#I hate that we know so fucking little about medicine

[small-witch-big-hat]

Hi, I’m sure you didn’t mean any harm but I wanted to let you know that it was really sad and upsetting to see your comments about longing to be smaller under art celebrating fat bodies. I don’t want you to be unhappy but also it sucks that you felt the need to derail a piece of fat positivity with your negative emotions.

I hope this doesn’t seem mean, more than that, I hope - more than you know - that you learn to find peace with your body as it is now. Whether or not you ever lose weight (or gain weight, or fluctuate for the rest of your life) you deserve to be happy in the flesh you inhabit, right now. Today. Not when you’re skinny. Not when you look right. Immediately, and with no conditions, you deserve to be happy. No weight loss will ever feel as good as happiness that isn’t tied to external expectations of your body.

If that isn’t possible for you yet (which is fine), then I at least hope that you be a little more considerate about when and where you share your negativity, and that you choose not to broadcast them in a way that undermines the work of those people who don’t share your current views towards their fleshbags.

I don't recall which post I responded to that spurred this ask, but I am sorry that I caused someone else pain here. I try not to vent on other people's posts, and I broke my own rule.

A lot of the fat positivity stuff I see around here makes me feel really uncomfortable. It reminds me of my own body, with which I am not really on speaking terms. It reminds me of the frustration that being heavy causes me, of the health problems it's exacerbating, of how much trouble I have managing my eating in a healthy way. It reminds me of the things I want to do that my weight prevents.

It's also complicated by my gender dysphoria, which only makes me feel even MORE trapped in a body that fits wrong.

It makes me feel like trying to change is futile, that I'm doomed here. I don't WANT to "find peace" with my body as it is now. To be honest, having you wish me that makes me feel sick and angry, and I'm not entirely sure why. It feels like you're asking me to ignore things about myself.

[bunnycvnts]

new bf! rafe that is slowly, very very slowly, getting used to having a girlfriend that cares about him !!

*+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

rafe was having a particularly rough day with ward screaming at him to be a better man and running out of gas three blocks from tannyhill, so when you came over that night, his attitude was at an all-time high.

every little thing was ticking him off. from the way his collared shirt was sitting against his skin to the crickets chirping outside, and to the way the tv was far too loud considering how close you were sitting. he was overstimulated, annoyed, and really just needed a fucking break.

when you got up to get a glass of water and your heels clacked against the wood floor, he sort of lost it. “can you- seriously? take the fucking shoes off.”

you paused at the entrance of the living room, your eyebrows furrowing as you turned around slowly to look at your boyfriend. “what?” you weren’t upset; you were just thoroughly confused about his outburst. you’d been together for three months now and had seen your fair share of him being dramatic or moody, but it was rarely ever pointed towards you.

“the heels, they’re driving me fucking nuts, clicking and clacking through the house, and the tv?” he paused to gesture angrily at the screen, “why is it so fucking loud? you’re sitting like six feet away from it.”

your teeth sunk into your lower lip, quickly slipping off your heels and heading back towards rafe, your feet now padding lightly against the floor, almost silently. “is everything okay?” the remote sat in your hand as you spoke, muting the tv effectively. you eyed him cautiously, now noticing the way his hands were fidgeting and his knee wouldnt stop bouncing.

his face scrunched. “yes, everything’s okay; that shits just mad annoying, babe. it’s giving me a fuckin’ headache.” your hand reached out to rub his arm soothingly.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t know. how about we go to your room? it’ll be quieter, and you can change out of your clothes from today. i can go home too if you’d prefer. it’s okay.” your words were chosen carefully, bordering on demanding, and you tried to refrain from any tone that sounded condescending. it was easy to spot that he was overstimulated, and you only wanted to help.

“ye-yeah, yeah. let’s go to my room. don’t leave; why would you leave? i told you everything’s fine.” he didn’t know why you were acting this way, and it made his stomach feel weird. you guided him by his hand up the stairs and to his bedroom, speaking quietly as you went.

“i just know you need a minute, baby. that’s all. know you need some peace and quiet. maybe a nap. will help you feel better, promise.” he paused on the stairs at your words, but your hand tugged at his, making him regain movement.

once you both reached his bedroom, you pulled out some gym shorts and a loose t shirt for him to change into, shoving them into his hands. “here, put these on!” you smiled up at him before moving to his bedside table, where he kept matches. lighting one, you held it to a candle you had bought him a few weeks ago. he had noted how great the scent was but felt it was too girly for him to buy a candle— and he wasn’t girly. so, you took it upon yourself to buy it, and the trimmed wick and melted down wax covering the sides didn’t go unnoticed.

rafe changed quickly and leaned against the wall to watch you. the way you moved so efficiently and effortlessly through his room made his heart beat a little faster. you didn’t have to ask where he kept leisure clothes or the matches. you didn’t think twice before pulling the blanket up from the made bed and fluffing the pillows for him. you didn’t even need him to tell you that he hated sleeping with the top sheet, as you knowingly kept it tucked into the mattress. just watching you made his headache lessen, and he didn’t fight when you pulled him off the wall and helped him get situated in his bed.

“do you want some water or medicine?” his head shook at your question, denying it. all he felt like he needed was you. no one had ever paid so much attention to him or knew what made him feel better or worse. no one had taken the time or given the effort to care so lovingly for him. so when you sat on the edge of the bed, your hand running through his hair gently, all he could do was open his arms to gesture you closer. the blonde shuffled even closer to you, resting his head on your stomach, so you could continue massaging his head and playing with his hair.

“nah, just my girl.”

*+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

ok this is my first writing post pls be nice

taglist: @sunkissedrafe

[literary-lesbo]

𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘵 𝘓𝘪𝘴𝘵

ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏ��! ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴜᴘ ʙʏ ᴍᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴏɴ ᴘɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇꜱᴛ

𝘏𝘶𝘳𝘵/𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵

♡ "can you please come get me?"

♡ "hey, don't do that, you'll hurt yourself"

♡ "no, don't cry, I hate it when you cry"

♡ "you look sad"

♡ "oh god, you're bleeding"

♡ "I could just use a hug"

♡ "don't touch me"

♡ "it's okay, just breathe"

♡ "I'll stay for as long as you need"

♡ "you can trust me"

♡ "can I touch you? is that okay?"

♡ "you don't need to apologize, ever"

♡ "hey, hey, you're alright! it's okay, just calm down"

♡ "shh, shh, you're okay now"

♡ "here, hold my hand"

♡ "there's no shame in crying, I promise"

♡ "are you crying?"

♡ "you are what's important right now"

♡ "I've got nowhere else to be"

♡ "I'm at the hospital"

𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵

♡ "I don't want to die"

♡ "I was only using you"

♡ "stay away from me"

♡ "why am I always your second choice?"

♡ "we almost made it"

♡ "leave I don't want to see you"

♡ "why are you helping a monster?"

♡ "I'm barely holding on"

♡ "can I leave now?"

♡ "I guess that's just how little I meant to you"

♡ "I just want to know you care about me"

♡ "stop looking at me like I'm damaged goods"

♡ "there's no us and there never was"

♡ "you deserve so much better"

♡ "don't do this here"

♡ "am I too late?"

♡ "say something, just fucking say something"

♡ "I know. I know I wasn't enough. I always did"

♡ "I did care, I used to care"

𝘍𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧

♡ "shh, stop fussing. I'm just braiding your hair"

♡ "can I borrow your sweater? it smells like you"

♡ "you're my new pillow"

♡ "I'll be here to protect you"

♡ "it's okay, I couldn't sleep anyway"

♡ "you make me so happy"

♡ "aww, you're blushing"

♡ "wait...is this a date?"

♡ "can I kiss you?"

♡ "I'm glad you came"

♡ "I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified"

♡ "thank you for being her for me"

♡ "you're so pretty when you first wake up"

♡ "I want you to stay, please"

♡ "dance with me"

♡ "your eyes are so pretty"

♡ "is someone sleepy?"

♡ "can I kiss you?"

♡ "you're so warm"

♡ "this/these are my favorite"

𝘚𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘧𝘪𝘤

♡ “you’re sure I’m sick?  ‘cause I feel fine”

♡  “I really cannot be sick right now”

♡  “everyone gets colds.  I’ll live”

♡  “I really hope this is just my allergies”

♡  “stop thinking so loud; my head hurts”

♡ "I'm scared"

♡ "I can't even talk properly"

♡  "I feel like I'm letting everyone down"

♡ "you're making a big deal out of nothing"

♡ "I'm so tired..."

♡ "no, you're not fine. you're burning up”

♡ "you need to rest. I'll stay here with you until you feel better"

♡ “just let me take care of you"

♡ "here, take my blanket”

♡ “I’ll make some tea”

♡ “you're in no condition to go anywhere”

♡ “just rest and let your body fight this off"

♡ “take this medicine, please"

♡ "I'm here now”

♡ "right now, the only person you need to help is yourself”

[striders]

help needed

hi guys. i really hate having to ask this again, but you guys have probably seen us talking about struggling lately and by fucking god have we really been struggling. just to summarize:

my truck broke down in march and i’m struggling to save enough to buy my mom’s car that i’ve been borrowing for 5 months now so that she and my little brother aren’t confined to their home anymore

our air conditioner has broken three times since moving in and we don’t know how many quick fixes it has left in it

related to the air conditioner struggling, our power bill has been consistently over $250 to $300 a month. we live in florida under a monopolized private power company. not running the air conditioner is not an option

our cat callie was recently diagnosed with a grade 4 heart murmur, hyperthyroidism, and kidney and liver issues. she is now on daily medication and will need bloodwork again soon, which is approximately $230 alone, not to mention the cost of her medicine each month

we haven’t had a working oven in over a month and have to pay for a replacement to the control panel.

and now our fucking plumbing is backing up into the house for the second time in two months when we run the water or flush our toilet. there are roots in our sewer line, which is not covered under our home warranty. and even though this was almost 100% an undisclosed issue known by the seller, we have almost nothing we can do. we’ve been quoted $1200-$2400 to fix it, and we have no idea how we’re going to do this.

tl;dr, we are drowning and we need help desperately. you can find posts about our cat callie underneath the tag #callie on my blog, where you’ll see that i’ve posted about her for years.

we appreciate any help you can spare. we just need to get through this.

cashapp: $cpmost

paypal: link

venmo: @cpmost

[oh-allie]

then afterwards we drop into a quiet little place n' have a drink or two.

dr. ratio x fem!reader

synopsis; you make veritas ratio so stupid. is he stupid enough to say 'i love you' when he just met you though? hopefully not.

part two! and then i go and spoil it all by sayin somthin stupid like....

fluff, ratio might be kinda ooc for him to fall for a love at first sight thing. but hes totally whipped for you, i tried 2 make it gen!neutral but "pretty person" just didnt sound right, inspired by frank sinatra's "something stupid."

veritas ratio is not stupid. he doesn't say stupid things, he doesn't think stupid thoughts. he'd say he hates the idea of it, if you were to ask him.

and of course a man with outstanding achievements in the fields of biology, medicine, natural theology, philosophy, mathematics, physics, and engineering wouldn’t stumble at the mere sight of a pretty girl, right? you’d think so, but here he was. mouth agape, clammy hands, and a racing heart. it’s stupid.

just cause a pretty girl happened to talk to him. though, to him, you weren't just a pretty girl. he almost thought he was hallucinating- he was about to check for signs of chemical abnormalities in his brain. it was awkward, actually, as he reached out to touch your steady hand to confirm you were real, but didn't have a game plan for what to do if you were (which you were. you are real. and you did stare at his cold fingers brushing against your knuckles.)

“are you alright, mr. ratio?” you say, a breathy chuckle escaping from your lips. you're sat across the table from him, your drink in your hand as you occasionally take sips from the chunky straw that protrudes from the cap.

all you wanted to do was approach a scholar you deeply admired, but it seems like you caught him at a bad time.

you look at him expectantly.

"um. hello?”

you consider standing up to leave, oh well, maybe you could try your luck with a letter to his assistant.

the sound of an awkward throat-clear is heard from across the table, “hi. i’m sorry, you just startled me. wha.. what do you need?” he says, straightforward and curtly. the way the tips of his ears are red and his voice cracks when he says ‘stArtled’ betray the cool demeanor he's trying to present.

“i recognized you from my booth. thought i had to take the opportunity to chat with such an esteemed man. i hope i'm not intruding too much.” you close your eyes as you take another sip, giving him a break from your intimidating gaze.

oh you, you flatter him. and you know it from the way he almost stumbles over his words and his hands get shakier as he realizes he hasn't moved them far enough away from yours to be normal.

he tries to find something, anything to say. anything to say to keep the conversation going, to flaunt his academic prowess that you approached him for, to keep you here with him, but he seems to have lost it all when you sat down.

“my apologies, i'll leave you be, then.” you say with a smirk. placing your napkin that had been resting in your lap onto the table and grabbing your drink, you give him a curt goodbye and walk out of the café.

well fuck.

he blew it. a girl so pretty he was convinced he was hallucinating her just sat by him and tried to talk to him and he blew it. he thinks about what topic he could pour himself into to distract from, what he over exaggerates to be, the biggest mistake of his life. and then his smartass brain turns back on.

he sees the neatly folded napkin you left behind, with curly red ink and blotches protruding behind the elegant folds. he grabs it and carefully unfolds it,

i was about to be late to my meeting. but i wouldn't want to miss a chance to speak with my favorite scholar.

lets link up ###-###-####

he’s quite happy he didn’t speak his mind when he first met you. you make him so stupid. almost stupid enough to blurt out ‘i'm totally in love with you’ when he just met you. he’ll be sure to set some hours aside in the evening to plan what he’ll say to you next time.

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

HONEY, I’M HOME ─── jackson rippner ✧♤

ೃ⁀➷ “You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.” — ‘Letters to Milena’, Franz Kafka

pairing. jackson rippner x assassin!reader

summary. jackson hires a prostitute the night before meeting his target. only thing is, you’re not a prostitute— you’re an assassin hired to kill him. but he catches your eye, and instead, you keep him for yourself.

warnings. swearing, creampie, p in v, unprotected sex, slight housewife kink, kidnapping, drugging, pretty toxic relationship lmao, somnophilia, dubcon, hate-sex kinda, guns, choking, stockholm syndrome, cervix fucking, jackson gets a taste of his own medicine basically😭, SMUT UNDER THE CUT! 

word count. 6.1k

a/n. OKAY i know i said it was going into the direction of dom!reader but i got possessed and now,,, now we have this hate sex filth🫡

i. 

When Jackson comes to, the very first thing his mind registers in your perfume. It’s sweet and vanilla-y and entirely intoxicating, sending his mind whirling back to prehistoric days, childhood days, a vague mother figure he’d long forgotten about pressing sugar cookie dough onto a metal pan. 

Instead, as Jackson’s eyes fluttered open and adjusted to the bright, warm lamp-light curling around him and the various furniture in the room, he sees you, sitting in front of him on the floor. 

Your knees are pulled up and tucked under your chin, and it seems you’ve fallen asleep, your face peaceful and serene as soft inhales and exhales of breath leave you. 

You look like a pure angel, dolled up in a silk lace dress and neat bows so pristinely Jackson swore he could see a halo resting above your soft locks, but he knows you’re someone who can kill — has killed.

Jackson had been staying in a motel, readying himself to meet the target he was stalking the next day — some politico's daughter, y’know, perfect blackmail material — when you’d knocked on his door, dressed in a skanky skintight dress and garter belt, promising some fun for a flimsy fifty. 

Prostitution was illegal in this state, but Jackson had some money and time to kill — plus, if he didn’t get something now he’d probably fuck his target, which wasn’t really encouraged considering he could get attached, all that bullshit job professionalism. He wouldn’t, obviously, but his higher-ups didn’t think the same.

So he agreed; you looked stupid enough, and with that nice pair on you, those sweet curves, you were bound to be a good fuck. And you were definitely enough for him to handle— handle killing, he meant. It’d be easy: get you a little tipsy ‘cause it was his “kink” or some shit like that, kill you when you’re coming, dispose of your body, and meet the target in the morning. 

But then you’d kissed him, hungry and desperate and rough, and totally, completely, slipping the pill tucked under your tongue down his throat. 

Jackson realized immediately, his hands darting to the gun he had tucked in his belt, but you punched him in the stomach and the jaw before he could even undo the safety. And then he’d done it: he’d swallowed the drug, and the effects were instantaneous, the connection between his thoughts and his limbs losing focus, body sluggish like he was wading through water.

So suddenly had the situation had gone from him hiring a prostitute to getting fucking drugged by one, and he felt his composure slipping, the outrage burning in his lungs. Jackson thought himself to be a logical, well-thought out man who planned things to the tee, and this was not fucking following his plan. 

“What did you - do t’ me?!” He spat, voice growing slurred, bent over and clutching his stomach. 

“Mm,” you considered telling him, pursing your lips and watching him sway back and forth, “just a little something to calm you down. But, honey, I think you better sit down… it's not a mild drug.” 

“Answer my fucking—“ Jackson started caustically, then felt that familiar pins and needles sensation appear in his arms, then spread to his legs, before finally falling to the floor. 

“See?” You cooed, standing above him. You watched him struggle against the drug for a moment, before grinning and pulling him up off the floor onto the bed. 

Jackson listlessly fought your touch, slowly thrashing and kicking at you; his limbs may have grown numb, but his inhibitions had not lowered whatsoever, nor his paranoia. Good paranoia, in this situation, just not so good that it kicked in before you shoved a paralytic down his throat. 

You rolled your eyes, sitting down beside him and pushing his head onto your lap, digging your elbow into his chest to make him stay in place. 

Jackson choked at the pressure, blinking rapidly. “Who th- the -- fuck are you?” 

“I’m an assassin, honey. I’m gonna kill you — or, y’know, I’m supposed to kill you.” You beamed at him, “but I can’t do that, now can I? That’d be a waste of such a pretty face.”

Jackson’s brows knitted exasperatedly, mouth contorting to speak, but nothing came out. In fact, his mouth hadn’t been moving at all— his face had grown numb, now blankly staring up at you. 

“There we go,” you said happily. “The drug’s all kicked in now, hasn't it? I’ll speak freely, ‘cause y’can’t answer me anymore, not even scream or cry.”

You sighed, your shoulders slumping like you were finally able to fucking relax, and began petting his hair before continuing. “You’re a naughty one, aren’t you? Stalking that politician’s daughter… were you gonna fuck her? Threaten her dad, have some fun, then kill them both?” 

Jackson’s breathing grew more furious, eyes widening— or, they would’ve, if he could move. This was about his job, about the target, not just some fucking freak accident and a crazy prostitute. 

You frowned, shaking your head. “You’ve gotta do more research on the people you blackmail, honey— Mr. Politican’ll do anything to keep his little princess safe. Even murder.”

You then got up, and Jackson watched you pull something out of your tights, unable to respond or protest or even fucking move, frozen still on the cheap motel mattress.

“But like I said, you’re too cute to die like that. I think I’ll keep you for myself.” You winked, before pricking him in the neck with the needle that was hidden in your tights. 

His breath hitched, but there was no use: black quickly curled into the edges of his vision, and one second passed, then another, then he was out. 

That brought him back to now, waking up with his arms handcuffed behind him and his legs tied roughly to a wooden chair. He rustled, pulling against the cuffs as quietly as possible, gaze still obsessively trained on your every micro-movement.

But it didn't matter: your eyes opened the moment you’d heard his breath catch and stutter, and you got up lightly, dreamily, like you were some figment of Jackson’s imagination rather than a psychopathic kidnapping assassin. 

“Morning, honey,” you whispered, getting up off the floor, rubbing your eyes and yawning. But he didn’t respond, still pulling at his restraints, eyes thinned and focussed. 

“Are you mad at me?” You whined with a frown, circling around his chair and playfully covering his eyes. “I’ll make it up to you, don’t worry. I’ll buy some cute lingerie, give you a little show… do you like lace? Or maybe leather?”

Jackson’s nostrils flared, growing irate and incredulous at your antics, and he snapped. “Do you really think you can keep me here? Make me play fucking house with you?” He shouted groggily, body still feeling the aftereffects of not one, but two, drugs. 

You blinked numbly, hand finding his face, and you pressed his cheeks together, making him look up at you. “I won’t make you play house with me, Jackson. But it's the only thing you can do. You’re dead.” 

Your tone had gone cold, using his real name instead of your pet-one, expression going blank and completely unfeeling at his words. Then, you fumbled for something on the wooden vanity beside you two before lifting it up to his face. 

It read: TERRORIST GROUP LEADER’S REMAINS FOUND IN RED-EYE FLIGHT WRECK.

Jackson’s lips parted, feelings riddled half in shock and half in utter fury, gaze shaky as it flitted back and forth between you and the newspaper you were holding up. “I’m fucking—“

“Alive, I know. That’s kinda the point,” you finished his sentence with a chuckle, shaking your head like any of this was a joking matter. “When a plane goes down and catches fire, burning everybody, they won’t individually check who's who, honey. If there’s a name on the seat, there’s someone in it, and they’re dead… you’re as good as dead.”

Jackson’s eyebrows were still knit, but he suddenly stared straight ahead, listening to you silently and trying to make sure you were still too focussed on explaining theatrically to realize he was about to dislocate his thumb. 

He could deal with the stool later — he just needed to get his arms free and escape. What with your grating voice and the fucking pronunciation of death you’d forced upon him, god, his fury was rising quickly, and he wanted nothing more right now than to fucking kill you. 

You finished your explanation, peering deeply into his bright blue eyes, and you were about to wrap your arms around his neck and press him comfortingly to your chest when he successfully freed himself, and his hands shot out from behind him to strangle you. 

His fingers curled around your neck extremely easily, tightening and contracting around the thing snugly. Jackson was seeing red, the anger accumulated from every little insane fucking thing you did to him bursting. 

You struggled against him, your mouth opening and closing pitifully, leaning down into his grip— until your lips tilted upwards, a devilishly cheshire smile digging into your cheeks like it was an expression God never intended you to make. 

Jackson only realized you’d taken his gun away from him when he felt the tip of the barrel kiss his temple, cold and clammy. He was still disoriented, and didn’t exactly comprehend all the facts ‘till they fucking punched him in the face. Or, in this case, threatened to shoot him point blank. 

“L’mme - l’mme go, h’ney,” you whispered raspily, your eyes stuttering in their socket as he pressed deeper. Simultaneously, completely on instinct, you pressed the gun further into his skin.

“You’re too fucking weak to fire that gun,” he growled, digging his thumbs into the neat notch in the middle of your neck, his fingernails scratching bloody marks into your sensitive skin.

But you frowned weakly, and then Jackson heard that all familiar click, making him blanch. The strength in his hands didn’t falter, however— it got angrier, more desperate, like you wouldn’t automatically shoot him if he just translated his wrath into his grip.

“I d’nt- w’nna k-kill you,” you shook your head a bit, but both your threats remained the same: his hands making you go lightheaded, go blue, and the gun in yours making him sweat, the image of you splattering his brain against the wall clear as day. 

Jackson felt your finger twitch, and he closed his eyes, grip going tense then faltering completely: if you shot him now, there was no point holding on. But you did the same— you thought he’d snap your neck right then and there, so you pulled away.

Just as quickly as you two had attacked one another, your resolves’ had crumbled, murderous intent clearing the room like someone had opened a window and let it all out. Silence filled it back up instead, a steady tension permeating with it, and it was fucking suffocating. 

“What do you - want from me, exactly?” Jackson questioned first, several long moments later, words slow and collected. He’d try to calm himself and hide his anger away for later, because he now knew that you meant for him to meet only two ends here: forever with you, or forever dead— and neither were ends he was intending to have.

To escape, crawl under your nose and perhaps kill you along the way, he’d need to know the rules— play your little game. This cat and mouse mess could be done in a flash, and he fucking knew you had a weakness. He could feel it in your touch, how you gripped him, the lonely warble in your insane words. 

Sure, you kidnapped him and were calling him honey, treating him like he was your plaything, but Jackson had always been good at reading people, even before he’d become an amalgamated mess of an assassin, terrorist and blackmailer: you needed someone in your life— be it a husband or a hostage.

You got down on one knee, looking up at him through your wet lashes, breathing still ragged. One of your hands took his own dislocated one, while the other fished through your silk dress pockets, pulling out a gold band ring identical to the one gleaming prettily on your left hand. 

You didn’t answer his question saying for you to marry me or for you to love me— both things Jackson would expect you to say, especially with your oddly profound obsession with him (despite the fact he was positive you’d only known him for a few weeks at most.) No, you’d smiled, a lovely duchenne one, rosy-cheeked like a fucking schoolgirl confessing to her crush, not an assassin who’d kidnapped him, and said, “For you to be mine.” 

Your hand curled around his dislocated thumb and quickly snapped it, cruel and rough but perfectly back in place, before you slipped the ring onto his finger shakily, and brought his hand up to your lips to press a kiss to his knuckles. 

“You’re mine,” you repeated in a whisper, sounding every bit like a warning rather than a celebration. 

ii.

After a few days of living with— or, more accurately, being held captive by you, Jackson thought he had you all figured out. It usually only took a few days for him and a target to become acquainted anyway; mutual acquaintance or not.

He found that the warmer he treated you, the more freedom he’d have. Like, after you slipped the ring on his finger, you undid the ropes tying his legs. A reward, you’d said, for accepting your… unity. 

But you still switched out the clinky metal cuffs for zip ties. “I can’t have you doing that nifty little thumb trick anymore, can I?” you explained. “But I still want you to walk around. Take a tour of the rest of your life, honey.”

Then, you told him you had to go to work — to which Jackson rolled his eyes, considering assassination wasn’t exactly what he’d call work, though, he would also have to call himself a hypocrite — and left. Jackson wasn’t shy about roaming about the house, especially to look for a fucking escape, but he was firstly confronted with the sheer size of the place you’d locked him in. 

Where he’d first waken up was the master bedroom, long and wide with a king poster bed and canopy, a pair of couples vanities side by side, two walk-in closets and one large ensuite. The rest of the house was the same, being two stories tall and terribly extensive: Jackson ran out of fingers on his hands to count how many rooms were in it. 

By the time he’d combed through the entire house — discovering a measly two possible escape routes in the process — it was dark outside, and you entered through a front door Jackson couldn’t find for the fucking life of him. 

It was appalling, firstly how spontaneous and carefree you were whilst simultaneously thinking of everything that could go wrong, and secondly, how up to par your skills were to his. He wasn’t one to gloat, but he knew just as well as his coworkers that he was a large step above the rest— and it seemed you were, too, the only equal he’d encountered in his line of work… and the only person who’d bested him. 

“Honey, I’m home!” You sing-songed in the hallway, poking your head into each and every room for Jackson’s familiar form. 

Jackson had settled back in the master bedroom, sitting on the very chair you’d untied him from that morning, and when you finally found him you cooed. “Aw, baby, you don’t hafta’ stay here all day.” You said, lifting his chin to look up at you.

Jackson grit his teeth, his temper suddenly getting the best of him, and he spat at you. But the effect didn't work nearly as well as intended: you didn’t even wince, merely blinking and bringing two fingers to your cheek and wiping the slick off. You pouted at him for a second, made your eyes real big and pitiful, before kissing him on the cheek… and shoving your spit-slicked fingers into his mouth, making him gag. 

It looked like you were enjoying his suffering, before pulling away a moment later. “Well, no matter,” you said, brushing his actions off and regaining your happy mood. “I know you weren’t really here all day, honey.” 

Jackson’s lips parted, eyes thinning suspiciously. “What the fuck are you—“

You suddenly pulled out your phone, showing camera angles from all throughout the house… and more startlingly, previous footage of him, scouring the house’s windows and poking through the various furniture and rooms earlier in the day. “You are quite the curious cat.”

“You have a camera?” He asked indignantly. Honestly, he should’ve expected it: it’s like, what do you get when you have a captive itching to escape and an obsessive, head-over-heels captor with plenty of money on her hands? 

“Several,” you preened, “so don’t bother escaping.”

Then, you hooked your arm into his and dragged him to one of the (many, many) dining rooms.

“Now, I’ve never exactly had a hostage before,” you offered, pushing him into one of your cushy walnut dining chairs, “so I just realized you haven’t eaten. God, I’m so sorry, honey, you must be starving.”

With that, you ducked into the large kitchen a room away, and then returned holding a steaming plate of something, setting the dish down in front of him. “It’s not exactly, y’know, fine dining,” you said, picking up the spoon hidden in the food and scooping up some peas, “but it’s home-cooked. Not my home cooking, obviously, it is -- was, a target’s. I had a plate earlier, don’t worry, it’s good.”

Jackson stared at you, mind spinning with the information you were nonchalantly throwing at him: you were feeding him, your hand holding the cutlery, his mouth around it like he was fucking six, and the person who had made this food was dead, having had their throat slit or something. 

But there was another thing in Jackson’s mind, a tiny, weak voice within him that told him to just shut the hell up and eat the damn food. His survival instinct, probably, but then it went on to think that you weren’t that bad, feeding him and keeping him safe from the police in this nice, grand house— and Jackson squished the voice. No fucking way in hell was he experiencing early stage stockholm syndrome. 

At his reluctance, you frowned, and forced the spoonful in his mouth. “Eat,” you scolded, and fed him till the whole plate was finished. 

He ate, of course, not because of the little bitch voice in his head, but because of the fact that he actually was really fucking hungry. The gesture seemed to warm your heart, for some fucked up reason, and you later sat in the livingroom with him and loosened his zipties. 

There was a brief moment, however, that Jackson felt even an iota of fear: when his hands were slightly free, he immediately reached to grab you— he was taller, stronger, and could certainly defeat you in mere moments. 

But your sneaky fingers tightened his restraints at the drop of a hat, your head butting his jaw so he fell back on the couch. “Try anything,” you warned, tone suddenly dark, “and I will break your fucking wrist.”

At his tentative, jaw slightly dropped, shaky nod, a cold sweat beaming down from his temple, you dissolved into a fit of laughter at his expression and undid his ties once more. This time, your hand held his in an intimate death grip, thumb curled sweetly around the wrist, that warning still ringing in his head.

He was learning how to play the game, though. His captor’s behavior. What you liked, what you didn’t. The extent of your mercy. 

Jackson cleared his throat, searching for a question that might make you open up. “…What’s your name, anyway?” Yes, he didn’t even know your fucking name, and he doubted that the tacky prostitute name you’d given him initially was your real one. 

You looked up at him, surprised he’d speak first, nonetheless to know more about you. So, you indulged, and told him your name, things you liked, didn’t like, your hobbies… all normal people stuff— y’know, first date stuff. 

“I keep forgetting you don’t know a thing about me,” you confessed, leaning your head on his stiff figure, “‘cause I’ve known you for a very long time.”

Jackson’s breath hitched. “How so?” he said, trying not to give away his eagerness; he was going through all the steps he did when first meeting a target, like being kind and sweet, respectful and attentive, really buttering them up and coaxing information from them, before going in for the kill. In Jackson’s current case, the “kill” was a kiss. 

It’d be something chaste, nervous, like he was unwittingly slipping into your trap and couldn’t help the warmth bubbling within him toward you, so you would fall into his; hook, line, and sinker… and maybe completely undo his zipties. He’d have to lay low for a few days, obviously, and build up that obsessive trust of yours, before going in for the literal kill. 

But then again, Jackson, with that delirious little ego of his, kept forgetting your skills were up to par with his, and you were the first and only person to ever fucking best him. 

You grinned thinly, knowing exact what he was doing, noticed the pattern his words went in, trying to shepherd the conversation to get the answers he wanted, and you pulled away from him. “I’ll tell you another day, honey. M’gonna go to bed,” you whispered sleepily, redoing his zipties. “Join me. I don’t like it when you tire yourself out.”

And so you left, and Jackson watched your hips sway, legs carrying you down the long hallway into the master bedroom. As soon as you were out of direct view, he sucked in a sharp breath, seething angrily. 

Fuck, he thought, the realization of his predicament settling within in him at last. He’d always been told this: if you didn’t believe you could escape your situation within the first day, you would never escape at all. He thought it a silly mantra, because he’d always devised an escape plan after thinking on it for a few long moments. 

Never did he think he’d find himself in a situation where that actually fucking applied, never did he think he’d meet his equal, and never in his entire, terrorizing existence, did he think he’d be helpless.

But Jackson had to persevere. Had to. He had not survived every terrible incident thrown at him in his tired lifetime, just to accept this. And so, he went to bed with you, the zipties rubbing his pale skin raw, and he watched the shadows on the roof shift with every hour that passed. 

He did not sleep, certainly not with you by his side, and though it looked like it, you did not either. It was the paranoia of two terribly similar people; gaze dancing in the dark and never finding each others, waiting for the moment one of you snapped and you had to attack or defend. 

The next day, and the next day after that, he went to bed beside you. Just like that, turned into weeks turned into months turned into seasons changing, and the zipties became cloth became your hand holding his. 

It was a culmination of feigned loving, fake vulnerability, and pretending he’d gotten Stockholm syndrome that got him to this point. Every “honey, i’m home,” or kiss or hug or pet-name you stabbed into him, he returned with a “welcome home, honey”, a peck on the cheek, a hand holding yours, his venomous tone switched like a light into something sweet, soft. 

One night, with his newly ziptie-free arms wrapping around you, your back nestling sweetly against his torso, he has to remind himself that it is not real. None of it was real: he was not your husband, you were not his wife, you did not love each other, you were not normal fucking people— you were the captive and the captor. 

Jackson had to remind himself he didn’t actually love you, because that night he thought: if you used him, he would use you. He would take you whenever he wanted, like how you used him. A man has needs, he thought, and being trapped in this house with you meant those needs could be met. 

It reminded him of when you first met— not the kidnapping part, of course, but of the kissing and the touching, your tits pressing softly against his chest, his hands following the swell of your ass. 

With a start, he realized he’d had some kind of unintentional celibacy enacted upon him: he couldn’t fuck anyone other than you, obviously, having been trapped in that house, but he never entertained the idea of fucking you because he hated you. You don’t fuck the bitch you’re planning to kill any day now. 

But your warm body against his awoke something in him, his forced celibacy unable to survive against the pure lust he felt filling him now. You were beautiful, undeniably, with pliant thighs and delicate curves he could see himself getting between animalistically, roughly, a kind of morbid sexual revenge against your captivity of him. It helped entirely that this was the most vulnerable he’d seen you, completely without any weapons, curled warmly into his side. 

After studying your breathing for a few seconds, ensuring you were still asleep, Jackson carefully slipped away from you to kneel in front of you in the middle of the bed. He admired your night getup: those silk dresses you adored to wear at home, and absolutely no underwear. 

He then pried your soft thighs open slightly, dipping his head between them and losing himself in the sweet scent of your cunt, before chancing a stripe up to your clit. He flattened his tongue, wanting to collect your taste on it completely, and you merely sighed, turning over slightly and widening your legs in your sleep, like you somehow knew what he was doing and wanted it. 

He pressed his mouth up to your cunt fully now, his nose hitting your mound as he devoured you, tongue filling every crevice and fold you had like he was starving. Your small whimpers and breathy sighs grew louder now, more frequent, and then Jackson suddenly pulled away, satisfied with how he readied your hole.  

Jackson shimmed himself out of his boxer shorts, a pair with silly little hearts he’d never seriously buy for himself— you bought them, as soon as you’d captured him, clearly having fun with the utter control you could display on him, down to his fucking undergarments. 

He shook himself slightly, refocussing on the matter at hand: fucking into your glistening cunt. There was something oddly empowering about doing this to you when you couldn’t protest, regaining some control over his own fucking life by terrorizing yours. 

But he wasn’t sure you’d fucking care anyway: he knew you liked to peek around the corner when he was showering, “accidentally” walking in when he was in the middle of changing, not-so subtly bending down and pressing your ass to his crotch. 

He sighed slightly, rubbing his hand up and down on his hard length in the dark, before lining it up with your entrance. Jackson muffled the groan that curdled in his throat with his large hand, breathing shakily and finally pushing past your slick folds. You were soaking, and he didn’t know if it was because of his previous foreplay or if you were just naturally like this, all horny because he slept beside you at night. He wouldn’t put it past you if that was the case: your obsession with him was clear in every single way. 

You made a noise in your sleep, and Jackson froze, hands instinctively coming up to press lightly against your throat — an unconscious thing on his part, formed when his hands had been zip tied and the only thing he could do was choke you, unable to grip any weapon properly. But you didn’t wake up; your face merely screwed together, before smoothing out and returning to blissful unconsciousness. 

Jackson let out a sigh of pleasure and relief, your walls clenching around his pulsing cock. He gripped the sheets beside your head and began thrusting in and out of you: at first gently, afraid to wake you up, but as the minutes dripped past, Jackson grew desperate, fucking into your cunt roughly. He wanted to abuse your tight little pussy, stretch you wide open and take you for everything you had. 

“Fuck,” he grunted under his breath, snapping his hips harder against yours, “Fuck!” 

His exclamation of sexual satisfaction startled you awake, but he didn’t notice how your eyes moved behind your eyelids, too focussed on pounding his rock-hard cock into you. For all the insanity and behavioral issues God gave you, he certainly made up for it in the way he crafted your cunt: extremely warm and easily wet, a sticky hole that sucked him in but was still cramped, like it was begging him to force your walls open. 

“Honey?” you murmured foggily, wrapping your arms around his neck. You were about to speak again, when Jackson suddenly found your g-spot, and rammed continually into it, making a filthy mewl leave your lips. 

“Fuck, you woke up?” Jackson cursed, looking at you for the first time. His thrusts were unrelenting, though, now not caring if you’d woken up and just wanting to feel your hole squeeze around him again. 

“Jackson, I was - sleeping,” you squeaked out, hands moving to his back and digging your nails into the skin.

“That’s kinda the point,” Jackson mocked, tone sarcastic and peeved like you were interrupting him. “And don’t fucking fight it,” he warned angrily, hand leaving the mattress and roughly squeezing one of your tits through the fabric of your nightdress, “‘cause I’m not stopping ‘till I come.”

You pouted fake-sadly at his words, but your back arching gave you away, keening when he kneaded your tit too meanly and made a shock of pain run up your body. “Feels so good,” you grinned sweatily, but he just rolled his eyes.

“Shut up,” he sighed, throwing his head back, “didn’t fucking ask what you thought.” 

He pushed your face to the side so he was looking at your jaw, more content with treating you like just some hole, but you didn’t care: he, your darling, was fucking you. He wanted you so bad he fucked you when you weren’t even awake. God, you could’ve kissed him right then and there, but he probably would’ve hit you. (Not that you would mind… but you wanted your honey to take control, have it his way for a bit.)

Jackson rutted into you fast and selfish, your eyes rolling to the back of your head at the violent way he fucked you: your sick pleasure came at the expense of your weeping cunt, which was trembling in the stinging pain he was inflicting, cockhead stretching you wide. 

Then, Jackson’s hands slid down to your hips, so he could shove his cock deeper into your cunt, pressing his weight so heavily onto your chest you could barely breathe. He groaned; you were clearly affected by the action, bearing down on his cock suddenly, and he reveled in the ecstacy. 

He fucked you slightly and slower, and you only realized what he’d been doing when he leaned down to get a better angle, bullying the head of his cock against your cervix: he was trying to fuck into you further, push his dick so close, so snug against your womb that there was no doubt in hell his load would impregnate you. His actions were dictated not by any sense of reason, but by a crude, carnal desire, wanting nothing more but to make you scream. 

And you did scream alright, a breathy, brutal scream; a mix of whimpering pain at the way his head pushed against you, and of shameful, drooling pleasure, his delicious length making you feel fucking bloated, you were so full.

One of Jackson’s hands reached up to your head to pull your hair, making you whine at the pain of the tug, and he growled out a string of curse words, before thrusting his cock so angrily it was like a punishment, surely bruising your cervix, and releasing his thick load deep inside. His come flooded your cunt, pumping you full of his salty cream, fucking you still. 

Jackson then panted raggedly, feeling your gummy walls tense at the pain of him pulling out, flopping down beside you. “Does it hurt?” he asked you absently, pulling his boxer shorts back up to his hips. 

You bit your lip as you clenched your thighs together, whining slightly at the pain blooming deep within your abused cunt, and at the loss of pleasure— you hadn’t come after all, Jackson being entirely selfish in his fucking. “Uh-huh,” you murmured weakly, feeling the strength in your body leave you completely. “You’re a mean one, honey.”

“Good,” Jackson said, chuckling darkly. It was the first laugh you’d heard rumble out of him the entire time you’d held him captive, and you drank it in: it was pleasant and breezy, like cold water on a hot day. It was certainly out of place, such a gleeful laugh after savagely fucking you, but you welcomed it anyway. 

Jackson suddenly grabbed you by the waist, pulling you flush to his chest. “M’gonna use your hole whenever I want, and you’re gonna take my cock no matter what, ‘till you’re begging me to stop,” he growled in your ear, making goosebumps break out on your clammy skin. “Least you can do for fuckin’ kidnapping me, you psychotic bitch.”

“Oh,” you purred, batting your lashes up at him, “it’d be my pleasure to be your fucktoy.”

Jackson grinned, at you, for you, and you thought to yourself that kidnapping him was the best thing you ever fucking did. 

iii.

Somewhere, muddled between you kidnapping him, the two of you almost killing eachother, and him fucking you dumb, Jackson caved, and he started to believe he actually loved you. His mind didn’t have any qualms accepting that you were his new life— living in your house, only knowing you, and only ever talking to you. 

Maybe it was stockholm syndrome, or those delicious fantasies you’d whisper in his ear at night (“Y’know, honey, it’s really you who should be saying you’re home. What do you think, huh? You coming home from a long day of work to me, in my panties and an apron, no bra and a sweet, home-cooked meal on the table. Dessert’ll be, of course, me,”) or maybe it was just you.

You, despite your terrible job and seriously obvious insanity, being the epitome of fuckable: horny when he was, a talented, needy mouth, able to take anything he gave you to while always going back to being tight as fuck, and intensely eager to have him.

You, who controlled his life, and he, who controlled you. The way you treated each other was probably illegal somewhere, but in that house not even the fucking law mattered. (You still remember when Jackson got his gun back, and he teased your clit with the cold tip till you creamed down the barrel… a terribly memorable story that always made you groan.)

Jackson was extremely well aware that there was something strange about your relationship, and not just the fact it occurred in the strangest way possible, but that he was essentially giving up to you— losing his inhibitions, at least against you. Something about… putting his well being in your hands. His needs. His wants. His life. Spending the rest of his life with you; in this house, accepting life and no escape. 

But still, for a man like Jackson, who had long since accepted that he wasn’t cut out for a life of normalcy, a life of love, this certainly wasn’t a bad way of living. He had a house nicer than anything he’d ever lived in, didn’t have to work, could do whatever he wanted all day, and got to pound his cock into your perfect little pussy every single night. 

[peachesofteal]

Oh god - I’m still stuck on this.

18+ MDNI / explicit sex, dark and twisted themes

I've been thinking a lot about Simon Riley who doesn't want the divorce.

Simon who never wanted to be separated, who hates living apart. Simon, who would drag you to a tattoo artist to get your ring permanently inked to your skin so you could never be rid of him, if he could. He’s been actively avoiding the stack of papers that are waiting for his signature, staying on longer Ops, picking up extra work.

Can’t be divorced if there’s no signature.

Simon, who unbeknownst to you, still comes home. Still pushes open the back door in the dead of night, keeping his steps silent so he doesn't wake you. Simon, who stands in the doorway of your bedroom, his old bedroom, and watches you sleep on his side of the bed in those little, ratty shorts with your ass perked up in the air like you're waiting for him. Like you’re ripe, and ready.

Simon, who checks your birth control every night. Who’s pleased when he realizes this month’s pack hasn’t even been opened, every color coded pill still in place, foil glinting at him in the low light of the vanity.

Good girl, he thinks to himself, shutting your medicine cabinet with a silent click. Getting yourself all ready for him.

Simon, who agrees to meet you for dinner.

"Let's just sign and get it over with. We can catch up, too. Talk about what we want to do with the house."

"Alright, love. Whatever you want."

You're a bundle of nerves when he shows up, seated at a little table in the back, glass of wine already half gone.

Normally, he'd try to soothe you. You've always been naturally anxious, a little dependent, and in a social setting, a little high strung. He's well versed in navigating your emotions, calming you into a relaxed state with a few words or a reassuring touch.

But this time, he doesn't bother. He sits there with his arms crossed, watching you nervously chatter away, one hand flat on a manilla envelope. He stays quiet, letting you go on, watching your hands seek something to do, fingers finding your wine glass over and over.

You drink two glasses of wine before the entrees are served, dangerously close to your usual self imposed "three drink" limit.

One thing bleeds into another. You start to lean a little, in your chair. He nurses a bourbon, you order a shot after the meal.

"Want one?" Your tongue follows the seam of the lime wedge, dabbing along the spongy, white fibers before your teeth sink into the flesh of it, lime juice squirting across your tongue.

“You know I don’t like tequila, but you go on.”

You’re a bit sloppy by the time he gets you home, but still sweet like honey, like you used to be years ago. Before everything changed. Before you asked him to move out.

You’re giggly, excited when he bends you over the kitchen table, the kitchen table where you used to eat together, breakfast for dinner when he’d come home, waffles and bacon at one in the morning.

You don’t protest when he slides your skirt down your hips and over your ass, thumbs spreading you wide to reveal your glistening cunt, twitching and desperate.

“My poor girl, has it been so long?” He cooed, relishing in the way you moaned with your lips on the wood. He knows it has, knows you haven’t been with anyone since the last time he fucked you, months and months ago, on the night you asked for the divorce. “Don’t worry, I’m gon’ take care of you and this neglected little pussy.”

“You have to pull out.” You slurred, breath hot, fogging against the finish of the table. “Promise.” He grunts something under his breath, nonsense, but you can’t tell the difference, and when he slides inside your scorching cunt, you howl, breath hitching with the stretch.

Bleedin’ Christ. You’re so tight, so wet, soaked enough that it sticks to the curls around the base of his cock. How could he ever give this up?

“That’s it.” He kisses your shoulder, pressing his chest to your back with his weight, pinning you in place, his hands clamping down around your wrists like shackles. “Squeeze me tight, good girl. Show me-“ Show me how you’re going to hold my come in your tight little pussy once I fill you- comes to mind, but he bites his tongue instead, not willing to tip you off too soon.

To have and to hold.

“Simooon.” You sing, hips start to push back with him, fucking yourself onto his cock, chasing him, chasing your pleasure, mouth half open with the little pants and whines that are music to his ears. He keeps you pinned, flat against the table, fingers between your legs, stroking your clit, shoving you closer to your orgasm, delightfully pleased by the way your pussy pulses around him.

“Come on.” He urges, big hand between you and the table, pressing against your lower belly, still tapping away at your clit, indulging in the trembling of your legs.

“Fuck- fuck, Si.” You cry, clenching down around him with your orgasm, voice breaking.

“There it is… what a good girl.” He hisses, keeping his pace, pushing deeper and deeper until he’s notching himself nearly inside your womb. It’s overwhelming for you, he knows, but he doesn’t stop swirling his fingers around your clit, zapping electric pulses through body.

“Nngh Si. Too- ooh it’s- it’s too much.” You wail, a tear on your cheek, and he nods, nosing above your ear.

“You’re doing so good for me, so perfect.” It’s whispered with a groan, hands stroking your hip, keeping your steady, in place. “Just need a little more, just- just a little, I’m gonna-“

“What-” You ask, more with it now that you recognize the edge he’s riding, the roughness in his voice clueing you in to where he is, but he sends you back into orbit, pressing your clit and working you in circles. “Oh, oh.” Your hips rock, and he moves with the momentum, fucking into you faster, grunting the truth as he speeds towards the cliff, desperate to drive the car over the edge, eager to change the course of his life, your life, his marriage.

“Take it.” He spits, wide palm spread across your shoulder. Everything in him tightens, fire spreading through his veins, pressure rising in his body like a fucking tea kettle, about to scream out a whistle. He’s going to breed you, fuck you deep with his come and put a baby inside you, give you what you wanted years ago, the thing that made you cry alone in the middle of the night whenever he refused.

Well, he’s going to give it to you now.

“Fuck- here it comes.” You rock again, half lost to the world, eyes glazed over in pleasure, spasming around his cock with your second orgasm. He slams into you, burying deep and you keen, fingers gripping the edge of the table, his hips flush with yours like a lock.

And he’ll throw away the key.

His phone dings with a text, two days later.

“Still mad at you… Can we please meet up about these signatures?”

This became a full fic here.

[webslingingslasher]

You mentioned once or twice that frat!peter isnt as affectionate when his brothers are around so I was wonder if we could get a little something something about reader just stop being affectionate towards him in general because she didn’t mind initially since some people are just like that when it comes to pda but it’s just starting to feel to make her feel like he’s just repulsed by her ☹️

i imagine this is when they first start entering the situationship era. cause i think they were hooking up for a minute and then the lines started to blur and thats when this starts happening.

so let's say,

one night you're sitting next to him on the couch and peter's got his hand rubbing from your knee to inner thigh and back down while he's talking to you.

and when two of his frat brothers come around from the back of the couch, and one chooses to sit on the arm rest, the other on the coffee table across from him. peter's hand stops and he drops it back on his own leg. so, you try to reach out your hand to hold his but he brings his up to move his hat, obviously dodging your hold, so you got up for a drink and stayed away.

----------

the next time this happens was a morning after you spent the night, the house had gone out for breakfast and peter had made you and him breakfast, which was the first time he's ever done something like that.

you're on counter and he's got his waist slotted between your thighs with his hands up his your shirt while making out. peter pulls at the back of your knees and pulls you flush to him, subtly pulling your underwear down when the front door opens and you hear loud chatter and laughs.

peter flies backwards and turns his back completely, grabbing cups from the cabinet and pulling orange and apple juice from the fridge. he nods his head in a greeting when ethan walks in, "look who stayed the night," he gave you a fist bump.

peter holds up the juices and you point for the one in his left hand, "yup, couldn't get her to leave if i tried."

that makes you feel shitty, "no, you absolutely could. you could've said 'hey, you should go,' instead of 'let me make you breakfast and fuck you on the kitchen island.'"

tarrent's next in the kitchen, "bro, your chicks got buttcheeks on the counter."

peter places a hand on your lower back, "let's stop looking at my girls ass and let her get upstairs." he holds your arm as you jump down, tugging his shirt down to cover your bottom completely.

you speed up the steps, then call out, "i like my toast dark!" before you could hit the landing you heard ethan, "you so like her."

"gross, shut up, keznek."

------------------

the final time you arrived to a party late and searched around until you found him talking in a small huddle of his friends so you walked up with a happy grin and pushed yourself up to give him a kiss on the cheek.

"hi, handsome." the most subtle shift away, "hey," you watched him look around the room, "got any friends here?" that must mean he doesn't see himself as one, how rude.

if he doesn't want you acting like you know him outside of fucking that's fine with you. but he doesn't get to act one way around you and another around his friends, it's confusing and unfair.

"you know what, peter? you suck."

you hear his friends scoff and softly 'oo' when you walk off, peter calls out behind you, "what does that mean?" you wanted to turn around and tell him off, but you think giving him a taste of his own medicine is better.

so, you go straight to the kitchen to down three shots and grab a cup of whatever so you could jumpstart the peter hate train. it took a while, but you finally made him break away from his friend group when you'd been in an unbroken conversation with a random guy for ten minutes.

"hey, where you been?" a territorial arm is thrown around your waist, you brush his hand off and step to the side. "hey, i'll catch up with you in a minute."

and that makes peter want to explode. you're blowing him off for some random guy? some guy that's mostly no threat?"

"well-"

you gesture to the side with your head, "see you later, parker." and to stab him a little harder when he turns his back you shake your head and beam a smile, "sorry, he's kinda weird. what were you saying?"

but when you don't even find him after and wonder into the kitchen he's almost seething. peter walks up behind you and tugs at your arm, "hey, what the fuck was that?"

innocently, "what are you talking about?"

"well, let's see, trouble." he starts counting with his fingers, "you threw my arm off you, you blew me off, you cut me off, um, parker? then you said i was weird and you apologized on my behalf when i all was trying to do was talk to you."

you pout sarcastically, "oh, did i? i'm sorry, i just know how you are with me hanging all over you around your friends." peter dares look confused, "what do you mean?"

"oh!" you blink fast, "you hate it! so, i refuse to do it. and going forward, we'll keep the same energy, so no more hanging around after sex."

"no, what? why do you think i hate it? i mean, where's this coming from?" is... peter panicking a little?

"peter, you pull away and act like you don't know me everytime your friends come around. you act one way when we're alone and another when someone from the house comes around, it's unfair."

"it's not personal, trouble! if they figure out how much i like you i'll never hear the end of it."

"so... you're emotionally manipulating me because you don't want to be teased?"

when you put it like that it makes him feel terrible.

"no! yes? but not purposely. and hey, from now on, no more pulling away. even if i get roasted by every one. you have my word."

"i don't believe you."

that means prove it.

peter grabs your hips and lifts you to plop you on the counter next to the sink, he moved with such accuracy you yelp and rest your hand over his. before you could say anything ethan glides into the kitchen, unfazed by the sight.

"yo, parker, will you grab... and nevermind," just to prove a point, he kissed you while his best friend was mid question and watching.

[d0youc0py]

“Her and Soap would make a good couple, no?” Alejandro smirked, watching as you and the Scot took turns drowning each other in the pool.

“No they wouldn’t.” Ghost said quickly. A little too quick. Price chuckled knowing exactly what was running through his head.

“Why not? I don’t think I’ve seen Soap laugh so much and they seem pretty affectionate with each other.” Alejandro continued. It’s true, you and Soap were a bit touchy touchy but in a headlock and kick each other type of way.

“They’re friends- nothin’ more.” Ghost was growing annoyed of this conversation. He couldn’t blame Alejandro though. From outside eyes you and Soap could be seen as a good pair. Simon hated the thought of anyone thinking you were with anyone but him- yet he did almost nothing to make it seem like you were with him. Only the most observant people- such as Price- noticed the little things Ghost did for you. The way he always carried extra of your ammo in case you ran out. The way he always made extra of his breakfast for you to have some too. The way he would put up a fight when Price wanted to send you on a mission without him.

“I’d have to agree with Ghost on this one.” Captain sighed, standing up from his chair. He patted Ghost on the shoulder. “I’m gonna get started on lunch.”

“I’ll go with you!” Alejandro and Rudy were quick to stand up.

“What you don’t trust me?” Price raised a brow.

“Well I don’t know if you brits are very well known for you food.” Alejandro chuckled, wrapping an arm around Prices shoulder.

“You kiddin’? You know how many cooking show take place in England?”

Ghost sunk down in his seat and tugged at his balaclava. The heat was getting to him. Plus the way you, Soap and Gaz splashed around in the pool looked so refreshing.

“Hey Lieu?” You swam up to the side of the pool, resting your arms on the hot surface. “You sure you don’t want to come in the pool? I could use some back up in here.” God how he loved your smile. It was almost enough for him to rip his clothes off and hop in. It wasn’t that you hadn’t seen his face before. You were a jack of all trades- one of the trades being medicine. You had treated him for a head injury a while back and the way you accidentally called him handsome made it easy for him to take his mask off in front of you. It was the rest of him he was worried about. The bullet wounds on his abdomen. The burn mark across his chest. The deep angry scars all over his back- and all over him really. He wasn’t ready for you to know how fucked up he really was. He didn’t- couldn’t scare you off. So here he was. Sitting in a lawn chair, drinking a bourbon, in a pair of jeans and a grey t-shirt.

“Lieu?” You repeated. He knocked himself out of his trance.

“No, I’m alright.” He took another swig of his drink trying to drown out your pouty lip.

“Alright.” You sighed. “I was hoping we could’ve formed an alliance. I’m getting tired of Bubble Boy and his attitude!” You yelled the last part, causing Soap to shoot you in the head with a water gun.

“You’re just mad cause I’m winning!” Soap yelled.

“She’s kicking your arse.” Ghost shouted. His comment caused a whole new wave of competitiveness between you and the Scot- so much so that Gaz stepped out not wanting to get a black eye.

“I feel like we should be filming this.” Gaz chuckled, pulling out his phone. It was quite entertaining watching two highly trained soldier go after each other with water guns.

About an hour later Alejandro announced lunch.

“Thank god! I’m starving!” You groaned, pulling yourself out of the pool. Ghost suddenly decided the sky was much more interesting to look at than your dripping body. When he looked back down, he had to stop a groan from leaving his lips. There you were- wearing his shirt. His shirt. It was plain black- but had L.T Ghost printed on the back. His insides were swarming, and he barely had any time to process as you ran inside to start eating. He needed to stay there for a moment. He needed to calm down. He wasn’t use to this. Such little things completely throwing him off. He looked down, noticing how his bag and your bag were so close, that’s when he noticed another black clothing item. He grabbed it, holding it up. It was another entirely too big for you black shirt. The one that was probably suppose to be your cover up. So it was a mistake. You meant to grab yours but instead you grabbed his extra shirt. That helped ease the tension in his eyes. He should’ve known you were too good of a girl to be such a tease.

••••••••

The sun had finally started to set. All of you were still coming out of your food coma, and spread all over the house to digest. Times like this were your favorite. Eating delicious food. Hearing and sharing stories with your almost chosen family. Now here you were sprawled out on the tile, your feet dangling in the water as you stared at the pink sky.

“You against company?” Simon asked. You lifted your head to see him sticking his head out the door. You quickly shook your head, giving him a smile. He grabbed a chair and sat down next to you. He followed your gaze and looked up at the sky. Your eyes left the sky in favor of his jawline. He had taken off his mask to eat and couldn’t be bothered to put it back on.

Feeling your eyes on him he looked down to meet your gaze. The mask wasn’t able to hide his emotions anymore- not that you caught the obvious adoration across his face. Your eyes traced over the scar that extended from his cheekbone down to the corner of his lip. He watched you watch him- knowing exactly what you were looking at. Yet he didn’t feel insecure. You had a glint in your eye, it wasn’t judgement or pity. The closest thing he could compare it to was understanding. You didn’t feel sorry for him. You didn’t look at him with any disgust. You just admired it. Like people would a painting that they couldn’t quite understand but enjoyed the feeling it gave them nonetheless. You enjoyed the feelings he gave you. The security you felt with him. You knew instinctually that he would always be there. Guiding you. Watching you. Protecting you. Making your day better- even in the smallest ways. His scars were assurance of that. He’d always fight his way out to be there.

The look in your eyes made it possible for him to say something he’d wanted to all day.

“Wanna go for a swim?” He asked.

[luveline]

if you want, maybe roan is just like doodling around and stuff yk and she draws a typical like family pic but eddie notices that beside the both of them there’s another messily drawn figure and it’s the reader :( <3

HELL yeh ty baby ♡ fem!reader

Eddie's a good dad. Fuck anyone who thinks otherwise, he's good at this shit, and if Roan wants to go get burgers every Friday he's gonna take her. His daughter deserves the world.

Including greasy, messy quarter pounders from Benny's diner.

"What's that one?" Eddie asks, pointing over Roan's half eaten plate with his pinky finger at her drawing, the table between them covered in crayons from her open pencil case.

"This? This'a doggy," she says, like it's obvious and he's the worst.

"I knew that," — he did not know that — "I meant want kind of doggy."

"Oh. That's our dal-dalm-damnation!"

Eddie grins at the idea of a dalmatian named damnation. Fucking sweet. "Dalmatian, babe." He wipes his fingers in a napkin so he can lean over and pick sesame seeds out of her hair and off of her little sweater. "I thought you wanted a St. Bernard. The rescue dogs with the medicine around their neck, you remember?"

She points at the dalmatian's side where she's drawn a cross in red crayon. "He is a rescue dog."

Eddie hums appreciatively and picks up his burger again. But the time he's finished Roan has moved onto a clean page. She sits there tap tap tapping her crayon against the corner.

"What do I draw?" she asks.

Eddie grabs his napkin. "You didn't give me a look at the first one!" he exclaims, stacking her plate on top of his.

Roan struggles. Her sketchbook is a simple plain workbook from Bradley's with thin paper, but the size of it is still heavy in her small hands. She turns back to the page she'd just been decorating and brandishes it against her chest proudly.

"Holy sugar, that's awesome," he praises, and means it. "Is that Princess Peony?"

"The damnation is saving her," Roan says.

"I can see that."

He reaches under the table for his backpack. Inside, he carries around all the bare essentials necessary for successful kid outings — spare clothes, Teddy the pink bear with one ear, a hair brush, hair ties, her rain mac. And, the most important thing, wet wipes.

"Alright, c'mere. Let me wipe that face."

Despite contrary instruction, Eddie walks around to sit on her side of the booth. He does hands first, then crayons caught in the crossfire, then her face. She hates it, but when she was a baby she loathed it. He takes her scowl as an improvement.

"Why don't you draw... Maybe, a new family portrait? We can put it on the fridge like the first one. You can even include your damnation, if you like."

"He isn't real, dad."

"Just draw what's real, then. Can I trust you while I go get drinks?"

She makes a haughty little face that he takes for an eye roll and leaves to get drinks, though he's not really leaving. He's about ten feet away from her at all times and he keeps his eye on her.

He only looks away for what can't be ten seconds, and she's gone. His heart skips as his eyes scour the diner.

"Dad?"

Eddie flinches, his coke tipping over the side and down his hand. "Oh, sh- sugar," he says, kissing his fingers dry. "Babe, you scared me."

Roan stands at his knee with her drawing in hand. She wields it up at him insistently.

"That's for me? Swap?" he asks, offering her a small glass of juice.

Roan takes the juice in one hand. Eddie quickly takes her drawing so she can use both hands, watching the pride as she shuffles carefully back to the table. She doesn't spill a drop.

Eddie shakes out the drawing and sips his coke. The edges are ragged along the top where she's torn it free.

Front and centre is Roan. She's drawn herself with big long eyelashes and a full head of curls, total dad-win, in a huge cloud of pink he assumes is her very best princess dress. To her left is Eddie, same head of curls, long lashes amiss but a huge smile on his face, and to Eddie's left is Wayne. He looks especially dapper, a coffee mug in hand.

It's a great likeness.

And then there's you.

Your hair, your favourite shirt. Roan has drawn you with lovely eyes and a heart next to your smile, messy but so obviously you.

He beams like a fool as he sits down next to her again. She's already turned to a new page in her blook.

"Roan, this is amazing. And... That's Y/N."

"Duh," she says.

"Duh," he repeats, dumbfounded.

He wonders what he's supposed to say here. Telling her you aren't part of their family wouldn't be true. Telling her you are might set a precedent you aren't ready for. He worries it over for a while and takes despondent swings of coke, listening to Roan scribbling furiously beside him.

"Done!"

Eddie looks down. He gawks.

"Baby, is that..."

She points with her crayon enthusiastically. "Tada!"

"It's a castle," Eddie says carefully.

"That's where a princess gets married."

"And that's..."

"That's Y/N!"

There you are. Smiling, a bouquet of blue, red and yellow flowers on bright green stalks in hand. A prince stands beside you in a suit with a bright red scribble across his chest like a sash. The prince also has long, curly hair.

"Where are you?" he asks.

Roan points at a purple blob with black hair in the background. "I'm the flower girl."

Eddie throws his arm over her small shoulders and drops a firm, smacking kiss against her round cheek. "That's where you're wrong, bub. You'd be right next to me, my best girl."

She giggles infectiously at him, his words and breath tickling her face.

"Dad, don't be stupid. It's s'posed to be a man with you."

"Make an exception? Just this once it can be a girl. Pretty please?"

She smiles at him. It's a much older expression than she should have, like she's entertaining his fantasy, like he's the kid. "Okay, dad. I will be the best girl."

Later, when he tells you the story, you get super indignant. His stomach turns to a pit as he worries he's overstepped, but you say, "How is that fair? I want her to be my best girl."

"Maid of honour."

"What's the difference? You got her all this time completely by yourself, and you're not gonna share her on our wedding day?" Your voice drifts off as you dissapear into the bathroom, though he can hear you muttering, "Ridiculous."

He hides his electric blush with a pillow over his face. When you return, you climb half on his chest and force the pillow away to dot spearmint kisses against his pinked cheeks.

-

more eddie and roan (and reader!)

[serxinns]

LoveFever~

Older! Yandere class 1a x reader

Summary: In which you have a fever and your caring and overbearing amazing pro heroes help you feel better!

Inspiration: @lady-ashfade (check out her newest fic it's so cool!)

"Seems like the cold got worse fuck..." you lie in your bed staring at the client your body felt heavy and your body feels like an oven but your room was usually cold you weakly raised your arm to where you can see it and waved it around slowly and rubbed your eyes your forehead, Shirt and hair was covered in sweat you felt like shit honestly but that's you had a job to do and that was heroism!

You got up careful to not do it quickly to cause more dizziness and dragged yourself to the bathroom you usually hate cold showers but your body was so hot you just needed one so you took a shower, it was unpleasant and discomforting even but it lowered your fever a little bit (author here and I recommend you to not take a cold shower while you have a fever please it could make it worse thank you) you dragged yourself into your closet and got out the spider suit you struggled to get it on you almost fell but managed to get it on you didn't care to make lunch like you usually do you'll just have to suck it up or just find a nearby cafe on your break

You wobbly stumbled down the steps holding on to the rails for dear life until you reached the door where Sero was about to knock "Hey bud! Your 30 minutes and-woah are you okay?.." Sero stopped to look at you his eyes filled with concerned "I-Its nothing Just a *Cough* *Cough* Cold" you said struggling to hold back your coughs zero didn't believe anything at all "Darling you have a fever and you're not taking it well at all you need rest!" "No! im fine I promise it's just a cold that's making me a bit dizzy and sweaty no biggie I've dealt with much worse this is just a pinch now let's go" You tried walking passed Sero but he blocked your doorway not moving a inch with a serious look on his face

"Y/n you're sick very sick it's my day off anyway I can take care of you" "No im *Sneezing* Fine! No *Coughs* weak virus is gonna make me *Coughs* stay home" You broke into coughing fits and that was when Sero had enough "Yep that's it you staying home" he began as he picked you up burial style ignoring your protests he took off your hero costume and tossing it to the side where all you have left was a t-shirt and some shorts he gently laid you down on your bed pulling the covers over you "comfy?" "Fuck you"

During his stay sero has taken extra care of you making sure you take your medication (He had to force your mouth open to take the nasty medicine cause u wouldn't budge but don't worry he gave you water) whenever you feel like throwing up he quickly grabs either the trash can or carries you to the bathroom to throw up while gently rubbing your back and cooing you he hates to admit it but seeing you weak and helpless makes the heart race he wants to be the one to take care of you like this to comfort you when you have days like these and baby you he knows your a very strong and dependable hero but he can't help but wonder what how dependable you might be for him

That was until he heard banging at the door he snapped out of his thoughts and grumbled to himself "I'll be right back make sure to eat your soup" You stuck your tongue out and gave him the middle finger which he chuckled when he opened the door he could see Ochako, Kirishima, Denki, sato, Iida, Izuku, shoto, and momo all standing there "Uh can I help y-" "Wheres y/n!" hakagure cut off his sentence he could tell that she was glaring at him but he didn't care "they're fine we're just having a hang out at his house now will you excuse me they said they just want ME to hang out with him" sero lied with a stern and serious tone "Oh yeah then why can't we see them then?" Ochako glared at him not taking Sero's bullshit zero was about to tell her off until fits of coughs were heard across the room everyone quickly ran past Sero and uninvitedly went into your room

They saw you with a bunch of tissues on the bed and a you trying to eat the soup "uh hey guys when did you get here"

Cue the drama

"Sick?! why didn't you tell us you were sick?!" momo said feeling your forehead with her hand and getting out her thermometer while Ochako was trying to get in your bed to cuddle you to make you feel better Kirishima was trying to make you drink his protein shake saying "It helped you get more manly" while seek was trying to urge them out saying you don't need this iida in the other hand was trying to control everyone and trying to calm down the situation but it's just creates more yelling

Sato was in your kitchen making you a "get well fever" cake in your kitchen, while Izuku was trying to look up recipes and house remedies to help you get better shoto was giving you ice pack after ice pack reassuring you that you'll be ok in his care, everyone was all over the place bickering at each other about what where they doing was wrong and what they were doing was for the best of your health and you were just getting tired of this that was when the small bickering turned into a whole argument

"They need me to take care of them you don't know what you're doing!" momo yelled out in union

"What do you mean you're the one trying to hog them not letting us know that they're sick!" hakagure argued back

"Oh please like you could do anything I bet I could make y/n better less then a day!"

"like you could do any My protein tea mixed with protein powder could make them all better in a minute!" kiri butted in

"You all need to stop fighting your gonna make them have a headache" iida said with his chopping motion

"Yea so inviting yourself in was a good idea?" shoto said

"You did the exact same thing shoto" izuku said while looking so done with everyone's shit

The arguing soon was rising making your headache worse so you crawled under the covers and buried your head under the pillows while arguing sero was 1st noticed this and realized enough was enough so he sneaked into your room while the others were arguing and quietly shut the door and locked it "Mi amor..?" he quietly said and seconds later your head slowly sprout up your nose stuffed up and your hair was messier then ever you looked so tired and miserable it broke his heart

"Mi Amor I am so sorry I shouldn't have been arguing like this in the 1st place I promise im gonna fix this ok?" too tired to even protest that it was his fault as well you just wanted the yelling to stop so you slowly nodded your head and he softly smiled, you point to your dresser where the pain pills were at and got some tissues from the bathroom in your room you took the pills and helped you blow your nose soon enough the pill made you drowsy and knocked you out pretty quick sero ruffled your hair and went out the room to handle some business

"SH" Sero whispered harshly as everyone stopped what they were doing "While you were bickering and arguing about who's better I helped them get to sleep and they ordered me to tell you to get out only but me" Everyone gawked at the statement and tried to argue again but quickly shut their mouth only realizing that your sleeping in the other room "but we need to go check on them they need-" "They don't need anyone help mochiko you all "helped" enough now it's time for you to leave you're happy to give them a get well gift but that's it" "And what makes you think we'll leave," izuku said glaring at the dark-haired boy he only shrugged "How about we all settle this in a fight ONLY outside" sero's grin grew wider while the others look at him and at each other "Deal whoever wins gets to take care of y/n for the rest of the day" Momo grinned confidently that she'll be able to win your heart and affection

And now a bunch of pro heroes are fighting in your front yard and you just peacefully sleeping with your favorite plush ochako gifted you

Nobody won the fight because Bakugo was sent there to stop a commotion at your neighbor so he was already worried and ready to kill anyone who dared to mess with you but all he sees is a bunch of pro heroes fighting on your front lawn needless to say they all got scolded and was harshly sent home by bakugo and when he heard you were sick as well?! Oh hell No! How could those pests fight over something so stupid when poor little you are suffering from a weak virus when everyone was sent home he went into your house and made sure to take care of you the PROPER way he fixed you some tea his mom made when he was sick as a kid and some of his famous chicken soup and waited for you to wake you up while he sat by your bed

but you had other plans when you thought his lap was pillows so you lazily crawled yourself over and slept on them he was flushed he wanted to shout and insult you to get up but he suddenly had an evil grin on his face and decided to take a picture with you laying down on his lap his fingers tangled between your hair and decided to post it on a secret group chat they still used today for crazy sheingains and gushing about you and let's say they were all PISSED

everyone was hurling insults at Bakugo making him laugh mina was jealous that she wasn't there to see you and take care of you Denki and Kirishima were whining calling Bakugo unfair and mean when behind the screen both were glaring jealously at their phones jirou and tsuyu was bit sad she couldn't come but was secretly cropping the photo with your sleeping face as their new wallpaper

Bonus: when you woke up bakugo demanded you to eat his soup to make you feel better and you were now spammed by worried-obsessed fans and angry and jealous Pro Hero 1a spamming your phone

[verstappentime]

anyway here’s more maxiel divorce verse for anyone who’s a bit sad about today’s race. <3 (part 1 here, part 2 here)

“Stay,” Max says, rushed, before Charles can get anything else out.

“Okay,” Daniel says. He tries to clear the lump in his throat. He’s been waiting for Max to say that word, but this is as close as he’ll get, probably. “Tilt your head forward for me.” Max does; Daniel gingerly presses the ice where his head meets his neck.

Max hisses, reaching up to grab Daniel’s forearm. It’s been so long since Max initiated touch with him; Daniel forces himself not to jolt.

“I know, baby, I’m sorry.”

Max groans, gradually loosening his grip. “Can we do the bathtub thing?”

“The– Oh, yeah, sure. Charles, do you have a bath?”

“I feel like you are being the doctor and I am the nurse,” Charles says. He’s hovering closer than a second ago. “Yes, I do, is it for something weird?”

“It’s not for anything weird. Can you fill it up with hot water? As hot as it can get without burning.”

“Fine. But it’s for him.” It’s too dark for Daniel to see the look Charles is giving him. Just as well.

Daniel stays there, crouched beside Max, keeping the ice pressed to his neck. Max’s breaths are shallow, like he’s trying really hard not to wince, but he’s mostly failing. “The medicine is gonna help,” he says, just for something to say. In the dark, eyes closed, Max reaches around for his hand. Daniel links their fingers, squeezing hard. Max’s hand is clammy and he can’t get a good grip on Daniel, all weak and floppy. “Tell me what feels bad?”

Max turns his face into a couch cushion, making a tiny whining sound. “It’s– what do you say? The whole nine yards? I scared Charles with the throwing up.” He’s talking more, which is a good sign.

“It’s fine,” Daniel says. “He called me and I’m here now, so it’s fine.” He presses his thumb against where Max’s jaw meets his cheek. He’s so tense everywhere.

Charles comes back into the room. “The water’s in the bath. I’m saying again to not do anything weird.”

“We are going to do something so weird,” says Max. He groans as he swivels his legs around to stand up, pressing on his forehead. “Ah, fuck. Shit.” He grabs Daniel’s wrist, squeezing hard.

“Take it easy,” Daniel says, clearing his throat where it’s all thick. He hates this, he hates that Max hurts, that he’s still hurting, and he— he loves, sort of, that it’s him Max is reaching out for. It’s fucking twisted.

Max doesn’t ask to be helped, so Daniel doesn’t offer, just hovers as Max slowly pushes himself to stand up. But Max is unwieldy, swaying a little, and— and he grabs for Daniel again. Maybe it’s just because Daniel’s seen it all before, because he’s fed him and bathed him and sat with him in the middle of the night, but. He’s still being chosen. “Sorry,” Max says, like Daniel would ever want him to do anything else. “My eyes are not so good.”

“It’s fine. I have you.” I always will, I always fucking will.

Charles waves them through to his master bathroom. In the light, Daniel can see that Max’s left pupil is blown. He’s sweaty and he looks like shit, hair all messed up, but he’s Max, and he’s gorgeous. Daniel wants to hold him.

“Max, yell for me if he is doing anything weird to you,” Charles says, and ducks out of the room. Conceding.

“You could have told him we’re not getting naked.”

“I mean, I am taking my pants off,” Max says. “Can I hold on to you?”

Daniel nods slowly, feeling oddly like he should look away. He watches the ceiling as Max holds onto him for balance.

If Max notices him acting weird, he doesn’t say so. “You’ll get your pants wet,” he says instead.

Oh. Daniel glances to the door, where Charles is not. This isn’t what he expected when he woke up today, he thinks, as he’s stepping out of his jeans.

They sit on the edge of the tub, Daniel pressing the ice pack to Max’s neck. It’s an easy trick; get the circulation down into his lower body and away from his head.

“Charles could do this,” Daniel says, after a moment.

“I know,” Max says. He leans his head on Daniel’s shoulder, closing his eyes. He doesn’t say it, but Daniel knows it: I wanted you. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

“No.” Maybe he should have lied, or not answered so quickly.

“Good.” Max traces a circle on Daniel’s thigh, over the ship tattoo. “Charles thought I would be angry that you were coming. But I wasn’t.”

“No?”

“No. I was—relieved. I do not like being like that. And Charles is not good in emergencies.”

“You can always call me,” Daniel says. He pictures being at dinner with some girl, or a guy, and bolting because Max isn’t alright. He knows he would.

“I know,” Max says.

[lunememes]

🌙 * ― 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐓 ( a collection of sentence starters from season one of amazon's fallout show. feel free to adjust the wording and pronouns as needed! do not add to the list. )

❛  and in that respect, he could be a cannibal or just like, crammed full of tumours. ❜ ❛  flesh is weak but steel endures. ❜ ❛  unless you know what to find and preserve, you're more useful as a corpse. ❜ ❛  how do we know they're not feral? ❜ ❛  well what makes you think i give a good goddamn about that? ❜ ❛  well what the fuck would you know 'bout where i'm from? ❜ ❛  but for me, well, i do this shit for the love of the game. ❜ ❛  you come from a place of rules, of laws. this place is indifferent to all of that. ❜ ❛  question is, will you still want the same things when you have become a different animal altogether? ❜ ❛  you earn the suit through acts of bravery. this is an act of bravery. ❜ ❛  and i'm telling you you're gonna go through a whole lot worse if you stay 'round here. trust me. ❜ ❛  clean hair. nice teeth. and all ten fingers. must be nice. ❜ ❛  the vaults were nothing more than a hole in the ground for rich folks to hide in while the rest of the world burned. ❜ ❛  you know your kind ain't welcome here. ❜ ❛  you gotta be fucking kidding me. ❜ ❛  you'll be lucky if you can make it to fucking breakfast. ❜ ❛  i'm sorry for yellin', been shot in the leg. ❜ ❛  do you have anyone else you can trust in this town? ❜ ❛  do i really have to kill him? ❜ ❛  well, if you like the taste of lavender, why not just drink a bottle of perfume? ❜ ❛  that's the worst thing i've ever put in my mouth. that's horrible. ❜ ❛  do unto others as you would have done unto you. ❜ ❛  thou shalt get sidetracked by bullshit every goddamn time. ❜ ❛  water water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. ❜ ❛  where do you think you're going? you ain't going nowhere. ❜ ❛  there you are, you little killer. ❜ ❛  no! what a disgusting idea. i'm simply going to harvest your organs. ❜ ❛  i may end up looking like you, but i'll never be like you. ❜ ❛  i really wanna believe you but practically every person i've met up here has tried to kill me. ❜ ❛  listen, hey. you don't get this medicine, you're gonna pass out, okay? and if you lose consciousness, we're both gonna die. ❜ ❛  i've seen these in old engineering manuals but never in real life. ❜ ❛  now, seeing as everyone on earth seems to be after that thing, i'm guessing that's what you're looking for too? ❜ ❛  and you could've killed me when i collapsed back there and you didn't. ❜ ❛  i get that trust doesn't come easily up here. but you can trust me. ❜ ❛  i hate it up here. ❜ ❛  the things i'm willing to do for you never cease to amaze me. ❜ ❛  hey, hey, hey. come here. i'm sorry. i know you always try to do the right thing. that's what i love about you. ❜ ❛  trust doesn't come easily to those of us with a guilty conscience. ❜ ❛  in my experience, the apple tends not to fall too far from the tree. is that true in your case? ❜ ❛  these people are hiding something from us, and i'm gonna prove it to you, okay? ❜ ❛  there's always some new little faction, ain't there? brand new team of believers with their own dumbass ideas about how they gonna save the world. ❜ ❛  so what d'you think [name]? am i really walking out of here today, or are you gonna try and draw on me for what i did? ❜ ❛  a good bad guy doesn't see themselves as the bad guy. ❜ ❛  and yet power is taken, not given. a lesson you seem to have learned. ❜ ❛  war never changes. ❜ ❛  you look out at this wasteland, looks like chaos. but there's always somebody behind the wheel. and that's who i wanna talk to. ❜ ❛  maybe you can stop them. maybe you can't. maybe all you can do is try. ❜

[eris-snow]

𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐘𝐨𝐮

Tags: midoriya izuku x gn!reader,angst, breakup, swearing, ft bakugou,

It's been 4 months since your break up with Izuku, and you wish you could get over him. Lucky, you realised, if you could just erase everything from your head.

One word: Lucky.

Pretty pink ribbons and a flash of green. Rosy cheeks and laughter so sweet it chokes you.

Oh.

Your eyes lift to see Uravity greeting Deku with a smile that is brimming with such love that it makes you want to throw up. They're at it again.

The gifts and the bentos are bad enough, but the phone calls, the text messages, the team-ups.

It's everywhere like a plague with medicine; a virus with no vaccine-it's suffocating.

"Oh, Izuku," Uravity's soft voice breaks in, so innocent and perfectly surprised when Izuku brings out a bouquet of roses.

Third time this week but, hey, who's counting?

"These are lovely," She giggles, taking them and inhaling deeply. I'm not going to have enough vases for all the ones you're giving me."

"Then we should hit that florist Friday morning to get some more," Izuku replies easily, green eyes lighting up. "Your morning is free, right?"

"Sometimes I think you know my schedule better than me." Uravity teases. And oh, how vanilla it is to see the Number One flustered by his picture-perfect girlfriend.

You distinctly remember taking interview lessons when in U.A to evade paparazzi advances, but there's no training that can save Deku from being at the mercy of Uravity's words.

He bends his back over for everything with a pulse, but he bends furthest back for his girlfriend because that's who Deku is.

Lucky.

"Shortie?"

Vermillion red meets your blank stare, so you stare back. "Bakugou."

His searching eyes trace your gaze, and he pieces things together like it's elementary.

"It's been 4 months."

Since the breakup.

"You're still not over him-"

"I am."

Bakugou lets out a snort. "Yeah, real over him."

And in a flash, your fingers are grasping his collar and you're dragging his face closer to yours.

"I'm. Over. Him." You hiss.

You give him your most vacant stare, your steeliest tone. "I don't love him. I hate his face, his eyes, and his shitty, sunshine personality. His smile is the most hideous thing that I wish I could scrub from my memory and I hope I can blast my eardrums before I can hear his laughter for the nth time this week. Now for God's sake Katsuki Bakugou. Fuck off."

You hope that as you convince him, you'd gaslight yourself.

Bakugou's gaze is unwavering. No softening, no sympathy because hello, this is Katsuki Bakugou. Instead, he stares back unwaveringly, not backing down from your gaze. "Izuku misses you. He wants you back, as a friend."

Your grasp loosens on Bakugou's hero costume, and he adjusts it as he stands back at full height. "Get-together with Class A at the usual bar. Denki shot you a text, said you never replied."

You flop down on the seat of your tiny office, stationed right opposite Deku's.

You were one of the best heroes in the agency, and Deku recognised it. Fuck him, honestly.

"I'm not going." You reply.

"I'm going."

"I don't care."

"I'm knocking some fuckin' sense into you, alright, so dial back the sass." Bakugou growls. "My idiot friends care about you, so suck it up and let them care about you. It's been 4 damn months, so get a grip and move on. Stop trying to cut everything out of your life just because the nerd is there."

A twig snaps. A volcano erupts. Something happens, because your hands are numb and your laugh is bitter.

"They're your friends, Bakugou. I was just the plus-one, the lucky girlfriend, second to Deku. I'm not part of your little clique. I'm not part of your class. I was never meant to be there."

Your eyes cut through his gaze like knives, and if Katsuki looks hard enough, maybe he can see the harsh words are just a mask for your sorrow. A facade to block out the hurt and the isolation for not being the right person.

For being just another lesson, an ex, an outsider to their story.

Maybe, if he looks hard enough, he could see the pain building behind your eyes. "I'm not playing second fiddle to a guy who told me I wasn't enough. He wants to be friends? For such a thoughtful guy, he sure is dense."

Poisoned water in a desert, a peace offering of a patronising smile and victories shoved in front of your face. Haven't you suffered enough?

"Goodbye, Bakugou." You grit out, eyes ablaze. "And don't ever tell me how to run my life again."

The door slams shut, and Bakugou runs a hand through his hair. That breakup really did change you.

Because a little under 5 months ago, he still remembers the way your eyes lit up at Deku's name. The way your eyes would sparkle when you were asked about him, and you would say, honey-sweet.

"I love him. I love his face, his eyes, and his wonderful sunshine personality. His smile is the most beautiful thing in the world that I wish I could tattoo it in my memory and I hope I can keep making him happy so I can hear his laughter for the nth time this week. He's great, seriously. I'm the luckiest person in the world."

---

I was feeling toxic today. And hangry.

[tanadrin]

Imagine one day a new social trend starts spreading. It’s something unbelievably dumb. Not harmful per de, but truly silly to believe. Let’s say, I dunno, healing crystals start going mainstream. Everybody’s talking about their crystals. It becomes impolite to criticize people who believe in healing crystals. They become a big part of people’s personalities, and people on TV start talking about them, and one day years down the line politicians are debating funding for crystal-based medicine. And through it all you are sitting there going, what the fuck is happening. I thought we were all on the same page on this. You want to get along and be friendly and open minded but you cannot pretend to believe in healing crystals, this is nonsense, and when the topic comes up you refuse to lie about it. This eventually starts to have social consequences—they’re that popular!—but what can you do? You cannot pretend a lump of quartz can cure the flu or whatever. It’s just all so unbearably embarrassing.

I think what the centrist/liberal/center-left reactionary turn driven by culture war stuff feels like. And I think the key emotion is probably cringe. Not hate, not fear, though those emotions may reinforce the turn. I think in a lot of cases people who imagine themselves pretty open minded and flexible have as part of their worldview something they thought was bedrock social consensus—on the level of “healing crystals are silly woo”—so bedrock maybe that it didn’t even need to be a conceptual boundary they actually policed in their minds.

For instance, when she started her anti-trans turn, JK Rowling made a big show of not being really anti trans, just arguing that Some People Had Gone Too Far. She wasn’t a frothing religious reactionary, after all. And I believe that’s probably true! I think Rowling probably did have a mental model of sex and gender with a little bit of give in it—of the “we can humor the odd weirdo” type. But as the discussion of trans rights in the UK got more serious over her lifetime, trans people went from “the odd weirdo” to “a recognized minority,” and eventually this ran against a bedrock belief that on some level men are men and women are women and never the twain shall meet. To act otherwise was just too embarrassing. And she wasn’t going to embarrass herself in the name of political correctness.

Other people whose brains have been eaten by the anti-woke mind virus (as @eightyonekilograms calls it) have something going of the contrarian in them, who enjoys yelling “up yours, woke moralists!” or w/e. Im thinking of ppl like Glenn Greenwald here, or Dave Chapelle, people who seem not to feel alive except when people are mad at them. That’s a separate but interesting dynamic. And there are people like Graham Linehan who become totally unhinged through this process of auto-radicalization, moths drawn ever closer to a particular source of validation within their chosen reactionary subcommunity, until they are truly parodies of themselves. That is also an important dynamic, but it’s one that only takes hold after the initial turn has begun.

I think the role of that feeling of cringe, that refusal to entertain an idea because it is too embarrassing (even if it does actually have a decent body of research behind it, unlike crystals) is important to think about, because I am interested in how to get people over it. I know that feeling has affected my own thinking over my lifetime. I wasn’t raised particularly conservative, but I had to learn not to cringe at a lot of feminist thought before I could appreciate it and learn from it. I explicitly didn’t have that cringe when it came to gay people for whatever reason, so it never entered my mind that it might be a problem. I remember being surprised to learn when I was very young that some boys wanted to marry other boys, but my response was “huh. Go figure.” Because for whatever reason I had not picked up that this was something I was supposed to be grossed out by. A general doctrine of empathy, of trying to understand people on their own terms, can help forestall some of this stuff, but it’s not foolproof in either direction—I don’t want to believe crystals have healing powers if it becomes socially popular to do so, just because it is socially popular to do so! And if they do, I don’t want to not believe they do just because it is socially unpopular!

(Obviously the crystals thing is not a one to one metaphor for the trans thing, so don’t read too much into that. Maybe astrology would have been a better analogy. Also I’m not talking just about people whose reactionary turn is predicated on trans issues—I think this dynamic applies to everything from gay rights to the Tridentine Mass. But trans issues are a handy example bc, as the adage goes, somebody posts once about trans people and they never post anything normal again. I think the classic rapid-onset trans derangement syndrome is closely tied to the fact that gender norms are a really deep element of many people’s social-consensus-based worldview, and so challenged to that worldview are felt as really cringe.)

I’m curious if other people who grew more liberal in their thinking over time had a similar experience of having to overcome what was basically a feeling of embarrassment at certain ideas.

[shaisuki]

ADDICTION

|| the second entry for the series “𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐖𝐄 𝐃𝐎 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄”

content warnings ─── bonten! sanzu, murder, talks about torture, noncon, implied kidnapping, drugs , dark themes, yandere themes

ᝰ synopsis.ᐟ when colored pills doesn't give him the high he needed, sanzu finds a new addiction, it's better than ecstasies.

the gunshot seem to frighten you. i apologize for that. in line of my "business" it is my job to keep the empire mikey had built to flourish. these traitors are not the worth of the name bonten and those who are without use should perish.

it's also to serve a warning to you. never run away from me.

i have no intention of harming you, let alone scare you. it's only a reminder that you can never escape from me, even you run to the ends of the world, i will follow you.

shed the blood of those who dares to look at you. serve their head in a platter. cut every finger who dares to lay their hands on you. rip their limbs apart one by one and not even death could escape their fate from my hands.

why are you crying? you don't like that? silly girl. it's a punishment for them who can't understand that you belong to me. what? can you repeat that? you don't want me nor anything of this?

you got no choice. you've bewitched me. got me high of my feelings that i didn't know i was capable of doing so. you've made me addicted to the sensation of your skin in mine. your voice like bells in my ears. no drugs could make me feel like the way you do.

you're the most potent drug that i could take. intoxicating me with your light that flows in my veins and gives me euphoria reaching in my brain. you're the medicine in my pain.

sometimes you're also the cause of the aches in my body. you never really learn do you? what got you shaking? the body drops as i pull the trigger on his head. blood pooling at those empty head of this incompetent fool to never let you out of sight when i'm dealing with mikey.

this is a warning. don't test me. although, i vowed myself to never harm you—you need to be taught a lesson. nobody messes with me, no one.

ssh. don't cry. this is all your fault. you're going to take whatever i give to you. fuck! i might lose control of myself whenever those tiny whimpers leave your mouth as i pressed my lips to your heated skin. be a good girl. all i want for you is to submit to me.

tears won't work on me darling, i've seen plenty of it. from the men who for me to spare their useless lives with a gun in my hand. it would be no different to you. you're mine to begin with. i own you.

a blissful sigh escaping from my lips as i inhale your scent. such beautiful hair you have. such bounty you have for yourself and it's mine to exploit.

the straps of your nightgown falling down to your round shoulders the more my lips move to feel of your skin. this would be your life with me as i clothe you with the most luxurious clothes i can provide for you. money ain't a problem for me. i have lots of them.

your body trembles as i touch you. i won't harm you, i told you. think of this as a lesson while you think of escaping me again. there's no escape in my grasps. as much i hate to force you, this is your punishment for making me angry. if you weren't my precious little things—i would have killed you.

we won't like that don't we? stay still. it would be easy for me to take you or else it would hurt. never been a problem for me to put down people like you.

that's it. you weren't that stubborn when i'm putting you in your place. that's right. the sight of you sinking in the sheets with your hands gripping the sheet while you brace yourself for me to take you. your plump ass raised to serve me.

eyes rolling as i sink to your warm pussy. engulfing me in such warmth that got me hooked, wishing forever to be inside you and now we are as one. connected to fulfill our desires and to feed my addiction.

i hope you learned your lesson with this one or else i'll be doing it until it get through your thick skin. i won't get tired of it nor will i ever stop.

this is what addiction to you feels like. a neverending rush of euphoria.