#But it’s the same on tumblr it hurts my brain every time I try to keep up w what people are doing

[idontmindifuforgetme]

At some point checking into social media starts to feel like masochism…. Literally flogging my brain every time I try to keep up w people’s lives

[fortunately-bi]

...... If I went on a hiatus for who knows how long again would y'all hate me....... 👉👈

[dilf-docs]

Misery Reigns My Lonely Neon Nights

old man!logan x younger fem!reader

summary: logan should've said no. should've just drove the pretty waitress home. that's his job. hers is to serve his cup of coffee to the brim. so why is he riding you to his house?

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (cause we have a small daddy kink going on here.. hence the blog name BUT I DO HAVE A GOOD DAD), smut, this reeks of corruption kink for no reason other than me being a virgin whore, like he gets stalker-ish for a second but its logan howlett so we forgive him<3 ya está viejito, brief mention of suicide, sub logan edging on praising kink (if u squint), no protection but u gotta put the hat on the cowboy to ride the horse alr, riding, breeding kink??? angst (the depressing vibes are there cause they follow my writing like a shadow ijbol)

word count: 6,102 words (at the v crack of dawn.. i think i've gone insane FR it's 02:07 am and my brain its eating itself like im gonna start seeing logan in the corner of my room)

side note: newbie here after reading so many fanfics on tumblr but never publishing my own!! its hugh's birthday (well, its past midnight so no more but still!!! it was a couple hours ago) so i figured i should give it a try today cause that man does things to me ESPECIALLY as old man logan i can't lie and say the thought of him fucking me good and slow hasn't crossed my mind too many times 😩 we love sad hot old people in here so naturally my inaguration fic had to be done by him. also, i'm tired of scrapping for votes, comments, and interactions on wattpad so please treat me well during our first:// it's me moving to tumblr it's me hi i'm the problem it's me. i'm a feedback whore so pls leave tons of those!! also, english isn't my first language so if i make a grammar mistake pls do not tell me bc i have no respect for this language ―it just makes me cringe less to write smut on a language that isn't mine lol<3 but if there's any other mistake yes pls do tell me thank u OKAY BYE i needa quit yapping ENJOY dilf town<3

So it started something like this.

It was another simple nightshift for Logan. The weather humid, uncomfortably sticking the fabric of his white button shirt onto his skin. Even with the windows down. Those nights that the driving dragged on for long, like those cigarettes that now made him cough more than relax. The roads felt too long; his eyes too heavy.

Nothing new. Just about what to expect: money short, clients and traffic equally annoying. But that was the problem; nothing was new anymore.

He'd just finish dropping a customer close by, and since the tiring feeling didn't seem to leave his body just yet, a coffee wouldn't hurt. As a matter of fact, the need for a boost to make it home makes him get out of the car and limp his way into the first place his tired vision sees.

The rim of his recently adquired reading glasses slips as he climbs the stairs into the decades old diner, the decoration outdated. He understands; he feels the same way.

Neon lights flash his face when he enters the place and sits in the farthest booth he can find. The air is impregnated in grease and cheap coffee, but he waits at least fifty minutes to order, giving his body some time to rest. In the meanwhile, he tries to distract himself with the newspaper resting on the table, but God knows his eyes are too tired and his mind drifts every two words.

He hopes he doesn't get kicked out, judging from the attentive look he's receiving by a waitress resting on the bar. She looks as bored and tired as he does.

Maybe that's why he chooses her, raising his hand with order in mind. A black coffee. The waitress slides from her position and takes some steps to where he sits.

Her voice is sweet when she introduces herself, and Logan finds himself asking her again what her name is, pretending he's half deaf just to listen to it again.

"It's y/n" you repeat, oh so sickeningly sweet, he might have to skip on asking for sugar.

"Y/n" he savours the name on his lips, trying the tender sound, his eyes darting to the name tag, like he's confirming it. Testing to see if the young woman in front of him is real. Maybe his eyes linger a little too long, and the tip of your ears start to heat. Its the way he examines every feature on your face, like memorizing it in a sense, that makes you squirm. But maybe, just maybe, it's the small―brief, peak he gives to your exposed cleavage, pushing itself against the tight fabric of your uniform what truly gets your heart beating fast.

He looks like what your parents would warn you to stay away and your friends would talk behind your back. Rugged in a way that screams heartbreak, rough around edges your kind nature wishes to soften. It's unresonable to feel this way about a client you just met, but his aloof demeanor peaks your interest, so different from your usual costumers and familiar faces that pop up at the diner.

"Can I order you, darling?" his voice comes out deep, almost passing as a grunt. Just what you imagined it to sound. Why he's acting as his past self so effortlessly, after closing himself off to the point of going by entire days without talking more than three words, is concerning. Why the cute waitress who looks at him with doe eyes, expectant to take his order, is making him break the promise he made to himself not to get attached again―just live by enough to make it to the sea and put a bullet in his head.

"Well, that's just about my job" you joke, feeling confident for no reason. "But you can't order me".

"A damn shame" he chuckles, the sound deep, rumbling on his chest. It's been so long since he's laughed like that: carefree, without that pressing weight on his chest, that despite the sinking notion, sometimes feels more like a hole carved where his heart is supposed to be.

"So..." you trail off, unsure where to proceed after that sound that jolted your entire system awake, "what will you take?"

The banter dies, and Logan is dissapointed when she scribbles the dark coffee on her pretty round letter and walks away. He doesn't miss the sway of her hips, and almost calls her back just to hear her voice again. But he stops himself, because it's getting pathetic.

When she returns with her order, he almost regrets the comeback of his enhaced senses, her honeyed perfume mixed with the bitter smell of the freshly brewed coffee, creating an intoxicating mix.

His lips burn when he sips it, but that doesn't stop him from emptying the cup. Again. And again. All in the name for asking for more coffee, a magnetic force pulling him to the ground, making him forget he's a 200 and something year old man begging like a starved man for at least a fraction of her attention. He feels unworthy of your warmth.

He feigns interest on the newspaper when you return again (he's been stuck on the same paragraph ever since he sat down), the pot in your hands. If you've noticed he's emptied the cups faster than a normal person, you don't ask questions. He's thankful, but can see the amusement and confusion laced across your pretty face.

"More?" you ask, but it's unnecesary. He only nods, and you miss the chatter.

The closeness it's a challenge itself, the uniform's neckline practically shoved down his nose while she fills the cup to the brim. He hears his own heartbeat, the sound averting his attention from another "brief" glance at the cleavage. Is it intentional? Is your goodwill and act? Are you this cruel, playing with an old touch starved man like that?

God knows it's been long since he's had a helping hand during his relief hours.

He can't help it; he's a man, after all. So he seizes the moment and steals a glance. But his eyes meet yours, the wary green clashing with the cozy chocolate. There's warmth on your eyes, and he's looking at your tits like an animal. He pulls away, ashamed. The shirt feels a bit suffocating, and there's sweat on his forehead again. Great, you'll think he's a perv.

"Excuse me" you say, leaving his table. Logan is afraid of having fucked it up for thinking with this dick and not with his head. You were messing too much with his head, and now he'll pay the price. Fair, he thinks, for a perverted old man trying to woo a girl younger and far more innocent than him.

There's benevolance on her smile and blood on his hands.

The whole situation is stupid.

But then he's thinking of excuses (like saying it's his failing eyesight's fault) and something close to an apology, as if he cares a little too much about what you think. And then you come back.

"I forgot to bring you a napkin" she lies, leaving the piece of paper in the middle of the table. You laugh, and Logan let's you because 1. He deserves it, and 2. It's a sound as saccharine as the smell the freshly heated pies emit on the table across him.

You leave before he can even open his mouth, so all he's left with is the napkin that seems to have something written on it. Pervert, he reads, on the same calligraphy you scribbled on your bloc. He can't help but laugh, even with your watchful look on him.

That's how it continued.

Even if he had other rides and more energy to drive, he kept coming to the decaying diner just to see you. Almost as if he was forgetting his desperate need for the money, the boat goal further and further.

"You've forgotten about me" complained Charles, although his tone lacked of bite. "But I'm not mad that you've had".

He'd go on, rambling about living life but Logan just laughed. Yet, maybe he was right. Didn't even need his powers to know it.

Now, you? you simply couldn't get enough of your favorite costumer. Of his late stays until you closed, sometimes not muttering more than necessary, yet his company, even if curt, proved to be what you needed to make it through work, giving you a legitimate reason to yearn the before tedious night shifts.

Despite this two month weird relationship, Logan is as a stranger to you as he was the first day, no matter how many times you've tried to get him to talk. In the end, all your conversation efforts feel more of a monologue than a chat.

He knows about your mom and your dad, one strict the other dead. He knows most of your friends names, what you're studying and what you wanted to. Your dreams and your hopes, your aspirations, failures, and some other things you'd never say to anyone else out loud. All and nothing. And he listens, sometimes asking questions, but never about himself. He never takes the lead.

So frustration from the Logan enigma pours into you, the puzzle pieces layed out over your mind, consuming your thoughts. So now you're stubbornly cleaning the same grease spot on a table you've already wipped before, and that, coincidentally, it's the booth in front of Logan, the permanent resident of your head during these past weeks. You might as well make him start paying rent by now, his power and hold over you ridiculous.

"It's not going anywhere. Take it easy" he mocks you.

There's a bit of annoyance when you reply back, although it's mostly superficial. "Don't know what you're talking about" comes out your dry response, earning a low chuckle from him.

"How about you sit for a moment?" he offers, ignoring your apathy. "You're almost done cleaning up".

If his ever changing attitude isn't enough, closing this night's shift is as tiring.

Logan doesn't expect you to obey, but now you're sitting across from him, and a voice in his head says you maybe feel sorry for this lunatic old man.

You're so close, he can see the eye bags and sorrow you are far tired to try to hide.

"I have to finish cleaning" you explain, "we're about to close".

He doesn't know why he says it, or what takes over him when he says:

"I could wait for you"

He surprises himself and surprises you too.

"No need" you assure, and why does he feel so dissapointed. It's stupid. "My friend picks me up".

Ah, yes. The friend with the perfect stupid smile that picks you up every night. Not like he parks his car until you leave and sees the scene unfold each time, his white knuckle grip on the wheel a bit too much when the young boy opens up your door. Makes him see red, knowing he's your age and maybe the breathe of fresh air you need. Not a man far older, who bears too many sins and scars in and out.

"I see" he says after some minutes in silence, retracting his impulsiveness. "I'm sorry if I made you-"

"No!" you clarify hastily, "it doesn't bother me".

He smiles unconsciously in relief.

"Well, me neither. I insist. If you change your mind" he's practically begging, despite his monotone tone.

But you don't.

The place closes and Logan is forced to get in the car. He lights a cigarette, in no hurry to return home. The lighter lights up while the diner's light goes off. You and your boss come out, biding each other goodbye. She leaves and you're is left alone, hugging your body in the early morning cold. 

He sees you wearing particular clothes, for the first time. He takes a slow drag on his cigarette, eyes running up and down your bare legs, the fragile fabric of the skirt fluttering in the wind. He exhales, watching as you dials your phone several times, getting no response, obviously frustrated.

He mutters something under his breath, and maybe there is a God after all. He starts the car, approaching her, who has already noticed it, probably because of the noise of the engine.

She looks scared, but Logan rolls down the window so she can see it's him.

"Need'a ride?"

Just by his reverberant sound you could accept. But you try to play cool for a while, despite your aching bones and need to get home.

"He doesn't answer" he was right, "my friend".

I know, he wishes to say, but he's the same hot headed asshole who walked through the doors of the X mansion for the first time, so his tone will be laced with irony. He doesn't want you to see him as an intense hot blooded mouth.

I could take you. His head pounds but he shuts the emotions down.

He shoves the knot on his throat down and asks as casually as possible, "do you live close?"

"Just around the corner" you answer. A beat, your frame bending so he can see your face from the driver's sit, the cleavage saying hello again. How considerate of you. "Do you really want to do this?"

Do you really want to do this?

The question rings on his ears. It holds more than just the favor. Logan knows they have a certain tension between them that he no longer wants to ignore. For the first time it seems to be reciprocated; palpable, and he is surprised to hear his heart beating loudly, so accustomed to hearing others' with his sharp senses, constantly forgetting what his own sounds like. Yours also beats erratically, despite your calm composure.

You arch an eyebrow, amused. "I can't believe you waited for me. Your family must be worried."

Logan realizes you're trying to test waters. So he raises his hand discreetly and places it on the door, so you can see the lack of a ring. As expected, your eyes travel to his free finger, and he can swear he sees you breathe with relief, which is funny, because in case you hadn't picked up until now, Logan is very much fucking alone.

"In case you changed your mind," he answers. "I have nowhere else to be."

That is enough of an invitation for you to get in the car.

"I was going to open that door for you" he protests.

You only laugh as you buckle the seatbelt. "It's not that big of a deal, really. You've already done enough for me by doing me the favor".

"It's not that big of a deal" he repeats your words, "as long as I'm of help, that's enough for me".

He smiles wistfully, remembering better times. A part of him still aspires to be that hero everyone loved and remembered, something that clearly doesn't happen anymore (or if it does, it's rare), given the lack of recognition of his former identity in El Paso. He shakes his head, focusing back on the street in front of him. It's too late to get fucking sentimental.

"I like to help too…" you confess, meekly. Logan sighs, how could he not know? "My father used to say that I had the kindest heart he'd ever met. I hope it stays that way, and that when he looks down on me, he's proud".

It hurts Logan to see you be so hard on yourself, as if he didn't do the same.

"I bet all the customers in the place would say you're the sweetest thing they've met", he sees you smile from the corner of his eye, and can't help but emulate it. "Believe me, you're their favorite".

"Thank you, Logan" you say sincerely. However, the affliction that he hates to see crosses your face. So gloomy that you don't even seem the same person.

You wipe away an unexpected tear, but Howlett is faster and notices. You turn around, looking towards the window. Then, you catch a glimpse of his license.

"So… you're a driver" you try to break the silence that Logan has put without knowing why. Maybe to give you some space after being sentimental and opening up again to this closed off wall name Logan, but he knows it's a lie. He's scared. After wanting so much to be closer to you, he cowers, not trusting himself and what he would do trapped in a small space with such an attractive woman. Besides, the tension from the previous conversation was still there.

"You judging me now, honey?" the pet name rolls off his tongue before he catches it. He tries to play it cool, continuing the banter, carrying the same tone. "The only thing necessary to make you trust me was to give you a free ride?

"I'm in your car, Logan. I got in without thinking" you laugh. "I believe that's enough trust"

"Then, I'll keep doing you favors. Maybe if I do…" he trails off.

Your voice drops an octave, provocative. "Maybe what?"

His knuckles grip the steering wheel until they turn white.

"Maybe…" he hesitates, "maybe…"

"It's here" you point out. Shit, Logan curses, braking abruptly without meaning to.

"See you tomorrow" you bid as a goodbye, getting out of the car. Logan misses your smell.

So he sticks his head out the window, like a begging dog.

"How about now?" he says a bit forcefully.

Your face shows surprise and something else.

"You're getting attached" you reply, and he doesn't know why there seems to be sadness in your voice.

"I just keep coming back for the coffee" he defends himself.

You laugh, shaking your head "Now, then. For the coffee, clearly."

"I can leave" he says. Yet, makes no move to leave.

You sigh, giving him one last look. Surrender, he reads.

"You're a driver, right?" he nods, taking in every word coming of your pink plush lips. "Then let's drive off. Anywhere" your voice trails off, and you're just so tired of everything, you'll just let go yourself with the flow. "I'll go wherever you go..."

And this is how it ends.

When you wake up, it's almost dawn.

Logan had suggested you to sleep, claming the road where he was taking you to be long. He had covered you with his jacket, even if your body was burning from nerves.

Why had you agreed? Your mom would probably smack your head in search for some sense, and your reckless friends would encourage you to do it for the sake of a story. But something about Logan makes you feel safe, despite not knowing anything from him. It's sort of a sense of protection―like he would never hurt you, that envelops him. Everyone else would call you crazy; only you can understand that.

When your eyes adjust to the light, you realize you're in a line of cars.

"Did you bring me to the border?" you exclaim groggily, still in a sleepy voice.

"Good morning" he answers instead.

You rub yoou eyes, settling into the passenger seat.

"You're not going to kidnap me, right?" you question, half joking half serious.

Logan laughs, "Not only that. I'm also going to throw your body in a mass grave"

"It's not funny," you pout, although you're laughing too.

Once you've crossed the border, Logan drives a few more minutes, until he reaches a restricted area.

“I live here” he answers before you can ask, “saves rent and questions”

After opening the locks, you can better appreciate the place. Well, appreciate may not be the right word.

“It's an abandoned smelting plant” you voice out loud.

Logan just nods. You realize that he didn't like the comment, so you try not to talk about it anymore.

“Come” he gets out of the car, going to open your door. He offers you a hand, and you fail to hide your smile.

“You didn't miss this time, huh? Quite a gentleman” you praise. Then, add jokingly, “if you choose to kill me, at least I'll die taken care of".

“Stop talking nonsense and go inside” he scolds but smiles.

Inside, the abandoned plant is exactly what you expected.

"We're alone" Logan says, after leaving to check. He opens the door to his room, letting you in. There's not much inside, just a bed and scattered things. A yellowish light begins to filter through the broken glass. "I'mma change. Be right back".

You begin to explore your surroundings, to avoid thinking about the impact of the situation. Two things could happen: leave or stay. Maybe everything was going too fast, but you prided yourself on your spontaneity, often confused with impulsiveness. Others would say it was your naive nature: too innocent for your own good.

What had led you to accept without further ado? Was trust enough, that you had even fallen asleep in his car?

"S'rry for the wait"

You notice that Logan's gotten rid of his formal attire, leaving him in just slacks and an old white tank top. His muscles flex with every movement, making you swallow involuntarily. He still retains his extraordinary physique, despite his greying hair. She can't help but stare at the scars that cover his exposed skin, her fingers itching to trace them.

"Haven't they told ya' t's rude to stare?"

You look away, embarrassed. Logan walks over to the bed, bumping into you in the process, bodies barely touching. Still, an electric shock runs through you. You hug yourself, scared, aware of the effect he has on you.

"Logan" she dares to ask, "what are we doing?"

He finally looks at you. You feel naked under his intense gaze.

"What do you want us to do?"

His voice comes out low, like a growl. You stand in place stiff, unable to form a word.

"Come on, honey", the nickname comes out of his lips so easily, it hurts. "Are ya losing your voice now? Got into my car a while ago without thinkin', what's changed?"

You slowly approach Logan, each stride calculated. He watches you in silence, a silence as hostile as the wind hitting the broken windows, watching you remove your clothes, until all that's left is your bra and that skimpy skirt, as if you knew he liked it.

"Logan…" you whisper his name like a prayer, letting yourself fall on his legs. He holds you with his hard calloused fingers, like a promise.

"Use your words, sweet thing" the trepidation condenses between, "we're grown up now, aren't we? Use your words"

Don't let me fall. Don't let me go. Don't leave me.

If by words he meant feeling your lips against his, it's enough to have Logan following his impulses, using his strength to embrace your body until they feel like one, the scars on his hands feeling like your own. Your lips move in sync, and it's almost so casual, so learned, so meant to be, that fear appears in Logan, soon forgotten with the symphony of moans that come from your lips.

"Tell me" he pauses, breaking away from the kiss (something you don't like and express in the form of a pout), "what do you want?"

Logan tastes like cigars and whiskey, a combination you hate and the reason you quit your old job at the bar, but on his lips, it's an intoxicating taste.

"I want you, Logan" you whisper, hot breath against his skin, “you”.

He resumes the kiss, an electric shock of hunger and need between you: lips parted, colliding, teeth almost clashing against each other.

His fingers hesitate with a delicacy that belies his rough touch, the tips of his worn fingers lifting the fragile cloth of your skirt first, revealing soaking wet panties he goes crazy just at the sight of. The smell is sugary, sicklingly, so now he's hard and pulling at the clasp of your bra first, exposing your nipples, which he rolls and pinches mercilessly. A gasp escapes you—then another, and another as Logan pushes his thigh between your legs. The friction is delicious, almost painful against your pulsing center.

His hand firm up his position, securing itself onyour bare legs as you digs her nails into him. His labored moans turn into a guttural growl.

“You think I’m not capable?” he mocks, stealing another moan from her, “that I can’t keep up with you, you pretty young thing?”

You deny it, but Logan takes it upon himself to show you that he can take you like he's in heat, the ghost of his old self taking over in his almost animal way of fucking you, hips arched, muscles flexed and tense, his teeth appearing every time he opens his mouth, reminding you of fangs. They dig into your exposed skin, leaving bruises that will take time to disappear from your shoulders and neck, marking what belongs to him.

The hardness of his skin meets your soft when he grabs you by the waist.

"Look at you" it slips from his tongue, ecstatic. He's a goner, saliva dripping from the messy and sloppy kisses he leaves through your collarbone, "so good and so pure. I bet you're innocent, that you haven't seen what I've seen..."

His pupils darken, a strange mix between torment and desire in his gaze. Hungry and violent.

"Will you let me show you how's a real man s'ppossed to treat a woman?"

He feels shame settle in his belly, the hunger to possess her almost virgin body fueling his dark desire of errasing her sweet smile until she's an unintelligible mess of sobs. To show her what she would complain about, so she'll never slettle for less. So you can feel what it's to be taken care of―handled. And then he'll fill you up with his seed, so no other man will take what's his. His sweet little thing. Oh, he's so going to hell for this.

But maybe he likes pain.

"That's it, honey" he plays with the fabric of your wet panties, pulling at the loose threads in the delicate fabric. "Let me show you".

You take it off, and Logan lies back against the bed, spreading his legs and unbuttoning his belt and pants―a clear invitation to repeat the previous position, except this time, his hands are on top of your hips, squeezing the soft skin. He doesn't take his eyes off you, his gaze reserved only on you. If the adrenaline from before pushed you, now the confidence gained motions you to finish the task. It's just the push you need, remembering that this is what it feels like to be with a real man as you throw a leg over his hips, sitting your ass right on top of the bulge marked on his underwear.

“Right… there…” he barely manages to formulate a coherent train of words, the years of lack of help in attending to his needs leading to overstimulation, “good girl.”

The compliment makes you increase the pace of your hips, his labored breaths a sound so rich and so manly it makes you squirm.

You need it desperately, rubbing your increasingly wet clit against him, riding the fabric. His scruffy beard barely hides the smug smile that graces his lips.

“Like this?” she whispers, and Logan can no longer contain himself, staring at his sweaty, ripped body failing to please her completely. It feels so good it aches, and he can't believe this is how he's ended. But if that means having your pretty face on top of him, covered in his marks, dripping on your joint sweats, well maybe it isn't so bad.

“How can I repay you, honey?” he pleads. He'll try he's best. He just wants to give you a glimpse of the way his whole world has light up ever since he stumbled in that greasy diner.

“You said you were going to show me” it comes out almost as a purr, expectant, “and I’m waiting”.

Logan takes it as his cue, pulling down his underwear until his member is exposed, chuckling darkly when you swallow at the sight.

"Don't tell me you're scared already" he teases, "look how you have me… you can't leave me like this…"

You stifle a scream as you feel every inch of his thick cock enter your sensible walls, trying to fit his member inside of your needy body.

"So tight for me" he stammers, using his hands to keep you in place, on top of him. The only sound in the silence of that place that smells of death is that of their skin colliding―vulgar, the obscenity highlighted by being the only thing that can be heard in the small room.

Even though his stamina has dropped over the years, he thrusts into you relentlessly. Logan fucks you senseless, his balls buried deep in your dripping pussy, a constant rhythm of avid suction with each entry to your walls.

He takes a moment to see you as you take something from the nighstand he doesn't remember putting there.

"Look what I found" you whisper in the middle of your moans. Logan recognizes the shine of metal in front of his eyes, "so Wolverine?"

You say it so easily, like it's not the first time. With acceptance; it scares him.

Do you recognize him? Are you not scared? Why haven't your eyes go from curiosity and kindness to cold and rejection?

He should panic, rip off his dog tags from your hands and pretend he doesn't know who he used to be, but he's so deep inside you and so enraptured, he can only manage to gently take them from between your fingers and put them around your neck, the cold metal against your warm, bare skin creating an electric shock.

"I want to see them on you"

He likes to watch it hang over his face while you're on top, panting heavily as she repeats his name, slurring her words. It dangles with every thrust, the silver glistens in the seeping sun, just like the sweat that adorns her skin.

"Are you that needy of your old man? " he teases, caressing her. He smacks the curve of his ass, “You want more?”

His veiny length makes quick work of your needy hole, more moans escaping your lips.

“Shit,” you curse, wincing at the pain that begins to increase. “Yes, Logan. Just like that. Nobody ever treated me like that, nobody's made me feel like this-”

He moans, pleased with the praise, seeing he isn't as lacking as he thought. Making you feel good is his priority, but he won't lie and say he doesn't want to feel it too.

In an attempt to distract yourself, your eyes try to focus on him: searching his features, memorizing every scar, every wrinkle, every little grey hair.

“You’re perfect, Logan,” you mumble through a moan, the confession hiding more than you want to say and more than he cares to admit.

Before he can process it though, the fire in his stomach signals the arrival of his impending orgasm.

There's something delightful about the way you can barely speak, a mess of moans that sound like his name, eyes half-lidded and lips swollen alongside your messy hair.

He feels almost sick to be consuming something that doesn't and shouldn't belong to him. He doesn't deserve to have such a beautiful, young woman riding him while she clings to him like he's the last thing in this world, him: a worn, old man who can't keep up with her.

His member spasms, and it's got you feeling it all inside your walls, causing him to close his eyes in the process as well.

It's too soon, Logan thinks in shame, but it's been so long and you feels so good, he let's it go:

Thick whips of his cum shoot out of his member, drawing out more than you would've imagined. You don't have much time to think about it, for the orgasm hits you immediately, fingers curling and eyes rolling to the back of your skull.

Logan feels his tip getting wetter, and the extra lubrication is a nice finishing touch.

“God,” he gasps, “what a mess…”

You avoid looking at him, taking one of his hands in yours, kissing the red and violet painted knuckles. If you do, you'll give away what you feel, the same way her memory burns in Logan's chest, more now than ever, as his mouth tastes just like you.

Dependency.

Devotion. Absolute. Sick.

Maybe that was what he felt. This weird feeling. That abyss piercing his chest but never killing him (so much for regenerating...), pressing his heart with a crushing force whenever it threathened to beat again. Logan was content with rather nothing, always a man who didn't ask for much, and since the death of his family―the X-men, less.

"You should go" he mutters in defeat, the shame washing over. Even if he'll miss your warmth, even if he doesn't want you to leave at all. "It's for your own good, y/n. Pretend you don't know me and turn around. Go away" he insists yet gets stuck on his words, "you're not stupid. Then you'll know it's good for you and you'll never speak to me again"

He looks at the ground, cowardly, because he wants your lust filled warm look to be the last memory he remembers. Not whatever look you're giving him now.

So Logan closes his eyes and counts to ten. When he opens them, you'll be gone. It'll be a dream, something too good to be true. Short lived, like every good thing in his life.

"Logan..." you calls his name. So softly it seems like a breath.

You're still here.

"Logan" you call again, more firmly.

"Logan" you don't give up, cupping with one hand his face gently, "look at me".

When he looks up, he comes across a heartbreaking vision. You cry, tears falling like waterfalls down your cheeks. But that's not the most devastating thing, no: it's the look in your eyes, as if you've shared his pain. As if you've had suffered the same things he had suffered; a twisted reflection of him.

"Of course I understand you" you take his hands, and Logan feels that same strange warmth he felt the first time when your hands brushed his with the diner's menu. "I've also lost people… people I loved. Don't you think it hurts me to see the world go on as if nothing happened? Everyone forgets, Logan. But I can't; there's not a day that goes by when I don't think about them"

For a moment, you stop crying, and the hidden internal turmoil he tried so hard to decipher finally makes sense.

"I don't know what you've been through either, but I can promise you, that I understand you more than you think…" it seems like you'll say something else, but you stop and say instead. "Think, Lo: would these people want to see you like this?"

"It's what I deserve" he murmurs barely, his voice constipated but without shedding a single tear.

"It's not what we want, Logan. Please" you sniff, pained "stop being so hard on yourself".

"I'm not who you think I am" he insists. You're still naked on his bed, and he feels dirty for having you like this. For taking you to his home and fucking you raw out of your innocence. "I'm not a good person."

"No, Logan" you seem hurt by that statement. You trace one of his most recent scars with a touch so compassionate, that he feels your fingertips burn, "you are a hero".

Your words were so sweet, so comforting. He wanted to sink into your lap, which smelled like flowers and tasted like safety. A home; a life that had been taken from him. He wanted to believe everything you said―feel who you believed he was. Not this pathetic, tired and apathetic version of himself, but the old version: the version that inspired respect, that despite his tough exterior, had a family he loved. Because he had a heart. Now he feels like he has no soul: no purpose, nothing.

But maybe you are the answer.

Before he can change his mind, you blurt out “can I stay?”

That morning, in that old bed that creaks under his weight, Logan discovers that feeling alive again isn't so bad.

[househrt]

househrt's Repression fic rec list

Fic recs where Wilson and/or House is incredibly repressed and/or oblivious (about their sexuality, their feelings, their anything). I've tried to tag authors' tumblrs where they exist, but pls tell me if I've missed any!

Repressed!Hilson

Diagnosis by tornyourdress Creator's summary: House has a dream about Wilson and decides it's his brain's way of telling him Wilson's sick. The fact that it was a sex dream is completely irrelevant. Rec notes: 1.1k. Hilson getting together. Mutual repression from these two losers (affectionately)

every burn hole smells like home by JesseStresse Creator's summary: When House's pipes break in his apartment in early season 5, leaving him with no running water and no ability to shower, Wilson is recruited by the ducklings to make House shower because he smells distractingly bad. But Wilson doesn't smell anything bad. Actually, Wilson thinks House smells really good. Which could mean nothing. OR: Wilson discovers boysmell and has a midlife sexuality crisis about it. Rec notes: 20k. Hilson getting together. Trans Wilson thinks he's straight, both House and Wilson think the other one is straight, Wilson is in deep, deep denial

Repressed!House

systemic by ictus Creator's summary: Ever since Wilson moved in, House has presented with some inexplicable symptoms. Fortunately, he has a team of talented doctors to aid him with his diagnosis. Rec notes: 10k. Hilson getting together. House keeps having vivid Hilson dreams and runs a DDX on himself (one of my fav tropes). He's so repressed about his feelings for Wilson :)))

He Won't Tell You That He Loves You by hellshandbasket Creator's summary: “Finish it out,” he grits between clenched teeth. “Go on. Ask it.” Nolan shifts in his seat. “Are or are you not attracted, at the very least, to Wilson?” House knocks his forehead against his cane. “I don’t know. Maybe.” In which Nolan pulls at the Wilson thread, and House can't stop it all from unraveling. Repression is a hell of a drug. Rec notes: 25k. Hilson getting together. Repressed!House (not) dealing with his big gay crush realisation, Wilson is more observant than people think (quote: “You are the stupidest fucking person I’ve ever met,” Wilson declares. “You’re a moron, you know that? I don’t even know how you get through the day. An idiot.”)

Polygraphing by DarnGoshit Creator's summary: Greg is in a room full of liars and he knows what his Power is before he hits junior high. Or: Everyone is born with a supernatural abilities. House's is knowing when someone lies. Rec notes: 5.4k. Pre-Hilson. (Mostly background Hilson) House is the last one to know he's in love with Wilson, and is desperately trying to find out if Wilson feels the same (but he won't ever just ask, of course not)

keep me where the light is by RMarie124 Creator's summary: "House has his earth shattering, (good) knee weakening, life changing revelation about Wilson at such an inopportune time, that he’s tempted to laugh. He would have, if he hadn’t been hands deep in his patient’s organs." Rec notes: 13k. Hilson getting together. House realising he's in love with Wilson and panicking about it, feat. some bad pain days

Repressed!Wilson

a thousand teeth (and yours among them) by itooaminthisepisode (anarchy_opossum) Creator's summary: He just takes in the sight of House, loose and pliant and beautiful despite the pain he’s in - the glazed look in his eyes, the way his mouth drops open, the way he presses his nose into Wilson’s palm. The way he digs his teeth into Wilson’s skin. “Ow!” he yelps, quickly withdrawing his hand as the tender mood vanishes without a trace. “What the hell was that for?”' or: Sometimes, when House gets too overwhelmed by his emotions, he gets a little bitey. This is five times House bites Wilson, and one time Wilson finally bites him back. Rec notes: 1.2k. Hilson getting together. James "I'm not gay" Wilson, my beloved, with some hurt!House as a treat

only fools rush in by bittereternity Creator's summary: so take my hand, and take my whole life too. Or, the one in which Wilson realizes he's in love. It kind of throws him off-kilter. Rec notes: 3.7k. Hilson getting together. Wilson is the last one (except for House) to figure out he's in love with House. Includes Foreman giving Wilson the shovel talk and Cuddy's response to Wilson's "I'm in love" confession being “Which nurse do I need to replace this time?”

Noticing The Little Things by erimeows Creator's summary: Wilson notices things in House that he didn’t before. He notices that House eats the yogurt first because he knows that Wilson’s favorite parts of the parfait are the fruit and the granola, notices that House has beautiful flashing blue eyes and a gorgeous smile. He notices House’s cute little habit of playing with his own hair when he’s bored and the way House likes his coffee; black with an ungodly amount of sugar. Wilson notices things in himself that weren’t there before either. He notices that his heart is beating far too fast, that his face is hot, that his fingers twitch with anxiety and that he can’t stop himself from scratching the back of his neck. He’s so tired from losing sleep over the issue that he can barely stay awake, even with House looking him in the eye the way he is right now. “The hell’s wrong with you?” Rec notes: 4.4k. Hilson getting together. Wilson's big gay sexuality crisis. House's concern takes the form of thinking he must be sick and running a DDX on Wilson's big gay crush symptoms

Five Times House pranked Wilson And One Time He Didn't by vampiremustdie Creator's summary: what it says on the tin. crack fic + some very much earned yelling at each other as an excuse to get them close together !!! Rec notes: 5.3k. Hilson getting together. House being annoying, Wilson getting annoyed, then they kiss about it (also includes House drugging Wilson, one of my fav tropes)

I wanna scream “I love you” from the top of my lungs (but I’m afraid that someone else will hear me) by eating_custardinbed Creator's summary: “Call your divorce attorney and pack your bags, Jimmy. Me and you are shacking up.” in which Wilson is told that he is gay, and goes on a journey of self-discovery Rec notes: 5.8k. Hilson getting together. Wilson is the last person to figure out he's gay

A Little Experiment by roamingbee Creator's summary: House and Wilson have a drunken one-night stand. Wilson freaks out. House deflects. Rec notes: 7.8k. Hilson getting together. Wilson freaking out after his first gay experience (with House)

James Wilson and the Cozy Blanket of Denial by tornyourdress Creator's summary: "Why not date you?" Exactly, House says - why not date me? Rec notes: 3.2k. Wamber + Hilson -> moving into Hilsamber. Jealous!House and James "I swear, all straight guys fool around. It doesn't mean anything!" Wilson

your slightest look easily will unclose me by tornyourdress Creator's summary: Wilson has an unusual response to hearing about a patient of House's trying to 'cure' himself of being gay, and both House and Sam realize something's up. Rec notes: 3.6k. Wilson/Sam -> Hilson getting together. Wilson went through conversion therapy as a kid and is in major denial about how it fucked him up

starry eyes sparking up my darkest night by lawrussoauto Creator's summary: In his office, at work, with a girlfriend at home, Wilson was about to watch his best friend and their boss have sex. The realisation that House had emailed him a sex tape finally sank in. Where, in said sex tape, they were talking about him. “You think I’m afraid to go public? I want to prove you wrong … With a sex tape. We’ll send it to Wilson. It’s a win-win.” -- House, S07EP01. Rec notes: 1.6k. Huddy + Hilson -> Hudson. Wilson is repressed about his big gay feelings for House and watches Huddy's sex tape.

Correlation Does Not Equal Causation by housethemd (Whiskeyrose1) Creator's summary: “This… this hasn’t happened before.” “Most people say that in the opposite situation.” Alternatively titled: Wilson Doesn’t Actually Have Whiskey Dick Rec notes: 3.1k. Established Hilson. Previously repressed!Wilson and House have a drunken hookup (quote: “You don’t have whiskey dick, you’re just gay.”)

Shake The Disease by WeirdAn Creator's summary: Wilson moans House's name in bed. His marriage goes downhill, but he isn't gay, right? Rec notes: 3.3k. Hilson getting together. Wilson having his big gay freak out

Simply Complicated by wearywren Creator's summary: Wilson has made a big discovery about the true nature of his feelings toward House. House, of course, wants to figure him out. Rec notes: 2.7k. Hilson getting together. Wilson having his big gay freak out, House being nosy

Commedia Dell'Arte by IreneSpring Creator's summary: Even the most ornate masks eventually crumble. Wilson's lasted over thirty years, which would be impressive, if it weren't for the devastating ramifications. Rec notes: 7.6k. Hilson getting together. Wilson in denial about how he's autistic. James "But everyone does that, right?" Wilson. (Quote: How the fuck does anyone get diagnosed with autism when all the criteria are just normal parts of being a person?)

The Evolutionary Imperative by pleasuretoburn Creator's summary: "There's an evolutionary imperative why we give a crap about our family and friends, and there's an evolutionary imperative why we don't give a crap about anybody else. If we loved all people indiscriminately, we couldn't function." (2.04) or, Wilson gets involved in a situation he never expected to find himself in but, as the good, blundering creature that he is, he will people-please his way into his new life as a father. The only problem is, as always, House. Rec notes: 46k. Hilson getting together. Kid!fic that I, someone who rarely enjoys kid!fics, loved (Continued in this series)

Hypothesis by IreneSpring Creator's summary: At the beginning of the month, James Wilson decides to break out of his depressive spiral by having an affair with the first woman who is not needy. By the end of the month, he is facing an existential crisis decades in the making. Rec notes: 15k. Hilson getting together. Comphet!Wilson figuring out his sexuality (quote: "Am I gay, or just severely depressed?")

[feel free to send me fics you think should be on this list and I may add them. The rest of my fic rec lists are here. Last updated 05 October 2024]

[v88sy]

There are some blogs optimistic about Tommy back at some point, what are your thoughts about it?

I don't want to get too optimistic, because that's how we got ourselves here in the first place. Let's be honest. This was always a possibility and was even laid out as a possibility in the articles/interviews, we just chose to get too high on the hope. We were treating it as a sure thing and that was never the case. We duped ourselves a little on this one, and yes, I'm absolutely including myself.

Now, as many have pointed out (which I absolutely agree with) if you were to be completely oblivious about the articles and/or what they said, the breakup very much looks like it's open ended. It looks like something that's unresolved or meant to be resolved at a later date. They made it something that could be resolved. Something like moving away or wanting completely different things in life is a lot harder to work through and more definative. They clearly both want to be with each other. Tommy said he wanted to be Buck's last. He said he wouldn't be able to deal with the (what he thought was inevitable) heartbreak. You only get hurt that deep when you lose something you wanted that bad.

This is honestly the first time we ever heard Buck even utter the words "engaged" or "married" to any of his SOs. I do think it's something he wanted down the road, I just don't think he was there yet, and that's absolutely fine. The relationship was still very new. There was clearly a lot they didn't know about each other yet.

It was far too soon to make the commitment of moving in, and Tommy was just trying to stop things from getting any further before he got too deep (too late, me thinks.)

If you remove the clear bias of the journalists writing these "exit interviews" (is that even a thing in television?) they start to sound much like your run of the mill interview they do with every main after they have a major storyline play out on screen. Look at the direct quotes, not what the journalists are inferring for themselves.

All that being said, I'm not getting my hopes up, and I'm not planning on watching live again until I have a definite as to where the storyline is going, and if that takes until the final episode ever, so be it. I will get back to it eventually. Until then, I'll be keeping tabs on what's going on through Tumblr.

Now, this is just a little thought in my brain that has absolutely nothing to back it up whatsoever. I think maybe either Lou needed this break to get away from the bs and finish his role on SWAT, or they gave it to him and he's taking it.

We know he was surprised, but what he was surprised about was how soon it happened. Tells me that at least a temporary break was planned, just not until further down. Or maybe he only meant the disagreement.

We very much know Tim likes to plan out his story about 5 seconds in advance, there could be a tentative plan to maybe bring Tommy back down the road, say, after the midseason hiatus. Could even be the "project that may or may not be happening" that Lou had mentioned.

Buck is my favorite character, but I'm not interested in seeing him regress or go through the same storyline for the millionth time. If he doesn't at least try and fight for Tommy or talk things out with him, it's just more of the same season 5 Buck. I love 99% of the other characters too, but they also suffer from the Groundhog's Day writing and I'm just old and tired.

[sameschmidtdiffname]

Tumblr WILL NOT let me post the fic and this ask at the same time and I've tried legit five times. So THANK YOU anon for the request and I'm sorry for the weirdness in uploading. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this!

My Ghost.

Billy x Gender Neutral! Reader

Summery: You don't know what happened that night. Things were fine, life was good, then your partner is on the news for all sorts of shit you never would've thought him capable of the day prior. He was dead, he was evil, and you were trying to move on. But what's the proper etiquette when the dead show up on your door unannounced?

Tags: No use of Y/N, hurt/comfort, fake death, mentions of drinking, drug use/dealing, grieving, arguing, cursing, flashbacks, brief suggestive scenes, suicidal thoughts.

Other Works in This Series: 'Repentance' (Prequel to 'My Ghost') • 'Lapses' (Sequel to 'My Ghost')

Notes: The way I've been trying to upload this for two hours. Oh my fucking God. Anyways, everyone say thank you to anon for getting me to write something that doesn't make God cry.

-¤°》◇《°¤-

I'm not hard to please, but I'm not desperate despite what the rumors may say.

People enjoy gossip. People who don't know fuck all about you. And my standards are fine. Were fine. And I don't mean standards such as 'buys me flowers everyday' or 'doesn't deal coke.' I mean standards such as 'is a decent fucking person.'

"That's what I thought you were up until all of this fucking... disappearing for months!" I scream, anger fueling me. I don't let the other emotions win out, don't let them have a say. Because if I do, I'll be too conflicted and overwhelmed and then I'm gonna cry, and that's not fair.

People had warned me he was trouble. Terms such as 'wannabe cowboy,' 'rebel without a cause' were tossed around in warning. But to me, he was just Billy.

Then he was dead.

Now, he was here. He showed up at my door nine months after leaving me with a small little keychain on the kitchen table and a soft kiss on my forehead, saying he had some plans for that evening. But he'll be back soon.

Then he was on the news. And a gas station blew up. Gangs, stolen vehicles. He was probably dead. Things would be easier if he was dead.

Fine. Maybe I initially ignored warning signs. Maybe I was distracted by his handsome side profile, too busy admiring his nose to notice the occasions it was dusted with the trace of a fine powder. Maybe his hands were too beautiful for me to realize they were slipping money to men in dark jackets when we went out to the rougher parts of town. But he was mine and I was his, and overall he was a good person.

He was alive. He was alive and I was mad because if he was dead then at least it would be valid that for nine months I have had to deal with the accusatory stares of our neighbors assuming I knew, the pity from my loved ones, and the betrayel that kept me awake at night. It would mean he hadn't left me to deal with his repercussions, that maybe there was a valid excuse. An undiagnosed brain tumor that finally gave way to insanity, a gun to his head. Something that was not the worst case scenario of just... being an awful person. I could let his things rest around the house undisturbed, hiding from the world and waiting to find the courage to join him one day and living in denial in the meantime. What the fuck was all of this?

"I couldn't tell you," he keeps saying. "It was better if you knew nothing until I was sure I could come get you."

"Why didn't you just take me with you from the start?" I ask. I've been pacing the floor for the past twenty minutes ever since he showed up. It was better than throwing every breakable object in the cheap, worn down shack of a house at him, which was my second instinct. My first was to pull him into my arms, draw the curtains shut and hide him away so that he'll never leave again. Like an idiot.

He laughs bitterly. "You would not be asking that if you knew what the fuck I went through," he says. His words sound like they should be angry, but there's this lightness to them like he can't let himself think too much about it. It just makes me angrier.

"Don't fucking laugh!" I snap. "Do you think any of this is funny?"

"I think you're funny when you're mad," he deflects, smiling. "You got this whole routine. Pacing, nose twitching. I like the Shirley Temple stomps, like you're a kid."

I groan loudly, the noise almost sounding like a low scream in my throat.

"You owed money to fucking- who?" I yell.

"The details don't matter-"

"When I have been grieving your death for nine months, they fucking matter!" I snap. His brows furrow, his hands mid air as if to say 'the fuck did I do?'

"You know me, okay? I don't get caught," he says as though it were obvious.

"I know fucking nothing!" I practically scream.

When we met he was just a guy at a bar, handsome, wearing that same ridiculous jacket that I couldn't help but stroke the white fluff on, tequila running through my veins.

"Can I help you?" He asked, smirking.

"Just wanted to see what it felt like," I said.

"Wanna feel something else?" He asked, his chin resting on his head.

"Oh, fucking gross. Fuck o-"

"I was talking about this," he said, whipping out his keys to show off an odd, weirdly shaped keychain with short, stiff fuzz. "Don't call me a pervert just cause you're one."

He was smiling. It was an easy smile. Careless, happy with life. I loved that smile. It meant things were always alright as long as he was smiling.

He was smiling on the photo they used for the manhunt.

We'd danced the whole night. He didn't know hardly any of the songs, causing him to be off beat. I was too drunk to keep time, so I stepped on his leather boots enough times there was a visible scuff on the top of one by the end of the night. I always felt bad, offering to replace or help pay to fix it. He wouldn't let me.

"They're a keepsake," he'd insist. "A living memory." He wore them everyday.

He's wearing sneakers, today.

At the end of the night, I stumbled out of the bar with a note in my coat pocket. It took two weeks for me to wear that coat again, and when I found the slip I'd almost thrown it away, assuming it was something dumb. But when I saw the worst handwriting in the world displaying a number belonging to someone named 'Keychain Guy,' I almost couldn't wait to call.

"Bullshit," Billy snaps. "You know me better than anyone."

"Don't say that," I say, putting a hand out protectively to keep him away. "That's exactly why everyone thinks I was just fine with that whole- fucked up thing!"

A gas station burned. A stolen vehicle. People were dead. People were dead.

Billy was presumed dead.

There was no funeral. He had no family, and none of mine wanted to put money into something that would be protested by the whole town anyways. No body to bury, nothing to do but gather up his things and smoke what remained in his stash until people came to nurse me back to life. By that point there wasn't even relief in drugs. The taste simply reminded me of better times cooking in the kitchen as we blew the smoke into each others faces, or worse. Better. Whatever.

I never questioned when Billy went out of town. I knew his work had details I didn't want nor need to know. Money was tight. But Billy always came home with little things whenever he went on unexpected trips. Knick knacks, snacks, some item I'd seen at the store and picked up to make a comment about. Had he been particularly forthcoming about his dealing when we started dating? No. He said he worked for a local small business, which technically isn't untrue. But about six months in, he was the one who approached me and sat me down at the small, rickty round table to tell me the truth. And that's what mattered to me. The economy is shit and it's not like it was meth, so who am I to judge?

About a year into it, I was begging for him to do something else.

"I don't like you disappearing," I told him. "I'm scared one day you're gonna piss someone off and that'll be the end. Then what am I gonna do?"

"Then you're gonna make sure they don't fuck up my face during the embalming process for the funeral," Billy said around his hand rolled cigarette. I whip the small dish towel at him, making him laugh and protect his small ashtray that I made him for Christmas the year prior. It was shitty, uneven, and I'm 99% sure a fire hazard. But he wouldn't use any other ones unless I was the one who bought them for him, and even then he favored this one. 'When this place goes up in flames,' I thought, 'I'll regret that gift.'

I'd kept it by the kitchen window every day since he'd died. "Died." It was his spot.

He moves to sit there now, looking in his pockets for the small box of prerolled cigarettes.

"People know you weren't involved," he says dismissively.

"Your friends know. What about the old ladies at church? The checkout clerks at the store? How about the fucking mailman?" I shout, convinced I'm still talking to the dead. "You think they know the ins and outs of the local psychos support group?" I ask, gesturing and stepping closer.

I was the local outcast now. Not to be trusted, not worth kindness. Shame was my title, and when Billy appeared on my doorstep at an hour where only I was awake I was sure I'd caught the same awful disease that must have been what sent him spiraling that winter day. It wasn't until he pushed the door open fully, taking me into his arms and pressing a warm kiss to my lips that I knew he was real. It was a feeling I was in the early stages of forgetting, blurry and cold. But here he was, the stubble on his chin a bit longer and his ears missing the small hoops that had glittered in the sunlight when he walked out the door.

Then I'd pushed him away. And the fight began.

"I'm not a fucking psycho," he argues. His hands pat around his outfit, searching. "You got a lighter?"

"Fuck off." I kept his favorite in my left pocket. I had to be careful what things of his I wore or kept on my person. People close to me knew I would have never condoned his actions, but even they had glared at me in the early wake of Billy's death when I dared to wear one of his shirts out of the house, or more commonly one of his thick leather jackets. But a lighter can be hidden, and unless you had borrowed it you wouldn't know it had specifically been his. So I kept it with me all the time, just feeling it next to my skin with the only barrier being the fabric of my pocket. Without a thought, I cover the small item as though he can see right through me. Picking up on the hint, he's rises from the table and begins walking over to me.

"Don't be a dick, just let me borrow it," he says, holding out his hand.

"Fuck off," I snap.

"You've said that. I just need it for two seconds," he says as his hands begin to gently grab at me, one on my shoulder and the other dipping into my pocket.

"Get the fuck off of me!" I yell, slapping at him.

"Just let me have-"

He cuts himself off as he pulls out the lighter from my pocket, his thumb grazing over the printed picture. The Statue of David. He'd bought because it made us laugh. One side was the regular statue, the other a close up of its small genitals with cursive writing underneath spelling the art piece's name.

"Oh," Billy says quietly.

We stand for a moment, silent. He doesn't seem sure what to do. My lungs burn with unheaved sobs. I fucking hate this.

"You were gonna come back," I finally say quietly. I hate how my voice sounds when I'm upset. I hate that I'm wearing his dogtag, an item he'd bought at a World War II museum in middle school that he gave me for our first Christmas because we were both too broke to actually buy each other anything, hence the poorly made ashtray. I hate that when I sleep at night it's in his clothes that I rarely wash because the idea of losing his smell makes me want to scream. I hate that his scent is different from the bottle of cologne he kept next to my makeup, one time spilling all over the entire bathroom counter because we'd gotten too wrapped up in each other, dragging our nails down each others backs and watching ourselves in the mirror until one wrong move of my hand revealed he'd been a bit too careless about screwing the lid back on earlier in the day. I'd always warned him about that.

I'd been in the bathroom putting on my permanently scented blush when I got the text.

"I was going to," he said softly. "Then I couldn't."

"So what?" I say, not daring to turn and face him, choosing instead to stare at where the cheap, old wood paneling of the wall meets the shaggy, stained carpet that you have to wear shoes on due to the staples that have begun sticking out of it. "You just propose to someone and then pretend to die?"

Valentines Day was an awfully cheesy day to do it. So it's a good thing it was a technicality.

The day had been lovely. Billy had saved up a little to take me to a local hibachi place, telling me to wear my best outfit and jewelry. It was slightly overkill, but it's the small things in life, isn't it?

We'd come home with a bottle of wine, a low budget movie to ignore and hands searching desperately for each other.

"I love you," he'd said between pants. "You're mine."

"Buy a ring," I'd dared. Our minds were buzzed, the bottle half empty and our clothes thrown away without care. Took me weeks to find his both of his socks.

I hadn't meant for him to take it seriously. But I guess he decided it was time.

Two days later I thought it was odd when he walked into the house with my favorite lunch. It wasn't expensive really, we just usually got it for special occasions or days that had been mentally harder for me. And things were normal that day. I was getting ready for my shift, running around like I always do trying to make sure I've got everything.

"Your coffee's in the cup, will you just sit down?" He laughed, watching me. I quickly collected the take out box, sipping my coffee and wincing over its temperature.

"Fuck, that burns," I cursed. He wrapped his arms around me, trying to get me to sit at the table. "Baby, I can't," I protested softly, but I was laughing. He was peppering me in kisses, giving me those big puppy dog eyes everyone knew were my weakness. He wanted for nothing so long as he looked at me just like that.

"Just this once," he asked, pressing a kiss to my cheek. I couldn't help the blush and giggle that rose from me, but I also couldn't be late.

"I'll make up for it," I promised, slipping away and running into the bedroom to get my shoes. When I ran back in, pulling them on and coming to kiss him goodbye, I nearly fell over when I saw him on one knee, smiling and looking at me like 'I told you so.'

I don't like how itchy the ring feels on my middle finger as I twirl it in thought.

"You don't know what happened," he pleaded, his hands still on me. "If you would just listen to me-"

"The news gave a pretty good description, William. I don't think there's missing pieces in my head, unlike you," I say coldly, detaching from myself so to not have to deal with my emotions. This makes him stiffen, pulling away and resuming his place at the kitchen table, lighting his cigarette and placing the ashtray in front of him like nothing has changed when everything has.

It feels like I'm out of time. Like I've been shoved into a picture of what my life looked like before. Except the house was never this clean, clothes always scattered about. Not just in a fit of passion, we just had bad habits when it came to picking up. Billy would always say the chairs are more decorations then they are seats, anyways. "Why would you use those when you have such a nice seat here?" He'd ask, wiggling his hips and placing his hands behind his head, making me laugh.

Billy never looked so well put together in the house, usually in a wife beater and his hair framing his face. He'd always joked he looked like a dirty hippie around me, and I'd always show him how much I liked that. Not that he looked fantastic now. When we went out he was known for putting in effort. He always had more hair products than me, which I found funny. Though he refused makeup. Once I'd managed to talk him into eyeliner. 'Guyliner' I'd teased. He liked it, but said it should stay between us with a wink before asking where to get dinner. Now he sits before me in clothes obviously stolen to help him look unremarkable, his hair shaggy and uncut, so different from the man I loved.

"Who are you?" I asked him. That man didn't shrink away from accountability.

He sighed, smoke swirling around him as he wipes his face with his hand.

"I don't know. Can't tell if I'm better or worse, to be honest," he admits softly. His eyes look haunted, heavy bags underneath. It's the way his shoulders sag as though his will to go on is slowly draining from him in this very moment that makes me want to break now. Like whatever reason he had for still going was fruitless.

I didn't like the way we mirrored each other like this.

I slowly scuff my feet towards him, tapping my fingers against the back of the wooden chair before pulling it out to sit across from him. It's a start.

"So if you tell me," I say slowly. "Am I going to wish you were dead?"

He doesn't look at me. "I don't know."

Great.

The night is long. Morning comes without an invitation, the blue sky beginning to glow through the shitty blinders I always told Billy we should replace one day. I understand less than when we started, we've both cried more than once, and between our fingers is cigarette stubs and the feeling of each others skin, hands laced together as though another click of an old remote to an outdated TV with batteries you had to rub against your shirt to make work would reveal the smouldering remains of a gas station, displaying the estimated body count and deeming one of us as a devil of the worst kind, ripping us apart.

"Jesus," I say when it's over.

"Yeah," he says. "So, needless to say, my anxiety is shit now."

It isn't funny. It's a tragic statement. But when we both glance into the others eyes, it's his small little smirk that makes me laugh like I haven't since my mother sent me the local news report with his picture covering the front page. The same one that shows everything is still okay.

"I'm sorry," I say. Then the laughing turns into sobbing, and then I can't breathe. And I really am sorry.

I'm sorry I couldn't help him. I'm sorry he went out on a romantic whim and borrowed money he shouldn't have for the ring I was too ashamed to wear on the proper finger. I'm sorry he couldn't come back for me. And I'm sorry for hating him when he showed up unannounced at my door.

"Hey," he says gently, standing and crossing to me, removing his jacket and wrapping it around my shoulders to comfort me. It's unfamiliar, evidence of a life he wouldn't have led if he had just stayed by me and it upsets me, but his lips against my wet cheeks ground me, familiar and soothing me, coaxing me into wrapping my arms around him, clawing my trembling fingers through his hair. Still soft. Still combed.

"You can't stay here," I choke out.

"I know," he says quietly. There's nothing for a long time, our bodies shaking as we cling to each other. In our arms are the unspoken months of grief. Of his longing for our home, of my insanity. Death looms over the furniture, light hidden away lest it take away my sacred treasures I'd used to keep his spirit close to me.

"I can't lose you again," I say.

"I know," he says, smelling my hair and placing a soft kiss on top of my head. "But I can't promise stability if you follow me."

My brows furrow, my mind racing in confusion, my hopes rising. Follow?

"I know a guy," he says quickly, his arms tighter as if scared I'll turn away. "Says he can get me a new identity and a one way ticket to somewhere. I don't know where yet, but it's worth a try."

My fingers trace his back, swirling invisible patterns over his shirt. He'd always liked that after a rough day. I can feel the tension begin to slowly fall away from him at the contact, his breathing growing deeper and more steady. "And you want me to come?"

"Need," he corrects. "I don't regret leaving you, but I can't stay away. Even if it's more kind to let you mourn and find a better life."

A new life. A new identity. New name, new everything.

Maybe I am insane. Maybe this exactly the kind of mental break Billy had that day. Maybe I was doomed to follow his spirit no matter what. Maybe this is a second chance. Maybe God had granted me a mercy I'll never be able to repay, no matter how many night I spend in worship at a church or between this man's legs. Maybe I'd spend every day looking over my shoulder, paranoid and eventually turning cruel to strangers so to keep this one person everyone told me to let go of from the very beginning.

But the same Billy.

"Can he do a marriage license?" I ask after a long silence. I can hear him laugh, pulling away to look at me.

"That eager?" He asks softly, his eyes gentle, thumb stroking my cheek. I lean into his touch, softly placing a kiss on his palm.

▪︎》◇《▪︎

"Well," I say, "I already have the ring."

Masterlist

As cute as this was, please have better standards than the Reader I wrote in this fic. No man is worth that. I am DEADASS. Anyways, love y'all <3

[aaron-m-geist-ff]

Hello. I've been lurking around your Tumblr and on Ao3 for a couple weeks, feeding on the delicious Mahito smut you bless us with. In response to your NSFW alphabet, could I get a V for our lovely Mahito, please? 😳

Hell yeah! Please lurk around as much as you like ;) I’m flattered! And I would be happy to bless you with some more headcanons 😋 thank you

_______________________________________________

V - Volume (how loud they are, what kind of noises do they make)

• Mahito •

It can be very difficult for Mahito to turn off his brain during sex. He is often very focused on monitoring your body and trying to make sure that you’re not getting hurt in any way. He is also very fascinated by your reactions and he thinks like a scientist would, experimenting with different techniques. For that reason, Mahito can easily get lost in his head and forget to fully enjoy the moment.

However.

There are a few things which can make Mahito really feral.

Whenever you clench around his cock, it sends his intelligent curse brain straight into orbit. He literally stops breathing for a moment every time you do that. He gets vocal almost instantly.

“Mh…Squeezing me so tightly, yes?”

Mahito’s voice sounds calm when he says it, but you can hear the faint sound of his labored breathing. It takes a lot to actually make him moan. His stamina is unmatched and his brain works so quickly. It’s a challenge to get past all of that. But you’re determined to get those delicious noises out of him.

Mahito moans loudly when he’s about to come. He wants you to hear how powerful his pleasure is. Letting out a series of mindless groans as he pumps his cum into you in thick ropes.

He moans the most whenever you try to suck him off. There’s just something about the sight of you with your lips wrapped around his shaft. Those pretty eyes of yours glancing up at him shamefully. Your blushing cheeks. Mahito is always grateful for his cursed ability during those moments. He loves the fact that he can transfigure your throat to be slightly looser, loose enough to enable deep-throating. That way he can thrust into you as much as he likes without the inconvenience of hurting you or causing you unnecessary pain.

“Yes, fleshlight…Just like that. You like my cursed cock in your mouth, hm? Such a good little pet.”

Mahito is ruthless with his words when he fucks your face. He likes to degrade you and praise you at the same time, which is absolutely insane but so is he.

You will notice that Mahito’s smooth and calculated sentences quickly reduce themselves to mindless rambling. He even moans in the middle of his sentences. He just can’t get enough of you during those moments, and he has no intention of hiding it.

Read more Mahito here

[ar3s-r4t-qu33n]

Idfc if he's real or not, he's still worse written than Eddie. Also the problem is in his fans that are making him no guilty, innocent baby and always refering that Coyle/Eddie/Everybody else im outlast are the same. And if you think it'll work, try to compare Walker (with PTSD after war) with Franco (who is just a sicko). Anyway Barbi's simps are way more agressive than any other fans when you say something bad, what's a fact, about a grown ass man. I feel like those people are just little kids who are getting upset after school and shouldn't play the game ;) When I see all those comments with "He'S mY PoOkIE" I'm getting sick... Ya'll should get a brain

Guys look!! I got one!!

You don't deserve a response, because if you were old enough to be playing Outlast, you would be able to figure out that shaming people for (checks notes) liking a fictional character in a horror series? Is plain stupid.

It would also serve you well to maybe do some spell check before you come into my asks like this. I'd take you more seriously if you maybe drafted this one more time, but here we go:

First of all, you don't know me. You can check out my like, five posts and see that only two of em are Franco related and none of them baby him. In fact, I don't think I've seen a post yet by anyone who says "Franco is a sweet, innocent baby who did no wrong" because... That's the point. He's interesting BECAUSE he's done shit wrong. We are playing Outlast. Everyone is complex and awful and interesting. Just because not every post is marked with a little footnote that says "oh by the way everyone, Franco is a bad, bad man 🥺 I don't support his actions, I'm not a Franco defender, I just wanted to draw him being silly 🥺" doesn't mean we're all out here claiming he's a saint. The fact that he's a fucked up lil guy is why we like him. I feel like that's a given with all Outlast characters? But that's just me after being a fan of this franchise for years now, idk, being able to step back and analyse a community to see what they enjoy about something is quite a fun and easy task, I recommend giving it a try instead of coming into "loser nobody who has been on Tumblr for like a week's" asks to complain to me like I can put all the Franco fans in the corner until they learn to interpret characters the way you have decided is objectively correct.

But even if they are "babying" him and apparently ignoring that this is the Outlast series and Franco is a character from Outlast... Oh no! What horror! Someone is misinterpreting a VIDEO GAME CHARACTER what a terrible and unique crime!

Franco "just a sicko" Barbi was abused and neglected by his father, his mother was murdered, and he only ever received affection after he killed someone. But yeah, he was just born fucked up whereas every other Outlast character earned their trauma and the right to kill the player. What a senseless and just untrue take and I'm sure you know that, you just want to complain because that's all you people like to do. You want to feel morally superior over someone because you don't understand why they feel the way they do instead of just moving on and ignoring them like any other sensible adult would. Because who's actually getting hurt if some people think Franco is their lil Pookie? Is it you? Does it cause you psychic damage? Because last I checked, this is the internet. We are responsible for ourselves, so unless somebody is actually hurting anyone...

Block the Franco tag. You are brave enough to type out this whole message to a stranger online and act morally superior because comparing which video game character deserves the right to kill you is THE most mature thing in the world, so you're definitely brave enough to block the tag and move on.

You are responsible for what you see online, but ESPECIALLY on Tumblr, it is so so easy to hide content you don't want to see, and mind your own business. Quite frankly, I don't care if I come across as aggressive here. You came into my asks about a tag/fandom you clearly aren't in trying to act like you're better than the rest of us. That's pretty damn aggressive, wouldn't you say?

This is Outlast. A game about fucked up guys doing fucked up shit, and we love them for it. If that is too much for you, if the mommy issues gangster is too crazy for you but Eddie and Trager and Knoth and Coyle are completely fine, no questions asked? I don't think this series is for you. Sexual horror is a staple of Outlast. Childhood trauma is a staple of Outlast. You can't be shocked when people respond to a new character in a video game they like.

YOU are not better than me because you like Chris Walker and I like Franco Barbi. I can't believe you need to be told this, we are all in the same uncomfortable freakshow cesspit that is The Outlast Fandom, no one is morally good. No one is better than anyone else. You cannot claim moral superiority over any character because at the end of the day, I can point to Wernicke and say with my full chest that he is objectively the worst because he's a literal nazi, and what then? Are you going to tell me that Franco is worse than a nazi? The debate is over, in the list of "who is the worst of these awful people", Wernicke wins hands DOWN. The point is null because EVERYONE SUCKS HERE!!! THAT'S THE POINT!!!!

Is that enough for you? Or are you gonna keep harassing people through your alts or getting your friends to do it? I can go alllllll day, baby, you ain't making me feel bad about my interests in the O U T L A S T fandom, dear GOD, this is ridiculous. Don't fucking condescend me, telling me to "get a brain" you don't KNOW ME, I am a stranger to you, why do you feel comfortable coming onto my blog harassing me about a video game character? That's not a good look for you and now it is immortalised here. Anonymous or not, you still did this. Whoever you are, you typed that out and sent it to a random person you do not know and felt comfortable enough to do so.

That's weird.

[gffa]

I have been Processing My Feelings mostly through sleeping a lot (thanks, shark week), cleaning (so much stuff to be done, especially when you're on a budget so everything takes twice as much work), playing Pokemon Go (I SAW AN ARTICUNO, but it fled on me ): but that's okay, I know it only has like a 3% chance to get it, and if I saw one, maybe I'll see another sometime), and binging TV shows/YouTube videos. TV SHOWS THAT I HAVE HAD THOUGHTS ON: - FROM, season 3: I think it might have been a mistake to watch it week to week, because I've watched seven episodes now and it feels like hardly anything has happened this season, like, you only have ten episodes and the wait between seasons is so long! Get back to moving the plot forward! But a lot of people said the same thing about s2 and I found that one to move along great--but I binged the whole thing, so the pacing probably seemed better. I'm still invested, some emotional stuff has happened this season, but I want more answers/plot already!!!! - SHRINKING, season 2: Just as much of a comfort watch as the first season, still pulling a bunch of laughs out of me. The cast is incredible, the writing is funny (I'm a sucker for a Bill Lawrence show, though), and I have had genuine emotional reactions to some of the storylines this season, because I have come to care about the characters. It can be a light watch most of the time, one to put on when I want something to laugh at, but it can pack a punch in the way it needs to. - ENGLISH TEACHER: I think every episode got me to laugh at least once, most of them got me to laugh out loud multiple times. Some people are going to find it kind of preachy or tryhard, but I felt like it was trying to take an honest look at this one person's attempts to navigate the difficult societal elements at play (being gay in your 30s, no longer a kid, not a boomer, but not always seeing eye-to-eye with where the younger generation is, wanting to do the right thing versus not always knowing what that is, trying to be empathetic while being genuine, etc.), and if nothing else it got me with the sideswipe at Tumblr. That hurt, you guys, but also LOL. - 9-1-1, season 8: Still very much worth watching (especially every time Eddie is a hot mess and kind of a bitch, I've never loved him more), but I did not enjoy the Councilwoman Ortiz storyline (it felt more mean-spirited than I wanted) and I'm not looking forward to catching up on this week's episode (I've heard some of what happens), but overall, it's still a comfort place for batshit storylines. BEENADO WAS HILARIOUS, everything about Athena on the plane was fun (and less frustrating than her usual cop storylines, I love you, girl, but oh my god), and I even liked the Gerrard storyline by the end. Next to catch up on: Abbot Elementary, binge Squid Game s2 when it comes out, and finally watch The Devil Judge. (Watch, I'll have my schedule all planned out and then probably throw it out the window for Grotesquerie or something, SIGH.) Any other suggestions for comfort shows or just really bingeable recent shows or just tell me what you're watching, so that I can keep my brain off the doomscrolling track!

[rememberingliampayne]

Liam, darling, I’ve been in a limbo since I got the news. Looking your name in Google because a friend texted me expecting to find some new rumour and finding a lot of news about you not being here. How are you not here when you’re on my phone, on gifs; when you’re on my ears singing to me; when you’re on my walls and on my shelves with lyrics and albums. How can I process this when I’m still seeing you the same way I’ve always seen you? How can I stop thinking that you’re taking some time for yourself or healing or getting help? How can I? Because it seems impossible. It seems like the news never stop hitting me, one way or another (no pun intended). I try (because I’ve not been able to yet) to listen a song and I think you’re not here. open instagram and someone has a reel with Story Of My Life playing and you’re not here. I open tumblr and I see a gif of you and you’re not here. I saw that your TikTok account is now a memorial and you’re not here. I see a photo of you and you’re not here. Every time. Because I can’t accept it, because I’m seeing you the same I’ve always seem you and my brain lack the capacity to understand that there’s a huge difference right now. I went to a memorial and I thought “Oh! This is going to give me a closure, this is it. I’ll say my goodbyes, I’ll see the photos, I’ll cry and I’ll be able to move on”. And I wasn’t even able of saying goodbye to you, I just stood there and saw your photos and thought “he’s still here?”. Not even in this moment. I’m saying goodbye to you now and my brain is still thinking that isn’t a goodbye but a “see you soon”. That you’ll post a story or a video or something and say “I need time to recover after the accident. I’m fine, thank you for your messages.” But you won’t because you’re not here. Physically. Because you are here. You are here and you will be here forever. Liam, darling, you deserved so much better. Talking to you in the past hurts like a bitch (sorry). But you deserved so much better. You were always so full of life and dreams. So full of love and kindness. I hope the world has seen it before. I hope I had seen it more often. You left without knowing the impact and importance you had (and still will have) in our lives. I wish you had seen it, maybe you would still be here. I wish I could say more but thinking of the past as a good times when you are not here hurts. That’s also something my brain can’t process, how a place that have been my comfort zone for almost 14 years is now not. It’s now bittersweet. It’s now tinted with sadness. I wish those 5 years were have been different, you hadn’t been overworked and hid in hotel rooms with only alcohol as your friend. I wish the world had been nicer to you. You were never cringey, you were never looking for the attention. You were never one of those things. I’m still not saying a goodbye. So, it’s a see you. See you in the songs. See you in the sky. See you in the stars. See you walking in the wind. See you in the in the region of the summer stars. See you in the summertime. See you everywhere. Rest easy, Liam. I hope you’re finally at peace. L. / R.

[twig-tea]

Oppan ep10: 1 for 10!! But at what cost?

I made it through an episode of Oppan without crying, but it was only because I spent the episode in a rage (NGL Makoto's text almost got me, but then he didn't send it so I was spared).

This episode has the dubious honour of being so well written that I wanted to do do physical damage to my television by punching it. Daichi's father is an infuriating character, framing all of his condescending and shortsighted takes as care. Of course, this is what people think and how parents react to their children's sexuality (or any social deviancy, as we see with his response to Kakeru) all the time. Daichi not having the defenses for this because deep down he had imagined his estranged father accepting him is so painful that I can't cry about it, but it hurts.

I really loved that Daichi didn't have the perfect rejoinder for once in this episode, and that Madoka could not fulfil for him the role that he fills for Madoka. Neither of them expected to be in the position where Madoka would give Daichi advice on handling a disappointed parent, and their floundering feels natural.

I also really loved Kakeru realizing that his frustration at his own hesitancy is why he was so annoyed at his father for not doing more. Every time either of them realizes there are similarities between them, it warms my heart. His reaction to his friend being taken advantage of and deciding he can't change her mind but he can change himself so that he is never tempted to take advantage of anyone in the same way was really heartwarming. All men should learn to cook basic things for themselves so that they don't rely on a woman, get with it feminists.

Makoto's hesitation this episode was good; this feels like a natural evolution of everything he's learned. He's learned when to be silent and when to speak up, but there are all kinds of shades of grey in there that he is now levelled up enough to tackle.

It was so smart to have Daichi's dad say something mean to Kakeru, because this has radicalized both Daichi and Makoto, and given Makoto a reason to be firm with Daichi's father.

I really do not want this series to end; I could watch this family struggle along and get a little closer and a little better at loving one another every week. Once again huge thanks to Siiri for subbing this series and putting it on our radars, I wouldn't have heard of it without her and this show has changed my brain chemistry; I will never be the same. Thank you, @isaksbestpillow! Head over to their tumblr and grab these subs and give this show a try, I promise you won't regret watching this show, and if you binge now you may be able to watch the finale when she finishes the last episode!

[dumplingsjinson]

Long post ahead, read if you want.

tw: mental health, mention of depression

So I've been very inactive these days, and it's because I am Dealing With My Issues irl, which is sucky and shitty and I'd really rather be living on Tumblr and writing prompts all day but sometimes... Life just doesn't allow that luxury. Especially when you're feeling stuck and your mental health is getting in the way of you functioning properly without feeling stuck in the same vicious cycles of your own brain's doing.

In all honesty, I haven't been feeling the best for the past few months, and I feel like my mental state has been on a decline, and I feel like it's gotten worse now that I'm in a relationship.

This is not to blame my partner or anything but to say that getting into a relationship involves your issues, that have always been there, surfacing properly. And when I mean surfacing properly, I mean you become so much more acutely aware of shit you've been able to suppress for a long time and never bothered addressing. You become aware of yourself as a person, you start to realise all of your flaws in such a vicious and cutting manner, and that shit hurts like a bitch.

You finally get to see a reflection of you, plus the issues you've been carrying on your shoulders for way too long.

I've been crying so much these days, I've been overthinking a lot, and feeling like complete and utter shit. I've been getting into more frequent fights with my mum, I feel like a failure in basically all aspects of my life, and like I'm not good enough, and like my insecurities are eating my alive, which isn't helping my mental state at all. My mood has just been on the low most days. I need constant distractions, otherwise I will have to sit with my own thoughts, and that scares the living shit out of me.

Because what do you mean I have to sit there and process my feelings? Eugh, brother, eugh! Fuck no!

But on a more serious note, all of this shit has finally got me up on my feet, so I'd do something about them and get the help I've needed for quite a long while now. My partner encouraged me to finally make this step, even though I have thought of seeking help for quite a while now but just never did so. It's mostly for reasons and the fact that I was scared 'cause I didn't know what it would be like to actually reach out and spill my guts out to some stranger.

I saw a counsellor at my university for the first time this week and it went better than expected. For one, I didn't cry during the appointment! He's a very nice dude, and it felt nice talking to someone who could put my thoughts in order and give me actual solutions. Venting to friends is nice, but it gets to a point where even that doesn't help, or you feel like you're bitching too much.

I did get told I could be heading into a depressive episode (fucking fun, I know) and my depression/stress score was pretty high, although my anxiety score isn't too high (which is surprise considering my overthinking), so we're trying to work through that.

Next appointment is in around two weeks' time, and until then, I live in my head once more and have to deal with my emotions without going into breakdowns every two business days.

I don't know when I'll be properly active on here. I've kind of just abandoned everything (this blog, my Discord server, my social medias) in the midst of it all, but I'll try to come back and post more often.

But yeah. That's where I'm at.

[ashbeanss]

the kiss me, son of god au explanation for all curious

tumblr hates me, therefore, i’m making this it’s own post. @love-3-crimes i’m dedicating this to you

this Will be a long post so to see the full thing, look below.

There are a few things I must establish about my CCCC interpretation worldbuilding, and other worldbuilding for this au specifically before we begin so everything else I say makes sense.

HMS are not the only lil guys in Whole’s head (though they’re the only ones that are direct parts of him), nor do they live in an empty void. They live in a space called the Thoughtscape, which changes appearance depending on who of HMSW is in charge, but most of the time it is Soul (because Whole doesn’t pop back into his brain world much), and thus it presents as a metropolitan city.

Every other character is based off a CJ song. There is one for every song (except Gothic Whore ones and Heal). This was a mistake on my part but I’ve just gotta live with it now

HMS are the only people in the Thoughtscape who look human. Every other person is distinctly inhuman but HMS can be mistaken for ones. They do have traits which stop them from being fully human, unlike Whole. Heart has bird like features, Mind has visibly robotic and metal parts, and Soul is part shadow creature. They become more inhuman the more distressed they are.

There is an exception to that rule and it is Funky Jash. This is because he is Whole’s chosen creature who he gets all the gossip from. He’s also a cryptid. He’s like if Bigfoot was Jesus.

Every person in the Thoughtscape is assigned a card suite that shows their alignment (also note, this means similarity with, not necessarily agreeing) with one of HMSW. Heart is Hearts, Mind is Diamonds, Soul is Spades, Whole is Clubs. Some species are more commonly one suite than another.

The trident is representative of control over the Thoughtscape, and as well as the manifestation of the Thoughtscape changing depending on who’s in control, so does the trident.

Heart uses he/they, Mind uses she/her, Soul uses they/it, Whole is the token he/him cishet.

Now that that’s out of the way.

This au takes place when events go awry after the shot. It also follows my own usual interpretation that Mind was responsible both for blinding Heart post shot, and throwing him into Apathy. After that happens here, however, Mind confronts Soul about not having done anything about heart trying to kill her. Soul, in truth, didn’t know, but Mind is (understandably) incredibly upset and hurt that it happened, and (slightly less understandably) believes Soul is incompetent and not fit to be in control.

She overthrows them, stealing their trident. The Thoughtscape takes on the form of a medieval fantasy kingdom and she locks Soul away in the basement of her castle. Where it is safe, and where she can still rule unhindered (because she does still care about Soul, it did not betray her as Heart did, but it still needs to be out of her way).

After taking over, Mind, still being betrayed and angry, brings in laws and regulations that actively harm and hinder those of the Hearts suite, inventing discrimination in the Thoughtscape. Yay. She also creates a guard force to make sure heart cannot return, and hunt him down if he does. Around the same time, she dyes her hair brown (usually it’s a blue-ish black), starts wearing orange contacts and begins to use silicone and make-up to cover up her mechanical parts to more closely resemble whole, so she can gain more public favour. This is harmful for her, as her metal is exposed to prevent overheating.

Heart meanwhile, manages to crawl their way out of Apathy (which turned into a ravine when the Thoughtscape shifted), and is found by the That Handsome Devil Power Hour crew who will be referred to as the Devils. Being rather inhuman at the moment due to everything, torn up, and covered in blood and dirt, they don’t recognise him. They do, though, take him back to Connie’s (Chonny’s Inferno) bar.

There, Heart is cleaned up and discovers how hard life has become for people since Mind took full rule over everything. They become resolute in their decision and begin to plan a coup with the Devils, to take Mind off the throne.

Meanwhile in the real world Whole has begun feeling like absolute shit and has no idea why. Good for him.

and that’s it! that’s the idea of the au. jazz hands. it’s really made by the little relationships between the characters, though hms are the driving forces. like angel’s (laplace’s angel) ‘i can fix her’ attitude towards mind, drin (a drink to death) and artimer’s (art) weird love-hate-get-drunk-together relationship, tommy’s (tomcat disposables) antics hiding out in the castle. there’s a lot more detail but that’s the best summary i can give.

[little-winter-witch]

Déja vu

Contains spoilers of Moonvale's 1st episode as well as angst, sadness, crying and nostalgia.

It has been weeks. Or even months? I don't know. I lost track of time, since the incident in the Ironsplinter Mines. Not a word from my friends from Duskwood since. Or ... From Jake.

I've tried to just go on with my life, go to work, meet with friends and family, try new hobbies. But I'm not the same person I was before Thomas texted me. And I'll never be. I don't feel complete anymore. I don't belong here anymore. Whenever my phone vibrates, whenever a random guy looks at me for more than five seconds, I think of him. I wish, it was him. I see clues in every corner, hear my name, although no one said it.

And then, I got this message. Didn't know the number, but it felt so familiar. It reminded me of how I was introduced to the Duskwood gang. But it wasn't someone from Duskwood. He introduced himself as Eric and said that he got my contact from his friend Adam, who called me shortly after and disappeared. Similar, yet very strange. I agreed to help and Eric introduced me to his friends. It felt strange, being in a new messenger group, with new people. They were as desperate as my friends from Duskwood and very nice to me, but I kept my distance. Memories flashed before my eyes, memories I had kept secure somewhere in a corner of my brain. Memories that hurt. But I stayed. I just couldn't leave them, while they were desperately searching for their friend. It felt like, I finally had a purpose again.

While wandering through the woods, looking for Adam, or at least a hint of his whereabouts, Eric flirted with me. I played along a bit. But all I could think of was him. And the stupid pamphlet of the Chinese restaurant around the corner, that hung on the door of my fridge. I kept it after having takeout. Because it reminded me of one of the first moments Jake dared to flirt with me.

And then... Ash contacted me.

She was a friend of Eric's and part of their gang. She asked me directly if I was involved in the Duskwood incident. I felt my stomach sink. I told her, briefly, what happened and why I didn't say anything. She reacted nicely, but I didn't dare to trust her too much. After we finished that conversation, I sat motionless on my bed. It had been the first time, that I had told someone about my experiences in Duskwood. A tear ran down my cheek.

That was when I got contacted by an unknown number. I wasn't sure what to make of their messages at first, but soon I realised, that Eric could be in danger. He'd been gone into an area they called the 'forbidden forest', which was surrounded by a fence with barbed wire. He managed to get away from whoever was with him, and found a cave. A cave that reminded me of the Ironsplinter Mines. And that was too much. The hope I had when that unknown number had appeared, the pressure, when, again, someone was in danger while being on the phone with me, and then the cave. That stupid cave!

I missed him. I missed him so much that it physically hurt. I opened the last conversation I had with Jake.

"I love you"

"I love you, too"

And then I sat there, sobbing and crying my heart out, clenching the phone against my chest. It vibrated.

"MC. I WILL FIND YOU"

'Cause you're everywhere to me

And when I close my eyes it's you I see.

You're everything I know, that makes me believe

I'm not alone.

Thanks for reading my first Duskwood fanfiction on tumblr. I hope you like it 🙂

[cod-dump]

AHH HIHI

I am here yet again with Phoenix angst <3

(This is literally me resending the last one cause idk if tumblr ate it 😭 I’m also totally adding stuff to it cause it is eating my brain)

So, Phoenix comes comes back from a mission with 141 where he got shot in the leg because he was kind of maybe captured by the enemy.

How was he captured? Wonderful question, my friend. A group of the enemy was getting a little too close to where Soap and Gaz were hiding, so he ran out and caused a little distraction. Said distraction got him shot in the leg and dragged away.

Blah blah, rescue mission, all that jazz. Well, 141 gets back to base, and they all yell at Phoenix for being so careless. Phoenix is all like, “Bitch what? Any of y’all would have done the same and then been commended for being so selfless.”

Our boys would be shell shocked because Phoenix never yells, let alone at them. So, he’d take that opportunity to call them all assholes and hobble his way to his room and pack some stuff up before going to the Shadows base. He walks most of the way (stubborn bastard) but gets stopped by Graves, who just so happened to have been driving by that area.

Graves picks Phoenix up, who’s crying and refusing to tell him anything, and takes him back to base.

Phoenix doesn’t say anything to most of the Shadows, opting to go over and hug Moose for a little bit before dragging the poor man to his bedroom for cuddles. Yes, Phoenix has a bedroom for when he visits. Graves makes sure that it’s taken care of

Anywayyyyy, the 141 boys go to check on him after he doesn’t come out of his room for dinner, and find the room completely empty. What little belongings that Phoenix had were gone. They freak out a little and try to call him, but his phone buzzes on the bed. He left it there so they couldn’t track him, which he tells them with a note next to the phone.

Said note also tells them to fuck off and leave him alone for a while. Meanwhile, Phoenix is stuck in a cuddle pile with Moose and some other Shadows while he tells them about what 141 did and the fact that it made him cry

Let’s just say the Shadows are going to kill Price the next time they see him, which is sooner than they thought because Price goes and visits Graves to talk about something (cough get fucked into the bed cough)

OKAY I’m gonna leave it there because this is long enough as is 😭

Thank you for humoring my idiocy

-🔥

Every Shadow who knows Phoenix is on alert mode. Phoenix is hurt, he’s upset— They’re upset, they’re protective.

Moose has pulled out the most comfortable blankets he has, the Shadows are piling into the room to be close to Phoenix. Graves was with them for a good while but left when Price showed up. It didn’t take long for them to get into a loud argument over what happened. Everyone knows Graves does not fuck around when it comes to one of his people.

Phoenix may have left but he’s still very much a part of the family. And no one fucks with Graves’ family. Price had never seen Graves this angry, and he’s never seen that kind of look in Moose’s eyes before.

[lej222]

hiii i'm a new fan of aslfua and also recently discovered ur tumblr! i appreciate ur analysis and insight so much because it's made me enjoy alsfua so much more and ur brain is so smart to connect all these references 😭😭 i'm curious, what is the ending that u hope for aslfua/mi-ae? :)

Hi!🙂 I'm trying my best thank you so much for the kind words❤️❤️❤️ Even though I might be totally wrong, it's fun to find those little clues😁

This is such a good question, and I will include spoilers from the latest Episode on Naver (155) to tell my opinion.🙂

So I've said this before, but I mainly started reading this series for nostalgia and because I used to work in education. For these reasons, I always viewed it as a growth story about kids whose biggest narrative role is to mature and learn throughout the story. I think so far some characters have had great character arcs that showcase this, like Cheol, Johan, or even Honggyu. In my head, their narratives are almost completed because they have changed a lot and matured - you can clearly see they were very different at the start of the story.

For Miae, I want to see a similar journey. Miae is still pretty much immature and she keeps running away from/ignoring problems that would destroy her "dream" world that she lives in. She has unrealistic expectations about life and doesn't grasp the seriousness of certain situations, or why she has to be responsible for her own actions. I think I've also mentioned this before, but Miae's biggest "teacher" seems to be Jisu just like how Miae was Cheol's. By hanging around with Jisu, Miae needs to be reliable, patient and understanding, but most importantly- Miae cannot run away from her problems because Jisu calls her out for it. Every time Miae tries to act like a kid, Jisu, who is a naturally blunt person points out her behaviour and becomes her voice of reason. Like when she tried to interrupt the confession or how she wants to keep secrets from everyone as to keep peace with her friends, basically she's avoiding conflicts. Miae reflects on Jisu's words because he treats her as someone of the same age, while others just accept her sometimes irrational behaviour which doesn't help her to change. Miae has to be super honest about her feelings and intentions when she's with Jisu because that's the only way he understands her intentions. Just like she has to be honest about his behaviour so Jisu can see when he's being too much/oversteps boundaries. So in the upcoming episodes I really want Miae to realize that Jisu is also a human being with emotions and she's actually hurting his feelings by not telling anyone they're friends and she enjoys his company. Or that she should stop hitting him/ruining his clothes and listen to what he says about himself.

Speaking of this, I hope that Miae and Cheol's relationship becomes healthier regardless of the outcome. It's sad to see that Miae has to keep being Jisu's friend a secret because Cheol is annoyed with him. In a relationship, communication is the key and Cheol and Miae struggle with it. When one of them is closed off, they keep following and cornering each other instead of giving time, and it only leads to misunderstandings. They keep avoiding talking about the status of their relationship because of their pride and Miae's expectations about dating are so naive I just cannot imagine them dating in the close future. Plus I also think Miae relies on Cheol to take responsibility for her and solve her problems, like when she wanted to call him to make peace between her friends. And not surprisingly, it was Jisu who showed up and called out her behaviour, which makes me think Miae will have to solve her own problems. So I hope all of these things will be resolved without other characters getting hurt, like Jisu.

And lastly, I really want Miae to realize her mother is coming from a good place. Because even though she's strict, she only wants the best for her daughter. I want to have one scene where Miae has a serious conversation with her and they both open up to each other. It's been theorized that Jisu doesn't have a good relationship with his father, so it might be the push for Miae's realization because both her and Cheol come from loving families. And Miae takes a lot of things for granted, that's why she keeps dodging responsibility. And she's a kid, so it's understandable, but if other characters have matured significantly, Miae should also be more mature by the end. She will go to high school and most likely very few of her friends will attend the same school, so she has to learn to let things go and accept negative experiences. Like the narrator pointed out, there are certain circumstances one cannot get over with sheer willpower because they happen anyway. So my final thoughts are that I want to have a closure that doesn't leave these kids with regrets, but rather when they look back on these years, they will think of them as fond memories.🙂