#but are you not ashamed to take it that far

[giddyfatherchris]

📝 skz reaction - you fall asleep on their laps

pairing. ot8!skz x gn!reader (individually)

type. fluff fluff fluffff

warnings. gender neutral reader, curse words (thats how i show my enthusiasm okay)

a/n. as someone who falls asleep anywhere and loves to sleep with people around me, i need to have a nap on each of them thank you.

a/n 2. yes the members order is reversed… thats just how inspiration struck and i couldn’t be bothered to change it SUE ME🫥

(pictures are not mine. credit to the owner!)

(divider credit!)

jeongin ⊹ ࣪ ˖ he would maybe be a lil annoyed at first thinking you're not moving because you want to annoy him. until he realizes that no no you're just extenuated and literally fell asleep on him which would suprise him sooo much. poor baby wouldn't know what to do with himself. he probably woudn't dare to move and would be tensed as all hell. although, slowly, he'd relax and grow into it. once he gets over his fear of waking you up he'd be so so smitten with you, cooing at how adorable you are, to the point where that actually woke you up

seungmin ⊹ ࣪ ˖ he would def be annoyed, going as far as trying to make you move away or scold you to go to bed. it's not that he doesn't like it, but he's uncomfortable and can’t understand why you’d want to cuddle him. once he asked why you didn't sleep somewhere else and you explained there was something about him that made you feel safe and at peace, that annoyance and awkwardness *poof* disappeared. he would let you sleep with your head comfortably laying on his lap while he practices a few songs and hums you to sleep aka best thing EVER. once you're fast asleep he would ask for someone to bring you a blanket and proceed to give a death stare to anyone who might make too much noise (euhm euhm binnie).

felix ⊹ ࣪ ˖ when you pouted and asked him to sleep on his lap he didn't even think before answering yes. being very comfortable with physical touch, our lil aussie boy would not mind at all. except he would not be prepared for how ADORABLE you look when you sleep. he would definitely take a thousand pictures of you (which he keeps in a special album in his phone). he would love to play in your hair or lightly massage your shoulders. and after that first time, whenever he sees you yawn a little too much he'd motion for you to lay on his lap. he is not ashamed to say one of his favorite thing to do is gaming while you're dozing off on his lap.

han ⊹ ࣪ ˖ first time it happened he was soooo scared to wake you up and wouldn't move at all. but that stopped very quick lmao, he would love when you fall asleep on him, even though he's not the best for it because he keeps moving and wiggling around. loves loves loves skinship, so he would constantly play with your hair, your clothes or poke your cheeks while you're trying to fall asleep. the only way to make this really work for both of you would be for him to watch his favorites animes while you're sleeping with your head on his shoulder.

hyunjin ⊹ ࣪ ˖ he says he's not a fan of physical touch, but that does not apply to the ppl he's close with. including you. when you fall alseep on his lap he's an absolute cuddle master. he would put his sweater on you when you shiver and coo whenever you make a little grumbling noise. he'd love to draw little sketches of you while you're asleep or take pictures, which most likely wake you up and make you move away and makes him whine like a baby. he's honestly kind of annoying to fall asleep on, but whenever you'd move away he would for sure bring you back on his lap with a promise to stop bothering you this time.

changbin ⊹ ࣪ ˖ despite the fact that he has the attention span of a squirrel and that he's one loud motherfucker, whenever you fall alseep on his lap he turns into a statue. this man will not move or say a thing. he'd love how innocent and relaxed you look when you're sleeping and would be ready to annihilate anyone who may interupt that. the boys would definitely try to taunt him with food to get him to move but he'd categorically refuse to bother your peaceful naps. when they inevitably bring that fact to your attention he'd become all shy and he mumble about how it's not his fault you look so precious when you sleep.

minho ⊹ ࣪ ˖ mister minho would act annoyed for half a second before he pulls you closer and play mindlessly with strands of your hair. there is legit no space between the two of you and that's how he likes it okay >:( he would give dirty looks to the boys whenever they tried taunting him about how soft he is with you. most of the time he falls alseep too, his hands resting on your hips while the boys take pictures of the pair of you. when they show them to you guys afterwards he says nothing but has a small shy smile and you can bet your ass he will have one of those pictures as his background.

bangchan ⊹ ࣪ ˖ he would fucking love when you fall asleep on his lap. it's no secret channie is one caring little fucker and he loves to care for/protect the people he loves. the first time you would settle your head on his lap to relax he'd try to play it cool as if it was no big deal, but when he'd realize you actually fell asleep his heart would be seconds away from fricking exploding. you'd look so cute and cozy and keep wiggling to be closer to him. it would definitly make his lil soft heart flutter and he would make funny faces, incapable of containing the effect you have on him (which the boys love to make fun of him for). after the first time, he'd declare himself your official nap spot and it would not be negotiable or else he’d pout and whine until you finally come to him.

[azrielsdove]

All This Time: Rhys x Reader

Warnings: Short, Little Angst, Little Suggestive

***

“Have you lost your mind?” Rhysand seethed, glaring at you. “Throwing yourself directly in the path of danger?”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms and glaring back at him. “I didn’t throw myself into danger. I was trying to help.”

“Help? Help! What you did was not helpful in any way. You acted foolishly and rashly.”

“Well what you rather I done then? Let you be killed?”

“I would not have been killed.”

You scoffed. “Oh, really? From the way I saw it that dagger was seconds from implanting itself into your heart.”

His anger grew, darkness creeping in to the edges of the room. “I am a High Lord. A measly dagger would not end me.”

“Sure,” you agreed, shrugging your shoulders. “But a poisoned one might.”

A great silence encased the space, Rhys’ anger quieting down for a moment. “Poisoned?”

You nodded, holding out your arm and pulling up your sleeve. There lay the cut the dagger had left on your skin.

It was black.

And it was not healing.

Rhys stared at it for a long time before speaking again, voice deadly quiet. “When did you realize?”

“As soon as it happened. No normal cut burns the way this did.”

“And yet you chose to stay silent?”

“You were already angry enough.”

He looked ashamed, his dark anger dissipating. He moved over to you, taking your injured arm carefully in his hands. His fingers traced the wound delicately. He tensed at your small gasp of pain. “Has it gotten worse?”

You shook your head. “Not as far as I can tell. It hurts, but it hasn’t changed.”

He was quiet again, studying your skin as if he would find the cure written there.

“It’s fine, Rhys,” you reassured, trying to get him to look at you.

“It’s not,” he said slowly.

“What do you mean?”

He closed his eyes and you felt the low thrum of his power on your skin. You shifted in discomfort, nervous about what he was going to find. “Rhys,” you whispered as his magic began infiltrating the wound. A slow burning feeling was accompanying his search, getting worse every second he continued. “Rhys,” you said louder, beginning to panic at the pain. He continued what he was doing, as if couldn’t feel your struggle. “Rhys! Stop! Stop!” You cried, trying to pull your arm from him with all your strength. Tears were streaming down your face as you fought against the statue of a man, begging for him to let go.

He finally snapped out of it, dropping your arm in shock. You stumbled, brain fuzzy from the pain. Rhys caught you as you fell, moving the two of you carefully to the ground. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispered over and over. “I’m so sorry.”

The burning your arm ceased and you were able to catch your breath, looking at Rhys with concern. “What was that?” You asked warily.

Still staring at the mark on your skin, he responded, “Dark magic. Ancient magic. I haven’t seen anything like this.”

You did not like the sound of that. “Well, did-were you able to, tell, anything?”

His eyes reconnected with yours, worry lining them. “No. As far as I could sense the magic was not any deeper than the skin.” He traced the black line mindlessly with his fingers. “It won’t heal from this, though. The scar will remain as is, until the end of time. Superficial, but ugly.”

“That does not matter to me.”

“And it shouldn’t.” He stood from the floor then, pulling you up with him. He let go of your arm, moving to put his hands on your waist. Your heart stuttered at his closeness, at his eyes looking intently at you. “Yet if you ever, ever, risk your life to save me again, I will lock you in your room.”

You scowled, pushing away from him. “Mother, remind me to not save his life next time.”

“You do not need to play the hero!”

“I wasn’t! I was acting on impulse.”

“Impulse of what? Getting yourself killed?”

“No, Rhys!” You screamed, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “To save you. To help you. Don’t you see? Everything I do is for you!”

He looked you over slowly. “Why?”

Mother, give you strength. “You idiot. I love you, Rhys. I always have. So no, I will never bow away from danger if it means losing you!” The room was silent again. You turned away from him, unable to look at his reaction to your profession. “Just go, okay?”

“No.”

You slowly moved to face him again, shocked when you found he had to moved to right in front of you. “No?” You asked.

“I won’t leave. If I leave, I won’t get to do this.”

You opened your mouth to ask what he meant, but your question was answered before you even spoke by the rough press of his lips against yours. You melted into him instantly, your arms twining around his neck as he held you close. You put all the years of unspoken secrets into the kiss, holding onto Rhys like he was the only light in the world. Everything felt right.

“How long?” He murmured against your lips, refusing to fully break away from you.

“Years. Decades. Centuries,” you whispered, kissing him between each word. “Ever since we met.”

“Since we met,” he repeated, his fingers flexing against your body. He pulled away then, cupping your face in one hand. His thumb ran across your swollen lips, his eyes flashing darkly. “I’ve wanted you for all this time. Needed you. I’ve felt called to you like the stars to night.” He kissed you again, lightning rolling up your spine. “You’re mine.” He began pressing kisses to your face, your jawline, your neck. Anywhere he could get he kissed you like he was starved of it.

“Rhys,” you moaned, digging your nails into his shoulders as he left marks of his teeth along your skin. You had waited forever to feel like this, to have him touch you in such a way. “Rhys, I love you.”

He looked back into your eyes, a small smile on his lips. “And I love you. Risk your life for mine again, and i’ll kill you.” He silenced your argument with his kiss, pulling you down to the bed with him.

Nothing else mattered.

***

this is just a short something, i really wanted to write an argument hahaha. i hope you enjoyed <3

[jackactuallywrites]

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 9

Rating: SFW

Warnings: ANGST

Summary: You have a date! Not with Ghost 💀

Notes: If you feel this is out of character for you personally, valid, I just like making Ghost suffer 😌

Word count: 1,513

ao3 link

You were going on a date!

It had been some time since you’d been on one, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the man who you refused to name even in your own head. You weren’t doing this out of any petty desire to prove you were desirable; no, this was personal growth! This random man from Tinder could be your future husband, after all!

Well, that was taking it a bit too far, but at the very least, he might knock some of the spiderwebs off your headboard.

Your day had been spent preparing for your date, starting with an hour-long bath in which you shaved everything from your eyebrows down, leaving your skin smooth, polished, and buttery soft. You didn’t want to think about the cost of all the moisturiser you’d used, only how nice you smelled, as though you’d been dipped into a vat of cocoa butter. Then, it was onto makeup. Thankfully, today had been a good skin day for you, so you kept it simple, a fuckton of mascara to make your eyelashes really pop, and then another half hour tweezing your eyebrows into a perfect shape. You dithered over colours, settling with a warm lip tint, which you dabbed on your cheekbones. Already, you felt that this man would not be worth all this effort, but you did enjoy the process of making yourself look absolutely breathtaking. The outfit was the last piece of the puzzle and the hardest part. How could you find clothes that said, ‘I’m down to shag, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to put any effort in’. Jeans? Mm, no, too hard to take off while looking sexy. Little dress? Eh, too cold. Midi skirt it was. Warm and practical, and easy to hike up. Plus, it had pockets! What wasn’t to love! You paired it with a nice pair of dark heels and an off-the-shoulder top. You faffed with your hair, trying to figure out if you wanted it up or down, before just sticking a little bow clip in it and calling it a day.

Naturally, now that you were preened to perfection, Soap decided it was the best time to try and rub spiky white hairs all over your outfit, as though his essence was what was missing from the ensemble. He’d been happily snoozing the entire time you were getting ready, seemingly knowing when the exact wrong time was to start trying to fuss you. You simply did your best to pet him at arms reach, then distracted him with treats while you sat on the sofa to kill time, having gotten ready far too early for your date.

You were busy trying to figure out how you were supposed to eat crisps without ruining the outfit when you heard a knock at the door. Strange, you were meeting your date at the bar. If he’d somehow found your address online, he was getting deep heat spray to the eyes. You tucked the little canister into your skirt pocket as you went to the door, peering through the peephole.

Shit.

Why did you suddenly feel awkward about going out on a date? You had nothing to be ashamed about; you were a free agent; you could go on a thousand dates if you liked. Still, you felt uneasy opening the door to him. The chain remained off as you opened the door, your arm wrapped around your waist for comfort.

“Ghost.”

For once, he wasn’t wearing the mask. He still had the ‘definitely a civilian’ clothes on, blue jeans and a black waterproof, and even the way he stood was unquestioningly military, his arms behind his back, but without the mask, he was a little more human. And gorgeous, but you didn’t want to think about that.

“You off out somewhere?”

“Yeah, actually. Got a date.”

You watched his expression carefully, a twinge of guilt in your stomach. It wasn’t like you were anything more than friends. Weird, fucked up friends where one of them broke into the other’s house and left cats. His face didn’t change. Still perfectly neutral, his eyes dead and cold, just like you remembered them. He shifted from his stiff position, bringing forth the bouquet he’d apparently been concealing behind his back.

You’d been given a lot of bouquets over the years, some from dates, some from thankful cat parents, a lot from your girls, but this was new. Usually, a man would give you basic red roses or whatever strange mix Lidl had on sale at the doors, but these weren’t cheap supermarket flowers. They were a beautiful mix of purple tulips, some so dark they looked almost black, some soft lavender, without a single limp petal or dangling leaf. A dark purple ribbon was wrapped around their stems, holding them tightly together. Fuck. He’d really gone all out.

“Wanted to give you summat as a thank you.”

“Ghost, these.. they’re really nice. You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

You took them from him, gently inhaling their scent. Christ, did tulips smell good. Did you even own a nice vase to put them in? You’d stashed all your glass ornaments in cupboards, out of Soap’s reach. Soap. Would he know not to eat tulips? They were, after all, exceptionally poisonous to cats. And Soap was a bit of an idiot. You’d just have to keep them up on the shelf in your bedroom with the rest of your treasured possessions. Not that this was a treasured possession. You just didn’t want Soap to get sick.

“Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

There was a moment of silence, things left unsaid, but you couldn’t exactly say what was on your mind. He’d already rejected you once before, and you weren’t made of steel. Still, you felt bad.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t-“

“Why would you be sorry? They’re just flowers. Don’t read so much into it.”

Well, that put an end to any guilt on your end.

“Right. Well, thanks for the flowers, Simon.”

He gave you a brisk nod, then turned on his heel and left without another word.

If the man had planned on putting your head in a spin before your date, he’d done a marvellous job. The flowers seemed to stare down at you mockingly from their position on the shelf high above your headboard, watching you spray perfume on yourself, decorating yourself for another man. You scowled at them as though you could singe their petals; they could watch you fuck another man for all you cared; as Ghost had said, they were just flowers. They meant nothing. Nothing that had a place of importance in your room. Ugh.

They stuck with you throughout your date. The man you met at the bar wasn’t unattractive, tall, handsome, dark-haired, and his conversation was pleasant enough, but you just couldn’t feel a spark. Was that a good thing? The sparks you felt with Ghost felt more like a taser; they’d left you fearful and uneasy, but my God, those sparks were strong. Perhaps it was better that you didn’t feel that way about your date. After all, people weren’t supposed to break into your house and then make snarky comments about your home security, nor were they supposed to reject you and then make teasing comments about how you wanted them, or give you flowers and then tell you they meant nothing. This date could have been good for you, a nice, normal man, a picket fence, 2.4 children, weekend walks in the Peak District and holidays in Benidorm.

You went home alone.

You didn’t need a date. You didn’t need a Ghost. What you did need was a therapist.

Unfortunately for you, they were expensive if you went private, and if you didn’t, you’d be stuck on a waiting list for months. Besides, you didn’t really want to confess to a therapist, ‘so I have a stalker, but we’re actually friends, so please don’t report him to the police!’. As if. You could therapise yourself. You knew what you needed to do. You needed to do what most other people in this situation would do: you needed to block his number, change your locks, and forget about him.

You stared at his number in your phone. Ghost. Stupid name. If you blocked him, he’d know he’d gotten to you. Or would he assume you’d moved on? It irritated you that he took up so much room in your thoughts. It would have served him right if you threw those flowers away. You considered it, taking them down off the shelf and holding them in your hand, imagining how it would feel to burn them, trample them underfoot, or beat him to death with them. Nope. Prick or not, the flowers were too beautiful to get rid of, and it wasn’t their fault that the person gifting them was a cunt. Back on the shelf they went.

You’d keep them just because they were beautiful, and they would wilt with your emotions for him, and then you could throw everything away.

[ariatwang]

My freshman English teacher, Ms. S (just the initial for privacy), is still the coolest woman I've ever met in my life. Some Ms. S anecdotes radblr would appreciate:

for one thing, she insists on being called Ms and WILL correct you if you say/write Miss or Mrs

she (white) was brought up in rural Virginia in the 60s and 70s, so she was in a very racist and segregated environment during her childhood . but instead of being ashamed/defensive, she's very open about it and actively uses her personal experiences to teach her students. while we were talking about the historical context for To Kill a Mockingbird, she told us about how when she went on her first "date" with a boy in the fifth grade, they went to a minstrel show. she was always very explicit in saying "this history is not even really far away enough to be called history."

my favorite Ms. S story: when one of her classes was reading Of Mice and Men, one of the boys called Curley's wife a slut, and she, without missing a beat, matter-of-factly said "you guys are my most misogynistic class." fucking legendary.

she sends out personalized postcards every winter and summer break to the houses of every single one of her students who passed the semester exam, no matter if they got a D or an A.

for the final exam the year I had her class, half of it was an essay question about the effects of child marriage on girls globally. (I'm still so proud of the smile she gave me when I asked for more paper, lol. never gonna grow out of wanting to impress her.)

she also taught women's studies!! but she had to stop teaching it before I was old enough to take it which I'm so sad about

most of the boys hated her, but very few of the girls did, which is telling

referred to news regarding what some right wing crackpot politicians were doing in our state as "bullshit" on multiple occasions

I can't remember what the actual lesson was about, but it was somehow related to health insurance for employees and she dropped in that "like, a lot of health insurance plans will cover Viagra but not birth control. Isn't that sexist?" and then just circled back to the lesson

broke a lot of unspoken rules by always leading discussions about a lot of "taboo" topics like rape and sexual abuse and etc whenever they related to the material

god I know there's so much more but I can't remember all of it now and this would be far too long if I could

I want to take a break from discourse for a moment. Reblog or reply with a way a woman in your life is awesome.

I’ll go first. My mom is the most determined person I know. I’ve never seen her give up on anything and she always keeps a cool head when solving problems. She knows when to take a break and has impeccable work/life balance, but when she is working on something she is completely focused and always the most useful person in the room.

[hughiecampbelle]

Healing (Roman Roy Oneshot)

Character/s: Roman

Word Count: 1,576

Inapired By: Amusing by Genevieve Stokes

Warning/s: self harm, self harm scars, self harm mention

A/N: Just a silly little therapy fic. Back in my "Roman Roy is my husband" phase lol. I will get back to writing and posting and requests, my brain is just acting up and I think my meds need to be adjusted. Things are getting serious with the LSATs coming up and applying to law school. I'm taking a couple classes at the local community college with law and fiction writing (so my fics will hopefully get better lol). Scars are nothing to be ashamed of no matter what they come from and I hope you know that my loves 💕

Your love was bruise-like: healing, but oh so tender. Place your fingerprints atop it, apply the slightest bit of pressure, and an ache would form from the heart of it. Beating. Pulsing. Changing, too. Adapting. In its infancy it was pink and chewy, at times (in certain lighting) red and bloody. Crude, you used to call him. An anomaly. Strange, this stranger, with his defenses up, his walls built. His words are needy, but his body is repulsed by the idea of love, of holding. Gory, you used to think, before it settled. Settled into a deep blue, a purple, a dark, cool tone atop the skin. An irresistible want the way your tongue finds a gap between your teeth, playing with the gummy socket. Hurting, you’d think, but less so. Ripe, the word comes to mind with a certain sweetness. Give it time. Give him time. Shared moments between meetings, calls, emails. A joke here and there just to get you to smile. One or two dates. Casual. It was only meant to be casual. The tone warms into a green, a yellow, blooming under the flesh like a spill. Of what? You’re not entirely sure. Still nothing to cry over. An affection developing for it, for him, one you cannot quite name, but feel for regardless. More than friends, more than casual, that much is clear. Between here and there you became official. Introduced not as an employee, but someone to share dinner with, attend parties and vacations. Someone trapped in family photos where he is silly and unserious. Between here and there the yellow, so potent, so pigmented, fades until there is little sign of anything wrong. Moved in together. Move up in the company. Your clothes mixed with his in the washing machine, tumbling together in the dryer. Your things melded with his: indistinguishable. A life not of two, but of one. Together. You press, and wait, and sometimes you still want it to hurt, to throb, but mostly you are content with the way things have played out.

It’s the softness of his cologne. The sharpness of your hair dye. Toxic, you think, chemical, though you love it anyways. The dust from the heaters, off for so long it stirs up that familiar scent of time passed without even noticing. There are others, too. Fabric softener, various candles, soaps and shampoos. Hints of him, of you. The front door shuts behind you and you are enveloped in warmth. Outside the snow falls in fat, round flakes and the cold kisses your cheeks the whole way home. You consider yourself grateful. Every day. Every time you walk through this door, every time you are greeted by warmth and safety and security. Nothing bad has ever happened here. Nothing will. That is not a fallacy or lie you say to yourself like you used to, so many years ago. This is true. Whatever, and whoever is out there cannot get to you in here. They cannot scold you. They cannot sexualize you. They cannot strip you of your home or sense of security. In here, this place, this home, you are in control. You have a say. This place is your domain and you may do whatever you please. 

You hang up your jacket, dropping your bag. You can hear his patter far away, humming to himself, unaware of your presence. Quietly, you make your way to the bedroom, following the buttery light dripping into the hallway. He is a welcomed sight. A sight for sore eyes, you think. Softly you move, your socks lightly across the carpet. Hi, you say. Hey you, he says, startled only slightly. He turns to face you. The button of his shirt is undone, but only one. Instinctively, you reach out, your fingers moving automatically down his torso. His shirt, crisp and white, opens to a t-shirt beneath. Thin, you note, too thin for this cold, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He used to squirm, uncomfortable with the touch of another person, uncomfortable with the idea of being taken care of. You have been together long enough for him to grow used to it, accustomed, welcoming it even. He stands still, his breathing shallow, until you meet his gaze, a smile spreading across your faces. No need to thank me, you joke. Wasn’t going to, he shrugs, placing it on a nearby hanger. 

It is late. The sun has set, though it does so so early. You follow him. You stand beside him, facing your closet, large enough to throw a party from within. Prompt, he speaks about his family: something stupid his brother said, a joke his sister made, and his father. . . well, there were a few kind words. You share your day: meetings mostly. Kudos shared with how technical your work has become. He smiles, listening intently. Praise is given in rations at Waystar. It is not an easy feat to earn. Together you undress, tired from the day, welcoming the quiet of the night. You unzip your pants, letting them fall around your ankles. Your skin prickles in the open air. Scars, mostly, stare back at you. Old and new, healing and trying to. Patterned. Stitched, like that of a quilt. He does not take a second glance. They, like the rest of your skeletons, had been exposed a long time ago. In return, he plucked his bones from under the bed, scattering them out where you could look and touch and learn. He has never started. Not then, not now. Your words are muffled by your shirt, pulling it over your head. I couldn’t believe they actually liked. . . In nothing but your undergarments and yet, perhaps foolishly, doing so unafraid. 

More scars. 

There is nowhere else to truly look at them, see them as they are, except this place. Not just this room, though these walls have seen more of you than any other. The kitchen where you can cut up vegetables with your forearms out. The pool where you let the sun warm all of your skin, diving into the water, fearing only the cold and not what others might say. The couch you sit and work without pants on, your legs stretched and tangled with his. There is no person or place that offers the same kind of comfort, the same kind of radical acceptance as him. He’d noticed them, of course. A sleeve rolling down when you’d fetch printer ink on the top shelf, back when those kinds of things were part of your job description. The change from work to party attire, the transition daunting, at times impossible, as more skin was seen as acceptable. Back when the bruise was still gnawing. He’d stare, just as everyone else had, politely saying nothing, waiting until your back was turned. The more he sees, the more frequent you undressed in his presence, the less interesting they seemed until, finally, he could go from subject to subject without so much as a glance, choosing to poke fun at Tom and Greg, their odd yet delicate dynamic, instead. 

Hidden from the rest of the world, this is the only company you let them show. Shameful, or, worse, sickening. They wouldn’t understand. They don’t, and so you keep them beneath fabric. You do what you can to minimize the attention. Did I tell you what Kendall did today? Grab something warm to put on, to sleep in, just as he has done. You shake your head, grateful for the smooth fabric against your body. Your skin does not hum the way it used to, alive and breathing and begging. Loud, you think, screaming, even. Okay, so. . .  It whispers. That you cannot avoid, but you can ignore the best you can. When you are done you turn to him, wanting him to know you’re listening, plucking an eyelash from his cheek and making a wish in the process.

His hands move as he speaks and you cannot help but watch them dance. Frantic, you think, and you wish to soothe him, but for now you must listen. You will laugh as you always do. He paints a picture of absurdity and humor, fitting for his brother and all his intricacies. He’ll tell you he ordered takeout from that one place you like around the corner. You’ll take out plates and silverware, pour something old and red into two glasses. You’ll sit together and swap containers, praising the new recipes. You’ll feel full and warm and grateful, watching him instead of the television. The way his chest rises and falls. The brightness of his eyes. His laugh, like music to your ears. You will stay up and work, your computer screen blue and hazy. When it is late and he cannot keep his eyes open, you will go to bed. Sleeping soundly beside one another, just to repeat the cycle again tomorrow. For now, though, you listen. You watch his lips turn upwards as he pokes fun at his brother, the highs and lows he falls into, putting on a show before everyone's eyes. The bruise has healed. The color faded until you can no longer distinguish it. You brace yourself when you touch it, afraid, though there is little to fear nowadays. There is little to worry about, to anticipate, for it is you and him in your home, your life built imperfectly. Lopsided, crooked even, but better than you would have ever expected.

[s4nguiine]

petals and bullets

boothill x fem!reader - pt. 2

» rating: still eventual nsfw.

» notes: two fics in a row! woooo!! i wanted to discuss the future of this fic a bit. i want to try something new, something non-linear. the first 3 chapters will be linear of course, because i need to establish a backstory and yada yada, but i figured it would be cool if i made the following chapters separate stories. that way i wouldn't be tied down to one story and trying to make fun concepts fit - i can just write separate chapters with different adventures the reader and boothill would go on. let me know your thoughts on this in the comments if you have any :p

» tag list: @favsruii @inyourfaceace @crystalkat6747 (lmk if you'd like to be added or removed!)

you’re frozen where you stand and drops of sweat run down your throat as you swallow. you don’t need to see the weapon to know there is a gun pointed at you. do IPC workers carry around guns now..?

“looks like this crate had a rat in it, too,” the man behind you says.

you make an attempt to grab the knife in your pocket - unsuccessfully, as he immediately spots the small movement.

“don’t even think about it, darlin’. why don’t you turn around slowly so i can get a proper look at ya?”

you take a deep breath first, then you do as he says. and when he comes into view, an extravagantly clothed cyborg cowboy, you’re.. not sure what to think. he seems to have a similarly surprised expression on his face.

“a lady? muddlefudger. i don’t like pointin’ my gun at ladies.”

his accent… his long black and white hair… his eyes. you hate it, but you’re just as scared of as you are attracted to this man.

“what’s your name?” he asks.

“y/n,” you reply.

“y/n,” he says your name, as if tasting it. “listen up, sweetheart-” sweetheart? “-i don’t tolerate stowaways. you’re a mighty fine lady, though a bit wild-lookin’, but traveling with me is dangerous. we ain’t too far yet, so i’m taking you back home.”

your eyes grow wide. no. no, you can’t go back. the cowboy keeps his gun pointed at you as he backs away to the pilot’s seat to put in the coordinates of your home planet.

while his eyes are off you, your hand swiftly enters your pocket and grabs the handle of the knife. you lunge, and you make the mistake of yelling as you do so. you only stop at the crisp sound of a gunshot, which makes you freeze and gasp for air. the bullet does not hit you, however - instead there is a metallic clang as the knife is forced out of your hands. it falls to the ground and slides far out of your reach.

your arms remain raised in the air as you are frozen in fear once more, and your eyes are shut tight, until you hear the man’s footsteps. he approaches and you cower, looking up at him through your lashes. you realize that he’s been very relaxed until this very moment - because now he’s wearing a deep frown on his face.

“seriously, lady… a knife? my body-” he stops as his eyes wander lower on your body. “wait a second.” his hand grips the hem of your coat. ah. it’s over. everything’s gone to shit, and now you’ll be at the mercy of this weirdo.

the cyborg opens your coat with such a force that he almost tears it off of you. you close your eyes and press your lips into a thin line. of course, your clothes underneath it are soaked with your mother’s blood.

“whose blood is this?” he almost growls. when you answer only with quickened breathing, he presses the cold barrel of his revolver against your forehead. you hear the cylinder turn. “answer me.”

this is the shittiest day of your life. fuck freedom, you should have just stayed in that apartment. you can’t take this anymore.

“it’s… it’s not mine.”

the cowboy isn’t very pleased with that response. “a stowaway is one thing. i can understand a runaway daughter. but i sure as hell don’t tolerate murderers.”

“pl- please! please don’t kill me. i had no other choice!” you are almost ashamed of how quickly you resort to begging. power? what power? you never had any after all. you can’t even defend yourself right now.

the man is silent for a while. then, the gun is lifted off your forehead. he uses it to motion towards a couch standing underneath a window, which you take as your cue to sit down, albeit confusedly.

“you have thirty minutes ‘til we arrive back home. explain,” he orders.

first you fiddle with your thumbs in your lap, looking around nervously, then you sigh and hang your head. “i had to get out,” you mumble.

the cowboy pulls up a chair and sits on it with his arms crossed. “can’t hear ya, darlin’.”

you pick at the skin around your nails and finally muster up the courage to speak loud and clear. “my mother. the blood is my mother’s.” suddenly your sight gets blurry, and you think you’re about to pass out until a drop of water lands on your hand. you wipe at your face. tears. they’re tears - you’re crying. why are you crying? you don’t feel sorry. you feel nothing at all.

“i just,” you take a shaky breath, “i just had to get out. i couldn’t keep on living like that!”

you see the cowboy shift in the corner of your eye. he uncrosses his arms, assuming a less interrogatory pose. his robotic hand hovers over your knee for a moment, unsure, before he changes his mind and withdraws.

he lets out an agitated groan as he takes off his hat and runs his hand through his long bangs. just as he’s about to speak, a notification sound comes from the control panel. the man looks a bit confused. he stands up and walks over to the panel, opening the new message. you watch a toothy grin form on his face.

“well would you look a’that. you’ve made the IPC your enemy, little lady,” he says.

you are shocked out of crying as you glance at the touchscreen in front of him. your name, your photo - and a sign that says wanted dead or alive. a hefty sum of credits glares at you underneath.

of course. you’re not just wanted by the authorities on your planet. you still owe the rest your mother’s debt to the IPC, the corporation that does not just let things pass.

the cowboy turns to you. “this makes things very different.”

“h-how so?” you ask.

“see, i’m a galaxy ranger.” a bounty hunter. the words aren’t spoken, but you assume that’s what he’s getting at.

you’re silent for a while as the two of you stare at each other. “so, you’re gonna turn me in?”

“i won’t.”

you’ve already made peace with your execution, but his response throws you off. “wait - what? that’s a lot of money, you know.”

the cowboy chuckles and approaches you once more. you shy away from him, and as he towers over you - boy is he tall - you finally notice that his teeth are sharp like a shark’s.

“the name’s boothill.” he offers you his hand to shake, and you do so, albeit reluctantly. it’s surprisingly not as cold as you expected it to be. “the IPC is my number one enemy - it’s mutual, really. this ship? stole it from ‘em. your bounty is chump change compared to the money they’re offerin’ for my head.”

“s-so…”

“the enemy of my enemy is my friend. i’ll do you one favor, lady. you’re not going back to your home planet. instead,” he drawls as he lets go of you, walking back to change the coordinates of the ship. “i’m droppin’ you off at my next stop.”

you stand up abruptly, and before you can blink, boothill is pointing a gun at you. “but don’t think i’m lettin’ you off my sights, pretty lady. you’re still a murderer.”

you open your mouth and close it a couple times. “th..thank you…” a sudden wave of dizziness comes over you, forcing you to your knees. boothill is by your side almost immediately to hold you by the shoulders.

“whoa there!” he chuckles, “you good?”

you sigh, hanging your head. you’re tired. you’re so tired you can feel it in your bones. “it’s been a long day.”

“oh i bet it was. y’know, i think there is a shower in here somewhere - why don’t you get yourself cleaned up?”

you nod. the thought of having your mother’s blood on you any longer doesn’t make you feel very great. “oh, but.. i don’t have a change of clothes.”

boothill hums. “i think i saw some uniforms around here somewhere. come with me.”

the ranger helps you to your feet and then he’s leading you out of the cockpit into a small resting area. you figure that this ship probably isn’t very big. boothill starts opening various cupboards and closets until he finally finds what he’s looking for.

“aha!” he exclaims. “there it is. here. pick up whatever’s your size.”

“thanks,” you mumble. “where’s the bathroom then..?”

boothill clears his throat. “no idea.”

“what?” you raise an eyebrow. “how long have you had this ship?”

“whatever. i’m a cyborg, y'know, i don’t exactly take showers.”

“well don’t you brush your teeth..?”

the cyborg flashes you a toothy grin. “you think these bad boys are mine? they don’t need cleanin’.”

you stare at him for a while without saying anything. your expression however speaks volumes. you’re disgusted. then you turn, uttering a simple “ugh, men” while you embark on your journey of finding fitting clothes and a shower - or any other place to wash yourself.

and you’re successful. the third door you open happens to lead to a small bathroom. and as you shut the door behind you and slump against it, you let out a long sigh. finally some proper quiet, an oasis just for you. maybe things turned out better than you’d planned after all.

when you found out that it was boothill’s ship you ended up on instead of the IPC, you were crushed. but now that you know that there is a bounty on your head, the thought of having to hide in enemy territory sends shivers down your spine.

things are still uncertain. you have a long road ahead of you - one of hiding and fleeing, probably. but this matter is in your hands now. you can decide for yourself. and if you get caught and killed, well - that will be your repercussions for the decisions you’ve made.

you undress and step inside the shower while actively avoiding looking in the mirror. the water that leaves your body is stained red as it washes off the blood stuck to your skin, which you scrub so meticulously it starts to burn.

you leave the shower refreshed and feeling somewhat like a person again. the mirror is foggy, and when you wipe it to finally look at yourself, you find dead, exhausted eyes staring back at you. all the adrenaline of today really did a number on you.

is that all you’re concerned with..? shallow cuts litter your arms where you nicked yourself. they serve as a reminder of what went on earlier. your mother is dead. the woman who birthed you and raised you. you repeat this to yourself over and over, hoping to elicit some kind of emotional reaction from yourself.

nothing comes of course. you’re still a husk devoid of emotion.

maybe you are a monster after all. maybe it’s time to accept that.

you find your way back to the cockpit, boothill nowhere to be found. unsure of what to do, you sit back down on the sofa and look out the window into the darkness of outer space. small white dots decorate the blackness and you think about how many worlds are out there, orbiting those dots.

you’re in space. actual space. it finally dawns on you. you’ve escaped that hellhole. talk about moving! you’ve always dreamt of moving far away, but truthfully you never dared think outside the box - or outside the planet for that matter.

your eyelids grow heavy as you lean against the backrest. you should thank boothill… make it up to him… maybe tomorrow.

sleep claims you before you know it.

when boothill enters the cockpit with a blanket in hand, he finds you crashed out in an uncomfortable position. he blinks. would it be rude to move you? but then he thinks about the back pain you could get from this… and he approaches you, carefully laying you down along the length of the sofa. he covers you with the blanket and dusts off his hands, quite proud of his work if he says so.

when he stole this ship, boothill thought this would be just another heist. but then you crawled out and, admittedly, you looked scary as all hell. but if there’s anything he’s learnt in his life as a ranger, it’s never to judge a book by its cover - and you just might be a book that’s right up his alley.

[retributory]

kind of irritates me a little bit when people act like it's weird or wrong or ooc for sy to have internalized homophobia as if that isn't probably the most realistic thing about the plot to begin with. he's a chinese man who grew up in the late 90s - early 00s and spent all his time online i would be frankly more surprised if he had ZERO hangups about being gay. this is explicitly presented as a character flaw so i'm not sure why people act like mxtx is homophobic for writing a guy with internalized homophobia. also he like gets over it in volume 4 anyways you gotta give him some time dude he died like 3 times and he keeps getting force-fed blood he's got a lot on his plate

[thebirdandhersong]

Lol

[natjennie]

I wanna donate platelets again because I like doing it and I like that I'm genuinely demonstrably helping people AND I want the fun halloween t-shirt but I've tried a few times and they can't take my blood pressure because my arms are too fat :(

[firebirdsdaughter]

I'm divided…

… I like Rukia getting something to do, I like the Kuchiki sibs plus their idiot, I like that she was allowed to hold her own despite this being a 2000s shonen manga, you know what I mean. Like for what it was many of the women in BLEACH made it through fairly well and I like that. I like Rukia being cool, I like her Bankai, I like it.

But at the same time… Like I get why it was her, and I like it, and I don't so much mind as… Well, I just kinda wish that Renji had gotten to kill As Nodt, since he was the one who actually had to watch Byakuya get maimed like that? Like obvi Rukia deserves a shot too, like I said, I understand it being her and I don't mind, I just kinda would… Also like to see a reality where Renji got to do him in.

Not necessarily in canon, bc yes, give Rukia more to do? Like I just want an au where Renji got him. Them. Finish what he tried to start before getting punted.

It's like I like the way it was and I wouldn't actually change it bc we always need more women being able to fight on their own, and I liked what was done. I loved Byakuya just showing up to get his bankai back and then leaving the rest to his sister, I love love love her getting Bankai.

I just. Want to see the version where Renji gets a go at him after having to watch that.

Like I don't want to write it myself, but I want it.

[forbiddentaako]

thinkin about revamping some of my oldest ocs again 😔 i miss them

[bleuberrygliscor]

honestly if you sincerely think that any humor that is even slightly crass, but is aimed at an adult audience, is "problematic", you need to go back into the locker for a bit. youre not done cooking.

[kindnessoverperfection]

I can't stand being open about negative emotions, but covering them up feels like a fucking knife to the chest.

I think it's because the system is autistic and misses social cues / boundaries, so Grey has overshared and accidentally put too much on people in the past.

And from a combination of autism trauma + abuse & us not actually knowing the line between healthy sharing/support and Too Much, my brain processed it as "if you admit you're having a hard time or ask for support, they won't love you"

[castrolle]

That's cognitive dissonance at its finest. They either feel guilt or embarrassment to be "needy" so they bash the "real needy people" as if those people are somehow inferior or less deserving of the same resources he needs, for reasons that aren't always in their control. The guy was broke until Friday but ignores the fact that "those people" may have been broke their whole lives.

Capitalism creates artificial scarcity. Take what you need, as much as you need and most importantly give back when you can.

So at my workplace, we fund a Food Is Free shelf. It's the basics: take what you need, give what you can - our town has a high level of poverty, there's a cost of living crisis, be the good you want to see in the world etc etc.

Today we had a guy knock on the door and ask if we had a plastic bag he could use to carry a few things - I said sure, got him a plastic bag, and he started packing up his 2 rolls of toilet paper, his 3 or 4 foodstuff items. He said he'd been to a funeral out of town (1500 kms away) and spent his paycheck on fuel - he was only broke till Friday, he said.

And I said, well I'm glad we could help, it's why we have the shelf. We want the community to use it.

And he said:

But people ABUSE it! I've seen people take heaps of stuff from it - and they don't even have kids or anything. And it's fair enough, some people are struggling until the next paycheck, but other people just ABUSE it. You need a sign that says TAKE ONE ITEM ONLY or something. I've taken something from here maybe twice, but I've seen people coming round every week! I've even put stuff on the shelf! Yeah, you need CAMERAS or something. People abuse it.

So here is a man who is actively utilising a public resource that we created to support our local community...And yet he is so brainwashed by capitalism into thinking that people don't deserve basic needs - if they're not working hard, or maybe they're struggling but they don't have it As Bad as others, or they're using a FREE RESOURCE more often than HE thinks is acceptable. He thinks that we should use security cameras to crack down on people "STEALING" from the Food is FREE shelf. Like he's more worthy, like he's a better person, because he doesn't need as much help as others might.

Sometimes, when something is free, people might abuse it. But isn't it better to offer the support to people who need it? To offer an opportunity for people to get back on their feet (even if they're only broke till Friday)? To provide help, no questions asked and no conditions needed?

So what if people abuse it - isn't it worth it if helps someone?

[platypusplayhere]

i might be developing an unhealthy obsession with feyd-rautha

[rememberwren]

Been thinking about the day Johnny’s mouth takes him too far while the two of you are fucking and he calls you a slut.

He’s probably done it often enough before with other women and partners. He personally likes a little degradation himself in the moment, so it feels odd to imagine that there are people out there who don’t. He’s a little self-centered that way.

I can imagine him above you pinning you to the bed, both your figures sweat-slicked. Your hands around his shoulders, nails digging into his back as he tries to drill his cock through you and into the mattress. He’d been edging you for a while, working you up to a plateau that he refuses to let you tumble over, and it has you a little more vocal than usual. A little less composed. A little more needy.

He thinks you’re perfect like this, brain leaking from your ears, mouth parted in a perpetual gasp, throat going raw from all your pleadings. Johnny’s naturally a yapper, so he’s probably been providing in depth (we’re talking unabridged War And Peace length) narration of the entire event, and it seems like such a small thing for him to slip the word amongst all the praises he lavishes on you.

He doesn’t understand why you go stiff and shocked underneath him.

“I’m not a slut,” you mutter into the silence when his thrusts stop abruptly. Except you kind of were acting like one, weren’t you? Moaning and gasping, begging. For the first time with Johnny, you feel ashamed. Embarrassed by your reaction to the sex and by your reaction to the word in equal measure.

Credit to himself, Johnny knows when the moment has passed. He slips out of you and gathers you up even against your embarrassed protests—God, you’re fine, it’s not a big deal, it just caught you off guard that’s all!—and apologizes, reaffirms to you that he doesn’t really think such a thing about you. He doesn’t even really believe in sluts; why shouldn’t people do and crave the things that feel good? That’s just human nature, baby.

I imagine you listen and nod along to his heartfelt apologies (and of course you know he means them), but he can see the sawdust-sized speck of anxiety in your eye that doesn’t dissipate. He knows that the window of opportunity to snuff out that ember is closing fast, so his method of drowning it out is to pin you down and to show you what real slut behavior looks like.