#So so good

[mischievous-thunder]

Pun intended.

P.S. It's just been a hot minute and Logan's skeleton already looks so done

[jjkyaoi]

the “you really hate me that much?” moment from one character in rivals/enemies to lovers ships will always be the most addictive drug

[mommyarachna]

bjorn being happy we she says “we need to talk”!!! that part killed me ‘cause i knew it was about to crash and burn.

i love the dialogue for bjorn ‘cause i feel like this is exactly how he’d express his feelings—switching between vulgarity and raw emotion.

I Said Just a Little Bit, Then I Got a Taste of It

Chapter VI

bjorn x fem!reader

summary: After being transferred to another sector of Jackson's Star you reluctantly befriend a ragtag group of people with the exception of one cocky asshole who knows just how to get under your skin.

On the surface, you hate each other, but after experiencing a particularly harrowing event together, the two of you grow closer than anyone else could ever imagine.

a/n: sorry for the major delay on this chapter everyone, I've been juggling a lot privately and professionally but I'll be back to regular updates over the course of the next week <3 also, just broke 20k with this update, woo!! summary for this chapter is: the art of self-sabotage. or, old habits die hard.

warnings: secret friends with benefits, enemies to lovers, angst, alcohol/drug use, nsfw, non-linear narrative, trauma bonding, resolved sexual tension, praise kink (both ways), oral (giving/receiving), loss of virginity, dirty talk, shower sex, falling in love

tags: @asvtrials @urfavhanna @orangebeauty @3arthtoeden @barnes70stark @sadslasher13 (comment if you wanna be notified when a new chapter drops)

wc: 2.8k

Masterlist Next Chapter

How could you let this happen? Be this stupid?

This is exactly what you didn't want, trying your absolute damnedest to bury your feelings for Bjorn deep, deep under the weight of denial and downplay but—you can't, no matter how hard you try.

You're fighting an increasingly losing battle, falling further every time Bjorn comes around, every time he fucks you and holds you in his arms after. Every time he apologizes for whatever mean things he said in front of the others just so he can keep up the appearances you so desperately wanted to uphold. Every time he tucks your hair behind your ear and whispers that everything's going to be alright when nothing about this remotely is.

And you cry every time he leaves, finding it harder and harder to hold it in each time he does, like he's taking another piece of your heart with him every time he goes, crying salt into your pillow as you hug it close to your naked chest in the hours after, until your sobs taper off into pathetic wet sniffles, dehydrated and drained like you’re grieving a loss that hasn’t yet come to fruition.

But it will—and that’s the crux of it isn’t it, because you know in your bones, in your soul that you’ll lose this just like you’ve lost everything else before, because you’ve learned early on that everyone, no matter how much you need them, will always, always, leave in the end.

It’s a tough pill to swallow but then again, the truth always is, so you do what you can to prepare for it, choosing to shatter the illusion of happiness yourself instead of waiting for it all to inevitably come crashing down around you, desperately hoping it won’t hurt as bad when you do.

A decision you come to after another night spent drinking in the quarry, most nights spent together spent drinking, alcohol the only thing that really takes the edge off after an incredibly long and difficult shift.

Slumped back into the camping chair you’re sitting in, the one that you’ve unofficially claimed as yours, you quietly watch the familiar dance of flames everyone was sitting around, finishing off the last of your beer while the others talked and laughed.

You’d been pretty quiet all night, barely contributing anything to the conversations happening around you, too busy in your own head contemplating how to dig yourself out of the hole you’ve found yourself in as you tossed the now empty glass bottle into some nearby bushes.

Usually you'd stop after three, never one to catch anything more than a buzz but tonight, tonight you wanted to get absolutely shit-faced, wanted to shut out all the white noise inside your head, if only for a little while.

So you go to get up, intent on grabbing another drink from the worn down cooler Navarro’s feet were propped up on when Bjorn’s voice made you freeze, asking, “needa refill luv?” from the other side of the pit, head whipping up so hard you almost throw it out.

He must’ve been watching you, had to have been for him to have immediately noticed you were out, your stomach fluttering wildly at the assumption, doing your absolute damnedest not to show it on your face, no matter how badly you want to hiss at Bjorn, “what the fuck are you doing—sit back down!!!” but, you don't. Can't. The words dying in your throat every time you went to say it.

With your eyes glued to him, you watched as he walked around the burning steel drum towards his sister, his shoulders slouched and his chin down, the confidence swagger he usually carries himself with gone and been replaced with a level of uncertainty you're not used to, one that helplessly flashes you back to shy blue eyes unable to meet yours just before he sucked on your breasts or stretched you open on his thick fingers.

You squeezed your thighs together, feeling wetness starting to seep between them. Not the time.

Bjorn nudged Navarro’s feet off the cooler lid, totally ignoring the scowl his sister threw at him while her hand was cupped around the dying cherry of her cigarette she was trying to keep from going out, fishing another bottle of aspen beer from the half melted ice in the process.

He came to a stop in front of you, holding the drink out by the glass neck to take, giving a smile meant just for you, so warm it had you burning hotter than the kindling wood behind him as everything briefly dissolved around you, like the entire universe was made up of just you, him, and the space in between, the warmth he was wearing radiating throughout your chest.

It was incredibly tender and brief and all wrong, the moment interrupted when Rain cleared her throat beside you, bringing you crashing back down to reality.

More than enough to make you recoil—hard. The bottle you'd been mid hand off slipping from your grip and shattering onto the pebbled stones between his and your feet, splashing chilled lager across both of your pant legs.

Bjorn had sworn under his breath then, asking you things like, “fuck, ah’ ya alright?” and, “ya’ ain't hurt ah’ ya,’ darlin?’” but you’d barely heard, had tuned it all out as your gaze swung wildly around the lopsided circle your friends were huddled in, all eyes on you.

Whether from the beer or from Bjorn you didn't know—didn't want to know, feeling severely scrutinized under the weight of their collective stare, like they could see right through you, like they knew what you were hiding, causing you to shrink down low into your seat, line of sight trained on the freshly wet gravel as you snapped at Bjorn that you didn't want his fucking handouts.

You could see the lower half of Bjorn’s body go rigid from within your periphery, refusing to look up and meet his eyes, afraid of what you might find, of possibly seeing some of that blossoming affection you’d been feeling mirrored in his icy blues, waiting to let out the shaky exhale you’d been holding until he walked back to his seat.

No one commented on your bizarre little exchange, probably because they knew you were a flight risk, that you’d turn tail and run at the first sign of conflict—like you always did, which is why you forced yourself to stay, not wanting to raise any more questions.

After the bonfire had ended Bjorn, like most nights, found his way back to your apartment, a bit cautious to approach you in your bedroom, probably sensing the sour mood he'd inadvertently put you in, asking for permission to touch while he crawled into your bed to join you.

And now here you are, Bjorn grunting as he thrusts into you once, twice, three more times before he finishes inside the condom buried eight inches deep between your legs, hairline damp from exertion with his bangs sticking to his forehead in sweaty little peninsulas.

He leans down, the cool metal of his dog tags brushing up your bare chest while he does, to plant an incredibly tender kiss to your lips, smiling into it when he feels you reciprocate, going in for a slew of quick pecks the same time he lets go of the leg he’s still holding up, fingers dimpling the back of your thigh.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” he grins a little wider, still a bit winded as he tries catching his breath, rolling off of you to lie flat on his back instead, covered in a fresh set of scratches trailing down from his shoulders to the base of his spine.

There's a beat of silence, only punctuated by the mingling of your heavy breathing slowly returning to normtand the systematic tick of your alarm clock on the bedside table next to your head, feeling Bjorn's hand find its way into yours down between your bodies.

Tears start to crease along your waterlines, rapidly fluttering your lashes to try and blink them away, to not draw Bjorn’s attention to how absolutely vulnerable you feel. This was a mistake. A big one. And not just tonight—all of it. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered filthy praise shared between you, closing your eyes for a moment, just long enough for you to work up the nerve and say, “we have to talk,” voice thick with thinly-veiled emotion.

Bjorn perks up at that, rolling onto his side as he sat up on his elbow, cheek resting on a loosely curled fist, the shitty stick and poke of the losing dice frowny face he has tatted on the back of his right hand, one of the many Navarro gave him when he was fifteen and they were both high as a kite while giggling quietly on the floor of his bedroom as to not wake their dad, upside down from this angle.

“Glad ya’ said sumthin’ princess,” he smiles a shy, tiny thing you aren’t used to, fighting the overwhelming urge to back out now, “cuz m’ pretty sure I feel tha’ same.”

You seriously doubt that, your suspicion sadly confirmed when he confesses, “I think m’ fallin’ fo’ ya,’” the same time you say, “I think we should stop seeing each other.”

More silence, except—this one says a hell of a lot more.

Your throat goes tight and painful, like you just swallowed shards of glass and poured salt into the resulting wounds, watching the smile on his face quickly dissolve, replaced by a pinched frown and the confused furrow of his eyebrows, sitting all the way up to stare down at you.

“Wha’?” He asks, so small and fragmented it feels like a knife stab to the chest having to hear it. Fuck, you knew it was going to sting,that you were in too deep by the time you realized you were falling for him, but you didn't expect it to hurt this bad, like you want to take it all back but you don't—you can’t, for your sake and his.

“I said,” you push through the acute ache, disguising your tone with something harsher, something hurtful, “we should stop seeing each other. It's just—not working out anymore.”

“M’ sorry but where in tha’ bloody fuck is this all comin’ from? I thought things wuz’ good between us,” he argues, using his hand to gesture between your body and his as you sit up against the headboard, pulling your blanket up over your chest so you aren't so exposed.

“Well, you were wrong. We just—we aren't meant for each other. We're only hooking up out of convenience and you know it,” you reinforce, unable to meet his eyes head on, just like the quarry, gaze trained on the worn comforter by his naked thigh.

Still, you're able to catch a glimpse of the confusion on Bjorn's face morph into utter annoyance, snapping at you to, “cut tha’ shit already.”

“Excuse me?” You bristle immediately, letting your anger temporarily eclipse your pain so you don't break down in front of him, “fuck you if you think I'm lying.”

“Oh, m’ sorry if m’ havin’ a hard time believin’ ya, but ya’ can't jus’ fake tha’ kinda chemistry. I'm willin’ ta’ bet it all on black ya’ felt it jus’ as much as I did.”

You can see desperation bleed into his eyes, hear it seep into his words, wavering like he's not so sure anymore but still trying to convince himself that he's right—and he is, you know in your bones that he is but he doesn't need to know that, muttering back, “what the fuck do you even know.”

His nostrils flare as a result, clearly offended by your statement, leaning in on his palm, fingers spread over your sweaty, wrinkled bed sheets, his gaze firmly transfixing itself on you, “‘scuze me? Ah’ ya’ tryna be daft on purpose?” not giving you any room to respond before he continues on.

“Listen—I can't speak fo’ ya,’ but I know wha’ I fuckin’ feel. D’ya really fuckin’ think I wanna feel like this?! Tha’ I wanted this ta’ happen? Course fuckin’ not. I don't get close ta’ people tha’ ain't mah’ family but then you. Ya’ came along an’—I neva’ intended ta’ get ta’ know ya’ at all. Yeah I thought ya’ wuz a total smokeshow when I first laid mah’ eyes on ya’ but I figured ya’ wouldn't stick around long with how bloody standoffish ya’ were, always lookin’ like ya' didn't wanna be there

“But then ya’ did. Ya’ did an’ we almost fuckin’ died so I opened up ta’ ya’ figurin’ we wuz both gonnas’ then ya’ let me touch ya.’ Let me inside ya,’ an’ I couldn't stop fuckin’ replayin’ it in mah' head tha’ night I slept ova’ at Kay an’ Tyler's. Had ta’ rub one out in tha’ bathroom an’ bite down on mah’ fuckin' fist like a hormonal tweener. I woulda been embarrassed if I wuzn't so fuckin' turned on.

“So I had ta’ go back fo’ a round two, see if it wuz jus’ a fluke but once I was fuckin’ ya again I couldn't stop, I wanted more every time, like a fuckin’ junkie lookin’ fo’ tha’ next fix, no matta’ how hard I tried resistin.’ But then I started ta’ notice otha’ things ‘sides tha’ face ya’ make when I make ya’ pussy weep around mah’ cock an’ ya' sing so pretty fo’ me,” he says, face neutral and tone even despite how hot your cheeks are hearing that.

“Like how carin’ ya' ah’ fo’ tha’ othas’ despite actin’ like ya’ don't. Tha’ ya' had ta’ grow up fas’ as fuck an’ took it out on yaself’ instead o’ lashin’ out like an’ insecure prick. Like me. Tha' I thought I'd neva’ seen someone so fuckin' beautiful in all mah’ life when ya’d fall asleep befo’ me, even when ya’ wuz droolin’ on mah’ chest and snorin’ like one o’ them fuckin' minin’ drills. Tha’ I thought I could listen ta’ ya' horrendous singin’ in tha’ showa’ all day when ya’ woke up befo’ me. Tha’ I wanted ta’ call ya’ mine fo’ a fuckin’ while now.

An’ I know I wuzn't jus’ imaginin’ shit. I might be shit at expressin’ mah’ feelins’ but so ah’ you. Ya’ can’t convince me none o’ it wuz real.”

You consider trying to take it all back, while he’s still giving you an out, feeling like your heart’s been violently ripped out of your chest but you refrain from doing so, choosing to stand your ground, no matter how shaky the earth beneath you feels. You can’t afford to lose someone again, it’ll be better in the long run to ruin it now than to let life steal someone else away when you least expect it, when you can’t possibly handle any more heartbreak.

Finally meeting his eyes you force yourself not to flinch at the intensity of his gaze as they scrutinize you, like he can see right through you, feeling more exposed now than you did when he first got you naked.

“It wasn’t,” you insist, somewhat petulantly.

It’s his turn to roughly swallow at what you say, his confidence visibly waning in the slouch of his shoulders and the way he pulls back a little, the uncertainty of his words when you first confessed making a comeback—much stronger this time but still underscored by a level of defiance like he’s clinging on to some modicum of hope.

“So allat—allat really meant absolutely nuthin’ ta’ ya?’”

You know you have to inflict maximum damage, to crush any chance of making the same mistake twice, finding yourself leaning in like he did earlier to emphasize your point, not deviating away from devastated blue as you hiss, “nothing. Nothing at all.”

And that was all it took, watching how quickly Bjorn turned his back to you while he quietly yanked on his clothes, shoulders shaking in anger, in rejection—in defeat. He's hurting, it's more than obvious by the way his voice shakes, sounding like wet gravel as he croaks at you to, “have a nice fuckin’ life,” before storming out of your apartment, leaving you alone, the silence you once found comfort in when you were on your own bordering on unbearable now.

It's for the best, you reason, it's what needs to happen, you don't need to make this any harder than it already fucking is, finally allowing yourself to break down, as pained sobs rack your body, crying so hard you grab at your chest like you’re trying to open another airway, gasping between each tearful moan.

So, if this is really for the best—then why does it feel like the worst decision you’ve ever made?

[copepods]

today i am thinking about how awesome it is that joar said rain world is about every creature simply looking for food to survive, there being no larger societal motivations now that the ancients are gone. and then here you have the iterators, meant to guide the world past these instincts to something greater. but in the end the iterators are just as bound to their urges as everything else! the crux of the iterators’ plot is a simple struggle for survival over their most critical resource! is pebbles and moon fighting over water really any different than two lizards fighting over a squidcada?

[allphatauri]

URGEHHHFBFHHFDBSHSGXB

[tiredmoonslut]

Once again praising Kathryn Hahn, but this time for just how geniusly she was able to weave taunting and praise into one during that conversation with Billy. She might find his antics amusing and his naivety something to make a joke out of, but she is PROUD of him, because he's just like her.

Abandoned by his witch mother at a young age, ripped away from all that's familiar. He found the only way to keep surviving, just like her. And just like her, he feels guilty for even pulling it off.

Agatha also shows repeated, major appreciation for strong acts of magick. She may be a survivor first, but magick is her art form, her life's work, and she is very committed to appreciating it when others do it well. She was in awe of the Westview hex, so much so she flew there immediately just to ask Wanda how she managed it. She met Jen and had the opportunity to steal her power and move on, but she loved the work Jen was doing, and so let her be to continue that work. And now even though Billy tried to kill her, tried to toss her off the Road, she is so proud that at just ten years old he managed to skirt death (also a fuck you to the ex-gf she has so much resentment for) by possessing the body of a newly dead teen. He's clearly torn up by the ethics of it and the life he supplanted by continuing to live on, and she knows that, and is quick to defend him. Never let your choices make you feel guilty about your talent.

There's an argument to be made that she's also just trying to groom him to her worldview, make him see things in a ruthless light the way she does. And maybe so! But I don't think it's completely out of a desire to manipulate him. I think she genuinely thinks what she's telling him is good advice. She wants him to do well. And Kathryn managed to convey all of that in her body language alone. This woman I swear to god

[stylespresleyhearted]

holy fuck holy fuck HOLY FUCK THIS IS SO FREAKING AMAZING?!!?!

Words of My Hands

(Gale takes a turn for the worse after his escape. When John finds him, physically and mentally broken and non-verbal, their touches become the way they communicate. Healing for both of them is a long road.)

_____

“Gale.”

John could barely breathe, hunched over the small bed in Thorpe Abbots’ medical ward, fresh off the transport that had brought the last of the freed prisoners back. The second he saw Croz’s stricken face he had bolted here, his world shattering at the sight of Gale laid limp and dazed on too-white sheets. Gale had latched onto him, brow furrowing, but gave no other reaction, and a horrible dread began to wrap itself around John’s throat.

He curled close and brushed a feather-light touch along Gale’s eyebrow, lingering over the small scar that had been there since before flight training, drew the finger down the side of Gale’s nose and across the too-prominent cheekbone, brushing the scar that stood out harshly against pale skin.

Gale didn’t stir. His glassy eyes remained distant, lingering somewhere on John’s cheek, though his hand was loosely encircled around John’s wrist. John inhaled raggedly and kissed Gale’s forehead, tearing his gaze away from Gale to Croz and Rosie who lingered on the other side of the bed, swallowing in an attempt to force his dry throat into action. 

“How long has he been like this?” 

His voice came out harsh from cold and misuse, too thin and vulnerable to his own ears, and Rosie’s grieved eyes bored into his own.

“He was brought across the Channel on a Fort. Got out, took a few steps, and hit the ground.”

John fought back bile crawling up this throat, suddenly light-headed as black spots of panic encroached his vision.

“He hasn’t spoken at all?”

“Just when he sleeps,” said Croz. “We can’t understand a lot, but it’s usually just your name.”

“My name?”

Another pause. “He cries.”

John sank the rest of the way down, pressing his face to Gale’s forehead, and Gale shifted, touching his nose to John’s jaw. The hand on John’s wrist slipped up to clumsily meet his cheek, accompanied by a hitch of breath that was almost a sound.

With blurred vision John slid his arms fully around Gale, gathering him up to his chest and tucking Gale’s face into his neck. He kissed Gale’s temple, threading his fingers through the too-long hair at the back of Gale’s head, coarse from malnutrition and the harsh elements. Rubbing the strands between his fingers, he smoothed the other hand over Gale’s back and around his ribcage to fit between protruding bones, holding Gale’s body against him. Slowly Gale melted, pressing closer, and a horrible lump choked John and flooded his eyes.

“It’s alright, Buck,” he breathed shakily, squeezing tighter. “I’ve got you.”

[normal-about-the-dca]

Moon from Love Death and Rollerskates by @spadillelicious! Go read it please, it's so good! This is crayon and glitter glue on multimedia paper.

[bold-embrace]

Hobieee ♥️♥️

[clowningcrows]

is it horribly cringe to pick your new chosen name based off of your favorite book character (who is also ftm autistic!!) or is that like…. okay

[kettleghost]

I’ve seen a few people bestow the traffic come hat on Simon but I’m pretty sure you’re the first to make a proper AU of it, by which I mean going more into detail and all that jazz.

Im here for this and your amazing artwork. *Chef kiss*

HELLOOOOO first of all thank you so much!!!!!! im super glad people r interested in my iteration of a simon and betty swap au.. i have sooo so many thoughts about those two freaks, so it’s super cool knowing people enjoy my art of them!!!!! traffic cone hat simon is such a strange little fella…hope he explodes ALSO your drawing is soo so awesome!! i absolutely adore your style, i love how expressive it is, the way u draw eyes all jagged is SO so cool i love it!!!

replacing his hat with a traffic cone is such a funny idea i had to doodle it

[qsmp-construction-worker]

[samstarium]

HSBC ART TEAM KILLED IT

[nevlartery]

27. Problem

[ID: Nightwing and Red Robin running across rooftops away from some kind of bright light]

[cratersss]

Sleedging until I sleep :)