As if Joanne couldn't get any shittier, she misgendered and insulted a woman who called for support, all because the woman had PCOS/PMOS and "didn't sound feminine enough."
Fuck her.
Your shitty children's series isn't more important than people's lives.
Has this been done before? If yes, this is my take on it lol
Edit: Since this is getting a lot of traction... if you may be interested in more Gachiakuta work from me: I'm working on an seinen-ish AU: @gachiau-genesis
valid, pulled on his banner and then proceeded to commission a yume of me and him. I'm gonna turn that into a card so that I can put it in my wallet like some war torn soldier
In the dream I don't tell anyone, you put your head in my lap.
tags: phainon x gn reader, wc: 1.3k. comfort (with a twist), angst, grief, canon typical violence (alluded to), title is from richard silken's "I Had a Dream About You".
The air smells of wheat, the scent kissing the breeze as the stalks dance in its flow.
Sunrays cast in a golden glow, as is standard at the time of sunset. So too, is quiet, when everyone tucks in for the day and walks toward tomorrow. Even so, Phainon finds that he cannot rest. He stares the sun down, out on the horizon, and only stops when you tap his shoulder. Your touch is warmer than the star he's seeking.
You smile at him. "Are you trying to go blind?"
Blinking, as if stunned, he lets his breath unravel in an exhale. "Not at all. JustâŠthinking." Shifting closer to him, you rest your head on his shoulder, and he brings an arm around your front, fingers grazing the hem of your shirtâ hesitantly seeking to feel the warmth of it, but stopping just short, afraid of what will come if he tries.
Your laughter is sweet, and his heart tugs at the sound of you so unworried, so free. "You do a lot of that, huh? What're you thinking about, then? Could it be me?" Tilting your head, you grin at him, and this time, he can't help but smile despite himself.
"When am I not?" he hums, eyes glinting with amusement at the way the words make you falter, make your cool front waver. "I'm always thinking of you." Phainon doesn't know much in this world, but he knows he's handsome, and charming, and he knows it's enough to fluster you. So, he'll take full advantage of it; he doesn't have much else.
"Always? That doesn't sound very healthy," you snicker, glancing away. "if I'm always on your mind, how will you be able to win your battles? Or take care of yourself?"
The answer is simple, really. It surprises Phainon that you don't seem to know it, for he's always admired how brilliant you are.
"It's not so complicated, really. I do it for you."
He shifts so you're facing him. His tone ebbs and flows, giddy and cloyingly sweet, a honey trap drawing you in, one that he's fully aware of.
"When I give my all to vanquish the black tide, when I train until my hands have no feelingâŠI do it to return to you." His hand comes up to your jaw, thumbing at it absently. "When I eat, sleep, rest, I do it so that I can remain by your side."
There is a memory, another memory, infinitely more.
Phainon is returning home from a day of endless battle, and you've prepared stew for him. It's reminiscent of a dish from his homeland, not quite there, yet he feels it shall suffice for all he can think of is the home he's carved out with you.
Phainon is wrung through sick claws of terror, plagued with nightmares, all but restless in your shared bed as he lies awake. You press a gentle finger to his lips, then a kiss, then hold him until your heartbeat drowns out the blood rushing in his ears.
Phainon is exhausted, burnt out to his frayed edges, and you prepare a bath for him, salts and scents as sweet as the flowers that are strewn nearby. You wash his shoulders, his hair, until he has forgotten the stain of blood and knows only your affection.
There is a memory. Phainon looks at you, and when he speaks next, he smiles.
"You don't need to worry about those things, as long as you're here to watch me do them."
Caught off guard by how sincere, and earnest the words are, you laugh in turn, and nothing makes him more triumphant than sweeping you off of your feet. "Should I be worried? They only speak this kind of devotion in poems. I'd hate to end up like all of those tragic lovers."
He flicks your foreheadâyou curse him and he knows your curses only mean loveâand eyes you coyly. He drinks in every inch of you, for anxiety is always nipping at his heels in the face of all that he has ever loved.
"Are you calling me a poet?" Phainon hums, sigh leaving in a self-satisfied exhale. "Well, I suppose all of those years at the Grove had to pay off somehow."
When a scowl draws its lines onto your face, he blinks innocently at you and waits for you to scold him, then laugh, then love him until he can't remember anything other than being loved.
"Titans, you're such a smartass!" You huff, scrambling to sit up straight and away from his grasp, tormenting him with the lack of contact. "I get it, you're so smart and talented and good with words and handsome andâ"
Laughing, he cuts in. "I think you're adding on some things that I never implied, here."
Seeming to regret your own words, you groan. "It's too bad they're all true. You're bad for my heart, you know?"
In faux contemplation, Phainon taps his chin. "Bad for your heart? That can't do. Maybe I should stay far away from it. I'd hate to end up like all of those tragic lovers."
"You're a terrible man." The bite of the words is more akin to a mere nip, and he wonders if you really mean lovely. But because he isn't picky with you, Phainon will drink in every word you say regardless.
"Terrible as I may be, I still won that heart of yours." Humming in affirmation, your fighting words quiet, and you relax, always so open for him. He shifts so that he may find place in your lap, seek solace in your arms. His head slinks down, to where it resides, so that he may hear its soothing lullaby.
A second where a beat should be.
He finds nothing in return.
The silence is perhaps the loudest thing of all, as it always is. He should've known, even as it washes over him like waves of ice; your skin was too sun-kissed, for it wasn't long ago that he felt the frigidity of your corpse. No, the last, true warmth he felt from you was the river of your blood, as he stared down the cavern in your chest, where Dawnmaker cleaved through.
How many heartbeats has he stolen from you?
Even as quiet hangs between you, a far cry from the peaceful silence you once shared, you do not interrupt or flinch or wail. You are unfalteringly patient, even in this spectre that his mind has conjured up, in this ghost of Aedes Elysiae, a place you will never follow him to.
You will never make the true stew of his homeland, or lie in bed with him and smell the wheat in the breeze of summer nights, or bathe in the lake and wash off the mud of a day's hard work, instead of the blood of the world. There are memories, infinite ones, but they never reach where he wishes them to most. They die off, their heartbeats ceasing as yours always end up doing.
Noâ perhaps they were long dead, dead with his beloved village, dead the moment he was etched into the simulation's code. A blank slate such as him can't deliver you the new dawn, this quiet peace you both wanted so. He will stain himself over and over, love you over and over, until he burns out entirely.
People ask the Deliverer what his dream is; and always, he ends up with dreams of you.
"You" know that the tears are coming before this shell of "Phainon" seems to, and he can't help but think of how true to you the conjuring of his mind remains. He hopes only to know you as well when he's thrown into the next cycle. Caressing his chin, you wait an absent beat, then smile at him.
"Phainon."
"Don't cry, okay? I'll see you tomorrow."
a/n: i don't post angst often so i thought i would try. i've always been fascinated by how phainon will hallucinate echoes of his loved ones in his darkest times (such as with anaxa), so i wanted to explore this here. to me, phainon's grief is one of the most interesting parts of his character. tldr i love putting him in the torture labyrinth lol
If I'm eating, or in a gross situation, and someone thinks it's funny to try to trigger the dry heaving vomit reflex by making those HYYYĂĂĂĂRK hurl noises, make no mistake, these things are guaranteed:
I will throw up
I know exactly how long it will take for the reflex to kick in, and can calculate what to do with it
I can and will come running at the person who triggered it
I will aim for the most expensive/difficult to clean item they are currently wearing (hair and makeup included)
If I know I'm not likely to successfully reach them in time, I will instead aim for the most prized/expensive/hard to clean object they have nearby
Your siblings, partners, and other family count as an object. Have fun telling your nana it wasn't your fault that you triggered someone's vomit reflex and he aimed right at her.
"um what about grindr" I'll be honest i thought grindr was a few years younger than tinder but nope, it's the other way around. there are 17-year-olds filling out college applications whose parents met on grindr. huge win for the gays
I should probably sit down and revamp this blog but that means I should know technology.
Sigh. I'm split between blue/lilac pastels for a moon theme and a green/pink for a ladybug garden one. Leaning towards the latter. Hmhmhmhm whatever shall I do
I am pleased by people messaging me telling me that after adding a carb or protein to their snacks or meals they feel more satisfied all day. Yes, my plan is working. People are getting through their days with less hangry.
You couldnât remember when asking your own wife for affection had begun to feel like you were begging.
Perhaps that was the most humiliating part of your marriage. There had been no betrayal dramatic enough to justify the emptiness that now occupied your shared home, no argument vicious enough to pinpoint as the moment everything had fallen apart. Arlecchino had simply stopped loving you somewhere along the way, quietly enough that you hadn't even noticed until a woman was laying beside you, no longer reaching for the touch of your warmth in her sleep.
You still shared a bed. Arlecchino still wore her wedding ring. Every morning she would leave, and every evening she would return, sometimes offering her wife a polite acknowledgement before disappearing behind the doors of her studyâŠthatâs if you caught her on a good day. Although nothing had technically ended. Perhaps that was why you continued torturing yourself with the possibility that nothing had been completely lost either.
That night, Arlecchino had returned particularly late. Youâve damned yourself with waiting despite promising yourself you wouldnât, listening for footsteps in the corridor until the bedroom door finally opened. Arlecchino didnât apologise. Nor did you expect anything more. She simply changed, extinguished the remaining candles and slipped beneath the covers beside her.
You could only stare into the contorted shadows of your room illuminated by the moonlightâs gaze.
âCould you hold me tonight?â
The silence that followed wasnât particularly long, but embarrassment had a strange way of stretching seconds into eternities.
Eventually, Arlecchino turned towards you,Estranged.
A part of you almost wished sheâd refused.
There was something unbearable about receiving affection only after requesting it. Arlecchinoâs arm settled around your waist, drawing herself closer with an ease that suggested she hadnât forgotten how. Your body immediately betrayed whatever dignity you had left; moving closer, tucking yourself beneath Arlecchinoâs chin and closing your eyes.
You remembered this.
That was the problem.
She still knew precisely how to hold you.
Arlecchino knew where her wife liked her hand to be placed upon. She knew you hated having cold feet beneath the blankets. She knew that when you were anxious, tracing slow circles against your back would eventually make your breathing patterns begin to settle.
Every movement was perfect.
Every movement was empty.
You wondered how cruel a person had to be to remember exactly how someone wanted to be loved after forgetting how to love them.
âArlecchino?â
A quiet hum answered her.
The words became lodged somewhere between your heart and mouth. You've imagined asking differently. More confidently, perhaps. preserving at least a fragment of whatever dignity youâve had left.
Instead, curling your fingers into the fabric of Arlecchinoâs nightshirt, whispering barely enough to be audible, âCould you pretend?â
The hand that was placed against you cocked itself aback.
You felt the humiliation burning behind your eyes.
âFor one night,â continued before courage abandoned your being completely. âPlease. Just let me pretend that youâre mine.Iâll be whoever you want me to be, just please love me the way you used to.â
Your breath began to stagger,âjust atleast pretend till I fall asleep, you donât have to after that.â
Arlecchino said nothing.
You lifted your head and immediately regretted it.
Looking into those eyes that once made you feel like you never had to question your value to her now had you searching for the smallest signs that she still acknowledges your very existence. You remembered the times Arlecchino's gaze caught you from across crowded rooms, remembered the faint amusement that would appear whenever you noticed and the way you flushed pink by the sheer eye contact, remembering that there could never be anything safer than being looked at that way.
Now you found only resignation.
Not hatred. Thereâs a part of you that almost wished it were hatred. Hatred would have required her to feel something towards you.
This was worse.
Arlecchino looked at you as though she were something she couldnât bring herself to discard but no longer knew what to do with.
You could only lower your gaze first.
âYou donât have to mean it,â you whispered. âI know you donât.â
Something tightened around your waist.
For one terrible second, hope rose inside your chest.
Then You realised Arlecchino had merely adjusted her grip, her control that she still has over your mind.
She nearly laughed.
How little it took now. A hand lingering slightly longer than necessary. Arlecchino remembering how you took her tea.The way you pulling out a chair for her at dinner became muscle memory. Every insignificant kindness became evidence You have collected and presented to herself in the dark: See? There must still be something.
She wondered how many ordinary gestures she had mistaken for love simply because accepting the alternative felt unbearable.
âDo you regret marrying me?â
Arlecchinoâs answer came quickly.
âNo.â
You swallowed.
That should have comforted you.
Instead, you found yourself asking, âDo you still love me?â
This time, the answer did not come quickly.
And there it was.
You have spent months wondering when your marriage had begun to crumble .
Now youâve found your answer.
It had ended somewhere inside that silence.
You nodded, accepting your fate thatâs been sealed by months ago meekly before Arlecchino could speak, pressing your face against her shoulder because you could not bear the possibility of seeing pity again.
âDonât answer that.â
Arlecchino didnât.
Of course she didnât.
Yet you still remained disposed within her embrace anyway.
That was perhaps the ugliest truth of all: knowing did not make you want Arlecchino any less, still craving the warmth of her beside you. Still yearning for those familiar hands around your body. Still needing to wake up tomorrow morning and find her remaining besides you , even knowing that means belittling yourself with the fact that the marriage your tied down to was no longer love, or at least worth loving from Arlecchino's perspective
So you allowed yourself one final act of cruelty.
You pretended.
You pretended Arlecchino had pulled her close because she couldnât stand how far the distance between the two of you had come. You pretended the hand resting against your waist was possessive rather than obligatory. You pretended the familiar warmth surrounding you belonged to a woman who still thought of you as her wife rather than a promise she had made years ago and was too honourable to break.
And when Arlecchino eventually brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face, you simply closed your eyes before she could ruin it by looking, not even putting on a facade of care.
âI love you.â
Arlecchinoâs hand remained against your cheek.
For a moment, neither woman moved.
You waited for a response, a small sigh of relief, a small squint of the eyes reassuring you that thereâs a glimmer of hope that she has left of your marriage.
You hated yourself for waiting.
But you did.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Long enough for the silence to become an answer.
You eventually smiled against her shoulder, although Arlecchino couldnât see it.
âItâs okay,â you murmured. âYou donât have to pretend that part.â
Arlecchino held you until youâd drifted asleep.
And somehow, that was crueller than if she had simply let you go.
HIIII GUYSSSS đžđžđžđžđž long time no see!! Okay so basically I went through a NASTYYYY break up but I still had work and college to get through so I havenât been active..writing wise but like a girl needs her fanfics no matter the stage of her life so like..
priorities ykđ
HOPE YOU ALL ARE DOING WELLL and you all lwk inspired me to start writing again because my cringe ahh works from last year are still getting attraction.
Jing Yuan works overtime, and he makes it your problem.
(Additional, more helpful description: You steal Jing Yuan from his office, and the two of you return home, eating dinner together, then, a barrage of his kisses.)
jing yuan ⥠gn!reader
warnings: nonsexual physical intimacy, established relationship (marriage), kissing, sharing a bed & home
notes: THANK YOU TO @melodead FOR PROOFREADING AND FOR BEING THE HASHTAG JY CHARACTERIZATION MASTER!!
art exchange for @mocha-ghoooul !!! I HOPE YOU ENJOY !!! âĄâĄ
An ideal victory goes as follows:
Starlight; tables made of oak; fingers curled around a pen; the doze of a half-lidded eye. The ideal victory is one so simple and so guaranteed, it can be summarized by historians with a single line. Paperwork sprawled all across his desk, Jing Yuanâs gaze tears, without much resistance, from the words, gaze fixating on the clock. Midnight.Â
Any time now, is all he thinks.Â
The ideal victory. Footsteps. Jing Yuan feels the subtlest of smiles crawl onto his lips, sunny eye crinkling under the light as the doors to the Seat of Divine Foresight slam open, a figure bursting through its gates, ablaze.Â
There you are.Â
Starlight; spirit made of fire; index finger pointed accusingly; the narrow of two eyes. The ideal victory is one so simple and so guaranteed, it can be pictured before it has even been revealed: the curl of your lips, shaped into a frown; the furrow of your brows, wrinkling the bridge of your nose; the hand on your hip, other raised towards him as if you were prosecuting him in a court of law.Â
You mutter something incomprehensible whilst pointing at himâits sound akin to a hexâand Jing Yuanâs smile only seems to grow.Â
âYouâre here,â he says.Â
âI hate working overtime,â you reply. Jing Yuan hums, parting from his paperwork without a single protest, descending the stairs, head tilted slightly as he regards you with a keen eye.Â
âCare for a game of chess?âÂ
âAt this hour? Iâd have better luck eating the pieces than winning against you.âÂ
âAn unorthodox strategy is a strategy nonetheless,â he remarks, unable to contain the faint laugh which escapes his parted lips, the crinkle of his eye as you exist within its window.Â
âWait!â you then exclaim, your pointed finger lowering for but a second, rising to its position once more, prosecuting him effectively. âIâm not here to play chess with you. Iâm here to drag you home, âcause I hate working overtime, and youâre working overtime!âÂ
âAnd if I resist?âÂ
âYou? Resist going home?âÂ
He chuckles. âAn outlandish idea, I know.â Crossing the distance, Jing Yuan meets your figure with his own, knuckle brushing over the ridge of your brows, easing its furrow. âThen, what do you propose?âÂ
You stare at him, in total exasperation and incredulity, gaze flickering up, then down, then up again. You rub your temples, you scratch your head, you sigh. You then pace all around the hall, ignoring the confused looks from the guards, the amused flicker in the beholderâs eye. When you return to your original spot, Jing Yuan offers you his hand.Â
âHave you come to a conclusion?âÂ
Your fingers intertwine with his. âNo more overtime. Weâre going home.âÂ
âVery well.âÂ
âDonât act like youâre reluctant! I know you were waiting for me to get you!âÂ
The ideal victory. Jing Yuanâs arm raises, your knuckles kissing his lips, the etched shape of his smile pressing into your skin as you swat him away with your other hand, your expression betraying you, revealing the hints of a grin.Â
âYou know me so well,â he states, the warmth from your hands permeating into his skin, the fragments of his shattered soul coalescing, the kiss stretching across hundreds of years, its heat unfathomable. Ablaze. To be whole again; to exist alongside another; to be loved. Truly, Jing Yuan considers this fate to be unlike any other.Â
Jing Yuan has been bound by mundane duties for years. Such surroundings limit his own sense of self, reducing him to, as heâs described, âa rather boring person.â Routine; paperwork; meetings. If it were up to him, heâd rid himself of these monotonous things, returning to his wonderful hobby of meditation, playing chess, going outside, existing in the sun, butâhe looks at you in the corner of his eye, the way your gaze is fixated ahead, the way you ramble about some nonsensical encounter you had earlier, the way your hand tightens around his whenever you mention something excitingâthere are some parts heâd like to keep. Some routines heâd like to have. Forever, even.
(He knows better than anyone that âforeverâ does not exist.)Â
âAnd so, I bet all of my life savings on a game with Qingqueââ
âIâm sorry, what?âÂ
âHold on! I haven't even gotten to the good part yet.âÂ
Mildly concerned, and even more intrigued, Jing Yuan manages a nod, allowing himself to be strung on by both your story and your hand, tugging him in the direction of your shared home. How wonderful, he thinks. How wonderful and warm and free.Â
(But, even if he does not live to remember, even if his mindâs clarity wanes, even if the only thing that he can recognize is the madness, he believes that, really, you will exist for forever.Â
(You will exist in the crevices of his fingers, shape molded perfectly to slot into his; you will exist in the stars, light traveling long after the gases burn, tunneling through space, a kiss stretched across a thousand light-years; you will exist, beyond him, beyond memory, beyond everything.)Â
âAnyway, I managed to win it all! Lucky! I should probably go back for round two tomorrow, maybe my streak is still up for grabs!âÂ
Jing Yuan laughs a little. âNot satisfied with your current winnings?âÂ
âNot at all!âÂ
The walk home is short when itâs done together. Taking off your shoes by the door; two pairs of slippers, two pairs of outdoor shoes, the world slotting to fit two hands and two figures and the simple number, two; returning to routine, with you heating up leftovers and Jing Yuan brushing his shoulder against yours for no reason whatsoever, now changed into his casual clothes, skin melting together, coalescing into the simple number: one.
âYou waited for me?â he asks, noticing you preparing a portion for yourself.
âYeah,â you reply, glancing towards him, feigning irritation, âI starved, waiting for my cruel husband to return home so we could eat together. But he never did. âCause heâs cruel. And doesnât care when his beautiful spouse starves.âÂ
Jing Yuan, ever the cruel man, hums. âHow utterly despicable of him.âÂ
âTell me about it.âÂ
The clatter of dishware; the blending of voices, wedded; the exchanging of duties, with Jing Yuan washing the dishes, and you wiping at the plates, continuing to chatter away. The ideal victory. Two, blending to become one.
How simple. How simple and lovely and wonderful and free.
âWill you work overtime tomorrow?â Jing Yuan asks, smiling while you scowl, humming as you hex him under your breath, the two of you returning to your shared room.Â
âDonât ever mention that foul word.âÂ
âOvertime?âÂ
âJail.âÂ
The ideal victory goes as follows:
Starlight; bed frame made of oak; fingers curled around a blanket; the doze of half-lidded eyes. The ideal victory is one so simple and so guaranteed, it can be summarized by historians with a single line. You run a finger through his now-loose hair and he sighs, now in a tangle of limbs and pillows, his arm resting over your waist like some weighted thing.Â
There you are, is all he thinks, staring at you from across the mattress, the way your lips are in movement, voice echoing all throughout the room. You speak of your plans for the day ahead, the way youâre not going to find him if he works overtime, the way youâll hex him for even mentioning such a wretched idea; and again, Jing Yuan smiles. Itâs quite easy whenever youâre involved.Â
Across a hundred years, through a thousand lightyearsâablaze. You ask him a question and, during that moment of silence, waiting for him to respond, he leans forward, the starlight falling upon two faces, meeting everywhere but your lips.Â
Across a hundred years, through a thousand light-yearsâa kiss. You laugh a little and the starlight fails to meet your cheek, your jaw, your nose. Parting from you with much more reluctance than he did his paperwork, Jing Yuanâs gaze traces over your face, irises like melted suns, pale hair wisping like wax. You smile. He kisses you there, its warmth like a hug done by lips, the faint passing of a breeze, the gentle ring of a windchime. Another kiss. Then, most lovingly, another.Â
âI wonât forgive you for mentioning the big âOâ word just like this, you know,â you state.Â
(You will exist in the crevices of his fingers, shape molded perfectly to slot into his; you will exist in the stars, light traveling long after the gases burn, tunneling through space, a kiss stretched across a thousand light-years; you will exist, beyond him, beyond memory, beyond everything.)Â DAO HOLY SGIGJT THIS IS A F E A S T
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