#but it’s about what you do with that capacity and the need for a healthy basis on which to grow

[age-of-moonknight]

“8-Ball,” Vengeance of the Moon Knight (Vol. 2/2024), #5.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Alessandro Cappuccio; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

[songofwizardry]

so I had the summer (in reality, like… almost three months) off from one of my volunteering roles and I’m 20 minutes into my first meeting back and I am already so irritated and angry. maybe this is Not A Good Sign.

[snowave]

Just another brainrot of mine regarding Zayne, but then again, what's new?

Zayne who...

...is the type to play with your hair idly.

...enjoys quality time with you, no matter how busy he is with his shifts (or how tired he is).

"Dr. Greyson said you came to visit but you almost immediately left when you saw me napping. I told you, you should wake me up, my time with you is considered as resting."

...is the type who makes his presence known despite of being away from each other from time to time.

...always tries to understand you and your quirks, and grows to love them as they makes you, you.

...who subtly leaves his things in your place to have the perfect excuse to come and stay over whenever he feels like it.

"I can't find my tie, I think I left it on your couch. Can I pick it up and maybe see you as well?"

...is the type to keep track of your schedule, so that he can match his time with yours.

...is the type to give you space, and give you silent encouragement when you feel down, because sometimes, we all just need a presence to hold onto; something to keep us grounded instead of words that we usually hear.

"I'm here, don't worry. I'm not going anywhere, cry your heart out."

...thinks of you before himself. He always talks in a way that will cater you, your interests, your needs, your wants, etc.

"Hm? What am I doing here? Well, my day is free so it's all yours. What do you want to do?"

...scolds you for not having self-preservation. The man just wants you to see healthy and well all the time.

...probably does not makes you lift a finger whenever you're with him. Zayne isn't a vocal person, but his affection can be seen at the way he delivers through acts of services.

...lets you make fun of him, and you'll get away with it. It amuses him to no end how the gears in your brain work, and how you always manage to think of things that you tease him about.

...talks to you in the most gentle way. Despite his image, Zayne always talks to you softly, and probably never raises his voice even though he's upset or mad.

...gives you space when you get into fights or arguments with each other. It gives you both the mental capacity you need to talk everything out in a proper way, without the need to throw useless and hurtful words to each other.

"I'm sorry. Are you in the right headspace to talk about it now? Or do you need some more time? I can wait."

...probably keeps a photo of you, or photos of both of you in his office and home, framed and delicately placed somewhere he could see immediately.

...becomes clingy in the morning. He relishes in the feeling of you wrapped in his arms, the feeling of your body pressed against his, and the calming beating of your heart. He loves it when you snuggle closer to him, like a cat seeking for warmth.

"It's my day off today, I can stay more in bed with you. Just let me be, hm? Let me hold you much longer."

...the type to look at you with eyes filled with so much longing, yearning, and love, that sometimes you feel like you'll be lost when you stare at him.

And finally, Zayne who loves you more than you think. Lore-wise, he really does. But in general setting, if he can, he'll do everything just to make sure that you're always happy, that you always feel loved, cared for, and needed.

Feel free to add more, I really, really just like talking about Zayne. I guess, it would be nice to have someone to yap with about him.

[starcolle-archive]

tabula rasa; keep moving forward

I’ve made some friends on tinder so far; some want to play board games and some want to get in my pants. But I’m talking to this kid [21; obviously not a literal kid, but it feels like there’s over a decade between us] about his depression in how the public unconsciousness is poisoned. (Speaking of which, I need to get back to writing the smut I was drafting while drinking. The guy’s getting pegged while he talks about parasocial relationships being deliberate creations of class based society; used to alleviate the rising temper of the inevitable clashing mentalities prevalent among the public unconsciousness. Obviously I’m not gonna do it justice in any way in a tumblr post, so I’ll keep it top myself for now.)

And as all the thoughts raise through my head, agreeing with him on how neoliberialism’s schadenfreude is morally decrepit, I’m reminded about our discussion(s) about tabula rasa and what it means to be one’s authentic self. Yeah, sure, ALL the kinky shit we talked about was fun, but it was always the intellectual discussions that I’ve missed most. Sure I may have been the moody sarcastic asshole at time, but I was always sincere with my interest in discussions & our intertwined betterment; no matter the topic.

So I guess that’s another reason why I’m reminding myself to keep moving forward like I used to tell you. I’m finally replying to my new therapist. it shouldn’t have taken me this long, but I’m so exhausted that I’m just now getting around to it.

Why am I even writing this? You don’t read it, and it’s already inside my head. I guess it is good to get it out, even if it makes me feel psychotic (I should probably get my psychiatrist to up my anti-psychotic, shouldn’t I? ...I jest; moistly, er, I mean mostly.)

[This is where I’d insert the sound of an hour long groan that you can’t tell if it’s the byproduct of a bad pun or from something else I might say; I’m hyper-aware except for when I need it most after all.]

[ovaryacted]

Really random but dad bod DI Leon🤤🤤🤤 (I really love DI Leon if you couldn’t tell) like I love Leon w abs, and his hourglass shape but just him cuddling w you and being so warm and soft😢 (or when y’all are making love and his tummy just has us fitting together like puzzle pieces and it’s LIKE OMGMGM😭😭😭😭😭)

-🐏

cw: descriptions of body changes, internalized fatphobia, smutty thoughts/acts.

OHHHHHH DAD BOD LEON IS MY VICE PLEASE OH MY FUCKING GOD. LIKE RAHHHH, I NEED IT BAD. Ram anon, I'm on to you.

The changes happen after a year into his forced retirement, he doesn't realize it until he becomes more aware of the way your arms feel wrapping around his soft torso. Once adorned with hard muscle, his body now was covered in a layer of skin that expanded over time. He still had the same physique and the same capacity for strength, but there was an added softness he’d acquired recently that sent his head in for a spin.

Retirement has been good for Leon, he no longer has to deal with the hecticness of mission briefings and assignments. He gets to actually rest, his usual overactive nervous system now rendered down and becoming more manageable. The first couple of weeks he spent falling asleep in bed or on the couch, like his body was playing catchup on the energy that's been robbed from him over the years. You didn’t bother him about it, didn’t even judge him whenever you’d find him limp on the bed and snoring in the middle of the day.

You'd use that time to run errands or do chores around your shared home, often preparing meals for him whenever he'd wake up groggily to go look for you. Eating homemade meals that were made with love certainly started to add up, the consistent intake of food was new and apparently something that his body liked and needed. The constant nausea he often experienced when he was under so much stress went away, slowly learned how to enjoy eating again like he did years before he was forced to become an agent.

He never focused on his appearance most days, but as Leon stopped to observe himself in the mirror one morning, his eyes were fixated on his body. He's certainly changed after a while, stomach a little fuller and cheeks more plump than before, hell even his arms and thighs looked bigger. His initial reaction to the change would have been disgust, to put himself back on a routine to regain the muscle he's lost and to critique every imperfection that would eventually be another nuisance.

But as he looked at himself a little longer, a smile crept up on his face, not minding what he saw for probably the first time in his life. All he saw was your love for him, how the signs of you taking care of him after all this time were starting to reflect in how he looked. He was healthy, he was alive, and that was a win in his book.

You certainly didn't mind the changes either and took every opportunity to remind Leon of just how much you adored him. Cuddling him whenever you could was something that became a ritual between the two of you, sneaking under his arm and digging your face into his chest any chance you got. He was soft, warm, and just a tad bit squishy. He was human, he was himself, not some war machine meant to work like a dog day and night.

One of your favorite things about his new appearance was the intimate moments you both shared and how he felt around you both internally and externally. You loved getting on your knees and worshipping him, sucking over his cock lavishly and running your hands over his thick thighs, biting at them when Leon found himself lost in pleasure.

Or when you were riding him and the sound of his thighs slapping against yours was louder than before, his lower tummy rubbing into you, meshing together so well one would think you were part of the same whole. It made you feral, like a primal instinct to claim him and show him that all you wanted was to make him feel accepted in this new body. Leon didn't complain, he loved how your attraction to him seemed to skyrocket.

Maybe being a bit more soft wasn't so bad after all.

[habken]

If you're willing to share can you give a few reasons why you think Bakudeku works so well as a ship? (I also ship them and love your art!)

okay...

I think they just naturally fall into each other’s orbit. Living in each other's minds rent free 24/7. Their entire lives are so intertwined. Even when things were bad between them, there's never been a point where they haven't been part of each other's life in some capacity.

They've influenced each other so much you can see little habits they share and behaviours they've picked up from one another. Izuku acting more like Katsuki when he wants to win is the obvious one, but even little things like the way they think out loud and pinch their lips and stuff are similar.

I don't think it's right to undermine Katsuki's bullying and the falling out between them, but coming from a place where there's a lot of animosity and hurt and then having that turn into a relationship where they both mutually care for each other and challenge each other to do better and be better is really interesting.

I think that's part of the reason it's such a compelling relationship in general, not just in a romantic way. They start off at the lowest point - we see them at their absolute worst and then we get to watch as they mend that fractured friendship and build up a genuine and healthy bond.

To me personally, the trajectory of their relationship was evident as soon as episode two, when Katsuki chased after Izuku after the sludge villain to let him know how much he "didn't need his help." That's the point that I decided I was interested to see how their characters developed as the story kept going, and I think it was such a huge payoff.

I think it also made for a lot of interesting fanworks. In the earlier days especially, you really had to work at it to make things good between them. Canonically, their relationship really is a slow burn lol, so if you wanted to write something that followed close to the actual story, there had to be tons of build up. I've read stuff where the beats felt so similar to what happened in the actual series which is crazy. It's a ship that lends itself to deep and lengthy analysis and a lot of people ended up being pretty spot on because of that.

I also think what's special about them is how intentional they work to make things right between each other again. They want to know each other's feelings, they want to be rivals and fight alongside each other, and be neck in neck and constantly chasing after each other. They want to be close again. Izuku offering Katsuki an olive branch and asking him about his fighting style after their bout at ground beta and Katsuki finally grabbing onto it is such a turning point for their relationship. It's a conscious choice on both their parts to work towards mending what was between them.

And I could go on and on about Katsuki's character arc, but that's a different post lol. For simplicity's sake, his arc is about recognizing for himself where his weaknesses lie, seeing how his actions hurt and shaped Deku, and working not only on himself, but on repairing the rift between them that he caused. He works with Izuku, shares and keeps his secret, trains with him, and eggs him on more and more lightheartedly as the series goes on.

His choice to care for Izuku, let him into his life again, and make up for what he's done is really important. Nobody is really forcing him to atone for his past and it's his desire to do so despite the lack of external pressure that makes that change feel genuine and meaningful. Training with Deku to master his quirks, sacrificing himself for Izuku during their fight with shigaraki, apologizing to him in front of the entire class and letting go of his pride, choosing to call him by his given name, dying with Izuku's name on his lips, fighting the big bad and continuously repeating that when Izuku can't handle it, he'll step in for him - all of these things are so telling of the kind of care he purposefully put into their relationship, and the way he grew and changed throughout the story.

And I think that in light of everything else, the fact that they remain important to each other right until the end is what makes it such a beautiful relationship, no matter what context you want to see it in. They love each other! They can't imagine a world in which the other isn't part of their life, and they actively and continuously work to make that a reality.

They're soulmates that intentionally chose to be so.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 9)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 8, Part 10

summary: You both come to a realisation.

warnings: smut! f! masturbation, grinding, humping, fingering, (implied) recreational drug use, alcohol, dubcon (-ish! reader is drunk but the interaction is consensual, tagging just in case xx), teeny tiny bit of mutual pining. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: yuhh

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 7.2k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

all that light lost in gaps

You're gone, in the morning.

…he should've expected it. Miguel stumbles out of sleep, groggy and disoriented. He finds himself reaching out for something in the half-light. 

He finds himself reaching for you. And when you're not there, leaving a person sized gap at the crook of his arm, his stomach churns. He pretends it's not disappointment, or the sharp crack of yearning ; settling at his chest like a crowbar, and prying open his ribs. It's worry, he decides resolutely, a perfectly normal, healthy amount of worry. As your roommate; and nothing else, he keeps reminding himself; he's just worried about where you've rushed off to, especially after yesterday. 

Senior year. He was assigned a bullshit paper in a Civics class – one he'd usually half-ass for an easy A. He'd wax poetic about morality – amorphous, vague platitudes about duty and societal expectations. By the end of the year, he had it down to a science: a couple thousand words remixed and plucked from lesser known philosophers, videos online, and overdue library books. Either he was getting too good at it, or his teacher was too stupid to notice; but regardless, he coasted through the class right up until graduation. His last paper, and he remembers it distinctly, was on the book of the same name; aptly titled What We Owe Each Other. A plodding, pluralistic read; of which he had only scanned through, anyways. Extra credit, anything to graduate early, and he'd had more than enough on his plate at the time. 

 And so, he wasn't expecting the B+ underlined and circled in red ink on the front page. It felt like his teacher had handed it back to him face down, slammed onto the desk like the thunderous crack of a whip. And he didn't need that A, strictly speaking. Yet, he had found himself staying over after class, crinkling that piece of paper in hand as he'd asked why. 

She sighs. Miss Hunter's glasses slip down her nose, as they are prone to do. 

"You're an outstanding student. I hear you're graduating early, and you're off somewhere prestigious in the fall. This is… definitely not a bad grade, and it's nothing, I promise you."

It doesn't work like that, for him. His teacher doesn't get it, but it will eat him up inside-out if he's not able to understand. 

"Was it my referencing?" He fumbles with the strap of his bag. 

"No. Not at all–" 

"I did the extra reading…the article you mentioned in class, and–" 

He's cut off by the scrape of a desk chair. Miss Hunter gets up to close the door, before settling on her desk. 

Arms crossed, she seems tired. Worried, maybe, but it doesn't register with Miguel. The thought doesn't even cross his mind, that there are others with the capacity to worry about him. 

"Technically, it's well written. As usual, Miguel." She gives him a weak smile. "It just… lacked heart."

His brows jump up. "...heart?" 

"There's not really a narrative voice, here."

He taps at the paper on the desk, frustrated. "You didn't ask for a narrative voice, though. You didn't ask for… for heart. I read the book, I did the extra reading, and I wrote a report. That was the brief."

"Not quite." She says it gently, but it still sounds like nails on a chalkboard to him. "The brief was vague, intentionally so. 'What Do We Owe Each Other? Discuss.' I gave examples, sure: excerpts from the book we touched on in class, articles, academic papers, etcetera. They were… suggestions."

"...suggestions." He's incredulous. 

She nods. "You followed it to the letter, Miguel. You gave me a summary, with a few key links. Fully referenced, yes. Well-written, yes. But this feels like a sum of parts. It doesn't tell me anything about you; your perspective, your angle. Your voice."

He's biting back choice words. It sounds like bullshit to him, for lack of a better word. Flowery, hoity-toity BS; served up to him on a steaming platter. That's it? 

Maybe it shows on his face, because she's asking, as delicately as possible, 

"Is everything okay?" 

Instinctually, he seizes up. 

"Yeah. Yes. I'm good."

"I know you don't take this class as seriously because it's not an AP, or an elective, or maybe not as challenging as you need it to be. And that's okay, Miguel. I'm happy for you to use my class as a break from all the other stuff." She swallows thickly. "You're not from our usual feeder schools. The Academy is particularly rigorous. But considering your… situation, we can make exceptions. If there's anything I can do–" 

"There isn't a 'situation'."

"Right. Of course, I'm sorry. But if you need a couple days off of school because of…" She pasues, saying the next part softly. "Because of the baby… I mean, you're already acing my class–"

"No." He says it firmly, eyes trained onto the wood grain peeking out from underneath piles of documents. He wants to ask how she knows, and how he's always the last to find out that rumours have spread, and–

"Miguel." Her voice cuts through dense fog. She repeats her previous statement. “If there's anything I can do–”

“If you want to help, you can give me that A.” It's bone dry, said with the kind of sarcasm he's grown accustomed to. He wears it over his shoulders, sometimes; draped to keep out biting cold, or unfamiliar warmth from a stranger - it all feels the same, now.

She gives him a rueful smile. “Need more than that, m'afraid.”

Heart. Voice. What We Owe Each Other – and he doesn't know why that phrase sticks in his throat. It's been drilled into him since childhood; family and community, helping each other out of the starting blocks; and beaten out of him during adolescence. The creaking and cracking of bones after each step, where out in the world it's a different matter entirely. 

His mama has bad taste in men, and he finds himself picking up the pieces. Gabi is more sensitive than he'll ever admit, trying not to cry amongst broken plates and chicken-wire hidden in a bouquet of peonies: prickly words that cut and hack, and it's Miguel that wipes the tears from his brother's cheek. That devastatingly gentle sigh when he had told his mama what he had done - how he had fallen for a soft bed and even softer lips at the ripe age of 16 and a half - and Miguel carries that weight. What We Owe Each Other – and he's only ever fed entitled egos. Not his family, of course, but he's been burned. He's had more than his fair share of it. 

He doesn't owe the world shit, he thinks. 

He doesn't owe you shit. 

It doesn't help that he's been stuck in place, grasping at cushion covers and a raggedy blanket. Trying not to drown in the heady scent of you, he's been dragging thick fingers over the fabric as if in a trance. You don't owe him anything, either. Nary an apology, an explanation; so much as a sorry spilling from pretty lips in that way where they quiver like a gentle flame. 

He's touched them, felt them drag across his skin like the finest silk, and dropped to his knees in search of something you've never given him. It doesn't matter if you don't; kiss him , that is; the swirling, desperate sort that leaves him heaving and creaking and begging for more. He thinks he'd still scuff up the denim at his knees if you asked, regardless - he'd do anything , if it was for you. 

It's not realistic to expect anything from you. You don't need to tell him where you've gone or why you've left so early. You don't need to, and yet he finds himself reaching for his phone. 

Miguel sends a well placed message; deft fingers tapping away at the screen. Before he changes his mind, it's sent; and he's chewing his lip whilst waiting for a steady three dots. Lyla is slower than usual, but she comes through. She doesn't ask questions - because she knows him better than he knows himself - and gives him a thumbs up. 

They'll call each other later, that much he's sure of, but for now he reads between the lines. Short bursts of text, like firecrackers flashing across a night sky, and only through nonsensical emojis and odd slang can they understand each other. 

This part, he can do. And he'll do whatever he needs to, not what he owes.

~~~

You make it to Pam's just after it opens. 

At 7 o'clock sharp, you've made the journey; in an empty subway car, spilling out onto the streets like treacle left in the neck of a bottle. It's not quite a squeeze, passing by only a handful of people, with nothing but a jacket thrown over last night's clothes. In a daze, you realise too late: it's Miguel's. A dusty, worn thing; brown leather crackling at the sleeves and heavy on your shoulders. It feels like a hug, and it feels like him : warm and stiff. It smells like him too, and you bury your nose in the collar on the subway, sleeves kissing your palm like his hand is in yours. 

It's a feeling that takes you all the way to the doors: past the slats bolted shut and down a familiar alley. You push past them, sneakers on slick tiles, and give a weak smile to the woman that perks up from behind the counter, kicking away the mop and bucket. 

"Hiya, welcome to Pam's! How can I–" 

"Oh, God , no." You wave her off. "Take your time. I need a minute, if that's okay."

Settling on the barstool, you watch as the young woman smiles, picking up a rag and wiping at the counter. You sit in it, for a while. 

Dregs drip in through the front. The bell at the top of the door chimes, tinny and cheerful in the relative gloom of a quiet morning. 

It's cold , outside. Autumn, biting at your fingers and nose. Eventually you opt for a coffee, piping hot to stave off that chill. Bitter, the aftertaste lingers at the back of your throat. You find yourself picking at the chipped mug, chasing away that taste with fluffy pancakes. The combination doesn't feel quite the same – not after many a morning with your roommate. 

You settle into the seat. You wrap that old jacket around you. You sip at tart coffee and pick at your nails. A quiet morning, one to yourself, one to keep hidden at the crook of your chest. Some semblance of peace , wrapped up in the spindles of a dandelion. That is to say; delicate and fleeting, whipped away by the breeze. 

You've decided not to think too hard about it. That kind of thinking ends dangerously, you've realised: with long, hot nights spent tossing and turning. It ends with a head full of cotton, and a pounding at your chest. With blood, with tears, with a stranger in your bed. And so, you go for the cleaner option. The safer one, all things considered, that's less likely to end in a broken heart. 

You float around for a while. Walking without a real destination, trying to ground yourself. Eventually, you end up home,  opening the door to an empty apartment. There's no traces left of a night spent in Miguel's arms. Good, you think, slipping your shoes off at the door. It doesn't feel good , but if you say it enough times you just might believe it. 

The cleaner option; the one with less gristle and bone; is a familiar one. You settle into a shower; steamy and soapy, taking your time to clean out the blood from under your fingernails. The grime, the dirt ; you watch it swirl into the drain, hands running across soft flesh. You try to do it like Jamie did, once upon a time. It doesn't feel right, and has you leaning onto the cool tile. The shower head sputters, a shaky pressure on your back but you lean into it and close your eyes. You rub a hand at the crook of your chest, and then down, down, down, circling your breast and then following the curve of hips to the apex of your legs. Tipping your head, letting the hot water stream through your hair and then your back; and you touch, feel , and you can almost taste him ; sweet and saccharine Miguel, at your lips. 

With two fingers flat against your clit, you rub little circles at the nub, dipping into your hole for much needed wetness. Your other hand travels up soft skin, pads of your fingers grazing collarbone, and then they curl around your neck. With a little pressure, your thumb grazes your jaw. Like he does, except your hands aren't as deliciously rough or as large. You slip a finger in, and then two, water pounding your back and eyes screwed. You push past that initial tightness, searching for a little give. When it comes, cunt clenching around your fingers, just shy of that sweet spot as you press your clit with the heel of your palm; you're imagining it's your roommate. He'd wrap those thick forearms around you, press his cock to the crest of your back and touch you like you deserve. 

You do it like Miguel would, reverent , touching you as if you were clay at a potter's wheel. In the hands of God herself, you cum; falling, falling, falling; tumbling down white water rapids and spit back up into the rushing water. You're panting, now, out of breath.

When you sink onto your bed, you realise it's not quite enough. Still in a fluffy robe, steam curls from your skin like clouds – ones that smell of cheap body wash and shampoo. Before you know it, you're reaching for your phone, sending two quick messages to a certain somebody. 

[Sent: 15:32]

hey mig

[Sent: 15:32]

where did u go? 

You don't expect a quick reply - he's never been much of a texter. But those three dots pop up in no time at all, much to your surprise. 

[Received: 15:33]

Out. 

[Received: 15:33]

Running errands. 

It's succinct and to the point – of which you expect nothing else from Miguel. Your thumbs fly to the screen to reply but another message tugs the rug out from under your shaky legs. 

[Received: 15:35]

Is everything okay? 

[Sent: 15:35]

yeah

[Sent: 15:36]

all good

When that provides no response, you're left chewing on your lip, anxious. He's seen the message, he's read the message; but for some reason, several minutes go by and there's no response. 

You're ready to give up and chalk it to your roommate's hot-and-cold nature, when your phone rings. 

Immediately, you pick up. 

" Don't believe you." His voice rings out, tinny, nestled amongst the covers. 

"Hey, Mig." You settle down on the bed, putting him on speaker and placing it by your ears. 

" Did you hear what I said?" His tone is deep and intense, making you shiver. It's not quite the same, of course, but you're reminded of nights spent with his lips tucked close the shell of your ear. 

You swallow. "Yeah. I… I did."

" You sure? Because you suck at lying."

"Don't be an asshole." 

" Think I get a free pass when you disappear for the whole day."

You roll your eyes. “You didn't call–”

“ Would you have answered?”

Ouch. He sounds frustrated, the quiet chatter of his background bathed in heavy silence. Silence thick with tension, and you almost choke on it.

He breaks it with a heavy sigh. “ You okay? ”

“No. Not really.”

“ Okay. ” He lets it sit for a while, before saying, “ I'll be home, soon. There's leftovers in the fridge, and you should eat, sweetheart. You want anything from the store? ”

His voice is so, so soft. It crackles like kindling on a fire: warmth that blooms and spreads to your chest. Like slipping off frozen gloves to thaw off in front of a heater, and he just makes you feel impossibly warm. 

“Not really, thanks.” You mumble it, and hear a satisfied grunt from the other end. Before you change your mind, you say, “Sorry. M'sorry.”

Miguel gives a light chuckle and you think you can hear him smile, the kind you always chase after a stupid argument: one that tugs at the corners of his pretty lips.

“ You've got nothin' to be sorry about .”

He gives you a moment to feel the weight of his words, and ends the call. That heat at your chest blooms. 

If Miguel O'Hara is the Sun, then maybe you don't mind being pulled into his orbit; bathing in steady light and warmth.

~~~

He comes home with flowers. A beautiful bouquet; delicate and balanced, featherlight wildflowers and brush, interspersed with sprays of blue and purple and pink. It's wonderfully dense, reminding you of the tangles of colour a child might decorate a picture with in wobbly crayon. Simply put, it's nothing short of a vision, and you notice how delicately he places it on the dining table.

With the rest of the grocery bags, Miguel clatters in, and you can't help but be curious. You're poking through the bags, sitting on the counter as he puts them away – after offering to help, of course, but he bats you away easily. Your bare legs bristle in the chill brought on by the window cracked open, and he just breezes past. 

The cabinet opens with a thud , and your roommate busies himself with putting away food. Carefully, you watch the way the muscles of his back flexes this way and that - cut and lean under that thin sweater. He’s otherwise occupied, and so you take the opportunity to stare, playing with a loose string at the hem of silky shorts. And so, it makes you jump when your phone buzzes beside you. Innocuously, you glance at the notification, and your eyes go wide.

“Who’s that?” Miguel asks, voice light. With that freaky sixth sense of his, he doesn’t need to turn around to know, it seems. 

“Lyla.” You murmur, reading the rest of the message.

“ ...And? ”

“Uh. Well…” Blinking, you can’t quite believe what she’s asking. “ Girl’s Night . I-I mean… she’s asking me to come with her for a Girl’s Night.”

“Really?” His tone is surprising, and you can hear how he beams by its lilting nature. Maybe he’s laughing at you, maybe he’s not, but you snap back regardless.

“ ... don’t act so surprised.”

“ You sound surprised.” He laughs.

“It’s different when I do it.” You say simply. “I just… I didn’t expect it. I didn’t even know we were close enough to–”

“Bullshit. You text her all the time.”

“A couple of times, Mig.” You correct him, trying to pin down a suitable response to give Lyla. You draw a blank. “I don’t want her to feel like she has to, or anything.”

He turns around, sleeves still rolled up. The look he gives makes you wither: one that could say about a million things. You think it means cut the crap , but he could just be constipated: you haven't quite mastered the art of reading Miguel O’Hara.

“Do you want to go?” He gets closer, hand flat on the counter next to your thigh. 

You nod, and his hand creeps up and up. 

Giving you a little smile, he shrugs. “Then go.”

It makes you shy. Bashful , even; and you’re wriggling as he squeezes the flesh. A hand on his forearm, and he’s close; so much so that all you can feel is the press of skin, and feel gentle breath fluttering past your cheek. You’re stuck underneath the gaze of his pretty lashes, and entranced at the way he licks his even prettier lips. A sudden thought seizes you - so heavy it makes your chest tight and leaden. 

Oh. You want to kiss him.

In a moment, it’s gone. A broad palm nudges your thigh aside, and you’re shifting so he can reach the drawers just by your legs. You oblige, falling back into familiar routine. 

Life moves on. Like Miguel said it would, and you find yourself entwined with the idea of time passing. Lying awake each night, picking out sand from underneath your fingernails, after clawing your way out of the hourglass. Steady, slow dregs; and it's tipped over each morning, restarting the clock. 

The flowers disappear from the dining table. Miguel retreats into the folds and dark corners of your apartment; you see him less and less. Passing ships in the night, you seem to miss each other by a fraction of a second. All of a sudden he's busy , and all of a sudden you're swamped with work. You only see each other at night, looking out for the bits and pieces left as proof of life: sometimes he'll leave a hot flask out for you in the mornings, and you'll greet him with a cheesy soap in the evenings. If he's not leaving later and later after work, that is. 

He looks tired, you note. Exhausted; prone to little yawns as you turn to him every now and then whilst watching on the couch. It's sweet, the way his frown has made way to a dopey smile, but it's frayed at the edges, tinged with something you can't quite place. You let him sleep that night, bringing pillows to lay his head on, and wrapping him up in that old blanket. 

Girl's night creeps up on you. It shakes you by the shoulders when you collapse on the sofa after a long day – and you're rushing to get ready. There's no Miguel to make sly remarks or prod you into action, this time. You wonder what he'd say about what you're wearing; a leftover dress buried in boxes from your ex's apartment. 

Short, tight, snug; it has you feeling glamorous – but you hope it doesn't look as fanciful as it feels. Too much; yet again, you're worried about being too much. Even though you're running a little late, you take the time to carefully apply makeup; something shiny on your lids, a dab of blush, and gloss slathered onto your lips. When you sling on little heels, and snatch a petite bag from the hooks near the door, there's barely enough time to catch that last glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Down and out you go, into a dusky night.

~~~

“I had to go through her manager– and wait, can you believe this girl has a fucking manager, now?” Lyla bats at MJ's shoulder, and the redhead laughs good-naturedly. 

“It's not– she's exaggerating! My manager's just my mom, I swear.” 

“It's a good thing, no?” You smile, taking a healthy swig of a brightly coloured cocktail. 

“It means she is booked, and–” Lyla hiccups, raising an unsteady glass that threatens to tip. MJ straightens her elbow instinctually, before raising her own. “ – very busy .”

It's your turn to laugh, glass held high in the air. With a clink , there's a clash of crystal that's all but drowned out by the chatter in the upscale bar.

Somewhere fancy, courtesy of Lyla. One of those places that serves tiny portions in big, empty plates, a fusion of cultural food with white, upper class owners. No-doubt the result of summering somewhere in the ever-broad global South , Lyla had said slyly, under the lip of a menu. 

There's powdered sugar on the rim of your flute. It dissolves on your tongue. You down the rest. Sickly sweet, and you wipe what drips onto your lips. 

It has you checking your phone. Miguel hasn't called, not that you were expecting anything. Whilst Lyla and MJ talk, you scroll mindlessly through his chat; a smattering of one word answers. Missed calls. Unanswered messages.

" –what about you, babe?" 

Your eyes snap back up to meet Lyla's, expectant. 

"Uhhh…"

"Nevermind." Sharp eyes travel to your phone, and there's a flash of recognition. "Miggy said you're in school. He said you're gonna graduate early, this year."

"He said that?" You're confused. "I mean… I'm trying but it's not looking like that, right now."

She wags a finger, shaking her head like she's trying to remember something. "No, no, he seemed adamant. Said you're working hard, doing well."

"Doing better ." You correct her, shyly. 

" Bullshit. " She says it the way Miguel does, and it makes you laugh. You see it now; he's the product of the people he loves. A kind of Frankenstein's monster, he's stitched together those bits and pieces; he's made himself beautiful. You wonder what piece of you he carries. If he even holds you that close to his chest. 

"I bet you're doing amazing. " MJ finishes. Her smile is warm, and copper-coloured; it feels hazy and ambered in your little corner. "Better than me, anyways. I would rather die than go back to college."

"Back?" You ask. 

"Oh, of course! You don't know." She giggles, leaning in like she's about to say something scandalous - the drink is clearly doing its job. Her next words are an exaggerated stage whisper. "I dropped out."

" Seriously? " You play along, with faux shock. 

"...damn right she did." Lyla gives a drunken wave to a nearby waiter, asking for another glass of wine. Something expensive, she whispers, giving a deceptive smile. 

"It just wasn't for me, I guess. I went because everyone around me was going, even Pete. Uhh, English Lit, or something. And it didn't… I–I mean it just wasn't–" 

"It didn't click."

" Right!" She snaps her fingers. "It was too much. I didn't know what I was doing, I was 18, for God's sake. Think I stuck at it for a bit too long, honestly."

"...and the world didn't explode." You breathe. 

MJ answers with a knowing nod. She chugs the rest of a crisp Mojito, raising the empty glass once more. 

"To doing better ."

You're quick to follow. "To doing better."

Lyla frowns, looking for a glass that's tucked into the corner. The room must be spinning already, with the way she pats around for it. You nudge it towards her with an elbow, and she's raucous; crumpling into a fit of giggles. 

One drink turns to two, two turns to three, and then four ; until you're ready to spill out onto the busy strip. When the waiter places a slip of paper into the centre, one with so many zeroes it makes your eyes bulge, you don't even have to pretend to reach for your wallet. Gleefully, Lyla picks up the bill, sliding a shiny Amex card onto the dish. 

She's generous, you note, as she buys a bottle of wine to go when MJ picks up her bag. She's perceptive, too. You see it when MJ wrings her hands, still tipsy and stuttering in her heels as you pile onto the street. She's making apologies already - I've got an early start and need to see my May - but Lyla intercepts. There's the gentle clink of a bottle thrust into her hands, something expensive, and she kisses the apples of her cheeks before sending her off in a taxi. 

Her own cheeks are ruddy, rosy with drink and she splits into a wide smile. The back of her hand comes up to your neck. Warm , she whispers, before linking arms with you like a schoolgirl off to do something they shouldn't. 

Eventually, with shaky legs, you end up in a nightclub. She knows someone who knows someone, apparently, and you're ushered into a packed place just off 76th. Lights and pounding music, a flurry of limbs; you let the crowd take you in. If this is what it means to be a part of a whole; some writhing, heaving beast, to be more than your hand in someone else's and theirs in yours; then you could live here forever, you think. Forever, for the night, for the next ten minutes; you blink , and time passes. 

You're having fun, you think. Letting the blood rush to your head, hips swaying to the music and you don't push away the quiet snap of a phone camera, nor it's red recording light. Dancing, singing, many seem to be pulled into orbit around you. This is how it works , pushed into an ebb and flow of people held together by broken lyrics and a thumping bassline. You let it wash over you, all-consuming, dragging yourself into murky depths. 

You're in a booth, now, anchored by a dainty hand around your wrist. Pupils blown, she cups your face to inspect you, to figure out where you've gone. Someone's bought you a drink, there's a stranger's arm around your shoulders, but Lyla pushes them both away. Too much? It's a question, of which you shake your head firmly - lolling and with a distinct lack of fine motor skills - no. Not enough. 

You blink. Bitter liquor hits your throat, and you chase the taste of somebody else's lips. A stranger, and even under the influence you know it doesn't feel right. Bile rises, and you're gone, clamping onto your stomach and trying not to hurl. 

You blink. You're on the sidewalk, with a heavy head on someone's shoulder. The strap of your heels dig into your ankles and you fumble with it, trying to stop the road from spinning. Lyla holds you up, not much more up to task than you are. 

A car pulls up, and at first you don't recognise it; entranced by shiny rims coming to a stop. You look up, still buried in Lyla's thick jacket; and you see it. You see him. 

Miguel's wearing glasses. That's the first thing you notice, stumbling to your feet. Immediately, your face cracks into a dopey smile, leaning onto the lip of the open window. He gives you a once over, swallowing thickly, brows drawn. 

Quiet chatter flys straight over your head. Lyla arguing, Miguel wagging a finger at her; but all you can see is him. It's like you've got blinkers on, tunnel vision making you focus on the curve of cheekbone, and the way his eyes scrunch up around black rims and glass. 

You clamber into the backseat.

“Get in, Ly.”

The other woman seems resolute. “ M'not –”

“Did you take something?”

“Fuck you.” Flashing a middle finger, she wraps up her coat like a robe, walking away down the road. 

He's adamant, driving up next to her. You keep your head on the glass where it's cool.

“Let me take you home. Please. ”

Frowning, she stops. When he leans over to open the passenger's side, she slips off her boots, and sidles in.

Their voices feel like a blur. You can barely register, only picking up half of the words hissed under their breath.

“... I called you, you can't give me a lecture…”

“...not fair, Lyla…. can't keep babysitting…”

“... fucking hypocrite… not the only one… I'm going through some shit…”

“...too far…. always taking it too…”

He drops her off outside of the apartment. From the backseat, you're sobering up; able to catch his heavy sigh as he watches her through the window. It's only when he sees her walk in does he turn to you, passing bottled water kept in the console.

“You want to come out to the front?”

You like the way he says it, for some reason. Any anger or frustration he had towards Lyla dissipates. He doesn't bring that into a quiet conversation with you.

He's too solemn, too serious, and so you clamber into the front over the console; limbs and legs everywhere, as obnoxiously as you can. A slight elbow to his chest, a hand clutching his shirt; you want to make him laugh. As you settle onto the seat, you see it: huffing dramatically, he gives you a small smile.

Miguel reverses back out onto the road.

You blink, and you're home. Legs still shaky, he helps you up the stairs, settling you onto the sofa. Car keys clink onto the dish by the door, and he slips off his coat – that brown one, your favourite, you think.

Fumbling with the strap of your heels, it must be too painful for him to watch as Miguel settles by your feet. His big, strong hands are surprisingly deft when he undoes the dainty buckle.

“Are you mad at me?” Meekishly, you watch and he shakes his head, not making eye-contact. Maybe it's the alcohol, but you're staring; looking for that light in his eyes amongst the dark room. 

Now, he looks up. “What?”

“M'just looking.” You say, chewing the inside of your cheek as one shoe slips off. “ I'm not allowed to look?”

The other one comes off, and he hisses when he spots a little cut where the strap dug into your ankle. He can't help it, rolling it gently in his hands, trying to ease the pain with a massage.

“You wear glasses.” You say it softly, more to yourself than to anyone else. Giggling now, you cradle his face and he sits up. “I didn't know that.”

“ That's not – I've always worn glasses. You're just not paying attention.” He shrugs lazily, but he's smiling.

“Not true , Mig. I would've noticed.”

“You're drunk–”

“When it's you, I always pay attention.” Absent-mindedly, your hand curls into his hair. He keens . “Like… your hair's getting longer.”

Gently, he shakes out of your grip, getting up. “I know, I know. I need a haircut.”

“I like it.” Starry-eyed, you look up at him. “You're so pretty, Mig.”

It makes him heave. Still tipsy, your legs spread ever so slightly, hand taking his and pulling him closer. Placing his hand on your thigh, you let it trace up, up, up, catching at the hem of your short dress.

He practically caves in, collapsing next to you on the couch. 

“You should–” His eyes are glassy as you ease yourself onto his lap. “ F-Fuck . You should go to bed, sweetheart.”

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you roll your hips, watching as he groans wantonly. 

“But I'm not tired.” His hand ends up on your waist, applying just the right amount of pressure. Underneath, you can feel him stir, increasingly hard under loose sweats. “And you haven't touched me in weeks. ”

You're exaggerating, but it goes to his head anyway. He buries his head into the crook of your shoulder, whispering into the bare skin.

“I know, I know…”

“Just the tip, Miguel.” You're grinding your clit onto him, pussy barely covered by a thin thong. Whispered into the shell of his ear, you're a siren, honeyed words dangerously close to breaking him down. “Just the tip, and I promise , I'll let it go. Please , baby.”

Your dress rides up, and his hands come down to palm at your ass.

“ Please…” You're pleading, lips on his neck as he squeezes, forcing you down to hump directly over his cock.

“Oh, shit.” His hips jump once, twice; and then he stills, hands at your hips and ass to stop you.

Desperate, you whine, trying to fight against it. He doesn't let up, hand cradling your chin so you can look him in the eye.

“ Bed .” He says, shakily. “Not like this.”

He slips you off, noticeably adjusting his pants. Legs spread wide, head tipped back as he sighs; he looks delicious , and you're fighting off the urge to let him take you right there and then. 

You stumble through the little hallway, pushing past some doors. Something clatters into your thigh, and you hear a dull thud as another thing falls to the floor. Frustrated, you strip down to your underwear, something light and lacy and it leaves very little to the imagination. 

There's a bed, and you collapse on it; swimming in the silky sheets. It smells like him - musky and oaky and gentle - and you think you must be dreaming already. And then, you sit up, realising too late - this isn't your room. 

Miguel wasn't too far off, hearing the thumping and clattering; hesitant as he opens the door. You're wrapped up like a present, spilling out of lingerie on his bed. He swallows, turning away to dig into his wardrobe, intending to pull out a baggy shirt for you.

“ Miguel .” You croak, but he ignores the want in your voice, so heavy it goes straight to his cock. “Miguel, please. ”

All his shirts blend together. He can't concentrate.

“Do you think I don't want it? Because I do, fuck, I need it. So bad, baby, please.” Your body heaves with a half sob. 

Heart splintering, he turns. Finally, you meet his eye. You spread your legs.

“ Here. Right here .” You tap your clothed cunt with shaky fingers, pulling your thong to the side. His eyes drink it up, the way you glisten when your cunt eats up the fabric. You know he's watching, and you take advantage of it, circling your clit with the pads of two fingers. “Like this . When I touch myself, I think of you… d-did you know that?”

Swallowing roughly, he can't take his eyes off of you.

“What… What else?” He croaks.

“I think of your tongue, a-at my pussy. And your fingers… God. ” You slip a finger in, and he watches as your cunt clenches around it; gushing and sloppy. “Your l-lips. Meant it, before. When I said you were pretty. Want to sit on that pretty face and watch you melt– oh-h- fuck- ”

He wants to lick it up, all that slick that sluices from your hole. His mouth waters, just thinking about it. 

“Put another one in, for me.” He says it low, sinking to his knees to watch you fuck yourself. 

Nodding, you oblige. 

“Does it feel good?”

“ Yes. ” You don't hesitate. 

“Can you fit another one? Want to see how good she looks when she comes, sweetheart.”

Three fingers in, now, and he slides your thong a little further aside; reaching up to press his thumb to your clit. Light streams in from blinds cracked open and highlights your thighs perfectly. Nevertheless, he adjusts his glasses to make sure he doesn't miss anything.

The twitch of your leg, the way your hand cramps up, the way your lips curl into a delicious O - he sees it all, commits it to memory.

“ Faster , please.”

“ Doesn't –” You're frustrated, clearly chasing something that refuses to surface. “Not the same. Can't fucking reach. ”

He titters, nipping at your thighs and soothing the bites with the flat of his tongue.

“Poor baby. Will you let me help?”

Fervently, you nod, slipping out your fingers as he takes off his glasses. They're discarded, too foggy to be useful right now.

“Did I tell you to take them out?” He sighs and gestures for your hand. Wrapping his lips around them he sucks them clean, humming lightly. He pats your clit with a wet slap, content. “Put two fingers in, sweetheart.”

Doing as he says, your head feels full - cotton wool and bubble wrap, only able to focus on the pleasure building behind your clit. And when he slots two fingers in next to yours , it rips out a gravelly moan. 

“ Here? ” He says dragging himself deeper, curling his fingers up. “Or is it… here? ”

You groan, limp against his hand as you feel impossibly full. It reminds you of the stretch of his cock; creaming around the base of his two fingers and yours. That wonderful curl as he pumps himself in and out, cupping your hand in the process to make sure you match his pace. He can feel your walls spasm around him, impossibly soft and velveteen. 

“Can't say no to you,” His eyes are low, grunting as he palms himself roughly. “Even though… fuck … even though I should.”

It's wet, the slap slap slap of skin against skin echoing in his room. Miguel sits up, pressing his lips to your neck, and you take the opportunity to slip your other hand into his sweats. You start pumping, in time with his ministrations, eyes blown as you swipe your thumb over his weeping slit.

You know he likes it rough, and you jerk him into your palm; fast and hard and you watch as he matches your pace. Even now, you're competing, trying to catch the him up; to see who can make the other cum first. 

You push back on his fingers, hips slotting against his, whispering nonsense into his neck. You're too fucked out to care; confessions you never thought would see the light of day. All the little things you like about him, things he says, things he does; and you don't even register the ochred flush smattered along the ridge of cheekbone.

He spills into your hand, and you're quick to follow; cumming around him as his fingers stutter in and out. It feels good , dangerously so, and has you pressing shaky kisses around his mouth, and nipping at his bottom lip.

He stills, but you're greedy, aching for more. You want him in you; seating his thick cock deep inside, painting your walls with hot cum, and pushing it back in with deft fingers. Every part of you is on fire, barely satiated by your heated foray.

You tip back onto the bed, and he joins you; caging you in with thick forearms, looking at you like you've stolen all the stars in the sky. That feeling , again, slams into your chest like a bullet. Messy hair, ruddy cheeks, hand gently tracing your jaw; he looks gone, and oh so soft. You want to kiss him ; and it's a thought that sticks, embedding itself somewhere you can't reach to dig it out.

“ Miguel .” You whisper, enough alcohol at the edges of your mind to stop thinking and spill your guts to him, unfiltered. “Are you sleeping with someone else?”

His eyes flit over your face before answering and he shakes his head. 

“No. No. Just you. Only you.” 

“ Don't believe you .” But you want to. So, so desperately. “Promise me?”

“I promise, sweetheart.” He swallows. “Are you?”

“No. Don't think I could if I tried.” It comes out watery, stuck at the back of your throat.

He just looks, for a moment, cradling the back of your head. 

“I want to kiss you.” It spills out from your lips.

“I know.” 

“Then why won't you kiss me?”

“Not a good idea.” He strains, kissing your forehead, and then each cheek. Hesitating, he places a gentle peck to your chin. “Ask me tomorrow.”

He says it simply, too easily; and it makes you want to sob. When Miguel slips away, and you hear the sound of a light turned on in the bathroom, you can't move. Catatonic; you blink, and he's cleaned you up, and slipped a shirt over your shoulders. Laying back in his bed, you watch as he lingers by the doorway, shrouded in shadow. 

Goodnight. Y ou think you say it out loud, but it echoes in your head. 

He says back, but not really. Instead, he leaves that goodnight hanging by the doorway like an old coat, and you wrap it over your shoulders. 

It keeps you a little warmer through the night.

_

_

_

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[queen-anarchy-666]

Okay so apparently kids these days don't know how to be safe online because their parents are fucking stupid and don't know anything about the internet!!!

So I'm gonna tell you teenagers how to be safe and not get abused because there is no shortage of predators on the internet. I'm gonna go from super basic things you can do to keep yourself safe to more specific instances where a predator may be trying to groom you that you can recognize. Remember though; if you are abused or have been abused it is not your fault. You deserve protection and you deserve respect as a minor, regardless of how you spend your time on the internet. Victim blaming helps nobody but predators, but there are ways you can protect yourself, even though you shouldn't always have to.

Basic tips:

DO NOT SHARE YOUR REAL NAME

DO NOT SHARE YOUR AGE

DO NOT SHARE WHERE YOU LIVE

DO NOT SHARE PHOTOS OR VIDEOS OF YOURSELF

DO NOT SHARE PHOTOS OF YOUR HOUSE

IT IS OKAY TO BLOCK WHOEVER YOU WANT, WHENEVER YOU WANT, REGARDLESS OF THE REASON.

Don't sacrifice your safety, comfort, or peace of mind just for someone else's feelings! Especially a stranger! Also, if you think something is off, it probably is. You need to trust your gut. SPEAK UP! Tell a trusted friend, sibling, or adult! I'm sure you've heard the phrase "silence is violence" -- this phrase goes for abuse as well! Unsafe people want you to stay quiet so they can continue to harm you or others. It is not inherently problematic to have friends who are adults, in fact it is healthy and helpful to have friends who are older than you, however we live in a world where you cannot trust many adults, so you need to be cautious of adults you encounter at all times, including ones you know well or are well known by others. It is also not inherently problematic to be asked many of the questions above, but it is important to ask yourself whether or not you want to give that information to the person asking. If not, simply tell them that you do not give out that information and redirect the conversation, or block if you feel uncomfortable.

MOST IMPORTANTLY, DO NOT INSERT YOURSELF INTO ADULT SPACES.

I know it is tempting, especially with the way hormones effect judgement and your emotions, and we all want to be included, but inserting yourself into spaces you know you should not be by lying about your age is incredibly unsafe and leads to horrible situations that aren't always easy to get out of. This includes adult fandom spaces, websites, searching adult topics, NSFW blogs or accounts, and even group chats. Even if your friends invite you to these spaces, it does not mean you should neglect your safety to be accepted. It's okay and encouraged to say no. You will thank yourself when you get older!

More Specific Tips:

YOU SHOULDN'T PUT YOUR MENTAL ILLNESSES OR DEVELOPMENTAL DISABILITIES IN YOUR BIOS ON YOUR ACCOUNTS.

Awareness and solidarity for mental illness and disabilities is very important, however predators are more likely to go after people who may have a more difficult time discerning what is normal and what is not in social situations, especially when speaking to an authority figure like an adult. Do not make yourself a target by listing the ways you struggle with social cues, understanding rules and safety, or communication. It is okay to seek solidarity, but there are predators seeking out disabled and mentally ill youths to abuse.

DO NOT OFFER INFORMATION ABOUT YOUR SCHOOL ON THE INTERNET.

It is dangerous to release information about your whereabouts in any capacity on the internet, especially your school where you are doubly putting your peers and classmates in danger as well. If you come into contact or into the orbit of a predator that is bent on finding you or meeting you, your school is a public place where one may feel brazen enough to pretend they know you. Even if other kids are doing it by posting fight videos or even innocent videos, doesn't mean you should.

JUST BECAUSE SOMEONE INSISTS THEY'RE A SAFE PERSON DOES NOT MEAN THAT THEY ARE.

People lie on the internet all the time, including in some really bizarre and meaningless ways, but there will always be people who lie to get closer to someone to make them a victim. Just because someone tells you they are against abuse or even if they advocate against it does not mean that they themselves are a safe person. Predators will do anything they can to get you to trust them, and while predators are usually very pushy and want things to go quickly, some will take their time to groom you.

!!!!BIG RED FLAGS!!!!

IF YOU SEE ANY OF THIS BEHAVIOR, RUN! BLOCK AND REPORT PEOPLE WHO DO THESE THINGS FOR YOUR SAFETY! IT'S NEVER WORTH STICKING AROUND THESE KINDS OF PEOPLE!

THEY CONTINUALLY SEND YOU SEXUALLY EXPLICIT MATERIAL, INCLUDING FANART, FANFIC, AND VIDEOS.

THEY TELL YOU AGE IS JUST A NUMBER, OR LOVE HAS NO AGE.

THEY EXPRESS THE OPINION THAT MINORS CAN CONSENT TO SEXUAL ACTIVITY.

THEY CONSTANTLY MAKE "JOKES" ABOUT MINORS IN A SEXUAL WAY OR ABOUT BEING ATTRACTED TO MINORS.

THEY EMPHASIZE THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING "LEGAL" AT THE AGE OF 18 OR FIXATE ON AGE OF CONSENT LAWS.

THEY GET ANGRY AT YOU FOR SETTING A BOUNDARY OR IF YOU MENTION TELLING YOUR PARENTS.

THEY ENJOY "LOLI" OR "SHOTA" MATERIAL OR ENTHUSE ABOUT THOSE TYPES OF CHARACTERS.

THEY CALL YOU PET NAMES THAT YOU AREN'T COMFORTABLE WITH, EVEN WHEN YOU TELL THEM NOT TO.

THEY ASK YOU HIGHLY PERSONAL QUESTIONS ABOUT SEXUAL ACTIVITY, YOUR PERIODS, OR MASTURBATION.

THEY TELL YOU THAT YOU'RE MATURE FOR YOUR AGE, OR THAT YOU'RE NOT LIKE OTHER KIDS BECAUSE YOU'RE MORE ADULT THAN THEY ARE.

THEY ASK YOU TO SEND PHOTOS OR VIDEOS OF YOURSELF DOING SEXUALLY CHARGED THINGS, WHICH INCLUDES DANCING OR STRIPPING, OR SPECIFIC PARTS OF YOUR BODY.

THEY KEEP STEERING THE CONVERSATION IN A SEXUAL DIRECTION. THIS INCLUDES ROLEPLAY!

NONE OF THIS BEHAVIOR IS NORMAL. IT IS NOT NORMAL FOR AN ADULT TO ASK HIGHLY PERVASIVE QUESTIONS OR TO BECOME PUSHY OR ANGRY IF YOU EXPRESS DISCOMFORT. BLOCK AND REPORT THESE TYPE OF PEOPLE, THEY EXHIBIT BEHAVIOR CONSISTENT WITH SEXUAL ABUSE PATTERNS.

Adults and Minors alike please feel free to reblog. It is imperative that young people who don't know these things learn them, because the only thing a predator hates more than a jail cell is a minor who cannot be abused.

[maroonsweetpea]

This may make some of my newer followers disgusted by me but I feel like this perspective should be addressed. I have had problems with hypersexuality since genuinely as long as I can remember. Like, I'm talking about six and seven years old. Before I even understood what was wrong with me. I'm not going to get into details because the truth is that the details that I have are blurry at best and any attempt I have ever made to uncover more has only led to panic attacks and alcohol relapses. At around 13 I discovered porn online. Not like I didn't know it existed, but, I had never interacted with that kind of content previously. I had a serious porn problem until I discovered radical feminism, honestly. It opened my eyes to what should have been in front of me. Things I knew deep down but wanted to forget because it's okay if I'm imagining it happening to horrible me, right?

And, I'm not talking about the most baseline forgivable. I mean hard kinks. I mean that I was self-destructive to the point that I begged my boyfriend to go farther than he seemed to want to at times. And I honestly wanted to die and for him to be the one to kill me. When I was being choked I feel like I was going to reach the gates of Heaven. That peace was nearing because death is the ultimate freedom. I was so masochistic. I was such an alcoholic, dealing with anorexia....what I have never been clinically diagnosed with but I could only describe as violent OCD. I thought I could control what terrified me by playing pretend. Needless to say it did not work and it did not help in any capacity. But, if you asked me back then I would have told you it did. And I would have mostly believed that.

I channeled all of these problems into sex. It was all I could think of. I masturbated CONSTANTLY. It's like I was on fire all the time. The online communities I lingered on and even some female friends irl to this day told me that it was completely fine and healthy to cope with these problems, especially the childhood....whatever with things like CNC. That it was just my old man that didn't do it correctly. I think about a lot of this almost daily and guilt isn't a good enough word to describe it. If there is a word beyond that or shame I don't know it, but, I feel it. At this point in my life my sexuality.....is almost a dead weight. A big part of me thinks I will never be cured, that my need for pain and my need for sex will trickle back the same and I'll explode.

I say all of this not for pity points, but because I think that fucked up women deserve to have a place here and for things like this to be discussed more openly. People can't be born pure and many people learn by terrible mistakes. Or maybe I'm the odd man out. Either way.

[yan-lorkai]

"Hello Lorkai! I've got an idea for a headcanon and would like to request it!

Yan!Idia (maybe with platonic Yan!Ortho too if you like) with an extroverted male reader who somehow gets placed in Ignihyde Dorm by the dark mirror (students from other dorms like to joking about the dark mirror putting him in the wrong dorm or something). The reader kinda becomes the mom friend of the dorm, always helping and taking care of everyone, assisting Idia with his Housewarden's work, you know, like the friend who orders food for their shy friends. Thank you very much <3

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/N: Uh... I've might misread the fact that you wanted headcanons. And so I did hcs and a few little drabble 🥺.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ You are Ignyhide's mom figure, fixing everyone's hair and shirt. Everyone know that whoever is sorted into this dorm is somewhat of an introvert or ambivert. You, though, is an extrovert. You can talk freely, you know how to make friends and enjoy helping others around the campus. Yet, the others don't have this same capacity. And they need someone to take care of them, whence the title of mom, which was just a joke but slowly spread thought Ignyhide completely.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Idia was the most difficult person for you to get closer. He just seems to push away anyone that tried without even realizing but you persisted till you make friends with his brother and him. Taking care of Idia though... Sure, it's difficult sometimes.

"Let's go, Idiiiiiiia!” You tried to pull the antisocial Ignyhide dorm leader out of his bed, wanting to take him outside to sunbathe and eat in the canteen. You've been trying for a while now. Sometimes Idia was a lot like a younger brother to you. Stubborn, obstinate. His hair burning bright in a frightful color as you pulled him and he pushed you.

"Do you hate me, Yuu-shi? I didn't do anything wrong." Idia threw himself to the ground, a scream of pure terror escaping his throat as he struggled against you.

"Listen, either you walk out that door of your own free will or I'm going to throw you over my shoulders and we're going to leave the same way." You threatened him. You had tried every tactic you had on your sleeve today and still none of them were working. Regardless, he felt light enough for you to carry around.

"Yuu-shi wouldn't dare." Idia murmured back, he tried to sound confident and sure of what he is saying.

Yet he didn't stop you from pulling him to his feet this time, even though his legs were visibly tense and he had an annoying expression on his face. Idia knew that you meant what you said. And he wouldn't survive a day if someone saw you carrying him around. His shame would be too big to bear. He would be dead by the end of the night if that was to happen.

He gave you the best puppy dog eyes he could muster, but it was of little use. You opened the door for him and offered him a soft smile, trying to ease all the fear and anxiety he felt. Still, you had good intentions when trying to bring him out of his shell. There was tons of people you want him to meet, tons of things you wanted to do with him, outside from his room where you usually spent your free time. Without talking with him through a floating tablet.

You were working to make him realize that it was not healthy to stay cupped inside of his room all day. It was a slow process but in a few months, you know he'll be fine making phone calls and sending emails.

"C'mon, dude. We don't have all day." You teased him a little, watching him fumbling. He squeaked, hands founding yours to hold, to ground him, cold finger lacing with yours.

Idia didn't like this idea at all. There was so much that he could do at his room. Gaming, bing watching something, reading, studying. So why he have to abandon the comfort of his room?

He wanted to ask your intentions. But you are a mischievous guy, always so secretive, only the sevens may know what passed through your mind this week. Either way, Idia doubt that you would tell him where you're going or why. Sighed, he followed you outside.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ No matter how difficult he was, Idia was still your best friend. Your brother, if you will. Nobody could see one without the other nearby, even if most of the time it was just you and his floating tablet. It was a sweet friendship, most thought. And Idia deserved it. As did Ortho, the young robot was so funny to have around and he was as curious as a child, always asking you questions, even if he could have his answers with a snap of his fingers.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ While you make friends with Idia because you noticed how lonely he was, Ortho just latched onto you when he realized what you were trying to do, helping you in your mission to be Idia's friend. He was like a younger sibling, following you around, sometimes messing with your homework or phone for fun. He was mischievous. And you could never get angry at him because of his very cute puppy eyes. Often times, though, he includes you on his pranks.

"How things going, Yuu-shi?" Idia asked, voice tired and dark circles under his eyes as he stared at his computer. He knew it was you just by the sounds of your footsteps on the carpet.

Ortho programs are special, designed by Idia himself. They are not supposed to malfunction but sometimes errors happen and this is one of those times. Idia told you he would pull an all nighter so he could fix his brother and you, like the good friend you are, scold him for losing sleep. Yet, you brought with you some snacks and soft drinks, and you got to work with him.

The panel located on Ortho's chest glowed red, emitting a high-pitched sound that broke any and all silence that might exist, in addition to Idia's heavy breathing. You knew how to fix Ortho, you'd seen him do it a thousand times.

"I don't think that it's a systemic error, pass me the screwdriver so I can see something, Idia." Idia mumbled something, drinking one of your drinks as he lent you a screwdriver so you could taste your theory before turning back to his computer and start typing something again, running another bunch of tests.

"Be careful!" He advised. You huffed, of course, you were going to be careful.

You slowly began to unscrew the nails holding the panel in place, carefully placing it on the bed next to you. You observed all those wires and pieces, the fire on his chest burning even brighter now, you tried to remember for what which wire was for. Ignyhide was after all known to raise students to be the best in mechanics.

"Actually everything's normal," You murmured to Idia, there was nothing wrong with Ortho that you could see. Red light still emanating from somewhere below his artificial heart. "C'mere and help me, Idiaaa."

The older Shroud laughed at your tone but he complied, crouching down by your side. "Let's see..." Just as Idia reached out to inspect Ortho’s chest panel, the younger Shroud's eyes suddenly lit up, glowing a vivid yellow.

His previously limp body jerked upright and his voice, eerily robotic, boomed through the room: "Error 375, host unable to respond, initiating reboot sequence."

Idia yelped and practically jumped out of his skin, scrambling backward in a flurry of blue flames, his ears hurting from loud Ortho's announcement was. "W-what, error 375, what even is that? Ortho? What did you do?" He stammered, looking between you and Ortho in sheer disbelief, lost.

Then, just as suddenly, Ortho broke into his usual chipper grin. "Just kidding, Nii-san!" The younger Shroud chirped, a playful glint in his eyes. "Got you!"

Idia’s expression was a mix of shock and exasperation, his face and hair bright red from embarrassment. "You little—!"

Ortho giggled innocently, while you couldn’t help but burst into laughter. The prank had been a success.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Aside from moments like that, you also help them with simple things, helping Idia with his dorm leader's duties in general, and playing with Ortho, helping them with laundry and making breakfast. And when you three go out to buy things or something, you always team up with Ortho to tease Idia. It's funny.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ You and Ortho incentives Idia to be more sociable, though that's still not possible so often you three just spend time on the gardens or somewhere more secluded. At least, Idia can leave his room if you and his brother are by his side the entire time. He still have a long way to go to overcome his shyness but you're proud of him and you let him know at every opportunity.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ It's common for you for you to order for you and Idia but if you're tired or unwell, Idia will crawl from his shell and stutter out your favorite order. It's the only time he'll try for real to overcome his fear of talking to other people.

[red-riot-unbreakable-heart]

Katsuki: It's been a long fuckin' day at work, I'm absolutely drained!

Izuku: Do you wanna talk about it?

Katsuki: *Scoffs* What are you some kind of reporter now?

Izuku: No I'm your boyfriend and I want to help you process work stress in a healthy and productive way.

Katsuki: Fuck that I don't need you to be my therapist!

Katsuki:

Katsuki: *softer*...Actually could you rub my shoulders like you did last week? I'm super sore and it really helped and I want to feel close to you but I don't have the mental capacity for a long discussion right now.

[akindplace]

I had a hard time growing up. I’ve met people who were bad for me - but were not evil. They were dysfunctional people who did terrible things that marked me in more ways than I’d like to admit. I know this pain has changed me and I’m not even sure it’s for the better. And that made me feel so hopeless about myself for years. But there is one thing that kept me going when I felt like giving up, and that was love.

Being loved changed me as a person, even more so than my trauma. Whenever I see old pictures of me, I feel love for her. Looking at a beautiful sunset knowing most people will see it and think about its magnificence, I feel love for being alive. Loving others and being loved changed me, surely, for the better. And maybe that’s good enough as a life’s purpose. It allows me to have hope.

Love makes me think that everyone can be helped when they are encouraged and validated and seen for who they are. People are capable of doing terrible things with their hatred but also capable of making positive changes when they act with compassion. Love has changed me in so many ways, and it was for the best, though it doesn’t erase the past, it gives me hope for a better future.

And if you don’t have a relationship with anyone in your family, remember that people find families in their friends. And they will love you. And you left a bad romantic relationship and are afraid of never being loved in this way again, don’t give up. Talk to your friends, their love is just as important. Someone else might come around later, and you will feel that romantic love again.

I’m not saying that someone’s love will immediately heal every hurt you ever felt, and that you should look for someone only to fix you, because that’s not a healthy way to be loved. I’m saying that love encourages you to grow, to look inward and see what needs to heal, to look at yourself with a little more kindness, to let go of the past to the best of our abilities. We change when we are loved, often because our loved ones make us feel stable, more confident, and they know how to keep encouraging us when we worry about our own capacities. They nurture the change in us.

While writing this post, the poem “Invitation” by Mary Oliver came to mind: “believe us, they say, / it is a serious thing / just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in the broken world. / I beg of you, / do not walk by / without pausing / to attend to this / rather ridiculous performance. / It could mean something. / It could mean everything. / It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote: / You must change your life.”

[angelpink610]

You guys wanna know when the things I wished for, hoped for, visualized and manifested actually started to appear to me, to become my reality? When I understood and learned how to ENJOY THE PROCESS!

Let’s yap a bit… ;)

Us as immediate people in an immediate society end up focusing entirely on the results, we only see the things we wish for as results, as finish lines. What we fail to do is see the start line and the path that leads to the end.

I don’t want to sound corny, but it’s really all about that Hannah Montana movie song “The Climb”. We only think about how fast we will get there, how life will be when we get there, how happy it will be when we get there. Well, here’s the thing: if you’re not happy and grateful throughout the way, don’t even expect to be happy on the finish line. Our goals are not essentially what make us happy, they’re proofs of our capacity and work. What actually makes someone’s life happy and amazing, is the way that person behaves and conditions their mind WHILE chasing all of these dreams. It’s all about your methods, it’s all about your feelings, your reactions to the world, the way you act towards people. Don’t think you’ll be happy and achieve the greatest things when you live your life and answer to the world bitterly, in a rush, not paying much mind to it.

I know this is obvious, but just so that no one is confused and comes for me after: I’m not saying every day is going to be incredible, I’m not saying that you’re not allowed to be sad, angry, uncomfortable, jealous, disgusted. These are all perfectly normal and human emotions, and everyone should feel them—it just shows you’re alive. This concept of being 24/7 happy and grateful and “Oh my God, everything’s incredible all the time” it’s just not sustainable nor healthy (+, obviously, not real). What we should do, instead, is allow these emotions to be felt, and then act upon them understanding why they’re there and how we can soothe them, or make them a little less strong. For example, understand where your anger comes from, is it truly someone’s fault, why are we feeling it. Not block it, not try to stop it from being felt—but understand it. And then, after thinking (even meditating, if you like) about it, let it go, and let it be felt still, if you think it’s the right thing. Don’t ask too much of yourself always, sometimes we really just need to scream for a second on our pillow or shed a tear in our room. It’s perfectly alright and also healthy!

Have fun, make friends, create good memories with these friends, study, live your life to the fullest. Meet new people, go to new places, discover new music, books, art, movies that make you feel something. Laugh with people you love, create memories through pictures, do some risky things, you don’t need to always be so careful about everything. Some lesions make us stronger. And while you’re doing everything else, manifest your dreams, work towards it, put in the effort, visualize, believe you’re worth and destined for that, acknowledge you already have everything you need to get there and that, actually, you are already there.

Learn to actually live your life on the way to your dreams, not just survive the path. When you look at life with gratitude and love, life looks back—and you’ll feel it.

As always, you’re free to agree or disagree with me on the various topics I talk about. It’s my own experience and the way it’s been for me. Feel free to also share your stories on comments and/or reblogs! I’ll love to see it.

That’s it for today’s yapping session. Love, Seiko ♡

♡ borders credit: @anitalenia

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

Here's a fun (modern au) one: full hc for the M6's airport/airplane flight experience >:3

The Arcana HCs: M6 at the airport

~ loosely referencing this old ask arcana post from the nix hydra era - @themushroomgoesyeet hope you like this friend! I had so much fun writing it!! ^.^ ~

Julian

Does Julian love the concept of flying through the air as a mode of transportation, travel, and adventure in general? Sure!

Does that mean he does well with it? Not at all

Major flight anxiety and will cope with it to varying degrees of healthy depending on who he's with and what his options are

If you're the sort of person to pack soothing gummies and noise cancelling headphones with pre-downloaded guided meditation tracks and some sleep meds, he'll be all over them

If you're the sort of person who doesn't mind a drink or two before a flight just to soothe the nerves - well - he won't say no to that, either. Just make sure he's sober by the time you land, so he doesn't take a ride on the luggage carousel out of relief

Can and will grip your hand during take off and landing and then apologize when it briefly cuts off your blood circulation

Always offers to put up at least three people's luggage for them in the overhead bins and drops at least one on his head

Asra

They are one of those very weird people who think airplanes, airports, and any public area of transportation are relaxing

He's in tie-dye loungewear, a neck pillow, crocs, fuzzy socks, hair pushed out of his face with a sleeping mask-turned-headband, a rolling duffle bag dragged by one hand and a snack in the other

They are v i b i n g

Misses flights way less than you would expect him to, mostly because he's so familiar with all the major airports at this point that he has boarding just in time down to a fine science

And when they do miss a flight, it turns into an extended chillout session because they know all the best hangout spots there

His capacity to fall asleep anywhere, anytime works in his favor on cramped flights beautifully

They've started a new tradition with you of looking through all the available in-flight entertainment and picking what promises to be the cringiest movie, just to make you laugh with their commentary

Nadia

Her usual reason for flying is business, which is exactly how she approaches the entire traveling process

Her luggage is all one elegant, efficient set (she has bought you a matching one) with personalized tags for ease of spotting

Always purchases business class tickets, refuses to take any chances on missing her special traveling experience and arrives at the airport three hours early as a result

There are multiple reasons for this - first, less stress at security, second, she has one of those fancy passes that gets her into just about any exclusive club lounge in the world

Enjoys the hour or two pampering you in the lounge with nothing else to do more than she does any other part of the travel

Won't hesitate to critique/send back her meal on the airplane if she doesn't like it, tends to load up on sleeping meds for longer flights since the fluctuating air pressure triggers her migraines

Brings an extra skincare routine for you to do during the last hour

Muriel

Look at him. Do you see him? Look at him. Now look at the size of an airplane interior. Look at him again. Now look at the amount of available legroom. Look at him again. HE IS 6'10.

Muriel would prefer almost any form of transportation to flying. It's busy, security makes him move too fast, all the signs and bustle of the airport are hell on his anxiety, and that's before boarding

Always tries to get an aisle seat because that lets him expand into the walkway if he needs to, and so he's less likely to glance out the window and see just how far away the ground is

The ground belongs right here. Under his feet. Not a terrifying drop down through the clouds!!

The airplane experience is sensory hell for him in general, the deafening sound of the engines, the constant vibration, the recycled air, the ways his ears pop, the stiff seats, the armrests -

Really the only way he'll get through this is if he knows there's no other options and if you're next to him as his emotional support

Portia

An airport champion

And it's really not from that much experience. She's traveled enough to know she likes it, but it's still so exciting every time she gets the chance to fly somewhere! Especially with you!!

Has done all of her research ahead of time and is packed for everything. Her massive mom bag has pockets for snacks, documents, meds, chargers, electronics, drinks, travel cushions ...

Does get restless before a flight and will drag you all up and down the terminal to take a look at every single shop and restaurant

The type to start chatting with whoever's in line with her, whether in security lines, bathroom lines, coffee lines, or boarding lines

Will befriend whoever is sitting next to/across from her and spend half the flight getting to know them and trading stories

Will offer to hold any nearby crying baby if said baby's caregiver could clearly use five minutes to use the restroom or eat

Takes so many pictures out the airplane window

Lucio

Traveling is one of those things that he tries (and fails) to hide his excitement around. In his mind, this is something that he as a worldly, well-traveled person should be nonchalant about

He is not nonchalant. He is thrilled to be doing something fairly exciting and to spend a whole day with excuses to be in close quarters with you - and to book a first-class ticket

The only issue is that (if it's left unchecked) his FOMO will prompt him to try to squeeze every single thing to do out of the terminal before he boards the plane, which can end in missing his flight

Massage chairs! You two should definitely get a massage

A massive perfume section! You two should sample five each

Gets extremely impatient during the boarding process and will start grumbling and fidgeting in place when the person in front of him is taking forever to put up their luggage

Laughs loudly enough at the comedy he picks to watch for the whole airplane to hear him

[t3a-tan]

Ooh! 2 for tiny James and human Oliver? (I'm so curious to see how you'd make that situation happen 😭)

2. “So are you just going to keep me in a jar forever, or…?”

Although it did take a minute to figure out a situation that Oliver might trap James in a jar I had a lot of fun with this one hehe

From this!

-----

Since James had gotten more comfortable around Oliver he had also been getting more reckless.

Oliver could remember the first time the borrower took a leap off of the counter, shouting something about a ‘trust fall’. Thankfully he caught him before he could get injured, but that only spurred the man on more… At first Oliver fretted every time, but soon enough it became like a routine.

After realising that James's reckless behaviour was a sign of his trust in him, Oliver became fond of those sorts of interactions. He could usually tell when James would start being more impulsive like that, and the borrower would also avoid messing around too much if Oliver was trying to focus.

Today Oliver was filling in a bunch of forms, flipping between various files and writing notes down for different referrals. He was focused and a bit tired because of how long it was all taking. Even so, he minimised any distractions so he could dedicate himself to the task at hand.

James didn't get the memo clearly.

Oliver was filling the forms in at the kitchen island, and as he worked and sipped on his cup of tea he was suddenly made aware of James’s presence when the borrower climbed onto the island counter.

“What are you up to, mate?” He asked, curiously, moving closer to the forms and inspecting them with a discerning gaze. Oliver had learned that James wasn't able to read and only recognized certain words and phrases for survival purposes, so it was no wonder he didn't understand what he was doing. Still, Oliver was tired from the repetitive task and trying to focus.

“It's for work.” He responded simply, using his right hand to gently shoo the borrower off of the files, worried that they might get footprints on them and he'd have to reprint the papers and fill them in all over again. Oliver yawned slightly, squinting down at the forms with exhaustion. “Can't chat at the moment. Perhaps tomorrow…?”

James bristled at the sight of the giant hand shooing at him, frowning and raising an eyebrow at the human. He looked tired… Why would he keep working if it's making him tired?

“Maybe you should take a break?” He pointed out, moving closer again, not really seeing the importance in all these papers and words… It couldn't hurt to stop for a bit, could it? Oliver certainly seemed like he needed it.

The human shook his head with a hum, continuing to write undeterred by James's advice. James narrowed his eyes slightly before thinking to himself about how he could get his friend to see reason. It wasn't healthy to just stare at paper for that long, surely… Getting a great idea he smirked to himself, side-stepping towards the edge of the counter closest to where Oliver was sitting, before jumping off.

Oliver snapped awake immediately, jolting and quickly catching James before he could reach the floor, falling back off of the stool in the process. He cupped his hands together around James to shield him, but that left him with no hand to brace his fall. He groaned in pain as he fell onto the hardwood floor, nothing broken, but his body wasn't exactly thanking him either.

“James…” He began with a scolding tone as he opened up his hands, revealing the dishevelled borrower and a cheeky smile on his face. Oliver's heart was still racing from the scare— he thought for a moment that he wouldn't be able to catch him in time. “I almost didn't catch you. Why would you do that?”

“But you did.” James pointed out, much to Oliver's frustration. He didn't have the capacity to deal with stuff like this when he was doing time sensitive work and was already exhausted. James shook off the slightly miffed look in the human's eyes, despite how it made his instincts scream in protest. “And like I said, you need a break. Didn't mean to make you fall though…”

Oliver sat up more with a small groan, his back still aching from the sudden fall.

“I don't have time for a break tonight. I apologise, but you need to leave me to my work.” He managed to retain his composure for the most part, trying to emphasise that he needed to focus. He couldn't focus if James was going to be chucking himself off of every surface, whether he was trying to help or not. He stood up.

“Well if you're not gonna take a break, I guess I'll have to keep jumping off until you do.” James insisted stubbornly, crossing his arms. Oliver squinted at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he was telling the truth or not because he knew James was a very sarcastic person and he usually didn't pick up on it. With a sigh, he placed James back down on the counter and sat down again.

“If you do that, I'm not against putting you in a jar for the time being whilst I get my work done.” He responded, just in case James was indeed telling the truth. He hoped it would dissuade the borrower, but as he picked his pen up again James did just as he said he would.

Oliver was faster to catch him this time, and even managed to stay seated, but his frown only deepened at the childish behavior his friend was exhibiting. He knew that most borrowers probably lacked an understanding of jobs and how important they were, but he thought James would be at least a little more respectful.

Fine. I did warn him, so he already accepted the consequences beforehand.

Standing up, Oliver walked over to the drawer he kept empty jars in— usually they would be for him to fill with homemade preserves and spices, but tonight they would be filled with a borrower. He pulled one of the taller one's out and placed it onto the counter with a ‘tink’.

“Woah woah— y-you weren't being serious, right Oliver?” James suddenly began to kick at his fingers in protest, but Oliver was too tired to register the very real fear in his friend's movements.

“I’ll let you out when I'm done. It should only take a few hours.” He assured, lowering his hand to the mouth of the jar, tilting it so that James would slide in without any risk of falling and injuring himself. Once he was in the jar Oliver set it down and sat down at the island again, getting to work.

“Oliver! Let me out!” The borrower banged his fists against the glass fruitlessly, panicking slightly at the feeling of being trapped. He can't be serious. He won't actually leave me in here, right?

But as Oliver ignored his shout and picked up his pen, James felt his throat go dry. Oliver was always no nonsense, but he would never go this far… Unless he was actually starting to get sick of him? James sat down at the bottom of the jar silently, watching Oliver write.

After a few hours Oliver didn't let him out— he had fallen asleep at the island counter before finishing, and though James made a few attempts to get him to wake up it didn't work. He was getting more anxious the more time that passed, resigning himself to his fate in the jar for however long Oliver decided to keep him in.

Oliver woke up with his neck aching terribly from the way he had been leaning over and lying his head on the cold hard counter. He yawned, blinking slowly as his surroundings become more clear the more he woke up. Oh. I must have fallen asleep before I finished. What time is it?

He checked his watch, squinting at the numbers. 5:30 AM. That's enough time to finish. He reached towards the pen at his right only to straighten up in surprise at the sight that greeted him. Everything suddenly came rushing back, and Oliver was hit with a wave of guilt as he made eye contact with James, who looked so small huddled in the corner of the jam jar.

“So are you just going to keep me in a jar forever, or…?”

Oliver's eyes widened at the defeated tone James was speaking in, concern furrowing his brows as he leaned down to peer at his friend through the glass, dropping the pen immediately.

“Stars… Of course I'm not, James. I'm sorry, I… I must have fallen asleep.” He shook his head, expression becoming serious although riddled with guilt. “I shouldn't have trapped you in the first place. I wasn't thinking as clearly as I should have been…”

As he reached for the jar he paused again, thinking better of picking James up right now after what he did. He might be scared of me. I would deserve as much…

“Is physical contact okay? Or should I just tilt the jar over?” Part of him was still hopeful that he hadn't broken James's trust enough that he would be uncomfortable with being touched. They had been doing so well after all; Oliver didn't want James to feel like he needed to go back into hiding again… But he would respect it if that was the case.

James seemed to hesitate before averting his gaze guiltily.

“Just…tilt it, please mate.” His voice made it clear that he hadn't slept at all— probably kept awake thinking his friend had suddenly betrayed him.

Oliver nodded slowly and reached forward again, carefully turning the jar so that the borrower could walk out by himself. Once that was done he stood up and put the jar back away in the drawer, gaze lingering on it for a few extra moments.

What does he think of me now?

James watched as Oliver walked around to the other side of the island, staring at his back and thinking to himself. He was still pretty upset about being trapped for so long, and by all means he should be packing up and leaving immediately. But Oliver sounded genuinely remorseful…and honestly, James had never had a friend before. He didn't want to give that up.

He continued to watch as the human sat back down, glancing him up and down for a couple of moments. James took a breath before running and jumping off of the counter, just as he had last night. Please catch me please catch me—

“James!” Oliver's alarmed voice boomed, and James was relieved to feel warm hands close around him. He should feel mortified, but all he could do was smile when he was raised up to his friend's eye level. “I…should I put you down..?” He asked, a hint of nervousness in his furrowed expression.

“Nah.” James replied, patting the thumb beside him. “But you should take that break.”

[gigisriley]

wait people say charpim is toxic or that they wouldn't work out as a healthy relationship??? im so confused is this just angst being grafted onto them or is there a valid argument to be made here?

Im new to the smiling friends fanbase btw and mostly am a lurker that seldom comes by to see fan content lel

first off, WARGGGHHH thank you for the ask i’m literally SO excited to answer!!!

rambling below the cut!!

i’m in two camps on this one. I think charpim in its CURRENT state definitely wouldn’t work. BUT Pim is definitely the kind of person who has the capacity to help Charlie. Pim is a very affectionate guy, and he’s open, honest and sincere. Hle’s very genuine, compassionate and beyond kind. In other words, he’s *exactly* what Charlie needs. Pim can make him better.

Charlie isn’t a bad guy. He’s far from it, actually. His whole job revolves around making people smile, even if his goal is a paycheck and not that fuzzy feeling you get in your chest when you make someone’s day better.

But he’s a very flawed guy. In Charlie goes to Hell and Doesn’t Come Back, I remember reading somewhere that Micheal and Zach wanted to originally make Charlie vape in the beginning, but the studio wouldn’t let them. So they settled on energy drinks. Thats why The Devil says “I can quit my addicted vices whenever I want”- this is supposed to be a moment of realization for Charlie. He can see himself in The Devil in that moment.

In Erm, The Boss Finds Love? Charlie literally gets shitfaced at the wedding. Even as he walks into the break room the next day, he says “I can’t keep doing this. Something’s gotta change, brother.” in reference to his hangover. He’s unhappy with where he is, and he recognizes there is a problem. But he doesn’t do anything to fix that. In the alien episode, both him AND Pim get shitfaced.

Charlie also instigates fights. In both Charlie Dies and Doesn’t Come back and the alien episode, Charlie’s the one to stir the pot. When they go looking for a tree to chop down, Pim keeps a level head and calm voice. Charlie’s the one who raises his voice and takes the axe to the tree. Charlie instigates thus fights with the dudebro aliens, literally egging them on. He’s so caught up in this that he literally elbows Pim in the face.

Plus, you never want to get into a relationship with someone under the notion that you can “fix” them. More often than not, people don’t change. It takes a MAJOR life event or some kind of trauma for someone to change. And Charlie, in the face of LITERALLY being given a second chance, continues to drink, instigate fights, and give in to his addictive vices.

In his current state, Charlie would definitely be the ‘toxic’ one in the relationship. He’d instigate fights, come home drunk out of his gourd, and he’d hurt Pim emotionally. Whether or not he’d hurt him on purpose is up for debate. Pim would overexert himself trying to keep them together, and fall apart. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.

Charlie needs to change if they’re going to work. He needs to get better. THATS why I think they wouldn’t work, at least not yet.

At the end of the day they’re just silly little guys in a cartoon about Friends Who Smile so i’m probably reading WAY too much into a guy who looks like a peep. But oh well. To be cringe is to be free.

(ID LOVE to talk more about this—- if anyone has any comments on this or disagrees, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know in the notes. i like talking about my silly little pink and yellow middle aged men)