightforward and loses the poetic feel that the original LN has. It doesn't have the depth anymore, and even though my language (Vietnamese) has rich vocabulary, it doesn't deliver. In this case it cuts off the "soul" part, which in itself is very important considering Gojo's connection to Geto's soul is mentioned again during Shibuya incident. So I hope the official English version can do this part justice!)

I love the way this scene is described in the LN. "Gojo was also silently staring at him. In the distance, the cursed spirit (bird) flapping its wings was getting smaller [...]". It makes you... feel a lot, when you know that Gojo could very well chase after him, stop him, i mean... just anything besides standing there and staring at him. And not even saying that Geto had the students surrounded or anything - Gojo did say at the end that he trusted Geto not to do anything too much to the students and so on. The thing is, after declaring the war, Geto did mention he was gonna take his girls to eat crepes at this new shop on Takeshita street, and if that's not him showing all his cards on the deck then idk what is. He essentially sent Gojo his full address and schedule for the day lol. And Gojo did not do anything about it.

But this sentence? So much longing. So much nolstagia. The scene when he was silently staring at Geto flying away, with his covered eyes, he could only see people in curse energy, but not here: he was looking at Geto's soul with his own. When Gojo said that he could realize Kenjaku at Shibuya was not Geto because "his soul denies" his Six eyes, it has always been like this. Gojo has always looked at Geto's soul, with all his soul in return. The sentence uses the term ずっと, ずっと (zutto, zutto) - meaning always/still, underlining the state of doing something. He has always bared his all in taking Geto in, not just the appearance, not just the smell ("There is no way I will mistake the remmants of Suguru's cursed energy" - by smelling it in the movie), but also his soul. That is why Gojo can always recognize it.

(That is also why Kenjaku knew the plan to capture him could be a 100% success)

I do recommend you guys to buy the original JPese LN in case you want to make sure you don't miss any details on them! (like my case lol)

#satosugu #jujutsu kaisen #geto suguru #gojo satoru #jjk #personal #the first time i read this part i screamed and shaked #what in the fanfic is that #jjk 0

[avelera]

Nothing will convince me that Ed was telling the truth in OFMD 1.10 that it was “regulation” to shave the beard. Absolutely nothing.

I mean, first of all, the reason the British spared him and Stede was because of the star power “Blackbeard” brought to the British navy. Why would they tell him to shave it off? It was what made him instantly recognizable. Without it, he’s just another sailor.

And now we’re getting into S2 and the first “self portrait” we get of Ed in any form is him painting himself as the bride on the wedding cake toppers??

A lot of fandom called it, I think. Ed has a complex relationship with gender. I don’t feel I have the authority to more than underline that it exists, I don’t feel up to attaching specific labels just yet, but clearly the beard was more than just a beard, if ya know what I mean. It was part of his worksona, a fuckery, a performance, a shackle, an anchor dragging him down. He might not go fully clean shaven after this (though I do think the short beard we see at least by 2.03 is at least in some small part a depression beard) it might not be quite so clean-cut (ha!) as him simply never wanting facial hair. But the long beard was something he clearly feels happier and freer without (Taika too, lol, he hated the fake beard).

Anyway. Nah, Ed shaved the beard off because he wanted to and he finally had the excuse.

And as a final note, one reason I so vastly prefer this interpretation, is how much agency it gives Ed in his own “transition” for the lack of a better word (until we see more to confirm it, that is). The “oh yeah it was against regulation” then becomes an easy, flippant little lie he tells at a convenient moment when it seems entirely plausible. But note how cheerful he is about it. This is the same Ed who freaked out when a noble touched his beard ribbons, no fucking way he’d be that casual about some colonizer changing his hair without his permission.

Nah. Nah, Ed did it himself. It was 100% his choice.

#ofmd #ofmd spoilers #ofmd meta #Ed teach