#i shouldn't be numb to tragedies like this

[talk-shit-get-fit]

🤬

#i hate this state #tx is worst #i shouldn't be numb to tragedies like this #my heart goes out to the families #kids shouldn't have to worry about whether school is safe #i hate this #im angry #gonna try to donate blood this week #its something #fuck texas #fuck those enable this massacre over and over

[inkskinned]

it's hard to explain because inevitably you sound like an asshole, but some people are allowed to lose their temper, lose their mind - you're not, though.

when your friend never texts you first and misses your birthday and never makes an effort; you don't mind. you know she's struggling, and you want her to get the help that she deserves. you give her every excuse and every chance.

it shouldn't matter to you so much that people are always coming through for her. you want her to be happy, you love it for her. you love that her community rises up to the occasion. why does it bother you that when she snaps at someone, says horrible mean things - but two hours later, everyone is comforting her while she's crying. you know she's stressed. why do you kind of hate that she is welcomed back to her job, that her parents are endlessly wiring her money.

and you're - fuck, are you envious?

but when you don't text back, someone sits you down and says i know you're struggling, but you're being a bad friend. when you're too numb to show up for work, your boss just shakes his head. i'm sorry. i can't approve more time off. we have the company to protect. when you finally snap back at your family for making that shitty comment again, you're forced to apologize for being too sensitive.

god forbid you need something. people aren't used to you being the one asking. you're the giver like the book you hated; your pages all open and rumpled. you always have the answer, always have the solution. you are reliable, trustworthy. people like you don't struggle with things. you're supposed to be lifted by tragedy. you are given a maximum of 24 hours to grieve, and then you need to just behave at the party.

you can't read the giving tree without feeling like crying, and even that feels like it's too much emotion. like, nobody looks at you and assumes you're the tree; they'd name five other people before even considering you in the running. you're just there, never-asking.

your friend gets to say mean shit, that's just her personality. when you make a snide comment, you're just being petty. people laugh when your friend stands you up for another event; they say she's just like that. you were 5 minutes late to a meeting with friends and they were mad about it for the rest of the evening. your friend sets everything on fire; everyone applauds her through the ashes. you so much as light a candle: and suddenly now you're an arsonist.

you don't want your friend to suffer, though. the thing is that you just wish that the empathy and kindness your friend gets - you wish you had that option, that everyone offered you grace and money and a gentle reception.

the other day you were fighting down the bad urge; the void call, the end note. you tried-anyway. you went to the family event, tried laughing at the right moments. nodded and smiled and all of it. one of your siblings threw a fit, but she's allowed to, so everyone just rolled their eyes about it. you took 3 whole minutes to stand outside when you got overwhelmed. you literally set a timer about it.

in the morning you woke up to a text from your parents: you were a complete disgrace last night. idk what your attitude problem is, but you really need to fix it.

#writeblr #eldest daughter syndrome #tbh

[ann1-wr1tes]

You Came?...You called.

Synopsis: You find yourself falling into the horrors of your job, but come to find out that you don't have to be alone.

Warnings: Slight angst, crying, hurt and comfort

Word Count: 2,642

A/N: Okay, so if you've seen this fic before, it's because I posted this on my previous account. I didn't plagiarize or steal anyone's work. I just have all of this saved and I plan on posting the other fics I have. Anyways hope ya'll enjoy!

Part two

------

You felt pathetic as your quivering voice spoke into the phone. You couldn't stop the steady shaking in your hands as you try your best to sound normal. You didn't want him of all people to hear you like this. In fact you weren't even sure why you had called. Not that it mattered. The call went to voicemail anyways so it's not like he'd even show up.

"I..I don't know what I'm doing right now, honestly. I shouldn't have called so uhhh sorry for....for bothering you." you rasp out. Then quickly, with a shaky finger you hang up the phone and drop it in your lap.

You cover your face in your hands as you try to take deep breaths. For some reason though, taking in air seemed harder than it once was. It almost felt like your lungs were being crushed by some invisible force as you felt your heart beat speed up to a million miles a minute. You were having a panic attack and for good reason too.

Everyone had told you that being an agent was far from easy. The D.S.O was an agency that was dedicated to stopping bio-terrorism. The people working under the agency were always seen as intimidating, competent, and effective in whatever their job was. The agents were also a force to be reckoned with. After all you had to go through hell just to be considered a candidate for becoming a D.S.O agent. Little did you know that actually being an agent was a whole new type of hell.

The job was a test to not just your physical health, but also your mental health. It was stressful and draining. You always had to be on alert and sometimes on the run during missions. It felt like it never ended. But the last mission you went on was a disaster. Actually describing it as a disaster was an understatement. It could better be described as a tragedy.

You were thrown into Russia. You and your partner were tasked with investigating a certain lab that was suspected to have some sort of vaccine that was turning people into B.O.W's so of course it was dangerous and risky.

Your partner that you went with was actually a good friend of yours. Maybe that was the first mistake. You can still remember the look of horror that played out on your partners face as she got shot with an injection of some sort. You took out the person who injected her with the infectious syringe, but it was too late. The injection had already started to wreak havoc on her body and there was no cure.

You still remember how she pleaded and begged you to kill her before whatever she got infected with could run its course. But you wanted to believe that you could save her. That was your second mistake.

In the end she shifted into this mutated, horrific, B.O.W and you almost died. At the last second you finally killed her but not before you hesitated and tried to convince yourself that there was still some way that you could save her. You eventually learned that it was over though and you had to stop her before she could infect you.

When you returned to the D.S.O, you came back with no partner, many injuries, and a few samples of the vaccine that you were supposed to get. The mission was successful but now you were starting to wonder at what cost? Was it really worth it?

You remember the first day back. You felt like a zombie. Your body was numb, you couldn't feel the numerous injuries you had gotten but you could feel how heavy everything felt. It felt like there was lead in your shoes as you walked down the bright hallways and you felt like you could collapse at any moment. Then you saw him.

Leon Kennedy.

Looking handsome as ever. Right when he saw you he was already on his feet, bounding towards you in a few wide strides and he had a hand on your cheek. You numbly watched as his bright blue eyes darted back and forth across your face.

You did look like hell to be fair.

Then when he asked if you were okay, you pushed him away and kept walking. In the moment you just wanted to leave and go home. You felt like if you told Leon about what happened right then and there you'd either pass out, cry, or scream but now looking back on it you felt like an asshole. You remembered the softness in Leon's eyes as he looked at you, his lips slightly parted as he took in your disheveled appearance. You even remembered how gently he grazed his hand against your cheek.

Why were you such an asshole?

After that you went home, took a shower and slept. You actually were quite sure that you had slept for a few days straight. The only time you went out was when you attended your friends funeral and that was horrific in itself. Then the nightmares began and it became impossible to close your eyes for more than a minute. You'd immediately have flashes of images and memories in your head from the mission. It was like torture.

So now you sat there. One in the morning. Your body heavy and slumped over as your phone sat in your lap and you looked down at it. When the screen turned black you could see your reflection looking back at you.

Your face was paler than usual, your eyebags had eyebags and your eyes were slightly glazed over as you looked at someone who you didn't seem to recognize. You seemed to be a shell of yourself as you sat there on the edge of your bed in the dark. Your legs limply dangled off the edge and you could feel tears start to build in your eyes. You didn't even notice until a tear slipped down your cheek.

So this was what it was to be an agent. Fun stuff.

Maybe you should've listened to all those who warned you. You were stubborn, determined, you always knew what you wanted. So when everyone warned you about the dangers of being an agent you shrugged it all off.

Even when Leon was your mentor and he took the time to train you, he too was one person who tried to warn you about the dangers of being an agent. At first you were offended. You thought that he was telling you all this because he thought you were incapable or weren't fit to be an agent. It turns out that wasn't true at all.

Leon was endeared by you from the moment he laid his eyes on you. You were bright and full of life. You were always willing to do whatever it took to please him, whether that be in training or missions and then he got to watch you evolve into your own person.

But now as you sit in the dark by yourself, tears streaming down your cheeks in a silent show of the pain going on inside, you were starting to wonder how you'd ever be able to live like this.

Knock knock knock

You practically jump out of your skin with a soft cry. Almost on instinct your hands fly to your bedside table and you pull out your gun that you keep handy. You've been far too paranoid lately not to have it around so you grip the gun in your hands as you walk through your apartment.

You turn on a lamp for some much needed light and with a deep breath you open the door a crack and peek through the small opening.

"Who is it?" you hiss through the door.

Suddenly you catch the sight of a leather jacket and bright blue eyes.

"Mind opening the door?"

Your heart speeds up and you can feel your cheeks grow warm as you hear the husky voice of Leon. His voice sounded like honey and god did it send chills down your spine sometimes but right now you were shocked that he was even here.

You open the door fully this time and stare for a moment. God why was he so beautiful. Sure he looked a little aged and a tad bit on the tired side but he was still beautiful. It was just the way his hair perfectly fell over his face and how he had a chiseled jaw that was paired with some light stubble and his eyes. Oh, you wouldn't even get started on his eyes.

Though you soon realize that right now isn't the time to be staring at Leon. He gives you a look and you sigh and rub your eyes tiredly.

"You came?" you say, almost as if you were in disbelief.

"You called." Leon responds simply.

He watches as you stare at him for a moment more. This time you just look tired. You look him up and down. A small pout in your lips as your tired eyes practically drooped. With that a sigh you step aside and you let him walk into your wreck of an apartment. You shut the door behind you and carelessly plop your gun down on your counter.

"Ignore the mess. It's been a long week." you mutter as you sit down on your couch. Leon's gaze follows you as you stumble onto the couch and you almost seem to collapse into yourself.

He sits down next to you and you can still feel his eyes on you. You almost love it and hate it at the same time. You loved it because his attention was on you, as pathetic as that sounded you always knew that you seek out validation and attention from Leon. Even if you didn't want to admit the fact to yourself. But you also despised that he was looking at you right now. You knew how pathetic you must've seemed to him. You sat next to him, you hadn't showered in a day or two, your hair was a straggly, stringy mess, the sweatpants and tank top you had on were wrinkled and probably needed a good wash. It almost made you want to beg him to not look at you at all.

"So do you want to talk about it?" Leon asks, his voice came out soft. Almost like a whisper but loud enough to be heard out in the air. It was unlike his usual sarcastic tone that he always responded to you with when you both were together on a normal day.

"Talk about what?" you asked simply. You knew what he was alluding to. The day you came back to the report on the mission. The moment he saw how miserable you looked, in fact you looked more than miserable. Leon was all too familiar with that look. It was a look of fatigue and loss. Like all the innocence and naivety that you once possessed was drained out of you by the time your mission was done. It was a deep look within your eyes that showed all the horrible things you had seen, that you did, that you had to deal with and survive through. Leon knew about it all. He had gone through it all and he remembers the exact moment that it all came crashing down on him like it had on you now. It was Spain. Spain had always haunted him. It was almost like he never left that hellish place since he always seemed to be trapped there in his dreams and it was always something in the back of his mind.

"You called me for a reason." Leon says, trying to look you in the eye. You refused to look at him though. You turned your head downwards to look at your hands. You watched as you fidgeted with your fingernails and still felt Leon's stone gaze on you.

"I don't know why I called you. It was a mistake. I shouldn't have." You utter.

There's a moment of silence and suddenly Leon's hand comes into view as he reaches out and grabs one of your own. It effectively grabs your attention and you look up at him as he grips your hand in his. He starts to softly rub circles into the back of your hand as you look at him, being slightly startled.

"It wasn't a mistake. You can talk to me, sweetheart." he coos.

Fuck. You almost want to melt with how the pet name rolls off his tongue or how he looks at you with all his undivided attention.

Your mouth opens and closes. You go to speak but no words come out. Your mouth goes dry and a choked sound leaves your throat.

"There's...nothing to talk about." you meekly say.

That's when the first tear fell from your eye. Then another and another. Then suddenly you were shaking. Your lungs were burning, your chest ached, your lips trembled. In a pathetic attempt to stop Leon from seeing this sudden emotional display, your free hand goes to cover your face as a sob leaves your throat.

Before you knew it a pair of arms lifts you up and you are pulled into Leon's lap. Your face buried in his neck and his one hand softly combed through your tangled hair as the other hand was tracing circles in your back.

"I know...I know it hurts. Let it out sweetheart." Leon mutters into your hair.

Its like the world crashes around you as you let out sobs and cries. You clutch onto Leon like he's a life line, like he's the only thing grounding you right now. Which may actually be the case as he continues to stroke your hair, rub your back. You even feel a few kisses being pressed to the crown of your head as he talks you through it all.

Even when your breathing starts to become more shallow and it feels like you're suffocating Leon is still there, being calm and grounding you.

"I know it's hard but just breathe for me baby. You can do that can't you?" he softly asks as both hands cup your cheeks so he can fully look at you.

You weakly nod as ragged, choked breaths come in and out of your mouth. You start to feel dizzy but Leon keeps his hands on your cheeks and continues to talk.

"Okay take a deep breath in..." Leon deeply inhales, waiting for you to do the same. You deeply inhale and then watch as Leon slowly exhales. You slowly exhale. He deeply inhales again and you do the same. Then you both exhale and repeat.

"Good girl, that's it. Just breathe." Leon encourages you, still rubbing your cheeks gently. Soon enough your breaths begin to even out as Leon continues to run his thumbs along your cheek bones, soothing you in the process. He especially makes sure to wipe the tears that are still streaming down your cheeks.

As you continue to cry you notice him lean closer and press his forehead against yours and his hands slowly leave your cheeks until they rest on either side of your head.

"I know its hard. Trust me. But I promise you i'll be here, if you allow me to be." Leon whispers as he stares into your eyes.The silence hangs between the both of you, thick and tense, heavy with emotions. Leon pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you as tight as possible.

You almost feel like a child as you grasp onto him. You're still a little teary eyed and weary.

"Will you stay with me...please..." you mutter.

His arms tighten around you a bit more and a slight smile comes to his face. "Of course sweetheart."

#leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #leon x reader #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut #resident evil x you #leon scott kennedy #leon x you #leon smut #resident evil angst

[aventxsha]

 ─── 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒

SUMMARY  ── It's too late.

Good things were never meant to last forever. No matter how tight he could hold on, they would still slip away when given the chance.

He was aware of it, and he knew it very well. He knew shouldn't have done what he did. He knew, that the more he was around, the more dangerous the risks were for her and her life. But he got carried away. Too greedy, too eager to have more of her. Of her love, of her warmth— Everything

Day and night, and at every moment he spent with her : He prayed for the best. He prayed and begged to let this sole good thing to remain within his grasp. He dreaded for the worst— If he had to be the one to suffer, he would have done it. He would rather die than have her suffer. But that same dread became reality before he could even had the time to react. And the results of it were exactly what he feared the most.

She was gone.

That was what she was now. Gone.

Denial was not of use at all, as much as he wanted it to be. The scene was right within his reach. The blood, scent, the appearence. They were all so real— And yet, he wished it to be an illusion, a nightmare at best. He wished, prayed for anything but this, anything but the fact that this was the cruel reality he lived in.

He couldn't even feel anything as he kneeled down to her corpse. Nor was he be able to bring himself to feel, while examining her with his ripped heart. Her blood was still dripping down. The dim light could barely illuminate the wounds of his lover. Yet despite her current state, her beauty was still preserved in a way. She was still beautiful in his eyes.

All the strenght in his body drained the more he looked at the tragedy before his own eyes, a sight he couldn't look away from. He wanted to cry, to scream, vomit. Any physical reaction could have worked, but nothing happened. he couldn't physically react. He just couldn't. He felt dishuman for a moment, and from there, an utter under his breath was all that left him :

" ..Why."

What did she do to deserve such fate? Why did she have to die?

Why her of all people, and not him?

It felt like a cruel joke placed upon him, a stab in the soul by the sword of fate herself. A reminder of the sinner that he was, of the sins he caused with those very same bloody hands that she would hold dearly no matter what. But that once familiar warmth was now gone, replaced by such a coldness that sent shivers down his spine. As if the extant light of his world dissapeared, the darkness being all he could see.

Alone again, he was. Perhaps it was his destiny to be in complete loneliness, even. And yet, life held no meaning now. There were no purposes to fight for in that darkness, there wasn't anything meaningful to him anymore.

A hollow emptiness of a shell was all that was what left of the man who began seeing hope once more, and he knew that it wouldn't take long before madness would take him completely. She was gone. And with her was a great part of himself,

for he drowned in an abyss of numbness and agony.

 ─── CLAUDIO x ATHENA , CADMUS x VERENA , VICTOR x KHLEIO

MYRA x NANAMI ( @myearts-uwu special mention for you bestie, I remember dedicating this one esp to you 💥💥 )

#❛ her anecdotes ── short fic #this can be considered a repost with a few modifications

[wolfpawzjakey]

I read your post and remembered something from my Brainrot.

fatal flaw of Percy - loyalty and I headcanon his dual Roman heritage of Venus and Apollo. The common symbol of these gods is a swan... The swan in culture is a symbol of loyalty to their beloved, these beautiful white-feathered creatures choose one pair for life and die if she dies or they remain lonely for the rest of their lives. Do you understand what I'm getting at? When Jason dies, Percy remains alone forever. He is the grandson of the goddess of love and the grandson of the god known for his tragedies, loyalty is sewn into his soul by the rest of the threads. He and Jason were doomed from the very beginning.

When Jason dies, a part of Percy dies with him and he no longer feels life the way he should - the sun is not as warm and bright, the air is heavy and life is no longer so good without Jason. a couple of years pass and Percy is still lonely and fiercely rejects all those in love with him. His loved ones are worried about him, they say that life goes on, that Percy shouldn't bury himself alive, that he should move forward, that his Jason wouldn't want endless grief for him. But Percy can't, he just can't, he doesn't even see That he can fall in love again, Jason is his soul mate, his soulmate is the love of his life after all. Percy is loyal, terribly loyal, and he will remain loyal to Jason until they reunite in Hades.

ANON YOU ARE SPEAKING MY LANGUAGE.

I absolutely love your thought path and agree entirely. I love letting Jason live him life out filled with new memories and love. But letting Percy live out the rest of his life after losing Jason is just as tempting.

Not to be that guy but Percy losing his will to live, maybe struggling to keep up his self care, going from bright, snappy Percy to a bleak version of himself. He loses weight, loses his muscle, he’s hardly functional and if anyone had any handle on him, he’d have been banned from battle long ago. On top of him battling depression though, I feel as though his temperament would drastically change, especially as time progressed on. He pushes more people away with time. He’s either so depressed that he’s impenetrable to anyone’s help, so enraged at the misfortune he’s faced in his life (obviously when a tragedy happens that’s so large and impactful, like the loss of a lover, the other impactful things you’ve been pushing away for later just tumble out), or spending his time just locked away, sobbing until he’s listless and numb.

No doubt passes through my mind that Percy is either the strongest person externally after someone important in his life passes away or the absolute worst. But all in all, we know he deals with sui*idal thoughts. He’s had them represented to us in the writings and even if they weren’t explicitly there or not there at all, there’s literally nothing a single person could do to convince me he wouldn’t have such thoughts after living the life he does. NOTHING! So losing Jason, it’s like a 24/7 struggle. He is either diligent in ignoring it or it’s a one more small tick of a box and it’s over for him. No doubt in my mind. I’d dealve deeper into that but this post is more about jercy and the tragedy of it all than it is my character deep dive all about Percy and how dingy his mental health must be after some digging.

Jason, I miss u everyday.

Thank you anon for your genius brain moment and for sending me my first ask

#jercy #jason grace #percy jackson #pjo #hoo #toa #jason grace deserved better #asks #idk what to call my replies #pawz replies #tw sui ideation #tw sui implied #sui mention

[catmansquad]

The Thirst

Vampire Miguel AU? Why not. I will inevitably add this as a proper chapter in The Looking Glass, but this is the X Reader version. Typing on mobile is hard...

Earth 9962 (Iteration: 300)

The Unorthodox, London, 2022

The club had once been an old church, now it served another order of service altogether; aglow in vibrant neons, heaving with the pulse of music and life. Dancers lost in the beat on the shining floor, couples lost in each other on plush sofas on the upper levels and at least one or two strangers passed out in each other's arms somewhere in the shadows.

'The regular tonight, Mike?' The bartender spoke up to be heard over the pounding beat of the music, addressing the figure seated before him; Slicked dark hair, brown eyes, always mumbled when he spoke, always with a strange hunger about him, yet the guy couldn't be lacking in cash, for the pricy clothes he always strutted up in.

'Yeah, just the usual...' He took the crinkled note that was slid across the counter in response and replaced it with the strongest whiskey the house could offer. The whiskey would not soothe the ache in him, Miguel knew that, but this scene served two purposes: the first reminded him of what it meant to be human, to do things mortals did- like breathing, and drinking. For certain he could still eat and drink, hell he could even still get drunk if enough of a vast quantity passed his lips, but these were just simple pleasures, nothing would truly sate him. Then came the second reason; the club itself, the heaving bodies, the pulse of life. He could hear the heartbeats over the music, practically smell the liquor laced blood thundering through excited veins. He glimpsed at his watch, marking the time and raised the glass in a silent toast before taking a hefty sip. Here was to five-hundred years. Five hundred years since that night in old Mexica where his life had been stolen and his death denied.

It had been a long journey, of tragedies and wars, and loss. Eventually he had grown numb to it all, mortals did as they did, and eventually they slipped away and the next generation made the same mistakes. He had made mistakes, too. A frantic and young Fledgling who assumed he ruled and had quickly learned humility, of failed romances, of the fleeting fatherhood stolen by plague, of so many broken hearts. Even an Elder felt that kind of pain still. It was a blessing and a curse both, to be untouched by time, disease and death.

'What a nice surprise...' The scent of sweet perfume, the ghost of a hand across his shoulder, the beautiful vision in silken crimson cooed by his ear, her free hand clutching her bag tight.

'Another sweet night, my darling...?' Her voice was soft as silk in his ear, he merely took another sip from his glass, placing it back on the counter. If only the sheep knew there were now two wolves prowling incognito among them.

'Entertain yourself elsewhere, Christina, I am not in the mood for your games.' His response was curt, uncaring. Her charms would not work on him. Christina's smile was unfaltering, her icy blue eyes found his own inevitably. Once she had been a model, an actress of considerable skill, destined for stardom. Now she was barely half a century into her darker existence and had adapted far better than most. Miguel did not know who had Turned her, but the rare few who shared these streets with him knew one thing; this was his city, first and foremost.

'Aww, always a pleasure, sweetheart..' She purred with a playful wink, heels clicking on the floor as she weaved between the crowds, effortlessly drawing longing stares from man and woman alike, someone would find themselves going home with her tonight. Miguel shouldn't have looked, should have returned to his drink, but his eyes lingered as the crowds parted briefly, that was when he saw you.

High on life and booze, you had found yourself on the dancefloor, limbs twirling, uncaring for anything else as you and a friend lost all awareness for the outside world. It was only when the beautiful woman in red passed did you briefly falter, like the mere sight of her had hooked something into your skull. Then she passed by and the spell broke.

'You've got an admirer!' Your friend called out over the deafening thrum, and repeated themselves louder still as you held up a hand to your ear. You followed their pointing across the room to the bar; the tall, broad man sat half in shadow as if the light refused to cling to him, the feeling of hungry eyes upon you. Perhaps you'd get lucky tonight after all...

Miguel had drained the glass, uncaring for its burn down his throat and plotted his next move with patience. He could be very, very patient. You were aware of him, and he of you. He was content to wait, to see if you would make the next move. It would be so easy for him, just a touch of vampiric charm, a slight crook of a finger to beckon and you would be in his lap in moments, mind wrapped around his little finger. No. That would be far too easy.

He felt the atmosphere shift, something inside him bristled at the new presence; full of swagger, a young man had entered the club, dressed for a night out, for someone who desperately wanted attention. The eyes of every mortal on him, finding him irresistible. All Miguel saw was a troublesome Fledgling who needed to be put in their place.

He smothered the Fledgeling's charm with a strong arm across his shoulder, steering him away from the dancefloor- away from you, no sooner did they find a relatively quiet spot, did the troublesome new one find himself slammed against the wall with a hand at his throat.

'There are now three of us here. That is too much trouble to keep quiet. I also do not appreciate you so brazenly strutting in like a preening rooster, there is an art in charm and seduction that you wield with all the grace of a sledgehammer.'

The Fledgeling hissed at him, fangs bared, trying to amp up his intimidation through vampiric willpower. It was almost cute. Still easily keeping him pinned, Miguel stepped closer and returned the favour, fangs bared in a snarl, eyes ablaze crimson, letting the newly Turned vampire feel the full weight of an Elder's presence. He briefly relished the fear that followed realisation in those eyes, watched how he tried to shrink into himself, knees trembling.

'I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Sorry, sorry..!' His blubbering was an inelegant as his charms had been.

'Get. Out. Do not make me regret what mercy I show you now...' He kept his voice low, but those sensitive ears would pick it up all the same. Miguel could just as easily break a man's mind as his body. Satisfied that the message had been received, he released his crushing grip, and watched the terrified Fledgeling hurry to the exit, sparing horrified glances over his shoulder. He blinked, eyes losing their furious crimson lustre as he scoured the crowds once more, ensuring you were still there.

'So many hot people here tonight, god!' Your friend called out, but you did not look, barely paying attention, eyes firmly on the man who regarded you still; tall, broad, stylish, and looking right back at you. When did it get so hot in here? He took his hands from his coat pockets, glancing at his watch before giving you a charming smile and beckoning softly with one curled finger.

You would come to him, he had almost grown fond of you. He would look after you, keep you safe from the hungry Fledgelings. Tonight, you knew you had gotten lucky. Little did you know you would feel the bliss of his aching kiss.

Part 2

#miguel o'hara #spider-man: across the spider-verse #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #vampire miguel o’hara

[taffywabbit]

I generally agree with most of the things you post about, but that recent reblog just really rubs me the wrong way. I think I understand the frustration's the OP got, but I don't know, it sorta comes across to me as "I just WISH people would've came to this realization in THIS SPECIFIC WAY" which is just...unrealistic? I feel as though it's almost a slap in the face to Bushnell himself, who probably knew exactly why he had to do what he did. He knew a lot of people WOULDN'T pay attention unless someone like him did something. An unfortunate reality, but, one that seems to at the very least worked. It is sad that he had to do such a thing, but at the same time I don't think it's in the right place to blame such people for not coming to this realization beforehand. I feel these people are vindicated for having been able to be drawn to whats happening. HOW they were drawn in really shouldn't...matter? I think there are people far more worthy of criticism and scorn than those whose eyes were opened by something closer to home than our own. And I think it's extremely disrespectful to Bushnell's act to look at the reaction of it and complain that it served as a catalyst for some people when they should've been more aware from the get go. Should they have? Yes. Is it realistic to expect the vast majority of the North American populace to be that aware of whats going on? No. Sadly. It isn't. Which is exactly why Bushnell did what he did.

i didn't really take it that way, i read it more as merely regret that it took this long AND such a blatant, violent display of protest for the reality of the situation to finally reach a lot of people (particularly in light of how much western news media outlets have been trying to keep the specifics and severity out of the public eye). i looked at that post not as any sort of disrespect towards Bushnell's sacrifice, but rather a frustration with how numb people often are to seeing faceless numbers and statistics in connection with tragedies these days. most american/canadian/british/etc news media LOVES to focus on "main characters" - people you can easily put a name and face to and plaster all over the headlines for people to discuss - and until there's someone like that to latch onto, folks are conditioned to feel like it's none of their business and those big numbers are merely an ongoing fact they cannot change.

if Aaron Bushnell's public suicide was the tipping point for someone to take more active interest in the Palestinian struggle, and reconsider the distorted/suppressed information they may have been receiving about it, that's undeniably a positive outcome and it would be wrong to assert otherwise. that was the goal, that was what he set out to accomplish. the risk comes from overemphasizing him as an individual martyr in all of this, at the cost of pushing the direct victims of the genocide out of the spotlight. considering (as far as i'm aware) the OP of that post i reblogged IS Palestinian, has personally lost loved ones to Israel's violence, and has been a consistent and invaluable resource over the past few months for educating people about the context and history of Palestine's struggles, i'm inclined to try not to take their post about this in bad faith. it doesn't really feel like my place to police their tone, frankly.

ultimately i can't speak on OP's behalf and i also can't control whether other people take away the same things i did from that post. but my personal belief is that Aaron Bushnell's act was bold and selfless and it's deeply unfortunate that things have reached a point where he felt it was necessary. i just also believe that he didn't do it to make himself the center of attention. i have no doubt that his status as a white american military serviceman is a factor in why many people are finally taking this as a wake-up call when they ignored all the previous ones, but i also think he understood that himself to some extent, and used that position of privilege (as well as the shock factor of defying what many americans expect from a man wearing their flag on his shoulder) to help ensure the message was heard by demographics of people who otherwise might not listen. to treat his sacrifice as a singular unique act, rather than one in a chain of many, and to give it special attention and fanfare when that energy could instead be turned to those who are still in need of it, feels like it runs directly counter to his goals. i think we should acknowledge and appreciate Bushnell's effort to sway more people in Palestine's favor, but not let it derail the greater conversation too much for those of us who are already engaged in this cause and do not need further convincing. he used his position to reach people, and it's our job to continue the momentum and help make sure those people know what their newly altered perspective should lead them to do. mourn the dead and fight like hell for the living, as they say

#ask #chokovit #hopefully i'm not too far off-base with this #again i don't know the thoughts of the person who posted the thing i reblogged but i'm inclined not to tone-police a palestinian about this #and i felt it was important to elevate their perspective amidst the others i was reblogging #but for whatever my own thoughts are worth i can at least make them clear here. hopefully this clears that up one way or another #current events #long post #free palestine

[lancrewizzard]

Thinking about some of the chats I've had with @blindantigone and this thought keeps running around my head, always a little too fast for me to catch it in words, too insubstantial to spin into a fic.

After Twoflower came back home, he was constantly telling his family about everything he'd seen and done. Fluttering Moth* silently believed that a lot of the stories were made up or embellished to entertain the girls, but she'd rather bite her own tongue off than ever say so. She encouraged the little family lessons in Morporkian - it was harder to report dangerous ideas if they were being voiced in a foreign language, and Twoflower would never believe that they were dangerous.

When she died, Twoflower took a long time to truly process it. It didn't seem real to be standing there dressed in white, Lotus Blossom weeping beside him, and Pretty Butterfly staring steelily ahead, gripping his hand tight enough to leave bruises. He retired early, with Ninereeds' condolences and tried to patch some of the void in his daughters' lives.

This was how things were, he thought. It was a tragedy, but that was the nature of the world

He had a lot of time to think, while washing, cooking, lying alone in a too large bed. And slowly the numbness coalesced into anger. Things shouldn't be that way. There were other, better ways, and he had seen them. If only the ruling lords understood, things could change.

So he sat down and started writing a happy little book about a place where the world was otherwise. If nothing else, they would know that the way things went wasn't the way they had to go.

In a way, he challenged Lord Hong with What I Did On My Holidays, believing that if men like him truly understood the harm their skirmishing caused, they would stop and make the world a better place. It was only after seeing the man face to face that he realised that it wasn't ignorance but apathy that killed his wife. And now the lord's rage threatened to kill his other love. What could he do but challenge him at the edge of a sword?

*Either @level-headscout, @bookhobbit, or @overelegantstranger came up with this name for Twoflower's wife almost a decade ago and I immediately accepted it into my belief system.

#Twoflower #rinceflower

[shintin]

Forget Me Not: Chapter 35 (Dream)

↳ Gojo Satoru x Female Reader

Description: Imagine that from the moment you opened your eyes into this world, you had no choice but to kill and shed the blood of others, that you had to fight alongside Toji Fushiguru and die with him.

What would you do when they force you to do something you don’t like? When the torment of conscience presses on your throat, will you give up? Now think about a day that life gives you another chance; how would you use it?

This is the story of a murderer who seeks salvation. Will she find it in the arms of Satoru Gojo? Or will pain find her sooner than redemption and drive her out of heaven forever?

Genre: heavy angst, sad love story, maybe tragedy, violence, lonely hearts, broken souls, +18.

Tags/Warnings: Angsty fluff.

Song Recommendation: All I Ask - Adele

Chapter index -> Next Chapter

Year: 2019

It was nothing but a dream.

But,

her lungs didn't expand. Her breaths kept coming in short bursts. A tight feeling spread through her chest, and she could feel her throat closing up. She tried to scream, but she couldn't. She couldn't stop thrashing her arms and trying desperately to breathe, but the effort was futile. Her voice was unheard by anyone. Nobody would ever know she was dying, that her chest was filled with blood and pain, and she was in such an unbearable state of agony.

She couldn't breathe, she couldn't, she couldn't breathe—

In a flash, Y/N's eyes opened in terror, and she awoke. She was heaving in deep, harsh, gasping breaths, so overcome, so relieved to get oxygen into her lungs that she couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but try to inhale as much as possible. All her body was shaking, and her tremors were clammy, going from hot to cold too fast.

Gasping for breath was all she could do. 

Her body was drenched in a cold sweat, her brain swimming in waves of pain. Despite her best efforts, she could not shake the nightmare. They were at a wedding; there was blood everywhere; she cried; more blood; her baby died in front of her eyes; she kissed the bloody face of her brothers and then blood again.

'It was just a dream. It was just a dream. It was just a dream.' The thought kept running through her head.

She shook her head to blot out her thoughts but immediately noticed her mistake. Her mind was still dense and foggy, bathed in confusion. She blinked open her eyes slowly, timidly, but no matter how far she forced them to open, she couldn't seem to take in any light. In silence, she stared up at the blank ceiling. It took her too long to figure out she had woken up in the middle of the night.

An abrupt gasp.

It was her, her voice, her breath, her heartbeat. Where was her head? Why did it get so heavy? She tried to clear the haze and remember, but parts of her were still numb, such as her teeth and toes and the gap between her ribs.

She felt strange and slow, as if wandering around in the mud, as if her bones had been filled with lead.

God damn it! Neither her head nor her shoulders had ever felt heavier.

She wondered whether it was the last drop of last night's hangover still haunting her veins. She shouldn't have had so much wine on the eve of their trip to Okinawa. But she was stressed about the flight and—

Hang on a minute! Something didn't feel right. How come she was in the infirmary?

She shuddered unintentionally and tried to sit up but couldn't. She felt so solid with blood and bones, and suddenly, she was freezing. Her skin was cold rubber against the metallic bed.

The cold, the metal, the pain, and the delirium all confused her.

Another sudden jolt to her senses, and she was more alert, more herself. Panic erased her illusions for a single moment of clarity, and she was able to push herself up on her elbows, head spinning, eyes wild as they scanned the darkness. She was about to lie back down, worn out, when she saw something.

Someone placed a blanket on her, and she inhaled sharply, confused, trying to make sense of the person. The face was warped like she saw it from underwater and swam toward it, trying, trying and her chin falling against her chest as she lost the battle.

The wind was gnawing at the window, straining against the walls. The rain was falling on the roof like popcorn against a pane of glass. The sky was pissed. The world was torn apart.

"Drink this," the voice said. It was clear but kind of vibrant, resonating through the walls. Her ears kept buzzing. She squinted to see the face but felt dizzy suddenly, disoriented.

Without question, she grabbed the cup and gulped the water quickly, surprised by her own thirst. When she started to feel normal, she looked at the person's face. Eyes wide open.

She saw Satoru.

He stood at a distance with her, eyes red-rimmed, bloodied clothes rumpled on his body. He stared at her with an unmasked look of sadness that startled her. It wasn't anything like him. Satoru would rarely stop grinning or smirking.

He wouldn't blink, his hands in fists pressed into his thighs. His eyes had tragedy and beauty, something stoical which refused to be moved.

She couldn't stomach the look on his face, the dreadful, awful pain he made no effort to conceal.

She didn't know what to say to make it right.

Her cheeks were pink due to the fever, and her eyes big and shiny as she smiled at him. She was beautiful. So unbelievably beautiful.

"Are you mad at me?" she asked, still smiling.

Satoru barely shook his head. He could only stare at her.

His mind was ravaged. Hysteria had been clawing at his insides for hours now. He had no idea what Y/N would tell him or how she would react upon seeing him. He was horrified by what was going to happen next.

In a way, his reaction was not enough. She wavered and frowned as she looked at him.

"Love?"

Blood rushed through Satoru's veins, hot and fast. He hadn't heard her calling him "love" for a long time. He took a step back just to look at her, savor the moment.

"Hey," she said sweetly. "Did we miss the flight?"

He looked up, stunned, his blue eyes round. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat.

She had never seen him this way before.

"I'm sorry. I wish I'd listened to you," she said. She tried to smile again, convincing him that it wasn't the end of the fucking world if they missed a flight, but he seemed incapable of speaking. All he did was look at her with his bloodshot eyes. She would think he had been crying if she didn't know him any better.

He swallowed hard, stared at the floor, and Y/N was suddenly compelled to ask a question. "Are you alright?"

When his eyes became abruptly glassy with emotion, when his shoulders trembled, even as he tried to hold himself still, she felt her own bones rattled.

She tried to crawl out of bed and failed. It was as though two anvils were sitting on her knees, everything heavy, messy, confusing, and exhausting, and she couldn't but discern the general circumstances of her situation.

Heat flushed across her skin. The pain gripped her mind, a vague realization that she had left something overlooked. Dusty emotions quivered within her. She couldn't even remember what she had forgotten. It was too hard to pay attention to something other than his burning eyes.

"Why are you standing there?"

"I…I—Y/N," he said, his voice husky with restraint as he watched her. His eyes dug into her to ensure she was still herself. He only eased when she stepped into the sea of blue in his eyes, dived right in, and drowned. It felt like someone had punched a fist into his lungs and snatched up all his oxygen.

She slowly extended her hand to him to take it and tried not to betray her dizziness and nausea.

"Don't be a stranger," she heard herself say, but the words sounded distant, disconnected from her lips. She felt numb, like her arms had been hollowed out.

Satoru looked unconvinced, yet he was breathing extra hard and trying not to show it. His hands kept clenching and unclenching.

There was glue all over his tongue, stuck to his teeth, his lips, and the roof of his mouth, and he couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He was pretty sure he just had a seizure or an aneurysm or heart failure or something equally as terrible, but he couldn't explain any of this to Y/N because he couldn't move his jaw even a bit.

He was careful not to touch her. He seemed petrified, looking at her like he wasn't sure how to act. He was hesitant, unsure of her reaction.

No one ever imagined he could be so sad, so human, and vulnerable, but it was there. It was right there. Raw, written across his face like it had been ripped out of his chest.

After all, the man blamed himself for everything. This was a burden he was born to carry—the guilt.

The pain was so plain on his face that it was killing her. She felt it. She felt it was killing her.

"I'm worried. Are you okay?" Y/N asked and studied his eyes, her gaze locked onto his as if trying to read him for clues. But he broke the connection too soon. He looked as if he might speak, but he changed his mind. He took a deep breath, tightening his lips to keep the words from escaping.

She thought something terrible had already happened or something terrible was on the verge of happening.

But then, his pleasant, masculine scent filled her head, and she breathed him in almost unwillingly. It was painful to be so close and far away from him. She wanted to bridge the gap between their bodies desperately. She wanted to press her lips on every part of him and savor the fragrance of his skin, the strength of his libs. She wanted to be enveloped in the warmth and assurance of his body.

"Why are you avoiding my questions?" She looked so deeply into his eyes that he was surprised he hadn't cracked under insanity.

"I'm sorry…Y/N," he said quietly, still looking at her as if he was trying to find something, like searching for an answer to an un-asked question.

It was just a whisper, but something wobbled through his skull. Her mind spoke in a thousand different languages that she could not comprehend. Satoru was so close; he was so close, and she couldn't feel her legs anymore. She felt neither her pain, coldness, or emptiness of the room because she felt only him, everywhere, filling everything. She disregarded the warnings from her brain.

Y/N struggled to her feet, and when Satoru met her eyes again, he took a sudden, sharp breath. They were so close he could feel her exhalation against his chest.

Infinity, what? This, he thought, was the way to die.

An overwhelming urge to kiss her overtook him, and for a moment, he thought about it. Just the idea sent a thrill into his spine, a dizzying feeling that inspired his mind to jump too far, too fast. He could picture it with terrifying clarity.

His gaze swept across her face, down her neck and arms, and stopped at her waist. The memory of his kisses along her torso, his hands exploring her back, her bare legs, the backs of her thighs, his fingers hooking around the elastic band of her underwear.

Oh.

It was like she could see into his thoughts. She grazed his bottom lip with her thumb. He tried to move, but her hand slipped behind his neck and tightened. He shook his head desperately, but the sensation was so comfortable that she could no longer feel the strange creak in her bones, the ache in her heart.

Then she kissed him without restraint, without hesitation, and clutched her arms around his neck.

His dark uniform was all blood, while her white gown was clean as her heart. And this difference between them just made the scene more surreal.

His mind was blown, lost in an emotional surge, but he backed away. His heart was pounding fiercely in his chest. He barely remembered how to keep it together.

Then she stepped forward, stood on tiptoe, and reeled him in, all warmth, heat, and sweetness. She pressed her lips to his. For a moment, he wanted to pull her against him, get drugged by the feel of her, but he didn't. He tried to break the kiss, but she held him tighter, even as she continued to kiss him, even as she touched his body through the dirty cloth.

She didn't care if the white dress became bloody. To her, it was just blood. She was born into blood, midway through death and hell.

For Satoru, however, it was her blood. He didn't want this.

When she saw his resistance, a zippered sound, and the jacket was on the floor. Soon, he felt her hands on his arms, and he held his breath. It was wrong, but he never moved an inch. He didn't say a word as her hands dropped to his waist, to the material attempting to cover his body. Her fingers grazed the skin of his lower back, right underneath the hem of his shirt, and he lost count of the times his heart skipped a beat.

Her lips were soft, still slightly parted, and now the air in the room was too tight, too full of cotton, and he felt the blood pouring into his head, encroaching on every rational region of his mind.

He wanted someone to remind him to stay away from her.

He had lost his goddamned mind.

He could drown at this moment, and he would never regret it. He could catch fire from this kiss and happily turn to ashes. He could live here, die here, right here, against her hips, her lips, in the emotion in her eyes as she sank into him, her heartbeats indistinguishable from his.

This. Forever. This.

He realized at this point that this was probably the last time he would ever get to feel her love. It may never happen again.

He turned a blind eye.

Let it go.

The lines of their bodies merged. It was wave after wave of ice and heat, melting and catching fire. His mouth was on her skin, his strong arms surrounding her with love and warmth.

The pain twitched her senses, but it was like she hadn't felt him for weeks. She couldn't let go of his firm muscles against hers.

She wanted him closer, impossibly closer. She was burdened with tremendous pain that looked like nothing she had ever experienced. But she stuck with it. She had never felt so secure, loved, or protected as here, in the intimate fusion of their bodies.

He kissed her, deep and urgent. He could no longer afford to lose time. There was so much he wanted, and there weren't enough years. He had a hundred million kisses and wanted to give them all to her.

He kissed her top lip.

He kissed her bottom.

He kissed just under her chin, the tip of her nose, the length of her forehead, both temples, her cheeks, and all across her jawline.

His hands seized the length of her back, memorizing every curve of her figure. He kissed her neck, her throat, and the slope of her shoulders. And suddenly, it ripped her apart with pain. She tried to convince herself that it was just a coincidence, something her mind was doing. After all, his touch never hurt her, did it? Although, being with Satoru had always been overshadowed by some sort of pain and difficulty.

Y/N broke away and looked at Satoru, who was breathing like he was in a daze and looking at her like something had broken inside him. There was something wild in him today, something she couldn't explain in the way he touched her, the way his fingers lingered along her shoulder blades, down the curve of her back, like he had to have her, like he was dying to memorize the feel of her lips against his own.

She felt dizzy and reached up behind his neck. It was ice-cold, like an ache that attacked every cell in her body. Pain, like hot oil, spattered across her face. She flinched and felt her fingers twitch.

He was saying something to her, running his hands down her body. His words were soft and hopeless, silky against her ear, but she could hardly hear him over the pain that pricked her nerves. She gasped out loud as she broke the kiss. She turned her face into his chest, trailing her nose up the line of his neck and breathing him in.

"I love you," she whispered and glanced at him from below.

Satoru was so quiet. So unguarded. His face was smooth, his brow unfrowned, his lips wondering whether to part. He blinked and looked around, backtracking too quickly as if he wanted to run, and did not remember how.

Something was wrong.

And when she took his chin in her hands, he turned away. She slowly kissed his cheek, his neck, and the hard line of his jaw. Her occasional gasps for air were hot against his skin.

He withdrew because Y/N looked terrible. She was pale. Unsteady. Her hands were trembling, her lips were pressed together, and her eyes, her once bright eyes, were weary, tortured, bottomless.

He shook his head over and over and over. He stared at his hands, waiting for the part where someone would tell him this wasn't real. But he had woken up to discover all his nightmares weren't just bad dreams.

He was a horrible, self-serving, pathetic monster. He took what he wanted. He knew better, and he took her anyway. Y/N couldn't have known, she could never have known what it would be like to really suffer at his hands, yet she didn't object, and it made him wonder how many times had she just endured the pain because she loved him so much. She was always innocent to the depth of it, of the cruel reality of it.

Oh, God!

His touch really was fatal for her.

He must have remained away from her.

He had to let her go. He had to let-her-go.

He shut his eyes, and something inside him thawed; something broke loose in his bones. And when he opened his eyes again, he looked terrified

She felt sick to her stomach.

"What is it?" she said, her words scarcely making a sound. "What happened? What's wrong?"

He shook his head.

"Is it me?" Her heart was pulsating. "Did I do something wrong?"

His eyes went wide. "No, no, Y/N."

"Then why won't you look at me?"

So, he met her eyes, and she couldn't help but marvel at how much she loved his face, even now. He was so conventionally handsome, so remarkably beautiful. His eyes were an impossible shade of blue. Bright. Blinking. But there was something in them that stung her heart.

And then—

Every instinct in her body was telling her to run.

Run, Y/N. Run until your lungs collapse, until the wind whips and snaps at your tattered clothes, until you're a blur that blends into the background. Run, Y/N, run faster until your bones break, your shins split, your muscles atrophy, and your heart dies because it was always too big for your chest and beat too fast for too long and run.

Run, run and run until you can't remember him. Run with open eyes and your mouth shut and dam the river rushing up behind your eyes. Run, Y/N.

Run until you drop dead.

Make sure your heart stops before you remember him. Before you ever remember.

Run.

But she couldn't. She was frozen.

"I'll never stop loving you," he said, breathless, his fingers carefully pushing a stray strand of hair away from her face. "I want you to remember this."

No other words.

She was about to say what was wrong with you, Satoru, but something about this stretch of silence confused her. Something about this moment and the feel of his name on her tongue were unlocking other parts of her brain, and there was something pushing and pulling at her skin, trying to remind her, trying to tell her.

Suddenly, the truth slapped her in the face; it punched her in the gut and threw her right into the ocean. Her brain was screaming, raging against what she slightly remembered. It could never be true. Satoru would never harm anyone she cared about. He would never hurt her.

Her bones were full of ice. Her entire being wanted to vomit. This feeling, this overwhelming feeling of absolute self-loathing, remained in her throat as the slice of a knife too sharp, too thick, too deadly to keep her steady.

She pulled herself away, and Satoru knew it. He didn't need six eyes to read the hatred written all over her face. 

"It wasn't a dream," she managed to whisper, her eyes unfocused, remembering. Her head was swamped by confusion. Broken images filled her mind: blood and death.

"Kechizu and Eso," she choked on their names.

"Y/N, please—"

"Oh, God." She covered her mouth with one hand and stared, unblinking, at the wall.

A wave of pain inundated her body so rapidly that she didn't even realize she was shaking until she had to grab the footboard for support.

This was the source of the agony that had been drowning him. They had lost their baby; then he murdered her brothers.

She should have known when he appeared in the room, standing there, waiting for something she couldn't pinpoint. This was the data she was missing.

Maybe, part of her did, but she tried so hard to repress the memories of past days that she refused to believe it could be possible. Because a part of her didn't want to remember, a part of her was too scared to lose hope. A part of her didn't know if it would make any difference to know that it was him, after all—the one who ruined her life.

She stared at him openly, every sensation amputated, her pain a distant scream disconnected from her body. She felt the strength rush out of her, leaving her weak in the knees.

Disgust was an insult to the level of aggression at the moment.

All she could think was that she was dying, about to explode. She was six feet under and searching for a window when someone poured the lighter fluid into her hair and lit a match on her face.

She felt her bones inflamed.

Then, she started shaking.

Satoru tried to help her, begging her not to do what he feared she might do, and she told him to stay the fuck away from her. She told him to get lost, but he reached for her, pleading with his eyes, and she was tempted for a second to stay there, right next to him, but she slipped out. She finally knew this man would bring her nothing but agony.

She blinked and blinked, but the world was a mess. She wanted to laugh because all she could think was how horrible and beautiful it was, that eyes blurred the truth when people couldn't stand to see it.

It happened swiftly, a sudden, brief paralysis of her limbs.

The floor was hard.

She knew it was a fact because it was suddenly pressed against her face. Satoru ran toward her, but she screamed and slapped his hands away.

She could feel the revulsion bubbling up and unsettling her insides. She was horizontal and somehow still tripping over, and holes in her head were tearing open. She saw spots, and she wasn't sure she was even alive.

She wanted to speak, to accuse Satoru, to blame him, to call him a murderer, but she could say nothing, could form nothing but sounds so pitiful she was almost ashamed of herself.

Her body, her blood, her brain had been frozen in place, seizing in some kind of sudden, uncontrollable paralysis that had spread through her so quickly she couldn't seem to breathe. She was wheezing in deep, strained inhalations, and the walls wouldn't stop swaying before her.

Satoru fell to his knees in front of her. He wanted to wrap his arms entirely around her, to keep her together by sheer physical force, but he didn't dare.

Every touch was a gateway to a new sort of pain.

He sat desperately by her side and listened to the most excruciating, ear-splitting agony ripping through her.

She had collapsed in the corner, curled into herself, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs, her head buried in her arms, and she was shaking.

He had never, ever seen her look like a child before. Never, never once, ever. Not in all the time he had known her. But right now, she looked just like a little girl. Scared. Vulnerable. All alone.

He whispered words of solace in desperation, more tears waving in the ocean of his eyes. But she couldn't listen. Her ears had finished functioning; her heart had just expired; her mind had gone to hell for the day, and her eyes, her eyes, she thought they were bleeding.

She was shattering before his eyes. A million gasps, choking pieces he couldn't even hold together. He thought he was a useless being, so he promised himself, at that moment, that he would do whatever it took for her until all the pain, torture, and suffering was gone, until she has given a chance to live the kind of life where no one could wound her this deeply, ever again.

"It hurts," she said. She didn't speak at all, just expelled letters through her lips. Her eyes were astonishing, shining with barely restrained emotions. Her face was a reflection of so much grief.

"Make it stop," she whispered. It was just words, stupid and simple, but an earthquake hit Satoru's heart, then cracked it right down the middle.

He tilted his head and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

"Please, Satoru." She glanced at him just long enough to see the hurt flash in and out of his eyes.

Satoru swallowed hard. Said nothing. He wiped his eyes and looked at her like he wanted to say something, struggling to find the words, but nothing. He lowered his head, and for one split second, she saw the shine of emotions she hadn't seen for a long time in anyone. He was ashamed. He was a disgrace.

She closed her eyes and felt the weight of loss and surrender settle deep within her. Her bones shifted, rearranging to make room for these new hurts.

She felt like she had stepped outside of herself. Like her body was on the floor, she was watching as Satoru's leaned and kissed her forehead one last time, then those two fingers touched her forehead and stopped her bones from fracturing.

She was so warm now, warm and tired, drowning again in strange dreams and distorted memories. She felt like she was swimming in quicksand, and the harder she pulled away, the more quickly she was devoured. All she could think was that she felt an odd relief in the dark and dusty corners of her mind.

It was here, above her imaginary clouds, that she finally understood Icarus. She, too, was tempted to fly close to the sun, and now she was burned. Her ashes had no home to house.

The blackness buried her in its folds.

Tag list: @hecateria @whattowritewhattonot @@readxeer00 @sunamew @yoongi-holland @sanokana @soft--grunge--burrito @move-in-mysterious-ways @tanu003097 @spookytreeeagle @wonderlandjthedaydreamer @littlecarrot06 @kurooyy @angeliccutie007 @misaki17 @yungliddysyx @nanamiswh0r3 @smokeyfuzz @sumii @zukisbabe @geidly @evalynanne @antheialy

#gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo fluff #gojo satoru smut #gojou satoru x reader #satoru gojo angst #satoru gojo fanfic #satoru gojo x you #gojo smut #satoru gojou smut #satoru gojo smut #gojo satoru #gojo angst #gojou x reader #gojou angst #jjk smut #satoru gojo x y/n #gojou smut #gojo satoru x y/n #saturo gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #gojo sex #gojo fluff #satoru gojo #gojo x reader #satoru gojo x oc #gojou satoru x y/n #jujutsu kaisen gojo #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu kaisen

[h1myname1sv]

FIC UPDATE: Side by Side 9/14

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: implied/referenced torture Fandoms: Star Wars, Clone Wars Relationships: Commander Cody & Obi-Wan, Commander Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi Characters: Commander Cody, Obi-Wan Kenobi Additional Tags: Whumptober, Whumptober 2023, Whump, Angst, Tragedy, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Hurt Commander Cody, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Commander Cody Needs a Hug, Protective Obi-Wan Kenobi, Protective Commander Cody, Developing Relationship, Bittersweet Ending, POV Alternating, Idiots in Love, War, Not a Fix-It, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt, I love these two so much ahhh, which of course means I'm gonna hurt them Wordcount: 9k Summary:

Glimpses of pain within and pain shared between a general and a commander during a war that never seems to end. (Based on the Whumptober 2023 prompts on tumblr.)

Excerpt:

With gentle hands, Cody rubs bacta onto Obi-Wan's neck, over the old scars and the open wounds that will make new ones. Obi-Wan sits on the ground in his fresher and stares listlessly into the darkness of the entryway, leading to the darkness of his own room.

He's exhausted. It's supposedly the night cycle. He can't sleep.

He feels like he should be devastated about something that has already happened (only a few rotations ago), but he is only numb. He blinks slowly as Cody finishes and wraps bandages around his neck as softly as can be expected, after one has been held captive with a Force suppression collar.

Cody moves to kneel in front of Obi-Wan once he's done, looking Obi-Wan over for injuries where there shouldn't be, not anymore. Obi-Wan doesn't feel any pain—doesn't feel much of anything, to be completely honest—so he must be on his way to being healed. No fresh wounds until the next battle, or whenever he will inevitably be hurt again. That tends to be what happens in war.

"Thank you," he rasps out. Cody deserves so much more than that, but Obi-Wan can't muster up the strength to give it to him.

"You're welcome, Obi-Wan," Cody murmurs, and the intimacy of this, of Cody tending for his wounds in his fresher during the middle of the night under harsh fluorescent lighting...Obi-Wan registers it, but only vaguely.

#whumptober2023 #no.17 #collar #star wars #fic #torture #fanfic #clone wars #commander cody #obi wan kenobi #codywan #side by side #whump #whumptober #whumptober 2023

[viscerate]

i wasn't going to talk about it in length but for clarity's sake i have to say more

there is certainly a level of luxury and privilege in not living the reality where my family, friends, and countrymen are mercilessly exterminated the way palestinians currently are. the footage is extremely important and people need to be aware of the brutality. no one should ever have to go through any of that. likewise, no one should have to see graphic photos of children dying, covered in blood, missing limbs, or lying pale and lifeless next to their also dead family. i think that footage has a purpose, but in any educational setting, it would be given a strong and explicit warning. i was upset because there was absolutely no warning about what the videos would show in the description, and they play automatically. i was very upset to see that. saying "grow a thicker skin" sounds akin to "get over it". you shouldn't have a ""thick skin"" about seeing content like that. it sounds like you are numb to how tragic the videos are. which is strange, because following up with "think about how their families feel" is.... do you think i didn't? i have no idea how you could even reasonably follow up with that. of course i thought about that. is that not precisely what makes it so upsetting? of course seeing pictures of real dead people is shocking and upsetting, what makes it worse when it's children is the entire "children have families that care about them and their whole lives ahead of them" thing. like i'm really stumped. i don't get what anon thought i was saying. did they think i'm annoyed with seeing people talk about the war? lastly it is completely possible to care about the tragedy without being exposed to graphic images and videos.

to be completely honest i think they were upset because they don't want to warn, or don't think such footage needs any warning. or somehow it's an ego thing, and they are being the better supporter by being so incredibly Thick Skinned that this doesn't affect them emotionally anymore.

[elvesofnoldor]

People who said that lestat is simply acting like a "bad person" sometimes or claimed that lestat is a totally different Guy in the vampire lestat (1985) probably just never understood who he is as a character and aren't interested in understanding him either. This is not about the dictonomy of good and evil, this is about what being trapped in pain does to people. Lestat is dead! What is good and evil to a dead person! Lestat functions the same way a vengeful spirit does: he died from traumatic death and couldn't moved on, so he continued on wrong and trapped in their own pain, bound to inflicting death and suffering on people around them!

if you pay attention to how he's portrayed in IWTV, then you'd see that the vampire lestat does not actually contradict its text in any substantial way. Louis never cared to understand Lestat as a person--he said that numerous times at the beginning of IWTV--but from his outside perspective, he did spot something about the way Lestat behaved as a vampire that better explains what makes him tick as a vampire/undead. Now, not to quote Tom Cruise of all people, but after Anne Rice yelled at him, he did seem to understand Lestat a bit better; he said that lestat did everything from a place of love and longing (check mark, correct), but he did them with sadism (bad phrasing, only pointed out the symptom not the cause, ultimately incorrect). Now, in life Lestat was a good and loving person, and in death, his actions were tainted with pain, vengeance and resentment--not sadism. Lestat died way too young, with too much hope in his heart and with too much love left to give. Lestat and Nicholas, the young man he was in love with, saved each other in Paris. Lestat was full of so much hope pursuing a life doing something he was passionated about. He ran away from his abusive family with the blessing of his mother, and now finally he could breath. And then boom, just like that, out of nowhere and for no reason at all, all of that went up in smoke. Lestat suffered a very traumatic death at only the age of 21, and he was forced to make an impossible choice: walk into the sunlight and embrace agony and true death, accepting the fact that he died and he had to leave his beloved Nicki, his friends, and his life full of promises and hope behind, or, he can continue as a vampire/a undead and try to make life works for him in this new and horrible state of being. But like all human being, he feared horrible pain and he could not let go of earthly attachments. He knew his death was not fair, that it was not just, and that he suffered death for no reason at all. If life could be taken from him for no reason, why shouldn't he take the life that he needed to continue his existence? Why should he suffer for something he was not responsible for? It is not theft if you are taking what should have been yours anyways, right? Sadly, no, It's selfish to wantonly inflict misfortunes on others just because you yourself have suffered tragedy, but Lestat was in pain, and he could not stop mourning his unjustly stolen life, so he must avenge such injustice with the lives of others. It's very hard to care whether your actions are selfish or not when you are in pain.

I think it kills Lestat to admit how apathetic and cruel he's become just to cope with/numb the pain and horror of having to take the life of others to sustain his own. He claimed that he tend to claim the lives of those who has done "evil", but such justification doesn't really stand on its two legs, it is just an excuse he made up to avoid facing the sort of person he has deteriorated into in death. With no way to understand his own capability for violence, Lestat likes to think himself as "the devil", as inherently evil, because he could not understand why he would kill over and over again to feed on people as a vampire. This rigid model of "good" and evil" doesn't help him to understand himself as a person, or help him to act like a more human and better version of himself. Honestly, such model doesn't really help you to understand him a character either.

#yes lestat does not understand himself very well and he does not explain himself very well #he was literally Jared. 19 and also he was still in love with his abuser who did nothing but to use Lestat's guilt and self-hate #to make himself feel like a better person #so give him a break lmao #mae overshares

[zube]

Sprinkle Some Money On It

I attended Michigan State University in the mid 2000s, so obviously my social feeds are full of an outpouring of grief, anger, shock, and all other types of emotional outpourings we as Americans have become all too familiar with. I get to experience this tragedy in a new way, however, as I now have people asking me what they can do to help, and most often, where can they make a contribution to help. I truly believe this comes from a good place. I have even privately donated some money myself to help cater some meals for the counselors who are now on campus providing care. But I'm not going to say where to donate, and I'm not entirely certain that donation does much. Here's the crux: money doesn't make this better. Money doesn't do much to help at all. But America loves donating. It's easy, it's relatively cheap, and it can give us a sense of accomplishment. We can feel like we helped without having to actually give up much at all.

Perhaps in a more stoic mindset, I could plumb my mind for the reasons donations are so valuable. Certainly I can think of victims that survive needing medical bill assistance. I'm also not discounting that survivors may need access to new services, equipment, and counseling. All of those cost money. All of us would benefit from help there. I see these as systematic failures, however. But, I am not wholly discounting the need for donations. My main point here is that donations are our default - and that's a problem.

As a broad generalization, Americans seem to want to sprinkle money on problems as though that's a solution. Politicians are going to ask for donations so they can help our communities be safer. People will donate to organizations that support gun violence legislation. None of those work without people showing up to hearings, voting, calling their reps, holding reps responsible when they don't do anything, or worse yet, recite gun lobby talking points.

We need effort not money. We need to understand gun violence research. We need to insist that gun violence research be permitted in the first place. We need to move beyond meme-level arguments. Guns don't kill people, people kill people opposition just doesn't cut it anymore. Of course violence is easier when there is ready access to and the ability to conceal tools that are designed to inflict damage. But we can't just focus on the guns alone. I do not claim to be an expert here, but is seems like the leading causes of gun violence are:

Despair

Depression

Anger

Resentment

We need to do something about that. Why are we ok with a society that requires people to fall through a concrete floor before they get to a safety net? Why are community mental health/counseling services so inaccessible to so many in need? Why are we comfortable providing platforms for people to stoke violence without consequence? Why do we seemingly want a culture of individuals ready to personally defend themselves at all times. As a friend pointed out in another post, we shouldn't want to live in a John Wayne movie. I really enjoy post-apocalyptic fiction. Because it's fiction. I don't want to live it.

There's more to write, but I don't think I can. I'm upset but more at how numbing and mundane these acts of violence are. And we're not going to do anything about it. So, sprinkle some money on it. And I'll see you next shooting. Different time, different place, same outcome.

[bentacled]

diego hargreeves ... it doesn't matter because you're dead

IT   IS   NOT   OFTEN   THAT   ben   visits   his   siblings,   though   he   tries   to   check   on   them   monthly,   drifting   in   and   out   of   their   lives   like   a   frigid   breeze   that   freezes   your   bones   and   spins   a   numbing   feeling   in   your   soul,   hard   to   shake,   hard   to   recognize,   hard   to   like.   he   took   advantage   of   when   klaus   was   asleep   and   therefore   partially   safe,   and   travelled,   passing   through   people   who   did   not   see   him,   who   paid   no   attention   to   him.  

he   told   himself   that   the   way   their   eyes   overlooked   his   frame,   hues   unseeing,   did   not   hurt.   after   seventeen   years,   it   shouldn't   hurt.   he   should   have   grown   thicker   skin   and   sturdier   fortitudes.   and   yet,   he   felt   their   unwanted,   inadvertent   disregard   like   a   dagger   through   a   heart   that   had   lain   defunct   years   ago,   overgrown   with   vines   that   squeezed   and   squeezed   until   useless   organ   was   reduced   to   ashes   (   dad   would   be   disappointed,   but   wasn't   he   always ?   he   could   still   hear   his   voice,   clear   as   day:   you're   such   a   disappointment,   number   six.   could   never   live   up   to   your   potential   ).   tonight,   he   was   visiting   diego,   sitting   next   to   him   on   a   porch   darkened   by   the   dusk   that   stretched   over   their   heads,   listening   to   his   brother   talk,   as   if   the   wind   itself   could   give   him   an   answer.   it's   not   unusual,   and   he   settles   in   the   familiarity   of   it   all,   when   suddenly,   he   hears   it,   his   name,   followed   by   a   book   title.   

'   you   would   have   liked   it   '   @hasknife   whispers,   and   talks   a   little   about   its   contents,   about   the   tragedies   and   victories   that   stain   the   pages,   and   ben   sees   the   ghost   of   a   smile   creep   across   his   brother's   lips,   his   eyes   taking   on   a   sparkle   ben   hasn't   seen   since   they   were   little.   the   sparkle   of   youth   unsullied.   however,   the   sparkle   fades,   replaced   by   a   hardness   that   has   turned   number   two's   heart   to   stone.   '   IT   DOESN'T   MATTER   BECAUSE   YOU'RE   DEAD   '   he   whispers   then,   and   it's   as   if   something   has   physically   shoved   ben,   as   he   jerks   back,   features   sinking   in   squalor.   

he   wants   to   reach   up,   to   comfort   him,   to   tell   him   he's   still   there,   but   what   good   would   that   do ?   he   looks   down   at   the   rotting   stairs   that   hold   the   weight   of   the   world,   and   swallows   hard.   diego   recommending   books   to   him,   who   would   have   thought   ?   '   i   didn't   even   know   you   could   read,   '   ben   replies,   then,   because   it's   silly,   because   it's   a   reminder   of   when   they   were   kids,   of   the   fire   that   was   lit   when   they   made   fun   of   each   other   in   friendly   banter,   of   the   bond   that   united   and   represented   them   as   family.   he   shakes   his   head,   and   smiles,   smiles   with   all   the   strength   of   his   inescapable   ruefulness   and   contrition,   and   promises   to   remember   the   title   and   to   ask   klaus   afterwards   if   he   could   get   it   for   him.   he   promises   to   keep   coming   back,   promises   not   to   leave   him   alone,   ever.

#&. answered ! #well well well #how are we feeling :) #hasknife #ALSO THIS GOT AWAY FROM ME

[ijustkindalikebooks]

Review: The House Across The Lake by Riley Sager.

It looks like a familiar story: A woman reeling from a great loss with too much time on her hands and too much booze in her glass watches her neighbors, sees things she shouldn't see, and starts to suspect the worst. But looks can be deceiving...

Everything about the Royces seems perfect. Their marriage. Their house. The bucolic lake it sits beside. But when Katherine suddenly vanishes, Casey becomes obsessed with finding out what happened to her. In the process, she discovers the darker truths lurking just beneath the surface of the Royces' picture-perfect marriage. Truths no suspicious voyeur could begin to imagine--even with a few drinks under her belt.

After reading one of Riley Sager's previous books, I really wanted to read more even with such mixed views on their books, so I was a sceptic, but this book certainly set me on my way to being a believer.

One of my favourite films is Rear Window, so I knew going into this book I will probably enjoy this book going from the description, a girl watches the house across the lake and then someone disappears and she becomes the hunted after observing the people that live close by and I did. I really loved the tension the story built, the twists and the characters that come to life on these pages.

Casey is a great protagonist, a spiralling actress who has turned to drinking to numb herself after tragedy, her thoughts and observations on the couple across the water are interesting and in combination with the side characters build and craft an incredible story. I feel like Sager writes book you want to read twice, just to make sure you didn't miss something on the way and this is one of those books for me.

A really great read, especially if you were on holiday reading it like I was, this would be a great read for the journey, or the beach, or well anywhere.

(Thanks to Netgalley for the ARC for honest review).

#books #booklr #bookblr #fiction #riley sager #book review #book reviews #the house across the lake #book

[unboundtravels]

𝑼𝒏𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒅 : 𝑨𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒆𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 

@metrictita asked: "Well, isn't this interesting?" 𝑀a𝑙a𝑐h𝑖 mused whilst his eyes remained steadfast upon the war doctor's form, an uncanny smile lingering upon his features. & with the snap of gloved fingers a plushie in the shape of a wolf falls into the other's hands. "lonely, so lonely . . . always fighting alone, aren't we? but doesn't this go against everything they stand for." a pause, accompanied by a chuckle. "shouldn't you go and find your pack? a lone wolf is never strong on its own." 

The field in which they stand is littered with debris. A petrified forest on the edge of what was once a populated, beautiful galaxy. Dust and ash cake his form, making the brown leather of his U-boat jacket look like a dusty grey. Fibers of ash dot his hair, whilst soot marks and bruises litter his face and knuckles. Tired, empty brown eyes trail upward and his eyes look distant and numb. The tie keeping his hair wrapped in a bun is looser. The devastation that has ravaged this world is evident only by a dying flame reflected in the warrior's eyes. A long, heavy sigh escapes him as he traces his fingertips over the band-aid on his nose. 

Then he hears that voice.

His back remains turned toward the voice, and the way it creeps down against his spine makes the warrior feel as if the voice is all around him. Like gangly, spindly fingers, he can feel the pinpricks of an invisible force attempting to penetrate his mind. He remains firm, his shoulders (albeit weighted) remain upright and his fists remain tight. Until suddenly they're filled with something soft and plush. Finally, his eyes travel down to what's in his hand. He can't quite describe the feelings manifesting on his features. Numbness, mostly. He wonders if the entity picked this up from the rubble of the waste. 

There's only silence from him. For a moment, anyway. His fingers trace over the object in his hand and his eyes remain in a heavy, half-lidded motion. A singular exhale is all that's audible. Purposeful release. He doesn't give the entity as much energy as the renegade feels he's craving. He simply looks up at the air, watching as it turns red. There's a moment where he lets the ash seemingly cling to his face like it's rain pouring down on him. Eventually, he opens his eyes and looks forward. His voice slips out, an old man's voice creeping out from a young visage. Weighted down by the tragedies that have set the universe aflame. Tragedies that have allowed malicious entities like himself to creep out into the open, to touch what they normally cannot. To take what they normally shouldn't. Nobody's standing at the gates, nobody's defending the line. 

Not at first, anyway.

"You seem to have me confused with someone else."

He turns to half-face the entity. Malachi meets empty eyes, absent of light. The flickering of flame reflected in the deep pupils. He holds the plushie as if he's holding something dear. It's not dear to him, but it's dear to everyone else. Everyone he's fighting for. Despite the fact he stands alone on this battlefield, he stands his ground against the presence standing before him, the one that attempts to seep into his soul. Despite the choices he's made, despite the blood on his hands— he's no coward. He's in this deep, and there's no going back for him. Doctor no more. 

"I don't have a desire to run with my pack." He states firmly, "I'm sure you've seen the chaos they've wrought. It's bad enough that they started this war... but for me to fight alongside them is an insult to those who can't fight for themselves." He sets the beanie baby down gently before he turns to face Malachi in full. His hands remain at his side. He inhales firmly, and his eyes open. "I do fine on my own, anyways." That flickering of flame is brighter in his eyes as he states it. 

After all...

He's alone on this battlefield for a reason. If Malachi's looking to find out, then the warrior is all but happy to oblige.

#!!!. {in character | ic} #x. {the war doctor} #metrictita #//WELP #//THIS IS #//Vee: sends me a beanie baby #//Me: Casually giving myself hate ship fuel.