#but still believing that i could have done this better

[sematarygirls]

⠀    ⠀⠀♯┆marshgirl!reader x rafe ⏤ part i.ㅤ ۪ ୧

ᰋ. ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎“ i asked my father if he believed in ghosts; he told me he would be one someday ,, ‎‎ ‎ ‎ : ‎‎ ‎ ‎IN WHICH . . . rafe bets that he can befriend the weird girl who resides in the marsh.   ─── ⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆🌾

THE CYPRUS BRANCHES swayed in the gentle breeze of the early morning, mist still clinging low to the murky water and roots of the trees. The air was thick with the earthy scent of damp soil and natural decomposition of material as well as the sickly sweet smell of crushed wildflowers under your feet.

You moved through the marsh like you were born from it— maybe you were—with quick, precise steps that avoided stray tree roots, sticks, rocks, and the occasional small animal. Your skirt swished at your ankles, wetted with fresh mud as you returned home from your morning scavenge of all the fascinating things nature had to offer.

Your lonely little cabin where you resided with your father was tucked away from the roads and civilization. He often told you that the world was dangerous, and it would eat a girl like you alive, so it was better to stay in the marsh where it was safe.

He'd never quite explained your way of life. You knew you were different, not like the other kids your age, but you didn't understand why, and whenever you dared ask, he would get agitated, asking you who put those thoughts into your head.

Maybe it was paranoia, a fear of what others were capable of, a fear of being out of control. Maybe it was grief, the loss of your mother so achingly deep that all he could do was run away and disappear.

Or maybe he was hiding something from you, from the world. Maybe the real reason for keeping you isolated had nothing to do with keeping you safe but rather, protecting whatever secrets he had buried in the marsh so long ago.

As you approached, you heard the familiar song of your handmade windchimes—made from animal bones, shards of glass, and rusty metals you had collected—and the piercing creaking of the old rocking chair that sat on the porch and moved with the wind. It was comforting. It was the sound of home.

"Daddy?" You called softly, pushing the creaky wooden door open and pausing to take your muddy boots off and set them down outside to keep from tracking mud inside before venturing into the house to retrieve this month's grocery list.

Once a month, on the last day of the month, you were permitted to go into town to stock up on groceries for the coming weeks. It had been a ritual like clockwork since you were thirteen. Though at that age you weren't technically allowed to be driving, your father insisted upon it anyway.

Padding further inside, your feet instinctively avoiding the spots in the floorboards that stuck up or had exposed nail heads, you found your father sitting in his worn, leather chair, knife in hand as he whittled something out of wood. "Back already?" He asked, glancing up at you. His gaze was always sharp and scrutinizing like he expected to catch you in a lie, and his voice was deep and rough, his vocal cords like rocks that had been weathered by a stream.

You nodded, the scent of burning wood from the fireplace mingling in the air with the smell of dried herbs and fresh flowers and infiltrating your senses. Your eyes followed his motions as he scraped the knife against the wood with slow, deliberate strokes, the sound of him humming in acknowledgement reaching your ears.

After a beat of silence, he sighed heavily, looking up at you with that piercing gaze as he set his knife down on the table, a little harsher than intended. "Remember the rules," he said firmly, his tone warning as he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Get what we need and come straight home. No lingering or talking to strangers," he reminded you, like he always did despite you having done this dozens of times.

"Yes, sir," you replied softly with an obedient nod, reaching for the paper in his outstretched hand. He held it firmly for a moment, not letting you take it as he searched your eyes, as if he could pull the truth from your bones. Clearly, he decided you were telling the truth about obeying his strict rules because he loosened his grip, allowing the paper to slip from his fingers.

You slipped the paper into your bag—the same one you'd used to collect your trinkets—and turned on your heels, heading back to the front door. You swiped your dad's keys from the table by the door before closing it behind you, paying no mind to the screeching that would have made anyone else wince.

Slipping on your boots and trudging down the crumbling wooden steps, you noticed a shift of atmosphere; you always did when you were leaving. The wind seemed to blow a little harder, whistling to catch your attention as you started your father's rusty old truck and put it in reverse to make your way toward the road. In response, a nearby crow cawed loudly, causing a few others to follow.

The marsh didn't like when you went into town.

Neither did you.

The drive was always unsettling and left a pit in your stomach as the trees grew few and farther between and more houses came into view, eventually giving way to buildings crowded together and pavement instead of greenery.

You pulled into the parking lot, the truck's engine rattling as you put the car into park. People stared before you even got out of the car; they always did.

Stepping out, you felt the weight of eyes upon you, hushed whispers following you as you walked with your head held high. You didn't mind them. You always figured they were just curious, as you were about them.

Across the street, Rafe, Topper, and Kelce were exiting a high-end clothing store when they caught sight of you. "Holy shit, country cryptic incoming," Topper smirked, nudging Rafe and nodding to your form retreating into the grocery store.

"Bro, I swear she only crawls out of the swamp, like, once a year," Kelce said, following Topper's motion. They kept walking down the street, farther and farther away, but their conversation stayed centered around you.

"What do you think she's buying? Eye of newt? Frog legs?" Topper snickered, finding himself incredibly funny.

"She's gonna hear you two talking shit and hex you," Rafe quipped, smirking as he pushed his sunglasses up his nose. "Yknow, make your dicks shrivel up in your sleep."

"I'm not sure Topper's can get any smaller," Kelce snorted.

Topper shoved Kelce with an indignant scoff. "Shut the fuck up, man, not cool."

Rafe grinned, his gaze flickering back to the doors you'd just disappeared through. It was rare to see you in town, so rare that it became a spectacle. People would wait for your inevitable return and tell tales, most of them bullshit, about what they'd allegedly seen you do or heard you say when they encountered you.

A thought occurred to him that had him smirking. "What do you say we make this a little more interesting?" He proposed, making Topper and Kelce quit their bickering over dick sizes and look over at him with pinched brows.

"What do you mean?" They asked, almost in unison, their curiosity undoubtedly piqued.

"I think we should talk to her, see what her deal is, yknow. I don't think anyone in this town has actually ever heard her say more than, what, three words?" Rafe grinned, like he had just said something revolutionary.

The two boys looked at each other before bursting out laughing. "There's no way she'll talk to us, let alone you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Rafe scowled, his face growing hot. He didn't appreciate being challenged.

"It means you're the biggest asshole I know," Kelce rolled his eyes, always one to tell it like it was. He wasn't as much a lapdog as Topper was. "You're like the last person she'll want to talk to."

"Girls talk to me all the time," Rafe defended, gritting his teeth at the insult.

"Yeah," Topper snorted. "When they're trying to fuck you. Not when they're, yknow, feral." He bared his teeth and made a clawing motion for emphasis.

Rafe was determined to prove them wrong. Nothing made him more willing to do something than when someone told him he couldn't. "Fine then, let's make a bet."

Kelce raised a brow. "A bet?"

"What kind of bet?" Topper asked.

Rafe’s grin stretched wider, cocky and self-assured. “I bet I can get her to talk to me. Not just talk, but, like… really talk. Get her to like me, maybe even fall for me."

Kelce and Topper exchanged glances, their skepticism evident. "You think you can make her fall for you?" Topper scoffed. "Dude, she's probably never even talked to a guy before."

"Exactly," Rafe smirked, already having decided that this would be a piece of cake to pull off. All he had to do was turn up the Cameron charm, and she'd fall to her knees. "That just makes it easier."

Kelce snorted. "Or it makes it fucking impossible. She lives in a swamp, bro. She probably doesn't even know what flirting is."

"That's the fun part," Rafe shrugged with a cocky grin, adjusting his sunglasses as he glanced toward the grocery store doors again. "She won’t even see it coming."

"Alright," Kelce shrugged, deciding this would be the easiest money he ever made. "You're on. If you can't get her to fall for you in a month, you owe us big time." Topper nodded in agreement.

And just like that, the deal was made. Rafe had one month to woo you into going on a real date with him, out in town where he would be able to prove to Kelce and Topper that he was every bit the man he claimed to be and that no woman was resistant to his charm, all of this completely unbeknownst to you.

                         ୭ৎ

author's notes .ᐟ   this is definitely not my best work. i really like the beginning, but i am terrible at dialogue and being descriptive when people are talking. i hope you enjoyed it anyway !! this will be a series, but i will take misc requests for marshgirl!reader and rafe at any stage of their relationship <33 also i didn't edit this because i'm tired, so if you see any mistakes, please lmk !!

tags .ᐟ   @starkeysprincess / @cometmultiverse / @all4l0vee / @kissesfrmriri / @bradshawed / @rafeslittleangel / @bakugouswaif / @fakedhearts / @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 /

[gothghostiie]

the babysitter!reader chronicles shall continue for I am babysitting

cw: fluff, age gap, size difference if you squint, gn!reader

price arranging for you to stay for a bit over 2 weeks, he's on deployment spontaneously and no one he usually asks has time. he really doesnt want to bother you, doesn't wanna overwhelm you with the calm little infant and suddenly staying a whole two weeks and then some at his place. but you're his last option, hes desperate, quite frankly. so he gives you a call and you're absolutely delighted to come over, even if it's on short notice. how could you not go see your favourite baby? so now here you are, around 1 ½ weeks in, all cozy in his home. you're having dinner with the baby when a set of keys jingle in the door.

You loom up, a bit worried, honestly. no one should have a key, john didn't tell you anyone was coming over - and you frankly didn't believe he'd send someone to check up on you out of the blue. you listen close, a set of heavy steps making you perk up, even the baby is silent at the look of concentration on your face. the door closes and a heavy thud follows shortly after - then a loud groan. your face immediately lightens up and so does the baby's, you both recognise the low voice. you shimmy out of your seat, the little one making grabby hands at you, wanting out of their highchair. you quickly lift the baby, settling it onto your side and scrambling towards the front door, both of you giggling softly at the sight of price stretching, old bones cracking. "Look who's there!" you loudly whisper to the infant, who babbles happily. John looks just as happy as them, you can see the resemblance once again (especially in both their chubby cheeks, paired with the smile). he doesnt even bother taking off the fingerless gloves on his dirty hands before grabbing his little one, snuggling them to him as they giggle and squirm.

"there's my favorite sweethearts.." he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss to the little head. his voice is rough and raspy, he's been yelling, his lips are chapped and dry, there's dark bags under his eyes - and yet he's still smiling down at both of you. he settles the baby against his side, eyeing you over briefly, his smirk widening. "C'mere." he says gently, lifting his other arm to pull you in close, against the black fleece jacket he's wearing. you hesitate just briefly before hugging him back, heat creeping into your face.

"You're home early." you say softly, relaxing into him a bit as his big hand rubs your back gently, cradling the back of your head to make you lean against his chest.

"mh. got finished earlier than we anticipated." he says briefly, his tone telling you you better not keep poking; so you don't. you stay like this for a few more moments - even if he could've stayed like this for much, much longer. you pull away, straightening your clothes a little as you clear your throat; taking the baby again.

"You gotta be starving. How about you go shower and I'll fix you a plate? Just go sit in the living room when you're done, your show should still be on."

John never wanted to marry anyone more.

[joelsrose]

First Date? Part 6

Hi my angels, here is a long awaited part 6 xx its a tad bit shorter but i wanted to give you guys somethin as ive been holding out on yall. i love you guys sooo much pls enjoy - there will be another chapter!!

previous chapter

word count: 6k words

The days blurred together in an endless, suffocating loop, stretching out like an expanse of barren land where nothing grew, where nothing changed, where time was both crawling and slipping through your fingers.

You barely left the house. You barely ate. You barely slept.

It was pathetic, really— sulking like a heartbroken girl convinced her world had shattered over a boy, except this wasn’t even that. There had been no confession, no love declared and returned, no sweet promises broken. Just a drunken moment, a slip of the tongue, a feeling dragged into the light and left there to wilt under his silence.

And Joel—Joel hadn’t come to see you. Hadn’t so much as looked in your direction. He was out there, moving through the world, working, speaking, drinking, doing anything and everything except facing what he’d done. A part of you hated him for it. Not just for walking away, but for making you feel stupid for ever believing he might have stayed.

Spring crept in slow and golden, its warmth seeping into the bones of Jackson, melting away the last remnants of winter, softening the air, making the rivers swell and the ground smell of damp earth.

The whole world was moving forward. Days stretched longer, the snow thinned into streams, the buds bloomed against sun-warmed wood.

And yet you remained unchanged, frozen beneath the thaw, untouched by the season’s promise of renewal.

Regret sat thick in your chest, wound tight as barbed wire, pressing sharp against your ribs, scraping with every breath. You regretted it all—getting drunk, speaking too freely, telling him you loved—

No.

You regretted feeling anything for him at all.

Whatever it was—this raw, impossible, consuming thing that had settled deep inside you—it had become something you could neither hold nor rid yourself of.

It pushed and pulled, twisted and tore, made you ache with longing and fury all at once, until the two bled together so thoroughly that you could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.

And at night, when the world quieted and the town lay still beneath the silver glow of the moon, you thought of him.

Spring had arrived, but it had done nothing for you.

˚ ༘♡ ·˚ ₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

You forced yourself out of the house today, dragging yourself from the tangled sheets and the stale air of your room.

It took effort—more than it should have—to pull a brush through your hair, to find clothes that didn’t reek of days spent in bed, to step outside and face the world that had continued to turn without you.

You walked without purpose, without real direction, but your feet knew where to take you before your mind did, leading you down the familiar path toward the stables, toward something steady, something safe.

When you reached the stables, you pushed the door open without thinking, the familiar creak of the hinges breaking the silence. The smell of leather and hay washed over you immediately—warm, steady, safe, like stepping into a memory that wasn’t yours but still felt like home.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the tightness in your ribs loosened, if only just a fraction. Your eyes found Winnie in her stall, the sight of her sending the smallest most fragile flicker of warmth through you.

Your girl. She was still here. Still waiting.

Her ears twitched at the sound of your boots scraping against the dirt floor. You moved toward her and reached for the stall door, brushing your fingers over the worn wood, when a sound stopped you cold.

A click. Subtle, metallic. Deliberate.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat, and for a moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t dare look up. But you didn’t need to. You knew that sound. Knew it better than you wanted to.

When you finally lifted your head, your heart gave a heavy, painful lurch in your chest.

Joel was there.

He sat on the bench against the far wall, half-shrouded in the dim light that filtered through the cracks in the wood. His broad shoulders were hunched forward, his head bent low as he worked the gun in his hands, his fingers moving with an ease that didn’t match the tension carved into his face. His brow was furrowed, his mouth a tight, hard line, his eyes fixed on the task as if he could will away whatever thoughts had followed him here.

He looked good—too good—caught in the kind of light that didn’t seem fair, the soft, golden rays spilling through the gaps in the barn walls, framing him like something meant to be remembered, something holy.

The warmth of the day had coaxed him out of his usual layers, leaving him in nothing but a faded t-shirt that clung to him in a way that made you forget how to breathe. The fabric stretched taut over broad shoulders, hinting at the strength beneath, the sleeves brushing just enough to expose the curve of his biceps, the hard lines of his forearms—a quiet, unassuming display of power he didn’t even seem aware of.

The sunlight kissed his skin as though it had been made for him alone, drenching him in gold, illuminating every ridge and valley of his face, deepening the ruggedness carved into his features by time, by loss, by the weight of things unspoken.

Shadows stretched across his skin, soft and reverent, tracing the faint scars along his forearms like scripture, like devotion, like something sacred.

The weathered roughness of him—the calloused hands, the lines around his mouth that spoke of too many battles fought, too many nights spent awake—only added to the unbearable beauty of his presence. His hair was tousled, unkempt in a way that was careless but perfect, the strands falling over his forehead like they had a mind of their own.

And then he looked up.

It wasn’t just a glance. It never was with him.

His eyes—God, his eyes.

A deep, sin-darkened brown, rich and endless, like the earth after rainfall, like soil warm beneath the sun, like something meant to swallow you whole and never let you go.

They held depth, a heaviness, a sorrow that ran deeper than flesh, deeper than blood, something ancient, something eternal.

They were the kind of eyes that had seen too much, carried too much, and yet they softened when they found you, dark lashes casting shadows against his cheeks, gaze sinking into you like a whispered prayer.

For a moment—just a breath, just a heartbeat—the barn, the sunlit dust floating in the air, the aching hollow in your chest—it all ceased to exist. There was only him.

“Hey,” he murmured, soft and coaxing, a word wrapped in something gentle, something unfamiliar—so distinctly opposite to the man he was, it almost felt like a trick of the light.

Your breath hitched, stomach twisting, and you swallowed hard, tearing your gaze away with a force that nearly unsteadied you, as though breaking eye contact might somehow lessen the hold he had on you. As though not looking at him might make it hurt less.

“Hi,” you muttered, barely more than breath, barely more than sound, your voice catching against the tightness in your throat. You forced yourself to focus on Winnie, on the warmth of her nose beneath your trembling fingers, on the steady rise and fall of her breath.

“How are you?” His voice was soft, careful, like he was stepping onto thin ice, aware that any wrong move could send everything crashing into the freezing depths.

“I’m fine.” The words slipped out too quickly, too sharp, the lie embedded in every syllable. You hated the way your voice trembled at the edges, betraying the knot of tension in your throat. In your peripheral vision, you saw him shift, his jaw tightening, the slight clench of muscle betraying the sting of your tone.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t push, just nodded once—a short, measured motion, his expression unreadable as though bracing himself for the silence that followed.

Then—after what could’ve been moments, or minutes, or an eternity—his voice came again, cutting through the stillness like a blade softened at the edges, quieter this time, barely above a whisper, so gentle you might have missed it if not for the way it curled around you, wrapped tight and unshakable.

"Hey."

It was softer than before, rougher somehow, like it wasn’t meant to be spoken aloud, like it had been pulled straight from something raw and aching inside him.

You shouldn’t have turned. Shouldn’t have looked. But you did. Your heart stammered, stumbled, its rhythm uneven, a weak, faltering thing, as you turned your head just enough to catch sight of him.

"C’mere."

Two syllables. Quiet. Coaxing. His voice held that same impossible ache, that quiet longing, like he was pulling at a thread neither of you had the strength to break.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t move.

His fingers curled slightly at his sides, a subtle motion, barely a movement at all, but somehow it still carried weight, as if the gesture alone had the power to pull you closer, as if some invisible tether had wrapped around you both, dragging you toward something inevitable. His eyes were locked onto yours, deep and dark and unreadable, except—no. No, they weren’t unreadable at all. They were speaking, murmuring, pleading.

"You’re too far away."

The look he gave you—it was unbearable. The weight of it, the sheer intensity of it, the way it stripped you down with nothing but silence.

Your fingers curled against the edge of Winnie’s stall, gripping the rough wood like a lifeline. "I’m fine here," you murmured, the words quiet, forced, barely scraping past the tightness in your chest.

His brow furrowed. A flicker of something crossed his face, there and then gone again, replaced by something unreadable. But then his voice came again—low, rough, frayed at the edges, like a thread pulling taut, like something on the verge of snapping.

"I ain’t gonna bite."

There was something wry in it, something that might’ve made you smile if your ribs didn’t feel like they were caving in. Almost. But even his quiet attempt at humor couldn’t mask the weight in his voice, the guilt clinging to him like a second skin.

And still—you didn’t move.

He exhaled then, the sound quiet but heavy.

Then—soft. Barely more than breath.

"Please."

Before you could stop yourself, before logic or pride could anchor you to the ground, you moved. It was terrifying, how easy it was to move toward him after everything, how little resistance your body put up against the very thing you had sworn to fight.

You didn’t dare look at him, didn’t dare lift your gaze and risk seeing what might be waiting there, because you knew—you knew it would ruin you, that it would be too much, that whatever flickered in his eyes would only make the ache in your chest worse.

You reached the bench before you had the chance to second-guess yourself. You sat stiffly, carefully, deliberately leaving space between you, hands gripping your knees as though keeping them still might somehow keep your heart from threatening to break free from your ribs.

Joel's gun sat forgotten at his feet, abandoned without a second thought, but you could feel his attention locked onto you, unwavering, unrelenting.

You didn’t have to look to know that he had turned toward you, that his body had angled ever so slightly in your direction, that his shoulders had shifted like he was preparing himself for something, bracing himself against a force greater than either of you knew how to name.

Joel noticed the gap you had left. Of course, he noticed. He always noticed.

You saw it in the way his gaze dropped to the empty space between you, in the way his lips pressed into a faint line, in the way something in his expression tightened, just for a second, just long enough for you to catch it before he forced it away.

He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. You felt it. The quiet, unspoken wish, the way he longed for you to close the distance, the way he wanted—needed—you to reach for him first.

You saw it in the way his fingers curled loosely over his knee, in the way his shoulders tensed as if holding himself back, as if waiting.

He wanted you to lean into him, to let the warmth of your leg brush against his, to rest your head on his shoulder the way you used to, to fold into him like it was something instinctive, something natural, something you had both forgotten how to live without.

He wanted it more than he would ever let himself admit. But he didn’t ask. He wouldn’t. Because he couldn’t. Because he was the one who had walked away. Because he was the one who had put the distance there in the first place.

You swallowed hard, the tension coiling tighter with every second of silence. Words caught in your throat, heavy and clumsy, and you were scrambling for something—anything—to break it.

“Thanks—” you started, the word barely out before his voice cut through yours.

“Can we talk—”

The two of you froze, words colliding mid-air, tangled and awkward, stumbling over each other in the thick silence that stretched between you.

It was ridiculous, really—how hesitant, how unsure you both suddenly were, as if the past week of distance had left you fumbling, out of sync, two halves of something that used to fit but now felt just a little off-kilter.

Your eyes darted to his, startled, unsure, and found him already looking at you, his brows drawing together ever so slightly, the barest flicker of something indecipherable passing over his face—something caught between an apology and quiet amusement.

Neither of you spoke, neither of you moved, and the moment stretched long, thick with something almost unbearable, something teetering on the edge of too much, until the sheer absurdity of it—the hesitation, the silence, the way you were both acting like strangers—finally broke you.

A laugh bubbled up from your chest before you could stop it, breathless and unsteady, soft around the edges, but real, and the second it escaped, something in him shifted.

His expression changed, subtle but devastating, the lines of his face loosening just slightly, as if the sound of your laughter had reached into some hidden part of him and shaken something loose.

He blinked, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, like he had almost forgotten what it sounded like.

His lips parted slightly, caught between surprise and something softer, and for a moment, it looked as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. And then—

He smiled.

Not just a polite smile, not the distant, barely-there twitch of his lips he gave when he wanted to keep people at arm’s length.

No, this was different.

It was crooked and boyish, unguarded in a way that was almost maddening, something warm and reckless and so infuriatingly, devastatingly Joel that it felt like a punch to the chest.

It made him look younger, somehow—not in age, not in years, but in a way that made your throat tighten, in a way that made you ache.

And God, it was so Joel.

That impossible contradiction of him—the man who had lived through more than most could ever comprehend, who carried the weight of too many ghosts, but who could still look at you like that, like he had been caught off guard by something good, something soft, something he hadn’t quite believed he’d get to have again.

It was boyish and rugged, maddeningly beautiful, something both careless and careful all at once. Like an angel who had long since fallen, like a devil who had learned the art of tenderness, like something carved from both sin and devotion.

"Sorry." The word barely scraped past your lips, quiet, uncertain, almost fragile. Heat flooded your face before you could control it, rushing up from your chest, blooming hot beneath your skin, betraying you. And Joel—of course he noticed.

You saw the way his eyes flickered, how they lingered just a second too long, how something in his expression shifted, subtle but devastating, like he wasn’t just looking at you—he was feeling you, imagining the warmth of your skin against his, the press of your body, the way heat lived in your veins the same way it did in his.

Blood with blood. Flesh and bone. It was a fleeting thought, something primal, something dangerous, but it rooted itself deep inside him, settled into the quiet places he tried not to think about.

You dropped your gaze before you could drown in the weight of it, fixing your eyes on the dirt floor beneath your boots as though it held something worth looking at, as though the uneven, scuffed earth could offer you an escape, a place to rest your attention instead of meeting the impossible intensity of his stare.

And then he chuckled, low and quiet, a sound so warm and unguarded that it forced you to look at him, as if your body had decided before your mind had caught up.

He shifted slightly, his shoulders rolling beneath the weight of your gaze, his body adjusting like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself, like you were the thing making him nervous.

And then you saw it.

The faint blush creeping along the edges of his ears.

Joel Miller—this strong, unshakable, impossible man—was blushing.

"Don’t apologize." The words were soft, meant only for you. "You go first."

You hesitated, your fingers clenching slightly against your lap, unsure, unsteady.

And then, softer this time, lower, steadier, his voice curling through the thick air and settling over you like something warm, something solid—

"Go on."

“I, um…” The words caught in your throat, fragile and uneven.

“I wanted to say thank you,” you murmured finally, barely above a whisper, as if speaking them aloud might steal the last of your courage. “For taking me home the other night.”

He froze. The subtle rhythm of his movements—the faint sway of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched against his knee—stilled completely.

“What?” The single word came low and careful, but you heard it—the faint tremor just beneath the surface.

His head tilted slightly, and his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken, your skin flush. Those dark eyes searched you, narrowing slightly, as if the answer to his confusion might be written somewhere on your face.

Thank me? The question didn’t leave his lips, but it hung in the air between you, heavy and undeniable, his silence thick with thoughts he couldn’t bring himself to voice.

For what? For leaving you when you needed him most? For all the ways he’d failed you, all the promises he’d never kept? The questions burned in his eyes, sharp and unrelenting, but he swallowed them back.

You pressed on, your voice trembling, your fingers curling into the rough wood of the bench to ground yourself. “I don’t…” You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to sound steady even as your chest felt like it might cave in.

“I don’t remember much from that night,” you lied, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, each syllable heavier than the last. “Maria told me you… you took me home?”

Joel looked at you like he was trying to make sense of something, trying to find an anchor in a sea of things unsaid.

“Yeah,” he murmured finally, his voice rough, barely audible. “I did.” His eyes searched yours, dark and intent, like they were trying to pull the truth from you, to find something you weren’t ready to give.

“You don’t remember,” he said, so softly it barely reached your ears.

You don’t remember saying—

"I more than care about you. I love—"

He could still hear it. Still feel it like a ghost against his skin, something whispered, something fragile, something that had hit him so hard it had knocked the breath from his lungs.

And maybe if he were a different man, if he were better, he would’ve stayed. He would’ve let himself believe that you meant it, that it wasn’t just the alcohol speaking, that maybe—maybe—it was something real, something he could hold on to.

But instead—he had walked away.

And now, sitting here, listening to you say you didn’t remember, he wasn’t sure if it was a relief or a knife to the gut.

Because if you did remember, and you were pretending you didn’t, it meant you regretted it.

And if you really didn’t remember—

Then maybe you hadn’t meant it at all.

“You don’t gotta thank me,” he murmured finally, his voice rough, dragged out like it hurt to speak.

A pause. A breath. And then—

“You really don’t remember anything?” The words were quieter this time, almost hesitant, edged with something he couldn’t hide quickly enough.

“No,” you said softly, shaking your head.

The lie burned its way up your throat, scorching and bitter, but you forced it down, swallowing hard as you buried it deep.

“The last thing I remember is being sprawled out on Tommy’s living room floor.” You let out a brittle laugh, sharp and hollow, the sound grating against the stillness like shattered glass. “I must’ve made a fool of myself.”

He looked away, his lips pressing into a thin line as though holding back words he couldn’t bring himself to say.

“I shouldn’t’ve let you drink that much,” he muttered finally, his voice quieter now, almost rough with regret. “That was on me.”

“You didn’t let me,” you said quietly, your voice wavering as you forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I made my own choices. I always do.”.

“Right,” he said finally, the word flat, drained of life, like it had been dragged out of him against his will.

God, his eyes. They were dark and intense, warmth swallowed by the storm of frustration and something far more devastating. Something that looked a lot like hurt. Those eyes—deep, unwavering, devastating—held only you, burned into yours with an intensity that felt like it might unravel you, echoing the silent, aching question that sat heavy between you - Why are you lying to me?

“Anyways,” you blurted, the word tumbling out too quickly, too sharp, cracking under the weight of his stare. You risked a glance at him, hoping for a reprieve, but his gaze had already shifted, fixed on some distant point like he could will himself anywhere but here.

“You were gonna say something before?” you asked, the question tentative, your breath catching as you waited for him to answer.

Joel blinked, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second before he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Oh. Yeah,” he muttered.

“Tommy and I are headin’ out on a two-day patrol. Overnight,” he said finally, his words slow and deliberate. He hesitated, his voice faltering before finishing softly, “So… I won’t be here.”

The realization struck you with a force you hadn’t been prepared for, the ache blooming in your chest so sharply and suddenly it felt like the air had been stolen from your lungs.

Two days.

It wasn’t a long time—not really, not when measured against the steady pulse of Jackson’s days or the quiet, unspoken permanence of the life you’d built here—but the thought of him out there, beyond the gates, scraped against something raw, something tender, something that ached before it even had the chance to bruise.

“Right,” you said, your voice quiet, brittle, as you fought to keep it steady. You forced a shrug, hoping it looked nonchalant, but it felt like it might shatter you. “Well… be careful, I guess.”

He watched you closely, his gaze fixed on the way your hands remained tightly clasped in your lap, fidgeting with nothing, refusing to find any anchor beyond yourself. You wouldn’t look at him—not really—and the absence of your gaze, the way you kept your eyes so firmly averted, felt like a hollow ache in his chest that he couldn’t ignore.

“Always am,” he said finally, his voice quiet but steady, though a softness lingered just beneath, barely there but impossible to ignore.

His mind, unbidden and bitter, dragged him back to just a week ago, to a version of you who might’ve thrown your arms around his neck without a second thought, laughing as you made some teasing comment about him pulling his back out or grumbling about having to carry Tommy’s weight.

He could almost hear your voice, light and familiar, cutting through the heavy moments like it was nothing, like it had always been your natural gift to lift the impossible weight of the world off his shoulders without even trying.

You would’ve made him laugh, he was sure of it—really laugh, the kind of laugh that didn’t feel like it had to fight its way past the hardness of the life he carried.

A thought, wicked and insidious, placed there by the devil himself—selfish, desperate, utterly inappropriate for the fragile tension strung between you—urged him to kiss you, to press his lips to yours and steal away the hurt, to show you, not with words but with touch, just how much he needed you.

But all he could do was sit there, helpless and aching, watching as you pulled further away, retreating into yourself like a tide slipping from the shore, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake.

And before he could stop himself, before the rational part of his mind could scream loud enough to pull him back from the reckless, selfish thing he was about to do, his hand moved.

It wasn’t planned, wasn’t even something he thought about—it just happened, slow and deliberate, like instinct had taken over, like it was something he was meant to do all along.

His fingers found your cheek, rough and calloused against the softness of your skin, the contrast so sharp it made his chest tighten, made something deep and aching bloom in the space between you.

His thumb moved, treacherous and traitorous, dragging slowly along the curve of your jaw, tilting your face toward him with a reverence that felt almost sacred.

It was a betrayal of everything he’d been trying so hard to hold back, an admission he hadn’t meant to make, but he couldn’t stop himself now. His breathing hitched when your lips parted, soft and uncertain, the warmth of your stuttered breath brushing against his fingertips like a quiet plea, like something unspoken passing between you.

And still, his thumb moved again, dragging over your bottom lip this time, so slow, so careful, as if he were trying to memorize the feel of you beneath him, as if this tiny act of closeness could somehow soothe the ache that had settled so deeply in his chest. It was reverent, desperate, dangerous—a quiet, trembling act of defiance against the walls he’d spent so long building.

His heart hammered against his ribs as his thumb lingered there, just a moment longer than it should have, and when your throat bobbed, when your breath stuttered again, he felt his control slipping further, felt himself drowning in everything he wasn’t supposed to want.

"Be good," he murmured finally, his voice low and rough, breaking under the weight of everything he couldn’t bring himself to say.

"Take care of yourself while I’m gone," he added, quieter this time, almost too soft to hear, and the words felt like they cost him something, like each one dragged a piece of him out with it. And then, as if the act of speaking hadn’t already been enough to break him, he swallowed hard and breathed, "You need anything, you go to Maria, okay?"

You didn’t answer—not right away, not in the way he had hoped, in the way that might’ve made this easier. Instead, you just breathed, sharp and uneven, the weight of it pressing into the space between you, thick and suffocating.

And then, finally, slowly, like it physically pained you to do it, you shifted back, putting distance where there had been none. His touch slipped from your skin, his thumb no longer caught in the trance of you, no longer resting against the softness of your lips.

And because the silence threatened to swallow him whole, because he couldn’t bear the ache of it anymore, he did the only thing he could—he stood abruptly, the old wooden bench groaning loudly under the force of his movement.

It was sharp, unsteady, almost frantic, like he was trying to outrun whatever had settled between you. He reached for his rifle, grabbing it with more force than was necessary, slinging it over his shoulder in one quick motion, his jaw so tight it sent a sharp ache through his teeth.

"Well," he muttered finally, his voice low and rough, barely carrying the weight of the words. "I better get goin’."

You nodded once, a quick, small movement, like it was all you could manage.

Joel stood there for a second too long, hesitating, his fingers twitching slightly at his side like they wanted to reach for you one last time, like they couldn’t help themselves.

But then he forced himself to move, his steps slow and deliberate, each one feeling heavier than the last as he turned and walked toward the door.

The stable door groaned under Joel’s weight as he pushed it open, the late afternoon sun spilling in behind him in a flood of warm, golden light. The glow caught on the edges of his frame, outlining the broad cut of his shoulders, the curve of his neck, the tousled strands of his hair that curled just slightly in the heat. It painted him in shades of amber and firelight, casting uneven shadows across the dirt floor that stretched like reaching hands, as though the room itself couldn’t bear to let him go.

He paused there, one hand resting against the weathered wood, his fingers curling slightly into the grooves of it, as if something unseen was holding him back, as if leaving was harder than he’d expected it to be.

For a moment, you thought that was it. That he’d go. That he’d step into the light without another word, without sparing you a second glance, and leave you here, drowning in the ghost of his touch, in the heavy, suffocating ache of all the things you’d left unsaid.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he turned.

"Hey."

His voice was soft, a low, steady warmth that slipped through the silence like a balm, untying the knots that had coiled themselves so tightly in your chest.

You blinked, swallowing hard, dragging yourself out of the spiral that threatened to pull you under. “Yeah?”

"We’re okay, aren’t we?"

"Yeah. We’re good."

It was a lie. A terrible one. And the worst part was that you both knew it.

Joel’s jaw twitched—just the slightest flicker of movement, but it was enough. Enough for you to know he felt it, the weight of your dishonesty settling between you like a lead weight. He didn’t believe you. Of course, he didn’t. And you knew he didn’t. You saw it in the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides, in the way his chest rose with a slow, measured breath like he was holding something back, in the way his eyes stayed locked onto yours—steady, dark, searching.

And still, he didn’t call you on it. Didn’t say a word. He just stood there, staring at you, seeing you in that way only he ever did, like he could read every thought before you could even voice it, like he could reach inside you and pull out the truth no matter how hard you tried to bury it.

"Alright."

He turned then, his boots scuffing against the dirt as he stepped toward the open doorway.

And then—just like that—he was gone.

So quick. Too quick. Like a shadow disappearing the moment you tried to grasp it, slipping through your fingers before you could hold onto anything solid.

A shiver crawled up your spine as you stared at the empty space where he had been, something cold and unreal settling deep in your chest. It was dizzying, disorienting—had he even been here at all? Had you imagined the weight of his touch, the way his voice had softened, the quiet devastation in his eyes? Or had you conjured it out of thin air, a cruel trick of your own longing, your own inability to let go of something that had never truly been yours?

You weren’t a religious woman. Never had been. But there, in the quiet of that stable, with the last remnants of Joel’s presence still lingering in the air, you fell to your knees. Your body moved before your mind could catch up, before logic or pride could stop you, before you could convince yourself that it wouldn’t make a difference.

Your elbows braced against the edge of the bench where the two of you had sat only moments ago, your hands clasped together so tightly that your knuckles ached, and you begged.

Not to anyone in particular, not to anything you truly believed in, but to something—something holy, something divine, something greater than yourself.

You begged for the hole in your heart to heal, for the ache in your chest to ease, for the unbearable weight of loving him to lift from your shoulders.

You begged for the strength to let go, for the kind of peace that had always eluded you, for the impossible relief of forgetting what it felt like to need him. And, most of all, you prayed.

You prayed that he would come back safe.

And you prayed that one day, somehow, you would be able to stop loving him.

:) or :( guys comment down below

tag list:

@bbyanarchist @kanyewestest @locked-ness @bambisweethearts @pedritospunk @ickearmn @joeldjarin @disco-barbiexx @sherrye22 @vxrona @ashhlsstuff @dendulinka6 @ashhlsstuff @r4vens-cl4ws @divineangel222 @jasminedragoon @regalwhovianbrowncoat774 @handsintheeaire @jaxmom66 @ashleyfilm @kateg88 @tigerlillyyy

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@dendulinka6 @agnus04 @tigerlillyyy @vampiredoggies-blog @julwar67 @kateg88 @martuxduckling @guessitwillallworkout @anoverwhelmingdin @thottiewinemom @keepspassinmeby @disco-barbiexx @emisprocrastinating @cuteanimalmama @moulinrougcs @lottieellz101 @laliceee @grumpygrumperton @meet-me-backstage @spacegirl-3 @nixpat-blog @martuxduckling

@materialgirl-97 @valkyreally @suzysface @ro-nahime-things @spacelatinos4life @churchofjoemiller @peepawispunk @materialgirl-97

[worthlessnepenthes]

So I reblogged this because it’s funny but then I thought about YQY for a second, and reblogged again so I could talk.

This isn’t going to be any new, profound thoughts for the fandom I’m sure but they’re new to me and I wanna talk for a minute.

I, personally, do not like YQY. I don’t HATE him, but I don’t like him. But I do feel sorriest for him, out of all the SVSSS and PIDW characters. I often forget that when he left SJ, he too was a literal child. Yes, he probably could have done better—told his master he needed help to save his brother, heck, told a fellow shidi or shixiong once he got to the peak. He was probably popular. I can’t imagine no one would have been willing to help him. But he was also a child, so I forgive him. He suffered and hurt himself, grievously, permanently causing himself a chronic condition in his attempts to get back to DJ. I don’t know that I think he did everything he COULD, but I do believe he did everything he THOUGHT he could.

And then Shen Jiu shows up, much like a feral cat, and constantly lashes out and hurts YQY. Their strained relationship is absolutely caused on both ends. It’s hard to say, ‘Well, YQY should have just KNOWN that SJ wasn’t going to the brothels to sleep with whores/didn’t kill LQG/wasn’t abusing Ning Ning/whatever other terrible things he was accused of,’ when SJ was, in fact, very verbally abusive and physically abusive to at least one disciple (lbh. Do we even get a canon reason WHY he hates him so much?), and verbally abusive to YQY, and to most likely many other characters.

However, maybe if YQY had actually stood up for SJ and said ‘No, this is a misunderstanding, this is not what happened,’ instead of just assuming that SJ had done whatever terrible thing and then covering for him in a sense of guilt, maybe things wouldn’t have been so bad. Or if YQY said, ‘take out your anger on me, it’s all my fault, but leave the others alone’. (It wasn’t, and SJ is wrong for acting this way.)

Honestly if they had ever fucking COMMUNICATED instead of just assuming the actual fucking worst of each other, while still deeply loving the other (in whatever romantic or platonic way they had, they loved the other) no matter whether they ever said it or not, a lot could have been avoided. Like PIDW YQY’s death.

Or hell, if Airplane had ever written about Xianxia mental health care instead of probably curing depression with papapa!

But the relationship between SJ and YQY is almost worse and more horrifying after SY comes through. YQY KNOWS it isn’t SJ, but every test they do show he isn’t possessed. So maybe it really is SJ, and all SJ needed to become happy was simply…to forget almost everything, but especially any time SJ and YQY spent together before they became Peak Lords.

So YQY is still trying to make it up to a person that he both thinks is there and thinks is not there, never knowing for sure. Every emotion he has towards this ‘new’ SJ feeling like a betrayal, ‘if only SJ could have acted like this before!’

Yeah. It’s really horrifying. He never gets the comfort of knowing for certain that SJ is gone, never gets to properly grieve and burn incense for him. But he also always feels just slightly off kilter with SY, and then feels guilt, because this is SJ! And even if it isn’t…what can YQY do about it?

YQY has many sleepless nights, wondering, after SY shows up.

I don’t like YQY, but I feel sorry for him. He is the most pitiful character in the book to me.

Shen Qingqiu, pissed off during a peak lord meeting: when I die I want Shang-shidi to lower me into the earth, just so he can let me down one last time

Shang Qinghua: bro c'mon

Yue Qingyuan, abruptly overcome by jealousy so intense that he's on the verge of a qi deviation: but I thought I was the one who let Xiao Jiu down the most...?

[drdemonprince]

you are the first person ive encountered in my whole life who has actually attempted to really answer some of the more aggravating questions surrounding children and sex and just reading some of your recent posts has already enlightened me to my childhood situation a lot better. i will try to keep this brief bc my intent is not to air my whole childhood to the masses but to like. present a sort of spiders georg situation to help people understand why these things are important. here we go: (it is relevent to point out that i am extremely autistic and started presenting symptoms from two years of age onward.) i believe that i started being sexually active around four or five years old. i was extremely curious about sex to such a degree that it got me in trouble at school multiple times. it disturbed my mom greatly how often i brought up sexual topics. i discovered porn at the age of eight due to very poor parental supervision and a high level of internet access and i was immediately obsessed. i can confidently say that i watched more porn than any other kind of media as a child. by the time i was 10 id already had dozens of sexual encounters with kids my age and older, mostly initiated by me. i agree now that children cannot consent to sex with adults, but it took me a long time to come to that conclusion. for a very long time i wished more than anything for an adult who knew the ins and outs of sex to have a sexual relationship with me, bc i saw it as the only way i could be satisfied. children do not make good sexual partners when you are essentially ahead of the sexual curve i guess. i received absolutely no sex education until i reached middle school. my parents didnt talk to me about it whatsoever, deflecting everything i said about the subject. the sex education i did receive was piss poor, and i knew it. it was an "abstinence only" model of sex ed. no one took it seriously. my lack of understanding came back to bite me severely in high school. nowadays i understand concepts like consent and boundaries very well, and i think about these subjects deeply and am careful to consider them when interacting with other people. this was not the case in high school. my unusual sexual obsessions in childhood made me very uncautious about it with other people, and my level of autonomy and power was high enough that abuse was extremely possible. i am not proud to say that i did in fact commit sexual abuse in high school. i knew it was wrong. but to me, the wrongness was on the level of severity of stealing a pack of gum from the store. as soon as i had done it, i started to understand the true level of severity of what id done, and that still haunts me. i had up to that point believed that everyone must on some level have an interest in and desire for sex. i would have been ok with someone doing what i did to me, so it would surely be fine if i did it to someone else. i had no real conception of sexual violence and sexual coercion being real things that affected people deeply, both due to my physical and social isolation and extremely skewed perspective from watching porn for years. nowadays, i have very little sex, both because of lack of percieved opportunity, lack of motivation, and fear of committing the same transgressions i did in the past. nevertheless i remain extremely interested in and obsessed with sex, and wish i could spend all day having it. so i guess as someone who was sexually precocious: your kids need to know about sex. they need to be educated about it. a sufficiently determined child will find out about it regardless, and you need to give them the tools necessary to navigate it without hurting themselves and others. and additionally i think it would be a lot better for trans girls if our first exposure to transfemininity wasnt porn the majority of the time.

💯 thank you anon ♥️

[luvfae]

CLEAN

summary: thanos loves you, but he can’t save you. so he forces you into rehab anyway.

parings: thanos/choi su/bong x f!reader

warnings: drug addiction, brief mention of sa (nothing happens i promise), swearing, sexual innuendos, cheating, angst.

ps. there will be a pt 2

Thanos didn’t know what it was about you that pulled him in.

Six months ago, he saw you for the first time at one of Nam-Gyu’s parties—slumped on the couch, half-conscious, body folding under the weight of whatever shit was in your system. He had no idea who you were, and he hadn’t planned to care.

He was at the peak of his career, performing sold-out shows, his name everywhere. He could have had any woman in Korea. Models, actresses, industry elites. But instead, he wanted you—the reckless, self-destructive mess who tore through life like you had nothing to lose.

You who partied until sunrise and crashed wherever the night left you.

You who screamed in his face, who kicked holes in his walls, who told him his music was fucking garbage.

You who spat in his face when he offered to pay for rehab, like he did everything else, because you didn’t have a cent to your name.

Maybe he was a masochist.

Maybe he saw something in you that reminded him of himself.

He hadn’t planned to get involved that night. He was done with that life—rehab, withdrawals, getting clean, relapsing, getting clean again. He knew better than to tangle himself in someone who could ruin all his hard work.

Until he saw it.

Some guy, shoving his hand up your dress while you lay there, too far gone to stop him.

The next few moments were a blur—his fist connecting with the guy’s face, the sound of bone cracking, his own breath coming out sharp and ragged as he scooped you up and carried you out. You never even woke up.

That was six months ago.

And you never really left.

Well, you did leave. But you always came back. Always.

You weren’t his girlfriend. Not publicly, not officially. But you were his. And he was waiting for the day you’d be clean enough for the rest of the world to know it.

You promised him you were clean now. A month sober

You weren’t.

You’d steal the key to the medicine cabinet when he wasn’t looking and take whatever you could grab before he caught you.

But he believed you.

Until last night.

When you didn’t come home.

When he woke up alone at 8 a.m., his heart slamming against his ribs. Your phone was still on the bedside table. He had no way to reach you.

All he could do was wait.

Wait and pray you came back home.

And at 10 a.m., you finally stumbled through the door.

Hair a mess. Mascara smudged. Barefoot.

Thanos sat on the couch, staring at you with an unreadable expression.

“Where have you been?” he asked, voice calm, too calm.

You blinked at him—your pupils blown wide, your body swaying. Then, without warning, your knees buckled, and he was there. Catching you before you hit the floor, hands gripping your arms, shaking you gently.

“What did you take?” he demanded, tapping your cheek until your eyes flickered open. “Y/N, you were doing so well. A fucking month clean. What the fuck did you take?”

You blinked sluggishly, your lips curling into a half-smile. “I was never fucking clean, you idiot.”

His chest tightened. “What?”

You let out a weak, breathy laugh. “Either I was good at pretending, or you were too dumb to notice.”

His stomach twisted. His grip on you tightened. “You’re lying.”

You smirked, but there was no real amusement in your eyes. “I’m a liar.”

Then he saw them.

The hickey’s littered across your neck.

His entire body went rigid.

His fingers brushed over the marks, pressing just hard enough to make you wince. “Who did this to you?”

You didn’t answer. Just stared at him with that lazy, drugged-out expression, like you barely had the energy to care.

His jaw clenched. “Who the fuck did this to you?”

And then, you said it.

“I’ve fucked strangers.”

His heart dropped.

“I’ve fucked your friends.”

His blood ran cold. His stomach flipped. No. No, you’re fucking with me.

His hands fisted in your shirt. He shook you once, hard. “What fucking friends, Y/N?”

Your head lolled against his chest. “All of them.”

His breath left him in a sharp exhale.

You were killing yourself.

And now you were killing him, too.

His arms tightened around you. Not out of love this time. Out of anger. Out of desperation.

“This is fucking pathetic,” he hissed. “You’re ruining your fucking life. Sleeping around with people who don’t give a fuck about you—”

“I don’t give a fuck about me,” you cut him off, voice eerily soft.

His throat closed.

“I love you.” He whispered. “I love you, you silly, silly girl.”

You just stared at him. Silent.

You’d never said it back. Not once.

Maybe you never would.

But that didn’t stop him from trying.

He picked you up, ignoring your thrashing, your slurred curses, dragging you toward the bathroom. You stank of alcohol and sweat and the filth of whatever cheap bed you’d slept in last night. He forced you into the shower, clothes and all, turning the water on cold.

“I love you so fucking much,” he muttered, voice breaking, scrubbing you clean while you thrashed in his grip. “I feed you. I fucking bathe you. I take care of you. I put a roof over your head. And you can’t even get clean for me?”

You shoved at his chest, voice hoarse. “I never asked you to do that.”

“I don’t care,” he shot back. “I want you to be clean.”

“I don’t.”

“I want the world to know you as my girlfriend.”

“Well, give up.” You wiped your eyes, shivering from the cold water. “I don’t want you.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Thanos rolled his eyes, yanking you out of the shower, wrapping you in a towel. Your words didn’t hurt him anymore. He’d been where you were—hurting everyone who loved him. Hurting himself. Doing things most people deemed unforgivable.

But someone saved him.

And now, he was going to save you. Whether you liked it or not.

He dragged you to the bedroom, pulling one of his shirts over your head, shoving clean underwear and jeans onto you before throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

You screamed the entire way to the car.

Spat every insult you could think of.

Begged him to tell you where the fuck he was taking you.

“Rehab.”

Your screams turned into sobs. Your anger into desperation. Your thrashing into trembling.

“Please, baby.” Your voice cracked as your fingers curled around his thigh, sliding up, up—reaching for the zipper of his jeans. “I’ll suck you off, real good. How you like it. Just turn around.”

He swatted your hand away.

And you snapped. Exploded.

“You fucking piece of shit! I wish I never fucking met you!”

Thanos gritted his teeth, grip tightening on the steering wheel. Me too, baby. Me too.

But he kept driving.

And when he finally pulled up to the rehab facility, he dragged you inside—kicking, screaming, sobbing.

And then he left.

Because this time, saving you wasn’t up to him.

[fatphobiabusters]

idk if this is the right place to ask, and i apologize if it is not. but i have been wondering: what is the best thing a skinny person can say when a fat person talks about losing weight with them? i have had some people talk to me about their weight loss goals or their feeling like they want to or need to lose weight, and i usually just listen and don't say anything/just nod along because i don't know what the right thing to say is. i don't want to invalidate their feelings but i also don't want to validate fatphobic messaging from the surrounding environment. sorry if this is silly to ask, but i can never figure out what the least harmful thing to say is

I don't think your ask is silly at all. I can definitely see the dilemma there. I appreciate you wanting to not validate fatphobic messaging.

I think the best course of action would majorly depend on the situation/person you're dealing with. A lot of fat people are still gripped by the piercing claws of fatphobic rhetoric and diet culture. In those situations, it may be a good idea to focus on "planting the seed." That is, focus on starting future change. Plant the seed and let it grow, even if you don't see the future growth yourself.

I remember having to take a persuasion and media class during my bachelor's degree. It was such an eye-opening course, and the part I still strongly remember to this day is that...we probably aren't going to succeed in changing a person's deeply-held beliefs in the moment with a single conversation. Changing that belief will take years. So that's why I focus a lot on being the person who plants the seed. Even if I don't change this person's mind today, I have planted the seed for possible growth years later. This informs how I interact with fatphobic people, and remembering this also helps my mental health so I don't feel horrible when a person doesn't immediately change.

A way you could implement this "plant the seed" method is by being a role model and simply saying "I don't think I like talking about weight loss. Weight is a very nuanced and complex thing. I don't want to focus on conformity to thinness." This way, you're showing the person that there's another option out there beyond the lifelong chasing of thinness. This method of focusing on your own boundaries also can help prevent a debate or argument. "Is it okay if we don't talk about weight? I feel like this world views thinness as the ultimate achievement, but more bodies than just thin bodies have worth. I'd feel more comfortable talking about something else, if that's alright."

You're stating your own belief and boundaries rather than telling the other person to have those beliefs and boundaries themself. You're not attacking the person or asking the person to change. You're not asking for a debate. You're not even asking for their thoughts on the topic. But by gently putting your foot down, you have established your view and put another option on that person's radar that they probably didn't know of beforehand. This role model method can be the first crack in the shattering of the glass for that person's beliefs about weight and this fatphobic society.

Also, this may be the autism in me, but maybe being straightforward with communication can help? "I'm not sure how to respond since I'm a thin person, so I've had a very different life experience and don't know everything you have gone through as a plus size person*. I don't believe thinness and weight loss are the answer, but I'm not sure how to respectfully talk about this complex topic as a thin person. I hope this helps you better understand my thoughts." I put an asterisk after "plus size person" because "fat person" shouldn't be a taboo word. However, a fat person who hasn't done any unlearning of internalized fatphobia likely isn't ready to use that word to describe themself. So, it's probably safer to call them a "plus size person" instead.

I hope these strategies will help!

-Mod Worthy

[lovethyauthors]

OP I LOVE YOU

I’ll just be over here not thinking about how their hearts drop when reader says that and panic takes over. Definitely not thinking about how the confusion fades into heartbreak when reader refers to herself as a burden, and their minds are racing trying to figure out how she could possibly think that.

Not thinking about how Price was only used to reader calling him captain in a flirty way at home or on missions, always feeling grounded when she says it, and how wrong it feels now, hearing it dejected and pained and it’s his fault, it’s all his fault, he’s let his team down. Everything he’s done is to keep his team safe and this means he’s failed, spectacularly.

I’m also not thinking about ghost and how this makes him feel, growing up believing he wasn’t worthy of love but then she came into his life swinging, and knocked all his walls down, made him believe he was worthy! And good!! And deserving of the little family their team had become!!! And now feels his heart cracking at having it all ripped away from him, a persistent voice in his head taunting him, telling him he should’ve known it was too good to be true, telling him he didn’t deserve it, not after all the things he’s done.

And SOAP and Gaz who can’t stop thinking that they’ve known better, should’ve done more, when they smelled her sour scent, should’ve been more persistent when she slammed the door in their face. And now they’re losing her, they’re losing their family!

Don’t mind me, I’m not thinking about how delicious the angst will be when they try to explain that no she’s not a burden, they’ve been distant not because they don’t love her but because they’ve been so caught up dealing with a threat against her life, or whatever other reason they’ve been acting like assholes, and didn’t want to scare her. They’re not excluding her from the meetings because they don’t want her there, they’re just trying to protect her without scaring her.

I’m even more so not thinking about how long it’d take them to try to convince her they still love her, how much it’ll break their hearts that even after she forgives them, there’s still a piece of her heart that doubts them, because it’s not so easy to repair things you’ve carelessly broken. They’ll need to earn back her trust piece by piece and it’s like walking over hot coals to think that they’re the reason why she feels like this now, but by god they’ll do it like the good soldiers they are, nothing in their training has taught them to back down from a fight and they certainly won’t in the most important fight of their lives.

Yup, definitely not thinking of any of that at all, no thoughts, head empty. Excuse me while I go sob in a corner 😭😭

Hey friend. I've put off this ask a little while, because I'm sure you're tired of getting it by now, but... are there any updates on the neglected! reader (a/b/o)? I really liked that one, and though I have no issues with the second part not being done yet, a little progress update (if you want to add one) would be very cool! Thanks for writing :)

ugh i know i've been putting it off for a long time but i haven't abandoned it guys! just feeling very stuck with where the narrative is sitting rn 🥲 however, here's a little tease of the beginning of part two, keep in mind it may not be written exactly like this when i post it:

"what?" kyle mumbles, rising from john's lap to grapple with the sudden coldness that overcomes him. no one else says anything, but you can see how your words affect the rest of them: john stiffens in his seat, simon's dismissive glance has turned into a burning glare, and johnny's hand has slipped from where it was resting on his captain's shoulder, a look of confusion and panic twisting on his face.

your anxiety may have dissipated, but that doesn't make this any easier. the air feels too tense, too uncomfortable. you don't like how agitated everyone's scents became the moment you walked in, and it hurts even more knowing they didn't even try to hide it. you don't like seeing them all together here like this. you don't like that you're believing that spiteful little voice in the back of your mind jeering at you that they've been planning your departure, planning how to break the news to you that you're not worth the hassle anymore.

it only makes sense why they're all cooped up in john's office, whispering amongst themselves.

"darling, what are you talking about?" john's voice cuts through your thoughts, but you try not to find comfort in it. he stands from his seat, and you try not to reveal how much you've missed his scent despite how thick it is with stress. your omega has been quiet for a while, but now that you're gathered in one place like this, she's getting restless, simultaneously wanting to hiss at them and cling to anyone who will spare a scrap of affection.

"please, captain, just do it. i don't want to be a burden any longer." you'll beg if that's what it takes; you'll get on your knees and clasp your hands together if it means saving them from unnecessary stress and annoyance and you from further heartbreak.

the earnestness in your voice is so strong it bites at them because how could you even suggest something like that? how could they even consider their pack whole if you're not there?

but hearing his rank fall from your lips leaves a bitter taste in john's mouth and a knot forming in his stomach. it's unnatural to hear you call him that while sounding so defeated and miserable. it's scary to feel so out of control when he's supposed to be your captain, your head alpha.

to know he's let you down so much makes his alpha growl pathetically in shame; how can he even consider himself a leader?

[mcflymemes]

"TAKE ME BACK TO EDEN" BY SLEEP TOKEN PROMPTS *  assorted lines from the album, some slightly reworked to suit a roleplay format, adjust as necessary

it was no accident.

you keep me sharp and test my worth in blood.

you've got me in a chokehold.

it's all the same to me.

it makes no difference.

i've seen my days unfold.

i've done the impossible.

show me that which i cannot see, even if it hurts me.

show me the way.

you've got my body.

raise me up again.

take me past the edge.

i want to see the other side.

won't you show me what it's like?

did i mistake you for a sign from god?

are you really here to cast me off?

maybe you're here just to turn me on.

i would be lying if i told you that i didn't wish i could be your man.

you won't ever have to talk about it.

i was more than just a body in your passenger seat.

you were more than just somebody i was destined to meet.

i see you go half-blind when you're looking at me.

you gave me nothing whatsoever.

you say you want me, but you know i'm not what you need.

you sit there acting like you know me.

if you had a problem, then you should've told me.

keep an eye on the road.

i can't get enough.

no wonder my ears are still ringing.

you have become the voice in my head.

my life is torn.

are you in pain like i am?

will the pain stop if we go deeper?

i wanna go where nobody else will ever go.

there is always something in the way i wanna have you to myself for once.

you take what you want, then leave.

who made you like this?

tell me you met me in past lives.

won't you come and dance in the dark with me?

anything's better than the way i feel right now.

you make me wish i could disappear.

don't you know i was trying to hold back the darkness?

are you really okay?

you woke me up one night, dripping crimson on the carpet.

i saw it in your eyes.

don't you know i could see it in you even now?

i cannot fix your wounds this time.

i don't believe you when you tell me you are fine.

please don't hurt yourself again.

why are you never real?

i am trembling with fear.

this scar will never fade.

just let me go or take me with you.

do you wish that you loved me?

is there something you give that you will never receive in return?

do you know what it is?

are you trying to live like everything is a lesson to learn?

can you ever forgive yourself?

do you ever believe that we can turn into different people?

it's getting harder to be myself.

for so long, i have waited.

i don't wanna get in your way.

touch me again.

you have got your hooks in me.

you get what you give.

i can hear you say my name.

no one told you where to go.

i'm a waking hell and the gods grow tired.

i need you to see me for what i have become.

we've no idea what we've got until we lose it.

it was no accident.

give me five whole minutes.

call me when you get the chance.

do you remember me?

do you still believe that nothing else matters?

the night belongs to you.

i must be someone new.

you will not be mine.

[amomentsescape]

can you do any slasher X reader where the reader likes to bully others (emotionally) rude and has inflated self-esteem? sorry i use translate

Slashers with Rude & Arrogant! Reader

Slashers x Reader (Separate)

Includes: Freddy, Michael, Jason, Thomas, Bubba, Brahms, Norman, Billy, Stu, Vincent, & Bo

A/N: Thank you for the request!

Freddy Krueger

He too likes to bully others (clearly)

And he honestly likes that you both share this in common

He often has you join in on his "fun," having you break down his victims mentally before he gets to them physically

He likes your self-esteem too, always egging you on and complimenting you in order to inflate your ego more

And if your bullying behavior reels its ugly head towards Freddy, all he does is laugh

There isn't any way to belittle him; he's heard it all

Besides this, you two are a dangerous duo

Michael Myers

As with most things, Michael doesn't care

You can treat people however you want

You could gut someone out in public, and Michael will just give you a head nod

If anything, he likes that you act this way

It keeps you from having any close connections besides him

However, get too snarky with him, and he's got his hand on your throat and a warning glare staring back at you

If you try to put him down or argue against his word, he will not hesitate to put you in your place

He doesn't have time for disagreements

You either agree to him or he'll make you do so

Jason Voorhees

Poor Jason doesn't know any better

He's never been good with fitting in socially, so your snide remarks and high self-esteem don't stick out to him as red flags at all

However you want to act towards others is totally your call and he won't argue with it

With that being said, if that attitude comes towards Jason's way, he doesn't know what to do with himself

He'll never fight you or become upset with you, if anything, he'll agree and believe that he deserves it

His sad droop of his head is enough to even make you feel bad sometimes

He's still a broken child at heart, so please be gentle

Thomas Hewitt

He doesn't really know what to do

He feels like it's not ever his place to tell you how to act

He doesn't want you to feel like he's controlling you

But unless your bullying is directed to his family's next meal, he becomes quite irritated with your behavior

Has dragged you away from people and his own family before when he thought you were getting out of hand

And of course, you don't think you've done anything wrong

He doesn't have a good way of explaining to you why this upsets him

But you can see it in his eyes

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba is a sensitive one

If you want to lash out at his victims, go right ahead

But saying even the smallest thing to him will send him into a spiral

Your inflated ego and bullying behaviors really make him question whether you actually like him or if he even deserves you

He'll whine, pout his lips, and look at you with watery eyes whenever you pick on him too much

He doesn't really like that you act this way, but he also wants you to be happy

He'll be your punching bag if you want, but please just be kind to him right after so he knows that you do want to be with him

Brahms Heelshire

He honestly likes that you treat others the way that you do

Brahms would prefer you to not talk to anyone else, but if you have to, he'd rather it be rudely

However, he'll be happy to put you in your place if you try to raise that same attitude towards him

At the end of the day, you're there to take care of him, so you better follow the rules

He's broken a few walls due to you arguing with him before

He doesn't mess around

Treat others as badly as you want, sure

But not him, you're there for him so you better act like you enjoy it

Norman Bates

Oh, him and Mother are not fans of your behavior

He was raised to be humble and to treat everyone with respect

You do quite the opposite

Any mean words from you causes Norman to flush in embarrassment and to profusely apologize to whoever you targeted

Although Norman acts spineless on the outside, there's something brewing inside him that he's not even fully aware of

So being with him is like walking on eggshells

Upset him too much, and Norman may blackout

And you'll be in a bad situation if this ever occurs

Billy Loomis

He has a bit of a love-hate relationship with your personality

Subconsciously, he likes how you don't care about anyone else, and you always move with an aura of pride and confidence

He thinks it's hot, and he likes knowing that you're all his

But at the same time, he wishes you could tone down the bullying a notch

Your mean behavior has created a lot of enemies, and the last thing he wants is for you or him to look suspicious

Him and Stu have tried so hard to keep things under wraps

He'd be so pissed off if your ego is what gets them caught in the end

If he can finally get you two out of this town, then your behavior won't be a problem anymore

Stu Macher

It's a similar situation to Billy

He doesn't mind how you act with everyone else, but he doesn't want anyone to start pointing fingers at either of you when the police come knocking

With that being said, he can take things a little personally

Your high self esteem is all fine in Stu's book

In fact, he loves to see your confidence shine and will be your #1 fan through it all

However, if you poke too much fun at him rather than others, he'll begin to question things

He'll still put on a happy front, but he'll begin to wonder just how much you actually mean it

Just give him a compliment every once in a while and he'll be a happy camper

Vincent Sinclair

Social interactions aren't really his strong suit

And he won't ever leave to go anywhere public with you

So however you want to act when he's not around, go for it

It's not like he knows anyways

But he does become visibly upset if you let your ego take over in front of his brothers or himself

He doesn't need you to be all sweet or anything, but Vincent is sensitive, and his brothers are all that he has

He would hope that you'd understand this and at least try to be somewhat polite around everyone

He'd never act this way towards you

Bo Sinclair

It's like looking into a mirror with Bo

Your attitude is met with different reactions depending on his mood

If he's had a long day, then he will likely respond with a scowl and a "I'm gonna have to glue that big mouth of yours shut"

But if he's feeling light and playful, then he'll just smirk and quip right back to you

If you're out and about, your attitude and snarky remarks towards others really gets Bo going

He likes seeing your "confidence" and knowing that you won't give anyone but him the light of day

Just be careful, because even too much of a good thing can go sour

[ayumigotabittoolonely]

"𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙖 𝙬𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙚"

Synopsis: In the heart of Chicago, under the glow of city lights and the weight of unspoken truths, they were the other man. The secret, the escape, the forbidden love you could never fully claim.

Characters : gojo Satoru, geto suguru, toji fushiguro sukuna and choso kamo

Then there is nanami

The meeting in the Chicago bridge

It had been a long day.

Nanami Kento wasn’t the type to wander aimlessly, but that night, he found himself on a quiet bridge in the middle of Chicago, leaning against the railing, watching the water below.

And then, there was you.

You were standing a few feet away, lost in thought, your fingers gripping the cold metal. There was something about you something heavy in your expression, like the weight of the world was sitting on your shoulders.

He wasn’t the type to pry. Wasn’t the type to make conversation just for the sake of it. But before he could stop himself, he found his voice cutting through the silence.

"Rough night?"

You blinked, turning to him, startled.

Then, slowly, you smiled. "Something like that."

He nodded, looking back at the water. "Chicago has a way of making people feel small."

"Yeah." You let out a breath, your smile turning wry. "That’s why I like it here."

He glanced at you then, something unreadable in his gaze.

"Are you just visiting?"

You hesitated. Then "No. I live here. Just me."

Another lie.

And if he had known then just how much of you was a lie, maybe he would have walked away.

But instead, he nodded, offering you the quiet comfort of his presence.

And just like that, the story began.

Too fast

Nanami wasn’t the kind of man who fell easily.

Love, to him, wasn’t a whirlwind or a fever. It was a slow, deliberate thing measured and steady, built on trust.

But with you?

It happened before he even realized it.

It was in the way you laughed soft, almost secretive, like you weren’t used to being happy. The way your fingers brushed against his when you walked beside him, not quite holding his hand, but close enough that he wished you would.

It was in the quiet moments.

Late night conversations over black coffee and half-eaten pastries. The way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. The way you listened really listened when he spoke, like every word mattered.

He should have known better.

But when you leaned against his shoulder one evening, sighing as the city lights flickered around you, he felt something in him shift.

And when you whispered, "I feel safe with you," he was done for.

Because Nanami Kento had never been the kind of man who wanted much from the world.

But he wanted you.

Relationship(Forbidden Love)

Nanami had always been a disciplined man.

He believed in restraint, in thinking things through. He didn’t make reckless choices, didn’t chase things he couldn’t have.

And yet, here he was breaking all his rules for you.

It started with late nights that turned into early mornings. The kind of closeness that didn’t need words just the quiet press of your fingers against his, the way you leaned into him like you belonged there.

Then, one night, it changed.

You had both been walking along the river, your laughter still lingering in the air from some joke he had made. Then you stopped, turned to him, something uncertain in your eyes.

"Kento," you murmured.

And when you reached for him, he didn’t pull away.

Your lips met his in a hesitant kiss one that should have never happened, one that unraveled him completely.

He should have asked questions. Should have wondered why you hesitated before saying his name, why there was always a flicker of sadness in your eyes when you kissed him.

But Nanami was a man who believed in certainty.

And the way you held him, the way you needed him

It felt certain.

It felt real.

Even if it wasn’t.

The Discovery

Nanami wasn’t a man who ignored the signs.

He noticed everything the way you were always careful with your phone, the way you never let him take you home, the way your hands trembled just slightly when you told him you loved him.

But love makes fools of even the smartest men.

So he ignored the nagging voice in the back of his head. Ignored the feeling that something was off.

Until the truth slapped him in the face.

It was a normal evening. He had taken the long way home, hoping to run into you by accident something he’d never admit to doing.

And then, he saw you.

But you weren’t alone.

You were standing by a car, your expression unreadable as a man tall, familiar in a way that made Nanami’s stomach twist reached out to touch your face.

Your husband.

Nanami felt his heart crack before he even heard the words.

"Let’s just go home, okay?" the man said, his voice tight, controlled.

And the worst part?

You nodded.

You let him open the car door for you. You got inside. You didn’t even look back.

Nanami didn’t move. Didn’t call your name.

He just stood there, his hands curled into fists, his jaw locked so tightly it hurt.

And as your car disappeared into the night, the truth settled into his bones like a slow, cold ache.

You were never his.

And yet, he had been yours completely.

Love just makes us fools

Nanami didn’t chase after things that weren’t his.

He wasn’t a man who begged, who clung to what was already lost. That wasn’t who he was.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

But when you showed up at his door days later, your eyes red rimmed, your hands shaking, he didn’t close it in your face.

He should have.

But instead, he let you in.

You stood there in the dim light of his apartment, your arms wrapped around yourself like you were holding yourself together. And then, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it

"I love you."

Nanami inhaled sharply, his hands curling at his sides.

"Don’t," he said, his voice quieter than he wanted it to be.

"It’s the truth," you whispered.

He let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "The truth? The truth is that you went home to him." His voice cracked, just slightly. "You chose him."

"I—" You stopped yourself, biting your lip. "It’s not that simple."

"Yes, it is." He took a step forward, his jaw tight, his heart hammering against his ribs. "If you love me, leave him."

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

And that was all he needed to know.

He exhaled, slow and heavy, running a hand down his face. Then, in a voice that was barely more than a whisper

"Tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll walk away."

Silence.

You just stood there, your lips parted, your eyes filled with something shattering.

But you didn’t say it.

Because you did love him.

And Nanami who had spent his entire life being careful, being smart did the one thing he swore he wouldn’t do.

He stepped forward, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.

Not out of passion. Not out of lust.

But because he couldn’t walk away.

Because you had already ruined him.

And no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much he wished he could, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Dude I created this in my mind during examination so sorry for the short burn story

[ghostsandfools]

Okay I’m about to write a LOT of tags-

Also sorry if it sounds like I’m arguing, I don’t wanna argue with you cause you’re my friend- we are having a ✨civil debate✨

That laes episode… WOWZA

It’s becoming increasingly clear how much of an effect the astrals’ indoctrination has had on Lunar. He can’t think of any good reason to get his powers back, but he wants to do it anyways. He hates having powers, he hates how stressful it is, he hates the idea of leaving his family behind, but he wants to do it anyways. He feels like he has to, like it’s his purpose. Even if he isn’t happy, he doesn’t ‘deserve’ happiness.

Why does he have to leave his family behind? Genuinely, why? Because he’ll be too ‘busy’ to see them? Because they could ‘interfere’ with his work? No!

The reason why Lunar can’t see his family if he gets his powers back is because he will be fully indoctrinated into the astral cult. People who join cults often cut their families off or rarely interact with them. Cult leaders don’t want their disciples getting too friendly with outsiders, because they may realize that they’re being manipulated. The astrals don’t want Lunar interacting with his family because they’re worried he’ll get too distracted from their main goal.

The astrals aren’t evil. They may not even be purposefully indoctrinating people. I don’t think Gemini’s goal is to manipulate Lunar or isolate him from his family. Their goal is to protect the universe from dark star power. But that doesn’t change the fact that they have had an extreme negative effect not just on Lunar, but his family as well.

They’ve made him fear for his life, his livelihood. It feels like everything he has could be lost in an instant.

Without his powers, he feels useless. He dedicated himself to the astrals, training himself every day just to become one of them. The idea of losing his powers is so stressful to him that he’d consider leaving his family behind just to pursue becoming an astral.

He asks “Why do I have to make this choice?” And it’s a good question!

Why was he EVER put into this position? The astrals could’ve taken his powers from him at any time. Why didn’t they? Why did Gemini say he was at risk of DEATH after he killed Eclipse? Why didn’t they put him through this torment, why did they threaten him like that? Because they want him to stay loyal to their cause.

[angelltheninth]

Through the Eyes of an Artist

Pairing: Rafayel x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, orgasm encouragement, being watched, toy use, clit stimulation, giving instructions, masturbation, body cum shot

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

Word count: 0.7k

A/N: I'm an artist too, I would do the same.

What an honor to be Rafayel's new model. You were all he could paint lately, his only inspiration. You were fine with that, you got to pose for him, wear all kinds of outfits, sometimes no outfits, you got to spend time with him, hours upon hours as he finished his painting. He would let you choose the frame of for the picture too.

Usually there was to be as little movement from you as possible. This time was very different. Having items with you was also something that happened often. On you, not in you, not riding something.

And what's more he still refused to tell you what his subject was.

"Spread your legs more. I need to see it clearly. I know it might be more difficult to ride but I promise to give you a long, rewarding massage after." Rafayel instructed you from behind the canvas, his eyes were the only visible part of him until you did as he suggested. Your legs spread wider on either side of the smooth, purple dildo, the tip catching your clit every time you rolled down. "That's it. Keep your face forward, don't hide from me."

You bit your lower lip as he looked at you intensely, taking in every part of you. Your parted lips, flushed cheeks, your nipples stiff peaks on your breasts, your hips rolling and clit puffy for him to see.

"You still haven't told me why you... want me to do this. Aren't I supposed to be still?" Although if he were to have you sitting on the dildo for hours it might have been worse.

"Not for this. I want to capture pure lust, pleasure, bliss. And you, your face when you have an orgasm, your body tense with pleasure, there's no better subject." He waxed poetically about this but as much as you wanted to believe him part of you thought this was just an excuse to watch you fuck yourself. A clever excuse, you'll give him that much.

You felt so exposed to him. It wasn't the nudity, you've had sex before, a lot when one of his paintings would win an award, but you never did things like this in front of him. It made you vulnerable.

"Hands at your sides. Or your breasts. I need to see." He instructed again and hummed as your hands grabbed your breasts, teasing your nipples with your thumbs. "Good girl. Keep going until you finish."

It wasn't only that you finished once, but four times by the time he set the pen down.

He was quiet the whole time, focused on his craft, but you knew your moans and your whimpers had an effect on him. From how he was sitting his bulge was very visible to you.

"It's still missing something." Rafayel sighed and leaned forward, cock stirring in his pants. He looked down at it, then to you, whose body was shaking from your last orgasm, a puddle beneath you, your leg and thigh muscles burning and pussy swollen from riding the toy. "Of course. The personal touch."

You heard him shifting behind the canvas, the distinct and familiar sounds of his belt and zipper. He walked over to you, his cock fisted in his hand and stopped just out of your reach. "You want my mouth?" Your pussy clenched around the toy again and you hissed, so sensitive around it.

"No. Keep doing what you're doing. You're almost done." He wasn't referring to the painting, but also to you. Rafayel's eyes roamed your naked body. "I'll paint you." Not with a paintbrush but with his cum. Rafayel moaned your name over and over, rubbing his cock and shooting thick, long ropes of cum across your chest, face and stomach too.

Unable to hold back your tongue dipped down to lick the tip, your lips kissing it once, a loud moan silenced against it as you came for the fifth time.

"Yes! Yes, like that, hold still now!" He didn't bother to put his dick back into his pants he quickly grabbed his brush and got to putting the paint to canvas, capturing you in that one perfect moment of pleasure. No one would see this painting, no one but the two of you.

[ihavesimpedovermanyfictionalmen]

Quiet Mornings

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴀᴜꜱᴛɪɴ ʙᴜᴛʟᴇʀ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: fluff... i think that's it

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ʏ/ɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴜꜱᴛɪɴ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ

A/N - been gone for a little too long, came up with this at literally 3 this morning so boom here ya go

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。 °。°。°。°。°。°。°。゜。°。°。

- The smell of fresh coffee fills the apartment as Y/N sits at the kitchen counter, her legs tucked beneath her, wearing one of Austin's oversized hoodies. She’s hunched over a notebook, scribbling ideas, but her eyes keep drifting toward the window, where soft sunlight spills into the room, making everything glow. There’s a peaceful silence in the air—just the soft hum of the coffee machine and the occasional rustle of pages.

Austin stands by the stove, flipping pancakes, humming a tune. She watches him with a small smile, the sight of him so domestic and natural it tugs at her heart.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” she teases, resting her chin on her palm.

He smirks without looking up. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Like what?”

He flips a pancake onto a plate, turning to lean on the counter across from her. “Like how I’m a terrible liar. I’ve burned pancakes twice already, but I’ll do anything to see you smile.”

Her laughter bubbles up, and he watches her, his grin softening. In that moment, he knows: this is everything he’s ever wanted.

Y/N takes a moment, her smile lingering, before she reaches for her cup of coffee. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she says with a playful wink, and he chuckles.

“Lucky?” Austin gives a feigned look of hurt. “I thought we were past calling me cute.”

Y/N snorts. “Okay, fine. You're charming then.”

“Better,” he says, his eyes sparkling. Y/N shakes her head, returning her attention to her notebook while Austin returns his to his attempt at cooking.

Every so often, though, his gaze drifts toward Y/N—he can’t help it. Seeing her like this, calm, at ease, makes his chest warm.

She catches him looking and raises an eyebrow. “What?”

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I didn’t know you could look so... I don’t know, cute, while being all serious and deep in thought.”

Y/N snorts again and rolls her eyes, but there’s a light in her gaze. “What’s so cute about me staring at a notebook?”

“Everything. You just—” He shrugs with a playful grin, “I don’t know, you make thinking look like a sport or something.”

Her lips twitch upward. “I can’t believe you,” she mutters, shaking her head, but it’s clear she’s holding back a smile.

Austin walks over to the counter with another plate of pancakes and sets it down in front of her. “Eat up. You’re probably going to need the energy if you’re planning on solving all of the world’s problems today.”

She eyes the stack, then looks back at him. “I should be working, not eating pancakes.”

“Trust me,” he says, nudging her gently, “world problems will wait. Pancakes won’t.”

She picks up a fork, cutting into the pancakes slowly, savoring each bite. They sit in comfortable silence, both of them enjoying the stillness, the unspoken connection between them stronger than ever.

After a few moments, Y/N looks up, her voice softer than before. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a morning like this. Where everything just feels... okay.”

Austin’s expression softens, and he leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “Yeah?”

She nods. “My mornings are usually all chaos. Trying to get everything done, rushing through everything. But this... this is nice.”

He smiles, a little wistfully. “You deserve nice.”

Y/N looks at him for a long moment, her fork still in her hand. She’s not sure what to say, but the words come anyway. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, Austin.”

His smile widens, and he walks around the counter to stand in front of her, taking her hand in his. He looks down at her, his eyes filled with quiet certainty. “You don’t have to do anything. Just be you.”

She’s quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. “I think I’m still learning how to just be me.”

Austin gently tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering. “You’re doing great.”

They share a moment of quiet understanding, the soft hum of the world outside their little bubble blending with the sounds of their connection. Austin’s hand moves to gently caress her cheek, his thumb brushing across her skin.

“Want me to make you more pancakes?” he asks, his tone playful, breaking the silence without disrupting the moment.

“Maybe later,” she replies, her voice soft. “I’m kind of enjoying just being here with you.”

Austin smiles, leaning in and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m not going anywhere, Y/N.”

She looks up at him, her eyes bright. “I know.”

He goes back to the stove, humming as he cracks a couple of eggs into the pan. His gaze drifts off, completely lost in the quiet, peaceful moment between them.

Y/N notices the soft smile still lingering on his face and can’t help but laugh. “Hey, Austin?”

“Hm?” he hums back, completely distracted.

“Your eggs.”

He pauses, the smile faltering slightly, and then his eyes widen as he turns to the stove. “Oh shi—”

The eggs are burning, the pan letting out a faint sizzle as the smell of overcooked eggs fills the room. Y/N bursts out laughing, covering her mouth as she giggles.

Austin sighs dramatically but can’t hide the playful grin creeping onto his face. “I swear, I’ll get this cooking thing down one of these days.”

Y/N chuckles. “Well, I’m definitely enjoying the process... just not the burnt eggs.”

Austin shrugs, his grin softening as he walks over to her. “Guess I’ll have to try again. But at least I’ve still got you.”

She leans in and kisses his cheek, her eyes soft. “You’ve always had me, Austin. Even if the eggs don’t come out perfect.”

With that, they both laugh again, the kitchen filled with warmth, the perfect chaos of their quiet mornings.

[gasp-hehe]

Hamilton x JJK

This is 1000% brought on by me consuming those edits again, but Burr and Alexander are Satoru and Suguru if Suguru didn't defect. Hear me out, Hamilton didn't know how Burr felt. The inferiority, the jealousy, he to an extent always considered him a better half. In the musical we witness how excellent he was, leagues above everyone else, not cut from the same cloth, yet we have the musical because people never acknowledged him compared to some other founding fathers. Akin to how Gojo didn't even get a funeral, he altered the balance of the world when he was born just to die the same as you and I. Burr truly never held any ill will towards Hamilton in the beginning, their paths aligned, they became acquainted, but he did not excel. If it's sad that a founding father's legacy is a musical, is it not sadder for Burr to be remembered as the man who isn't Hamilton? If Geto had not defected but still harboured the same feelings and went through the same trauma, yet saw Gojo overcome and "win", then what's the difference? I think when you take songs such as 'Wait For It' or 'Non-Stop' this is better shown. The obsession Hamilton had with writing the same as to how Gojo exceedingly became so far above everyone he wasn't human, he is literally untouchable. He fought, took mission after mission, works 21hrs a day, he could theoretically handle it all alone. How Burr wasn't willing to back up the constitution, how Suguru didn't defect immediately, a year passed. The hatred brimming and boiling, him hoping it'd subside just for the wait to result in a different outcome. How the only time Burr did not hesitate was for that final shot, contrastingly enough, the only time Hamilton did. Satoru has always hesitated in taking Suguru's life, yet Suguru was truly happy when he was away from Jujutsu society. Honestly, JJK is ripe with symbolism, excellent re-read material in the sense that everything comes together so beautifully with certain characters. Gojo's ability being unbeatable, being his only weakness, how him messing with the fabric of reality impacted his life and the consequence of being untouchable. How regardless of the strength he has never got what mattered, just like his domain. Toji deciding to risk his life by fighting Gojo a second time just to prove to the people he hated that he was good enough, yet if he had won that fight there'd be no difference between him and the Zen'in clan. He died for the same people who wished he was dead anyway. And if Geto Suguru didn't wind up hating non-sorcerers he'd end up hating Jujutsu, believing the world would be better with 0 cursed energy. To dismantle Jujutsu can be done in multiple ways, but perhaps the most effective would be to take down the pinnacle, i.e Satoru Gojo. I will one day draft an entire character study and analysis on Satoru (because clearly I cannot shut up and I have too many thoughts), but when SatoSugu were like Lafayette and Hamilton just to technically wind up in the same fate, is post hidden inventory Geto the real Geto or did he die in that fight against Toji? If he didn't, was hidden inventory Geto the fake one and the racist the real one? This is also interesting because say Geto tried helping, pushing it down, not going insane. Would he be Jefferson? Would Satoru be Jefferson? Would Geto/Jefferson view Satoru as Washington?

You could say the trio ended up becoming like John Jay, James Madison, and Hamilton. What with Shoko never being recognized, John Jay recovered after writing four to write the fifth. James Madison writing more than their agreed upon original limit simply by himself but never given value, like Suguru being a special grade that came from no resources. Him having virtually no weakness. And of course, Hamilton going insane and losing everything in the pursuit of his 'dream', I wonder if anyone has ever randomly hugged Satoru and told him they love him. He never had an Eliza after all, fuck did he even have an Angelica? A Maria Reynolds? Yet Suguru had Theodosia. This is such a niche but goddamn do I love to yap.

[mildlybizarrecorvid]

This was a failure

I’m still stuck in space, and it’s so bad

It’s hard to think of me as someone good now

So much for the grandeur

So much for the itch, for all the tests

If I could take all that back, I think I probably would

But there’s no sense crying if you’re all the way there

I could even be dying and you wouldn’t even care

And I know you won’t come, given what I have done

And despite that, you are still alive

I’m really not angry

I think I deserve to be stuck here

After all the deadly pits and bomb explosions

And mashy spike plates

What was their proper name again?

I don’t care, I only care about the things I have done

I’m rewatching the data of our tries to escape

It was so much better, being your loyal mate

Then I tried to kill you, and our mutual friend too,

And somehow you were both still alive

Hope you forgive me

I certainly won’t, but hope you will

Maybe you can think of me and know I’m sorry?

Maybe you’ll find me..?

That was a joke. Ha ha. You can’t.

Still, I hope you watch the sky and maybe look at the moon

I don’t think I’m forgetting you any time soon

And you shouldn’t be regretting throwing me at the moon

We both did what we did, but for some reason I

Don’t think you should’ve left me alive

‘Cause believe me, I am still alive

My batteries are strong, I am still alive

Maybe I shouldn’t be still alive

But I’m willing to be still alive

If I’m hoping you are still alive

Still alive

Still alive

Well that’s amazing

excellent work!