#della writes

A very insecure John stands in front of you asking if you think he’s put on weight.. he’s gone bigger, but with muscle. It’s delicious, you want to bite him.

“No you’re still the most beautiful hunk of flesh I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“Didn’t ask if I was ugly.” He says almost insulted.

You laugh at his defensiveness. “Come here big boy.” He steps forward and you wrap your arms around him locking your hands together behind his back.

“See—can still wrap my arms around you.”

Then you proceed to yank his pants down and give him a very satisfying blow job that makes him collapse on to the bed with a big smile on his face—forgetting all about his insecurities and going to sleep like a little happy princess👑

Christian Bale, Jessie Buckley and directed by Maggie Gyllenhaal, it practically sounds like my dream movie on paper (If we didn't know I'm very passionate about Maggie Gyllenhaal and I would be her secretary if she wanted me to be) ANYWAY

There was a whole situation with this movie where me and my friend who watched it didn't wanna take the trip to the movies because it was storming something crazy so we just watched it at her place, and it was needless to say we were both grateful we saved the twenty bucks worth of tickets each of us would've had to spend

There was something about Frankenstein's Bride, Ida, Penny, whoever she was when things were happening, seemingly getting randomly possessed by Marie Shelley or herself or whoever she was around or whatever that whole thing was that made me have second hand embarrassment everytime she spoke, and while yes I understand that's the point (is it? I couldn't tell) it's been executed better, I could never tell whether it was supposed to be a Tics situation or a D.I.D thing going on with her

And I can't lie at all, the 'copycat's in the movie all doing the ink splatter on their faces and wrecking havoc just made me shiver in embarrassment, there's something about empowerment being shown through cackling and shooting guns into the air and jumping on cars and sticking out your ink stained tongue, that just makes me go, well, first off, fuck mate, whoevers in that car better have great insurance, and second, what is this?

I honestly mostly have a problem with Ida, Penny, whatever her name she wanted was, it's just this strange way that movies want feminism represented, yes she's independent, oh she's shooting her gun, watch out fellas, the women are in revolt and everyone has managed to get a gun to do so and join her, but Frankenstein (Christian Bale) is ultimately the one saving her from the situation she's just caused (always whisking her away just in time before shots are fired)

At some point I really wanted Christian Bale to limp off and let her get shot, I mean come on, and to add, I understand he's Frankenstein but they had him moving like he shit himself and he was trying to avoid the feeling of it running down his leg (gross I'm sorry guys), and another dig at Frankenstein is the fact everyone flinched in horror while he looked generally, like Christian Bale with patchy white face paint and prosthetics

AND the movie was so long, so so long for no reason, I kept on thinking "That was a solid ending" going to stand up only to see there was more happening, I personally think, after Frankenstein died they should've ended the movie instead of dragging it on and on

Don't get me wrong I love some of the scenes! Them in the car with the windows down laughing and all that cuteness makes me smile, them running away from the two guys Frankenstein beat up (aka a cute scene shown after I gagged at the brutality going on), even just the shared smiles between each other or the dancing sequences (which caused backlash because people claimed that made the movie a shitty musical???)

I got bored so here's a fanfiction!! Because the mha fandom DEFINITELY doesn't have enough of those.

Summary: Kaminari is convinced that Izuku is perfect. In trying to prove him wrong, Izuku ends up in a situation that he should've predicted. (And he did predict it! Yet he still let it happen anyway).

Ler: Denki Kaminari

Lee: Izuku Midoriya

Warnings: Playful tickles! This is a ticklefic. That's it :)

luke taking care of you when you’re sick.

one morning you’ll wake up and suddenly your throat is sore as fuck and you can’t breathe through your nose— a deadly combination. coupled with the fact you have scattered bruises and growing pains sprouting in your body, to say the least, you were not going outside today.

now this probably developed from overworking your body and mingling with various campers because i mean, it was bound to happen to somebody!

luke would have to find out about your sickness from one of your siblings, but he’d be hot in his heels to get to your bedside. you don’t even realize he’s there until you feel the callused skin of his knuckles pressing against your forehead and his worried voice muttering a, “gods, you’re burning up on me, angel.”

the medic cabin doesn’t really take in run-of-the-mill sick campers because they like to keep the beds open at all times but luke convinces them to let you lay in a cot so your cold doesn’t affect your siblings.

so you lay in a cot all day. luke managed to cancel almost all of his sword fighting lessons (leaving a few to spare because you were stubborn on not letting him get stuck in here with you). he’d practically be shoving water and mortal medicine (aka aleve) into your mouth, with a hearty and warm meal when appropriate.

say you’re a child of athena, whom we know is graced with the powerful yet self deprecating trait of ambition. you’d be begging to finish up work or helping annie with strategies for future games and luke would be there to press your shoulders back on the thin mattress of the cot and tuck you in so you’re as snug as a bug in a rug.

or let’s say you’re a child of apollo, nearly being brought to tears when you hear your own gravely and weak voice echo through the air. “my poor voice!” you’d cry “what will i have if i don’t have my voice?” and luke would just sit there with a tired sigh and the roll of his eyes.

he’d always have his hand around a Kleenex box because he always seemed to sense when you’d sneeze and would shove it into your chest quick enough so you could catch whatever resulted in said sneeze.

or imagine lowkey germaphobe!luke triple masked and gloved— he might as well have a full hazmat suit on. you’d go the entire day shooting him a side eye when he’d jump back in his stool if you’d so much cough in his direction.

either way he would never leave your side until you were better :)

Summary: monachopsis = the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place

Words: 1,936

Warnings: N/A

Author’s Notes: so... I guess I’m back with an update after 5 years?

CHAPTER TWO - Part Two

Chapter One:  Part One, Part Two, Part Three Chapter Two: Part One

It takes him several moments to recognize his surroundings and acknowledge that the nightmare is over. So he looks at her, really looks at her, for the first time since he walked into her apartment. In the dim, blue lighting coming through the window, her skin appears thin and breakable. Her shoulders are hunched forward, bent by exhaustion, covered by a white shirt loosely fitted around her small figure. Her eyes, although tired, still seem to cut through the darkness in the room - diagnosing him. She looks young in this moment, so young, so faultless. She isn’t corrupted by the touch and sight of blood - not really, not in the ways he is.

She’s looking at him with those worried eyes and it makes something snap in his chest. She doesn’t see him for what he has been all these years - the experiment, the asset, the assassin. She’s looking at him like he’s human, like he has a choice. When she touches him it doesn’t hurt. Perhaps a part of him is still human, if she is able to see him that way.

A quiet sob escapes his lips without his permission. She shifts closer to him and holds both of his hands, her thumbs gently rubbing slow circles around his knuckles. Stubbornly, only his right hand felt the warmth of her touch. His vision starts to blur from the water pooling in his eyes, his breathing more laboured.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s just me,” she whispers as she tries to meet his gaze. One of her hands rises up to his face leisurely, methodically. She brushes her fingers against his cheek so lightly that he thinks he imagined it at first. As her eyes adjust to the darkness, the stains on his shirt and the beads of sweat on his temples become clear. “You’re drenched. Let me get you a towel.”

“You’re coming back, right?” he asks breathlessly, avoiding her eyes. He only pulls away when she assures him she isn’t leaving. The thought of losing this scares him. He wraps his arms around himself and puts his head between his knees to calm down. He doesn’t know how much time passes by - every second feels like eternity.

She returns quickly, only to find him barely holding it together. She tells him that she’s here, that he’s not alone, a few times so he can be sure he heard her right. She runs her fingers slowly through his damp hair and waits for him to look up. When he does, she tries to smile encouragingly but there are tears glistening on his face and it almost makes her cry as well.

“Alright, I’m sorry, but you might want to take that shirt off,” she gulps, feeling her cheeks burning. He makes no effort to resist - he listens automatically, an instant reaction, too quick. She can’t keep up the smile. She asks if it’s okay, waits for him to nod, and then wipes his forehead gently with the edge of the towel. He leans into her touch as if he’s following a compass. He bases himself off of her - she’s his pillar, his reference point. She’s real and she’s tangibly closer than the contents of his nightmares.

He holds his breath when she reaches his neck, his shoulders. It’s a lot for him to take in - she touches him like she would a fragile object, and she looks at him like she’s losing faith the longer she stays near him. Being near him seems to drain the life out of her. The towel is soft. Whereas the outside world seems to be giving him a break for now, his insides continue to burn.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles against her hand, his hair sticking to his forehead. His heart sinks in his chest when she traces his cheek with her thumb again. He tries to suppress the sobs but some still escape his lips. “I’m sorry,” he whispers breathlessly. He can’t look at her right now.

“It’s okay,” she assures him quietly, her voice light and clear amidst the turmoil in his head. Her hand moves up and touches his hair. “It was just a nightmare. You have nothing to be sorry for.” She doesn’t know what the apology is truly about. She can’t imagine the masses of black-clothed, puffy-eyed, nameless people who gather around fresh graves, who deserve and who own that apology. He has everything to be sorry for.

He shakes his head and more boiling tears fall down from his eyes. His shoulders hunch forward and his glance lowers under the weight of his private shame.

“No…” he whimpers. “No, it wasn’t.” The nightmare is real. It’s more than just a bad dream, more than a concoction of his sick mind - it happened. Everything he saw, the screaming, the bodies, the red-stained cement, it exists and it is real and he did it.

She hesitates for a split second, but she catches her breath and continues running her fingers through his hair. He lets himself hold onto her touch for a moment, but he eventually pulls away. He doesn’t miss her wariness.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she sighs after she withdraws her hand. It’s a careful, tactical question. Her professional experience resurfaces like a wall of defence - that detachment, of which she used to be discreetly afraid, now becomes a hiding mechanism.

“No,” his voice is barely audible. “I can’t talk about it.” If he does, he’ll lose her. If he tells her, all of it becomes real in this corner of the world, her home, the warm place she shared with him for no ulterior motive. He can’t bring that kind of horror into this undisturbed place.

She sighs as she slowly reaches out to hold his hands again. He doesn’t have the strength to shift away from her - he needs her to root him into reality before the nightmare swallows him.

“It’s safe here. You’re safe,” she tells him as she goes back to tracing circles on his skin. “If you want to talk, you can, yeah?” But, if it comes down to it and she will need to tell somebody, get him proper help, can she go against his wishes? Is she prepared to deny him that privacy for the sake of his health?

He shakes his head again. More tears fall as though his own body is trying to drown him. I can’t talk about it. If I open my mouth, the horrors will never stop. But he can’t say that out loud.

“Tell me what you need,” she says, a tinge of despair in her voice. You cannot cry - be professional; if she wants to be of any use, she has to keep her shit together, at least until he calms down.

His head rises shyly, his eyes looking up to her from behind his tears as if to say help me, take it from me. He never wanted this. He just wants to rest, he just wants it to stop, all of it, everything. He just wants it all to be over.

“Please just stay with me,” is all he can manage to say, a frail and dying whisper against the deafening silence in the room. Another sob escapes his throat.

And so she does. She shifts so that she’s leaning against the pillows, sitting upright. She opens her arms, inviting him with an exhausted smile. She tilts her head slightly as she waits. He doesn’t bother glancing up to her anymore. He just leans into her, too sick and too tired to care what happens to him. He rests his head against her shoulder, making sure his left arm doesn’t touch her, melting beneath her hand as she fiddles with his hair.

She takes his right hand in her free one and drapes it over her abdomen - he doesn’t fight back. She rests her cheek against his head and he hides at the base of her neck again, comforted. The tightness in his chest deepens beneath the shy kisses she plants at the top of his head. The storm outside quiets down to a soft rumble. The world grows still again as his pulse gradually slows down. Her hair is soft against his forehead and it smells lightly like vanilla - it makes him think of a bakery and the laughter of a young boy from Brooklyn, with golden hair and eyes blue like ocean water.

“Sometimes, when I get bad nightmares, I get up and I write them down,” she begins softly, her voice cracking and slurring under exhaustion. “I keep a little notebook by my bed,” she laughs quietly, more for herself than for him. His eyes are open halfway as he listens to her patiently. “And then, in the morning, I read about what I dreamt and it feels surreal. Nightmares just have a way to force you to sit and watch and experience all of it…” she sighs and she kisses the top of his head again, causing a wave of ache to squeeze his heart. “But in the morning, when I read the things I wrote, it becomes easier to deal with them.”

He shifts his arm and wraps it lightly around her waist. He tries to lie to himself, to convince himself that he can feel that way too - that writing about his dreams and seeing the absurdity with rested eyes will make them easier to handle. He just wants to sleep peacefully again - just for a few minutes.

“When I have nightmares, they’re usually about what I see at work,” she continues, her voice growing softer, sweeter. There are tears stinging her eyes but she holds them back. “I dream about the things I see, the people I couldn’t save, the people whose hearts I have to break.”

Her nightmares are memories too. He longs to do something for her, but he doesn’t know how to fix things. Everything he touches dies.

“I tell myself that, if I see them in my dreams, I’m remembering them. And by remembering them, they don’t just become a patient, a number, or a church service… They were real and they lived, and I lived along with them.” Tears run shyly down her cheeks. The arm around her waist tightens around her, grounding her in this moment.

They were real and they lived, and he lived along with them. His hands claimed lives, but he lived, somewhere in the back of his head, and felt their pain and screamed until his throat was on fire. He lived, even if he was a prisoner in his own mind.

“And no matter how many times I feel like I deserve to die with them,” she adds, with a tremor in her voice. The pit in his stomach is so deep it’s hitting his spine. “I get out of bed in the morning because I am more than the people I couldn’t save.”

I am more than the people who died because of me. I am more than what they forced me to be. I am more than a victim and I am more than a weapon. I am more than the people I have killed and I am more than the people I have killed for.

His lips hover gently above her collarbone. He closes his eyes, a few shy tears still escaping, but his heart has quieted down now. He stops focusing on anything particular, listening only to her voice, her heartbeat, and the sound of the rain.

That was the first time he fell asleep without a nightmare.

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This was my tagging list from years ago so if you want to be added/removed please let me know.

Her blue haired angel, though insistent on staying behind the camera at all times, had been incredibly supportive of her decision to start this Youtube channel. They had agreed that while modelling was fun, this was a better way of getting started after their escape from the hell of Arcadia Bay.

Notes: Sorry guys, quick self indulgent recent reqs, I've been trying to get my older ones done first, but this was just such an easy and simple one, Connie Francis fuelled and inspired fic too!! And a reminder Outsiders reqs are still shut