#I have more walls than you even know!!!! No one will never know the real me because I'm so traumatized that I don't even know!!!

[rafecameronsversion]

bright beverly hills || r.c

summary : kooks bully you at a party, and rafe reassures you.

warnings : bullying, discrimination, cursing, use of y/n, feminine descriptions.

i'm unsure if this is any good 🥸 i feel like i rushed it a lot. but hope u likey

rafe and i were two sides of the same coin, opposite but inseparable. he grew up in a silver spoon gated community, everything was served to him in a silver platter. a bubble-wrapped future, footsteps for him ready to follow.

while i was having candle-lit dinners at the cut, he had them in fancy michelin star restaurants. rafe had a cold exterior when it came to other people; to protect himself. however, when it came to me, he was the most caring boy.

clandestine meetings at the age of 12, his father would berate him for hanging out with a "pogue" like me, but he couldn't let him take away the one thing that brought him peace. we were best friends, eventually becoming more with lingering touches and longing glances.

he became a honorable part of my humble family, sometimes being invited over to our most simple of dinners, dancing in the living room late night swims in the beach.

it was friday night in outer banks, a party in full swing. this house belonged to topper. i was clinging to rafe's arm, feeling out of place. the tension in the air was palpable. i had debated that i didn't want to go here, knowing i would feel singled out and small.

this place yelled every single thing that was different between us two. the glistening chandeliers, polished floors, and snobby laughs coming from kooks who have never worked a day in their lives.

rafe smiles, looking at me. "i'll grab us some drinks real quick, alright baby?" he spoke, a gentle tone in his voice that was reserved only for me. i hesitated, not wanting to be left alone in this damned place. but i nodded, i couldn't be the one to hold him back, especially in his world. glamorous, shining, bright beverly hills.

he turned around, getting lost in the crowd of super rich kids. i stood in a less crowded corner, trying to attract the least attention, and it seemed to have worked.

three girls nearby were whispering among the other, yet they were louder than they realized.

"could you believe rafe cameron brought that girl here?" the blonde one scoffed, jealously reeked out of her mouth. the other two agreed, chiming in.

"must be hard living on the cut, always desperate to climb their way out." another one insinuated. i couldn't help but scoff at the idea, my heart was heavy and i couldn't bare being here. the bimbo chimed in, a confused look on her face.

"you really think she slept her way to be his girlfriend? i don't think even cameron would allow that..." she spoke, eyes wide. the blone one rolled her eyes. "well, even the richest men can still think with their dicks, jessica." she was an absolute mean girl, and her tone displayed it perfectly.

i felt like the walls were moving in on me, it was all too much. this place was too much. i quietly turned away, going outside by the porch where no one seemed to stay. i breathed in the fresh air, fidgeting.

soon after, rafe had found where i was. he looked at me fondly, a soft smile on his face. "hey... there you are. i thought i lost you in there." he said, rubbing his hand over my shoulder. i exhaled sharply.

"why am i here, rafe?" i questioned, my voice was low as i stood against the railing of the front porch of toppers' home, that was as big as the living room of my family's house. rafe looked at me confused.

"what do you mean, baby?" he asked, a soft and confused look in his eyes.

i laughed out a scoff, a bitter tone. "i don't belong here, rafe. your world... this mansion, these people." i paused, unsure how to continue. "i grew up on the cut, these people do nothing but look down at us. i can't be here rafe, i can't be in this world."

rafe's jaw tightened, looking away for a second before looking back at me. "you know that's not fair" he spoke, his voice on the edge.

"what's not fair is you pushing to bring me here! i don't have any of the things the girls here have. you'd be better off with someone from your world..." i spoke, my voice breaking a little from frustration.

rafe's eyes softened, he moved closer toward me. "baby..."

"don't you see how different we are? your world is all polished floors and bright chandeliers. mine is messy and chaotic." i spoke softly, afraid my voice will betray me.

he reached out, grabbing both hands and bringing them closer to him. "listen, i didn't bring you here to make you feel small. i don't want these girls, they can all go fuck themselves! i love you, and i love that we're different." he spoke softly, kissing the knuckles of my hands.

"none of this matters to me, baby. it doesn't mean anything if i don't have you." rafe spoke, his blue eyes warm.

i searched his face, looking into his eyes. i want to believe him yet doubt lingered in the back of my head. "you say that now..."

"but what happens when your friends remind you of who i am? when your dad tells you i'm not good enough." my voice was below a whisper, afraid of the possibilities of this relationship we had.

rafe held me by my shoulders, "i don't care. i'm done caring what they think. i want you, and the messy and chaotic world you've shown me." he said, leaning in and kissing my forehead.

"i don't need this world. i want the one where you showed me it's okay to be real, that it's okay to feel." he says softly, looking deeply into my eyes.

the way he looked at me so gently, so genuine. i felt as if i could cry. i attacked him in a hug, my arms wrapped around his torso.

"its just... those girls get under my skin. kept talking about how i slept my way out of the cut." i admitted quietly, my head still against his chest.

rafe shakes his head, hugging me back. "never ever let them get to you. they're just pissed." he pulled back to look at me, smiling. he pressed his lips onto mine, for a short and delicate kiss. "how about we just get out of here?" he said, a cheeky smile on his face.

i laughed, nodding my head yes. "i'd like that so much. please." he grinned, putting my hand in his as he guided us out of this place.

[m00nchildwrites]

Random headcanons I have of the LADS guys:

I hope you guys enjoy this little head cannon post that I have about the guys. I'm going to put it under a read more just because it's quite long. It is no triggering content or adult content. All fluff all feels.

Enjoy.

Sylus:

Keeps journals. He has bookcases upon bookcases, filled with journals. All of them are leatherbound, but none of them match. Varying sizes and thicknesses various dark colors from maroon to dark green to black to golden and everything in between. All handwritten, all cursive with expensive ink dipped pens.

He also writes poetry that tends to be more prosy. Each of the poems are about you in some way, whether it's a memory or something about you that he misses or fears about the memories of you fading.

When he meets you again, the poems become hopeful and longing and eventually evolve back into love poems

Kioso tens to write song lyrics and unfortunately has performed one or two for you.

Yes, it's the thought that counts, but the poor man can't carry a tune. Still, the words are so sweet that you end up tearing up anyways.

And no matter how poorly he sings, you will never turn down him reading one of his poems to you or yes, even singing one of the songs that he wrote.

Zayne:

I see Zayne also as someone who keeps journals. Although his are different than Sylas'.

All of Zane's journals are on a singular, large, wall-to-wall bookshelf in his Home Office. All are perfectly identical. Each is sleek, a leatherbound, and either black or dark gray. Think like a moleskin journal, and if you weren't him, you wouldn't know which one is which, but he knows exactly which one is which, for he keeps them in chronological order.

Each of the pages is handwritten by pen in his slightly slanted, messy but legible doctor's handwriting.

Each starting from the first one on the top shelf details, everything that he can remember about 1 of yours and his pass lives together.

And rather, morbidly an excruciating detail heed. He writes out exactly how you died in the events leading up to and afterwards.

You might wonder why in the world does he do this? It's because he is studying every instance that went wrong and trying to find a loophole in a way out of the the curse that Astra has places upon you both.

In these journals, your name is never mentioned, and they are written out like case notes from his patients. So whenever you do stumble upon them, write them off. As simply him keeping detailed case notes of patient's life and death, since all of the deaths have to do with something with the heart or heart trauma, our heart disease or our heart failure of some kind.

It is not until either you regain your memories or zayn. Finally tells you about your past lives and his that you also learn the true story about the journals. Until then, they are simply a collection of case studies in his home office.

Rafayel:

Rafael has no need for journals because his memories he brings to life through his paintings.

Let's be honest.He also doesn't have the patience to sit down and fill up a bunch of journals. Not because his hyperactive persona is true, but because if he allows himself to sit still long. Enough with his thoughts, he gets real dark, real quick. This man wears a mask for the world, but also for himself.

That said he does sing.

Shocker, right? He's a mermaid or a siren or both. However, I have the head cannon that he can switch the siren thing on and off. And so is fully capable of simply singing, however, for him, because he is Lemurian, his "simple singing" is etherealy gorgeous.

Because of this, he only does it in the privacy of his own home when no one is around, except for that short little stint, that he had as an opera singer. But of course, that was for darker purposes and not for enjoyment.

He sings songs that he has written about you. All of them are in ancient tongues, long since passed and faded away to time. And all of them from the different lifetimes that he met you in.

Some songs he sings when he's feeling especially heartbroken and caught up in memories of the past, or overwhelmed with his feelings for you, and those songs are sung in his native tongue- Lemurian.

At first, whenever he is painting or in the zone, doing something and drifting off into a daydream, he hums around you.

Eventually, however, as he allows himself to trust that you're not going anywhere this time and uh relaxes his guard. Enough to allow himself to fall for you again and let you in. Eventually, one night when it's just the 2 of you and the windows are open and the ocean breeze is billowing the sheer, white curtains of his livingroom, the tune He's humming to you, as you lean back against his chest slowly begins to have words.

You don't know the words that he sang, they feel ancient.

But you feel the emotion in the words and by the end of it, you have tears running down your face and the overwhelming urge to hold him tightly and never let him go

The second time he sings for you is less heartbreaking and more warmth and an overwhelming feeling of love.

On days when it's just the two of you, he will sing just for you.

Xavier:

Xavier does not keep journals. However, he did enjoy his captain logs on his ship. And so that is a habit that he has kept with him.

Every once in a while, he will go back to a ship and and enter a new captain's log. All of it has to do with information about you and him trying to find a way to save you from the eventual Fate that awaits in the future on planet Philos.

Periodically a poem will also make an appearance one that he read in a book that stood out to him and reminded him of you.

Sometimes, before you two get close, he'd go to the ship and listen to his pass logs. And remember the you he left behind on that dying planet.

Xavier also sings, and he actually sings quite well for a human. So well, in fact, that one time karaoke with the hunters association, an agency attempted to scout him. (I picture his voice like Keshi- soft spot. If you haven't heard it, listen to it.)

This hidden talent comes as surprise to you. The first time that you hear him, add that karaoke event.

Of course. You knew that he enjoyed music because you often caught him humming when he was doing things around the house or helping you chop vegetables whenever y'all cook together. There was also his record collection that was a dead giveaway. As well.

He doesn't write songs for you, but he will sing songs to you. That make him think of you at first, it's subtle and without him really letting you know, but that's what he's doing. Perhaps you think the 2 of you are just playing around and both of you are singing songs that come on the radio. But eventually, as you get closer, it becomes clear, but it's not by chance- the songs that he picks to sing.

Your favorite is when he sings to you softly. As you rock back-and-forth, slow dancing in your apartment or his or on the balcony, the location doesn't matter.

Somehow, some way swaying softly to the sound of his voice feels like coming home after a long, long journey.

He does also occasionally read to you a poem.

And sometimes you find out the poem, he said aloud to you was actually written by him, and eventually you learn that they were all about you.

[cinnaleaf]

For the Racists Hiding in Anon: Log Off or Step the Fuck Up

Let’s have a chat!!! Because some of you seem to need a very CLEAR and LOUD wake up call about the way you conduct yourselves in fandoms.

Quite frankly, the racism running rampant in fandom spaces is disgusting and embarrassing. We shouldn’t have to keep circling back on this topic just because people insist on showing how truly uneducated and bigoted they are.

To the racists hiding behind anonymous accounts to send racist messages to others..I find you to be absolutely simpleton and pathetic. You’re not clever, funny, or even giving the read you think you are – so I’ll do you one better 😇 I think you’re a parroting bird that loves to hear yourselves chirp. You would never do this in public because you know the consequences it has. So why are y’all so suddenly bold online?? Your anonymity on the internet will not save you from being a pea brained buzzard hiding behind a screen. It only proves you lack the educational substance to inform yourselves of biases and at the very least correct it – it’s really the least you could do, seeing as black people live rent free in your mind.

Secondly, Trent is a black man. He’s not some token for you to project your racist fantasies onto. Regardless of his antics, this man has black ancestors, family members, and friends who are black. Thinking you can simultaneously froth and feen over him, read my fics, and send microaggressions and blatant racist hatred to other black women in this space is pure cognitive dissonance. Trent doesn’t want you. He never will. Even if you do feel that you fit his publicly conceived ‘preferences’. He’d take one look at your vitriol and be just as disgusted as we are. Sit with that and ponder.

I started writing fics because I wanted to create stories that are fun, reflect my experiences, and to connect with like minded people in the football space. My blog will ALWAYS be a safe space for black people, queer people, disabled people, women, and anyone else who understands what it means to be marginalized. If you cannot handle that, if my existence (and others) somehow offends you – this space is not for you. I don’t want you reading my fics. I don’t want you lurking on my blog. I don’t want you interacting with other black bloggers and people of color. And I definitely don’t want you bringing your racism into a fandom space that’s meant to be a fun refuge for people like me.

Your microaggressions don’t move me. Your overt racism doesn’t scare me. All it does is prove that your ignorance is a vast wasteland – you should honestly be embarrassed by that. And to be real, I refuse to make this space a comfortable place for you. If you want a space to spew your nonsense, find it elsewhere (where you’ll probably be banned) because it won’t be here. You’re not welcome here and I’ll brick the wall you try to crash into every time you attempt to make this an unsafe space for others. Maybe then you’ll understand what your hostility feels like when you dish it to others. 

And to anyone who’s been on the receiving end of this bullshit – your frustrations and exhaustions are 100% valid. This corner of the internet belongs to you just as much as anyone else, and you should feel free to make it safe for yourself in whatever you deem fitting. I don’t want anyone holding their breath before scrolling because of these people. Do not allow them to poison your safe space with utter nonsense, it’s YOURS.

I have only been active here for a few months after lurking for years, but in that short time I’ve connected with some really amazing people over these blood pressure inducing games, silly men, and just life in general. That’s what this space was meant for and I refuse to let anyone take that away from us. If you feel like this space has become more stress than it’s worth, I totally understand and would suggest taking a break if you need to, but your presence and perspectives will always be welcome to me and many other like minded individuals who aren’t smooth brained.

Anyway, I say all this to say I will not let someone else’s hatred exist here and I’m actively working on making sure these people are weeded out entirely. Make them uncomfortable, they deserve it.

If this bothers you racists in anyway, step the fuck up without anon being on so I can really give you the read you so desperately deserve.

x

[thebaldursmouthgazette]

I think it’s really weird that so many people are interpreting leaving the veil up as “keeping the status quo” and therefore bad.

First of all there are some “status quos” worth keeping. For example, medical personnel washing their hands to avoid infecting their patients is currently the status quo in most of the world. We don’t want to get rid of that, because then more people will die for absolutely no reason. Destruction for the sake of destruction is not a good approach, and just because something is currently the way the world works does not make it bad.

The veil was bad and destructive (to the status quo in fact! But also like, the world in general) when it went up, but that was several thousand years ago. And during those several thousand years, the world adapted to its presence. Mortal society and spirit society both adapted to its presence, and both would be destroyed by it coming down. And to what end? A world that is different, but no better, than it was before. There is no real benefit to the destruction of the modern world, the biggest benefit is that it will ease Solas’ conscience that he has undone something he regrets (and only at the cost of lives he doesn’t consider real or of consequence)

But secondly we aren’t keeping the status quo, we’re destroying it. You are all just focusing on the wrong status quo.

When speaking to Mythals fragment she speaks from the perspective of a god, conversing with foolish mortals who are “a thousand years from knowing the proper words” to describe what Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain are doing. If you tell her the people of Thedas do not need gods she calls you “a petulant child who complains that your room does not have enough pretty toys” and tells you “you’ve no idea how many monsters lurk outside the walls of the house your parents created to keep you safe”. She says something similar if you deny her godhood as an elf.

Elgar’nan names himself the “world’s creator” and claims that he was trying to restore glory, casting the mortals of Thedas once again as foolish children, incapable of making decisions for themselves, needing him to guide them so they could blossom and thrive.

Solas too, has acted since inquisition like he is far wiser and more knowledgeable than all the mortals he encounters. He does not even truly consider them people. While he does not claim the title of god himself, he certainly holds himself like one, and treats mortals as foolish children all the same. This is reflected in his first ever words to Rook: “you have no idea what you have done” in a disembodied voice, echoing with power around the fade prison. He knows best. All who oppose him just don’t have the capability to understand. They’re just mortals, you see.

Before the final battle Viago declares that “Thedas will be free”. It’s a riff on his “the crows rule Antiva and Treviso will be free” slogan, designed as a direct response to the daily announcement by the occupying antaam in Treviso that "the Antaam will rule Antiva, and Treviso will learn to kneel."

But free of what? What statement of freedom is being made on this day? It is freedom from the “gods”. Freedom from the machinations of people who have put themselves in a position of godhood, and declared that they should govern the world because the mortals are foolish children who do not understand enough to make their own decisions.

The veil never needed to come down. That is something Solas decided was necessary. And he ignored every mortal trying to convince him otherwise because he decided he knew better. These mortals did not need to be listened to. They are tiny children, incapable of understanding his actions and the reasons for them.

With the deaths of Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain, and the banishment of Solas, Thedas has declared itself to not need gods. The people of Thedas are not foolish children incapable of understanding. They’re not going to calmly place their head on the chopping block, trusting that it’s okay because Solas knows best and sure it looks to them like they’ll all die horribly, but they’re just naive children who do not understand as Solas does. They have said no, we do not need you. We do not want you. We do not think you are our betters. You are not gods, and you are certainly not our gods.

We’ve not maintained the status quo, we’ve demolished it. We’ve gone up to the people claiming godlike superiority and told them to go fuck themselves, they’re no better than us.

But I think some of you aren’t seeing this because you believed Solas when he told you he knew best.

[hellojusthereforabit-blog]

Past Lives Pt. 1.5 - Bucky Barnes.

Ft. Sam Wilson, Peter Parker, and Natasha Romanoff.

"I can't do this, doll, I'm sorry."

"You with me, Y/N?" Sam bended to be eye-level with me.

"What?" I asked, brows furrowing in what I'm sure is a developing wrinkle.

Sam sighed, shaking his head and moving back to the drawing board, where an intricate capture-seize-and-return-to-current-time-line plan was etched.

There's no excuse. I was slipping. I was being unreliable. I could not be trusted with this mission.

"Can I trust you with this mission, Y/N?" Sam's voice was grave, devoid of its usual playful warmth.

No. "Yes." I replied, hoping my face did not betray just how out of my depth I truly was.

What was I thinking agreeing to a mission like this? Maybe Bucky was right. Maybe I did this just to twist the knife. I knew something was truly wrong with me when the idea of Bucky being sick with anxiety over me seemed attractive.

He hurt you, I reminded myself. As if this made it any more justifiable.

"I have the kid." Bucky's booming voice echoed through the compound walls as he approached the conference room.

Speak of the devil.

"Hey!" quipped Peter Parker, alias: Spiderman, from behind Bucky. "You do not have me, Mr. Winter Solider Sir, I came here willingly."

"Pipsqueak" muttered Sam from beside me.

I barely concealed my own laugh in time for Bucky to hit Peter with the infamous "don't call me that." line.

Peter's eyes zeroed in on me and his smile got impossibly wider.

"Y/N!" He seemed to jump in place, "Oh my God! It's so good to see you!"

I welcomed Peter's embrace, relishing in the confusion of the two men behind me.

"Back at you, kiddo."

"You two know each other?" asked Bucky with what seemed to be true disgust.

"Sure we do," I said, patting Peter on the back, "As far as anyone's concerned, this is my avenger-little-brother." I winked at Peter as we pulled away.

Something sobered in the room at the mention of my family. We were all un-kindly reminded of what was at steak here.

"Alright then, Spider," said Sam, back in Captain America mode. "Tell us how it happened."

--

"Reports of more than a dozen killed, and fifty more injured in the area. No group has yet claimed responsibility, but we urge anyone with any knowledge of this to get in contact with the local auth-"

"They weren't all civilians, y'know ." A silky-smooth voice spoke from behind me, interrupting the news anchor.

Shoot first, ask questions later.

Red hair and amused green eyes stared back at me from behind the barrel of my gun.

"Jesus, Nat!" I holstered the gun back to my side. "Don't you ever knock?"

"Why, so you can ignore me again?" she replied knowingly.

Natasha Romanoff, The Black Widow, was raiding my shelves for- whatever it was she was looking for. Having found a half-eaten bucket of ice-cream, she plopped down on my couch and shut the TV off.

"You should really stop watching the news, too depressing." she reasoned, licking the spoon clean off ice-cream.

Resigned to the situation, I dropped to the floor.

The silence in the apartment was short-lived.

I poked Nat's leg and looked up at her.

"I'm sorry about - all the ignoring stuff." It was a lame apology, but Nat deserved one, at least.

She stayed silent, clearly waiting for me to go on.

"It's just-" I started, unable to find the words. She hummed in response.

God, I was so grateful to have a friend like Nat, though you would have never caught me saying that.

I hope she knew.

"Ever since everyone was blipped," I tried again, only half-aware of Nat's leg freezing in place beside me. "I keep seeing them. Him." I breathed out.

"Bucky?" she asked, her demeanor quieter, more real.

I nodded and tried to keep going.

"He never even knew - I never even told him." I shuddered at the thought of what I was about to say next. "He died thinking no one loved him, Nat."

I felt a steady hand grip my shoulder.

"He knew he had a friend in you, Y/N," she said, ever the voice of reason.

But I was beyond reason then, gasping for breath.

"No," my voice cracked. Weak, like the rest of me. "Not like this."

I paused, collected my thoughts.

Out with it.

"Everytime something happens, the first person I want to tell is Bucky. His voicemail is probably barely functional from how many messages I left. But he's gone. They're all gone. I don't see a point in waking up every morning, I don't run, I don't train, I don't eat, Nat-"

I felt a thud beside me on the floor and a pair of strong arms hold me tight. Capable fingers pressed against my back until I was a sobbing mess in the lap of the deadliest assassin in the world.

I only grasped the faintest string of some Russian lullaby through the sounds of my own misery.

--

"Agent!" Sam's commanding voice echoes through the room, ricocheting off the walls and piercing my eardrums. "Copy on the plan or do we need to go through this a third time?" He asks, no mirth in that lovely face of his.

"I copy."

-

Hey guys, I promise the part with 40s Bucky is coming soon. It just feels right to add a little bit of depth to the story. Please let me know your thoughts! Your support from the previous part was incredible. Thank you and see you soon!

[curlsblade]

Curly tossed and turned, his blanket tangled around his legs. His mind was alive with thoughts of Ponyboy. He had dreamed about him earlier—his soft laugh, the way he’d smiled when they made eye contact in church, that tiny smile that made Curly’s heart flutter in a way he couldn’t explain.

In the dream, they were in a park, just the two of them, sitting on the grass in the late afternoon sun. Ponyboy had his head leaning against Curly’s shoulder, his breath soft against the skin of his neck, and everything felt so… right. So normal. They didn’t have to hide anything, didn’t have to pretend they were anything other than what they were—just two people, existing in the same space, enjoying each other’s company.

Curly’s heart clenched in his chest as he thought about it. He had woken up just as he’d leaned in to kiss Ponyboy, and the feeling still lingered, like something between a memory and a dream.

It felt so real. So close.

But then, the sound of muffled voices from the hallway pulled him from his thoughts. He frowned, glancing toward the door. It wasn’t unusual for someone to be awake in the house—Tim, maybe, or one of his brothers. But these voices were different. He could hear Angela’s unmistakable voice, and it sounded like she was on the phone.

Curly groaned and rolled over in bed, but then Angela’s words filtered into his thoughts.

“Yeah, Ponyboy Curtis is so cute,” she was saying, her voice carrying through the thin walls. “He’s different, you know? He’s not like the other Greasers. He’s… he’s just so sweet. I think he might even like me. We talk sometimes at school.”

Curly’s chest tightened, and his heart started to race.

Ponyboy? Angela?

Curly clenched his fists under the covers, trying not to let his mind go to that place. He tried to push the thoughts away, tried to ignore how the idea of Ponyboy with Angela made him feel like something was twisting inside him. But no matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t go away.

Angela kept talking, oblivious to the effect her words were having on Curly. “I mean, he might not know how I feel yet, but I think it’s kind of obvious. He’s been looking at me more lately. I don’t know… maybe he just hasn’t worked up the nerve to say anything, but I’ll wait for him to make the first move.”

Curly squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the thoughts of Ponyboy, smiling at Angela, his soft eyes lighting up the way they always did when he talked to someone.

The thought of Ponyboy with someone else made him feel… strange. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want it.

And yet, he had no right to be upset. He wasn’t dating Ponyboy. They hadn’t even had a real conversation about what was happening between them, let alone anything more. So why was it so hard to ignore the idea of Angela, with her perfect smile and her delicate hair, getting closer to the one person Curly was too scared to talk to?

He rolled over in bed again, burying his face in the pillow. He felt like an idiot. He’d been dreaming about Ponyboy all night, picturing him the way he always did, like they were something more than just two guys who crossed paths in a town full of misunderstandings.

But now, hearing Angela’s voice, it hit him. Maybe Ponyboy didn’t feel the same way. Maybe he was just being friendly, just being nice, and Curly had read it all wrong. Maybe Ponyboy never even thought about him the way Curly thought about him.

His chest tightened at the thought.

The sound of Angela’s voice faded as she hung up, and for a long moment, Curly lay there, staring up at the ceiling, unsure of what to do with all the thoughts swirling in his head.

Maybe the way he stared at Ponyboy, the way his heart had pounded when their eyes met, had made it clear that he cared more than he should.

But it wasn’t like he could just tell Ponyboy.

Not when they weren’t even really anything yet.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, but as he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, the image of Ponyboy smiling at him lingered in his mind. It was the one thing that kept him grounded, even as everything else felt like it was slipping out of his reach.

[selene-moonie]

Jean Kirschtein Simp Post

I love Jean Kirschtein. He had me in the palm of his hand from the moment he challenged Eren for being a suicidal maniac (AND HE WAS RIGHT!!!), and when he debuted in s4, he was basically my husband.

Bless his s4 visuals because he didn't need to look this good, like damn.

Again, Jean calling out Eren for for constantly attempting suicide as well as being irresponsible in his fights got me from the get-go. I watched Eren be irresponsible and I watched everyone else applaud him for being courageous but I don't think they understood that Eren already had little to live for, so it wasn't courage. It was the only option. Eren was fearless for the most part. Jean telling him he's suicidal and irresponsible was refreshing, and it showed that Jean had a better head on his shoulders than most of their cohorts.

Actually, this plays into what Marco told Jean - that he'd would make a good leader. It's because Jean is aware of his surroundings and makes good use of it. Eren on the other hand, bites off more than he can chew then lets his friends clean up his mess. That's why they clash. Jean sees how things can be handled with the least amount of casualties, and Eren fights. And even then, Jean ends up growing up and moving past things with Eren till s4, when Eren becomes a problem again.

Additionally, I love the way Jean loves. Openly, honestly, wholeheartedly. Now, he's a smart man, so he knew not to mess with a girl clearly in love with someone else, but you could see how openly he'd loved Mikasa if they'd gotten together. Like he'd be giddy and happy all the time - because he has the girl he wants. Also, loyalty? Seven years after they met and he was still fantasising about her.

Also Jean can cook. That's just chef's kiss, no pun intended. I love me a man that can cook. And I know he, Connie and Sasha were swapping recipes over the years. They had a ball in the kitchen if Sasha didn't eat everything.

I say this in every post as well - but his friendships with Connie and Sasha humanised him. They matched his energy and took his ass down a peg or 10. They were the siblings he didn't have, but needed. Like you can't tell me he's just some vain/arrogant guy when he has the capability of having deep relationships with others like what he had with Connie and Sasha. I'll this again as well - Sasha never went a day not knowing that Jean and Connie had her back.

But yeah, seeing him go from this arrogant little teenage shit, to a capable man was a sight to behold. All his dreams were crushed and he changed course. He wanted to be best best, and he ended up being one of the best (can't beat Annie and Mikasa). His friend that hyped him up the most? Dead - titan vomit. The girl he loved? In love with someone else. Becoming military police? A waste of his skills in light of the real fight being with the titans. The high rise apartment? Probably still a possibility, but when do they actually live in their homes as soldiers? Jean had some of the best character development I've seen in fucking ages.

One of the things I resonated with the most was the fact that he kept fighting. He kept moving forward. Even when he'd cover his ears and fantasise about his high rise apartment in Wall Sheena with Mikasa and their child - he'd get up and deal with reality. Do you know how fucking hard that is? When you have a real and genuine fear of what life is, and you still get up to face it - that's true courage. That's something I'll admire till the day I die.

Now that we're done talking about his personality, let's talk looks because his s4 visuals were absolute fucking crack. I don't know what Isayama put into his visuals, but he did it right. Honestly everyone looked great but due to my attraction to Jean, he looked even better. The mullet he'd slick back? Just his looks in general? Absolute fucking crack, and I am just an addict. Jean is the full package. The full fucking package.

I have this headcanon (basically a modern au) that he likes expensive cologne and has a somewhat meticulous grooming routine. He cooks a lot, and it's like French restaurant quality, but he'll never forget his humble omurice roots. As an individual, he's cool and respectful, but it's always chaos with Connie and Sasha. He's a private person and excels in his dedicated career/job, and be he loves openly. He doesn't hide who he loves or that he loves them. Like, he's a person at the end of the day, but just a really cool one. Also he's responsible.

Anyway yeah, Jean Kirschtein is perfection incarnate and I stand by that.

[katyakurae]

The Deal (how to not make you smile) - Chapter 5: The Humilliation

With more strength than he seemed to have in a drunken condition and especially favored by the surprise factor, Alastor uses his whole body to push him against one of the walls of the corridor and imprison him there. Absolutely indifferent to the attack (c'mon, this is not serious) Lucifer lets himself be pushed, not without a certain curiosity to see where they will end up. The deer demon places both hands around his throat but doesn't squeeze. Alastor just looks at him.

There is so much hatred in those eyes... Hatred, rage, and a poisoned, cloudy feeling, covered by the glass that his pupils have become. Lucifer blinks a couple of times and looks at him unperturbed once more, almost giving him permission to try to drown him. It doesn't matter anyway. Alastor can't hurt him. There is no real threat. And Alastor, who, despite being drunk, is no idiot, knows it.

That's why he doesn't clench his hands or fingers. He just leaves them there, cold against the skin of his neck, surrounding him like a collar, like the leash that traps him. His teeth, however, grind.

“I hate you... so much,” the Radio Demon mumbles in a pasty voice.

Lucifer smiles. He doesn't feel a shred of the fear or discomfort he's put him through, and that may be the worst of it.

“Why?” asks the King of Hell. “I've never quite understood. You've hated me ever since you first saw me, and I don't know why.”

“Are you really,” hisses Alastor, ”able to look in the mirror and not find the answer by yourself?”

The deer demon's pressure around his neck, as opposed to his words, loosens until it is but a touch. Maybe and only maybe this is due to Lucifer himself who, with narrowed eyes, grabs him by the chin and forces his head down to look into his eyes. In a power struggle, the victory between the two is more than clear. In a battle of wills... it would depend on motivation. But, fortunately, today more than ever Lucifer plays with an advantage. And he exercises it by licking his lips.

Alastor doesn't lose track of the movement of his viperine tongue. How very interesting.

"You didn't even know me back then, Alastor."

The Radio Demon laughs without smiling. Only he can do such a thing.

(Lucifer gives 0 fucks about Alastor trying to choke him)

[mothlau]

Ooooh you’re doing the kink prompts too!!! Rosquez and cnc would be delightful, if you please!!!

oh honey do I please :3 this is my second time writing rosquez (first time was yesterday) so plz don't come for me if it's ooc and also bad I am trying to get my gears working. also this is a bit angsty and post divorce, maybe 2025 if u want it to be in a time frame? (kink meme here)

1853 words (😼)

Valentino promised to hurt him. A long time ago, when he was young and naive and still thought of the older man as some sort of god, when he thought him invincible. He kept his promise, of course he did. He made sure Marc was left bloody and broken after he was done with him and then didn’t look back to witness the mess still writhing on the floor.

Now, unfortunately for Valentino, it’s Marc’s turn to hurt him.

Marc wants the pain to linger, he wants Valentino to spend the rest of his life with the hurt at the forefront of his mind, to not be the same after it. Just like how Marc was never the same after Valentino ruined him.

He wants Valentino to remember the feeling of his fingers around his neck, squeezing, the same way Marc still remembers the feeling of those hands on his hips. He wants Valentino to remember this day the same way Marc still thinks of 2015. He needs Valentino to know how it feels to have his head held down by this hair, face pressed into the wall. He wants him to experience the same exact desperation, the need for air, for denied comfort, that Marc felt since the moment Valentino turned against him, too caught up in his own fabricated world to discern what was real and what was not. He wants Valentino to feel the same pain Marc went through when his heart was broken beyond repair, all of it set alight in one single day.

Against him, Valentino struggles, trying to get away, but Marc is stronger now, much stronger than when he was a young and stupid boy. The older man can do nothing more than kick the air and try not to lose his breath completely. Even his height advantage is useless in the face of Marc’s revenge.

Marc presses his mouth close to Valentino’s ear, his hand still tightly gripping his hair, and says, “you said you’d kill me one day, Vale. You said you’d make sure you are the one to bury me so that I could never be a danger to others.” His hold loosens slightly, so that the man can inhale and fill up his lungs before Marc can decide to take it away from him again. “I won’t let you die, Valentino. Not when you have yet to kill me.”

Valentino gasps, a pathetic sob shaking his body and making the older push into Marc’s open palm. Marc has to stifle a laugh; they haven’t even properly started it and Valentino is already a desperate mess, putty in his hands.

The rush, he feels it go straight to his head.

“This is a promise,” Marc whispers against the older’s throat, teeth close to sinking in. “You won’t be able to forget this, amor; the feeling of my fingers on your throat. It will stay with you forever, no?” He squeezes again, moves Valentino’s head in a mockery of silent agreement. But God, he feels high on the power.

Valentino whimpers, powerless and awaiting his trial, unable to challenge Marc.

“This,” Marc pushes his cock into the swell of Valentino’s ass, “is your reminder that I am always going to win, yes? Always, I will win and you will never get away from me, from this. You, Valentino, will always be the one to lose.” Valentino cries, one more futile attempt to move from Marc’s unforgiving arms, but Marc doesn’t let him go. Now that he has him where he wants him, Marc will never let the older go. He’ll always stay here, where Marc can put him in whatever position he wants, where he can get him to do anything his heart desires. “You lost and you will lose again, Valentino. To me.”

Valentino’s face is red, he’s fighting to breathe, although his movements are starting to get sluggish, weaker, and this is exactly what Marc wants, what he’s always wanted. To see him break, to see him suffer, to have him at his mercy.

“No, please,” he whispers, head shaking minutely with how Marc is still holding the older by the neck. “Please, Marc, please don’t do this.”

Valentino is looking up at him, eyes pleading and wet with tears that have yet to fall. Something snaps in him, something ugly and primal, that makes his chest feel as if it’s about to collapse in on itself.

Fuck, Marc can’t take his eyes off of him.

His fingers find Valentino’s hand, give it two slow squeezes, a silent question. Valentino nods his head, leans into the softened touch for one second, before he spits on Marc’s face.

Marc is frozen for a moment, unsure on how to react to Valentino’s display of foolish resilience. He watches the older, face still, shocked, but then the fury spreads and all he feels is hot, red anger that makes him want to push Valentino until he cries.

He can do that; he can do exactly that.

He presses on Valentino’s shoulder, until his knees hit the floor with a harsh <pop> that would make him laugh on a different day. Today he only smirks at the wince on Valentino’s face. Fingers bury in the older’s curls, so that the wince doesn’t morph into a look of pleasure once the discomfort starts to ease. Marc wouldn’t want Valentino to enjoy himself, not when this is meant to be for him; Marc’s revenge, sweet like honey on his tongue, running down his chin with the drying spit.

Seeing him like this is not enough, Marc can feel it in the tug that seems to be forcing his hand. The resonating sound comes as a surprise, palm hot where it still rests on Valentino’s cheek. The older mewls, moves his face to take Marc’s thumb in his mouth, a pitiful image before Marc’s very eyes.

He can’t believe it, the same man he thought to be a god, now nothing more than a sobbing mess that’s kneeling in front of him. He doesn’t know what to say, but he knows what Valentino needs, so he pushes two fingers in his mouth, watches as he takes the intrusion without making a sound, eyes falling shut in pure bliss.

That won’t do.

Still, he takes a few seconds to admire the sight, allows himself to watch as Valentino tries to take more of his fingers in, head held back by Marc’s fingers. He takes the fingers out, lets the spit dribble onto Valentino's chin, and uses his other hand to hold the older's face. His grip is tight, bruising, and Marc loves how his thumb digs into the corner of his eye. He loves how red his skin is under his touch.

"I hate you," he tells him, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. He hates him, he really does. But God, if he doesn't want him, too. If he doesn't wish to have him in every single way, doesn't wish for him to be his, keep Valentino on his knees, bring him along just to have him keep his cock warm.

"I hate you, too," Valentino answers, but his voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. And he's not lying, not quite, but his pupils are dilated, eyes fixed on Marc's crotch.

"Then why are you so desperate for my cock, hmm?"

The question goes unanswered, and Marc can see how the older swallows, the movement of his throat, the bobbing of his Adam's apple, the marks he made.

"Answer me," he orders, voice low and commanding.

"No, I don't—"

"Answer me!" Marc's voice echoes through the walls, loud and clear.

"I don’t want it, please," the older whimpers.

“Not good enough, <Vale>. Why are you saying please if you don’t want me to shove my cock down your throat, hm?”

Valentino stares up at him, flabbergasted. He can’t bring himself to answer, can’t even beg for Marc to forgive him and spare him.

“Please, Marc,” he says, uselessly, hands tugging at Marc’s jeans. He’s so– He’s absolutely pathetic, can’t even try to deny how much he wants it.

Marc laughs, hand slapping Valentino’s away, harsh and mean. “God, amor, you’re such a slut that you can’t even pretend not to want me to fuck you. I thought you didn’t want this,” he mocks him. “What happened to those little no’s?”

“Please.”

Valentino is his.

Marc is the one to decide when and how the older gets fucked, the one who can use him whenever and however he wants.

And right now, he wants him to choke on his dick.

He doesn't bother with unzipping his pants, too impatient, too eager. Instead, he pushes his trousers and boxers down, just enough so that he can pull his cock out.

Valentino stares at it, a little transfixed.

Marc gives himself a couple of strokes, then uses his other hand to force the older's jaw open. He doesn't give him time to adjust before pushing inside, forcing his cock deeper until his nose is touching the curls at the base.

It's hot, tight and wet and warm, and Valentino's throat constricts around his length. It feels good, too good, and he can't help the moan that escapes his lips.

"God, that's it, baby," he groans, head falling back. "Just like that, you feel so good."

He holds him still, his nose buried deep in the black hairs, and Marc can't help but wonder how good it would be if he came all over his face, marked him, and forced him to wear it like that, for the world to see.

"You like that, yeah? Being on your knees, getting fucked by me?" He pulls his cock out, lets the older gasp, spit and precome smeared all over his mouth and chin.

"I don't," the other rasps, but he can't hide the fact that he's enjoying this.

Marc pushes in again, forces the older's jaw open. He starts slowly at first, a slow pace, but soon he finds himself fucking Valentino's mouth with abandon, the sounds echoing around them.

He can feel his climax building up, the heat spreading from his abdomen to his whole body. He's close, so fucking close, and all he wants is to fill the other's throat, claim him, own him.

"Open your mouth," he says, breathless, and Valentino obeys, his tongue sticking out.

Marc comes, the release crashing over him, and his cum paints the older's face. It's beautiful, the sight, and it's his.

He watches, chest heaving, as Valentino licks his lips, his eyes half-lidded. He looks wrecked, ruined, and Marc loves it.

"That's what you wanted, yes? My cum all over your face?"

The other nods, his tongue still out, and it's almost cute how needy he looks.

"Good boy," Marc murmurs, and Valentino preens. "Such a good boy, taking everything I give you."

The older doesn't respond, doesn't even move, and Marc can't help but think of how perfect the man would be as a toy.

"Let me clean you up, amor," he says, and he doesn't wait for an answer.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

(genderly) chill as hell if i was only ever glimpsed / detected like this

[featherymainffins]

*remembers Dungeon Meshi* The Winged Lion

[sirompp]

did you know lego has a "pick a brick" thing on their site whee you can pick individual bricks to buy. unrelated but did you know ive never shopped online for anything before.

[veinpursuer]

WHERE’S MY FUKING CAPO

[honey-tongued-devil]

[Arcane preference]reacting to their s/o calling them husband/wife for the first time

I’ve finished the first chapter of the long fic about Universe 7 (Anytime it rains). As soon as my second beta reader gives me the okay, I’ll post it. While I wait, I’ve written the first headcanon (out of three I’m definitely planning to write and post in the next few days) and picked up the drawing of Steb I’d left unfinished. I’m slow, as usual, but English isn’t my first language, and I’m juggling a lot of things at once. Enjoy!

socials: | INPRNT | | Tip Jar | | X | | BlueSky | | Ao3 | poster: | Jayce poster | | Silco poster | |Silco +self insert poster 1| | Steb poster | if you want to read the fluff longfic with vander and his happy family + Silco x reader you can find it here! ↠ Masterlist

Jayce:

-This man is planning to put a ring on your finger as soon as possible, okay? -Between the academy, public appearances, and both theoretical and practical studies, there isn’t a single moment when he’s really in the right mindset to bring up the topic -The worst part is that, deep down, he’s terrified of putting pressure on you -That’s why, the first time he hears you refer to him as “my husband” during a gala with noble families, he almost chokes -He has to gather all his strength not to grab the interlocutor by the shoulders and ask if they also heard you say that word -He’ll try to keep his composure, maybe responding to your remark with, “Yes, exactly. Her husband really did say/do/design that.”

Viktor:

-It’s not a thought he’s ever really entertained; it never crossed his mind -Part of it is that science is his priority, and part of it is that marriage doesn’t seem like something meant for people like him, -The first time you call him “your husband���, that thought suddenly becomes real in his head, and he can’t help but lean against a wall and wait for the other person to leave -“So, I’m your husband now, huh? Mmm… I don’t mind, a bit pretentious, though…” he jokes, making you roll your eyes -Now, more than ever, he has no idea what to do. He’ll give you a bronze ring from a machine he’s building -“Until I can get one worthy of you.”

Ekko:

-Yes -That’s it -The end -Okay, seriously. The idea of being certain that something will last forever is probably his greatest wish -The first time you call him your husband, he doesn’t see it coming -“Wait, you’re married?” -“I was talking about you, Ekko.” -The moment you say it, he points to his chest, you see his lip tremble slightly, and his eyes grow shinier -He won’t stop talking about it for a week, and at least once a day, he’ll ask if you still want to marry him, if you’re sure, if you love him -No rings before S2; the promise is made by drawing something for each other on your masks and clothes -After S2, he still can’t afford a ring, but now that life is more stable, he can start thinking about a more traditional gift, like a piece of jewelry

Vander:

-This man is ravenous for any family role you might offer him—fiancé, father, husband. Anything goes -The first time you call him “husband”, he plays it cool but will seize the first opportunity to return the favor by telling a customer you’re married -As soon as he can, he’ll squeeze your hand, even under the counter -The idea of being married and having a complete family is everything he’s ever wanted -He won’t stop calling you “my beautiful wife/husband” from that moment on.

-You said it first; you can’t take it back. Now you have to get married

Silco (old man):

-This man’s only sin is loving too much, but I’ll save that reflection for another post -Having no ties other than his illegitimate daughter doesn’t make him someone who’s particularly keen on formalities -The first time you call him “your husband” is in front of Sevika, and he slowly turns to look at you, while she slowly turns to look at him -“Did I... miss something?” Sevika asks, but he doesn’t reply, still perplexed, before glancing at her and saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” -He’s relieved but doesn’t show it. He can’t afford to just yet -As soon as he confirms you were serious, your name will be flamboyantly forgotten—he’ll constantly refer to you as “my wife/husband”

Silco (young):

-The man who survives on love -The first time you call him your husband is in front of Vander, and while Vander bursts out laughing, Silco chokes on his drink -“Are you serious?” He’s so happy that his pale iris are completely swallowed by his dilated pupils -He grabs a pen and draws a ring around your finger -To his credit, he works in a mine, so it’s hard to do better than that, but it becomes the goal that keeps him going -Completely focused on family, the future, and anything that sees the two of you together and happy

Steb:

-The first time you call him your husband is at a dinner among enforcer families, and being mute doesn’t stop him from stealing the spotlight -He whips around, blinking slowly with only his third eyelid in a gesture of confusion -When he’s 100% sure he understood what you said, his eyes widen, the small membranes under his eyes flutter madly, and even the barely visible gills near his jaw gasp for a moment -Someone says, “I didn’t know you were married,” and he immediately nods enthusiastically, not giving you time to take it back -Within 48 hours, he’ll have the ring ready

Jinx:

-The first time you call her “your wife”, she freezes -“What did you just call me?” -She’s used to being a little sister, a big sister, a daughter—she’d never thought she could be a wife. Family ties aren’t chosen, but the idea that someone would want her in their life so much they’d marry her feels incredible -“You want to marry me? Really? Why?” -She bursts into tears, and it’ll take at least 24 hours of cuddling in bed to calm her down -After that, she’ll run to her father to announce that she’s now a married woman

Vi:

-She might not be Silco and/or Vander’s blood daughter, but she’s inherited their deep desire for family -From her family’s tragic fate to Vander’s, she’s always seen family as the ultimate aspiration -When you call her “your wife” for the first time, she doesn’t notice right away, but a full minute later, she whirls around to look at you, as if to ask for confirmation -“Say it again.” -“...You need to buy bread?” -“No, all of it.” -“My wife needs to go buy bread.” -“Again.”

-"My... wife?"

-"Again"

Caitlyn:

-Has she thought about it? Yes -Was she planning to act on it? Not exactly -Caitlyn struggles with emotions and feelings, which is why she hesitates and takes her time -But when you first call her “your wife”, her brain completely shuts off—she just stares at you, unable to hear a single word being said -If you or someone else asks her a question, she’ll snap out of it and respond, -“My wife/husband said everything.” Even if it makes no sense as an answer, making you laugh and leaving the other person baffled

Mel:

-Not a single flicker of surprise—the first time you call her “your wife”, she remains completely composed -“So, I’m your wife?” she asks as soon as you’re in private, approaching you like a feline. You can almost hear the purr in her voice -She’s amused but also intrigued by whatever game you’re playing -The idea of marriage is complicated for her—on one hand, it feels like it would limit her freedom to act, while on the other, unresolved family issues seem to devour her at the mere thought of starting a new cycle -She’ll tell you to go ahead, to get married, but she’ll also ask for time -In the meantime, though, she’ll start using the term “husband/wife” with you—she likes the way it rolls off her tongue

Sevika:

-Between the work she does, the environment she lives in, and all the interesting circumstances of her life, marriage has never been on her radar -Not to mention that in Zaun, it’s not exactly a common practice—people just move in together and build families when they can, without much fuss over formalities or bureaucracy -The first time it happens, she’s playing cards with the other goons, and you casually ask if “your wife is winning” -Her first reaction isn’t even hers—it’s the others’. Dustin, the blond goon with the lazy eye, almost starts crying, embarrassing her -Don’t worry, she’ll make you pay for it at home -She won’t ask to formalize anything, but in true Zaunite fashion, she’ll consider you married, plain and simple

[criminalamnesia]

Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!

And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.

ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.

you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.

your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.

you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.

one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.

you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.

one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.

the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.

he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.

“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.

the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.

well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.

you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.

apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.

simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.

“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.

“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.

the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.

you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.

the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?

“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”

“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”

“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.

“points to you.”

“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.

he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.

“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.

you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.

“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.

“or should we take off another?”

you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”

“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.

“ghost!”

it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.

“what, mactavish? im busy.”

“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.

the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).

“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.

“it’s fucking shepard.”

it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.

you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.

“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.

you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.

you pass out.

when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.

“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.

your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.

the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.

your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.

“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.

you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.

“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.

“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.

“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”

he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.

he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.

just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.

“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.

you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.

“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.

“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”

“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.

“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.

“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.

“and whose fault is that?”

the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.

“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.

you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.

simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.

your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.

“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.

“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.

the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.

“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.

spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.

john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.

when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.

the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.

there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.

it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.

your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.

when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.

“how’re you feeling?”

you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.

“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”

the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.

“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.

no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.

you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—

you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.

that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.

your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.

————————————————

authors note:

I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.

thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶

[acid-ixx]

a loving family, an unpalatable desire

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: would anyone hear me out if i ever wrote romantic yan! bruce (ft. platonic yan! batfam AND romantic yan clark kent alongside the superfam ofc) with a neglected spouse reader... because uhm, i've been thinking about it lately just yk... so anyways PLSPLSPLS send in asks about this, ive been thinking about it so much lately.

imagine wanting to raise a family so badly with a man who adopts problem children as a side hustle. you're not some invasive spouse, you've always been good, always been loving, so... so accepting, never questioned where or how he picked them up from the side of the streets, never once complaining about the hickeys on his neck or the once neat tussles of his hair now tangled accompanying lipstick stains on his white suit.

you love your children, you tell yourself all the time. you love them, you love bruce— even if he doesn't love you. you said it in your vows, despite it being scripted, despite your family finally sighing in relief in the sidelines at finally being able to sell you off to one of the wealthiest man in the world, rather than being wasting off under their care— your vows are real.

you wanted someone to love you, unconditionally, so viscerally eternal that it eats you up.

really, all you wanted was to play that fantasy life of trophy house spouses. all you wished for was a loving, healthy relationship. the american dream: the picture perfect family frames, your husband kissing you on the cheek as he leaves for work, your children bickering at the dining room, with the scent of homemade meals wafting about the vicinity. all you wanted was the warmth in your chest to flicker like candlelights. all you dreamed about was that domestic life, an escape from the abusive household you were raised in.

yet the manor is too cold, too unforgiving for a soul such as yours.

the longer you stay inside claustrophobic, yet oh-so large hallways, the quicker you drown in a neverending pool of self-hatred.

but you're not allowed to show them your sufferings. they've been through much worse, you tell yourself. they've suffered more, and as what good spouses do, as what you're taught, you stay silent, enabling them to turn you into their own emotional punching bag.

you only allow yourself to cry at the dead of the night, under the sheets of your too-cold blanket and your too-hot pillows. when the manor is filled with deathly silence and a looming sense of dread and ill fitting thoughts of ifs and when they'll come back in one piece, will you grant yourself temporary respite; worry for a family who never even called you their parent.

yet you've always been so considerate. despite the pang in your chest every time bruce flirts with anymore potential love interest at a gala, you chose to instead monitor your chaotic children, who have always never bat an eye on you despite you always gazing lovingly at them.

you know of their interests, they don't know yours, yet you still give them extravagant gifts on their birthdays, with tired, yet glinting eyes, and a silent excuse to return to your room; one separate from bruce.

you know of bruce's hardships, but you don't push too hard, don't force him to talk, only provide him your silence and an offer to serve him dinner; all the time he refuses without looking at you. you give him comfort only if he ever allows you, only if he allows his walls to crumble— but not even his spouse can amount to a warm, crackling fireplace. to him, you're probably only a matchstick under the deadbeat glaze of the snow in a winter night.

maybe that's why you're such a ghost in the manor, stalking through the hallways, looking out for any of your children in case they come across you with any injuries. maybe that's why eventually your resolve weakened.

and maybe the absence of familial love led you to find comfort in another man's arm.

''til death do us part,' is such a tragic saying in your case, because you know it in your fragile heart that bruce's love for you was never alive in the first place. and yet you allow him to play you like a fiddle, allow him to slowly allow you to slip away from his nonexistent grasp.

and now, you're a stand-in parent for clark's son, jon, after the tragic loss of his wife. now, your world seems a lot less bleaker, as you play the fantasy of a loving house spouse, fully abandoning the life you left behind, a life you've never been gifted with until now. you want to feel guilty, you want to feel absolutely terrible but the heartache of neglect has become too much and all you do was allow clark to warm you up each night, kissing away your tears and spooning your deep-seated anxieties away.

you don't let the past eat you up, not when the present is too perfect, too freeing, too delusionally beautiful.

your son, jon provides you every joy a parent could have. parent's day gifts, heartfelt letters at every nook and cranny of your shared bedroom with clark— even reading him bedtime stories, allowing him to sleep in your lap after he slowly nods off, with clark knocking softly on polished wooden doors, greeting you with a loving kiss on the lips and a bouquet of your favorite flowers in hand—

it's everything a parent wants, needs even.

and you're everything clark, and especially jon wants, needs in their life.

so it's such a stupid mistake, really. a slip of the tongue, a too-enthusiastic smile, incredibly bright, shining eyes. it's not jon's fault, you still love him either way. but it's an error still— one a complicated matter at hand, so dreadful for you, that jon accidentally, all-too-suddenly, mentions you as his parent to damian.

a loving, wonderful parent, he says, with a picture of you in his wallet shoved right in front of his friend's face.