#Usually I say shit like “Not everyone is going to like you and you just have to accept that as okay”

[menlove]

if ur claiming ableism on this post i deeply need you to know you're exactly the type of person i'm talking about and you having adhd or autism doesn't make you above criticism. and i KNOW ur all white too. the fragility is painful and you are not immune to being told to grow the fuck up and in fact i'm telling u that now

you ever have situations that make you want to take people by the shoulders and go "you are not 15 any longer. this behavior is no longer quirky and cute. it is exhausting for you and everyone else to act like a teenager you haven't been in a decade or longer. knock it the fuck off"

[moralesluvr]

RE-TAKE | b. eilish.

ꨄ︎ delivering some more teacher!billie for you… <3

you’re halfway out the door when her voice stops you.

it’s a call of your name, laced with an angry and frustrated tone. you freeze, hand tightening on the strap of your bag. the classroom is empty now, the faint sound of footsteps fading down the hall as everyone clears out for the day.

but you’re still here.

you swallow thickly, turning on your heel to face your teacher. her hair that was previously flowing down her shoulders is now placed in a messy bun, her blazer already discarded on the back of her desk chair— now only clad in a white, too-tight button up and a black skirt.

“we need to talk,” miss eilish says, her voice low and steady. her eyes don’t leave you as you start to walk forward, and she tuts at you harshly.

“no, shut the door.”

your skin feels clammy as you shut the door behind you quietly, dropping your bag on the floor and standing next to the doorframe, awkwardly. the air is thick and hot with tension, and you’re even more scared because you already know what this is about.

it’s about the fucking quiz. the one you didn’t even finish because your mind was elsewhere, lost in a maze of thoughts that all seemed to lead back to her. it wasn’t your fault that miss eilish decided to wear tighter dress pants and a flowier, lower-cut top that day. she had looked so pretty, and she still had that hickey on her collarbone that you had given her the night before, that she tried so hard to cover up with that small collar of her polo.

“come here,” billie says, snapping you out of your intrinsic thoughts. your feet move before your brain can catch up, carrying you toward her.

she waits until you’re standing in front of her desk before holding up the paper, “do you want to explain this?”

your eyes drop to the paper, to the bright red “F” scrawled at the top. even her handwriting was angry with you.

your face burns with shame, and you smooth your hands over your own skirt in hopes that it’ll calm you down. “i… i just had an off day,” you mumble, not even daring to meet eyes.

“an off day,” she repeats, her tone laced with amusement. she gives you a cocky, mocking nod, “that’s funny, because it seems like you’ve been having a lot of those lately. why is your shit not together?”

you swallow hard, your hands clenching at your sides. you don’t even dare to respond.

“look at me,” she says, and your heart stutters in your chest.

you lift your eyes, and there it is— that look she always gives you, the one that makes it impossible to breathe. she knows you down to a T, and her eyes are sharp, knowing of you, like you’re her prized possession.

“you really are better than this,” she says softly, leaning forward, her elbows resting on the desk. “i know you are.”

you nod, your throat too tight to speak. you fight for your eyes not to drift down to her exposed cleavage, so you flutter them shut before you make any more mistakes.

“but…” she trails off, tilting her head slightly, a loose strand of her black hair slipping over her shoulder. “i’m not happy with you. the retake date has already passed, so you’re going to have to show me that you want to pass my class.”

the way she’s looking at you, eyes slit and low, nearly makes you fall to the floor that your shoes keep twisting on, anxiety fueling you.

truth is, billie was always so big on not fucking you in school. it just seemed too risky, but today, it was like she couldn’t care less. she was already pulled closer to you now, unbuttoning your cardigan slowly as you gulped.

“what—what does that mean? i thought…” you stammer, but she just continues with undressing you, her smirk deepening.

“you’re my smart girl,” billie says, her voice like honey. she passes you a wink, “i think you’ll figure it out.”

that nearly kills you. your cardigan’s now on the floor, discarded like it’s worth nothing— and it really isn’t worth anything, not in this moment.

billie doesn’t kiss you with the usual softness she gives you, she kisses you like you mean nothing to her, like you’re worthless, like you’re just her pathetic little student who can never pay attention in class.

it’s quick, the way that billie rips your clothes off, propping you up on her desk as she fumbles around in a locked drawer of her desk, pulling out a thicker, longer, harder strap that you’ve never seen in your life.

“what the—?” you speak shyly, half due to confusion and half because there’s no way she’s going to use that on you. but your eyes turn wide as saucers when you see her slip her skirt and panties off, slipping on the strap and fastening it to her liking.

she pulls you by the hips without saying a word, the tip of the faux cock aligned with your entrance as her tattooed hand snakes around your throat, “don’t fucking talk at all, you hear me? you’ve done all the talking you need to in my class, giggling and whispering instead of doing your work. such a slut..”

you wince as the strap stretches your cunt out, your walls stretching to accommodate how fucking big it was. billie starts off slow, but that doesn’t last for long— she slams into you at a brutal pace, your stomach twisting as her hand slaps over your mouth to block your moans.

“shut up.” she seethes in your ear, her free hand kneading at your ass as her grip on your lips tightens, “you wanna get caught? you want someone to come in here and see me fucking you like this?”

you think her question is rhetorical until she slaps the flesh of your thigh, pushing you to answer her. and she lets you, her hand coming off of your mouth so you can mumble quietly, “n-no! please, billie….i’m so sorry…”

your eyes blink away tears as you feel a mix of pain and pleasure erupt in your abdomen, and it almost feels like too much, the way she’s fucking into you so hard. but deep down, you wanted this, wanted her to put you in your place. you wanted to fail that quiz so you could be where you are right now— legs shaking, pussy clenched against her strap. it was so wrong, but it felt so right.

a moan passes through your plump lips, and it makes billie’s frustration with you only worse. it’s like something snaps in her, the pace that she’s fucking you at almost seeming inhumane as your ass collides with her thighs, the sound echoing off of the classroom’s walls.

“such a dirty whore,” billie growls, her lips right against your ear, “know you could do much better in my class, but you’re just so distracted… may have to have a talk with the counselor, hm? do you need to be switched to another teacher?”

“n-no! miss eilish…please, wanna stay with you…wanna stay in your class…” you whine pathetically, and billie chuckles at how desperate you look.

tears find themselves streaming down your cheeks as you feel your orgasm closer and closer, your pussy clenching around the strap sporadically. almost inaudible whines leave your lips as you fight to stay upright, “i-i’m close— m’gonna cum, please, i—“

“cum for me.” billie orders, though her voice still drips honey. her hand snakes between your legs to rub your clit, assisting you through your orgasm as you heave, your cum sticky and hot as it races down the length of billie’s strap and onto her thighs.

billie fucks into you slowly a few more times before pulling out, watching as your cum seeps out of your cunt and onto your clit, glistening in the dim lighting of her classroom. billie gives you a kiss on your back, “good job, my girl— took me so fucking well.”

you thank her through puffy lips and teary eyes, laying on your back on her desk as she flips your paper over, writing a new grade on the front.

A+. Good job. :)

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[saveyourblood]

Roll the Dice (Buddie x Reader)

Summary: Buck makes a humming noise, rubbing his lips in thought. “I could do it.” You and Eddie share a look. Eddie is the first to test the waters. “Do what?” “Give someone a lap dance.” The one where you're best friends with Buck and Eddie, the three of you are drunk, and the topic of lap dances comes up.

Word Count: 2.4k Prompt (from @happyhauntt): buddie and reader are hanging out and drinking maybe and maybe they're watching magic mike as a joke or they had a call to a strip club earlier that day and buck asks reader who they think would give a better lapdance, buck or eddie, reader bluescreens and they both give a demonstration. A/N: This was such a fun write! Thanks for letting me steal your idea, Ollie! You can find their work on AO3 too. :^) Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays everyone! Warnings: Spice (not smut), drinking, mentions of vomiting

It started with beer. 

Well, it started with the boys drinking beer. 

You’ve never been a big fan of beer. You’ll occasionally indulge in something on tap at a fancy bar, but other than that, it isn’t your drink. And that cheap shit that Buck buys at the corner store? Absolutely not. 

So, it started with the boys drinking beer and you drinking a canned cocktail. 

See, Buck may have bad taste, but he has a good heart. He always has a 6-pack of cheap beer in his fridge, but since you started coming over, you notice he always has a 12-pack of ready-to-drink canned cocktails. You know he doesn’t drink them; he buys them for you. 

You really don’t drink that much, in terms of both frequency and amount. It takes a singular drink for you to feel a nice buzz, and really, that’s all you need. You’ve never had the desire to get blackout drunk, and more than three drinks gives you a raging headache in the morning. 

You were only going to have one, maybe two drinks, just like you usually do. 

But then Eddie found the fucking tequila. 

“Where’d you even get that?” you giggle. You'd be embarrassed by the sound if you were even a little bit sober. Thankfully, you’re halfway through your second can, and any sense of embarrassment is filled by the warm pool of alcohol in your stomach. 

“Maddie made margaritas the night I moved in,” Buck says, raising his beer bottle to his lips. 

The boys are both on their third beers, but between the lower alcohol content and their stronger tolerances, they aren’t as drunk as you are. Hopefully, the tequila will even the score. 

“Where did she buy it?” Eddie laughs as he inspects the bottle. 

It’s cheap: you can tell that much by looking at it. It’s a 1.75 liter plastic bottle — not exactly top shelf. You expected nothing less from Maddie, since she doesn’t strike you as a girl who sips high-end tequila. No, she’s more like the girl who makes way too strong margaritas and bullies her brother into taking shots in the kitchen. 

Buck shrugs. “Grocery store, probably.”

Eddie starts looking through the cabinets. “You got a blender?”

Buck snorts. “I have shot glasses.”

“I’m not doing shots,” you laugh. “Tequila shots and I have… a bad relationship.” 

Eddie gives you a look. “What type of relationship?” 

“Whatever type ends in me throwing up in someone’s sink.”

Buck tips his head back and cackles. “You did that?! You?!”

“I just graduated from the Academy and went out with some classmates to celebrate,” you explain, cheeks flushing as you smile. “It started with bar hopping and ended with tequila shots at someone’s house.”

“Sounds like it actually ended with you throwing up in someone’s sink,” Eddie points out. 

“And you’re trying to make it happen again!” You accuse as Eddie continues scouring the kitchen. “Shame on you, Diaz!”

“Hey, it would be nice to see the most professional member of the 118 get a little crazy,” Buck says. 

You snort again. “I’m the most professional member of the 118?”

“Professional isn’t the right word,” Eddie says, finally finding a cocktail shaker. 

“Formal?” Buck proposes, looking to the other man. 

Eddie hums in consideration as he fills the shaker with ice, leaving the tequila on the island. “Classy?”

Buck shakes his head. “No, that’s not it either.”

Eddie sets the shaker, now filled with ice, on the island. He then opens the fridge door and comes back with lime juice. “Proper?”

“Proper,” Buck agrees, leaning his hip on the island. His body is turned towards Eddie, watching him as he pours the ingredients into the shaker. 

“Proper,” you echo, your lips wrapping around the word as you say it. “How exactly am I proper?” 

“I don’t know,” Buck says after taking another sip. “Just… the way you carry yourself, I guess.”

“How specific.”

Buck flicks a beer cap, previously sitting on the island, at you. You try to catch it, but it slides off the table before you can catch it. You flip him off. 

“Not so proper anymore,” Eddie remarks. 

The tequila takes you by the hand and leads the three of you into Buck’s living room. You’re on your second margarita on the rocks, courtesy of Edmundo Diaz. The boys decide to take two shots each, back to back, and simply watching them kind of made you sick. 

“You are so full of shit!” you yell. 

You don’t know much at this moment, other than the fact that you’re completely and entirely drunk. Not wasted, not blackout. You’re in that sweet spot where you’re sober enough to know that you’re being obnoxious but too intoxicated to care. As someone who normally presents as ‘proper’ (apparently),  it’s a combination akin to fire and kerosene — absolutely ruthless. 

“I am not!” Buck laughs.

Buck claims he’s never had a lap dance, and you don’t believe him for a second. 

You’re not entirely sure how you got on this topic. It definitely didn’t start like this, that you’re almost entirely most likely probably sure of. It had something to do with the ‘old partners’ discussion. Or maybe the ‘craziest night out’ swapping of stories. It’s hard to tell — you’ve cycled through several topics tonight, and you’ll be lucky to remember half of them. 

“Eddie, do you believe him?”

Eddie chuckles as he raises his hands. “I’m staying out of this one.”

Like you or Buck would let that happen.

“What about you, hotshot?” Buck asks, cocking an eyebrow. “You ever had a lap dance?” 

Eddie’s eyes narrow slightly, almost like he’s sizing up Buck. It makes the alcohol in your belly burn a little warmer. 

“Once,” Eddie eventually answers. 

You turn your head to the side like a curious dog. “Oh?”

“Do tell,” Buck says, leaning forward. 

“It was at my shitty excuse of a bachelor party,” Eddie explains, taking a sip of his fourth beer. “One of my friends in Texas insisted. We went out to a strip club, he paid for it, and… that’s it.” 

“He paid for it,” you echo. “What a gentleman.” 

Sitting in the armchair, Eddie gently kicks your leg on the coffee table. You giggle, pulling both your legs back onto the couch. Buck, at the other end of the couch, puts his feet in your lap. 

“You’re being awfully quiet,” he observes. “Have you?”

You snort. “Have I ever had a lap dance?”

“Or given one.”

You press into the nailbed on one of Buck’s toes using your thumb. He yelps and pulls his legs back. 

“Half an hour ago, you were calling me ‘proper.’ Now, you’re asking if I’ve given someone a lap dance,” you recall. You turn to Eddie. “Can you believe him?”

“Absolutely not,” Eddie says as he shakes his head. “...Have you, though?”

Buck cackles as you kick Eddie’s leg. 

“I’ve never given anyone a lap dance,” you answer loudly. “I almost got one, though.” 

Both the boys raise their eyebrows.

“Do you remember that call we went on a few months back? To a male strip club?”

“Yeahhh,” Buck says. At some point, he replaced his beer bottle with the tequila bottle, which he’s now cradling like a baby. “What was that place called? Thirsty?”

“Just Thirst, I think,” Eddie remarks. “The one where a dancer rolled his ankle, right?”

You nod. “One of his buddies offered me a dance for being such a great first responder.”

Buck smiles and takes a swig of the tequila, wincing as it goes down. You nudge his knee, then pull your fingers towards yourself, gesturing for the bottle. Buck’s smile looks a little more cocky, but he hands the bottle over anyways. 

“You didn’t accept, huh?”

You sip a  little more of the tequila than you should. You can’t help it — it goes down so easily, leaving nothing but fuzzy warmth in its wake. You’ll regret it tomorrow, but for now, you’re basking in it. “Not really my thing.”

“Not even for the story?” Eddie asks. 

“You don’t get to be the ‘proper’ one by doing something ‘for the story,’” you counter. 

Eddie makes a face of contemplation as he reaches for the bottle. “Fair.” 

“You are really hung up on that word,” Buck notes. 

“It was… surprising, that’s all,” you chuckle. 

Buck makes a humming noise, rubbing his lips in thought. “I could do it.”

You and Eddie share a look. Eddie is the first to test the waters. “Do what?” 

“Give someone a lap dance.” 

You can feel your face get hot. You swallow the lump that suddenly took residence in your throat. 

Meanwhile, Eddie laughs. “You’ve never gotten a lap dance, but you think you can give one?” 

Buck shrugs, leaning one elbow on his knee. “Why not? I’ve seen Magic Mike.” 

“You’ve seen Magic Mike but never gotten a lap dance,” Eddie continues after taking a swig of liquor. “That makes sense.” 

You reach for the bottle, which Eddie grants you. You take a long drink, gulping a few times. Pulling the bottle back, you use your thumb to wipe your bottom lip. “Do your worst, Buckley.”

He turns his head to stare at you. He huffs out a laugh, looking at you the whole time. “What?” 

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” you continue, leaning back in the couch. You prop one arm on the back and the other on the armrest, the tequila bottle hitting the end table in the process. “You’ve never given a lap dance, I’ve never gotten one. We’ll pop each other’s cherries.” 

You’d never say any of this sober. Shit, you’d never say any of this two drinks in. You’re in so much deeper than that now; between the margs and the sips, you’ve had at least 6 shots. You can practically feel the alcohol in your blood. It’s hot, thick, and wanting. 

You're 100% throwing up in Buck's sink tomorrow.

You blink, and Buck is on top of you. His hands press into the back of the couch, holding his weight so he can be face-to-face with you. If the booze in your veins is hot, then his breath on your lips is fucking scalding. 

He lifts his hips and brings them back down in a rippling motion: he’s grinding on you. You giggle, high-pitched and shameless. You move your hands to cover your mouth. You can’t wrap your head around the idea that this is actually happening. 

Buck sits up straighter in your lap. He’s careful to keep his weight on his knees, which are on either side of your legs. He puffs his chest before rolling his shoulders forward and his ass backwards on your thighs in a fluid motion. You can feel the friction of his pants on your bare legs. You thank your past self for choosing to wear shorts. 

He gently takes your wrists, moving your hands from your mouth to his chest. He’s fully clothed, so you’re dragging your hands down his sweater. Still, you can feel the rippling of his muscles under his shirt. You throw your head back in laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of it, but you know the burning in your stomach is no longer entirely thanks to the liquor. 

“Not bad,” Eddie critiques from his seat. 

You laugh harder. 

“What, you can do better?” Buck challenges. 

Eddie narrows his eyes again before smirking. He pushes himself out of the chair, shooing Buck away with his hand. 

Buck raises his hands in surrender, turning on one knee before flopping on the couch beside you. 

“This isn’t happening,” you laugh, shaking your head like you’re trying to wake yourself up from a dream. 

You’ve had a crush on both of them since the first time you saw them. How could you not? They are completely and utterly gorgeous men. When you realized how funny and caring they both are, it just sealed the deal. You never, in your wildest imagination, pictured yourself in a situation like this with either of them, let alone both of them. 

Not that you’re complaining, of course.

Eddie takes Buck’s place, only he’s towering over you since he’s standing instead of sitting. He puts his hands on your sides, trailing down to your thighs. You shudder under his touch, hoping it isn’t noticeable. The way the corner of his mouth turns up tells you that it’s definitely noticeable. 

Eddie’s hands reach your knees, which he loops his fingers under. In a swift motion, he pulls your legs up and presses his body against yours. You yelp in surprise and wrap your legs around his back, somehow pulling him closer. 

His hands move to your back, and he picks you up. You yelp again, astonished by the ease he can lift you. You shouldn’t be so shocked, considering his career. When his grasp moves from your back to your ass, though, he’s no longer Firefighter Diaz; he’s Eddie, the man you have a crush on. And the man who’s currently holding your ass. 

Eddie turns on his heel and carefully lays you on Buck’s coffee table, which makes you cackle again. Your laughter dies in your throat when Eddie places himself over you again. Your chests are touching, as are your noses. 

You look into Eddie’s eyes, and it’s as if you can suddenly read his mind. “Dancers aren’t supposed to kiss the clientele.”

Eddie smiles again. It’s the kind where only one corner of his mouth curls up, and his lips shift to the side. “Good thing I’m not a dancer.”

His lips meet yours, and it’s nothing but heat. He tastes like a mix of cheap beer and tequila, and if you weren’t already, you could get drunk off of it. Your tongues meet and separate like lovers on a dance floor. When you’re out of breath, you wonder if you could suck the air out of his lungs, just to keep you connected to him for a little longer. 

Eddie pulls away first, his chest heaving desperately for air. 

“You lose,” Buck remarks. 

“How did I lose?”

“It was a competition?” you interject. 

“It’s called a lap dance,” Buck points out. “That wasn’t in her lap.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes fondly. They eventually settle on your mouth. “Eh, I think I won.” 

[ily-fictional-women]

Holiday Spirit

Summary: The Christmas spirit is something that should always be shared 

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader + platonic!Maria Hill x fem!reader

Warnings: Not proofread (yet)

Word count: 1155

a/n: Happy holidays! I’ll try and get out another fic that isn’t about Christmas sooner than later for those who don’t celebrate. Sorry again for this being so late. (Reblogs are welcome and critiques/advice are heavily encouraged, but please no translating.)

Tossing her duffle bag on the floor Y/n flops onto her bed face first with a sigh of relief. Missions can last longer than expected sometimes— but it’s worse when they’re stake-out missions that last longer than expected. Almost on the edge of sleep, there is a knock on the door to her bunk.

Y/n groans into her pillow, “Who is it?” 

“It’s Santa, and you, my trusty elf, are needed in my toy factory.” Begrudgingly Y/n gets out of bed opening the door with Maria on the other side. Maria grins, “You look like shit.” Shooting Maria a quick glare Y/n rolls her eyes. “This,” Y/n gestures to her face, “is due to a twenty four hour solo stake-out mission. Also, you do know you’re only an inch taller than me right? If I’m an elf, so are you.” 

“Woah woah woah, no need to get defensive Y/l/n. Anyways, I just came by to see if you were up for Christmas with my Mom again this year. Maybe you could even bring Natasha, I’ve been telling my Mom about you and her.” 

“Yeah I’ll go, and that’s a good idea. I’ll ask her later tonight.” Maria nods before walking away, “Great!” Before closing the door Y/n catches her, “Oh and Hill, what have you been  telling your Mom?” 

Maria smiles, “Just the truth and what I see, you two are good together don’t worry.” 

//

Softly knocking on the door Natasha opens it, “Hey detka, how did the mission go?” Y/n shrugs still tired after the nap she took. “It was okay, are you busy right now though?” Cracking a smile Natasha rolls her eyes, “For you? Never, get in here.” 

“You look nice right now by the way.”

“Are you serious?” Natasha asks as they both begin to lounge on the small bed in the room. Y/n sits up a little to face Natasha better, “Yeah I’m serious, the messy half up half down bun look is cute. I like it a lot. Plus it’s just nice to see you in non-mission clothes.” 

“Well then thank you.” Natasha tucks one of Y/n’s stray hairs away abstenmindly beginning to play with it, “Did you need something though?” 

“Right, yeah. I just wanted to ask if you wanted to come with Maria and I to her Mom’s place for Christmas. I usually have fun but I think it’d be more fun with you there.” 

“I’d love that.”

//

Ringing the doorbell there’s an immediate faint sound of bells jingling. The door swings open to the sight of Elizabeth Hill in a ugly Christmas sweater coverd in bells, pom poms, and LED lights. 

“Girls!” Elizabeth immediately pulls all three women into a tight hug. “Hi mom.” Maria pats the woman on the back struggle to move. “It’s good to see you too Beth,” Y/n croaks out being sandwiched between the other women.  

Letting go of everyone Elizabeth begins shaking Natasha’s hand vigorously, “It’s good to me you by the way Natasha. Maria has told me a lot of good things about you. Oh I love your shirt! Is it red silk or-” Maria quickly interrupts. “Mom. Can we come inside.” 

“Oh! Yes, yes everyone come in! And Maria dear, maybe you would be warmer if you had a leather jacket with some lining like a told you last year.” Entering the home it is fully covered in decorations of candycanes and colorful lights with a large tree in the living room decorated with a mix of generic ornaments and homemade ones over the years. 

In the dinning room though sits two premade gingerbread house surrounded by bowls of snacks to decorate them with. Elizabeth smiles, “Now usually I buy one for everyone but I figured since we have even numbers this year we could do teams. Lets say mother and daughter versus the cute new couple?” 

Natasha grabs a piping bag of icing giving Elizabeth a mock scowl, “Absolutly just know you’re going to loose.”

“Ooh I like that energy, Maria dear you need to bring someone home like her.” As Maria sighs rolling her eyes Y/n looks at Natash with a quirked eyebrow and a grin. Natasha looks up from the ginger bread house and at Y/n, “What? I can be competitive. Now are you going to help or not?” 

As Y/n gives a nod of confirmation the kitchen dining table immediately becomes a battlefield. Icing tubes all over the table like artillery, random cadies spread out like ammunition, and a mix of orders and arguing coming from the mouths of both teams. On one side of the table being Maria and Elizabeth who are arguing about candy cane placement. 

The other side consisting of Natasha and Y/n with Natasha so lazer focused on the gingerbread house she making to notice the mess beginning to grow around it on herself. On the other hand Y/n is making and decorating marshmallow people as instructed by Natasha. 

Looking up at the enemies across from them Elizabeth uses the last trick she can think of to try and get ahead. She blurts out, “Natasha did you know Y/n and Maria made a band in highschool.” 

“Mom!” 

“Beth!”

As Maria and Y/n both yell at the woman at the same time Natasha looks up from the gingerbread house slowly putting down the gumdrops she was using to decorate with. “Do you have pictures,” Natasha asks as she moves closer the woman. Elizabeth grins mischevously, “Better. I have pictures, videos, and the shirts they made for the band.” 

“Oh I need to see this.” Natasha follows Elizabeth to the livingroom as Maria and Y/n look at eachother mortified. Hearing giggling already begin to erupt from the living room Y/n launches a distraction. 

“Nat, under any circumstances do not come back in here. I may or may not have messed up the gingerbread house.” In the blink of an eye Natasha is standing in the doorway of the dinning room staring daggers into Y/n.

“You. Did. What?” Y/n puts up her hands defensively slowly walking up to her, “Nothing. I did nothing. I was just trying to steal you away for a minute.” Natasha lets out a sigh of relief, “Don’t do that again.” 

“Sure, sure. But I will be honest with you it’s kind hard to take you seriously when you have frosting on your nose,” as Y/n says that she wipes it off for her leading to a sudden flash near them. 

The two look over to see Elizabth taking out a small picture from a polaroid before pointing above the two. “Misltoe you two!” Elizabeth says with glee as she readies her camera. As the two kiss and a camera flashes once more Natasha smiles softly at Y/n, “This is a great Christmas, thank you.”

[thenewestxmen]

I am convinced that Wade had a really hard adjustment when Logan came into his life.

After I called after Logan when we returned to my home universe, I welcomed him into that shitty apartment. The only thing I regret informing Logan of is that it was a one bed apartment with a pull out couch. The second I got home. I introduced Althea to Logan and Logan, Althea. That night as everyone was welcoming Logan, mini Logan, and I back home, I announced we would in fact be moving out. Al already sometimes pays rent, and her disability insurance and checks should cover her. Logan doesn’t have money so he will stay with me, at least until he scrapes up enough money or sobriety to get his own place. That night, Wolverine takes the floor. 

“You can take the bed, I can take the floor unless you’re feeing a little hot.”

“The floor will do fine.” He says in a firm voice. He’s pretty much too tired to argue or call me a bitch. 

As I lay awake, insomnia slapping me across my ugly nutsack of a face, weirdly the only thing I can think of is what Logan said in the Honda Odyssey. The few hours ago, Vanessa had come over, she started to brag about Dermot or whatever his name was. “You couldn’t save a relationship with a god damn stopper!” His voice rang in my ears. “Gimme the dog and talk to the girl.” He had said. What’s the point? Some boring guy at her workplace was able to land her and I couldn’t. Figures, when I met her I literally paid her to tolerate me. I have no clue why she stayed after that. I attempted to flirt, but honestly… I’m not interested. I know, I know. I was willing to go back in time to get her back when she died, I know I blew myself up too. But honestly, what is so great… not to sound rude, but honestly, I’m a world famous merc and literally unable to die, so messed up I got an amazing sense of humor. And she was a stripper and left me when things got a little rough. I chatted with her a bit at the homecoming party, but after that, my eyes wandered… to Logan. Aw shit. The guys is hot. Come one Wade, pull yourself together!

Now I’m laying on the pull out, he’s three feet from me, sleeping and snoring softly. But still even though I’m just now realizing how incredibly handsome he is, how perfect even, it’s not the first time I’ve felt attracted to him. In the void, he held my hand and decided to die with me to help me. But even after he did so, his hurtful words still ring in my ears. My stomach weirdly hurts, like a cold pit dropped down my throat. That when I realize my face feels hot, and burning teas stream down my face. This doesn’t often happen, or at least not usually when I’m insulted. But Logan’s words really hit me hard I guess, and just now, as the words sink in a bit more, they push and force the salty hot tears out of me.

“Hmm… Wade?” I hear from behind me. Logan woke up and heard me… quickly I wipe the tears and turn to face Logan, resting my head back on the pillow. I hope my face isn’t too red and puffy, even through the darkness and lighting my scars make.

“Sleeping soundly peanut?” I say in a sexual voice. Although my dumbass self forget that little Angelbaby has great senses. I can see it on his face. He smells my salty tears.

“Why the fuck are you crying?” Logan says in tired deep voice.

“Im not crying, it’s just the moonlight reflecting off of your sugary tits into my eyes, so they look all shiny.” I say, half assed excuse. Obviously he doesn’t buy it and gets up, walking over to me, and starts laying on the other side of the pull out. 

“What’s wrong bub.” Why the hell do people ask that question when I’m trying not to cry?! I just burst into tears. 

“You… I… I can’t do anything right… you’re stuck we me, in my own universe! In my shitty apartment, stuck with a nutsack faced fucking failure.” I say in gasps for breath. He just pulls me in, holding me for a moment as my chest hurts and strains. Everything’s a wreck, I don’t want this life. I don’t want to live forever, I don’t want to be a merc or car salesman, I don’t want to be depended on. Logan just hushes me.

“It’s alright…” he says. He’s awful at this comfort shit but his deep smooth voice and warm embrace is rather soothing. He allows me to cry, soaking his shirt. I cry until I’m trembling and my jaw and chest hurts. Even when I stop because of the pain, he holds me. Everything is a mess and I want everything to be all better. I’m moving and the Wolverine is depending on me for a place to live and I am a mess and can’t have a good relationship with anyone… the closest thing to one is with my blind elderly roommate who despises me. Logan rocks back and forth, hushing and humming. He will occasionally say, “it’s ok Wade…” or something. My chest starts to stop aching and I just let him hold me, letting my eyelids close. I don’t know what I’ll do tomorrow, and I’m not looking to finding out. Everything’s a mess, and it’s all my mess.

authors note: should I turn this into another fic series? This is going well, I think I could go off this into a series, idk. Sorry I didn’t post this earlier, it took a while to write this bcs I was busy.

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

your desi reader fics make me feel so seen 🥹 can I request an oscar x desi reader fic? maybe of them like watching a bollywood movie together bc I just know he’d ask a gazillion questions bc it doesn’t make sense but they’re not meant to follow logic bro just enjoy 😭

Just Pure Feeling -`♡´-

☾ op x desi!reader ༊*·˚

☾ fluff ༊*·˚

masterlist ☾☼

It was a cozy evening in your apartment. The low thrum of the ceiling fan and the smell of dinner you'd just had clung to the air. You sat cross-legged on the couch, surrounded by cushions in every colour imaginable, with the warm dimming of fairy lights softening the room.

Oscar was staring at the TV screen, seemingly befuddled; he had somehow found himself snuggled next to you. His usual biting wit and calm demeanor seem to have deserted him utterly.

The film? Ah, Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham—one of your favorites, the great family epic of love, drama, and much else more.

You glanced over at him, trying not to laugh. He was taking this whole Bollywood thing very seriously.

"Okay, so… let me get this straight," Oscar said, pausing the movie just as a dramatic scene of Shah Rukh Khan running across the airport flashed on the screen. “Why does he look like he’s running through a storm of rose petals?”

You laughed, taking the remote control from his hand and played the movie. "It's a Bollywood film, Oscar. It's not about the logic. It's about the emotions".

He blinked twice, eyebrows furrowed in incomprehension. "He's just… running? Like, why is he running in slow motion? And what's with the over-the-top background music? No one does this shit in real life".

"Oh, trust me. It's all part of the charm," you said with a grin, squeezing his arm. "It's the drama, the flair, the passion. It's what makes it special."

Oscar shook his head, still processing what he'd just witnessed. "But why is everyone crying so much? Like, for a movie that literally means 'sometimes happiness, sometimes sadness', I've only seen sadness till now. And why is everyone wearing these elaborate outfits for literally every occasion?"

"Because they're expressing their feelings, Oscar! Emotions are bigger than life here. And don't even get me started on the fashion—it's a cultural thing. The more bling, the better." You laughed at his confused expression. "You'll get used to it. It's about the spectacle."

He furrowed his brow, not satisfied. "Spectacle? The movie's just one melodrama after another! A huge family reunion, and now everyone's hugging… Did he just turn away from his family for years over a misunderstanding?"

You bit your lip to hold in a chuckle. "Yep. That's what makes it Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham — sometimes you have happiness, sometimes sadness. It's all about the grand emotional journey."

Oscar gazed at the screen a few more seconds, his eyes wide. "Okay, but how do they have the energy to sing and dance in the middle of a serious conversation? Like, how does that happen?"

"Bollywood logic," you shrugged, as if that explained everything. "People break into song in the middle of a heartfelt discussion. They could be talking about how to solve world peace, and suddenly it's a dance number. It's magic, Oscar."

He rubbed his temples, clearly trying to keep up with the plot, but at least, he was trying. "But… they just lost their son in a family feud. Why is there a dance number in the middle of a tragedy? This makes no sense!"

You laughed so hard that you had to pause the movie for a moment, clutching your stomach. "Because, Oscar," you said, voice still bubbling with laughter, "it's a Bollywood film. It's a rollercoaster of emotions. You go from crying your eyes out to dancing in the rain in the blink of an eye."

Oscar blinked again, his eyes flicking between the screen and you, as if trying to make sense of it all. "So, what you're saying is… it's not supposed to make sense?"

"Exactly. You're supposed to feel it."

"Well, I'm definitely feeling something," Oscar muttered under his breath. "I just don't know what it is."

"Good!" You smirk at him, flicking him lightly on the shoulder. "Now stop overthinking it and enjoy the ride."

Oscar sank back into the couch with a heavy sigh, surrendering himself to not knowing anything. And yet, you could see the curiosity in his eyes amidst the confusion. "Fine, fine. No reasoning. Just.. pure feeling. Got it."

As the movie played, you snuggled closer to him, feeling his arm instinctively wrap around your shoulders. You felt him press a soft kiss on the top of your head.

"He's so pretty," You murmured at one point.

"Who? The actor?" Oscar asked immediately, sitting up a little straighter.

You hadn't realised that you had said it out loud, but you supposed that he was going to find out eventually.

"Shah Rukh Khan. He's so pretty," Your eyes were glued to the screen as you watched the actor go through his motions.

"You sound like you're in love with him," Oscar laughed, "Thank God, you're not, huh?"

You didn't respond, not wanting to lie to your boyfriend.

"You're not, right?" Oscar emphasised.

"Uh huh, sure. Of course I'm not, that'd be," you paused, sighing sadly, "stupid,"

Oscar shook his head. He didn't know what to say. His girlfriend had a crush on an actor that he was pretty sure had a wife and kids.

You had to admit, this was one of your favorite ways to share your world with him—watching him slowly come around to something so deeply ingrained in your culture, even if he couldn't fully grasp it yet.

A few moments later, when the screen changed to a song-and-dance number, Oscar let out a short laugh. "Alright, so, now they're all dancing on top of a moving car. Got it. Makes perfect sense."

You snorted. "Exactly! That's the spirit!"

You sat there side by side, watching the drama on the screen, but in the midst of it, something much more important was going on: the two of you were creating a beautiful little moment of your own. Not one that had to make sense, but one that simply existed, full of laughter, love, and the warmth of a shared experience.

And, hey, if Oscar cried at some point during the film, you were not supposed to know that. The usually emotionless man had lost the war with a simple Bollywood movie, and may have finally shed a tear or two.

And as the credits rolled, Oscar turned to you with a mock-serious expression. "Alright, I think I'm ready for the next one."

You grinned, already planning your next Bollywood movie marathon. It was clear that Oscar had a lot more questions to ask, but you had no doubt he'd be enjoying the journey every bit as much as you did.

"Get ready for Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge next," you said with a mischievous glint in your eye. "It's even more dramatic."

Oscar sighed dramatically, sinking into the couch. "This is going to be a long night."

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

okay, im ngl, i like this op x desi!reader way more than the previous one. i think i'm getting the hang of writing oscar a little bit. let me know if y'all like this one! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @greantii ; @anamiad00msday ; @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @justaf1girl ; @peterholland04

[firefly--bright]

hc request: snow angels with jean 🥹🩷

OOO HOHOHOH this is so CUTE im keeping this a modern au because thats what i prefer to write :') no gender/pronouns used for reader! :D

masterlist in pinned post! ❅ requests for headcanons are open!!!!! ❅ enter my taglist ❅

❅ ok ok so i imagine him being very begrudgingly into it. like its an incredibly snowy day right, and sasha connie and marco (and you, of course, by association) had dragged him out of bed.

❅ and his whole face is tinged a little red. he's wearing the first sweater he could find which just so happens to be the one his mom made for him, along with a big puffy black coat, a green checkered scarf and bright yellow gloves. not his first choice, fashion-wise, because all the colours are clashing, this looks fucking terrible, but you convince him it looks good enough to have fun and he has no choice but to agree.

❅ anyway. there's like small flakes of snow on his hair and at the corners of his eyes, and its a nice excuse for you to brush his hair with your hand. his nose is red. his lips are a little chapped and everytime he breaths it creates a small puff of air as a proof of his living. and hes building a snowman, with whatever materials all of you could find outside. no you dont have a carrot, who has the foresight for that? you make an executive decision to stick a very thin stick into the centre of the big snowball for his nose. jean complains about your art direction but gets distracted by the fact that connie's building boobs for it.

❅ every picture marco takes, jean is in the corner just standing. arms to his side. like slenderman. no smile. no pose. he's acting as though he hates this which pisses connie off just enough for him to fuck with jean more than usual.

❅ goes without saying but connie starts a snowball fight. and jean being ever-competitive HAS to strike back and now its a whole war but its mainly just jean and connie shouting at eachother while throwing poorly-formed balls of snow at eachother with terrible aim

❅ BACK TO THE MAIN POINT. during this whole. fight. both of them get really tired but now jean is fully smiling, because he's having fun, dammit, and you marco and sasha had gone inside somewhere during their feud to make hot chocolate and warm up some cookies because none of you had had anything to eat yet

❅ and connie immdieately runs inside the house when he hears you guys calling the both of them for food. and jean's all "HA YOU LOSER I WON. FUCK YOU. YOU THINK U COULD CHALLENGE ME?" but he doesnt follow connie inside

❅ and after a few minutes you decide to go out looking for him. his back is facing yours, and his foot is moving over the snow, creating a shape you cant really see. and you call out for him, and he just turns and waves you over to him

❅ turns out he was drawing both your initials in a heart with his foot :( and you HAVE to tease him. obviously.

❅ "youre so sappy i love you." "sappy? im doing the bare fucking minimum," "right." "youre the sappy one. making me hot chocolate and shit." "i made everyone hot chocolate. youre not special." "youre saying this after i made this artwork for you?" he says, smirk on his pink lips, faux offence twisted into his eyebrows and his arm finds it's way across your waist. "sorry, youre right. we should get this framed." "you think youre so smart, huh?" "you set a pretty low bar for it." "oh yeah?" and he starts fucknig tickling you because hes so fucking predictable, right, and you obviously end up loosing your already fragile balance and falling on your back into the snow.

❅ at first he's really apologetic but then he sees you smiling and rolls his eyes before collapsing next to you, cold ice pinpricking his skin despite the layers he wears.

❅ "you destroyed the heart i drew," he says. he wants to win this fake-fight. dumbass. "thats your fault." "right, blame me for your misjudgement-" "you tickled me!" "excuses, excuses." "im sorry, jean, for destroying your heart-" "my beautiful artwork," "- your beautiful artwork that deserved to be framed." "in a shrine. add that part." "no."

❅ its so cliche. he looks at you, his head turned to your direction, and sees your own breath fog up the sky and he thinks hiding his affection is reduntant because youre going to find a way to sneak it out of him somehow.

❅ and then you stretch out your arms, indenting the snow, waving them up and down. "im making new artwork." you say, and he loves you so much it makes him warm all over, imitating your motions with his long ass limbs, sounds of the snow crunching under his movements filling his ears along with your soft laughter.

❅ and after youre satisfied with the unseen outcome of your work, he complains about not being able to feel the tips of his ears and nose, and he helps you get up. you kiss his nose as compensation, and he kisses your forehead in return. "happy?" he asks, and you hum.

❅ "wait, we have to sign our names," you say before crouching down and writing your name under your snow angel, and then write his name under his, creating a heart after his name. he smiles softly after youre done, winding an arm around your shoulder to keep you warm but pretends its because "im so weak and hungry," to which you call him a drama queen. he spares a look behind the two of you to see the snow angels and cant help but wish it would never melt away.

also heres a moodboard. i couldnt help myself.

thank you for the request!! ive never. experienced snow before so im sorry for. any inaccuracies im going based off of my rom-com watching knowledge :') hope you liked it!! <3

taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic-again , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable , @candleohappiness , @zombiefiedskeivy

[velvetvexations]

i wanna say this is not said in anger or an attempt to say nonbinary people are privileged over binary trans people, thats certainly not the case, im just here to state my thoughts. the "binary trans people having the resources and genes to pass perfectly to match a changed gender marker in the eyes of cis society affords privilege to binary trans people" is disturbingly reminiscent of "if trans men pass perfectly they get cis male social privilege meaning trans men are oppressors" and ignores it for what it is - conditional hyperspecific privilege that a grand majority of binary trans people will not be able to access. it largely depends on where you live, access to hrt, and access to gender marker changes - being able to change one but not others(extremely common) is an instant out no matter how cis you appear.

as for spaces being less understanding of nonbinary people, i believe thats also a vary-by-location thing. ive been iced out of friend groups for being gnc and not wanting to id as nonbinary. ive been to trans groups and a trans event that was geared for trans women and nonbinary people without advertising that fact. seeking out community irl in the previous two states ive lived has left me usually the only binary trans man, and isolated and shoved aside for it.

it also inherently implies binary trans people's goals are to assimilate perfectly into cishetero society which is also rarely ever the case. and when we don't, we're punished for it by both cis and trans people. binary as an identity does not mean upholding the gender binary, like any other its a personal identity term, typically just meaning "a man" or "a woman". the "gnc binary people(too far from the binary)" feels like its missing the point and trying to other binary people who dont wish to perfectly assimilate which again, is not the grand majority of us.

again im not saying nonbinary people are privileged as a class above us. i dont believe any trans people are privileged above any others. some of us may have specific, rare access to conditional privilege in some situations but i feel like its splitting hairs to try to afford that some tangible place to split apart trans people, who are all one messy glob of Other Freaks to cis society. ive seen so much "binary trans people are privileged because they experience X and nonbinary people experience Y" when ive been living my whole life experiencing Y. i think a lot of us subconciously invent a new gender binary thats "binary(cis assimilationists)" and "nonbinary(everyone else)" and cling to the idea that binary people could never be treated as weird outliers and freaks.

one final go of this was not said in anger to that person's ask. i genuinely mean no ill will or attempt to shutdown discussion or claim that nonbinary people are privileged instead.

Yeah, like, I'll say that I am an example of a binary trans person who does not fit very well into the binary by virtue of my identification with being male and being proud of my "male" traits, so I don't have access to most of the relative benefits. Even being called "male" and having the symbol I like so much on all my shit is not necessarily the best because that always comes with the idea that I'm also necessarily a man, which I'm not and I really do not like being tagged as.

[cybershock24601]

While the Steam Winter Sale is still going, I wanted to recommend that everyone who missed what Origins brought to the table in Veilguard go check out Warhammer 40k: Rogue Trader because it hits the exact same spot Dragon Age Origins did when I first played it over a decade ago.

It's a grimdark setting with a fantastic story that still leaves you feeling like a triumphant hero (or dastardly villain if you so choose). There's great reactivity in the dialogue to your origin and choices throughout the game with no two playthroughs feeling exactly the same. The companions are all complex with interesting personal stories and every single one has a different relationship with each other with a number of them being outright antagonistic, and quite frankly the romances are all fantastic and heartfelt.

You can have an extreme bdsm dom/sub relationship with a drukhari and absolutely ruin the bastard by making him fall in love with you or romance the Most Repressed Man Ever by showing him genuine care and kindness or by letting him know you are down to clown (sexually) by throwing yourself at him at every opportunity or you can have a courtly love with an insane Space Princess who is always saying the most out of pocket shit you've ever heard and even more! Rogue Trader has some very well written and unique romances with 5 options to pick from in the base game and one from the DLC.

And unlike Origins, the fighting is actually fun in Rogue Trader! The game has a fantastic turn based combat system and incredibly customizable difficultly settings for whether you're looking to breeze through the story or take your time engaging with the tactical turn based combat.

Even if you know nothing about Warhammer 40k, I would check out this game because there is no good way to get into Warhammer lore but I think Rogue Trader does a great job as an introduction with a succinct but detailed codex, hyperlinks in dialogue to help explain important lore, and a story and companions that will introduce and get you invested in most of the major factions not only within the Imperium of Man but Warhammer as a whole as you engage with the myriad enemies of the Imperium.

If you liked the darker tone of Dragon Age, I think you'll find Warhammer is offering what you're looking for in terms of eternally fucked up societies but still has its moments of light fun and comedy because Rogue Trader does do a good job of acknowledging the silliness inherit to grimdark as you run around the Koronus Expanse with the equivalent a permit from the God Emperor saying "I can do what I want" and no one can really stop you because the God Emperor said so.

There's a complex morality system that rarely leaves you picking from a straight good or evil choice because the three party conviction system introduces some nuance to the tough decisions you'll face. Albeit the Heretic path is typically the evil for the sake of evil option, Dogmatic and Iconoclast are both interesting options as it often is the choice between lawful neutrality vs chaotic good. Dogmatic has you following the laws of the Imperium to the letter and sacrificing the few to save the many but also the Imperium kinda sucks so sometimes you're just being a dick. On the other hand while Iconoclast is the typical 'good guy' path, it's not always the best option as you are not automatically rewarded for being the hero and sometimes even outright punished for your altruistic intentions because this is Warhammer and everything is terrible all the time.

Also, I don't usually recommend DLC but pick up the Season Pass while you can because Void Shadows adds in another 15 hours or so to the game, substantially fleshes out running your spaceship, gives you a whole new romanceable companion, and a really fun story about rooting out a genestealer cult that has taken up residence on your ship and had a couple plot twists in there that took me way off guard. The second DLC, Lex Imperialis is due to drop sometime early next year and if it's anything like the first one for this game, it's going to knock it out of the park.

If all this is not enough to convince you to play the game, there is a whole quest in the game that's just waiting in line at the Space DMV and I think for that alone Rogue Trader should get a million Game of the Year Awards.

[desired-misery]

Chris launches himself backwards— not fast enough to escape the white hot bolt of—

fear. Not—

Nothing in the chamber. Nothing tearing through his throat—

Chris trips over a body because Leon isn't one. Leon's eyes are opening, rust-red lips and teeth bared in a silent snarl. Everyone else steps forward, weapons raised—

“Leon!” Piers’ incredulous shout breaks everyone's instinctive reactions.

Stops Chris' primitive impulse to cover his neck, his brain still filling in what should have happened if Leon had a spare bullet left—

Stops Bravo from shooting, anticipating a hostile, context telling them a dead man moving is a bioweapon threat to eliminate—

And maybe Leon stops not because he recognizes any of them, but because he cannot possibly have the strength. He certainly doesn't have the ammunition. God, how the fuck is he alive—

Chris scrambles back, gets a hand over Leon’s shaking one, on the pistol— holy fuck, it's jammed, not empty— to disarm him. To keep Leon from moving because his gasp of air is so shallow, so ragged— how the fuck isn't he dead— if he isn't dead yet, surely he is on the way, he has a knife shoved into his chest where his heart should be—

“Hey,” Leon protests, his voice horribly hoarse, failing to keep Chris from taking his pistol away. “I need that.”

“Fucking hell, Leon!” Chris is relieved, absolutely, but he can't stop himself from feeling a wave of anger, too.

Leon’s eyes are dull, only half open. He always looks exhausted, but his eyes look sunken in, the skin around his eyes as dark as a bruise. Literally, deathly pale—

Chris pulls off his helmet so Leon can see his face, so Leon can stop his scarily weak attempt to get Chris' hands off of him, to sit up because Chris is terrified if Leon moves, he is going to finish bleeding out—

“Leon, Leon, stop! You're hurt, stop, please.”

It takes way too many seconds for Leon to focus on him, to hear him. For his gaze to refocus, settle on Chris’ face, for recognition to hit. Leon stops moving, letting his right hand drop back into his lap. His left has stayed by his side, limp.

“Jesus! Leon, how the fuck—?”

“Get him?” Leon asks— and this isn't the first time Chris has seen Leon speak through a blood-filled mouth, but this is even more unsettling because it is clotted, spills over his lips in clumps.

“Shoot him in the back. For me.” Leon eases his head back, grimacing. Showing the thick, dried bloody path that dripped down his throat, to his shirt. There is a dark stain around the knife hilt, smaller than Chris would initially expect—

“What?” Chris asks.

“Who?” Hunnigan asks in Chris’ ear, tone sharp.

“My partner. His knife,” Leon says, baring teeth. “Backstabbed— well, front-stabbed me.”

“Oh?” Hunnigan asks.

Chris does not know her real well, but he only needs to hear that singular word to know that Hunnigan is about to handle whatever unlucky sonofabitch thought they could get away with this.

Chris shifts his hand to Leon’s good shoulder, finding it hard to not stare at the fucking knife sticking out of Leon’s chest. No wonder they all thought Leon was dead— besides the knife in him— his chest is barely moving.

“Stay super still for me, Leon, you can't move right now—”

Leon’s smirk is faint, almost nothing more than a ghost of a twitch. “No worries, not moving. Don't think I can.”

“You don't have to do anything right now, Leon, just—”

“I can't, Chris. Can't feel anything below, well…”

Chris stumbles on what to say. Leon’s smirk grows.

“Damn, relax. Probably good I'm not feeling anything. That shit really hurt there for a while.”

Chris’ hand finds Leon’s, feels how cold and stiff his fingers are. He glances down. Under the blood, the skin is a dusty purple. Hypoxic.

“You really do like to shoot first, ask questions later, huh?” Piers asks, stepping close and kneeling down so Leon can see him, too.

Leon’s smile is barely there, but Chris can tell he made an attempt. “I, ah, don't usually have friendlies around me to worry about.”

Piers smiles back, badly. “Not if you act like that, you won't.”

“I don't want them,” Leon says. “My supposed friendly did this to me.” He takes a gulping, but still shallow breath. It is taking so much effort to talk. “Thought he was coming back to finish me off.”

Chris cannot help the shudder that runs down his spine. Leon would have killed him if his gun didn't jam. If he had even a little more strength to eject the round properly by not limp-wristing it. Not able to say that, Chris just lifts the pistol and angles it so Leon can see the case caught on the slide.

“Fuck,” Leon says. He clumsily touches the brass, then closes his eyes. “The last time that gun jammed like it, it saved me from being shot.”

“You’re the luckiest unluckiest man I've ever met,” Chris says.

The corner of Leon’s mouth twitches.

Piers is standing there to meet him, half-blocking the way to where Leon is—

“I can do it, Chris—”

“No, I will.”

Piers’ frown is unsteady. He has had less practice than Chris has; Chris won't make him to spare his own feelings. But when Chris steps past, Piers follows. A few strides behind, but still he follows. Chris does not have it in him to tell Piers not to.

It is part of the job. That's how it is. Eventually, something is going to take you out—

And classic Leon, not going down without a fight. Chris should expect nothing less. He counts seven BOWs in the hallway leading up to where Jacob is standing with two others from Bravo. They are in a rough semi-circle facing the body slumped against the wall, wedged against a beat up locker. Chris has to step over three more BOWs piled at the body's feet—

Chris hears his breath catch in his chest despite trying to prepare for it, for seeing familiar dirty blond bangs obscuring Leon’s face. His head is tilted down, knees to his chest, one arm in his lap. He is wearing dark clothes— nondescript combat gear, rare for Leon. All the good that did him.

“Damn it,” Chris breathes. As he kneels, he taps his earpiece to switch back to Hunnigan’s line. Kneeling doesn't give him much better view of Leon’s face, but that's him. Dried blood covering his chin, from—

Fucking christ, there is something sticking out of his chest— body armor, Leon was even wearing body armor this time and it still didn’t save him. Dark, patterned. Knife handle. BOWs don't use knives—

“Poor bastard got stabbed. Still went down swinging,” Jacob says, somber and reverent.

“Captain?” Hunnigan prompts in Chris’ silence.

“... we found him, Hunnigan. He— he didn't make it.”

Her silence only lasts a few seconds.

“You checked for a pulse?”

Chris takes a breath. “No, he's—”

“Check.”

Chris winces. “Hunnigan, he won't—”

“Confirm for me, Captain Redfield.” Her voice is flat but still strong. Better than what Chris can manage right now.

It must be standard operating procedure for her. Chris swallows. “Yes, ma’am.”

He pulls off one of his gloves, scanning over Leon’s body again. No other major injuries he can see. Other than the knife to the chest. It is a little left of center— when did someone have time to stab him in the middle of all of these BOWs? Unless Leon had been stabbed earlier and it took a while to bleed out. God, what a way to go.

Still, Chris is very glad he isn't infected. It is not a fate he wishes upon anyone. Taking another steadying breath, Chris presses two fingers to Leon’s neck.

Leon twitches. His hand jerks—

And Leon’s bloody handgun, drawn from his lap, presses into Chris’ throat as the trigger is squeezed by a red-stained finger.

[egophiliac]

happy new year Ego!!! Just wanted to let you know that I absolutely adore your twst fanart and the tags are just an absolute pleasure to read! You are my greatest inspiration for my personal twst art and I just wanted to thank you for your wonderful masterpieces <333 if possible, may I ask what are some of your headcanons for the diasomnia family? If not for diasomnia then any other characters are fine as well!

thank you, and happy new year! 💚💜💚 that is amazing to hear; it's always a little bewildering but super flattering that other people like my silly little doodles so much!

I don't think I really have any really solid headcanons and also canon keeps validating me left and right (FLUFFY DOMESTIC DIAFAM IS REAL). mostly just kind of...impressions and general thoughts, if that makes sense! lately though I've been kind of obsessed with thinking about Lilia's hair, and specifically when/why he ended up cutting it. (l-look, we're bouncing around the timeline and I gotta make decisions about these things when I draw, it's relevant) (I mean I would probably be weirdly fixated on this anyway, but.)

I think I've settled on the idea that he kept it long until he went to NRC, partly because 1) I like drawing The Ponytail, and 2) I think he thought of NRC as a chance to reinvent himself a bit! he gets to go and be a wacky carefree teenager for a few years and have fun! (officially he's there to keep an eye on Son #1, but how much trouble could he get into, really.) so he gave himself a Cool Teen Haircut to go with his fresh new Cool Teen Persona!

also maybe he had some reflection on his hair's troubled past with three kids...

...and had to weigh his vanity versus the fact that he was going off to be around hundreds of kids on a daily basis, and. the choice suddenly seemed obvious.

[starry-bi-sky]

Clone^2 - Separation Strikes

"Why do I have to go?" Damian asks, surly and accent-thick, it sounds more like a demand and a whine at the same time. Sitting on the kitchen table with his arms crossed, in a green t-shirt that Danny bought him at a whim when he was at a thrift shop, and black shorts, he's never looked more like a kid. There's a little backpack leaning against the table leg, Damian begrudgingly picked it out when they went shopping.

His English has grown in leaps and bounds since Danny found him -- er, or more accurately; since Damian was spat out in front of him. -- and very little did they have to use the translator on Danny's phone these days.

Which meant one thing: Damian can start attending school comfortably now. And 'go' was the Amity Smiles Child Care Center. Danny and Jazz went as kids until they were twelve, and Mom and Dad actually managed to convince the center director to let Damian enroll for the summer.

And it was summer; Damian starts today.

"Because," Danny says, trying and failing to hide the smile pulling on his face, his heart warm and soft, and also laughing at Damian's expense; "being cooped up in the house all day isn't good for you, and you're starting school in the Fall. And, in Jazz's words: you need to have interactions with other kids your age for the benefit of your social development. And besides, it's only for the morning."

Damian's nose scrunches up, and his eyes roll so violently that for a moment, Danny thinks about joking that he'll get his eyes stuck like that. He holds his tongue; his little brother already looks like he's five seconds away from committing an act of violence.

"I don't need social interaction." Damian sneers, his cheek in his hand; a neverend pool of pride. "I am--"

"The Blood of the Demon Heir, better than everyone else." Danny cuts off, waving his hand in dismissive circles, his voice mockingly deep. Damian's brown skin darkens in embarrassment, and he scowls at Danny. "I know, bud. But Jazz is right, -- don't tell her I said that, -- you should be around kids your age."

Especially when he starts First Grade in the Fall. Honestly -- Danny was a little nervous to send him to the center. Damian's long since cut the habit of trying to kill or otherwise maim people, his palms ache-burn with gentle reminder, but his tongue was as sharp and as cutting as his sword. He still struggles with trying to quell it when he's upset. Vicious child-weapon that he once was, and will never be again.

Danny knows that it comes from a place of fear and defense, that Damian lashes out because that's what he's been taught. That at the end of the day, he doesn't really mean what he says, and he's learning to express himself better. But the other kids don't know that, and kids can be unforgiving and cruel.

Danny just...

His slow beating heart sighs, melancholy settles behind his lungs.

He doesn't want Damian to be outcasted. He doesn't want him to be alone.

Not like he was.

Damian sneers again, but says nothing, his shoulders crawling up to hide his ears like a turtle receding into his shell. Danny watches him silently, leaning against the kitchen counter with his own arms crossed. The clock hanging on the wall ticks in their ears -- it's almost time to go.

He watches Damian, careful, and so he sees it when his little brother's stone-shell pride and petulance shudders, and cracks. The darkened furrow of Damian's brows weakens, and for a moment, slants back.

Ah, Danny thinks, his own shoulders slumping. Epiphany washes over him, and his sad-heart soothes in warm understanding. So that's what it is.

His head tilts, and his hair spills over his shoulders, messy and fluffy, tickling his neck. Some of his bangs fall into his face. "Hal 'ant easabiatan ya habibi?" He asks, voice low and soft. Just as Damian's English has improved, so has Danny's Arabic. He still stumbles over himself some days, and Damian says his accent is trash, but they can have whole conversations now in Damian's mothertongue.

(Danny was incredibly proud of himself for it.)

Damian's face darkens, his blush spreading across the rest of his face, and he ducks his head down. Grown-out curls, black-brown and springy, falls over his eyes. "La!" He yells, loud and indignant, and not at all convincingly. "La 'asheur bialtawaturi!"

He was nervous. Danny can see it now, in the hunch of his shoulders and the tightness of his face, and faintly, he can feel it too. In the ecto-rich air of the Fentonworks House, it thrums, barely-there, like a hummingbird behind his lungs.

Danny can't stop the little, fond smile that forces itself across his lips and upticks the corner of his mouth. "It's okay to be nervous, little brother." He says, he sounds like Jazz when he says that. He doesn't think she'll mind him borrowing the nickname.

He pushes himself off the counter, and Damian refuses to look at him, hiding behind his hair and in his shoulders. It takes three long strides for him to reach the table, and Danny turns, plants his hands on the ledge, and hoists himself up. Right next to Damian.

Damian leans into him easily when Danny's arm wraps around his shoulders and tucks him close to his heart. He can feel his ear against his ribs. Danny hunches over him, resting his chin on Damian's head. "It's so okay to be nervous, actually. I was nervous, Jazz was nervous." He tells him, scratching the blunt edge of his nails across his scalp. "Everyone gets nervous."

"'Ana last aljumiea." Damian mumbles, as small and feeble as he was the night on the OPS Center balcony, realizing that his mom and the League weren't coming for him. Realizing that he was replaceable.

Danny's half-working heart squeezes; in grief, in rage, and his faucet eyes sting. He breathes in carefully, and presses his nose into Damian's hair in a loving faux-kiss. "You're right, you're not everyone." He says, steady and strong, because if he's not a pillar for his family, who else is he?

He can feel Damian's eyes flick up to him, and Danny smiles into his black-brown curls. Tilts his head to squish his cheek against him instead, hand dropping to thumb below Damian's lashes. "You're Damian Fenton," Because the adoption went through a few weeks ago, and he's still riding that high, "You're my baby brother. O' Artist Extraordinaire, Kickass with a Sword, Vegetarian and Wonderful Co-Ghost Hunter."

Damian tries to stifle a smile, and fails. Score! Triumph gathers in Danny's gut, his smile grows wider. He squeezes Damian tight, and only releases him so he can look him in the eyes. "And if anyone gives you a hard time at school, and I mean anyone--"

Danny has bad memories of the teachers looking the other way when the other kids were bullying him, all because he was a Fenton.

And Danny, bleeding heart, bleeding hands, loves his family more than he will ever love himself, will never let Damian experience the same injustice. Not if he can help it.

His eyes narrow, and the buzzy-film of ectoplasm covers his eyes, making them glow, "--You tell me. And as your awesome great big brother-and-technically-dad-but-only-biologically, I will handle it."

Damian, wonderfully made, full of light, his little brother Damian, giggles weakly at him. A sound that's worth it's weight in gold. The scary eyes dissipate, and Danny matches the sound with a cock-eyed, impish grin, dragging Damian into a soul-crushing, too-tight hug. The kind that only annoying older brothers can give. "Got it?"

That gets a proper, if short, laugh out of Damian. He wriggles in Danny's arms, trying to break free. But Danny does calisthenics, his arms are as big as Damian's head, so it doesn't work. "Understood, now, daeni 'adhhab ya 'akhi!"

Danny laughs, loud and bright, and loosens his hold just a smidge, only so he can adjust his grip and hop off the table with Damian still in arm.

"Never!" He crows, hoisting Damian slightly. One eye flick at the clock, and in one quick move, he secures Damian under one arm like a football, and hooks his foot under the strap of his backpack. Kicking it up, he tosses it into the air and catches it with his free hand, and slings it over his shoulder. "Now, to the car, my boy! Before we're late and Mom and Dad get charged."

Damian groans, childish and dramatic and long, but his face is all squished up with a wide grin and glee. Danny can taste his joy beneath his tongue.

"And, if my little pep talk didn't encourage you," He says, reaching the door to the garage, flipping Damian up onto his hip instead. "If you have a good day today, I'll make you bal mithai when you get back."

Like all kids at the promise of sweets, Damian's eyes widen and glitter. Danny loves seeing Damian be a kid, it's his favorite thing in the world. "I will!"

[hanzajesthanza]

the fact that the hanza spent yule eve & yule together always haunts me. especially around christmas time heh. they could have done anything else with their time and hung out with anybody else but instead they were like hey guys let’s sit around the kitchen table like we do every single morning and eat some food like we do everything single morning

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

Of my 2% capacity to be attracted to anyone, my type is like 90% women, 5% pretty men and 5% men you would swear are super fucking manly, and never questioned being straight and cis, but are now suddenly *stressed* that they can't figure out why their attraction to me [fully socially interpreted as a woman and labelled that way up until relatively recently] feels incredibly fucking gay

[pardonmydelays]

a little reminder for everyone: fandoms can be dangerously toxic sometimes and if you ever feel like being in this environment affects your mental health, it's totally ok to step back

[sailorsleepymoon]

Whole squad is in the discord vc except the one transfem friend before dnd starts and one of them refers to her using they asking if anyone knows when she’s coming. and you go. She said she’d probably be here but someone should message her :) also I noticed that we’ve all been using they/them for her but I checked her pronoun roles in a different server we’re all in and the only ones she has are she/her :) so we should proba

And you get cut off by the person who said it and one of the other people going “OH well I use they/them for everyone” and “yeah I just kinda always default to they/them” and “yeah same I just always use them” talking over each other and

And the impulse to bring out your academic essay from sjw university hits. There is the sharp impulse to go 🤨 you guys using they/them for her when we know her pronouns is degendering her and ultimately feeding into the larger structure of transmisogyny and

you ignore it and say ok well I think :) we should try anyway 💕 to use her right pronouns

And there’s the quiet consensus of like yeah ok that’s fair that’s true. and she joins the vc three seconds later