#nothing more profound than that I'm afraid

[heavywoolcoat]

#the prompt is (if you didn't guess already) 'rush' #this is a bit late #but i had to catch up on some sleep #which i #(like every normal person) #do at the end of every month #as for the subpar artwork #i just thought that these two album covers reminded me of each other #🤷‍♂️ #nothing more profound than that I'm afraid #inktober? #pinktober #syd barrett #pink floyd #I have very mixed feelings regarding rush #none of them good #that was #of course #a joke #(saying this #I've had a rush song on repeat for 2 weeks and only just now realised it was in fact a song by rush)

[sinkovia]

Yes, Lieutenant: IV

Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

Yes, Lieutenant Masterlist

As you struggled to break free from the confines of unconsciousness, the world around you remained hazy and distant. The whispers of Ghost's words continued to echo in your mind, a lifeline pulling you back to reality.

It had been a month of hearing him sit by your side, talking to you, his voice a constant presence in your life, even in the darkest depths of your coma.

Slowly, like a ship emerging from a thick fog, you began to regain consciousness. Your senses gradually returned, and the first thing you noticed was the sound of Ghost's soft breathing nearby. Your eyes fluttered open, and you saw him, asleep with his head resting on the side of your hospital bed. His presence, familiar and comforting, washed over you like a warm embrace.

Summoning every ounce of your strength, you lifted your hand, trembling slightly, and placed it over his. It was a tender touch, a silent acknowledgment of his unwavering devotion throughout this ordeal.

Your touch, so gentle, stirred Ghost from his sleep. His eyes snapped open, and he blinked in disbelief as he saw you, conscious and looking back at him.

He stared at you, speechless, as if afraid that this moment was too fragile to be real. Slowly, his hand rose, cupping your cheek with a trembling touch as he scanned your face, as if reassuring himself that you were indeed awake, that you were going to be okay. His eyes glistened with emotions, and he let out a shaky breath.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words catching in his throat, heavy with remorse.

With a small, understanding smile, you gently placed your hand over his.

"Its okay Ghost, I heard everything" He let out a small exhale.

"Simon."

With a gentle, reassuring smile, you looked into Ghost's eyes, his emotions laid bare before you.

"Simon," you said softly, the name carrying a profound significance. It was more than just a name; it was an acknowledgment, a bridge between the two of you. As the word left your lips, you watched as Ghost closed his eyes, as if savoring the sound of your voice saying his name.

He had kept his true identity hidden, a mask worn in the world of covert operations, but in this vulnerable moment, he wanted nothing more than to be himself with you. You had that effect on him, the power to strip away the layers and reveal the man beneath the mask.

He opened his eyes, and they bore a mixture of gratitude, relief, and affection. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice laced with sincerity.

The Doctor walked into the room, a warm smile on his face, and a clipboard in his hand. He greeted you and simon, then began his examination.

"Good news," he said, his eyes scanning your chart. "Your shoulder is healing beautifully. In another week or so, it should be fully recovered. Your stitches have healed remarkably well, leaving only faint scars. Are you feeling any pain?"

You took a moment to assess yourself. "I'm a bit stiff, other than that, I feel okay."

He nodded approvingly. "That's to be expected. Just take it easy and don't overexert yourself."

A week passed by in a blur, with Simon visiting you every day, bringing flowers and fast food to combat the hospital's less-than-stellar cuisine. As the days went by, the anticipation of returning to the base grew stronger, especially with Simon at your side.

When the day finally arrived the welcome back was nothing short of heartwarming. 

As you walked through the doors of the base, a wave of relief washed over you. The familiar sights and sounds of the base felt like a warm embrace after the ordeal you had been through. Your team members were waiting for you, their expressions a mix of concern and relief.

"Welcome back, soldier!" Price's voice boomed across the room as he approached you, a rare smile gracing his usually stern features. "We're glad to see you're up and about."

You offered him a smile in return, grateful for his words of welcome. The rest of your team gathered around, offering words of encouragement and support.

"Yeah, we missed having you around," Gaz chimed in, a hint of relief evident in his voice as he lightly tapped your shoulder.

"We've been holding down the fort for you," Soap added with a grin, trying to lighten the mood.

You felt a surge of gratitude wash over you as you looked at your teammates. Despite the dangers you faced, you knew you could always count on them to have your back.

"Thanks, everyone," you said, your voice filled with genuine appreciation. "It feels good to be back." The tension of the past few weeks melted away as you shared a moment of camaraderie with your team, grateful for their unwavering support.

As you walked through the corridors of the base, Simon walked alongside you, his presence comforting by your side. You felt a bit unsteady on your feet, the lingering effects of your injury still evident.

"Are you okay?" Simon asked, concern evident in his voice as he noticed you stumble slightly.

You nodded, offering him a reassuring smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just still getting used to being on my feet again."

Simon nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he spoke again. "Listen, I was thinking... would you like to go to dinner tomorrow night? Just the two of us?"

His words caught you off guard, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest at the thought of spending more time with him.

You smiled, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, I'd like that. Dinner sounds great."

Simon returned your smile. "It's a date then. I'll pick you up tomorrow evening?"

You nodded, feeling a flutter of anticipation in your stomach. "Sounds perfect. I'll see you then."

He returned your smile, a hint of something more in his eyes as he bid you goodnight before heading off down the hallway, leaving you with a fluttering feeling in your chest and a smile on your face.

As you finished getting ready for your dinner with Simon, you couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement mixed with nervous anticipation. When you heard a knock at the door, your heart skipped a beat.

You opened it to find Simon standing there, looking handsome and rugged without his balaclava for the first time. His presence filled the doorway, and you couldn't help but admire the strong lines of his face.

"You look gorgeous, love" he greeted you gruffly, his voice carrying a hint of warmth underneath the rough exterior.

A warmth crept onto your cheeks at his compliment, and you smiled gratefully as he handed you a bouquet of flowers. It was a thoughtful gesture that touched your heart, and you couldn't help but feel a surge of affection.

"Oh gosh Simon, these flowers are so beautiful!" 

He nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Thought you might like them."

As you stepped out of your room and closed the door behind you, Simon offered you his arm, and you took it, your hand wrapped over his strong muscular bicep.

The night air was crisp and cool as you stepped out of the base, Simon's hand intertwined with yours. His touch sent a comforting warmth through you.

Your first stop was the movie theater, where the latest installment of your favorite franchise was playing. You had talked endlessly about it with Simon during late-night conversations in the rec room, and he remembered how much you were looking forward to seeing it. True to his thoughtful nature, he had secured tickets in advance, ensuring that you could enjoy the film together.

As you settled into your seats in the dimly lit theater, the anticipation bubbled inside you. Simon's hand remained firmly clasped in yours, a silent reassurance in the darkness. The movie began, and you were quickly swept away by the familiar characters and thrilling storyline.

Throughout the film, you were completely engrossed, the world around you fading as you became lost in the cinematic plot. Simon's presence beside you only heightened the experience, his occasional whispered comments drawing a smile to your lips.

As the credits rolled and the lights came up, you turned to Simon with a radiant smile, “Ugh It was so good I'm sad it's over, what did you think about it?”

Simon thought to himself for a moment thinking of what to say, half of the movie he spent staring at you, and the other half he didn't know what the fuck was going on.

“It was… good. Bit confusing.” You hummed and patted his hand, “Maybe we can watch the first two movies and hopefully you’ll understand it after.” Simon agreed as you both got up and made your way to the exit.

After the movie, you and Simon walked to a nearby restaurant, your excitement still evident as you ranted about the movie's ending. You wished he had seen the first two movies so he could fully appreciate the storyline, but he listened attentively nonetheless.

The restaurant exuded a cozy, intimate atmosphere, with soft lighting casting a warm glow over the space. Simon pulled out your chair with a gentlemanly grace, eliciting a smile from you as you settled into your seat.

As you indulged in the meal, conversation flowed effortlessly between you and Ghost, topics shifting seamlessly from lighthearted banter to deeper reflections, from your favorite movies to your most memorable missions. You found joy in the simple pleasure of being together, relishing each moment.

After dinner, as you made your way back to the base, the night air was cool against your skin. The streets were quieter now, and you and Simon walked hand in hand, the gentle rhythm of your footsteps echoing in the stillness.

As you arrived at your door, you turned to Simon, gratitude shining in your eyes as you thanked him for the wonderful evening. 

"Thank you for tonight, Simon, I had alot of fun with you. Hopefully we can do it again soon" you said with a smile, feeling the weight of the pleasant evening.

Simon's response was immediate and genuine, his eyes reflecting the sincerity of his words. "Of course love, anytime. I'll take you out as many times as you want, just to see you happy."

His words filled you with warmth, and you couldn't help but return his smile. There was a silent understanding between you, a connection that seemed to pull you closer. As your gazes locked, you both felt the magnetic pull.

Without hesitation, you leaned in, meeting his lips in a soft, tender kiss. Simon's hand gently cupped your cheek, his lips moving against yours with a gentle, reassuring touch. It was a stark contrast to the intensity of your previous encounter in the communal showers, but this softer, more affectionate side of Simon was one you much preferred.

Breaking apart, you both smiled, the air tinged with a sense of warmth. You savored the lingering closeness, a silent understanding passing between you that this was a new beginning for both of you. 

"I'll see you tomorrow," Simon murmured through a wide grin, his voice warm with affection. "Goodnight sweetheart."

As Simon bid you farewell and turned to leave, your heart swelled with contentment, grateful for the journey that had brought you to this moment. With a sense of peace and fulfillment, you entered your room, reflecting on how far you had come since that fateful day in the communal showers, your heart full with the promise of tomorrow.

#call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod fanfic #cod modern warfare #cod x reader #cod mw2 #call of duty #writers #cod mw3 #cod mwii #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon x reader #simon riley #simon riley cod #ghost mw2 #mw2 ghost #ghost call of duty #simon riley imagine #simon riley fanfic #cod simon riley #simon riley x female reader #simon riley x y/n #simon ghost riley mw3 #simon ghost x you #simon ghost riley x you

[ginnsbaker]

Bulletproof - Alternative Ending

Summary: Starts immediately after Chapter 5 where you unwittingly sacrificed yourself to keep Wanda alive.

Word count: 5k+ | Tags: Angst and character death(s) | Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Gender Neutral Reader

Author's Note: This was suggested by @dogsandlife, and I'm super glad for it because I was already toying with this idea. I just couldn't bring myself to hurt most of you so I went ahead with the other plot. But for my angst-loving readers, I hope you enjoy this alternative ending :)

Series Masterlist

-

The compound is anything but quiet. 

One can hear hushed whispers, the shuffling of feet, and the distant drones of machines. It's not loud, but there's a heavy feeling in the air. Grief. Everyone's dealing with the recent destruction—surgeries, reports, nights where sleep just didn’t come. Death. 

Today's supposed to help them find some closure, but it's obvious a lot of them aren't there yet.

Steve stands at Wanda's door, fist raised. He hesitates, almost knocking a few times, but eventually just taps softly with his knuckle on the wooden panel. “Wanda?” he asks, trying to sound as normal as possible.

Nothing.

She hasn't been seen since the first night they arrived at the other base, where Wanda went straight to the room she was assigned to. The only clue that she's still managing is that Vision leaves food outside her door every day, and when he returns later in the day, most of it remains untouched, but he can tell Wanda has taken at least a bite or two. 

It’s far from the ideal diet of an Avenger, which leaves Wanda being indisposed in the meantime; though the rest of the team was successful in neutralizing and the people who masterminded the attack on the compound two weeks ago. 

Out of concern for how she might react, especially given how deeply your loss affected her, the team has kept this news from Wanda. They want to ensure the prisoners are safely relocated to a hard-to-track location before she learns of it. There's a shared apprehension that if Wanda discovers this prematurely, she might take matters into her own hands.

Steve senses that Wanda might already be aware, and her chilling silence may not just be due to grief. Part of it could stem from her resentment towards the team for withholding the information, preventing her from seeking the second thing she desires most after having you back—revenge.

(What Wanda yearns for the most is your return, but that's a reality no longer possible in this universe.)

Despite this, Steve pushes on, “The ceremony's about to start. Everyone's waiting. We don’t want to start without you. They were important to all of us, but I get that they were even more to you.”

The stillness from the other side of the door is almost suffocating.

Steve’s voice becomes impossibly softer as he tries again, “Wanda, I can't imagine how you feel right now. But we're here for you. We're family, remember?”

Steve strains his ears, hoping to catch the faintest whisper from Wanda, but the only sound that meets him is the steady hum of the central air conditioning. Time drags on awkwardly, and just when Steve is about to leave, a faint, broken voice emerges from the room. 

“They're gone, Steve.”

Swallowing hard, Steve nods, voice thick. “I know, Wanda. I know.”

He does know. Perhaps more than anyone on the team, save for Natasha. He's experienced profound losses throughout his life: his best friend, the woman he loved, even time and an entire era.

He wants to impart all of these to Wanda, but he’s afraid of invalidating the pain that Wanda’s feeling right now. 

And so, a brief, quiet moment passes between them before Steve rejoins the others.

-

The scene is chaos—the aftermath of unimaginable power unchecked.

Dust fills the air, and broken debris is scattered everywhere. The once-familiar corridors of the team's quarters are now unrecognizable. Everything is obliterated. The structure has been reduced to fine dust, making it impossible to discern that the remnants were once beds or lamps. Not even sound escaped her wrath.

The others soon rush in, Steve, Natasha, and Sam at the forefront. The sight that greets them is unlike anything they’ve ever seen before. Everything is utterly pulverized, and at the epicenter is Wanda, holding your limp body close to her.

For a moment, the scene before them leaves them at a loss for words, until Steve's gaze locks onto you, covered in blood with your arms hanging lifelessly. Steve radios the others, quickly outlining the situation. He struggles to describe it without revealing the full extent of Wanda’s powers, of which they were previously unaware.

Sam surveys the area for potential threats. “All clear!” he announces, not realizing the hidden danger masked by the visage of a mourning ally. Steve, however, spots it immediately from a distance.

The situation isn't volatile due to enemies nearby.

It's volatile because of Wanda.

“Wanda, what happened?” Natasha ventures, attempting to cut through the escalating tension. Yet Wanda's eyes stay locked on you, murmuring unintelligibly under her breath.

“Wanda!” Natasha's voice sharpens with alarm. “Snap out of it!”

But Wanda refuses to budge, ensnared in her own maelstrom of anguish and remorse. As her hands begin to glow with a familiar red hue, she whispers, her lips curling in a crazed half-smile, “I can save you.” 

Recognizing the imminent danger of Wanda's erratic powers, Natasha lunges forward to intervene. “Wanda, no!”

Her plea is met with an almost tangible wave of force. The sheer power from Wanda's emotions sends Natasha hurtling backwards, taking her off her feet. Recognizing both the immediate peril and a fleeting chance, Steve reacts without hesitation. He gathers you into his arms, holding you close to shield you, and makes a break for the Quinjet's safety.

Sam, after a momentary stagger, hurries over to Natasha's side. He extends a hand, helping her to rise. Together, they turn their attention back to Wanda, eyes fixed as they witness the raw display of her struggle, the internal battle to regain control over her formidable powers. Eventually, as if a storm subsides, Wanda's energy recedes. She collapses, emotionally and physically spent. Her eyes glisten with tears that soon spill over. 

“I—I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry…” Wanda stammers, bringing a hand to her mouth in horror at her actions.

Natasha cautiously approaches, ignoring the lingering pain from her fall. She carefully wraps an arm around Wanda, offering what comfort she can. “It’s okay,” she whispers, trying to sound more confident than she feels.

Sam surveys the scene, taking in the devastation and recognizing that not all of it was the enemy's handiwork. “We can't stay here,” he warns urgently. “We'll have company soon, and not the kind we want.”

Emerging from the Quinjet, Steve's motions for them to hurry. “Let’s go. Y/N needs help. Now.”

Natasha quickly takes in Wanda's dazed state and knows she needs to act. “Come on, we need to move,” she says, gently guiding her friend by the arm toward the jet.

As they get closer, Natasha throws a glance over her shoulder at Sam. “You coming?”

He hesitates, scanning the area. “I'm staying. Someone's got to help out here.”

She looks like she wants to argue, but with everything going on, she just nods, helping Wanda up the ramp. As the jet's engines ignite and they ascend, Sam's focus shifts back to the ground, the sheer magnitude of Wanda's episode hitting him. A distance away, he spots a few incinerated bodies, possibly caught in the sphere of Wanda’s wrath. Walking cautiously among the fallen, a chilling realization dawns on him: he can't tell who was with them and who was against. Allies and enemies, all indistinguishably mixed in the wake of Wanda's powers.

He feels a knot in his stomach. “Oh, Wanda,” he murmurs to himself, “what happened here?”

-

Though the clear skies suggest fair weather, the ceremony feels grim, leaving behind an eerie atmosphere that steadfastly clings to the hallways and corners you once roamed. All attendees are dressed in their finest black attire, but the pristine garments can't hide the profound sadness of the occasion.

Everyone is present except for a seat in the first row. Every now and then, Steve's eyes would drift toward the entrance, half-hoping, half-dreading that Wanda might walk in. The funeral begins with a brief sermon from a priest, despite no one being certain of your religious beliefs. Yet, it's protocol. It has always been the manner in which they bid farewell to a comrade, so everyone quietly follows suit.

Each of the Avengers, save for Wanda, takes a turn at the podium, sharing humorous and touching stories about you. They all wear the same regret and guilt on their faces, wishing they could have done more, could have treated you better, could have gotten to know you more. The eulogies are largely light in tone, and it's unclear whether it's because they wish to remember you fondly or if their bond with you was merely superficial and insincere.

Except for Daisy, the last person to speak, who seems to be taking it particularly hard. She gets choked up talking about how you took her under your wing, always sharing what you knew and helping her train. And when she needed a place to sleep, you gave her your own bed. She returns to her seat, tears silently streaming, and there's a brief, uneasy moment when no one steps in to comfort her.

They all glance around, seeking out Wanda. Their eyes eventually land on Steve, who simply responds with a solemn shake of his head. 

The entire ceremony lasts just under an hour. As the last notes of the eulogy fade and people start to head out, everyone gradually returns to their routine. For many, it's the last time they'll reflect or speak about you.

That same night, as Steve is about to wind down in his office, lost in thought, Vision phases through the wall. There's a resigned expression on Vision's face, momentarily making Steve forget that he isn't human. Reflecting later, Steve appreciates how Vision's virtue and outlook are more human-like than many individuals he's encountered throughout his life.

“Captain Rogers,” he starts, “Wanda has…chosen to sequester herself in Y/N's former cell.”

Steve looks up sharply, a crease forming on his brow. “Why would she do that?” 

He had anticipated something like this might occur, but he's baffled as to why Wanda would choose your old cell over your bedroom, where all your belongings still remain.

“I can't say I fully grasp the intricacies of the human heart, but maybe she's looking for a connection or a spot to grieve. Y/N’s room, with all its memories, might just be too overwhelming for her,” Vision offers, seemingly reading Steve's thoughts.

Hearing this, Steve glances at the approval document he must sign, allowing the compound's admin office to begin clearing out your bedroom. He's been putting off signing it, thinking Wanda might need more time with your belongings around. But now he wonders if erasing traces of you might help her come to terms with the loss.

Steve considers Vision’s words for a moment before nodding slowly. “Thanks, Vision. I'll go see her.”

-

Wanda is glued to your side, her fingers so tightly interwoven with yours that it's hard to tell where one hand ends and the other begins. Every now and then, she gently squeezes, perhaps hoping to feel a reassuring squeeze back. Her face is contorted, every line etched deep with raw pain, her eyes wet and reddened from endless tears. She looks at your hand, pale and devoid of its usual warmth, resting lifelessly in her grip.

But it's the faint, almost timid pulsation under her touch that keeps her from completely breaking down. Each breath you take is slow and labored, barely noticeable. But the quiet beep of the monitors serves as a constant reminder that there's still life within you. From time to time, she leans in, pressing her ear close to your chest, cherishing the gentle thud of your heartbeat, willing you to hold on just a little longer.

A while later, a group of nurses and doctors rush in, ready to prep you for surgery. Their hands move with purpose, reaching for various instruments and adjusting the array of machines beside your bed. That’s when, as if propelled by an invisible force, equipment flies off tables, and a few of the medical staff are pushed back against the walls. A nurse, caught off-guard, drops a syringe, its contents spilling onto the pristine floor. 

Natasha, having been alerted by the commotion, slips into the room, swiftly placing herself between Wanda and the medical staff.

“Wanda,” she implores cautiously, her eyes seeking the sorceress's, “let them do their job. He needs them.”

For a moment, it seems like she might snap, but then her gaze drops to the floor, tears spilling. As soon as they feel it’s safe, the medical staff decide that they need to move you immediately. The wheels of your bed squeak in protest as they begin to shift it out of the room.

Wanda's grip tightens on your hand, her knuckles white. She tries to follow, as if an invisible cord binds her to you. She mutters, almost inaudibly, “I won't leave them.”

One of the nurses, recognizing the precarious situation and the potential for Wanda's powers to erupt again, glances around hesitantly. They're all clearly apprehensive about telling Wanda she can't accompany you. It’s just in time that Steve finally arrives, quickly taking in the scene before him.

“Kid, it’s okay,” he murmurs quietly.

She turns to him, her eyes a storm of emotion, as she pleads, “No, it’s not. I need to be with them.”

“It’s not,” he confirms, offering her a sympathetic look. “But right now, they need to do their job. We have to trust them.”

But her grip on your hand doesn't loosen.

With a deep breath, Steve gently pries her fingers away from yours. It's a slow, agonizing process, each finger unlocking a fresh wave of sobs from Wanda. She resists, but Steve’s reassuring grip gives her no choice. Finally, as your hand slips away from hers, the reality of the situation hits anew.

As the medical team wheels you out of the room, Wanda collapses into Steve's arms, her cries a haunting sound in the tenebrous hallways of the hospital.

The long hours of surgery find Wanda staring into the void, her eyes wavering yet alert, even as exhaustion begins to bear down on her. A few feet away, a wall clock ticks on, displaying the agonizingly slow passage of time. She's acutely aware of each second, each minute, as they stretch into what feels like eons. Occasionally, her fingers would twitch, itching to do something, anything, to change the course of events. But they remain clenched in her lap, her knuckles white from the pressure.

Wanda isn't accustomed to the drawn-out dread of potentially losing someone. Her parents were taken away in an instant. Pietro saved Clint in a split-second, paying with his life. So, when the surgeon finally emerges, the expression on his face already giving away the news, Wanda can't stand it. She bolts.

Outside, the cold night air hits her, but she hardly feels it. Her feet carry her to a secluded spot in the hospital's garden, where the shadows from the trees envelope her. She sinks to the ground, her hands digging into the grass, seeking some form of grounding.

The rest of the team, still in the waiting room, exchange worried glances. Steve takes a step forward, as if to follow, but Natasha places a gentle hand on his arm.

“She needs a minute,” Natasha says quietly.

While they give Wanda time to process, the surgeon starts explaining the details, the clinical terms merging with the reality of what happened. The Avengers might face world-ending threats on a daily basis, but this personal loss, this kind of pain, hits different.

Little do they know that in the distance, Wanda's grief is causing ripples that are about to change everything.

-

Making his way through the maze of hallways, Steve's steps slow as he approaches the familiar penitentiary. He nears the familiar cell door, taking a moment to brace himself before nudging it open just slightly.

Inside, the room is dim, with just a small lamp fighting off the darkness. It's chilly, the sort of cold that seems to seep into your bones. There, on the simple bed, is Wanda, curled up and looking so small and vulnerable. Pushing the door open just a touch more, Steve walks in silently and sits beside Wanda. He doesn't say anything, instead he allows Wanda to acclimatize to his presence, to give her space and time to figure out that she’s not alone in this, never was.

After what seems like an eternity, Wanda, without looking at Steve, simply murmurs, “It's cold here.”

Steve just nods, at a loss for words. He takes off his jacket, trying to wrap it around her shoulders for comfort. But Wanda pushes it away, letting it drop to the ground. Steve clenches his jaw, recognizing that right now, reasoning with Wanda might be impossible.

Several beats pass before Wanda finally speaks up. “It should have been me,” she says, her voice as steely as the temperature of the room. “I should be the one in that grave.”

“Don't say that,” Steve insists, carefully placing a hand on her tense shoulder. “You couldn't have known.”

Wanda's eyes blaze with anger and sorrow. “I allowed it, Steve. I allowed Y/N to help me, to heal me. I let them drain their life to give to me.” Her voice wavers, and she trembles visibly. Steve can feel warmth where he's holding her but trusts that she won't lose control. “If Y/N hadn't found me, I'd be as good as dead. But now... they're gone, and I'm here.”

“Wanda, look at me,” he mutters, placing another hand on her other shoulder and twisting her gently so she can properly face him. His blue eyes seek out hers but she refuses to meet his gaze, eyes transfixed on the floor, lost and empty. “We make choices everyday. Choices that we think are for the best. You couldn't have predicted this outcome. None of us could.”

She angles her head, strands of hair partially covering her face, but one eye peeks through with a dangerous glint. “I let them step into danger, more than once. So try and tell me it's not on me.”

Steve, visibly unsettled, takes a ragged breath. “Wanda, I know it’s hard to understand now, to accept that what happened to Y/N is beyond your control. But we're all here for you, and if you need—”

“I don't want or need your help, Steve,” she retorts with an icy edge. “What I need is to be alone.”

Seeing the resolute, almost manic determination in her eyes, Steve hesitates before nodding slowly. “Alright,” he says.

“But remember this, Wanda,” Steve says, pausing at the threshold of the cell, a deep sadness in his eyes. “Y/N wouldn't want you to be alone, especially not like this.”

Wanda's lips twitch into a bitter smile. “What Y/N wanted doesn't matter now, does it? They're gone.”

Steve doesn't say anything else. He gives Wanda a long look, then walks out.

-

The pain is worse when she dreams.

In one of them, she relives a reality from before. She's transported back to a familiar morning. She remembers waking up in your room, the warmth of the sheets reminding her of the night before. Trying to push away her burgeoning feelings for you, she recalls inviting a stranger into her room, sharing some wine. But as he got closer, she pushed him away, realizing he wasn't what she truly wanted.

In her dream, she does things differently. Instead of slipping away like she did in reality, she lingers. She takes the time to study every detail of your face as you sleep—the freckles on your nose, the subtle movement of your lips as you mumble incoherent dreams, the occasional twitch of your eyelids. She gives in to an urge she had suppressed for the longest time, wrapping her arms around your waist, drawing you close. 

After what feels like hours, you stir. When you open your eyes, there's a brief moment of surprise before your lips curve into a soft, genuine smile, happy to see she's still there. Your fingers reach up, gently caressing her cheek. She leans into it, eyes closing for a moment as she takes in the sensation. “You stayed,” you murmur, your voice soft and filled with wonder.

Just as she's on the verge of promising to always stay by your side, Wanda jolts awake. Her smile fades the instant she grasps that it was all an illusion, a fleeting could-have-been.

The knife in her chest buries itself a little deeper after that. It does so again the following morning when she dreams of another memory, and in every version, she doesn't turn away from you.

- 

One day, a woman approaches Wanda, offering to help her uncover the secret to inhabiting her dreams.

“Not merely dreams,” the woman clarifies, “but alternate realities.” Her name is Agatha, and she persuades Wanda that these realities are rightfully hers, waiting for her to claim them. Desperate for a way to be with you again, even if it's in another reality, Wanda listens intently.

“Each reality is like a page in a book. Some might be nearly identical to yours, with just a slight deviation. Others could be drastically different. The key is knowing how to navigate and control them,” Agatha explains.

"How?" Wanda questions, hands buried in the pockets of her jacket, walking alongside Agatha on a nondescript street in Westview, New Jersey. She'd made her way there upon discovering you'd purchased property, curious to envision the life you'd planned for yourself, had you lived.

“It's not as simple as snapping one's fingers,” Agatha says. “But with the right guidance and knowledge, you can access these realities, live in them, even mold them to your desires.”

Wanda hesitates, sensing the potential dangers of meddling with the fabric of existence. “What's the price?” she asks. 

Agatha doesn't look too pleased with Wanda's display of intelligence and her knack for spotting the early signs of manipulation. But she gets the feeling that Wanda might not care if she's being used, as long as she gets what she wants out of it.

“Every powerful spell comes with its costs,” Agatha replies cryptically. “But isn't a chance to be with Y/N, to have a life where grief doesn't consume you, worth any price?”

Living day to day, clutching onto moments of happiness in her dreams, only to be jerked back into a reality she can't stand—it's wearing on Wanda. The dreams are great, sure, but they're just that—dreams. And when they're over, it's back to the harsh light of day, and the reality that you’re gone. She's stuck in this loop, bouncing between what she wishes her life could be and the real world that just won't let her catch a break. Every dream feels like a tease, a brief escape before she's pulled back into the grind.

“So? I don’t have all day, dear.” Agatha's tone is dripping with impatience, her sharp eyes fixed on Wanda.

Wanda swallows hard, her gaze darting around the empty street, as if cautious to anyone who might be eavesdropping on the conversation, before settling back on the older witch. “What do you want in return?”

A slow, sly smile spreads across Agatha's face, making the air around her grow even colder. She takes a deliberate step closer to Wanda, their faces now mere inches apart. “You’re a sly witch than I made you out to be, aren’t you?”

Wanda holds her ground. “I need to know.”

Agatha chuckles softly, her breath caressing Wanda's face. “We'll get to that,” she purrs, drawing the moment out just to relish Wanda's discomfort. She then leans in even closer, her voice dropping to a hushed, almost seductive whisper. “First, let's talk about how we can make your dreams come true.”

Wanda hesitates, torn between the desperation of her desires and the voice in her head urging her to decline the offer, to grieve and move forward like anyone else would.

To forget you.

“And why would I trust you?” Wanda counters instead, buying herself more time.

Agatha straightens up, her smile unwavering as she finally takes a step back. “Oh, darling, you shouldn’t. But sometimes, our wants make strange bedfellows. And right now, I'm the best chance you've got.”

-

Wanda's footsteps are hesitant as she approaches the rubble-strewn site, each broken brick and twisted piece of metal echoing memories of that fateful day. The boundaries between realities have always been thin for Wanda, a mere whisper away. And on the 436th day since your sacrifice, she finally musters the courage to cross them.

Witnessing it all from this vantage point—that of an observer—feels utterly surreal.

She remembers the pain, the slow dimming of consciousness, and the sensation of life slipping away. But in this reality, it was her other self who had been impaled, left to bleed out beneath the rubble. And you, who she loved dearly in every universe, had been spared.

Or at least, that’s how she intends it to happen for this reality.

Wanda's fingers twitch, and with a fierce concentration of her magic, she lifts the heavy boulder trapping her other self. A bright crimson glow surrounds it as it's lifted and tossed aside, revealing the horrific sight beneath.

The other Wanda is a haunting reflection of what she might have been, pale with trails of blood smeared across her lips. The fabric of her clothes is stained with the vivid red of her own blood, which pools around her. It's a sight that should send a wave of nausea through Wanda, but truthfully she feels nothing.

Gently, Wanda cradles the injured version of herself, her hands shaking as they brush away the dirt and blood from the other's face. She can't stop herself from checking for a pulse, even though ironically, she’s there to make sure it stops beating.

“Hey,” she murmurs, patting the alternate Wanda's cheek softly, urging her to focus. “Look at me.”

Slowly, those familiar eyes flutter open, clouded with pain. The shock and fear in them are palpable when they take in the sight of her savior—especially the distinct headpiece that marked her transformation into the Scarlet Witch.

“Who... are you?”

“I'm you,” Wanda says, and without waiting for a reply, sparing her other self the pain of speaking, she continues, “Y/N sacrificed so much for you. For us. They became our greatest pain, and our love. And they will be here any minute now.”

“W-What are you talking about—”

“They will be here to save you and make themselves vulnerable in the process. And they will die,” Wanda's breath hitches at that, causing her to pause momentarily. “You don’t want that, do you?”

Her fading counterpart shakes her head, tears streaming down her face.

“Good,” Wanda says, offering a comforting smile. “Then let go, and I’ll take care of Y/N. Okay?”

Without waiting for a response, Wanda turns the body in her embrace into red wisps that dance around her in the air. 

Then, aware that it'll only be moments before you reach the scene, Wanda morphs into the likeness of her younger self. She looks just like the other version, but without any injuries that might spur you into action.

“Wanda!” she hears your voice from a distance and her eyes water at the sound.

She's done the unimaginable, claiming the identity of this universe's Wanda, seconds after she erased her very existence. She takes deep, shaky breaths, trying to get into character. She needs you to believe it’s her, even though she’s forgotten herself how she used to be.

Your steps quicken, shoes crunching on rubble, until you're right in front of her, surveying her from head to toe, searching for any signs of injury. “Wanda...how?” Your eyes are wide, filled with disbelief and relief. “I thought I'd lost you.”

“I managed to shield myself just in time when—” She doesn’t get to finish her practiced response when you pull her into a tight embrace, and she leans into it, her body shaking with genuine sobs. Her face buries into the crook of your neck, feeling the warmth and familiarity of your smell and touch. It's a grounding sensation amidst the madness she has just endured and inflicted.

“It's okay,” you murmur, your voice trembling. “You're here now, and that's all that matters.” You can feel the dampness on your shirt where her tears have soaked through, and you tighten your grip around her.

“We need to get out of here,” you say, casting a glance around the ruins. “Let's find safety first, then we'll figure everything out.”

She nods, taking a deep breath to steady herself, wiping away her tears. “I'm sorry,” Wanda says, her voice catching in her throat.

“For what?” you ask, confused.

“For making you worry,” she says, avoiding your eyes. The guilt she feels is so much deeper than what you perceive, but now isn’t the time to delve into it. 

She only recalls the next moments when the bullets are headed your way minutes later. But this time, they don't touch you. Wanda swiftly neutralizes the assailants, and you stare, a mix of shock and awe at the display of her powers that appear to have been amplified overnight.

You blink, trying to process what you just saw. “Wanda, what was that? I've never seen you...”

“We need to move. Now,” Wanda interrupts, a hint of panic in her voice. She grabs your hand, tugging you forward roughly.

You resist for a moment, glancing around. "Don't we need to wait for the others?"

She glances back at the devastation she caused, her face drawn. "There’s no time. They're not coming.”

“But—”

“Please," she pleads, her eyes darting to the oncoming imaginary threats in the distance. “We'll figure it out once we're safe.”

It’s your weakness, your inability to say no to her, that makes you yield to her wishes. With one last uneasy look around, you let Wanda pull you away, but a slew of questions bubble up in your mind, waiting for a safer moment to be asked.

Wanda leads you somewhere faraway. 

In time, you cease to question her actions.

Gradually, the dreams stop haunting her nights.

But she finds herself unable to stop hunting for them every now and then.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff fanfiction #captain america civil war #the avengers #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #vision #daisy johnson

[recitedemise]

𝗠𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗚𝗮𝗹𝗲'𝘀 𝘃𝘂𝗹𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗽 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘂𝗺𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀, 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗠𝘆𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝗹𝗽𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿. This lengthy headcanon will refer to canon dialogue from mostly Gale, sometimes others. Reader's discretion is very much advised. There will be in depth explorations into grooming, emotional abuse, heavy manipulation, and suicide.

First, let it be said that Gale, a mortal man, will always be the powerless one in his dynamic with Mystra. Of course, nearing forty years of age, he remains entirely responsible for his own actions, his own foul blunders and every hurt he'll cause, but it's important to remember who formed much of who he is: his goddess, his deity, and egregiously, his lover.

Mystra is power. Mystra is possibility. She knows what sway she holds over her Ioyal, vulnerable, and entirely mortal followers. In all ways that matter, they are but lambs she can steer and herd as she sees fit. She knows they can't deny her, and knows they'll never want to. Gale's sheer servitude and complete devotion; to the very quick of his bones, she lapped them up.

Gale: I was just... practising an incantation. Player Character: No, there's more to it than that. I know devotion when I see it. Gale: What can I say? She's—she's Mystra. I can't describe it, the need I sometimes feel to see her - to draw the filaments of fantasy into existence... Mystra is all magic. And as far as I'm concerned, she is all creation. Player Character: I didn't realize the depth of your devotion. Gale: Magic is... my life. I've been touched with the Weave for as long as I can remember. There's nothing like it.

Gale, orb in his chest, doomed to be eaten by the very thing he loves the most, still speaks so reverently of the goddess, of his lover that has left him to die. He conjures images of her memory—and she is all the while forgetting about his.

Minsc: Gale reminds me of vremyonni of my homeland. The man-mages of Rasheman. While the girl-folk go on to rule as wychlaran, Weave-touched boys were hidden away. Trained to work their craft in silence and secrecy. It is an old custom, not well-observed. In truth, I thought it born of caution after some catastrophe of wizardly men-folk of old. Now, I wonder if it was not done to hide them from Mystra, and the snares she sets for young and prideful boys, hm?

Tales of Mystra's treachery spreads far, leaving those familiar waters surrounding Gale's tower in Waterdeep. They whisper her name, afraid to utter it one time too many, suspecting, perhaps, that she'll show in their mirror like some Faerûnian Bloody Mary.

Talent rouses Mystra. She can see who uses the gift of the Weave and feel them, sampling whatever delight sings their veins as they pull from her domain. Not unlike a spider, she'll follows every tremor that strikes her as just a sliver more profound; and Gale, a prodigy, plucked the Weave's web to so garner her focus. And like some black widow scurrying, she surged down that ripple to prey on a boy. There, Gale, so impressionable, was just a mite older than twelve whole summers. He sat so stunned, beholding Mystra as she lured him into the cradle of her Astral domain. Bathed in her magic, pleasantly coddled within that glittering cosmos, Gale felt blessed in a way he'll struggle always to recount, no word, no language, fit to describe it. He felt chosen. He felt seen. And potently, to a child, he felt loved. Now, imagine a child experiencing something like that. Imagine what they'd think, how brilliant they must be when stood beside the rest. She told him he was gifted, made his heart swell not unlike a child's appetite for praise. She knew what she was doing by offering these morsels, by preying on a child's most delicate mind, and Gale, child prodigy, was already so awash in the idea that his value was in magic. Unfortunately, Gale, susceptible, had no way of squirming out of his goddess' grasp.

Reality: She's laid down the seeds to creep into his heart. When he's just old enough—seventeen's sufficient, she thinks—she stakes her claim and makes him hers.

Gale: My virtuosic talent once caught the eye of the goddess of magic herself, Mystra, who named me her chosen and her lover.

Gale is stunned when she takes him to bed the first time. (Is this really happening?) Mystra claims his mouth in a kiss, taking everything she knows he offers so willingly. Mystra, of course, is not so stunned.

Dream Visitor: An elder brain... one of the cruelest and most powerful creatures in existence, enslaved by mere mortals. Gale, tasked with Mystra's missive to sacrifice himself: This is it... I must do as Mystra commands.

Gale has worryingly low self-esteem beyond his magic. As already explored, his entire worth as a man hinged on and was built entirely off his talent as a wizard. He fought tooth and nail for any crumb of affection Mystra would offer his way, something she only gave him at all seeing his gift as a child. He wants her forgiveness. He desires it genuinely. He believes so firmly that he has wronged his goddess, buying into the idea that sacrificing himself will right his wrong. She holds such dominion over him, making him reduce his confidence in himself into a mere, trifling pittance; after all, she wasn't just his lover, but the patron deity he prays to. And regardless, Gale is a people pleaser, his initial acceptance of her missive coming as no surprise.

After all, Gale, at times, goes to incredible lengths to appease his audience. This habit, compulsion, impulse, whatever you want to call it, is a quality that was relentlessly exacerbated in his relationship with his immortal paramour. He wanted to content her, felt all he did was never enough, for as a matter of principle, he was oceans, leagues, and entire galaxies beneath her. Gale figures: well, how can a short-lived dalliance satisfy a god? He had to make her happy. Indeed, he'd done everything she'd ask. He'd bedded her how she liked, kissed her how she wanted, and of course, even said those words she'd said tasted best. She was his lover, a lover that never tended to his own needs and pleasures, and he fooled himself into thinking that's enough. He won't bend backwards for everyone, mind you, but if you're of the ones he would, he would stop at nothing to make you happy. After all, people pleasing is a way to keep oneself safe, a trauma response to sidestep discomfort, and though it achieves only a direly tentative peace, when that is all you've been fed, you will pursue it.

Gale did not want to lose Mystra; he couldn't bare the sting of it. And so, when Elminster visited him, Mystra's call for his death offered oh so callously, Gale, heartbroken, felt that part of him kick up. He couldn't endure the guilt, was so hungry for a chance to let his weighty heart breathe, even if it meant dying in the process.

At least this way, he'll finally do something right. At least this way, Mystra will forgive him, and all his friends will survive.

Gale: After I was afflicted with my condition, I locked myself in my tower for an entire year. I was inconsolable, wallowing in my self-inflicted tragedy. I'd given up on myself.

As a byproduct of people pleasing, Gale, too, is all too quick to accept all guilt. He self-deprecates, gaslights himself to a venomous degree, and twists his reality in so cruel a way as to make him the villain Mystra'd led him to believe. He self-flagellates himself, the first one in the world who will throw Gale of Waterdeep a mental punishment. Mystra's a goddess, after all, seen as utterly faultless, and twined so tightly with a being so mighty in esteem, Gale slipped into the role of the guilty often. When tied with anyone with grandeur like this, so immeasurable in their own self worth, it's important to keep in mind this: you are nothing but a prop in which to fulfill their ego. Gale was not Mystra's, not by a long shot. Rather, Gale was a tool, simply her mortal extension.

And he took every blow meant for her... a common and terrible habit for many people in imbalanced, ego-fueled relationships.

Gale's life beyond her wasn't something that interested her. She took most of Gale's devotion, manipulated his life to be her sole mantle of attention, for Mystra is not a goddess that shares very happily.

Indeed, long before his self-imposed isolation, this jealous deity did well at keeping him isolated.

Player Character: Picture kissing him. With tenderness. Then, with passion. Gale: I... I didn't think— Narrator: You perceive quick-fire embarrassment, trepidation, and finally... elation.

And so, cheated out of love, so reduced in his value as a man and lover both, suffice to say, Gale's slow to believe he can ever be loved. That's what happens when you're with someone so cold, consistent only in their infinite lack of respect. Gale looks at fondness, and he feels—confounded, to be sure. He thinks, is this truly mine to have? He doesn't know what to do, is nearly forty in game, and despite having lived decades devoted to one relationship, he feels, at the same time, entirely out of depth. To be frank, he greets it with embarrassment, like he's been caught red handed with something not his at all. He's like a child caught rummaging with his hand in a cookie jar, all this isn't mine to enjoy, not mine to indulge in, but he thinks, startled, but god, do I want. He wars with disbelief, uncertainty, and need, and in so many ways feeling utterly starved, with just a glimmer of affection, he falls fast into love.

Scenario: (And if properly romanced, it changes his world.)

Gale: In her (Mystra's) likeness, I used to read a thousand stories. She was beauty, wisdom, elegance, power... she contained universes. But now... it is hard to see any redeeming qualities in a lover who condemned you to death. I'd much rather gaze into your eyes than hers. Yours are capable of tenderness and feeling... No god could ever compare.

He says it with sincerity. There is such wonder, such love, and such awe in his eyes. He makes the act of kissing him feel like you've just reached into the trenches to but pluck him soundly from his ruin and despair. You think, Gale Dekarios, how unloved have you been all this time?

Gale: To know you love me for the man I am, and not the magic I command… none have loved me so purely before.

The answer is: entirely.

For so long, Gale thought love was simply being chosen. He knew nothing of being favored for the quality of his character, to be cherished and accepted even in those ways he fumbles and lacks. Again, his needs were seldom met, often treated with utter indifference by Mystra herself, and to meet someone so eager to treasure him, dote on him in a way his heart, his body is somberly new to, raptures his spirit and captures his soul. He's seen for who he is. He's... loved, desired for his silly quips, his easy smiles, and his growing affections. He bares himself to them, and in turn, they cradle his heart like something entirely precious. Gale thinks this has to be dream. He says, at times, you are more than I deserve.

Scenario: (But sometimes, he hopes too strongly and loves too greatly. As it always does, then, like he's once more wanted too much, he watches something beautiful slip right through his fingers. Of course, Gale Dekarios. Of course it does.)

Player Character: I didn't know you felt so strongly, Gale. Gale: Perhaps I should have done more. Been more charming, more flattering, harder to reach... but I was only myself, and sometimes that isn't enough.

They don't love him anymore. It breaks his heart. He hurts so much, so profoundly and deeply, and he doesn't realize that he breaks their heart in turn.

Unable to ever voice his feelings with Mystra in any way that amounted to much, Gale's a tendency to wallow, expressions coming off as potentially 'guilt-tripping' and even, on occasion, passive aggressive. Firstly: Gale NEVER means to manipulate emotions, and he's no intention of twisting anyone's arm, either. Fact is, Gale, never taken seriously when he'd bared his vulnerabilities to the Mother of the Weave, can end up saying just a little too much. He feels very deeply, and for most his life, seldom had an outlet for these weeping sentiments. He sometimes lets slip raw words and oftentimes heart-wrenching expressions; all the same, it's not so pitiful as to shepherd an outcome, but rather, is a gesture taken by a man so desperate to be heard. It may feel like scheming, but the truth is far, far greyer: feeling as though he's no right to share the depth of his heart, Gale simply lets it geyser out in a way he can't cork up. In ways he doesn't realize, he's adapted to this ache, passively reacting so his feelings can at least be seen and recognized—no matter how pitifully unwhole. With someone who values so little his thoughts... well, when he slips into these moods, one can hardly feign shock.

Situation: (And if no one shows him trust and tenderness, any true care in his character or worth, Gale gets swallowed up by how wronged he was.

He thinks: Let me be a god. Let no one hurt like me anymore.)

Gale: They only want us to serve them, pray to them...and ultimately, to die for them. But what if we didn't need them? What if we wielded their power instead and helped ourselves in all the ways they refuse to? I could make that happen.

Gale is not above anger, and as stated, he is not above pettiness; however, more than that, he is not above righting himself whatever wound he was struck. Gale, if not offered much by ways of affection, understanding, is made to believe that one idea that's lived growing in his mind: Gale Dekarios is far from sufficient; he has to be more. He has to be better. Gale, in such an unkind ending for himself, sips too desperately—and perhaps greedily, too, but desperately serves as a far better word—at that idea that he needs power. And so, wresting the Crown of Karsus for himself, he spites Mystra in his own way, becoming a god he feels is leagues better than she will ever be. Damn her thoroughly. Damn her ego, her power, and her endless indifference. He will serve the people, protect them, and in ways Mystra never could, better the world.

Situation: But as a god, he loses all sense of his kindness. Humanity. All who loved him leave him, and even Tara spurns the image he's become. With power, he's gained the respect he thought he always wanted... but in turn, he lost in even greater measure all the love he's known.

Endnote: But healing, knowing to forgive himself and knowing he's deserving of care simply for being Gale Dekarios will remain, always, the best path for him.

#HEADCANON. #Oh... anyway. This. Was. A lot. #And it was a lot for me mentally and emotionally to write. #So much of this hit home. #Gale isn't perfect. He can be petty and immature—a byproduct of not being all too good at venting his frustrations when #it gets to a point. He has very bad self esteem. He is not forgiving of himself and is too forgiving of Mystra. #He endured FOR DECADES the cold indifference of a goddess he called his lover. #I know people dog on him because he's a grown man with these hurts and traumas and responses #but just because his trauma manifested in ways you don't find palatable or hot or sexy #doesn't mean they aren't scars left by trauma buddy!!! #And quite frankly that bit about God Gale sounding vindictive and angry #yeah! SOMETIMES people who have so cold and uncaring and belittling a partner #end up angry. You shoved someone into a corner and hounded them for SO LONG. Don't start crying when they rear back on you and bite #I have a deep connection with godhood Gale. But obviously a healed Gale that finds love and acceptance in himself is so much healthier. #I'm rooting for you Gale (always). #So much of this was typed up with a lot of first hand experience so... to say this was a Gale exploration #as much as a way to navigate my own trauma is an apt one. #No two tales of abuse are alike of course. Gale's experience isn't my experience. But I can sympathize a great deal. #TL;DR: This meta post means a lot to me. K. Thanks.

[baiwu-jinji]

Still nowhere near finishing Yuwu but just some random thoughts - I said in a post a while ago that I find the dynamic between Yuwu's main couple (Mo Xi & Gu Mang) similar to Wangxian's, but more and more I'm thinking about them in relation to Hua Cheng & Xie Lian, and how their relationship appears flawed and marred compared to Hualian's highly idealized one.

Hua Cheng was there for Xie Lian every step of the way as far as he's able and was right beside Xie Lian during all his most harrowing moments; Mo Xi couldn't be there for Gu Mang at his lowest, didn't fully comprehend Gu Mang's suffering, and hoped Gu Mang would pull through on his own. Hua Cheng is completely non-judgemental towards Xie Lian's actions and their moral implications and accept whatever choices Xie Lian makes; Mo Xi judged Gu Mang bitterly for his supposed treason and saw it not only as a betrayal of their country, but as Gu Mang's self-betrayal. Hua Cheng's commitment to Xie Lian is unwavering since day one regardless of the outcome of such commitment or any personal price he has to pay; Gu Mang is afraid to commit and keeps pushing Mo Xi away because he sees no future in his relationship with Mo Xi due to the disparity in their social status, and is also afraid of the emotional devestation and loss he'd have to suffer should Mo Xi decide to move on from him and their romance come to nothing.

The list could probably go on and it sounds like I'm trying to put Mo Xi and Gu Mang in a negative light - but the point is, their love for each other isn't rendered lesser or shallower than Hualian's due to their failings, and their deep empathy and care for each other is just as poignantly moving despite their negligence and misgivings towards each other. Love could be profound and undying though the actions aren't perfect and the results wretched - Mo Xi and Gu Mang's relationship feels tragically realistic in this sense. Although I'm only half way through the novel, I find Yuwu's view on romance grimmer, more sober and more realistic even compared to Meatbun's previous novel 2ha.

#yuwu #remnants of filth #tgcf

[gatheringbones]

robert f. reid-pharr, from living as a lesbian, from Sister & Brother: Lesbians and Gay Men Write About Their Lives Together, 1994

["In 1985 Barbara Smith came like a fresh wind into Chapel Hill. She brought with her a vision of home unlike anything I ever had imagined. It was then that I began the process of being a lesbian. It is only recently that I began to understand lesbianism as a state of being that few of us ever achieve. To become lesbian one has to first be committed to the process of constantly becoming, of creatively refashioning ones humanity as a matter of course.

Coda

By becoming a lesbian, I have done nothing more nor less than become myself.

I had expected to end this piece with these words, forcing all of us, myself included, to reevaluate what it means to be labeled lesbian, gay, straight, bi, transgendered, asexual. And yet, this is not enough. For even as I recognize the difficulty of giving definition and meaning to our various identities, I also realize that as I struggle to lay claim to my lesbianism I am always confronted with the reality of my own masculinity, this strange and complex identity that I continue to have difficulty recognizing as privilege.

It was a Friday afternoon in September when I had my first bathhouse experience. I'm not sure what I expected, or wanted. In truth, I was compelled more than anything else by Samuel Delany's description in The Motion of Light in Water of his visit to the St. Mark's Baths in the early sixties. I thought that it would be exciting, that perhaps within this outlaws' territory I could throw off the stifling fears and anxieties that shape and constrain our lives, sexual and otherwise. I even felt that, given the name of the enterprise I was about to visit— "baths"— there had to be something intrinsically cleansing and healing about it.

Now I find myself asking if in the bathhouse— the most sacred of male enclaves, where my masculine body and affected macho style increase my worth in the sexual economy— I am still lesbian. Is it lesbianism that spills out of the end of my cock as bald-headed men with grizzled beards and homemade tattoos slap my buttocks and laugh triumphantly? Is it lesbianism that allows me to walk these difficult streets alone, afraid only that I will not be seen, accosted, "forced" into sexual adventure?

All my bravado, my will to adventure is caught up, strangely enough, with the great confidence I have gained from "The Lesbian." And yet, this confidence, this awareness of my own body, of my own independence, takes me to places where she dares not go. Perhaps then I am not a lesbian at all, but rather like a drag queen, by day a more or less effeminate, woman-loving gay man, by night a pussy, a buck, the despoiler of young men recently arrived from the provinces and the careful tutelage of their loving mothers. What I know for certain is that this self, this lesbian-identified gay man, is in constant flux. I live like a lesbian, as a lesbian, because I know no better way of life. Still, I live beyond her, in a province that continues to be reserved exclusively for men, all the while reaping the many fruits of sexual apartheid.

Me, I want to escape…. this dirty world, this dirty body. I never wish to make love again with anything more than the body.

Perhaps in my next life I will be done with these questions of identity altogether, will cherish fully the body that I am given, begin to see it neither as burden or weapon, but only as the vessel of my existence. Perhaps in my next life I will have given up finally this constant struggle to explain who I am not— not woman, not white, not straight, not you— and start to revel in the limitless of my boundaries. Perhaps each one of us will recapture that which has been lost, start again to accept and acknowledge the profound ambiguity and uncertainty of this existence. It is then and only then that we will find home.

In 1985 Barbara Smith came like a fresh wind into Chapel Hill."]

#robert f. reid-pharr #gay literature #lesbian literature #gender stuff #history stuff #terra preta #transcribed

[angeltreasure]

I need to tell a story, maybe it'll help people to understand how powerful the Hail Mary is: I had a few months ago a dream. Mary appeared in my room. She looked beautiful. But something felt off. Instead of peace I felt a dreading and scary presence. Something urged me to recite the Hail Mary. So I started and I kid you not, the "Mary" turned into an ugly demon. It tried to strangle me but I kept praying and then it couldn't touch me anymore and it started screaming and whining. It looked like it was trying to not hear what i say and like someone stomps on it. I woke up, but I strangly felt at peace. It was around that time, that I couldn't quite get how God uses Mary and that showed me. It didn't scare me. Please pray the Hail Mary, for everyone that is doubting. I'm urging. Thank you.

As I lay awake in the dark hours of the night after a Rosary, I am ready to tell you my thoughts on your dream. My favorite book of my favorite Saint, Padre Pio, reveals a cautionary tale of the spiritual battle….

-

“In the lives of the Saints we find similar occurrences to those experienced by Padre Pio, noticeably so in the life of Magdalen of the Cross, so let us take a few examples. She wrote, “My Archangel warned me to be on my guard whenever an Archangel appeared to me. I should observe closely whether there was a cross on his stole and if not, I must command him in the name of Jesus to say who he is. I shall remember this.”

Having received this advice, she certainly took it into account and later wrote: “I was bothered today quite a bit by a beautiful Angel who did not have a cross on his stole. He repeatedly told me that, since I was destined to be damned anyway, I should make my life as comfortable as possible and that he would help me. If I had no particular desire for earthly happiness, I should simply end my life because it was wholly worthless. This second temptation was so violent that I called my Archangel to help me and the fallen angel disappeared.”

The devil appeared to Padre Pio on many forms including that of his Guardian Angel but he always discovered the deception by pronouncing the words: “Long live Jesus!” and with that, the evil spirit disappeared.

At this point, I must mention a personal experience mine concerning Padre Pio and the evil interference. Although it does not directly concern Guardian Angels, I think it is very worthwhile relating as it shows just how much he was persecuted by the devil:

One night, during the time I was looking after him, I washed his face, combed his hair, undressed him and helped him get to bed. Having done this, and seeing that he was in need of nothing, I slipped away to my room. I had only reached it, when the bell, with which he used to summon me, rang. I rushed back to his cell, and when I approached him, he didn’t say a word; he simply smiled at me. Now, I’m always happy to receive a smile from our beloved Padre, but on this occasion I was feeling more tired than usual so, I’m ashamed to say, I was a little put out.

I went back to my room and the bell rang again. Once more, I went to see what was wrong, but he said nothing and just bestowed upon me another radiant smile. This happened at least ten times until eventually, I said: “Father, you call me here, but when I arrive, instead of telling me what you want, you just smile at me. If you don’t let me sleep, it will be you who will have to assist me tomorrow, and not me you!” I will never forget the manner in which he looked at me on that occasion. His eyes were filled with profound suffering as he said to me: “Please, my son, will you sleep on the chair here beside me, because the devils won’t leave me for one minute tonight.”

I understood immediately what he meant, so I settled myself on the arm-chair in his room and there I dozed. Now and then, I would look to see how he was, and I could distinctively hear him whispering the Hail Mary. He seemed no longer afraid, as perhaps my presence there prevented the devil from beating him and throwing him out of bed…”

- Send Me Your Guardian Angel by Fr. Alessio Parente O.F.M. CAP., pages 40-43

“From his youth, Padre Pio enjoyed heavenly visions, but also suffered from the attacks of the devil. Father Amorth said: “The devil appeared to him under many different forms: as a big black cat, wild and threatening, or as a repulsive animal, in the clear intention to frighten him; under the appearance of naked and provocative young girls who danced obscene dances, obviously to test the chastity of the young priest. However, the worst was when the Devil took on the appearance of his spiritual director, or posed as Jesus, the Virgin Mary or St. Francis.””

…..

So yes, asking the intercession of our Mother Mary is powerful. She really intercedes for us even though most people can’t see her outside of dreams. Thinking about that dream (as well as other experiences people have had like this either awake or sleep, we must remember that Satan was formally God’s most powerful and beautiful angel. He has the ability to shape shift and take on appearances of other angels, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and anyone else around. When we are in a state of mortal sin, Satan can certainly influence our nightmares. I would recommend going to confession if you haven’t been for a while, pray the Rosary, and keep a blessed Rosary under your pillow at night. Another powerful tip is to have your house blessed at least once a year and keep a bottle of holy water nearby your bedside. If that were really Mary in your dream, you would not feel that sense or dread.

The spiritual battle is real!

Hail Mary

Hail Mary,

Full of Grace,

The Lord is with thee.

Blessed art thou among women,

and blessed is the fruit

of thy womb, Jesus.

Holy Mary,

Mother of God,

pray for us sinners now,

and at the hour of our death.

Amen.

#prayer request #asks #while I was finally typing this I kept hearing noises #like someone trying to open the front door #but the Ring came shows no one is there

[tendermiasma]

I Hope this question won't attract unwanted crowd, I'll try to type it in a way it hopefully will prevent it, but I have a question. As a professional artist, do you have any advice on how to not feel discouraged by A /i g3 ner*a/t3d images? And what to do to protect my art from being stolen? Recently I discovered one person close to me, also an artist, started incorporating that into their works and got into selling stuff assisted by it, and I feel kind of... heartbroken, betrayed? I don't know what to do, it makes me not want to continue the relationship, because this stuff is, in my opinion, actively hurting artists, but on the other hand, I don't want to lose a friend over it. Also, I am afraid that the only way to prevent what I create from being stolen is to not share it online at all, which is also heartbreaking, because one of the biggest part of creating (at least to me) is a form of dialogue with fellow humans, sharing emotions, and interaction between the creator, the art and the audience. I just feel lost. Also, I really admire your art, your skill, and you inspire me in a very profound way, just wanted to say that. Hope you have a good day!

Hi! It's a really shitty situation and I also often feel really doom and gloom about the whole thing. But the reason I keep making art is simple: It is my greatest joy to communicate through art and with every piece I make I continue to assert over and over that my human soul and the expertise that comes with it is a thousand times more valuable than a machine, and even though a lot of people wouldn't give a shit if a person or AI made it, there are always people out there who will care. I just really, really love doing it even while capitalism and our culture of consumption is taking on new and terrible forms. If we stop making art, what's left? Just the machine and nobody to speak up otherwise. Do nothing and lose everything vs keep fighting and something else, something better by some measure happens. Action is always the cure. I'm a big believer in that because I've found it to be true.

We're at a crucial time in the entertainment and arts industries. We all have some measure of power we can use against emerging policies and trends that don't benefit/actively hurt us. The WGA is currently striking in part to make AMPTP reconsider their AI policy of essentially just updating the WGA on the technology's progess annually. Other organized labor in entertainment and visual arts can negotiate anti-AI clauses into their contracts to make it less acceptable as a practice overall. You can use Glaze on your work to confuse AI engines and they just came out with a new version that I hear is a pretty nice jump in how detectable the texture is to your eye in the images.

I'm sorry you're going through that with your friend, though. It's hard and messy and there's no set way to go about it. It all depends on what you value most and what your own moral compass is telling you what you need to do here. Personally if it were a close friend of mine, I would talk to them about it. Depending on how they respond, your decision still might be a hard one or they could make it very easy. They will absolutely tell you how much time you should invest into this. Even if their attitude is clearly signaling that they do not care about you here and that you should move on from the friendship, it's probably still going to be painful and you'll grieve it for a while. Surround yourself with friends who understand how you feel and time will do its thing.

I think you should take comfort in that if you continue with art, this won't be the hardest decision you'll ever have to make. You'll have to make harder ones and will still come out on the other side. Even if you choose not to share your art on the wider internet and keep it as a precious thing among a smaller group of friends, it still has just as much worth and as you go along you will naturally find a balance between risks and reward. Don't forget that speaking out does actually have power in itself. Remember we've been able to bully a few companies into rolling back harmful practices in the past year or so.

I hope that was somewhat helpful. We're all trying to figure this out together and there's always going to be a future for artists as long as we keep pushing back hard. Capitalism takes a mile when you give an inch so it always, always matters to be vocal, spread useful information, use anti-ai apps on your art etc. It takes more energy to stay away from something you really want to do so I'm sure you'll find a way to share your art in the capacity you're comfortable with.

#asks

[lookingfornoonat2pm]

One of the things that has been fucking me up the most about Aaron Bushnell's self-immolation is how much I connect to it.

And I want to say that what follows is not meant as a correct take. It is not meant as an opinion or a corrective or as advice or even as wisdom. It may even be outright and absolutely negative. But it must be said, and I must say it.

During the height of the Covid-19 Pandemic, as I was working in total isolation as a mental health professional, I thought about self-immolation a non-trivial amount. I thought about going to the CDC headquarters and lighting myself on fire as a protest against privatized medicine. The failure to provide free healthcare during the pandemic is, to me, one of the most monumental failures of our government, and of our society, in my lifetime. It is a failure to which I feel deeply connected. As a disabled person, as a professional, and as a child of a mother and a brother of a brother, my body and heart scream from the pain of knowing that all of us are alone when we are in ill health. I fantasized that my death could provide a flashpoint around which there could be a rallying cry for meaningful change.

I was also deeply afraid and alone, as so many of us were during the years from 2020 to 2023. Such fantasies, as they often do for the suicidal, offered a fantasy of escape and of righteousness when I worked as part of an indefensible system.

Even writing about this feels like spitting on the cause of Palestinian liberation and of the end of Israel's genocide against the Palestinian people--because I am making a post about myself and about my own experiences.

But what compels me to write all of this is that, as a mental health professional, I cannot stomach the idea that we are all just going to write Aaron Bushnell off as "sick" or "unwell." I'm not even convinced it is proper to call his death a suicide, in the sense we use to refer the terminal ends of depression and despair. We must be able to think and to write and to understand spiritual and political life outside and beyond the medical or the clinical or the merely pleasurable or painful.

We MUST be able to acknowledge the truth of sacrifice. People really do sacrifice for things that are greater than themselves, and such sacrifices are not sick, or wrong, or delusional.

The irony of my demand for universal healthcare coming along with my demand to take seriously the human being beyond the medical is not lost on me. But the contradiction is only apparent. Below both of these--the call for a political and spiritual life beyond the medical or the financial, AND the demand for the provision of the human right to medical care--is a profound belief in the absolute dignity of the free human person. And it is in fact the ongoing war machine, of which the Israeli genocide is a part, that is the other side of the machine which denies me and my clients and my fellow citizens a meaningfully free social world.

If you see Aaron Bushnell's death, and the people who acknowledge and honor his martyrdom, and think that this somehow justifies your own suicidal ideas or fantasies, I beg you to reconsider. If you see Aaron Bushnell's death, and think that the best thing you can do is die for a noble cause, I beg you to think about how much more your living body can do than your dead body can. But I cannot and I will not accept the idea that we must think of sacrifice as meaningless. Aaron Bushnell did not die for nothing, and I, and millions of people like me, will see to it that he did not.

#lookingfornoonat2pm #aaron bushnell #free palestine #free gaza

[justabitscrewy]

Just want to say I adore your OC Izen! I don't know his whole story but the snippets I've seen are tantalizing and I really enjoy him. Also his design is so cool like, I'm a tiny bit afraid of spiders but he is adorable and epic and utterly amazing.

Thank you for sharing him and your art!

THANK YOU SO MUCH. i know i should've just answered this ask when i received it, but i was so excited at your words that i spent like,,, two weeks drafting a primer? just so that way you'd have more context?? Theres a LOT of lore that provides the foundation for Izen's backstory, so writing a primer of any kind was DIFFICULT. I've parsed it down substantially. The vibes are there, and i think it all tracks, but I haven't broken down any specific timeline or events, because a) it would be way too long, and b) some of those events haven't come up at the table yet.

Summary:

Izen fled the Monks of Mercy after becoming a drider, and found sanctuary with a formless voice that lives deep in the underdark, a voice lingering on the boundary between life and death. This voice would become Izen's undead patron and friend, and provided Izen with magic and means of defending himself. The patron is missing pieces of himself (ancient relics that were scattered to the surface) and Izen has made it his mission to leave the underdark in order to find his friend's missing pieces.

On the surface, Izen first met Phaela -- who would quickly become the greatest friend he ever had. She would offer him safety and transportation (in the form of her truck) and more importantly, a kind hand and an eagerness to show him how beautiful and wonderful the world can be.

Now, Izen and Phaela are traveling with three more people -- and the more people Izen meets the safer he feels. The world is a kinder place, and these people are good. He believes in them, he trusts them, and he wants to help them.

Breakdown of Themes and Lore are under the readmore!

THE THEMES BABY:

Pre-Campaign:

Izen sees his drider transformation as a victory over death — society told him that he was cursed, condemned, and in need of redemption. He refused to internalize the guilt and blame and fought tooth and nail to separate himself from anyone who would manipulate him.

Izen is driven by equal parts hope and fear. Fear of death, fear of captivity, fear of pain — but an unwavering hope and raw belief that life has to be good, that freedom is obtainable, that there must be a kinder and softer place for him out there somewhere.

Now:

Izen is trying so hard to embrace the second chance at life and freedom that the surface has provided him. He has a best friend in Phaela, someone who has proven to him that he was right all along. He was right to never give up, never give in, that the world could be better and kinder than what he was raised in.

Izen is absolutely enthralled by what he finds on the surface. The moon, the stars, the changing of seasons. And he’s torn between being fully enamored with the people he meets while still harboring a paranoia at being found out and returned to the drow. But every person he’s met, from Phaela, to the party, to strangers along the way, has only reaffirmed that the cruelty he experienced in his past was the outlier.

He loves bright colors, clashing patterns, soft blankets, scented soaps, and beautiful candles. Simple and beautiful things that brings such small but profound comfort and vibrancy

AAAAHHHHH Lore Notes:

Enlightenment: The Drow are a culture that lives in division. There are the days of Enlightenment — the days of now, where they have agriculture, cities, infrastructure, mining, industry — and the days of Descent — the days of a previous age, where they were nothing more than primitive warriors who had to fight to survive in a savage time, barely more enlightened than the monsters and beasts they fought against.

Death: The Drow believe that the moment of death is the most important time in a drow’s life. Death is when they return to Lolth, death is when Lolth sees how far the drow have come. For every drow returned to Lolth, her judgement of their entire progress shifts. This is why the Drow believe that it is imperative for each individual to die with pride and dignity — to never fear death and always welcome its embrace. Only animals fears death, and the Drow are not animals. And the individual will be held against the whole.

Drider: The Drow believe the drider transformation is a divine punishment from Lolth. And given that Lolth has not spoken to the drow in generations, it’s the only form of contact she has with them in this age. The Drow believe that the Drider are a lingering scar of the Descent — a time when they had to become monsters themselves in order to survive. When Lolth turns a beautiful drow into a hideous drider, she’s revoking their progress — reminding them that they haven’t grown at all. It’s a warning that they are still no better than their primitive ancestors that crawled in the dirt of the under dark. And worse of all — given that ever drider transformation is given to a drow near death — its a rejection. Lolth only wants to receive the brave and the enlightened. For Lolth to seeing a dying Drow and instead of ending their misery and welcoming them into her embrace — she prolongs their life by twisting them into a monster that isn’t even a drow anymore. It’s a rejection. A guilty verdict. That drow was so fallen that she spit them out and left them to be an example and warning so that others might learn from their mistakes. This is what they believe.

#THANKS SO MUCH FOR THE ASK sorry about the infodump slakdfslkjfsdf #planar pringles #dnd #pp lore #jabbering #asks #izen #drider #drow #lolth #dnd oc #oc lore

[zalrb]

OTH Rewatch Review 3x07

IIIIIII DON'T WANNA BE ANYTHING OTHER THAN WHAT I'VE BEEN TRYNA BE LATELYYYYYYYYY

Jesus Christ

So, like, here's the thing about this fucking Inception dream sequence. What is happening? Is Nathan dreaming about Haley making out with Brooke after waking up from a nightmare about Lucas and Chris in bed together after Lucas woke up from dreaming about being in bed with Brooke? Because it's a dream within within a dream. I don't know what your subconscious is like Nathan.

Nathan's grin. I mean, technically you've slept with both of them. AND HALEY'S SISTER.

"What is she doing talking to that troll?" "By troll do you mean Peyton?" Oh, Haley. How I love you sometimes.

Because Peyton fucking SUCKS.

"I'm over possessive-best-friends-with-weird-lesbian energy. And Haley!" That was actually a good delivery but if anyone has the lesbian energy here, it's Brooke and Rachel.

"Well, at least somebody wanted me." Oh, preteen Zal was SO frustrated with this ENTIRE storyline.

"HALEY, YOUR BOYFRIENDS ARE HERE." lol.

"You look so..." "Overdressed." Good delivery. But also Haley, my girl, the SUN is out, why are you wearing a little black dress?

I mean "little black dress" this is still OTH.

They really felt uncomfortable in the clothes they had to wear??

This is so dumb, she's clearly going out with Nathan and Haley too, Lucas.

YOU ALL HAVE CELL PHONES. CALL HER.

Ugh, Skills.

"I've been on kinky dates before..." with who? I guess s1 Nathan would've done something weird.

Remember how s1 Nathan was like a legit emotionally, verbally abusive villain?

"Let's spring [the senior in the nursing home]! It's just a couple of hours, what harm could it do?" If this was a dark comedy, he'd die.

Chris tipping a random woman on the beach and slapping her ass is just ... ugh. She should've slapped him. Alas, Mark Schwahn.

Haley having a quiet but profound breakdown. Brooke, "It's OK. Let's just go to the mall." And she is being helpful and it is very sweet but that's also hilarious. Uhhh, sorry that your wedding spot is being destroyed, let's just go to the mall instead. You know? Nothing profoundly sad happens at the mall.

"I can't believe she's doing this." IT WAS A GROUP DATE, LUCAS.

"This guy has caused a lot of trouble, Brooke knows that." Lucas, the people that he caused trouble between WERE WITH HER GETTING INTO THE CAR. YOU SAW THEM.

I swear to god Lucas, I would hit you. SHUT UP.

24. Braley are such better friends than Breyton.

25. I REALLY wish we got more Nathan and Brooke scenes because they had a really fun chemistry together and I liked that they were both being courted by Haley and Lucas and they could both understand where the other was coming from

26. Haley's laugh at Chris saying "Maybe he's afraid of me" is hilarious because she stops and continues. But Chris shutting her up with "Maybe he doesn't care anymore" was mean but well-played.

27. It's funny how Chris Keller is a better Damon than Damon. Because he's not a good actor but he doesn't overplay it.

28. Aww, jealous Nathan

29. James Lafferty's shoulders are quite broad this episode.

30. Nathan is vulnerable and you were practically giving the enemy a LAP DANCE. I mean she wasn't Brooke but the exaggeration is very Brooke and also very high school. I remember in high school we were at a school dance and this girl's boyfriend was getting jumped outside while she was dancing with another guy and all of us girls were like WHAT THE FUCK??? [INSERT NAME] IS GETTING JUMPED AND YOU WERE BASICALLY HAVING SEX ON THE DANCE FLOOR! What did we expect her to do? Get jumped with him?? Teenagers.

31. "I didn't do anything!" "Except for kiss Chris and run away with him?" I mean, she's got a point Haley. "What about you messing with Lucas and hiding all those letters you wrote to him under your bed?" I mean, she's got a point Brooke.

32. "I know this is where we made love in the rain." I mean, it wasn't ON the balcony though. It should've been.

33. "I still feel our past just like you do" well especially considering that you were the one who was left.

34. Rachel calling Lucas gay because he's CLEARLY into Brooke and is like please stop getting naked around me because I LOVE BROOKE is hilarious because what?

35. Chris also getting Brooke more and more drunk so they can have sex is incredibly gross.

36. "All of the celebrity..." she had ONE original song and was doing covers and opening for actual celebrities? WHAT ARE WE TALKING ABOUT HERE?

37. We could also talk about the fact that Nathan was the one who encouraged her to sing in front of people etc. etc. and she wouldn't have been a "star" without him in her life at all.

38. Mouth's reveal that Mel is his grandfather is ... OK? I know this is supposed to push Peyton to Ellie but meh.

39. "SHE NOTEBOOKED YOU?" "I totally Notebooked him" lmao these references.

40. Nathan keeping a flower from the beach is Lucas keeping a feather from Brooke's wings.

41. *SIGH* Brooke and Chris. What, it takes like two more episodes for them to be together?

42. I also absolutely do not believe that Brooke wouldn't have kicked Chris out of the house right after sleeping with him. She'd be disgusted.

#rewatch

[myun-saidthoughts]

i saw ur posts about 8th house synastry & i just relate sm :( any tips for being the house person? it’s almost been a year & i feel like i’m going crazy. no matter what i do or don’t do i’m still so obsessed with him & want him so bad </3

Hi love!!

First and foremost you are more than valid to have these intense feelings for someone, regardless if they are in your life now or if they're someone whose inconsistent. As the house person, you naturally will feel the connection to a profound and transformative point.

My advice to you as someone who wants to move on from this connection, the first steps with letting this connection go, is to fully heal you.

There is a part of you that might be holding onto this person because you might feel like they heal any voids or fears you have; with love, self worth, self value or even acceptance with intimacy etc. They might make you feel safe with being seen, safe with the idea of letting love in, and because of that, letting that person go (to you) only means letting that part of yourself go, the part of you that wants nothing more than to let someone "in"

Once you separate the feeling they give you, to the actions and character of that person, it'd be easier to differentiate the two. Even though this person might give you a feeling you may not be able to feel on your own (yet), the only person who ever will be 'enough' for you, is yourself.

Once you truly choose yourself over the one person you may feel undoubtably connected to, that's when the healing will take place, and that said person that gives you this serene feeling, will finally be seen at face value, rather than at the value you give them.

If I'm not projecting and this resonates, there's a part of you that feels okay with only receiving their love because their love could feel like a bandaid from the loss of care you wished you would have experienced from past circumstances that you couldn't control, and because of this that person has came into your life to highlight these forgotten parts of you.

They make you feel valued, seen, heard, understood, they make you feel whole, but with that comes the terrifying realization that they can leave, and without them those feelings won't persist, leaving you feeling less than.

You are fully whole on your own with or without them, no one can bring you that true satisfaction, no one can be that one thing that promotes a sense of worth because that's only giving your power away and you deserve to feel that same love you give them.

Accept that you are someone who is deserving, someone who is worth everything you want and wish to obtain.

8th house synastry can be beautiful but once it starts to take away your sense of worth or value, that's when it's not fair for you to continue the relationship.

You may still want them even after everything I stated and I can understand that, but it comes down to one thing;

You aren't really holding onto this person, you are holding onto the feeling of acceptance that they give you.

(Like I said in my other posts, they are a direct manifestation of what's missing in you, and that could be why you can't let them go, that one part of you that you might suppress or are afraid of is seen but only with them. But having that creates the same narrative you wish to deny or change).

To gain more control within, I would say find something that will bring value to you, something that enhances your self esteem. Something you can accomplish on your own or achieve/do that will bring you to a higher sense of self. Since their eyes alone bring you that sense of value or sense of wholeness (you wish you felt on your own), focusing or harnessing your energy towards a deep creative project will ease that "need" for them (the planet person).

Create something anything; writing, painting, or learn ways to make more income etc, this will bring you the sense of worthiness or value you crave for and these projects/creative outlets will ease the intensity. If you have many outlets that bring you the satisfaction that you yearn for (the sense of value that the 8H planet person brings you) there will be less of a need for them, and you won't develop a scarcity mindset because without them you still feel valuable, whole, and worthy. Their love isn't the only key to making yourself feel seen or complete.

You are lovable and deserving, understanding that is the first step, then looking within and finding other creations or hobbies that increase your identity and self esteem is the second step. Understand that the feeling they give you is the same feeling you are able to feel on your own. They are not the only ones who have that power and holding onto that fact takes away any of yours.

This is the house of transformation, death of the ego, and change, so everything you are feeling is completely understandable and you are not in the wrong to still care or struggle with moving on from someone that hits the darkest and deepest parts of you.

Moving on is not a single road nor will it happen over night, the key to acceptance is focusing on yourself, day by day, staying in the moment (easier said than done I know) will ease the rush or impatience that might manifest with trying to move on.

This is probably a karmic situation so they will probably pop back into your life time from time, but the universe wants you to choose you,

Keep choosing yourself my love,

You will heal from this connection and once you do the depths of accepting the love you only wish you could have felt will be unconditional.

🖤

I have an eBook, and with it has more precise definitions regarding the placements of the IC, Moon aspects, and the potential manifestations of each inner planet in the 8th or 12th house for individuals. As well as it provides information if the person you're connected to is a karmic connection, it has advice, insights and exact transits/synastry overlays to further understand the connection. You can find the link to my eBook pinned on my page.

#8th house #8h house #8th house synastry #8h overlay #synastry #astrology #astro placements #astro notes #pluto synastry #getting over 8h synastry #8th house overlays #obsessed 8th #obession 8th house synastry #intense 8th house #intensity 8h house

[rahleeyah]

okay bestie, thoughts on tonight's episode, please?? i need your insight because you always have the best.

I love this so much actually, I think it's exactly what was needed at this time, and I'm impressed tbh with both the nuance of her stance and the clarity of it.

Olivia said he was her home. Olivia pointed out she didn't have a claim to him back then as if this was something she had to remind herself of often. Olivia says he's someone else's husband with a profound sort of presentism, as if his marriage is still ongoing even tho Kathy has been gone for a while now. Olivia said, out loud, that it's all possibility with Elliot and that the possibility is paralyzing.

Other people have said this more eloquently than me but what this does is it takes all of our interpreting of Olivia's behavior, all of our reading between the lines, all of our frustrated certainty that EO had something between them in 1.0, and it puts those words in Olivia's mouth. Olivia has confirmed, out loud, that this man was her home. We knew that, but to hear her say it is to take a great big step forward.

Now. I know someone else came in my inbox and asked about "he was my home but he left" and I know the antis are salivating over it, but I love that bc that is the complex, messy place where human emotion lives. He was her home and then he took that away and it's been ten years so of course he isn't still her home now, of course she hurts, of course she is afraid. That doesn't mean she doesn't want him to be. You can hear the longing in her voice, even when she says she's hurt. He was her home. He isn't now bc she had to learn to live without him. He could be, again. She wants him to be.

And that is the place where real love, not the stuff of romance novels and movies but real human love, lives. It lives in human, complicated people who are not perfect in the ways they treat each other every minute of every day, who sometimes say cruel things or make decisions that hurt others. If you love anyone, deeply, for more than a week, at some point one or the other of you is going to be hurt or upset or offended or frustrated; that's human. Love is what brings us to forgive one another our human failings. Love is what teaches us to apologize, and try to be better. Love is what shows how to give grace to one another. We love one another through difficult times, we love one another through our mistakes. We love each other, when we succeed and when we fail. We love each other, even tho we are not perfect, because we are not perfect.

And while Olivia was hurt by Elliot leaving she also understands she had no claim to him. She said that. It hurt her, but no matter what he chose someone would've been hurt and he was someone else's husband. He had to choose his family. Olivia is a grown-up. She has a son. She understands her heart was not the only one involved in this mess, she understands everything doesn't revolve around just her needs. She knows he did what he was always gonna have to do. What she needs now is to see him choose her, to come and stay and make her believe he will never leave again. And I think he will.

I'm especially moved by the end of the convo and the end of the episode. This whole episode has an undercurrent about how Olivia struggles with change, struggles to adjust, is constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, in all areas of her life. Olivia tells Amanda the possibility is paralyzing bc it is; it would be easier if Kathy was still alive bc then nothing would change and she wouldn't have to take a risk. Things are changing, now.

She wants Elliot. You can see it in her face, hear it in her voice, her yearning affect; she has always wanted Elliot. But if she reaches for him there is a risk she loses him. It would be easier, to stay where she is. It would be safer. But would it bring her joy?

Despite Olivia trying to hold to her life exactly the way it is things are changing, no matter what she does. Amanda's departure reinforces that. And if life is going to change no matter what, wouldn't it be better for her to take charge of it? She will lose Elliot if she doesn't reach for him, they will pull away from each other and drift apart and she will never have their previous level of friendship or a romance. She has to move.

She told Amanda not to postpone joy. I think she will, at some point, take her own advice.

Something is coming fam I believe it

#asks #s.vu #e.o asks #svu spoilers

[xxsycamore]

𝐎𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐀𝐥𝐥… 𝐋𝐞𝐰𝐝?!

╰┈➤ You help Rikai relieve sexual tension so he can function properly again. By giving him a handjob.

Kusanagi Rikai x Gender Neutral!Reader • rating: E (MDNI) • tags: Masturbation; Boners; Resolved Sexual Tension; Embarrassment; Rikai is dying of embarrassment; Blushing; Sexual Inexperience; Virginity; Voyeurism; Hand Jobs; Holding Hands; Secret Crush; Praise Kink; Multiple Orgasm • wordcount: 3,307 • masterlist

a/n: Happy birthday to my favorite person in the world who wants to do unspeakable things to Rikai (i understand.)

It's an early morning… a damn early morning, making you want to scream at Rikai if he must always start his day that early. Even the sun is nowhere to be seen yet, and you wonder if it simply hasn't received Rikai's orders yet to rise and shine…

But it's more than alright with you; the dark blue of the sky that gradually bleeds into lighter hues is somewhat exciting with what is to come, moreso when you finally find yourself knocking on Rikai's bedroom door.

"Coming."

His reply is fast and clear and you bite back a chuckle at the thought of it slipping mechanically, not even a pause to wonder what could this be about, at such an early hour. Though you suppose he must be used to all things bizarre and unexpected in a house like this.

…Is what you'd say if you didn't know him and his ability to stress over the same things again and again.

"Why are you up so early? What's the matter?"

There's a genuine surprise on his features as he opens the door to find you on the other side, albeit still quick to invite you inside. His bed is already made. His morning toilette taken care of, as he's not only dressed for the day but also already equipped with his favorite whistle hanging from his long and elegant turtle-neck-clad nape, probably on his way to wake up the rest of the residents.

Well now, this would have to wait…

"Rikai-kun. I wanted to talk to you about something. In private."

"Now is a good time. It's a nice, sunny morning. It's good to clear things up at the beginning of the day so it can start without any issues. I'm listening."

Despite the barely hidden difficulties he experiences every time he has to look you in the eye, the gesture of adjusting his glasses does the trick to make him look presentable. Besides, he's always ready to cooperate.

"You know I appreciate how you keep everything here in check… even if you can be overbearing at times…"

"I'm afraid that's necessary, and you're well aware."

"… I was thinking that someone has to take care of you, the way you always take care of others."

Rikai produces a sharp sound of confusion that is followed by a brief pause. "Elaborate."

"Based on my observations, Rikai-kun, you are experiencing a lot of pent-up sexual tension."

"Huh?"

"Yes."

. . .

"w-w-w-w-W-W-W-W-WHAT ARE YOU SAYING??? DO YOU EVEN HEAR YOURSELF?"

"Rikai-kun calm down, do YOU hear yourself?! At this rate you're going to end up waking everyone up and we won't be able to cure you of your sexual tension!"

"WHAT S-SEXUAL TENSION? WHAT S-S-SEXUAL TENSION? HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN AROUND AMAHIKO-SENSEI?"

"He has nothing to do with this! Although, I have to note, his profound insights did open my eyes to some of this… And you have to agree, as they say, that even a broken clock is right twice a day!"

He hates it, it's all in his twisted-in-panic expression. He hates that he finds truth in that phrase, the way you talk about this so nonchalantly like it's the most normal thing in the world, the way your frame blocks the door so he finds himself in a prison of his own making by having you where you are.

"Rikai-kun, your skin is all red… This too, is perhaps a sign that I'm right. I would appreciate it if you don’t make things worse by hiding your symptoms from me."

"STOP TALKING ABOUT THIS AS IF I'M GOING TO DIE! I'M PERFECTLY FINE, I DON'T FEEL ANY OF- WHAT YOU JUST-"

"Sexual tension."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAA"

"It's perfectly natural… but while it's natural, if you bottle it up… it indeed can be very bad for you. I do this out of genuine concern, you know! Dying is not off the table. At the very least, if you keep this up… you might explode."

Rikai's whole body shivers as if he just heard the blast in his head, and it makes him lose his balance. And ultimately, he falls down.

"R-Rikai-kun! Are you alright?!"

You immediately couch down to his level to check on him, and while it seems like his soul has already left his body, as soon as you put your hands on his shoulders to shake him back to consciousness, he tenses up and brings himself to a seating position on the ground.

A heavy sigh leaves your lips, part relief, part disappointment. "Seriously… I thought we could rely on you for keeping everything in order, but you can't even keep your body in order…"

"What are you talking about?"

"You're hard, Rikai-kun."

It takes exactly two and a half seconds, and him looking down in pure disbelief, for the hysterical, high-pitched scream to fill the room and bounce off the walls once again. You clamp a hand on his mouth to muffle his scream, and he seems to only panic further because of your touch, so you hurry to remove it.

The betrayal of his own body drives him to madness, and nothing that leaves his mouth makes sense anymore. If you've ever heard someone keysmash with their voice, that must be it.

You sit back on your haunches, hands on your knees, waiting for him to calm down so you can remind about the seriousness of the situation. Though, you don’t exactly mind waiting when he's making those cute expressions. You'd normally feel bad about him going overdrive like that, but the blush on his face makes you enjoy this, instead. You're not sorry at all.

"It's early in the morning, isn't that right? You've just woken up so, it's quite normal for a healthy male like you to have a…morning wood… at this time of the day. Calm down already!"

"UNSPEAKABLE! OBSCENE! OUTRAGEOUS! …LEWD!"

Lewd…with the way he's trashing about on the floor, trying to cross his legs, or to hide his crouch with his hands instead, you're growing afraid of him contemplating to chop off his own dick if it refuses to comply with his principles. But you know just the way to deal with him.

"Surely you know what to do in this situation, right?"

"Absolutely. I'll go take an ice-cold shower and kindly ask you to forget that this ever happened."

"NO-"

"Now then, isn't it a good morning? I already wrote my goals for the day in calligraphy. It's a New Year's tradition that I've implemented in my daily routine for the bountiful results it provides in motivation for goal-persuading, so I thought I might do the same with performing misogi and letting the cold water cleanse me so I could start the day without those dirty, atrocious, dirty things occurring to mar the day. A cleansing of the body and the mind! Isn't that a great start to the day? It's important to start the day with a clear mind so you can focus on your goals and take on them with vigor and diligence. I'd advise you to do the same!"

"Rikai-kun PLEASE LISTEN TO ME!"

He's too far gone, going through all the stages of madness in the spawn of mere seconds, to the point where he doesn't even register the way you shake his shoulders once again. Your body involuntarily presses against him, and the tent of his trousers grazes against your leg. You quickly sit back on your haunches. "I'm sorry."

PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

You were wondering when this comes. Puffing up his cheeks like a hamster, Rikai blows the whistle, even though you have already withdrawn from him. He doesn't remove the whistle from his mouth even after he ceases to produce that innerving sound, and you attempt to pick up your thought again where you left it.

"I'm afraid cold water wouldn't be enough for you to get rid of this, not to mention it's not good for you to deny your body's needs. Haven't you ever… jerked off?"

PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

Groaning, you tug on the whistle's string until it flies out of Rikai's parted lips, and you take hold of it. You come in closer again, close enough to catch it between your own lips, and you quickly blow it. PPPPPPPP

"There. You can do that again if you want to, but just so you know, that's going to be an indirect kiss."

Rikai is shocked, defeated, and disarmed. Additionally, he didn't faint at your question about pleasuring himself, surprisingly, thankfully, but it's only after a couple more seconds that he attempts to give you a reply, albeit a non-verbal one. It's negative.

Wow. How old is he again?

You sigh.

"I don’t wanna say this. But I have to say it. I'm disappointed in you, Rikai-kun. To think that someone like you would… drive your body to absolute disorder, refusing to acknowledge the most effective and rightful way to deal with one of its natural functions… it's not like you."

"I…I…I…I…I…"

"I'm not leaving until I make sure you've taken care of yourself, Rikai-oniisan!"

Crack.

You're not sure if you're imagining things or the last bits of Rikai's sanity just shattered to pieces. At first, you thought what you heard was his glasses cracking, perhaps the man in front of you reached the exact resonant frequency for them to shatter from his tormented wailings alone.

For a moment, the room is quiet. The approaching sunrise spilling through the windows begins to color every surface in a murky shade of florid violet. The blush on Rikai's face is more visible now, you can see how it spreads to his neck, to the tips of his ears. His lips twitch and he purses them as if fighting the words threatening to leave them. His eyes fall closed in inner conflict, and you indulge in the fleeting opportunity to admire his beautiful long lashes.

"I'm going to do this quickly."

You let out a small gasp, not believing your ears. You hurry to add, "And then we can go on with our beautiful new day!"

"…That's correct."

Rikai's chest visibly rises and falls, his body now almost frozen in comparison to its jerky movements just awhile ago. He lifts one hand and slowly crawls it across his stomach and down to his abdomen. A broken inhale falls from his mouth.

Your eyes are glued to his motions as he performs many false starts, backing down from coming into direct touch with his genitals. Even though he's still completely covered.

"It might be easier if you take it out, you know…"

"Nonsense. I can do it like this."

As if eager to prove his determination, Rikai's movements finally grow in braveness as the ball of his palm rolls down the prominent bulge in his white trousers. His slender, long legs part a little, making it evident that the tight clothing confides him in a rather uncomfortable manner, making a troubled sound rumble deep within his throat.

Your vision fills with lascivious, pink-tinted images of your sharehouse guardian of integrity cumming in his pants. A flame sparks to life inside you at the sheer thought of him becoming such a sorry sight, pathetic and helpless as he feeds his arousal mere crumbs of pleasure…and how they'd still be enough to get him off, because he never allowed himself that much. You want the sight of him in this very moment burned into your memory.

"Haah…"

It could be pure instinct now, the way he begins rubbing in earnest, motor activity that his brain simply cannot fight once it discovers the pleasure it brings. His beautiful, deft fingers squeeze and press into the hardness outlined by the thin fabric of his trousers, and you already imagine it stained, his cum soaking through.

You study Rikai's expression, and it's not a blissed-out one that will put you at ease that he's enjoying himself; you blame it on the massive embarrassment surging in him, but his furrowed brow and flaring nostrils tell you he's struggling.

"Is it… not enough, Rikai-kun?"

His eyes seem somehow unfocused as he snaps back to reality and looks at you; the rich blood-red color is now tainted with the shadow of lust, his common sense drowning somewhere inside them. Even in moments like those, he's able to recognize the rightfulness of things. The rightfulness of your guess.

"I s-suppose I can try to… inflict direct contact. I-If it will speed up the process."

You nod your head, urging him on. "I bet it will feel good."

"As long as it's enough for me to carry out the task."

Right, the task. With the same amount of diligence he puts into all his self-appointed duties, you watch Rikai put on a serious front as he begins to undo his belt. He does his best to remain as steady as possible, but the tremble of his hands is noticeable and it gets in the way. The strap comes off of the buckle and he lets it plop down, a second of indecisiveness before moving on to feel for his zipper.

"Close your eyes. Don't look. It's indecent."

Rikai gives you a command, or maybe a warning, you're not sure, but you already predicted this much.

"I think I'll live!"

"You're unbelievable! Don't blame me later if you find yourself haunted by the display."

Oh. Rikai has a very wrong idea about the source of your inability to get his cock out of your head. For his sake, you'll spare him the truth. Being this close to seeing him in his full stiff glory, you don't want to ruin the moment. You've actually wondered quite a few times before what he looks like down there.

The distinct noise of a zipper coming undone fills your ears, and you look down to see him put a hand into his pants, unmistakably grasping his firm erection and pulling it out of its confines. It puts your fantasies to shame, as your breath involuntarily hitches. His cock stands proudly with its significant length, rather on the slender side, with a vein running down the shaft. What grabs your attention though, is the bead of precum accumulated on the tip, and together with the flushed color of his complexion, it tells you volumes about how needy he is right now. He's practically aching for more, for a pleasing that counts.

"You have a beautiful cock, Rikai-kun…"

"DON'T SAY SUCH THINGS!"

"Alright, alright…! Aren't you barely holding off already? You look painfully hard…"

Rikai does all in his power to keep the groan from leaving his mouth, but it only proves your point. He knows he should move on and touch himself, laid bare for your eyes as he is. The conflict in his gaze is evident when he pulses with arousal without even feeling pleasure. You wonder if the scandalous deed excites him somewhere deep in his neurons, a feeling he'll never ever recognize much less confess about, but you're observant and that's already enough.

His bony yet skillful hand wraps itself around his hardness, a loose hold at first, a small twitching of his fingers indicating his newfound pleasure as he sucks on a breath. Even his fingernails are so Rikai-kun, neatly trimmed to a perfect oval shape…

Stroking his length slowly, it doesn't take long for Rikai to realize how much better it feels if he strengthens his grasp. The tightness of his fist feels good, and his mouth falls open.

"Ah…"

His movements are a little unprecise, and it's almost endearing to watch him struggle with doing something for a change. Biting on your bottom lip, you can't help it but extend another suggestion.

"Let me do it for you?"

"Nghh!" Rikai throws you a look of disbelief, but the neediness continues to lurk beneath it. He throws his head to the side, refusing to look straight at you anymore. His movements slow down and at last he unhands himself.

It's your cue. Crawling in closer between his legs, you find it a little hard to calm your racing heart. Clinging to the bits of confidence that drove you to where you are now, you concentrate on the need to do this for Rikai. To show him how to take care of himself.

His cock is warm and big in your hand when you wrap your fingers around it, and you realize how much it pulses with raw arousal. He must be begging for release now, even if he received so little attention… You begin to pump his cock with your hand, setting a somewhat slow but steady pace.

Rikai is… very vocal. He hides his mouth behind a hand, teeth sinking into the sleeve of his turtleneck, and yet his moans remain barely contained. He grunts and almost whimpers as you curl your hand around him while stroking for a better angle, eyes squeezed shut so he doesn't have to face the embarrassment of being serviced like this.

"T-This is- I'm gonna-"

It's no wonder he's fast to reach the point of no return, a slight panic in his tone at the lack of self-control. You stroke him faster now, assuring he'll reach an orgasm to remember for many nights to come.

You see his thighs slightly tremble and muscles tense up all over as he reaches the edge, and in the next second, he tips over it; the scene unfolding before you is absolutely sinful as you watch him come undone.

He's a mess; glasses askew on the bridge of his nose and moans escaping his glistening lips, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure; opening anew in the next second, pupils blown with lust as he barely registers the mess he's producing. His virile cum comes out thickly and plentifully, staining his clothes and your hand. You keep working him through his high with enthusiasm, catching yourself moan at the mere sight of him losing himself to the pleasure.

Giving his length one last stroke from bottom to top and squeezing the last drops of cum he has to offer, you rejoice in Rikai's heavy breathing. He's pressing his back fully against the wall now, and he's… beautiful like that; spent and lax, the crease of his eyebrows nowhere to be seen as he lacks the strength to maintain his frown, for once. Instead, bliss is written across his face.

Feeling giddy, your other hand makes its way to where his rests on the floor, and you intertwine your fingers with his.

"W-What are you…"

"Rikai-kun, don't tell me you're shy to hold hands with me… I just jerked you off!"

With a defeated and indeed flustered expression, Rikai furrows his brows once again, taking a deep, deep breath. He doesn't withdraw his hand, but his remains noticeably shaky.

You can't help but let out a small chuckle.

"That's it, you were so good… It wasn't so hard, see? I knew you could return order! You came so much… your body was so eager for release… but in the end, you did what was right. Of course you did. You're amazing, Rikai-oniisan!"

You make the mistake of keeping your hand where it remained during the round of praise, and to your horror… you feel Rikai hardening again in your grasp.

"R-R-Rikai-kun… likes praise…"

"W-W-W-WHAT, AGAIN?? WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS BODY?"

Stunned for just a second, you quickly regain your composure and put on your serious tone once more.

"It appears that it wasn't enough, I'm afraid. We'll have to do it more!"

"MORE???? HOW MUCH MORE?"

"I don't know… until you're shooting blanks? And if the method becomes ineffective with time, we'll have to find other ways to get you off…"

"^%*&&G(##@$?@"

"Rikai-kun? RIKAI-KUN!!!! DON'T DIE ON ME NOW!! EVERYBODY WILL FIND YOUR BODY COVERED IN YOUR OWN CUM, THINK ABOUT IT PLEASE, RIKAI-KUN!"

Taglist: @arsnovacadenza @ale-teodora @kimi00twin @otomelady @privilegedpancake @g-kleran    @pumpumnnnp @thesirenwashere @ravenarld @kimmy-banana @devonares @galaxyprison @sadshaxk @starshards26 @thewitchofbooks @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @lordsister @ikemen-banshou   @themysticalbeing @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @coornn @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @queengiuliettafirstlady @aurora-morning @aquagirl1978 ​ @ikemenlover24 @mcofthemansion @joy-the-reader @katriniac @ikemen-writer @tele86 @lovely-bubb1es @aria-chikage @babyblue0t7 @rhodoliteschaos @shrimpy-kitsune @nightghoul381 @xbalayage @lucyw260 @kittygrimm88 @lokis-laugh @princess-pray-a Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

#charisma house #charisma house rikai #rikai kusanagi #kusanagi rikai #charisma house kusanagi rikai #charisma house fanfiction #charisma house fanfic #charisma house smut #crsm

[attackfish]

Evil Ursa AU where she is all on board with slaughtering everyone who blocks Ozai seat on the throne, acting as his hand in the shadows? I'm pretty sure such a personality and Ozai's would clash, but there's the slim possibility they'd like one another (while also enabling each other's worst tendencies).

I have a long standing policy against evil Ursa prompts or prompts where Ursa favored Azula, etc. because I have this persistent problem where I get periodic bouts of people who do not like my reading of canon and characterization, asking me for prompts that they are hoping will somehow force me to write the characterization they agree with. This never ends well, and on more than one occasion, the asker has responded to me turning them down by going and talking about how horrible I am by name. I really don't understand this, because like, if you don't like the way I write characters, why are you asking me to write those characters?

I know that this ask is not in that vein, because I've interacted with @weepingrebelshark-reactivated enough to know that's not how they act. So I actually want to talk a little bit about why I don't think this type of AU works. This has much less to do with Ursa's characterization than with Ozai's. The asker themselves mentions that even evil, Ursa's personality could clash with Ozai's. I don't think they're wrong, but that's not the way I would put it. Ozai is not a particularly complex character, but he is deftly characterized to be a certain kind of terrible person that are not in fact that rare in the real world. He's not just "evil", he's an insecure sack of shit, who takes his fears and self-doubt out on everyone around him, and seeks status to prove to himself and to everyone around him that he isn't worthless. This characterization comes out much less in his official actions as firelord than it does in his interactions with his family.

We have heavily implied in the show that his father abused him, that he favored Iroh over Ozai and was cruel and dismissive of his younger son in profound ways, that left Ozai resentful, and also covering up a deep well of insecurity. Ozai's relationship with his wife and children is equally revealing. Azula's words with regards to her uncle make it very clear that Ozai talks smack about his brother around her all the time, while Ursa and Zuko's reactions show that he does not do this around them. I'm writing an essay that goes more in depth about what this means for Azula, but for now, suffice it to say that this is a sign that Ozai is using her as a surrogate companion in ways she is definitely not old enough to handle. When this happens, it's because a parent doesn't have another companion. It's because they either have no ability to find an adult companion to talk to, or because they are afraid to, so they use a child who is under their control, and who can't reject them.

Ozai is not seeking companionship from his wife. Part of this is because he bitterly resents her, for reasons that have very little to do with her, and much more to do with the situation of how they got married, which is to say, his father deciding to use them both in a breeding project. Likewise, it was not Iroh who was given a backcountry actress from a family of disgraced nobodies for a bride. It was Ozai. I find it hard to believe that Ozai wouldn't see this as a snub, as his father forcing him to marry a low status woman. This has nothing to do with who Ursa is as a person, and even if she were Ozai's ideal wife, she would have to work against this massive preexisting disadvantage.

But what is Ozai's ideal wife? The fact that he seeks out Azula as a surrogate companion also means he isn't seeking out intimate friends. Azula, as a child, is someone he can control, and who doesn't know enough about the world to see through his self-aggrandizing. Ozai resents and fears his father, resents and scorns his brother, resents and is cruel toward his wife, resents and dismisses his son, and uses his daughter as a companion he can control, as a supply of affirmation and even adoration. This paints a picture of a man who cannot have a relationship with an equal, who must either be under someone's power, or have them under his, and any relationship he has with anyone in his power is going to be somehow deeply abusive. He wouldn't be be receptive to a co-conspirator. He doesn't want someone who shares his agenda. The best wife, as far as he's concerned, is one who looks up to him, is in awe of him, buys into the self-serving lies he tells himself, and parrots them back to him. Anything else, including a woman who takes an active interest in scheming to put him in power, is too much of a challenge to his self image. She could see through him to the pathetic weakling his father convinced him he secretly is.

But even if Ursa were perfectly in awe of and submissive to him, he would eventually lash out at her, and take his anger and fear out on her, because there is no way for anyone to perfectly manage his fears and insecurities for him. When coming up with ideas, it's really easy to put things in terms of, what if XYZ character were evil, instead of good, and then we have to step back and think about what it actually means to be evil and good, and how to make a realistic character who does bad things, or wants to achieve destructive ends, before we can even consider how that changes how everybody acts around them. But in this case, none of that matters. Any kind of change to Ursa's personality and actions is almost beside the point. The dynamics of Ozai's nuclear family are entirely shaped by his power and his fears.

#avatar the last airbender #ozai #atla ursa #azula #posts i created #do you want to ask a question it doesn't have to be a question #noodle lord ozai #mother bear ursa #azula needs her own warning

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: BBU Story: A Girl Called Spider Timeline: early in Spider's time with her owner

Time Out [ First | Prev ]

The slap connects hard enough to ring in her ears. Tears spring to Spider's eyes without her needing to will them up – a mechanical consequence of the sting in her cheeks and nose. Training kicks in and her face performs shock and pain and unhappiness even as she's still reeling.

It's a surprise, in the way that a slap is usually a surprise, but also it isn't. 

It's the answer she's been searching for. It's a coil of perverse satisfaction, the bitter victory of finding a limit, even if now she has to pay for that hard-won knowledge.

Her Owner's face is pinched in his anger. He reminds her of Handler Collins. 

"I am sick to the teeth of your attitude," he sneers. "What is wrong with you? Your job is to make my life easier and more pleasant." "I'm sorry, Sir–" "Haven't I been good to you? I doubt many Pets have it as good as you. I could be keeping you in a dog crate. I don't ask very much of you!" "I'm sorry, I am grateful, Sir, I am, I wasn't thinking ��" "You're never thinking, apparently. I've had enough. No more excuses. No more whining. I’ve had enough.”

Spider folds prettily to her knees. She can feel her pulse racing, but she’s not even afraid. “Please punish me, Sir, so I can learn to do better.” The words are routine, drilled into her. The pain, too, will be routine.

She’s not sure exactly what the acidic, twisted feeling that rolls around inside her stomach is, but it’s not the contrition she is supposed to feel.

“I will,” her Owner snaps.

He grabs her by the arm, and the doll that is Spider moves obediently, pulled to her feet like a puppet, dragging behind him without resistance. He takes her down the stairs, across the foyer to the front door. He grabs her leash off the wall. Then he’s dragging her again, through the dining room, almost to the games room. 

Spider wonders if he will tie her across the billiards table to beat her – but he turns right instead.

Down the stairs they go, into the cellar. No damp and grimy basement this – the cellar is spacious, the ceiling high. The beams are polished wood, the lighting modern. It gleams off the stacked tins and the dustless bottles in the wine racks. Against the far wall, small barrels are stacked in a neat pyramid.

Her Owner drags her over to the shelves, and shoves her at the polished concrete floor. The doll knows enough to fall, vulnerable, knees folding, half sprawled across the floor. Anything less is resistance, defiance.

He leans over her to lock the leash to her collar. Then he winds it round the sturdy metal leg of the shelves, and locks it again. 

"I could keep you down here, you know. You could live in the dark on a leash like a dog and only come out when I want you to perform. I could feed you dog food and kitchen scraps. Do you even understand how lucky you are?, "Yes Sir. Yes, I understand, I'm sorry I've been so ungrateful." "Sit and think about it. Think about how hard your life could be. You can come back upstairs when you’ve had a chance to appreciate everything I do for you."

And he leaves. He switches the light off on the way out, and as the door closes the cellar fills with a more profound darkness than Spider can ever remember witnessing. 

She takes three deep breaths, then sits up. 

When she waves a hand in front of her face and sees nothing, not even a flicker of motion. It's like her eyes are shut. She sees the same slow patterns of afterimages and unreal colours shifting in the dark. 

There’s about a metre of slack in the leash. That’s plenty. She could probably even lie down. She tucks her knees up to her chest, leans back against the metal, and settles in to wait.

And as she relaxes, she realises something.

Her Owner is soft. 

She should have known, like he said, from all the luxuries and privileges. All this time she's been watching for the limit, the catch, the trick – but the answer is simple. 

He's just… soft.

No handler would have let her get away with half of her transgressions. She has been sulky, she has been lazy, she has asked out of turn over and over for things a Pet has no right to ask for. 

And what did she get? A slap, a lecture, and time out in the cellar. 

Any handler would have made her hurt, then probably taken away the privilege of using her mouth – or maybe her hands – for days. 

If this is all that punishment means, what else can she get away with?

She’s not sure what to do with this revelation, not yet. But she will have time to think, down here in the dark.

She doesn’t mind the dark. It’s far preferable to the harsh, glaring light of the Facility. She isn’t sure how long she’ll be down here, but she doubts it’ll be too long. Her Owner won’t want her to make a mess.

It’s quite pleasant, really, being alone in the cool and the dark and the quiet. A break from the chores of daily life. She doesn’t have to watch her behaviour. She doesn’t have to smile.

This is useless as a punishment.

#my writing #bbu #a girl called spider #654261: spider #avon