#DID I GET CARRIED AWAY WITH THIS………. PERHAPS

[ivonhart]

haircut | sevika x fem!reader

— one shot

masterlist

cross posted on ao3

gif credit: @terrapia

inspo credit: @roastedoatmilk

summary: You wake to Sevika struggling to maintain her hair and offer to cut it.

a/n: This was so self indulgent - I just love Sevika so much and wanted more fluff out there with her

You were gently stirred awake at the soft cursing that left the mouth of your girlfriend. What little light that could breach Zaun’s smoggy atmosphere trickled in from the torn blinds hanging from your bedroom window and illuminated her…as well as the smoke that surrounded her from the cigarette hanging from her lips.

Despite the sleep that clouded your vision you could see that she was hunched over at your desk in front of your vanity mirror. You watched as she gathered her shoulder length hair and attempted to tie it up before the hairband slipped from her fingers, causing her to curse once more. She was stressed…even in your sleepy state the fact she was smoking so early told you as such.

Ever since the death of Silco, neither you nor her have been able to scrape up enough money to get a replacement arm for her, leaving her back with one arm. Something she wasn’t used to after so long with a mechanical one. Each day you could see her get more and more frustrated at the Zaun and what it’s becoming.

Silco’s death had sent Zaun into a whirlwind of chaos and Sevika had to follow behind cleaning up whatever she could by herself. Slowly, you sat up, resulting in the thin blanket to fall from your bare chest, exposing your skin to the chill air that filled the room. With a yawn and a stretch you stood from the bed and made your way over to her. You didn’t bother to put a shirt on as you did. “My love…you should’ve woke me.”

Your soft voice visibly relaxed her tense shoulders as you ran your hands across the back of her neck before wrapping around it. The warmth from your bare chest heated up her backside while you rested your chin on her forehead. A heavy sigh left her mouth as she looked away from the mirror after you pulled the cigarette from her lips and brought it to yours.

“I should be able to tie my own fucking hair up.” Her tone was harsh but you knew it was only because she was hurting. She didn’t say it much but his death left a wound in her heart you don’t think would ever heal. And with everything else happening you knew she would burn out sooner or later. No matter how hard she tried to hide it from you…you knew.

With one last drag you put the cigarette out and climbed onto Sevika’s lap, she didn’t fight it - she never did, and silently cupped her scarred cheek and parted her mouth to allow the smoke you held in your lungs to travel to hers. Another heavy sigh forced the smoke from her mouth as she dropped her head against yours.

Her hand held your hip as you stroked her cheek. “You don’t have to keep doing everything alone.” You began to say while you closed your eyes. “Let me carry some of the burden.” Your words caressed the woman’s mouth as you whispered them. Sevika’s hand wandered up your body, mapping out every bump and scar that littered your skin as if she was afraid you would disappear from her very hands. “Everything went to shit after Sil…” The woman choked back the name of the man she admired so much.

While she spoke you softly rubbed your nose against hers. “I just don’t know what to do.” Her hand had traveled under your chest and around your ribs before moving up your spin to cup the back of your head. Knowing what it was she wanted, you pushed your head into her neck and wrapped your arms around her shoulders.

The embrace seemed to halt time. All that was and would ever be was the two of you. Sevika felt a burn behind her eyes as she gazed at the ceiling. She didn’t know why she felt such emotion. Perhaps Silco’s death was finally hitting her, or the exhaustion was catching up to her. Or maybe it was the pure and unforgiving love she held for you.

“Maybe I could cut it for you?” The question snapped her out of her thoughts and she quickly blinked any tears away. You pulled away and smiled softly. “I’ve always thought you’d look good with an undercut and besides, it would be one less thing for you to worry about.” Any tension Sevika once held was washed away as she cocked an eyebrow at you.

“Oh…really?” Your soft smile grew wide as you nodded before you pushed her hair out of her face and tucked the strains behind her ears. Showcasing the large eyes you fell so hard for. “So?” You asked while mimicking her facial expression.

-

“You're the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” The words escaped your mouth before you even realized as you looked at the final product. After putting a shirt on and getting everything set up, it had taken about an hour until you finished cutting her hair.

Sevika felt heat bloom under her cheeks at your words, causing her to clear her throat. Despite dating for a few years, sudden words such as that threw the fighter off. Sometimes she’d think she had made you up. “Alright, let me see, woman.”

A soft laugh escaped your mouth at the name, knowing she only called you that when you made her flustered. When you handed a small handheld mirror to Sevika you watched with bated breath as she took in your handiwork. You were, in no way, a hair dresser so you were worried how she’d react. “D-Do you like it?”

In the blink of an eye you were suddenly in Sevika’s lap again with her lips against yours. She swallowed your gasp before you slowly kissed her back with a large smile. When you pulled away you spoke. “So was that a yes?” Your breath ghosted over her lips as she bore her gaze into yours. “Marry me.”

You pulled back to look at her face fully as a beat of silence filled the air. The sudden words you’ve been longing to hear from her threw you for a loop, causing you to stare blankly at her. Sevika’s eyes shifted between yours with nervous energy as she slightly shifted you in her lap.

“What?” You whispered as tears began to fill your eyes. The brute that you softened cleared her throat before repeating it. “Marry me.” All of a sudden, Sevika’s center of gravity was thrown off as you launched your arms around her shoulders once again, causing the two of you to tumble to the ground. “YES!” You screamed with a loud laugh. Sevika couldn’t help the chuckles that left her lips as you covered her face with pecks while the tears fell across her skin.

“What in Janna’s name is happening here? When did Sevika cut her hair?” Jinx’s questions were barely heard of the sounds of joy that left the two of you. When you finally registered her presence you stumbled to your feet with a wide smile, noting Isha standing next to her with matching blue hair. Seemed Sevika wasn’t the only one who changed hairstyles.

“SEVIKA ASKED ME TO MARRY HER!” Another beat of silence followed before Jinx broke out in a loud cheer while Isha followed along with loud claps. Sevika made her way off the floor and to the bed as she watched you, Jinx, and Isha jump around in a circle with interlocked hands while cheering. Jinx saying ‘Took Lefty long enough’ over and over again as the three of you did. The warmth she always felt around you burned even brighter, knowing she’d be with you till the end.

[dorabellingham]

Kissing in the rain

warning: none

characters: jude x reader

summary: when in the middle of the night he shows up at your house to confess his feelings

may contain spelling and translation errors!

That rainy night, the typical English rain was punishing the city with intensity. You were at home, trying to drown your thoughts in some reading, but Jude's name persisted in every line. He dominated your mind in a way you couldn't understand, and the thought that he might not see you in the same way made you anxious. Trying to push these emotions away, you went up to your room and lay down, listening to the rain beating against the window, imagining that the sound of it might be your only companion on that lonely night.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Jude was anxiously waiting in the passenger seat of a taxi, ignoring the heavy rain that obscured his view. The conversation with Bukayo had touched him deeply. Knowing that you liked him the same way he liked you made his heart beat faster, and he couldn't wait to tell you and finally show you how he felt. He stared at the wet sidewalks, deciding that nothing — not even the storm — would stop him from seeing you.

Finally, Jude’s taxi pulled up in front of your grandparents’ house. The house lights were still on, indicating that someone was awake. He took a deep breath, feeling his heart racing, and headed for the door, quickly getting wet by the heavy rain, but not caring about it. Before he even knocked, he saw your silhouette through the glass of the door. You seemed surprised to see him, and for a moment, you hesitated to open it. But then, as if something prompted you, you turned the handle and unlocked the door.

—Jude, what are you doing here? With all this rain…

You began, surprised and confused, your voice low and almost hesitant. Your hair slightly messed up by the wind and your look between relief and anxiety revealed that perhaps you were happier to see him than you wanted to admit.

He barely waited for you to finish your sentence. Without a single word, he took a step towards you, grabbed you by the waist and leaned forward. Before you could question or protest, you felt his lips on yours, in a kiss that carried all the pent-up emotions of the last few months. The initial shock soon dissolved, and you kissed him back, wrapping your arms around his neck, as if you had finally found what you were waiting for.

The rain continued to fall around you, the drops hitting Jude's back and dampening the entrance to the house, but neither of you seemed to care. It was as if the whole world had disappeared, leaving only the two of you, finally sharing that moment that you both wanted so much, but were afraid to admit.

When you finally pulled away, Bellingham smiled, still breathless, and looked at you with an amused glint in his eyes.

—Sorry to show up like this... I just... I couldn't wait any longer.

He confessed, running a hand through his own wet hair, trying to process what had just happened.

You smiled, still a little surprised and breathless, but with your eyes shining.

—I... I thought you only saw me as a friend.

You said, your voice almost a whisper, as if you were still trying to understand everything.

—Just a friend? —He repeated, shaking his head. —Y/n, you are everything to me. I just… I was just stupid enough not to realize that you felt the same.

You smiled, trying to contain the happiness that overflowed in your every expression.

—So, you came here in the rain, just to tell me that?

Jude shrugged, with a playful smile.

—Yes, but it was much better than I imagined. Did you finally believe me, sweetheart?

You nodded, and before you could say anything else, he pulled you in for another kiss, this time slower, full of tenderness. You felt warm and safe in his arms, as if all your fears and insecurities had disappeared.

There, under the English rain, you and Jude gave in to that moment that seemed to have been expected for so long. It was the beginning of something that, deep down, you both already knew would be much more than just a friendship.

[peakygirl1919]

Part 1: The Bloody Beginning

Summary: The Emperor is dying, but Geta takes matters into his own hands.

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: no spoilers for the movie// angst// violence// death// implied past abuse// period typical warnings

It was silent in the Palatine; save for the rustle of silk and the moans of a dying man. Septimus Severus was dying. It was treason to say so: any, whether they be slave, servant or senator who mentioned it would be executed-  but it was true. 

Geta stared at the man he had looked up to all his life lying weak and emaciated on the bed. Death seemed to have shrunk him, his hair greasy and matted on his forehead and his beard coming away in patches. He had fallen ill while on a campaign in Britannica, an mild wound putrifying until it was grave enough to endanger the life of the emperor. 

He was currently lurking behind a plinth in the Emperor’s bedchamber, his brother Caracalla crouched behind him, mild whimpers escaping from his mouth, his hand clenching Geta’s leg. 

His father wasn’t lucid right now, and for that he was thankful. When the Praetorians carried him in, he was roaring with rage, spittle flying from his mouth. Geta could not believe his usually cool father could make such noises. His mother, Julia Domna had tried to placate the Emperor, but had received a strike to head in thanks. It was at that point Geta had retreated to the shadows of the chamber, thinking it would be best not to get in the way and somehow bring the familiar wrath upon his head. 

More moans left his father’s dry and cracked lips, and a sheen of sweat lay over body. His mother had now taken up guard by his bedside, a delicate handkerchief pressed to cut on her cheek, despite the strong stench of death flowing from the man. Her eyes were empty as the cloth was stained red. 

The oil lamps flickered and grew dim as the hours passed by. It was a clear night, and Geta could see the moon’s reflection over the city that stretched out before them. The news of the Emperor’s imminent departure to the next life had the citizens concerned; they knew the transfer of power was no sure thing. The vibrant stores that lined the Via Sacra were boarded up; no noises came from the pleasure houses and street food vendors absent. Silence fell over the great city- a collective breath holding. 

The only place that showed evidence that people still remained in the city was the light that burst from the temples. Geta wished he could join the worshippers, and beg for favour from the Gods.

A whisper made its way across the room, and Geta instantly stiffened, the blood draining from his face and the hairs on his neck standing on edge. This was it. 

‘Geta…, come, my son…’. His father was calling him over.

Caracalla’s whimpers turned into cries, and Geta reached down to smooth his hair trying to pretend they were still boys, playing hide and seek in many rooms in the palace.

His gold-trimmed sandals made no sound crossing the marble floor; he felt like he was floating.

The whisper of his name became more insistent, even in death his Father had no patience for him. He moved forward towards the imperial bed, and knelt down next to the edge. His Father already appeared corpse-like; his bloated skin taking already hanging from his bones. 

He glanced pointedly at his mother, but she either did not notice or take heed from it. If she had, then perhaps her fate would have been different. Geta noted her disrespect and stored it in the back of his mind, he would deal with everyone once he had power.

Prior to the Emperor’s departure for his most recent and evidently final military campaign, he had been named co-augusti to rule in his stead alongside Caracalla. It would not do thinking what would occur if Caracalla had been left to rule on his own. 

‘Geta, you are to listen to me carefully. My time is short, I know that, despite the sycophantic crowing from all that I will live. I am not a fool. You will reign, this I know,’

Geta sharply inhaled. 

His father’s bloodshot eyes locked onto him with fervour, and Geta felt like the Gods themselves had plucked his thoughts from his head and planted them into his fathers. 

‘You will reign alongside your brother,’ 

Geta began to protest, the madness that had been evident from his brother’s birth grew worse by the year, his lucid moments becoming further apart.

His father began to cough, blood and sputum flowing from his mouth like the Tiber. The Gods would claim his soon, Geta thought, not without a spark of anticipation. With clear effort, his father continued on.

‘You are as strong as your weakness, protect him, do not quarrel with him, it will be set against the other that you both shall fall’ The Emperor took a deep breath, his pale chest struggling to rise. He seemed panicked now, no longer so brave in the face of death. He spoke rapidly and breathlessly ‘Pay the soldiers, never allow a united senate and scorn all others.’

This last point was but an echo of a whisper, Geta felt the words imprint on his mind. Scorn alright. He would obliterate the others. 

He felt his mother’s quiet gaze return to the floor, no doubt weighing in her calculating mind what her next advantageous play would be. 

But the bubble of quiet reverence had been broken. Caracalla began to wail and scream, throwing himself to the floor in his fractured state. Geta looked at him and felt no pity, only acceptance. He had always been this way, still a child in many ways. Sometimes Geta envied him for his ignorance, but sometimes Geta hated him with a red fiery passion. How could it be fair that he was the younger brother taking on the mantle of the older. How could it be fair that he had to shoulder the responsibility for both of them? But whenever these thoughts struck him he reasoned the Gods must have placed him in this position for a reason. That reason was clear to Geta now. 

It was the will of the Gods that Geta took his place on the throne. With Caracalla, technically by his side. But that was a minor detail. One that could be solved, if he so wished, but he did not. At least he knew where his brother’s loyalties lay. 

He felt heat pool in his belly as he thought of the future. But he couldn’t ahead of himself. Not yet. His father was still in the realm of the living, his mother plotted against him, and the loyalty of the army and senate had not yet been secured. There was work to do. 

Caracalla had moved on from simply harming himself and now began to tear the decorative hangings and tapestries off the wall; knocking over busts of Emperors past and topple furniture. Must he do everything in this family, Geta thought to himself. 

He spoke with new-found authority to his mother, Julia Domna, ‘why don’t you see to my brother, ensure he does himself no harm. It is not good for my father the emperor to see him so distressed at this time,’. He tried to hide the excitement he felt at taking that tone with her, and still his racing heart. 

He felt himself, be weighed, measured and found wanting by his mother. She made no reply as she stood up and went over to Caracalla. He clung to her robes and cried loudly into her stomach. Julia Domna stood with her arms at her side and held herself rigid, hands slack. She guided Caracalla away, back to his own chambers no doubt, where he could be comforted by whoever was warming his bed tonight. Geta turned back to face his father. He had no wish to see his mother’s empty platitudes. 

Geta was finally alone with his father. The only noise was the death rattle of his chest as his body continued to fight the inevitable. Geta walked closer and closer to the bed, uncaringly stepping over the broken glass and wooden splinters littered over the floor. 

The flecks of gold in Geta’s dark eyes flashed in the dim light as his face pressed close to his father’s face. He saw clearly that the Gods had renounced their favour and protection from the Emperor, with every passing breath his father seemed more man than immortal Emperor chosen by the gods.

He slipped a dagger from his belt. It was a small thing, for ceremonial use only. But he reasoned this was a ritual of sorts, and it felt fitting. The light weight of it felt heavy in his hands; the weight of consequence. 

It had a golden hilt, with a careful depiction of the twin founders of Rome with the she-wolf standing protectively over them. Her eyes were set with winking rubies, and Geta felt their divine stare upon him. 

His father did not see the metallic shine of steel in the moonlight; did not hear the grunt of effort as the blade was thrust into his chest; did not feel Geta’s fist bracing itself against his shoulder; did not taste the coppery salt of his blood dripping from his lips; did not smell Geta’s spice and incense scent as he leaned over to remove the knife. 

No, his father would not notice anything anymore. Geta watched the red blood bloom against the pale of the sheets, as his father gurgled and turned translucent. The dagger was slick in his fingers, coated with blood.

He let it drop from his hands, the clatter it made on cool marble flooring obscene. Its purpose was served. He had prevailed. His father was dead. The emperor was dead. 

He felt laughter bubble up inside him, but he knew the gods would not approve of humour at this most sacred of moments- when he had been made their vessel, through which their divine judgement had been rendered.

A high-pitch giggle broke the silence and Geta tensed, almost checking it was not him that made that noise. But it was his twin; his other-half. Caracalla must had wandered back into the room and had been standing there for Gods knows how long. 

Geta didn’t know how to break the silence- and was about to speak when Caracalla said, ‘He’s dead,’ in a soft, airy voice. Geta nodded. 

‘You did this for us? For both of us?,’. Geta nodded again, not trusting himself to remain emotionless if he answered using his voice. 

‘Well, this will make things more interesting…’ Caracalla trailed off, as if not sure exactly how things would become more interesting, but certain in the knowledge that they would. 

The brothers could have stayed there in that moment, forever. On the cusp between childhood and adulthood; the uncertain intake of breath before moving on from one stage of life to next. Caracalla was often happy to remain in this shapeless place, not concerning himself with reality, with the practicalities. 

But Geta knew had to act to control the narrative, to seize control of the guards, to summon the senate, and to proclaim his divine authority- and to protect his brother. 

Caracalla stalked over to the body of his father and gave his rapidly cooling body a poke in the stomach. His finger came away stained red. Geta turned away and reached over to a bell to summon a servant, letting the collected mask of his face fall, allowing his anxiety and nerves to rule him for a moment. 

The slave drifted into the room silently, eyes cast downwards, not wishing to bring Geta’s rage upon his head. 

Geta looked up and snapped his face back into one of cool arrogance and hard eyes. ‘Summon the senate, the first proclamation from their emperors is to be heard.’ 

The slaves hastily bowed and darted away. 

During the exchange Caracalla had slipped beside him and grasped his hand, their father’s blood sealing their palms. 

‘What do we do now?’, Caracalla asks hesitantly, glancing at Geta from lidded eyes. 

Geta paused, before answering with a smirk on his face, ‘Whatever we want.’

A/N: well…. that was dramatic. Apologies to those looking for historical accuracy- I played around with the death of Septimus Severus (he didn’t make it back to Rome and died on a military campaign); and anything else wrong is my fault, sorry!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are encouraged and greatly appreciated. 

Let me know if you would like this series to continue, and if so, what other snippets of Geta’s life you would like to see…

TAGS:

@fallout-girl219

@justnobodynothingmore

@quuinyoung

@barcelonaloverf1life

@helsa3942

@aisling1985

[shady-tavern]

Preview for "A Heart of Death and Hope" the December Short Story

(This story contains mentions of suicidal thoughts and a request for death, please be sure to take care of yourselves)

*.*.*

Once upon a time, a girl was born to a loving if quiet mother and a strict, rigid father. When she reached five years of age, the Ceremony of Hearts was held, her parents waiting until one of the traveling priests came to their little town to find out just what heart their child had been born with.

Her mother took her to the priest, for it was said that the mother formed a child's heart since they carried them beneath their own for so long. Her mother was nervous, the girl could tell, for if a child was born with a bad heart, the mother always got blamed for it.

The ceremony was held in private and was, all in all, nothing exciting. The priest pricked her fingertip for a drop of blood, the little girl bravely keeping from flinching away and then he held her finger over a slip of paper, squeezing a bit to make the blood drop onto it, before carefully dropping a spot of ink onto the paper as well. 

The two colors ran together, soaking into the paper and the priest turned away before he could see the end result.

Another superstition was that if anyone but the mother and child saw the outcome of the ceremony they were going to change it, that a stranger's eyes could influence or perhaps warp the truth.

The little girl knew what the paper strips of her parents looked like, her father's narrow and red and edged in only a little black, while her mother's was all blood. The more the red prevailed, the purer the heart. The more the black prevailed, the more a heart was tainted.

Her mother stared at the strip of paper as black spread and only a faint outline of red remained, her face suddenly drawn tight and full of silent fear. The priest turned around and stared at the slip, going silent and still as well.

"A heart of death," he murmured quietly as he studied the way the liquid had soaked into the paper, the forms and lines and shapes it had created. "I have only ever seen such a thing once before."

"Please don't tell anyone," her mother whispered, grabbing the paper and closing her fist tightly around it, as though to hide it away. "She's only so little."

The priest glanced between them, clearly torn, before he pulled out another slip, dropping only a tiny bit of ink onto it before he reached for the girl's bleeding finger once more and pressed more drops onto it, making sure the red prevailed even as black tried to eat into it again.

"That is all I can do," he said and her mother traded the slip she held for the new one with a big shivering exhale of relief. The priest threw the original piece of paper into the small fireplace off to the side. "Now go and speak of this no more. But woman, remember, you may lie but the child's heart will not change because of it."

The girl felt her mother's hand tighten around hers before she was gently but insistently pulled out of the room the priest had been given by the mayor. Outside other parents waited with their children and they perked up with eager curiosity.

"What did she get, Madleine?" one of the women asked. The girl remembered her, she always came around on washing day so they could do those chores together. Her son was a freckled, quiet boy who liked to help bugs out of the washing basins and who protected spiders from other, rougher children.

"A heart of hope," her mother answered, a smile on her face as she held out the strip. "Look at all that red fighting back the black!"

The other women made appreciative noises, though some glanced at the girl with slightly wrinkled noses, tugging their children closer, a shine of jealousy in their eyes.

"Next," the priest called out and the girl's mother took that chance to usher her away, as another mother eagerly stepped forward.

"Don't tell your father," the girl's mother whispered, quiet but with a fierceness the girl hadn't seen from her before. "Your heart is one of hope, understand?"

"I don't want to kill anyone," the girl whispered back, worried and unsure. "I don't want to hurt anyone either. Maybe the priest was wrong?"

Her mother tugged her into an alley before she dropped down to one knee, grasping her shoulders and looking at her with quiet intensity.

"Death is not a terrible, awful thing and many things can die, even things not made of flesh and blood. If you do have a heart of death, then choose what you end." She pressed a kiss to the girl's forehead and whispered, "Never fear yourself, my dear girl, even the darkest heart can bring good into this world if they know where to direct their darkness."

The little girl fell quiet, thoughtful, and her mother smiled at her, pressing another kiss to her forehead before she rose to her feet and offered her hand. The girl took it and they headed back home, where her father was already waiting impatiently.

He seemed satisfied enough with the results of the ceremony, nodding once before he handed the slip back to her mother to be framed and put above the mantle, between the slips of her parents.

The girl's mother cast her a look when his back turned and the girl nodded. She knew when to keep a secret.

They went about the rest of the day as usual and by the time the little girl laid down in her bed, she had thought about her heart a lot. A heart of death. Her mother had said that it wasn't a bad thing and she decided that it wouldn't be.

If she couldn't have a good heart, the least she could do was bring death to bad things.

*.*.*

The girl never mentioned the true nature of her heart to anyone and instead let everyone believe that she had a heart of hope. As she grew older, she found herself paying attention to where the light fell short. 

She befriended the boy no one wanted to talk to and secretly dropped off potatoes and a little basket of picked berries at the grim neighbor's house once a week, no one speaking to the woman who lived there and who had faced terrible hardship in her time.

And bit by bit, the girl noticed other things as she grew older. How some people seemed to have darkness clinging to them like an oil film, flickering between the folds of their clothing like tiny, licking flames.

Her father was among them, though his darkness was subtle enough that she had almost overlooked it. The girl had always kept a bit of a distance to her father and he to her. So long as she obeyed him, he was only strict, not cruel.

When he died a year later, taken by a sickness, she grieved and yet, a small part of her was relieved as well. Her mother seemed to come alive in the wake of his passing. Singing and dancing suddenly filled the house, his blood-slip vanishing from its spot on the wall and it was as though there was more light in their home again.

The girl stayed away from the other people that carried more of that darkness, an instinctive feeling in her gut warning her that there was nothing good to be found near them.

Right up until, when she was fourteen years old, there was a person with the darkest shadows yet, who went from house to house, selling miracle tonics. It had been a bad year for the entire region, with a far too wet spring and summer, the rivers swelling large and there had been a couple of houses built near the water that had gotten swept away.

The girl hoped the stranger wouldn't come to their house as well, but one evening, while her mother sat by the table, repairing and mending various things, a knock sounded from the door.

The girl knew who it was and she had seen everyone fall to the stranger's charms, even the grim old woman and the cautious, nervous young candlemaker who had moved into their town after marrying the miller's son.

"I got it," the girl called out, her mother settling back down with a nod, returning her attention to her work.

Swallowing nervously, the girl headed for the door and pulled it open. It was indeed the stranger, his smile friendly and disarming, but no matter how nice he looked, it couldn't hide the oil-slick darkness that seemed to coalesce along the edges of his clothes and the tips of his hair, almost looking like it was dripping down.

The stranger introduced himself as a wandering alchemist and doctor's apprentice. He said that he was selling cures and remedies for all kinds of ailments, from an unwanted wart and persistent cough to terrible fevers. 

"Why don't you take this little sample?" he said when he realized that the girl had no intentions of buying anything from him. "Give it to your parents, just so they'll keep staying healthy. They ought to take it right away even! Let them know that I'll only stay in town another day before I move on in case they do desire to buy my tonics."

He held out a corked little vial and while the liquid inside looked downright honey-gold, the girl saw the same oil-slick darkness on the outside of the vial, as though it was oozing from the man's sleeve and down his wrist and fingers to coat the glass.

"It's alright, take it," he said, insistently holding the vial out further and the girl hesitantly reached out, silently resolving to throw the vial out where her mother couldn't see.

The moment her hand brushed the stranger's, it was as though the darkness dripped off of him, sliding away to leave regular shadows and color behind and he jerked back with a sharp gasp, dropping the vial to let it shatter on the doorstep.

"Are you alright?" the girl asked, startled, but he didn't seem to hear her. If anything, he stared off into the distance, a horrified expression overtaking his face.

"What am I doing," he whispered and took a downright stumbling step back, pressing his hand to his mouth, his gaze darting about. He almost dropped the doctor's bag he was carrying that held the tonics. "What just happened..."

He breathed out the last few words as he turned around and left as though in a daze, his free hand raising to his temples as if he was suffering a sudden headache.

The girl stared after him, startled and confused, until she heard her mother call out to close the door, that it was getting drafty.

"Who was it?" the girl's mother asked when she returned and the girl shook her head.

"No one, just a prank," she answered. "Probably the butcher's son, he's of that age now."

"I'll speak with Richard when I visit his shop the next time," her mother said. "I'll ask him to teach his son better ways to express his mischief."

The girl nodded and sat down to help her mother, though her mind kept wandering and she stared down at her hands. Had...she done that?

*.*.*

This story will be published on the first of December on my patreon and ko-fi! Thank you all so very much for your support, your likes and comments and reblogs and tags.

If you want to read other stories I've written, feel free to go check out the Masterpost!

[suddencolds]

a personal milestone 🥳 + author's note

i finally made it 😭 (there is probably another 10k sitting in my drafts, but i have always tracked word count for this project as a sum of already-published installments)

also a (somewhat long) journal entry below:

—

This has been the main project in my life for almost two years, now (I started writing on 1.26.2023). It's my first proper attempt at a novel, and it's one of my first times ever posting original work anywhere 😭

It's hard to say how I feel now, perhaps because I feel too much.

Where to go from here? I considered dropping the series entirely before I hit the milestone because I was very tired. In a way, I felt like I had said everything I wanted to say. But I think I also love this series a lot more than I can properly verbalize.

To be completely honest, writing this series was so lonely. To work for so long on something that I could not show to nearly anyone irl (not family, not close friends, not peers, not strangers I met who I talked to about art); to spend hundreds of hours on something that I could only ever post to a small subset of people... all of that was very lonely. I'm sure other creatives have felt this way too.

And at the same time, hearing what people on snzblr thought became probably the most potent source of happiness in my life (is that pathetic? Maybe so.) I don't think this project was self-sustaining at all; I think to some extent, I wrote it because I wanted to hear people tell me that they liked it. I realize this is a terrible and unsustainable reason to create art, but that's the truth.

On some level, though, I kept writing because I loved Y+V. They've been at the forefront at my life for almost two years now 😭 I spent a long time teaching myself how to write them, and a lot of the themes & choices in the series are quite personal. Embarrassingly, I still want to talk about Y+V all the time.

When I posted to ask if I could send my unfinished/unpolished WIPs, some people reached out to offer to read them... and then I never sent anything over to anyone. I think a part of me could not get it through my head that people would be willing to read something completely unpolished, because... well, frankly, a lot of my drafts are just pretty unreadable; I typically only post things that I have already cleaned up. More importantly, I felt like sending my drafts to people—even people who had given me explicit permission to send them!—was selfish and troublesome.

On some level, I also felt the same about asking others to brainstorm with me: I felt like I was asking them a favor which I did not know how to pay back. Perhaps this is just another way in which I have been cruel/uncharitable to myself, but I never imagined people enjoying receiving my drafts. I could never convince myself that for those people, giving feedback/discussing ideas might not actually be a chore. I was always scared to make writing less of a lonely process because I could only think about how easy it would be for me to ask too much.

This is probably the most honest I've been about this particular subject 😭 I am not good at gauging what constitutes 'too much.' I feel like I can get carried away when someone expresses interest, so I try to preemptively position myself as someone who does not impinge on others... I think that even outside of this series, I have defaulted to this pattern of trying to give and trying not to ask. In that particular sense, I am perhaps to blame for my own loneliness.

Anyways! Recently, I've gone back to (tentatively) writing after months of not writing. I'm not sure if I will post another installment here (maybe if the drafts are 'good enough', I will?), but it's nice to write without worrying so much that what I am writing needs to be publishable/presentable.

If you have ever left tags/comments on my work, and you are reading this, I am grateful beyond words to you for keeping me company + for making me feel like what I was spending so much time on was a little more meaningful :') I always go back to reread them when I'm in need of encouragement. Thank you sincerely for the happiness. ❤️

[httpscameron]

attending weddings was boring, anyone can admit it and certainly you could, it was your distant aunt’s daughter’s neices wedding. somehow you got invited and were allowed to bring a plus one. that plus one being your best friend schlatt.

the day was slow but lovey it was in the middle of some woods but you had to admit the scenery was lovely. schlatt succeeded at keeping you entertained for the day but the feeling of love in the air was strong.

the two of you sat in his pick up truck on the way back to your apartment was long; the only music being played was from one of schlatt’s many playlists which always seemed to coincidentally fit the vibe. your gaze leaving the window as schlatt made small talk.

“was a nice venue,” he murmured, since when did he think about venues? if anything he seemed to be more intrested in the amount of free booze he could get from the bar before they told him to go away.

“it was,” you hummed keeping the conversation afloat. “nice food.” it was the normal cheap catering you expected from a wedding, some plain chicken and some vegetables that were lightly roasted.

“yeah it was.” even for you two who could speak about anything and everything this was awkward. perhaps it was the lingering tension of how much you two oddly seemed like a couple (you did infact get asked when the two of your’s wedding would be, four times to be precise.)

“do you think about getting married?” he murmured stopping at the red light his fingers drumming on the steering wheel before turning the volume down. was he going to get really deep and philosophical with you, or tell you how marriage is to scam the goverment.

“sometimes,” you say in the same tone meeting his gaze which lingered on you - which had lingered on you all day.

“same,” oh?

“big guy schlatt would get tied down? wouldve never guessed.” you teased him almost, bringing energy to the conversation.

“maybe for the right girl you ever thought of that.” he jabbed back. he continued to drive the tension feeling a little less than ‘why arent we dating yet’ to more ‘good we’re not dating’. your mind did start to wonder to what it would be like to be with jay like that. ‘would he be domestic? is he a good husband? is he a good kisser? i wonder if hes good in bed?’ lets just say your mind continued in this loop

the drive continued until he got to your apartment, he always made it a routine to walk you all the way to your door. just to show some basic respect.

you got to the door, “this is me,” the usual cliche how perfect.

“night toots.” he said his charming smile, a part of you liked this, ended the night perfectly but not this night. you looked up at his beautifully crafted face, mainly his lips. you had to taste them, you had to know what they tasted like.

you kissed him quickly before stopping. your cheeks flushing red in almost embarrassment as you realised you actually kissed your best friend. youre so in the shit.

“im sorry, im so so sorry, i dont even know why i did that, thats so embarrassing-“ you began to ramble “i cant believe i did that, im sorry jay.”

“doll.” he murmured a cocky smirk gracing his face.

“no jay im so sorry i cant believe i did that, i kissed you like that-“ you carried on your hands flapping as you talked trying to explain yourself.

he cut you off once more. his lips meeting yours in a soft passionate kiss, his lips meeting yours in a perfect puzzle peice, you needed him to complete you. his hand resting on the back of your neck the heat, melting into it. it was perfect.

he pulled back looking down at you. “g’night toots.” he released his grip as he began to walk away.

you watched him walk away in complete awe. he really kissed you like youve never been kissed before and walked away like? “jackass!” you shouted down the corridor to hear a soft chuckle.

masterlist

[starlight-archer]

1k fic request for @megs-bee Catwin, cute autumn vibes!

Felt very wholesome about this one, I hope you like it! ✨

Edwin hadn't been back to the cannery in a few days and he was starting to get distracted by his want to return. He had mostly been occupied with case work, with Charles, Crystal and Niko, but in his downtime (far and few between as those moments were) his thoughts had, without fail, constantly drifted to Thomas.

Their relationship was still relatively new, and some things felt tentative. They hadn't kissed on the mouth yet; thus far, their kisses had been relegated to the cheek or the forehead. They had a lot left to learn about each other, but Edwin found himself looking forward to those things. The good and the bad. He was utterly captivated.

Thomas was complex and fascinating. He carried himself with such confidence and was so assured in who he was as an individual, and so open about his desires. But there were depths to him that Edwin was eager to explore. It was refreshing. It inspired Edwin to be a bit more comfortable in his own skin as well, and to allow another person to truly see him.

"Edwin... Edwin? Edwin!" Charles' voice cut through his thoughts. "You're daydreaming again, mate. Where did you go?" he had a knowing look on his face that Edwin did not particularly care for.

"I apologise for being distracted. What was it that you were saying?" Edwin asked, hoping to change the subject.

"You were daydreaming about the Cat King again~" Niko teased.

"I-" Edwin cut himself off with a sigh of resignation. "Yes. I haven't seen him in several days and I... miss him."

"You should go and visit him. I'm sure he misses you too!" Niko encouraged.

"Let's be real, he probably misses him every time he he has to blink." Crystal chimed.

The fact that the Cat King was enamoured with Edwin was hardly a secret. Crystal and Niko hadn't hesitated to tell Edwin all about their conversation with him before they went to confront Esther (they had not shied away from teasing about the Cat King's line of "I already hate myself enough for caring about that thin, stuffy little British tease.")

"There is no need for such dramatics... But I do believe that it would be beneficial to perhaps take some time to see him." as soon as the words were out, he knew exactly how all three of them were internally making fun of his phrasing.

Without further ado, he smoothed down his coat, tugged his gloves up and checked his hair one final time before hopping through the mirror to Port Townsend.

He had never really been one to preen or be overly conscious of his appearance, especially as a ghost with no reflection, but he found himself wanting to look nice for Thomas. It was odd. Maybe he should feel conflicted about it, but all he felt was giddy.

When he got through to the other side Thomas was nowhere to be seen.

"Thomas?" he called out, walking further into the cannery to peer around.

Suddenly, there was a thud and a clatter from somewhere deeper inside. "Edwin?" Thomas poked his head out from a doorway at the back of the warehouse. "Give me a minute, gorgeous!" he winked before disappearing back inside.

Edwin blushed and wondered closer, curiously. The clattering continued for a long moment and just before he was about to push the door open and peek inside, Thomas flung it open.

He was wearing a dark green knit jumper, amber jewellery that brought out his eyes, a long monochromatic tartan skirt and his usual boots. He looked incredibly cozy and unspeakably beautiful.

Edwin flushed again at being caught snooping, but he quickly recovered.

"What on earth was all that racket?" he asked.

"You're actually here at the perfect time! I just finished redecorating~" Thomas replied.

"Redecorating?" Edwin tried to peer around him, but Thomas simply stepped aside to let him into the room.

"I've been working on a little pocket dimension, so that it feels a bit more homey in here for when you visit. I usually keep the pocket closed, but it's nicer like this, don't you think?" Thomas was looking very please with himself (if not with a little tinge of nervousness), and for good reason.

Edwin looked around in awe at what Thomas had done.

On the other side of the door was a large living room, all greens and warm oranges, purples and gold. It had hardwood floors that creaked familiarly with each step, with luxurious Turkish carpets placed art fully on top. The walls were papered with a beautiful William Morris print.

There were two sofas that looked as though you could disappear into them, coloured a rich, dark green, and a matching arm chair, each decorated with plush cushions. There were several large, thick blanket throws hanging over the backs of the sofas as well, in varying colours.

In front was a roaring fireplace, where the mantle was decorated with little porcelain cat figurines. There were also a few standing lamps dotted around that looked like slightly fancier versions of the ones that were at the office in London.

At the far end was a wall to wall set of bookshelves. Each wooden panel and edge was delicately hand-craved with vines and lilies. It was a feast for the eyes.

The whole place was so beautifully reminiscent of the time when Edwin had been alive, and yet it felt brand new, mixed with Thomas' unique flare of individuality. It was a perfect blend of the both of them. Elegant, extravagant, timeless.

Edwin ran his fingertips over the book spines and over the ridges of the carvings,and it struck him with Fascination and bewliderment.

"How?" he asked, spinning around to look at Thomas.

"You can feel everything in this room. The same as if you were still alive." Thomas explained as he walked closer. "I made it with my own magic, so there's a little bit of me in everything." He took Edwin's hands in his and pulled his gloves off, tucking them into Edwin's coat pockets. "Enjoy it."

"I assure you, I fully intend to." Edwin smiled.

Rather than going back to the shelves or the books or the sofas, or the warmth of the fire, Edwin reached up and threaded his fingers into Thomas' hair, and pulled him close. Leaning down, Edwin kissed him softly and lovingly, the gesture eagerly returned.

[librivore42]

A cultural exchange

This gif is mildly false advertising because there's no kissing in the fic but it definitely carries the 'Minthara yanks Gale in, much to his pleased surprise' energy. A secret withers gift for @quescon! Ao3 link below, and full text under the cut if you want to stay on tumblr (but comments and kudos would be welcome!)

A cultural exchange (1051 words) by Librivore42 Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Minthara Baenre/Gale Characters: Gale (Baldur's Gate), Minthara Baenre Additional Tags: Rated teen for the fact that they're definitely undressing eachother but that's about it, I'm bad at ratings okay Summary: Minthara is attracted to Gale, and Gale is clearly both interested and absolutely not going to make the first move, so why beat about the bush? She takes matters into her own hands.

~~~~~~

Minthara was indeed beautiful. Forceful. Powerful. Direct. So maybe Gale should have been slightly less surprised when, not half an hour after they’d set up their tents and he’d wandered toward the tree-line to look at some fascinating mushrooms, he’d been powerfully and directly pressed up against a tree.

“Minthara?”

“Wizard,” she said calmly, as if pinning wizards to trees and busying herself with the laces of their shirts was a common everyday occurrence.

Surely it wasn’t.

“May I-” he said, desperately trying to keep his voice level as a hand briefly dipped under the fabric, “ask what by Elminster’s beard you’re doing, exactly?”

“I did not think you would need it explained to you.” Red eyes much too close, much too pleasantly heated. “Or did your goddess not concern herself with the mortal necessity of undressing a bedmate?”

“Mystra would- I. That isn’t-” Feeling too flustered by the suddenness of it all to come up with a proper retort, he batted her hands away.

“Now really, I must protest!”

“Must you?” she said dryly, resuming her unlacing. “To what do you object, wizard?”

There were numerous and equally valid variables in this situation to object to. The suddenness of it, the lack of asking whether he was actually interested, as if his willingness to participate was not a consideration- not that he was wholly unwilling mind you, nevertheless it was the principle of the thing- but as his mind spun for some excuse to get her hands off of him so he could have a single coherent thought, all he could come up with was “The location.”

She raised her eyebrows, fingers stilling as he willed some blood back to his brain.

Good. She was distracted. Now he could push her very warm and very appealingly muscled arms away and walk back to camp and they could all pretend this had never happ-

“We. Ah. Are much too close to the campsite and our companions. A tent might afford us more privacy in this particular situation.”

Gods damn it. He went on, mouth working incessantly to fill up the silence she was staring at him with.

“Visual privacy at the very least, though if we were further in the forest we would have less chance of being overheard. It would be rather less comfortable but perhaps-”

“Are you never silent?” she said in milder annoyance than he was used to. And then, much to his surprise, “Very well. Privacy you shall have.”

Quick and efficient, he was grabbed by the mostly open shirt front and dragged into her tent, still a little dazed to have been given this consideration.

Once the tent flap closed them in together, she looked him up and down with vaguely proprietary air. Had Mystra ever looked at him like that, or had he always read it as affection? Minthara’s gaze was certainly different, but similar enough that it made him bristle.

“A second objection, if your sole interest is a warm body to satisfy your needs then I am certain there are many others to provide.”

A flicker of surprise, and then, bafflingly, increased interest as she stepped forward into his space and resumed undressing up.

“You are a strange one,” she said, her voice almost… amused? “If my sole interest was a warm body I would indeed have sought out another to provide it.”

Gale let out a slightly hysterical laugh, and he did have to wonder precisely how they got from Minthara seeming to express only the deepest disdain for him to her fingers sliding under his shirt and pushing it off of his shoulders.

Perhaps in drow culture disdain was a step up from indifference? He had to admit, he was not particularly well read on the ways of the drow, though he was dimly aware that men were faced almost exclusively with those two emotions. A shame really, he had been most remiss in learning more about their companion, not asking her nearly as many questions about the Underdark and drow as he had asked Lae’zel about the Astral plane and the Githyanki.

Given that Lae’zel was always very responsive and Minthara stared at him like a slug she’d prefer to step on, that was not surprising. But he could find books. Truly there was no excuse besides neglect that he had been caught so short-handed in this- her hands were at the laces of his trousers now - very…. sudden and… intimate…. cultural exchange-

A smack on his cheek, surprisingly light, brought him back to reality and the chill air on his increasingly bare skin.

“I expect you to pay attention.”

“Yes ma’am.” He wasn’t sure if it was the smack or the authoritative tone that made the response tumble from his mouth so readily, but he was sure that despite her lack of expression, he saw the following in Minthara’s eyes:

Surprise again Delight Satisfaction An even greater increase of interest

Duly noted. He filed that away in his currently limited mental codex of drow culture. Or his understanding of Minthara, at the very least. It would be prudent to assume that she was merely a partial reflection, not a complete representation, of what was no doubt a very varied and fascinating- oh Gods. Warm and calloused hands in the right place were remarkably focusing when he was in danger of getting distracted again.

He tried very hard to formulate a coherent thought again.

“Perhaps you should-” he gestured towards her. “Allow for a levelling of the playing field, as it were?”

“An impertinent question,” she scoffed, but took his hand and directed it to the buckles of her armour, giving him a little room to get his mind in order. He glanced at her quickly as he worked, noting the amusement buried deep in her eyes. She seemed to enjoy a little pushback, alternating with plenty of deference, though he had yet to learn if that was a drow preference, a Minthara preference, or simply what she preferred out of him.

“We shall have to do something about that failing of yours. Kneel.”

Ah well, who was he to miss an opportunity for greater cultural knowledge? He grinned a little, all too rapidly falling into the rhythm of this little encounter like a newly learned lanceboard strategy.

“Yes ma’am.”

[r-lestrcnge]

Her surprise was almost comical. Watching how his suggestion had unsettled her, Rabastan could not help the light chuckle that parted his lips before they curved thoughtfully. Yet he had also not expected to glean so much from this conversation. He'd known her blood status, yet he'd assumed she'd been raised by Tuttle parents in the ways of their kind. Her story about foster care stirred his memory. He recalled a tale of some pureblooded child being handed away; something he'd learned when he was a child, himself. It had been a story he'd disliked. He'd not been able to find its logic and was therefore unwilling to accept it. But he didn't draw a firm conclusion now. He would leave and look into it further, needing to remind himself of the family concerned and their reasons for acting as they did. Perhaps now, as a adult, he'd look upon it differently - or perhaps not. He rarely changed his opinions, even with the benefit of age.

"It is just a suggestion," he pointed out. "Don't get carried away and don't risk your job here. My wife will want to speak with you, and I suppose you'll need to visit our home to see how it would work. I'll admit it's unknown territory for us both, at present. But I'm determined to be organised before the children arrive." Picking up the box, he smiled more broadly. "Goodbye, Miss Tuttle."

END.

To say his offer had caught her by surprise was an under statement. One moment they are talking about baked goods and her job, the next he is the one offering her potential employment.

Her jaw had dropped, there was no way she was able to hide the surprise that was plastered upon her face.

"Y-yeah" she stuttered. "I mean, kids are great. I grew up in foster, so I spent most my life surrounded by kids. Babies included, surprisingly." she thought back to some of the homes she had been in, many just wanted the pay check that came with foster kids, those where the ones that didn't bother to truly care for them, it was with them that Sophia was left to care for the younger ones.

She looked around the Baker, her first job, the blood sweat and tears of her best friend had gone into this place. Yet, they both knew Sophia wasn't going to be here forever. "It sounds interesting." a pause. "I meant to say I'd be interested, I can't say I've ever done it as job before but from previous home, I've some minor experience."

"I'd definitely think it over, this place and Alara mean the world to me. I'd need to it over with her first, I know she doesn't expect me to stay forever, but I'd still need to speak with her. I hope that doesn't come across in the wrong way."

[hijackalx]

Question for Astarion, Gale, and Gortash (might be considered a headcanon ask maybe?) How would they react to seeing their sweetheart in the Wavemother's Robes?

LETS DO THIS BABEYYYY !!!!!!

GN!reader

NSFW BELOW

let’s set the scene. i’m imagining like……. a ball or a party or something 💃💃🪩

GORTASH

this man has no shame like he does not give a SHIT who is watching he will want to fuck right then and there. honestly loves showing you off so you wearing something revealing/flattering is a plus to him. ALTHOUGH he is SO obnoxious with his PDA and will be touching you all over. mostly to make everyone else jealous 🤭 you’re his arm candy for sure

he loves how the robe accentuates your shape. also the little back window omg DON’T let this man see back dimples he turns into a wild animal. he catches glimpses of your back whenever he can and always rests his hand in that spot when you’re standing together. definitely thinks about fucking you from behind while you’re wearing it

you will eventually disappear together because he couldn’t wait any longer (he has two seconds of patience). will probably fuck you over a table in a secluded room or something, throwing the back of the dress up or to the side so he can easily slip inside you. while you’re fucking he’ll tell you how everyone thinks you’re a whore or a slut for wearing something like that (endearingly)

ASTARION

SO much obvious staring. i feel like he’ll glance at your body when he knows you’ll see just to get you flustered. will also make comments like “darling, did you dress up for me?” and give soooooo much praise on how you look. LITERALLY never-ending praise. and it also progressively gets hornier LMAO you WILL feel like he wants to eat you up

OBSESSED with how it exposes your chest/stomach. and the little peeks of collarbone too UGH GOD THE COLLARBONES !!!!!!! gets turned on thinking about covering the area in hickeys/bite marks so that the next time you wear it everyone knows you’re his

he’s pretty patient with it and waits until the night is over to finally fuck you. he mostly just thinks it’s funny to get you wound up throughout the night with his dirty talk and then make you wait LMAO asshole. but anyway, when he lays you down he’s definitely going to be “scolding” YOU for teasing HIM all night 😭😭😭

GALE

MY SWEET BOY IS LITERALLY A FLUSTERED STUTTERING MESSSSS !!!!! his cheeks turn red and everything. anybody remember his reaction to you wearing haarlep’s clothes? it’s basically like that LMAO like he can’t look at you at all without thinking about all the things he wants to do to you— but that’s not very gentlemanly of him so he’s a little embarrassed by it 😹😹

he’s particularly interested in your exposed hips……… or more so how he can tell you’re not wearing underwear. he fantasizes about wrapping his arms around you from behind and slipping a hand underneath the robe to get you off with his hand/fingers

if you tease him at all or flaunt your figure because you know he’s watching his restraint will SHATTER. even if you’re in the middle of talking to someone he’s taking you by the hand to lead you somewhere private. sooo much dirty talk like he will tell you EVERY SINGLE THING he’s thought about doing to you. IN DETAIL

[mustlovewillgrahamsdogs]

what i wouldn't give to have a scene where hannibal mentions the whole murder husbands thing to will 😩he's just never gonna bring that up? yeah right

[sanchoyoscribbles]

daily may day 17: sacrifice

don’t let me let u down ☹️

[13eyond13]

.

[autisticlee]

it always pisses me off when people start ghosting me and completely cut me off and think i'm annoying because I didn't ~get the hint~ all because they're too much of a coward to be straightforward and honest with me!!!!

i'll keep asking about a thing or when we are hanging out or try to converse with them, because their response is always excuses and not straight up "no" so how am I supposed to know?! either short responses of 1-5 words that I can't really respond to or things like "I'm busy this weekend/I'm too tired today/I forgot about it/we can try next time/I'll get back to you and le you know" are apparently all hints and lies to hide the truth. what they really mean when they tell me this is "no, stop asking. stop talking to me. I do not want to hang out with you or talk to you anymore"

why can't you just say that?! it will save you the annoyance of me asking you 20 times because i took your words at face value. your excuses sound temporary and you didn't get back to me so maybe you forgot. there are rare times people say these things and it's the truth or they really did forget!!!! when I say it, it's the truth. I also have a bad memory. you can't just suddenly ghost me for that! it's on you if you aren't being honest with me. it's up to you to be straightforward and tell the truth so you don't waste both our time. (what's worse is this is usually one of the first things I tell people when we meet. that I need then to be straightforward and honest. they promise they will but that's also a lie)

ghosting is so cruel (when the other person has no bad intentions/isnt causing harm). more cruel than telling me to my face you hate me and never want to speak again! i actually prefer that, so i at least know and can give up on your useless ass and stop wasting my time. don't give me false hope when i'm really excited to be friends and hang out, don't waste my time and energy and efforts, and don't lead me on with lies only to crush my entire soul when I find the truth much later. just say it and get it over with!!!! it's your fault if I annoy you by "not taking the hint" because there was no hint, lying isn't a hint. spill the truth and don't blame me for it!!!!!!

this is why i've given up with people and now only give attention to the ones who contact me first every time continuously, and I put little effort into anything anymore. I know that will end up making some people give up on me by thinking i dont care. but I'm tired of wasting my time and energy on the people who put no effort into me. you must prove yourself and keep doing it or I won't try at all. the people who ghost me and hurt me are to blame. yes, I live a very lonely existence with maybe one friend I talk to once every week or two for a total of 5 minutes at most. yes I wish I had more connections or closer ones. but i'm SO FUCKING TIRED. i'm tired of trying so much and so hard just for people to shit on my efforts and disrespect my needs and boundaries!!!!!!

why should I keep trying when it always ends bad and adds yet another layer to my trauma.

[foldingfittedsheets]

Did you know guinea pigs are born just like. Tiny adults? They’re fully cooked. They come out, eyes open, fully furred, ready to do the whole array of guinea pig activities.

I learned this as a child. I was perhaps ten when this story took place. Our female guinea pig was pregnant, but she’d gotten mites and needed a bath. She was wildly pregnant. Bulging at the seams with babies. Ready to burst at any moment because all the babies needed to stay in there long enough to be full pigs. But we wanted to avoid the babies all getting mites and needing baths. We failed, they all needed baths. Mites are a bitch.

We knew she had three babies cooking in there. How did we know? We could feel each individual bulge in her belly. My mom was overseeing the pig bath but I was pretty much just doing my own thing, scrubbing her gently, rinsing the soap carefully.

After the bath our mother pig was not in the best mood. I was carrying her back to her freshly made mite free bedding when she’d had enough.

I was acutely aware that I was holding four lives in my childish grip, and I bore her along as if she were made of precious jewels and spun glass. Balanced in my hands I could feel the bulge of each of her babies slithering wetly around under her skin.

Which is why when she hauled off and sank her teeth into the meat of my hand I didn’t flinch. I didn’t drop her. I bore her as carefully and steadily as if I weren’t now bleeding freely, and I set her gently into her pig palace.

As I drew my hands away I screamed:

“FUCK!!!”

I then turned to look at my mother, who’d been watching the process intently.

I was fully aware that I had just done the worst possible swear directly in front of an authority figure and was very probably going to be punished. My mom was looking at me with a blank expression that I was waiting to turn stormy or disappointed.

“That must have hurt a lot,” was all she said.

She helped me throughly clean and bandage the bite. All the babies were born healthy and sound, looking like someone had used a shrink ray on trio of a guinea pigs.

Years later my mother confided in me that contrary to my belief that she’d be angry for swearing what she’d felt for me in that moment was overwhelming pride that in the face of pain and shock I had refused to let harm befall my little charges.

[firthbetterorfirthworse]

A Christmas Carol