#are you not even gonna believe me in my physical illnesses or

[triglycercule]

another doodle :3 mtt clothing swap!

DUST STOP SERVING WITH HORROR AND TAKE YOUR DEAD ASS BROTHERS SCARF OFF KILLER HES ABOUT TO HAVE A MOVIE REALISTIC PANIC ATTACK

[maiaacchiato]

0409, 0509, & 0609

2908

[jonny-b-meowborn]

Guess who fucked her wrists up during work because he refused to go on a single break because he felt like that's the only way to prove she's not useless since her autism stops her from doing anything a person his age "should" do

[muttsona]

cause when you leave, you take more than your love

[cowlovely]

augh.

[starsofang]

CALL OF THE SEA / PART FIFTEEN

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, hallucainations/hearing voices??, inaccurate depictions of medicine, idk how ppl made medicines in 1800s but idc its fiction masterlist a/n: thank u for the love from the hurricane i went thru!! i'm okay and back in business, i love u guys <3 things are gonna get a lil spicyyy

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

“Dove,” a voice singsonged, a whisper in the wind that whisked away almost as soon as it appeared.

You halted in your steps, whipping your head around. Standing on the deck, you knew you were alone. You had just been on your way to collect your variety of herbs and powders to teach the Captain of medicine making, yet the sense of dread overtook you the moment you heard your name called out.

Looking out into the vast sea, there was nothing. A heavy mist clouded the air from the storm that was brewing mere lengths away, its arrival unknown. It clouded over the horizon, hiding away what lay beyond in the dull, gray atmosphere.

Yet, Graves had spoken yet again, as if he had sent his voice to travel miles upon miles just to get a rile out of you. It felt like a warning, letting you know he was still present, and very much still attached.

“The one who heals the ill and poor,” Graves echoed tauntingly, a dark chuckle rasping at the end of his words. “The one who has the 141 in knots. That’s you, isn’t it, dove?”

You couldn’t see him, and you weren’t sure whether that was ideal or not. You knew he wasn’t there physically, hell, you weren’t sure it was even really him talking. Your mind could be playing tricks on you.

The words of the prophecy were spoken with such mockery, the ones referring to your very role. The venom in his tone made you queasy. A cold chill dripped down your spine, causing the hairs on your neck to stand.

“Oh, this will be fun,” he cooed. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Stood frozen in place, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the horizon. It was gloomy, and you were beginning to mirror that feeling. You felt toyed with — like a puppet on a shelf, waiting to be used when Graves deemed you useful.

“What are ye doin’ down there, dove?” a voice called. “Looks like ye seen a ghost.”

The faint snickering had you tilting your head up in the direction it came from. Soap sat high up in the crow’s nest, peering down at you mischievously. His broad arms rested on the rim of the nest, leaning lazily.

“I am fine,” you scowled, quickly regaining your composure. Graves crept menacingly in the corners of your mind. “What are you doing up there?”

“She’s a crow’s nest for a reason. I’m watchin’ for the storm, seein’ if I can spot anythin’ out of the ordinary like I’m a bird, birdie” Soap explained with a grin, cocking his head. “What are ye doin’ down there?”

You frowned at him, unamused. “I plan on teaching the Captain how to make medicine,” you replied. “I’m just going to collect my things. It is wealthy to have knowledge in medicines, you know.”

Soap blew out a puff of air, waving his hand dismissively. “If I have any more knowledge up in this noggin’ of mine, it might explode.” He made a point of knocking his knuckles against his head.

“I do not believe there is much in there at all,” you sighed, unable to force a small smile away. Even in times of fear and uncertainty, you couldn’t deny the way Soap put you at ease.

“Ach, yer a bird that bites. What happened to bein’ a sweet bird?” he mumbled in feigned hurt, lips puckered into a pouted frown.

Your smile grew and you shook your head. “Where is Ghost?” you asked. Soap rubbed the back of his neck, fingers twirling into his messy mullet.

“That lad. Locked himself up again, he did. I think the weather’s makin’ him all moody. He helped me out for a bit before goin’ back, so I’m not sure what’s wrong,” he explained sympathetically. There was a hint of hurt at being shut out.

It made you recall the two of them. Embracing. Whispering amongst each other. Ghost, unmasked, leaning into his touch.

You tried your hardest to not let it shift your expression, even if it dug a little hole somewhere in your heart to be reminded of what you didn’t have.

“I see,” you hummed, playing off your tormenting thoughts and shoving them to the side with the rest. “I am… happy that he has someone like you.”

Soap’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He stared at you, confused, before smiling softly. “Ah, c’mon, dove. Ye got us, too.”

Not in the way your heart longed for. But that was a thought that attempted to fiddle with your mind and leave you stranded on an island of foreign feelings far, far away.

You weren’t sure what you desired, anyway.

“Right,” you agreed with a curt nod. “I’ll be going now. Please, do not fall while I’m gone — or do. I have not been able to aid anybody in quite a long time.”

Soap laughed, the sound rumbling you to the core. “Mean li’l bird,” he teased.

With a smile, you continued on to your quarters, shoving any strange ideas behind and focusing on the task at hand. Price was still waiting for you, after all.

Entering your shared space, you nearly cursed the world for putting Gaz in there. While you hadn’t quite avoided him like you wanted to, that was due to the others being around. Now, here alone, was different.

“Hello, Gaz,” you greeted stiffly, giving him a nod. You quickly retreated to your side of the room, which really was Soap’s clutter. You needed to organize it soon or you may lose your mind.

“Dove,” Gaz hummed from where he laid in bed, arms resting behind his head in a lazy position. His eyes followed you like a hawk as you rummaged through the bag taken from your village on your first night with the pirates.

The resources you’d been forced to bring so long ago were now going to be of use, which was something you wished to be excited for—yet, the elephant in the room was a downpour on your mood.

You felt ridiculous. It was not as if you were avoiding him in rejection—it was that it was not rejection that you were avoiding him.

Your heartstrings seemed to tighten and pull whenever he was near, and it made you feel crazy. It felt like you couldn’t catch a break, constantly toying with your own feelings.

What was this feeling of longing you so hopelessly seemed to feel differently with each of them? Was it still the craving for a sense of belonging?

“Is someone hurt?”

You glanced up from your bag, fingers pausing. You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion before realization took over and you shook your head. “No. I am teaching Price the ways of medicine.”

So much for avoiding him.

“Is that so?” he asked. You weren’t sure why his tone seemed so… off. As if there were a taste of bitterness to it.

You recalled the night you threw your food at him from the stuffiness of your cell below deck when he had done nothing but try and quench your hunger. He truly was not a fan of you, nor you him. While you were scared, he was protective of his kin.

Now, his tone was a grave reminder of how much time had passed, and how different things were.

You gave him another stiff nod, watching as he stood from the bed. Your heart pounded in your chest, banging against your rib cage with every step he took closer.

When he finally stopped, he was mere inches away, standing tall and proud over you. You focused your gaze on his chest, mapping the loosely tied strings that hung from the middle of his billowy shirt. You were overcome with spikes of awkward anxiety and unable to connect eyes with him.

Seeing this, he tilted his head down, cocked to the side in a mocking way. He forced your gaze to meet his from leaning down alone, and you held your breath at the sight of slight annoyance burrowed somewhere in his expression.

“Are you avoidin’ me?” he asked lowly.

You attempted to swallow the lump in your throat. Your hands grew clammy, and you couldn’t take them out of your bag to wipe them on your dress or else he’d know.

“No,” you stammered, frowning. “I am just— Price is waiting for me.”

Was he angry that you did not reciprocate a kiss? It was not your fault—you had never shared one.

“There is no playful banter. Nor even a gaze in the eye,” he commented.

“I am looking at you right now,” you defended weakly.

“What you’re doin’ is actin’ different,” he said slyly, mirroring your frown. “What, you hand me a gift, a beautiful one, and now that I have read the signs wrong, you wish to hide from me?”

“That—” You inhaled sharply. “That is not what is happening.”

“So, I have read them right, then.”

“I do not know what signs you are referring to.”

“Don’t be daft, dove.”

Your fingers tightened around a small jar in your bag, knuckles going white. You wanted to avoid the forced eye contact altogether, but now you could not look away. It was as if you were in a trance.

“It is improper to refer to a woman as daft,” you hissed in defense.

“You’re unlike any woman I’ve ever met,” Gaz mused, his head tilting once again.

This is what he wanted, and you were giving it to him. He wanted the banter, the jests, to see you grow irritated to tug a reaction from you, and unfortunately, it was working.

“You have never been kissed before?” he continued.

Your ears were beginning to ring. Your entire body felt hot to the touch, like a scorching fire burned through your veins and trickled its way up to your brain.

“That is inappropriate, Gaz,” you tried, though your defense was weak. He was right. He was always right, and you hated it. “I must return to Price. I—I cannot have this conversation.”

“You will have to avoid the whole sea if you believe I am the only one,” he stated calmly, growing soft now that his initial annoyance was wearing off. “Do not make me the one to suffer.”

You stared at him, mouth opened to speak but the words lost in translation. You felt like you were betraying yourself by choosing to avoid him out of mere uncertainty. You were only doing a disservice to yourself.

The words he spoke laid heavy on your mind, but you were unable to decipher the true meaning. Perhaps you were avoiding that, too.

The two of you said nothing, sitting in tense silence as you hurried to throw your bag over your shoulder. You didn’t want Price to slam open his door and search for you, believing you accidentally fell into the treacherous waters and sunk below the angry sea.

You shuffled to the door, hand hovering over the handle. You risked a weary glance over your shoulder, seeing Gaz standing and watching you with keen eyes, a glint of something unrecognizable in them.

You had nobody else to feel sorry for but yourself.

“I will not avoid you,” you muttered quietly. “I do not think I have the strength to do so, anyway. Not with you.”

You tugged open the door, excusing yourself.

The chill in the air was refreshing against your warm skin, cooling off the heat that radiated off of you like a furnace. As you returned to Price’s quarters, your mind was scrambled, overloaded with millions of thoughts that plagued you.

The wind rustled and blew, and you could only pray there wasn’t a familiar whisper hiding in its trail. It seemed as if the universe had plenty of tricks up its sleeve today, and it was dealing them all to you one by one.

When you looked up at the crow’s nest as you walked by, Soap remained. He gave you a smile when you passed, and it made the worry in your stomach simmer to a low boil.

“You took quite some time,” Price noted as you stepped inside. “Did you walk the plank along your way?”

You chuckled, shaking your head and shooing the bag off your shoulder. It fell to the desk with a small thud. “I ran into Soap,” you explained.

“I see.” Price smiled in acknowledgment. “Alright, dove. Let’s begin, hm?”

“You are not very good at this.”

You watched as Price attempted to grind a mix of herbs and powder in the bowl you lent him. Teaching him how to make a paste meant for burns proved fruitless, as he seemed to mess up the measurements when you weren’t looking.

“That’s why you’re the expert, dove,” he huffed in annoyance, laser focused on grinding the end of the wooden stick into the roundness of the bowl, mashing down the mixture. “I do not see how this will become a paste.”

“Did you mix in the drops of water like I told you?” you asked.

He glowered at the clear dropper you held up, which seemed just as full as when you first started. He snatched it up, squeezing a couple of drops into the failed paste for good measure, then continued mixing.

“Was I correct?” you teased, peering down into the bowl. You were pleased to see it mixing much more smoothly, almost like thick butter.

“Silence,” he grunted, shooting a weak glare your way. “I pray this medicine proves to be useful.”

“It is for burns to ease the flare up of the skin,” you explained, keeping an eye on the mixture. “I am sure it will come in handy.”

Price hummed, mashing the paste until he seemed satisfied. He shifted the bowl towards you, waiting for approval. The idea of it made you snort—a Captain, seeking approval from his ex-prisoner.

“It is not bad,” you praised, earning him a furrow of his eyebrows. “Much better after the water.”

He gave you a look, unamused, eyeing you as you shoveled the paste into an empty jar. You were happy to add it to the collection, though you wished you had the opportunity for a room for yourself to display them. Soap and Gaz’s room was feeling crowded.

“I am only teasing,” you said with a smile. “It’s almost as good as mine.”

Price snorted, smiling back. “Aye, I’m a Captain, not a medic. That’s your specialty,” he retorted.

“And will this medic ever get a room of her own? Or perhaps a place to work?”

He raised an eyebrow. You mirrored him. “Are the boys not fun to room with?”

Images of Gaz earlier flashed in your mind. You swallowed. “No, they are just fine. But I am a woman, after all. It is not… suitable.”

Price made a noise of acknowledgment, nodding slow. He seemed to be thinking, a hand brushing through his beard and stroking his bottom lip.

“That is… understandable. Forgive me, I have not had a woman on my ship until you. It slipped my mind that you roomin’ with those two may not be entirely appropriate,” he replied thoughtfully.

“You forced me to sleep with you on my first night out of the brig,” you reminded him.

Price paused his stroking, blinking at you. For a moment, you lost him, his mind running astray. You could only stare back patiently.

“Would you prefer to stay here, then?” he asked. “You may find much more peace in here than with them., or if you'd like, you may switch off between quarters.”

You felt your body tense up at the mere thought. You knew no matter who you stayed with, it would be a gamble. Each of them had your heart on lock in an unfamiliar way, and the thought of staying with Price again had your stomach twisting into knots.

Gaz popped up once again, and you wondered if that decision would solidify your act in avoiding him. A pang of guilt hit your chest.

“You would not mind?” you asked wearily.

Price shrugged. “I may prefer it, actually.”

Your expression morphed into confusion, eyebrows pulling together and lips curling into a frown. He’d prefer to spend nights with you, rather than allowing you to cram into a small bed with Soap in the late hours of the night?

You thought the Captain valued his privacy and solitude. Now that he was offering you to stay on his own rather than out of fear of you running off to islands unknown, it felt much more personal.

“You’d prefer it?”

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“Why?”

The Captain paused, narrowing his eyes at you. You were curious at to what he could be thinking about.

The door to his quarters opened, silencing your conversation rather quickly. The wind sounded much louder now without barriers between the inside and outside, and when you whipped your head to look at the doorway, Soap stood, drenched in water.

You were so focused on your time with Price and your craft, you hadn’t noticed the uneasy rockiness of the ship that seemed to grow with every second.

“The storm’s brewin’ real fast, Cap,” Soap breathed, lightly heaving. He must’ve climbed down the nest in a haste. “We need to get her steady. It’s comin’ down faster than we thought.”

The Captain stood quickly, giving him a nod. “Go collect Gaz and Ghost,” he ordered. Soap agreed, tossing the door closed and leaving you alone. “Dove, you’re stayin’ here.”

“I must be of help—”

“Here,” he repeated, tapping his finger on the desk. “That’s an order.”

You wanted to protest, but the look on his face was gloomy. You watched him leave his quarters and enter the battlefield of heavy rain that spilled over on to the deck.

Something in your heart tugged, but this time, not out of longing, or envy—it was worry. Sure, you faced many storms in your village, but never on a ship where one wrong move could send you right below the waves and have you never come back up again.

You felt helpless as you sat, thumbs twiddling mindlessly in your lap as you hoped and pray the ship would become steady enough for them to return to safety.

“Dove.”

The crashing sound of cracking thunder had you jolting in your seat. You did as the Captain ordered and stayed put, but you were becoming restless. The longer you stayed, the more your feeling of cold dread grew.

You knew where it was coming from. It was the very thing living inside your head, and you wondered if Ghost could hear it, too.

You couldn’t sit anymore. You got to your feet, quickly throwing open the door to a monsoon.

The ship swayed with the heavy, angry waves that crashed harshly against the sides of the ship. It made you lose balance, and you grabbed on to the doorway to steady.

Gaz and Soap stood under the rainfall, water soaking into their skin and clothes as they heaved the sails closed, holding the ropes to guaranteed they stayed.

Ghost was lifting heavy baggage that had yet to be stored away, thrown over his shoulder as he hurried to transport them to a dry part of the ship.

The Captain stood at the helm, his hair flat against his forehead and dripping water all the way down to his beard. He was mastering the steering of the ship, barking orders at Soap and Gaz while the two attempted to keep the sails at bay.

“Isn’t this fun, dove?” Graves whispered. You wished you could claw out your own eardrums.

You knew he was near. Before, you couldn’t feel his presence—now, it felt stronger than ever.

You frantically looked around, hoping to spot him somewhere out at sea, but the rain was too heavy. The sky had been darkening, giving off an ominous hue covered by storm clouds. You wouldn’t be able to see him from below.

Your eyes landed on the crow’s nest, the net of rope leading up to it swaying in the crazy wind. Soap had been up there mere hours ago, watching the storm and charting its location.

Without a moment of hesitation, you sprinted in the cold rain, heading towards your destination.

“Dove?” Soap called out in confusion, before recognizing you. “Dove! What are ye doin’?”

You began your ascent, just as Gaz had joined in calling for you. With them unable to leave the ropes of the sails behind, they couldn’t chase after you, stopping you from your foolish moment of cleverness.

“What the hell is she doin’ out?” Price growled, his firm voice quieter in the winds chasing it away.

The rope creaked as you planted your feet in the gaps, climbing your way up to the nest. The higher up you got, the more the breeze increased its abuse, whipping along your face in a serious of angry smacks.

The pirate’s voices grew farther away as you approached the crow’s nest. Their tones were ones of concern, fear, and worry as you scrambled your way on to the rugged, old wood platform, hauling yourself up.

You needed to know if your thoughts were true—if Graves truly was here, or if it was another one of his tricks.

You stood on the crow’s nest, holding yourself steady with a firm grip of the sides. You looked out into the void, scanning for anything, any sign—and there it was.

A ship, not too far off in the distance, swaying with the waves with its front nose pointed in the direction of your ship. A large sail flapped in the wind, and it was so misty you nearly couldn’t see it until a familiar white outline of a skull appeared, waving as if saying hello.

Graves was setting sail right towards the ship, and he had every intention of riding out the storm until he reached you.

[princessbrunette]

“you still mad at me?” while balls deep with rafe 😵‍💫😵‍💫.

GODDDD U ATE W THIS PROMPT 😩 like my jaw dropped

rafe was always doing this.

he’d make empty promises, plans even — talk to you all sweet with a warm hand on your back whispering suggestion of “that was the last time i’m getting involved with all that crazy shit, baby. i swear. s’just me you n’me now, you hear me?” and you being the fool, believed him.

until of course you’re catching him pulling back up to the drive on his motorcycle, yanking his helmet off with that ill-tempered expression of his that just tells you enough that somethings gone on, you know, the one where his teeth are grit, lips pressed together like they’d been sewn shut. that’s not even where it ends, because often times barry is close behind, pulling up alone side so they can debrief loudly in the living room, stinking up the place with pot. even if you were mad, you know the rules. no coming down the stairs when barry’s over.

you almost had started to enjoy the feeling of sulking when rafe would eventually skulk up the stairs after barry had left, shoulders heavy and ready to grovel. naturally, you put up quite the fight — and what might surprise you is that rafe let’s you mouth off, even if he knows you don’t understand the importance of his situation and likely never will.

“again and again rafe! how many times am i gonna have to put up with you just running off to god knows where when you promise me you’re not doing all that anymore! you were supposed to be with me today!” you nearly stomp your foot, that last sentence coming out childishly like an abandoned middle child. he nods, jaw ticking as he stares at the ground scratching his forehead, waiting for his lashing to end. once the tears start to roll, that’s his queue. like clockwork.

“come on, hey. y’know i love you, sweetheart. i’m sorry, okay?” he rushes to your side, sliding right up next to you on the bed and thumbing at the first batch of tears on your cheek, his hand so large it cups your skull at the same time. you want to preen into his touch, so elated with any affection after a day of missing him, worrying about him — but you don’t, because you’re still mad. be strong, you tell yourself.

you’re weak. you hate yourself.

not even 10 minutes of your sobbing and complaining later and he’s got your legs over his broad shoulders, balls slapping lewdly against you whilst he all but pumps you. his hands that are on your waist, using you as leverage reposition themselves so that he’s holding himself up over you more. a large hand wraps gently around your ankle as he does so, making sure your leg doesn’t slide off the strong slopes of his shoulder.

squeals and more tears are being punched out of you with each thrust, but he can see you physically relaxing, he can see you reaching out to him with a wobbling bottom lip so that you can hold onto his arms like you always do when he fucks you. it’s neutralising you.

“fuck, that’s m’girl.” he pants, mouth gaping at the way your pussy flutters around him. you’re so reactive to his voice he can’t believe it, never having met anyone who is so enamoured with everything he does. shit, maybe he should treat you better after all. he keeps talking, because he thinks you deserve to cum a whole bunch tonight, after putting up with all his shit. having a girlfriends made him gone all soft.

“you still mad at me?” he tilts his head, and you’re not sure if it’s intended to be mean or mocking, because it certainly doesn’t come out that way — his voice kind and eyes kinder, rolling the well kept muscles in his core to grind his cock against that spongey spot deep within. you don’t answer his question, clinging onto that last crumb of dignity and restraint. you pout through your whimpers, turning your head a little. he takes that opportunity to burrow down into your neck, his open mouth panting against your tepid skin as he speaks lowly again. “dont be mad at me baby. i’m only tryna look after my girl, you want that right?”

“mhm…” you reply before you permit yourself.

he slides his arms under you now, letting your legs down from his shoulders to hook around his waist instead. he’s holding your body close to his as he grinds, his pelvis smushed against your clit, making your thighs tremble and suddenly you’re so god damn close it hurts and you’ll do anything to cum.

“so good to me, baby.” he sighs and you cry out, arching your body harder to his. “i know. let it out. i’m so bad to you sweetheart s’the least i can do.” he mutters self pityingly before letting out a groan, cock pulsing inside you. you remember thinking about how right he was about that when you fell over the edge into a white hot orgasm.

[periwinklecosma]

list of palestinian fundraisers (part 2)

(part 1) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5)

so since posting part 1 of this post yesterday night, some certain people on this site appear to have made the decision to double down on trying to grind every single palestinian that joins tumblr under their heel. there's a lot to be said about that, but honestly, what even is there left to say that the rest of us haven't already said? i'm not gonna start going off about that situation on this post that's supposed to spotlight various palestinian campaigns, so let's just say that i think it's really crucial that we push back on such harmful rhetoric and minimize the damage done as much as we can.

disclaimer: i do not vet fundraisers, nor am i in extensive contact with any of the people below. these are just people that reached out to me via my asks and messages, and i am only going off of information that has been provided to me through posts made by them and other people spotlighting them.

and please, for the love of god, if one of these doesn't sit right with you, then keep that to yourself and devote your attention to one of the other ones instead instead of denouncing all of these as one big scam ring. i can't believe this is something i have to walk people through.

The Shehab Family (@danashehab, @fahedshehab051, @fahedshehab-new) - €35,559/€50,000 (71.12%) // vetted by @/el-shab-hussein (here)

Maram Ashour (@ashourmohammed) - £1,154/£25,000 (4.62%) // vetted by @/90-ghost (here) // EXTREMELY LOW ON FUNDS -> Note: Maram's newborn daughter Hoor has not had the chance to receive her birth vaccinations and proper healthcare.

Amal Ashuor (@amalashuor) - €27,800/€30,000 (92.67%) // vetted by @/el-shab-hussein and @/nabulsi (#175 on this spreadsheet) // ALMOST COMPLETE

Ahmed and Abedelrahman Al-Nabih (@ahmedalnabeeh11) - €22,551/€30,000 (75.17%) // vetted by @/el-shab-hussein and @/nabulsi (#218 on this spreadsheet) -> Note: Ahmed and Abedelrahman's elderly mother is chronically ill, and her health condition has only worsened over the course of the past year.

Sarah and Amir (@sarazidan) - €876/€35,000 (2.50%) // NOT YET VETTED // EXTREMELY LOW ON FUNDS -> Note: Amir is physically disabled, and his condition has only worsened over the course of the past year. He now cannot walk.

Nour Ashour (@nourashoure44) - £801/£80,000 (1.00%) // vetted by @/90-ghost (here) // EXTREMELY LOW ON FUNDS

Youssef and Khadija Al-Habeel (@saveyouseffamily) - £9,724/£20,000 (48.62%) // vetted by @/90-ghost (here) and @/northgazaupdates (here) -> Note: Youssef and Khadija's son Madj suffers from a severe respiratory illness and requires treatment.

Fadi Ayyad (@mayadayyad81) - $36,700/$50,000 (73.40%) // vetted by @/nabulsi (here)

Fidaa Resh (@fidaa-family2) - $11,861/$30,000 (39.54%) // vetted by @/90-ghost (here)

Asmaa Ayyad (@asmaayyad) - €8,969/€45,000 (19.93%) // vetted by @/90-ghost (here)

[teaboot]

I'm surprised/impressed? by how blase you are about people threatening you at work. A neighbor threatened me last week and it was so scary and I wish I could have had the same kinda response you seem to.

First off, I hope you're safe and okay, that's an awful experience to be familiar with and especially bad that they live so close to you D:

Second, I'm certainly no maverick out here- I've only been doing this a few years now- but I've found that about 99% of threats I receive have very little intent to follow through.

The type of threats I usually receive are typically from:

Someone who's had bad experiences with security or police, in the past. People with hand and face tattoos, homeless folks, people with mannerisms that get them labeled as "sketchy", POC, and people who've been incarcerated all have valid reason to believe I'm out to get them, and may get treated badly elsewhere often enough that they're expecting that. Every time I approach someone, I have to take this into account and do everything I can to signal that they haven't been profiled based on preexisting stereotypes.

Someone experiencing the symptoms of a mental health condition. People with mental illnesses are statistically victims of crime more often than they are perpetrators. That said, I have run into people before whose mental illness can present as aggression- if someone behaving erratically or is known for that sort of thing tells me they're gonna blow my brains out, but I can clearly see they're unarmed, not coming towards me, haven't hurt anyone, and show no intent of escalating, I'm probably not in danger. A few people I've met will see me again in a day or two and will have no problems with me at all.

Someone who is scared, frustrated, anxious, or grieving. Not to excuse violence in any context, but in my experience 99% of people who blow up at me aren't actually thinking about me. Anger isn't so much an emotion in a lot of ways as it is the reaction to another emotion- if someone tells me they're gonna kick my ass, I have to question if there's anything they may be frightened, frustrated, or sad about something else entirely. If I can address and resolve what's causing the anxiety, the anger usually goes away next. If I can't deescalate, my next job is to disengage and make sure myself and others aren't at risk of harm.

People who want something from me. This does not happen often. Maybe they want me to back off, or leave them alone, or let them take something, whatever- maybe they think I'm someone with clearance to use physical force, or they think my flashlight is pepper spray. Whatever it is, once they've made it clear they're willing to act, I back off. Unless they're hurting another person, nothing they want is worth getting stabbed or shot over. And physical conflict is insanely stressful, even for the attacker, so even then whoever threatening me will likely take any "out" I can give- I keep paths of escape clear, stay out of range, keep calm and respectful. Every time this has happened to me, the person has run away when given the chance.

People who genuinely want to hurt me and intend to follow through. Again, this is super uncommon- I think it's only really happened to me once or twice on the job. Yes, it's scary, but I find it helps to remember that they arent after me, they're after the uniform. If someone is coming after me in costume, so to speak, it's not who I am as a person, it's what I represent. And a lot of people seem to think I'm a cop, or see me as a faceless goon, or a past abuser, or an intruder in their life specifically sent to make them miserable. If that's what they believe, there's not much I can do to change their mind except, again, stay calm and respectful and disengage.

I do know how to defend myself to an extent, but again, I don't have weapons or restraints or a vest or anything and I'm kinda small on top of that so really I'm cool with hauling ass if I gotta. If me getting the fuck out of dodge resolves the issue then I'm not above radio'ing HQ from the top of a tree somewhere, that shit is above my pay grade.

TL/DR in my personal limited experience, someone who has told me that they're going to hurt me wouldn't have given me the warning unless there was something I could do to avoid it. Stay calm, don't yell, be respectful, give them an escape route and run if you need to

Stay safe out there, yeah?

[thecapricunt1616]

Allspice (c.b oneshot)

𝐵𝓁𝓊𝓇𝒷 (𝑀𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝐵𝒯𝒞): You were so engrossed in the work, that you hadn’t even realized someone had approached your table until they cleared their throat awkwardly.  Your gaze slowly travels up, seeing a blue apron covering a white shirt, tattooed hands holding- your meal? Your eyes flicker up to his piercing blue ones. “Chilean Sea Bass” he sets it in front of you. You snort a laugh.  “Hm.” You look around before back at him “These people” you motion to the restaurant. “Other patrons. Which meals of theirs did you bring out- Chef?” You accentuate the last word, it was all too uncommon for a chef to personally bring a meal out to a table. 

♡ O.S Inspo: Forever & Always - Fearless (TV) ; "Was I out of line, did I say something way too honest, made you run and hide like a scared little boy?" ♡ Pairing : CarmyxAFAB Reader as little physical description possible | She/Her pronouns used, NO use of Y/N :) ♡ Summary: You have a very successful Culinary Review blog, the social media manager of one of your new hometown restaurants 'The Bear' has been dying to get you out to try their food. But since the EC is a bit of an overzealous competitor, you end up having to go back for round 2- you end up having a delicious dinner, and a free show.

♡ W/C: 4,381

♡ Posted Date: 03/18/24

♡ A/N: FIRST THING: I am HORRIDDDD at writing Claire- I'm much better at writing Carmy cause were alot more similar- so this Claire isn't gonna be CRAZY canon, but I think she got the job done. Anyway- EEEEEP!!! Here is my VERY FIRST ONE SHOT EVER!! Inspired by my amazing, wonderful, PRECIOUS FLOWER @daysofyellowroses that can be found here :) AAAAA!!! My precious Rose I hope you enjoy this, It could ABSOLUTELY have a part 2 if y'all like it. I ended it here cause I'm sooo wordy and I didn't want it to turn in to a multi-chap. fic by mistake...but ofc if y'all want more just tell me and ill get RIGHT TO WORK!!! I really hope this comes off how I saw it in my head. There's no smut/sexy stuff, just mutual pining and flirty teasing, I hope thats ok!! aaa here we goooo!!! Enjoy <3

♡ Warnings for BTC: Swearing, Drinking alcohol (Literally it LOL)

➵ 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 ♡

Being a Food Critic wasn’t an easy gig, as much as people wanted to believe it’s simply going to famous restaurants, trying their most popular dishes- and giving your opinion, it was much more then that. 

Each and every aspect of the restaurant was under your review, from the second you walked in the door, you were judging everything. From the atmosphere, to the music, to the decor, to the comfortability of the furniture all of it, was to meet your expectations if the owner of the establishment wanted a good review.

Today was finally the day you'd review one of the restaurants that had sent 3 requests for you to feature a review of them on your blog. 

The Bear. Interesting name, you thought.

With the rugged name- you’d assumed a more millennial hipster-New American vibe. But when you’d arrived- you were quite…impressed? That instead of leaning into that all too common aesthetic, it was more of a classy, comfortable vibe. 

They’d not even had bear art, anything of the sort. It was pure comfort, mixed with subtle class. The kind that spoke to the cost of the dishes- but wasn’t in your face obnoxious. The only ‘Bear’ was the little golden bear embossed into the leather menu you’d been handed when seated at the table. 

The way you did your reviews was…a tad unusual - some chefs in the industry called it ‘unfair’ but you called it…the fairest things could be. Instead of telling them when you’d be swinging by for a review since where’s the fun in that you’d call, make a reservation under some random name, and they’d know you’d accepted their offer when the review had been posted on your blog. 

It felt most honest and fair because you were one of the most renowned food critics in the country right now. If they knew you were coming- any EC with a brain would spend the night before your arrival, prepping the entire restaurant and staff - assuring they’d be on their best behavior to try and squeeze a higher grade out of you.

 But you were just a reader once upon a time, years ago- when you realized in culinary school that the making of the art didn’t interest you, it was the observing. Food wasn’t just about taste, but rather the whole experience. And if every famous food critic you’d taken interest in back in the day- never got a true experience due to their notability? You’d never have gotten into this field. So, you were most keen on keeping things fair. 

A woman with mousey brown hair comes up to your table, dressed in the typical waitress slacks and black button up shirt. “Hello! Welcome to The Bear. My name is Sam, have you dined with us before?” she asks. 

You sit up in your chair, peeling your eyes from the menu. You give her a small kind smile “I haven’t” you replied, urging her to continue her script. 

“Well welcome in, we're so happy you chose to spend your evening with us. So for our menu” she opens it in front of you. “Here” she points “are our wine options, fabulous selection this month. Then we have draft beers right next to it. On the following page” she points “all of our craft cocktails, then this,” she points in the bottom corner. 

“Our house cocktail - Just called The Bear. It’s wonderful, if you like old fashions you’ll love this - made with Bearface Triple Oak Whiskey.” She said and you nod. 

 “That please. That’s what I’ll start with” you said and she nodded. 

“I’ll get that right in. But quickly, just so you’re aware” she flipped the page and pointed. 

“These - are the dishes of the month. Each crafted by one of our two head chefs, they change monthly so if something calls to you I recommend you try- because it won’t be back” she said. You raised your eyebrows a bit in surprise and nod. 

“Thank you” you said and she gives a nod before heading off to the bar to put in your drink order before heading off to tend to other tables in your section. 

Having an alternating menu intrigued you, for such a high end establishment- one with a Michelin star at that- implementing such a menu would consistently have their star at risk. One dish, one app, one drink- that was not up to par and it would be revoked. You guessed the owners of this place liked living on the edge, as if being in this industry wasn’t already being constantly on edge. 

You gaze over the menu, the Chilean Seabass sounded like a fair assessment. Seafood was quite difficult to get right, especially in the springtime before peak season, and you’d be able to judge the consistency of the chopping and such because there was a fresh tomato corn salad that came with it. That was your rule when you came to judge restaurants, one main course, and one dessert.  

You’d felt like the main courses were the true stars of the show anyhow, and it would be unfair to muck up your palate with an app that was usually something easy to get right (since they were usually fried, covered in cheese, or some kind of carb). And the dessert usually showed the restaurant's creativity, which you loved to see, so 2 dishes was your max. 

The waitress returns with the cocktail, setting it down with a napkin under it. “Here you are, now- have you decided on a starter?” She questioned and you shook your head. 

“Straight to the good stuff, I’d like the Chilean Sea Bass please. And for dessert,” you flick the page and your eyes settle on the words savory cannoli - hmm, imaginative indeed. “And uh- The Michael Cannoli?” You said, shutting the menu and handing it to her. 

She nods with a smile, jotting down the order into her notepad before taking the menu and holding it to her chest. “That will be out soon as possible. Enjoy your drink” she said and headed back to the kitchen. 

You sit back sipping the cocktail and humming. She was right, much like an old fashioned, but floral notes. Almost…chamomile? Yes! That was it. Very interesting.

You slipped your iPad out of your bag, opening up your journaling app and grabbing the pencil out of the little sleeve. You quickly snapped a picture with your phone of the drink, airdropping it to yourself and adding it into the entry and writing;

‘To start; ‘The Bear’ house cocktail- initial thoughts ; not too sweet, strong (but not overpowering), chamomile? Some kind of herbal tea flower’ 

You take another sip, letting the flavors sit on your tongue a moment before swallowing. “Mmm!” You hum to yourself, finally realizing where the herby taste beneath the chamomile was coming from that gave it that oaky piney taste. 

‘Angostura bitters- will confirm!!’ You wrote just as someone approaches your table. You look up to see a man, short brown hair, stubble. He was smiling, holding a plate. 

“Hello! Here we have Arancini with our house-made pesto, courtesy of Executive Chef Carmen” he placed the dish in front of you next to your iPad. Your eyebrows furrowed slightly, looking up at him, scarcel confused. 

“Wrong table” you murmured, thumbing the dish back in his direction lightly. He cleared his throat awkwardly. 

“Nope- ah, he- he said this table.” He replied. It did smell fantastic, and any other day you’d never deny delicious, deep fried balls of risotto dipped in smooth, decedent pesto- but you’re working right now and it’s not fair. 

“Well, you can tell him” you lifted the dish, offering it back. “I have a system. And I’m unsure how he realized that I’m coming here, tonight, but I dislike cheaters. And he should know if he’s read my blog- I don’t muck up my palate with grease before I try the main course.” The plate was so close to him now it was nearly digging into his chest.

He nodded quickly, taking the plate without another word and briskly walking back to the kitchen. You sat back in your seat with a slight scoff. 

He thinks he can win you over just like that? How did he even know you would be here?

You picked up your pencil once again, adding a note. 

For the chef; Arancini smelt delicious. Didn’t order it, so I didn’t taste it . Presentation wise; 7/10. Pesto looked like it was spooned in the dish a tad bit messy to me. 

You smiled to yourself, you knew he’d read the final review once it was posted. And since he wanted to be a little cheater and get a overall higher score since he was trying to weasel you into trying extra dishes- you’d kick his ego down a few extra pegs for fun. 

You sat, nursing your drink, adding extra little notes here and there, as well as editing a blog post about Ghost Kitchens you’d been working on and how they were ruining the mobile order industry on the side. You were so engrossed in the work, that you hadn’t even realized someone had approached your table until they cleared their throat awkwardly. 

Your gaze slowly travels up, seeing a blue apron covering a white shirt, tattooed hands holding- your meal? Your eyes flicker up to his piercing blue ones. “Chilean Sea Bass” he sets it in front of you. You snort a laugh. 

“Hm.” You look around before back at him “These people” you motion to the restaurant. “Other patrons. Which meals of theirs did you bring out- Chef?” You accentuate the last word, it was all too uncommon for a chef to personally bring a meal out to a table. 

You swore even in the ambient lighting, his cheeks flushed slightly. “You- uh- you declined, my Arancini. Why?” He asked, holding his hands behind his back, the position making his already toned and tattooed arms appear more muscular. It makes him all the more impressive he has all these tattoos and still made it in this industry. I can only imagine the shit he got for them. 

You raise your eyebrows in surprise at his boldness. “Because that’s Cheating. Mr.Berzatto. I’d assume you know my work well. Considering you know what I look like, so- why try to cheat? You know how I feel about appetizers. It’s a scapegoat.” You shrugged, locking your iPad when you realized he’d been peeking at the notes. 

“Messy” his eyes narrow. He scoffs a bit, alluding to the note you’d written a short while prior “Messy?” He asks again, you laugh a bit.  

“Mmhmm! Oh, was it you chef? Wow…I mean- now that I think about it” you shook your head, now just messing with him since you see how much he was dying to impress you. “I could’ve sworn- the pesto it just..was too loose. Overblended maybe? That’s why it was impossible to plate without making a mess.” You shrugged, cutting up your fish carefully and spreading the vegetables with your knife to observe the cohesivity of the cuts. 

He scoffs, “too- too loose?! W-y’know what. No. No. It- you’re gonna try it.” He demands and you look up at him, nearly laughing at the seriousness of his tone. 

“That depends. Bring me a pesto worth trying and I’ll think about it. Now” you wave him off casually “I can’t work with the chef over my shoulder. So- Shoo chef don’t bother me” you teased and he shook his head. 

“Game on.” He muttered, heading back to the kitchen.  

You smiled to yourself, the Arancini absolutely isn’t going into the review. But you’ll humor his ego by trying it.

You cut the fish thoroughly, checking the texture and the evenness of the seasonings slathered on the skin, writing little notes as you go along. The cuts of the vegetables were pristine. Nearly perfect. The only misshapen pieces were clearly cosmetic defects of the vegetable. The chef that cut these was immaculate with a knife. 

When you took your first bite, you nearly moaned. The fish was buttery, the skin was crispy, slightly spicy, tangy, the flesh melted in your mouth. The risotto was so cheesy and buttery and wonderful. You could eat this meal every night for the rest of your life and never get sick of it. It was the best Sea bass you’d ever tasted. 

You opened your iPad again, jotting down notes about the flavors, the mouth feel, all the usual points you hit in your review. 

This meal is a 9.2 out of 10. 

You write at the bottom. Very fair score, you never had rated something as a 10. Something being a 10 would be- you don’t even know what it would be. But it would be what the score says, perfection. And while this dish was wonderful, and very very good- it was not perfect. At least to your heavily trained palate. 

You finished what you wanted out of the meal, pushing the plate to the side and not soon after, Carmen was back at your table. He placed the plate in front of you, 3 perfectly circular Arancini discs were placed equal distance on the plate, and truly beautiful pesto, sat in the dish alongside it. It frankly was immaculately plated. 

“Unbroken pesto. Sorry again, about the last one.” He said, watching you carefully. You hum as you grab your fork, splitting one of the discs and digging out some of the risotto. 

“Could be firmer.” You said, eyes flicking to his. He nods, clearing his throat a bit. 

“It’s not- uh- it’s” 

“Fresh” you finished for him, raising your brows and he nods. “So- since you’re frying it. You cook it for about..a minute- maybe forty seconds less than you usually would.” You said, daintily taking the bite off your fork. 

“Heard..” he nodded, waiting for your reaction. You hummed a bit. 

“Great balance of parm and butter though. I’ll give you that. Neither overpowers the other, that’s hard to do considering the notes” you added, cutting up the crust and tasting it. 

“Mm-“ you scrunch your nose and his face visibly drops. “Mm-mm…no- not peanut oil…why would you do that? It totally overpowers the breadcrumb with this like…cheapy taste. I’d say it would be way better if you fried it in sunflower oil” you added, digging out more of the risotto and dipping it in the pesto before having a bite and humming. 

“This though” you point at the little dish of green sauce with your fork. “This is great.” You add and he nods. 

“Ok-yeah…ok…” he nods, rubbing his hand over his chin. “Thank y’for trying it.” He said and you nod. 

“I’ll be back for a fair assessment. I think I’ll pass on the cannoli tonight, and just get the bill. Thank you” you slipped your pencil in the case before putting your iPad in your bag and holding your hands on the table in front of you. 

“Y-y’re coming back” he said, sounding slightly surprised. 

You shrugged “well- you clearly want a full review based on your behavior tonight, Chef. So I’ll humor you. I won’t tell you when of course, so just pray that it’s a day like today-“ you paused, looking around. “Where things seem to be running…alright.” You sat back in your chair casually with a small smile. 

“I look forward to your review.” He gave a nod and headed back to the kitchen. 

It was 3 weeks before you’d decided to return back to The Bear spring had quickly turned to early summer, and you thought you’d given enough time for your little conversation with the head chef to slip his mind. 

It was 9:20, 40 minutes before closing. You did promise to come back at a random time, and no time is more random then a Friday night less than an hour before the kitchen closed. 

You pulled open the door, stepped in and headed up to the host stand where the same man that originally offered you the Arancini stood. “The picky critic returns.” He said, tapping his pen against the reservation book absentmindedly. 

“She does” you smiled a bit. 

“Well lucky f’you cousin said you get a table any time, right this way” he leads you to a booth near the back, where you had a perfect view of the restaurant. Much cozier then before, right next to the doors of the kitchen where you could hear the back of house crew buzzing about. 

“Same cocktail as last time?” He asked and you raised your brows in slight surprise as you sit. 

“No waitress?” You asked, getting comfortable and setting your iPad down next to the empty plate. 

“She’ll be over, just figured a friendly offer couldn’t hurt” he said with a small smirk. 

You roll your eyes playfully. “House cocktail please, and thank you. But don’t count on kindness boosting your hospitality score-“ you stop, realizing he never gave you his name. 

“Richie” he said, sticking his hand out to shake. 

“Richie.” You repeat, giving him your firm professional shake. 

“House cocktail comin’ up” he said and headed back to the bar. You mulled over the menu, lemon chicken picatta, that sounded like a perfect dish to judge this time around. 

A few minutes later, Richie returns, setting the glass down in front of you. “Waitress should be by momentarily, enjoy your meal” he said, heading back to the host stand. 

A bit after the waitress came to take your order, the restaurant had begun to die down. You were going to be the last person served tonight it looked like, since in 5 minutes they would stop seating people. 

You added additional notes to your section about the cocktail, getting a better photo of it for your blog when you hear a bit of commotion up front.

You look up, to see a woman with curled brown hair in navy blue scrubs, her hands on her hips, talking with Richie with a frustrated look. There were tears in her eyes, you couldn’t help but tune in to their conversation. 

“Richie, please let me see him- he- he hasn’t said anything and I…I just need to hear him say it to my face. Please!” She begs, tears were streaming down her face now. 

Richie looks around nervously, tugging her to the side so they weren’t standing right in front of the host stand. You lean over just a bit- not so much it would be noticeable, but enough your nosy ears could continue to pick up what was being said.

“Claire. You shouldn’t be here…I’m sorry- he told me-he said that..that you can’t come here anymore. It’s too much and he will apologize when he can find the words. But he can’t. So please before he sees you. Leave” he said softly, attempting to soothingly rub her arm and she jerks away like his touch burned her skin. 

“Fuck you, Richie. Get him. Now. I’m not working on his time anymore. This is my time now. I’ve waited around enough for him. I’m done waiting. Either get him yourself? Or I swear to god I’ll go in that kitchen and embarrass the fucking shit out of him” she hissed. 

Your eyebrows raised, shit. Whoever fucked her over should at least be warned. 

He snorts, clearly amused before stepping back and raising his arms in defeat. “Have at it ClaireBear.” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You think he’s gonna take kindly to you startin’ w’him in his house? Be my guest.” He shrugged, going back over to the host stand. 

And then it clicked. She’s here for Carmen.  

She laughed dryly, sarcastically, like a woman who’d had it. “You think I’m scared? Richie? You think I’m scared of little Carmy who couldn’t even check out a library book by himself? mm?” She goads him, arms crossed, chest heaving with rage. 

His head snaps back to look at her, brows raised in shock. “Kid- I really think you should go calm the fuck down, because Y’re not gonna like the way that this conversation ends w’him- at all.” 

And with that, she shoves open the kitchen door. You couldn’t just sit there and not watch- this was the juiciest drama you’d ever been privy to in person, and this means he’s single. You slightly curse yourself for being so giddy that this means the sexy chef would likely be on the market. 

Your foot catches the door before it closes, leaning against the frame. She storms in, eyes frantically darting over the kitchen. 

“Carmen.” She barks, the entire kitchen stops moving and looks at her, as if they were in shock and awe someone would ever raise their voice to him in such a way. 

He rounds the corner, holding a pan of focaccia dough that he nearly drops at the sight of her. He blinks a few times, squeezing his eyes shut as if she’d disappear when he opened them again. 

“The fuck are you-“ his eyes meet yours, his face going pale quickly, he looked white as a sheet. “Leave.” He orders her, slamming the dough down on the counter. 

“Leave?!” She laughs coldly, “you’re gonna tell me to leave?! You’re a fucking pussy Carmen. A pussy. Y’know- it was charity giving you a chance. Pity work.” She spits and you blink a few times, taken aback by such harsh words. 

Is she serious? She thinks anyone could believe dating a super hot, ripped, talented, chef prodigy - that was charity work in any sense of the word?

He scoffs, “Charity?” He chuckled dryly. “Claire- you begged me to fuckin’ be with you! You-you-y’re a fuckin gnat! Claire! You- all you do is-is fuckin’-” he runs his hand through his hair, his chest heaving in anger, “You dont know me, Claire! Alright? There- And I-I-I don’t want you i’m-i’m sorry-” 

She laughed, shaking her head, tears streaming down her face. “You-” she whispered, her chest shaking with a sob. “You- fucker- I- I gave you a chance…” she whispered and gripped her wrist sadly. “I- I was there for you, Carmen- when no one else could fucking stand you.” she croaked.

“And I never asked for you too- please- just…leave me alone-” he shook his head. “Leave. Please…just-pretend we never happened, it was a mistake, Claire.” he breathed, clearly utterly defeated, and It sounded like he’d told this girl these same words multiple times. 

“M-Mikey would be sick- Carmy, he’d- he’d hate who you’ve become…” she said meekly, and with that- something behind his eyes snapped.

“Claire I’m not DOING THIS I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FUCKIN’ RESTAURANT. WERE OVER. YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME! YOU MEAN NOTHING CLAIRE!” He roars, the veins in his neck popping out, angrily and aggressively pointing to the door. “OUT. get the fuck out. G-get out, b-before I-I-I fuckin- holy fuck” he finds his composure once more, even though his breath was still ragged from his outburst, flicking his hand next to him his entire body trembling with panic. 

She looks to her left and right, she’s not that- 

Your thoughts were quickly proven wrong, when you see she was stupid enough to grab a pan off the stove to whip at him. 

“Aht!” the spanish woman standing a few paces to the right said, quickly grabbing the arm with the pan and twisting it behind her back. “Drop it.” she hissed. 

Carmen looks between the two of them, utterly in shock. “Y-y’were gonna hit me?” He asked her, face twisting in rage. “Fuck you. Fuck you Claire.” He seethed, taking the pan from his employees grasp and tossing it in the sink with a loud clatter. 

“Get the fuck out” you told her, grabbing her from the handle of the woman who’d stopped the assault, shoving her towards the kitchen door and into the front of the restaurant. “Y’re a fuckin crazy bitch.” You laughed dryly, giving her a hard shove for good measure. 

“Oh and who are you” she straightened herself out, pushing her bag up on her shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. Glad to see that Carmy still needs someone to protect him. I’ll gladly give up that spot.” she said, causing you to laugh. 

“Oh my god- you are pathetic. He just spelt it clear as day sweetheart- you are over. O-v-e-r. He doesn’t want you babe! And no, he doesn’t need my protection- I was enjoying dinner and apparently a show until you went batshit bitch.” You snip, plopping back down at your booth. 

She scoffed “he doesn’t want anyone. The only thing he wants - is to remain miserable. Good fucking luck, whoever you are.” She said before stomping out. 

“Yo she was really gonna throw somethin?” Richie asked as he walked over. Thankfully, it was just you, him, and the bartender in the front of the restaurant.

You nod “thankfully she didn’t realize I was there- Carmen would have had a nasty burn, and a concussion.” You said, taking a large sip of your drink. 

Carmen comes out, eyes meeting yours immediately. “Fuck- I- don’t worry y’re meal is comped and don’t…don’t worry about a review, i’m sorry- I-I guess it wasn't in the cards f’r us to be featured on y’r blog... I’m really so sorry… Shes- ah..” he rubs his arm nervously, trying to find the words. 

“A woman scorned” You teased, and he snorts a laugh, nodding a bit.

“Hell hath no fury, right?” He joked, sighing a bit. “It’s uh…it’s my fault I guess…I uh- I should’ve dealt with that…I've been putting it off” he said and you nod a bit.

“You off the clock?” you looked at your phone for the time, 10:07. 

“Shit- fuck- sorry- I’m so sorry- give me like- I was making y’r food…and then-” you shook your head, stopping him.

“No- No…I was uh-Asking to see if you maybe wanted to..have a drink with me? Not-not like…professionally…” you shrugged, stirring your half full cocktail with the bar straw that floated in it. 

“Sure- uh…sure- I’d like that lemme..lemme go change, i’ll be right out” he nodded, heading back into the kitchen.

[saetoshi]

itoshi sae does not exaggerate. he finds the whole idea of making a big deal out of nothing to be repulsive.

still, he swears that he feels physically ill whenever you’re not around.

(it’s the first reason of many he’ll ever give you when you tell him you have to leave for more than a day.)

“my head hurts.”

you don’t even look at him.

he frowns, “my head hurts a lot.”

“that’s too bad,” you say absentmindedly, “you should take some medicine for that.”

“i already did.” (he did not.) “it didn’t do anything.” (because he doesn’t need it.)

his frowns deepens when he notices you’re still focused on packing your things in a duffel bag. (his duffel bag. the one he was sure he’d hidden from you. the one you weren’t supposed to find.)

he calls out your name. his expression softens when you look at him.

“my stomach hurts.”

his lips quirk up just a tiny bit when you give him an annoyed look.

“sae.”

“my stomach really hurts.” he whines, slumping against the bed. a smile spreads through his lips when you cross your arms.

“you should take some medicine for that,” you frown, “even if you are sick, i have to go to this field trip.”

he takes out one of your shirts from the duffel bag, “says who?”

“my teacher.” you pry it off his hands, “my grade.”

you stick your tongue out at him, stuffing your shirt back into the bag, “my conscience.”

“but you’ll be gone for too long,” he sighs dramatically.

“it’s literally just two days.” you deadpan.

“like i said,” he pouts, “too long.”

you sigh, moving to sit down on the bed, “i’ll bring you a souvenir.”

a smile tugs at your lips when he perks up. you reach out to run your hand through his hair.

sae leans into your touch, “i’d rather have you stay than have a stupid souvenir.”

you hum, “wanna know a secret?”

he nods, curiosity swimming in his eyes. a small smile blooms on his lips.

“i kinda really don’t wanna go.” you mumble.

“just stay, then.” he tugs you closer to him.

you sigh, slumping against him. “i can’t. it’s worth a chunk of my grade.”

sae frowns, flicking your forehead, “just say you had a family emergency.”

“i said that last time.” you click your tongue. “i don’t think my teacher would believe that again.”

an amused laugh leaves his lips. “say you’re sick, then.”

“don’t tell me what to do,” you tease, “besides i may or may not have already told my teacher i’d go.”

sae sits up, a look of disbelief on his face, “you what?”

“i already said i’d go,” you sheepishly smile at him.

sae flops back onto the bed, brows furrowed and pouting, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“you would’ve insisted you were sick to stop me from going,” you lean over him. “like you were doing a while ago.”

he looks away from you, flushing. “i don’t know what you mean.”

you smile, poking his nose, “i’m sure you don’t.”

he bites back a smile when you press a quick peck on his cheek.

“but if you were feeling sick, i know you’d go take some medicine instead of exaggerating just to get me to stay.”

he pouts. your smile widens. he tugs you down towards him, “you suck.”

“yeah, yeah, whatever,” you laugh.

you lay on his chest for a while, sae’s arms snug around you. he rests his cheek on top of your head.

“do you really have to go?”

“‘m afraid so,” you sigh, nuzzling into him. “i promise i’ll text you whenever i can.”

“you better,” he smiles, “you also have to call me.”

“i promise i will.” you laugh.

you squeak when he squeezes you, laughter leaving his lips.

“sae.” you mumble.

“yeah?”

you lift yourself off his chest, looking at him. “i have to finish packing.”

he groans, “finish later. you should nap with me instead.”

you playfully stick your tongue out at him. “you and i both know if i take a nap with you i’m never going to finish packing.”

he shrugs, sighing, “it was worth a shot.”

you sit up, brows raising in surprise when sae sits up after you.

“just because i’m not gonna nap doesn’t mean you can’t,” you tilt your head to the side.

sae stretches his arms up, yawning, “if i help you pack, you’ll take a nap with me sooner.”

he gingerly cups your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss. he hums against your lips.

“besides,” he pulls away, smiling, “if i help you pack, you’ll have to bring me back a souvenir as a reward.”

you laugh, “if you say so.”

sae’s not much help with packing. he just unceremoniously stuffs your remaining clothes into the duffel bag, scoffing when you tell him he’s doing it wrong.

(still, you bring him back a souvenir when you come home from your trip. as a way to both thank him for helping you pack, and as an apology because you’ll have to go on another trip soon.)

[thegaysinmyhead]

DC X DP IDEA(?)

Guys why is literally no one jumping on a VERY OBVIOUS trope for ghosts??

FUSION?? LIKE STEVEN UNIVERSE STYLE??

Just–hear me out hear me out!

Ghost forms are just extensions of their core, so it makes sense they can be changed right?? Gems physical bodies are just extensions and projections of their gem!!

SO, if going by a lot of phanon core logic, it would make sense if ghosts can have conversations to like fuse or something. Probably to use in battle mostly (ghosts are obviously territorial) but can also be used for love or to protect a weaker/damaged core! JUST IMAGINE THE POSSIBILITIES!!

Danny being able to fuse literally Steven universe style w his friends because he's a halfa, Danny being able to fuse with Jason because he has a connection because of the pits (Halfa or Revenant Jason Todd), Danny fusing with LITERAL BATMAN as he's the ghost king!!

CAN YOU IMAGINE HOW TERRIFYING THAT WOULD BE???

Jason in the middle of getting sacrificed: :|

Danny, the one being summoned and seeing a poor baby ghost/potential boyfriend material and snatching him to protect him: :)

Bruce:

Tim:

Dick:

Barbara:

Steph:

Cass:

Jason: ¯\(°_o)/¯

Danny: Mine now :)

*he says as their body erupts into flames and they become the most bad ass looking ghost that kicks the cultists asses; Before they started lounging around and reading Jane Austen* (floating laying down is apparently more comfortable than just laying down on something solid, so its nice to float and read)

ORRRR

Justice League facing off an impossibly strong enemy that they have no choice but to look into outside sources to help defeat him (Trigon, Darkseid, something else that probably show up like 4 times a week lmao). Eventually, JLD get wind of a new ghost king who's supposedly kind and benevolent, which is races better than his old counterpart.

With the entire League's permission, begrudgingly Batman's, they summon the Ghost King as a last option and are ready to sacrifice anything for his help (within reason). Imagine their surprise when Danny Fenton, aged somewhere between 16 to 21, pops up in the portal looking frazzled and like he was woken up from a nap. Not even in his ghost form, just blinking owlishly at the League members while gaping like a fish.

"Holy shit—the Justice League?! I'm being summoned by the Justice League?! Ohmygod Tucker is gonna freak"

Constantine butts in looking nervous as hell and sweating buckets, "Your Majesty—"

"Just Danny's fine, I can't believe I'm being summoned by THE Justice League!"

"...Danny. We could really use some of your help, mate. See, we got ourselves an issue we can't really fix ourselves–"

"I'll do it. I'm not even joking, you guys don't even have to ask me twice,"

Everyone in the League (besides Batman) was watching with bated breath at the exchange. The confusion as a random teenager showed up was quickly washed away with how formally he was addressed, but it spiked back up when 'Danny' seemed to...hero worship them?

"—But!"

Ah, there it was. Can never do trades in the occult for free.

"I would really do it for free if I could man, honest! Just...I need to make a teensy weensy deal to be let out of the circle? You guys don't even have to let me do it on my own if you're worried I'll go rogue! You can tie me into a deal about one of you 'using my power' in exchange for like, a cup of coffee or something,"

Now everyone (except Batman, though he seemed to have a clenched jaw) was opening gaping as the omnipotent described being. Being offered something to great...in exchange for a mug of bean water? There had to be a catch, some sort of trickery, but Diana and many others could sense no ill intent on the young king. Constantine had even let up on the nerves as the being continued to speak, relief seeming to crash through his entire body when he realized none of them would have to give up their soul or something. Batman was the first to speak up.

"And if you were...to offer your power to one of us, what would that entail for the mortal or semi-mortal user?"

The king hummed and tapped his chin in thought, "Well, they'd probably be fine. Most of my power would be filtered through myself, so whoever is wielding it wouldn't go mad or suddenly overwhelmed with it. It'd be like turning on the tap while the well is underground, or something close,"

Batman nodded before Danny continued to speak.

"—But, obviously, I reserve the right to take away my power at any point if I see it needed. I would not be mind controlled, nor would I be drained, I would be an observer in the back of whoever decides to be at the other end of the contract until it's fulfilled,"

Constantine stepped forward once again, cigarette all but ash between his lips now, "Contract, right, mate. So uh, one of our sorry blokes gets access to your unfathomable power for the time it takes to beat whatever the hell it is out there. And in exchange, you get a cuppa? Maybe some biscuits and other treats with it to sweeten the deal?"

Danny smiled brightly at the ruffled looking blond and nodded, "Sounds good to me!"

All at once, the room dropped in temperature as the summoning circle around Danny became encased in ice. The ice shimmered an otherworldly dark blue, almost black, and stretched until it reached the feet of the young king. A spark lighted ontop of Danny's head before exploding into a flame, a crown taking shape through the smoke of the fire to sit upon the teenagers head. There was a flash of blue as a ring materialized on the teen's finger, as well as a cape seeming to sew itself from nothing to sit upon his shoulders. Danny looked sheepish as much as he looked serious, his eyes now emanating a neon green with hints of red in his pupil.

"This is kind of the awkward part, whoever what's to use my power will have to form the contract. I don't really feel comfortable with a super or meta using it, with how powerful I am it might cause more damage than repair it, so preferably a human or mostly human host?"

Danny looked so incredibly shy all of a sudden as he rubbed the back of his neck in an incredibly human gesture. The word's were out of Batman's mouth before he even realized he was speaking then.

"I'll do it," The Bat walked forward to stand beside Cobstantine. Constantine pinched his eyebrows together before letting out a nervous chuckle. Danny just seemed to light up.

"Ohmygosh I'm going to be core merging with Batman," the young king seemed to be doing another small fan-boy freakout before coughing and collecting himself.

"Right, right. Contract to do now, tell my Fraid about this later," Danny lifted up a flaming hand towards the edge of the summoning circle, motioning gently to the Bat.

"Heads up, this is going to feel really weird. Just keep holding onto me after the contract sets, and then make sure to get everyone away as fast as possible. You will grow, it's not gonna be very nice if other people are around because you'll squish them,"

The other League members around nodded mutely, eyes staring at Batman as they prayed and wished for his safety. Batman just gruffed and slowly placed his own hand into the awaiting palm. It didn't burn as he thought it would. In fact, it felt quite cold. Like the feeling of putting your bare hand into a pike of snow just to know how it felt. Batman forced himself not to shiver as he felt the contract form through the handshake. The young king sent him a reassuring smile before he seemingly vanished.

No, not vanished. There was a bright light in Bruce's gloves hand that shook with power. The light—sphere, orb?—sunk into his palm, and this time Bruce did shiver. It felt like the biting winds of a blizzard as it crept up his arm to settle in between his ribs. There was a ringing in his ears blocking out the noise around him, but he could faintly make out images of the League rushing away from him and giving a very large berth.

There was a building in his chest, and he felt it pulse like a second heartbeat. Bruce pulled his hands to his sternum and clawed uselessly as the hevlar, the freezing cold threatening to consume him whole inside and out. His chest pulsed, and he fell to the ground in a heap. Bruce heard some of the members try to rush to him, but the JLD held them baback. There was a cracking like ice pulling away from itself, like glaciers splitting, and all of a sudden Bruce felt power rush through his veins.

It should have been overwhelming, it should have terrified him into immeditely creating contingencies, it should have drove him mad with power, but it didn't. Bruce didn't realize his form had grew until he opened his eyes (when did he close them) and blinked down at the members of the League. They were so...small compared to him now. Bruce felt more than he saw the flames dance from his collarbone, and they flickered up high around his thankfully still cowled face. Though, it seemed his face was the cowl right now.

Bruce turned to the being they were fighting (and losing to) moments ago, and smirked. He felt the spike of fear, and he suddenly knew that this thing didn't stand a chance.

.

.

.

GUYS I KNOW BRUCE WOULD NEVER AGREE TO POWERS LMAO LET ME DREAM THO I THINK HE WOULD LOOK COOL ASF AS A GHOST!!

[tiny-pun]

On writing pain

Okay so for once this isn’t an actual prompt but more so a tip:

If your character is supposedly in pain that lasts more than a couple of days or even weeks and months, eg. Because of a bigger wound or of a (new) disability… you most likely should show this in more ways than just the occasional “gasp and clutching the wound”!

Having such constant pain will have at least some kind of emotional impact: the stress of constantly being in pain, the constant push and pull between just succumbing to the pain and laying down until it goes away or just ignoring it and powering through. The balancing act of not overdoing it and being hypervigilant to the point you just hunch down to avoid worsening it.

Additionally you have to think about how to treat all of the different pains. How connected are they really? How much sense does it actually make to take pain meds ? Are there enough? Do I trust my doctor/s, to actually listen to me and take my pain seriously? Am I over exaggerating my pain? Am I underselling it? Am I annoying my doctor? Should I just wait and hope it goes away? It’s probably nothing anyway. But what if it’s so much worse ? What if this pain is just covering up something truly awful? But what if I’m making such a fuss now and tomorrow I can jump around like always? How unnecessary it would be to get so many people involved. Right ? This is especially hindered by poor use of words aka incapability to communicate. ( My head is just … kinda fuzzy?/Everything hurts?)

Another factor is how much they want to openly tell others about it. And whom they could possibly even tell and all the whys and hows surrounding it. And how hard it would be aka how long they’ve know each other and how much time they spent together. The hiding and lying adds more emotional stress and also possibly leads to neglect of any medical help. The “overt” complaining about the pain/situation can be exhausting and thus a different kind of stress. Especially if they’re feeling childish/unheard or otherwise ashamed about voicing anything but positive emotions but the pain is just too much and too consistent.

This can also lead to a constant comparison of how far into their recovery they “statistically already should be” or just the plain old “I could do xyz SO EASILY before”. Or worse: they’re comparing themselves to another (equally) wounded/disabled character. Wether it’s an internal belief or externally expected: if the character believes, that their wound/pain is comparably minor or should be easily overcome by themselves; and especially if they have a certain goal in mind, by which they should be back to their regular power and it’s not look in good … well then you certainly have a nice cocktail of stress and anxiety.

And if during the time of their supposed recovery, they end up getting some minor but more common sickness, eg. A cold or a stomach bug, it might not be their first thought. In fact they might do any and every test possible BUT think of the common cold. Not bc they’re necessarily stupid but bc of the fear, things might go to hell after all. Especially if the symptoms of both illnesses are similar enough. Anything else will just not be in their radar.

Also how would they like to be taken care of ? How much of that is a facade to please others ? Do they actually want to be hugged right now or are they just trying to please someone yet feeling suffocated? Do they just want their dead siblings soup and is a companionable silence enough to know they’re gonna be fine? How honest are they towards not only themselves but to others? And how much can the people and the situation itself even give that to them right now? (Do they need silence but they’re currently lying low in the city’s biggest hotel next to the market place?)

For all of this it doesn’t matter how big or small the pain actually is. What matters is that it is seemingly constant and only very slowly going away. The combination of constant physical pain with so much emotional turmoil and back and forth between opposing ideals aka stress can translate to even more physical pain aka psychosomatic pain. Headaches, breathlessness and even bigger issues such as literal heartaches can be the result.

This all can lead to spiralling and in the worst case a (temporary) depression. I dont think I have to explain how that could look like.

And one last thing: If the character is used to being in life or death situations, no matter if it’s due to multiple fights or an already existing disability: the common cold might be worse to deal with. They could be so used to dealing with the possibility of death that anything less than that is ironically unbearable. During a basically fatal stabbing they might just say a cheeky joke but freak out during the common cold.

Disclaimer: I am not a doctor. If you have the same pain for more than 6 week pls get it checked out if you can! And get well soon. These are just possible ways to write, what kind of thoughts and issues any type of constant pain (fatal or not) could cause.

[cowboydisaster]

could you write a fic about simon and a reader who is going through withdrawals? Sorry if that's not real specific, you can take it in what ever direction you please. Thank you

Hope

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem! reader word count: 2k summary: Simon helps you get through withdrawals, offering you hope in the darkest point of your life. a/n: heed the warnings please!!!! I cried a good bit while writing this. You're never alone my friends, and there is always hope. Always. (p.s. there is a mention of wanting children in this fic, so keep that in mind. p.p.s why does tumblr destroy my image quality, it makes me sad.) warnings: opioid addiction, withdrawals, addiction, emetophobia, illness masterlist

"Si-Simon, I can't do this. I'm n-not strong enough." You whimper, clammy hands gripping onto his shirt with every pathetic ounce of strength that you can muster. Your voice is hoarse, throat thick with mucus and body covered in a stale cold sweat that soaks through your oversized t-shirt. Simon has never seen you so weak, so frail in his arms.

He's seen you take down men twice your size, clear rooms with more than ten enemies. You've faced countless opponents, broken through endless physical and mental barriers,  but in the end, the one thing you couldn't defeat was the pills. 

If you'd known you were trading your life away when you were handed the bottle, you never would have taken it in the first place. 

"For the pain." The doctor had said, "Just until this gunshot wound clears up."

Only it didn't. Before you even realized it, your body was already addicted. You craved the numbness that the damned capsules gave you, the release from the endless pain that singed your nerves day and night. You couldn't give them up. You tried– but the sickness that came when you stopped– you were sure it would kill you. 

Simon didn't know what to do. You lied, you kept him at a distance, never fully explaining to him what was going on. He didn't realize how bad it was. He tried not to pry, or to push you, but Simon put his foot down when he found you on the bathroom floor unconscious, a bottle of pills on the counter, half empty. His words reverberated in your ears, a harsh warning that he wouldn't watch you kill yourself. 

"You have to get clean, Y/N." He'd said from a place of love, but you couldn't help but crumble under his judgment, "I can't watch you do this to yourself anymore. You 'ave to sober up."

So here you are, a heap in Simon's lap, the both of you intertwined on the bathroom floor as you fight the overwhelming illness that accompanies withdrawals. Everything you've survived: loss, wounds, torture– it pales in comparison to the misery you're experiencing now. You refused to go to a detox center, not wanting to lose your position in the Task Force. You promised Simon that you'd let him drive you to the hospital if things got bad, but you want to do this at home. 

Bile rises from your stomach, lingering in the back of your throat as you gag. Immediately, Simon pulls your hair back into his fist, and helps to position you over the toilet. 

You dry heave, gagging on air as both of your cold hands grip the toilet bowl. Your wedding band glints in the dim bathroom light, bringing another layer of anguish to your already broken soul. 

He shouldn't have to deal with this. 

"Easy, love. Get it all out. I've got you." Simon coos as your stomach aches and flips, desperate to rid itself of any contents. Only you haven't been able to eat, so nothing comes up but painful bursts of air. You gasp and heave, collapsing back against Simon and erupting into loud sobs. Your bones ache as you fall onto his chest, and his hands hover over your form, unsure on how to hold you without shattering you even further. 

"I can't– I can't! Simon, please! Please. I'm going to die. M' gonna die–" You panic, "I'm not strong enough. You know that I'm not." You plead, begging for the substance that he has already flushed down the drain, your mind refuses to believe that it's actually gone. 

Simon's previously unbreakable heart manages to crack, and he wishes more than anything to carry the burden of your suffering. You're his wife, and it's his job to take the weight off your shoulders, but he can't do this for you. He can, however, be with you every step of the way. You showed him a new way of living, a way to do more than just survive. You've shown him love when he was undeserving of it. It's unbearable for him to see you, such a beam of light, in so much pain. 

"Look at me, baby. Look at me." Simon holds your face until your eyes meet his. Those chestnut colored irises hold your attention– the same ones you looked into as you read your vows, as you suffered pain, and loss, felt love and lust. They've watched after you through everything. 

"You can do this, yeah? You're the strongest person I know. Stronger than any other soldier in the Task Force, stronger than me. If anyone can beat this, it's you." Simon reassures. 

Your face crumples when you realize he's firm in his decision. You shake your head, clammy palms coming to rest against your face. 

"Please, Simon." You beg once again. Your body is trembling like a leaf held against the wind, cold wraps around your bones suffocatingly, squeezing every ounce of comfort from your being and leaving you high and dry. Pure, unadulterated suffering. 

"Come 'ere." Simon whispers, standing up from the tile floor and scooping you into his arms. He hooks his arms under your head and knees before carrying you into the bedroom. 

The soft bed dips under your shared weight as Simon lays down with you, his body wrapping around your own like a perfect puzzle piece. He pulls your back to his chest, letting you use his tattooed arm as a pillow. Your sobs quiet down to muffled whimpers as you shake lightly, wishing you could go back in time, solve this before it became a problem. 

Father time has never been merciful though, has he? 

"Blanket or no?" Simon asks. You nod your head quickly. 

"Yes, it's so cold. I'm so cold." Your teeth chatter lightly as you reiterate. Simon pulls the thick comforter over your forms, tucking it in around the edges as he adjusts behind you. 

An hour ago you were burning up, stripping off your clothes and sobbing at the heat clawing its way through your body like some sort of fiery plague. He'd put you in a cool bath, checking your temperature probably more often than what was necessary. 

You shake and writhe, whimpers and groans of agony slipping past your lips every once in a while. It's killing Simon to see you like this. Every ounce of light has drained from your eyes, the life has seeped from your pores, replaced with the lingering disease of addiction. He misses your laughter, your smile. It could light up a room. You've gotten the boys through many dark days. You were the sunshine of the Task Force. Failed missions, loss, heartache, no matter how bad things got, your optimism never ceased. Not until recently, anyhow. 

"We'll get there again." Simon tells himself like a mantra in his head,"She'll get better." 

He's personally seeing that you do. He won't allow you the pills to take hold of you, he'll fight. He's seen more soldiers die from pills than bullets. He won't let you meet that fate, he won't. 

He can't lose you. 

The room is covered with a calm silence, only the sound of your quick breathing to let him know you're still alive. Simon is quiet as well, and you drown in the silence, hoping for any kind of distraction to pull you away from your unending misery. You can feel yourself giving up, wanting nothing more than to slip into old habits. You slip your eyes shut, opening them only once a voice rumbles in your ear. 

"I was thinking… when you're better we'll get a bigger house." Simon quietly blurts out from behind you. 

A wrinkle forms in between your brows, and you crane your neck to look at him. You're sure he's trying to distract you, coming up with random conversation to keep your mind off of the present. When you look back, his gaze is far away, fixed on something on the far wall. A small smile graces his uncovered lips– he's been keeping the mask off at home recently, you've noticed. There is a light in his eyes, a light that you used to think would never grace the eyes of Simon Riley. 

"What? Why would we need a bigger house?" You ask with a small chuckle. He's succeeding in his distraction, you realize. 

His eyes flicker down to yours, hand gripping onto your waist as you turn towards him in curiosity. Your eyelids are heavy, another wave of exhaustion coming over you. 

"For the little ones." Simon responds.

He says it on a breath. He says it so plainly, so effortlessly, that tears immediately well in your eyes. He's never responded to your questions about children– usually shutting down or ignoring the topic wholly. Your lip wobbles, and he runs his thumb over the cracked skin. 

"Ch-children?" You ask, a new sense of hope filling your being. A new reason to fight– to get clean. Children. A family. 

"A girl, with your eyes…" Simon chuckles, "Probably with your attitude too." 

You laugh at that, tears slipping down your cheeks in landing on his hand that cups your face. 

"Maybe a boy. Hopefully he gets your features n' not my ugly mug." Simon huffs. 

"What changed…?" You ask, wincing as a wave of nausea pulses through your body. Simon's eyes go wide for a second, and his grip tightens on you, ready in an instant to carry you back into the bathroom if you need. The pain passes and you shake your head, signaling that you're okay. Immediately, he relaxes. It's quiet for a moment as Simon traces his thumb over your paper thin skin.

"A dog, a new house, babies, anything you want. I'll give you anything you want, just get better for me, baby." Simon pleads, a hint of vulnerability tracing his words. It's one of only a few times he's begged you. 

"I don't want a future without you in it. I want my wife. I want our kids terrorizing the place, I want to get old and retire the Force with you. Hell, I'd turn in my letter of resignation today if you asked, just please, fight for me, love."

The tears are falling freely now, you don't try to stop them. Guilt fills your being at the realization of everything you've put your husband through for the past few months. Through it all, he's never left your side. He's still here. Kissing closed your wounds, and promising to plant flowers in their place. 

A soft kiss is pressed to your forehead before amber eyes peek down at you through blonde eyelashes. You chew on your lip, a bad habit. 

Your resolve is set, and even though your body shrieks for the opposite, you'll get through this. You have to. 

You have Sunday mornings to look forward to, lazily pouring Simon a cup of tea in his favorite mug. You have a house to buy, with two bedrooms instead of one. Dragging Simon through the shops and picking out all the different onesies he'll let you bring home. You have walks through the park to go on. You have to pick up takeout on Simon's late nights at work. You have to sit on his desk while you share an entree and talk to him until he forgets about the paperwork he's supposed to be doing. So many little actions to go through, little memories to make. You can't give it up. You won't. 

There is so much to fight for, so much to hope for, all given to you by the man before you. Tears sting your eyes again as you finally speak up. 

"I promise you, Simon. I'll fight. For us, I will."

[e-hibiscus]

greetings my liege......... i am ill with arlecchinoitis and i must know your thoughts on arlecchino hands....................... they look so big and holdable and would be so warm when you're walking together in snezhnaya......... sick with longing rn 😔😔😔

You and me both 😔 im in delulu land thinking about arle so i write while im in class

Arlecchino’s hands…

A little nsfw utc

I found them so pretty 😭 when i saw them initially, i had to do a double take and check if they really were her hands. It looked like she was wearing rings and yes; big, strong, and holdable hands 🥺

They’re going to envelope yours in a firm but loving grip. Fingers laced together with her thumb rubbing against your’s. If you two aren’t holding hands, she walks with you, holding the small of your back as you two go about. Otherwise, she kisses your hands 🤭 whenever you meet or depart from one another. She’s a romantic like that

As cold and ruthless as the Knave is, she shows her pda through handholding and physical touch. Hugs and kisses are for in private, but I believe she would be “subtle” with her possessiveness and affection. Lets be honest and real here though, it’s not subtle because she loves you too much and must protect you and her family.

She would definitely make you suck on her fingers though 😔 if you’re being a whiny brat she has no problem silencing you and teaching you your place. Arlecchino WILL pound into you, her sweet wife, with her fingers down your throat while your pussy stays nice and full with her strap. She’s going so rough and hard, as if she’s trying to breed you and make you the mother of her children. Even though she can’t get you pregnant, she’s gonna fuck you as if she could

Her fingers are long and dexterous so filling you up (on either end 🤭) is going to feel so good. Don’t worry, Arle will cut her nails or file em down just to be safe.

[changbinsboobs]

haii can you do skz ideal types? like physique and personality. thank youu

Hi:) since i want to do those readings properly im gonna do them one by one and since i already have some for individual members i'll use this ask to start with chan:)

So, i originally started doing an Ideal Type reading but it got hijacked😅 so i guess im reading on his current energy. I'll try to still add something about his ideal type if i manage getting past the bitter energy but i think ill have to redo it some other time since i believe his opinion would be very influenced by his current feelings right now.

Take it with a grain of salt!!!

Chan's current energy / Ideal Typ

For his physical type i got pretty weird cards ngl, 3 of them are the tower, 5 of cups and 5 of wands, the 4th one's queen of pentacles. Tbh i didn't really get any hints about anything physical. He seems angry and bitter.

I think this reading is gonna be hijacked by something else he wants to talk about. I sense he has had a bitter experience thats still fresh in his mind, i think he got dumped tbh!

Like im seeing a situation with lots of bickering. Ogmg ok wait i have so much to say about it this situation has so many layers!

He feels like he lost something great and regrets his stupid actions.

At the same time tho he thinks its that persons fault and if they were better he wouldn't have acted in a way that would get him dumped.

But then again he feels like he's at fault and regrets it a lot.

But he's also so angry cuz they kept having fights, and she kept exhausting him and he kept not being enough. He feels horrible when he's not enough! He doesn't want to feel like that. He wants to live up to her expectations, to peoples expectations. But he just couldn't in this situation with that person.

It seems like he actually got himself a high quality girl - the he couldn't keep obviously. And he's in so much distress with all his conflicting feelings and thoughts. Im sry but im getting a bit angry at him here🙄 its that male stupidity with lack of accountability whatsoever! You cant expect to give the bare minimum, to be an excuse of a "man" and except to get all the perks real man and masculinity gets you! Deal with the consequences bro🙄 -> not necessarily meaning him, im just seeing the picture from his view, so idk how "horrible" he actually was, i was rather talking about the general population of useless men that just have the audacity to expect the best when they themselves aren't worthy of it and then get mad when they can't keep it.

Anyways back to chan - im also getting mommy's boy vibes here omg its getting worse😩😭 i feel like with this situation he's like "forget her bro, she's not worth it. Your mom used to cook and clean, and take care of 3 children and do everything by herself and she didn't whine and was always so giving. I want a woman like that! This girl wasn't lie my mother - she's not worth it, get over her and stop feeling guilty." Don't take that monologue word for word i was rather training to paint the feeling behind his thoughts.

So yeah we have that...tbh i didn't expect him to have a reaction like that like with the comparison to his mom. The rest i expected, but this? Damn🥲

Also this whole situation seems very dramatic, but what I've noticed in the male population overall is that they tend to blow things way put of proportion, and so knowing chan and his tendencies for a victim-complex, pick me, delulu and stuff - im pretty sure this situation might've been not dramatic at all. Just 2-3 little discussions (not full blown arguments and fights as he depicts it) or even just opposing opinions, where he just felt attacked in some way just by her disagreeing or something...and then after a few dates or weeks of dating she politely told him she doesn't want to see him anymore cuz they don't see compatiable and he broke down.

Again idk how things are for real cuz i haven read the other girls energy nor have i read just the energy itself, im just reading HIS energy and perception, but it feels really needy and excagerated so thats whats leading me to believe that it might not be nearly as bad.

So i managed to get some cards on his ideal types personality only and i got those: 3 of cups, 6 of pentacles, page of cups & king of wands.

His types a younger, more innocent and inexperienced girl he can take care of and teach and lead.

She likes a girl that's social but shy. Someone he can take with when meeting his friends and show of. But as i said - social enough for him to be able to do that - but but also shy so he stays sure that theres no risk of her "going wild" (goddamn bro u forreal?🫠)

Im actually getting something about physical appearance - slender, middle hight, like just a bit shorter than him, prefferably forreign with lighter skin and ginger or light brown or dark blonde hair. Im also seeing big head? Like yk this type of body with very slender narrow shoulders, long lanky arms and legs, but a bigger head where it also seems disproportionate to the body? Its so specific i almost think thats what his last girl looked like.

And he also wants a girl thats submissive and will see up to him and make him feel like a boss or a king or a ...daddy (🤢 im sry i just cant hold in the cringe)

In conclusion - i think this ideal type i got from the cards isn't his true ideal type but rather something that came out of spite. Like if i had to guess he's describing the girl he lost, but without her empowering qualities so that he doesn't get hurt.

Judging on the energy of this reading and previous ones ive done i think he has had a think for strong dominant women because he's fascinated with inner strength and power and always wanted to conquer a woman like that because in his head it meant he has that amount of power and strength the said woman had and even more - since he has managed to tame and conquer her. Now that he's tried tho he got met with the cold reality and got a slap in the face realizing he might not be fit for the task just yet and is just sour about it😃

As weird and unexpected this reading was i really enjoyed it cuz it was really shocking to me actually and even gave me a bit of a slap in the face, reminding me how he's just a man...and that he apparently does stupid things like any other guy too.