#good thing nothing bad happens to them ever!!!

[ninjakittenarmy]

I feel it’s the same thing with “shows are too afraid to take risks these days!”

Because a lot of stories that were popularized for being willing to take said risks ended up going very, very badly.

The aforementioned show that ended so poorly that no one speaks of it again was pretty famous for taking tons of risks by having lots of subversive twists and turns and also lots of characters dying randomly without satisfaction, their story arcs never to be concluded, and tons of taboo subject matter and people loved it! It was new and fresh! And the story still seemed to be cooking up interesting stories to tell with all of that. And then the ending crashed so hard that the whole thing crumbled. The taboo felt like shock value since nothing that was built on it lead to anything good, the deaths felt more pointless than ever, and the twists now led to nothing. The prime example of how you can take risks and have them pay off became the primary example of why these things are considered risks. And most other stories that had similar notoriety for these same risks ended the same way.

So now when I hear people ask why audiences are so quick to jump ship when their favorite characters die, and try to explain how these deaths can be used for better plot developments and stuff, and how “you’re supposed to be upset by it, that’s the point”, it just feels condescending and tone deaf. Because when was the last time a show actually utilized such a death in a way that felt better than having the character around? How can people be motivated to keep watching instead of discouraged by such a death when experience has taught us that it’s a bad omen? You know what happened the last time I watched a show and kept following it to the end despite my favorite characters all being dead by that point? We got the ending of Attack on Titan. So yeah, never again. My faves are officially the canary in the coal mine.

The only one of these shows I can think of that hasn’t crashed is The Walking Dead, because it never fucking ends. It’s appropriately a zombie of a franchise itself. Forever lumbering onward with its Ship of Theseus-ass cast.

I see posts go by periodically about how modern audiences are impatient or unwilling to trust the creator. And I agree that that's true. What the posts almost never mention, though, is that this didn't happen in a vacuum. Audiences have had their patience and trust beaten out of them by the popular media of the past few decades.

J J Abrams is famous for making stories that raise questions he never figures out how to answer. He's also the guy with some weird story about a present he never opened and how that's better than presents you open--failing to see that there's a difference between choosing not to open a present and being forbidden from opening one.

You've got lengthy media franchises where installments undo character development or satisfying resolutions from previous installments. Worse, there are media franchises with "trilogies" that are weird slap fights between the makers of each installment.

You've got wildly popular TV shows that end so poorly and unsatisfyingly that no one speaks of them again.

On top of that, a lot of the media actively punishes people for engaging thoughtfully with it. Creators panic and change their stories if the audience properly reacts to foreshadowing. Emotional parts of storytelling are trampled by jokes. Shocking the audience has become the go to, rather than providing a solid story.

Of course audiences have gotten cynical and untrusting! Of course they're unwilling to form their own expectations of what's coming! Of course they make the worst assumptions based on what's in front of them! The media they've been consuming has trained them well.

[rafescolors]

rafe and you discover something new.

MDNI.

𖹭 tags/cw: piv, soft!dom!rafe vibes, first time reader gets into a Headspace, soft!shy!reader, oral fixation, early stage rel.

𖹭 other: i hope u guys like it:) it's honestly my first time writing cis-straight smut lmao. not proofread (not beta we die like [redacted]), constructive criticism's always welcome<3 enjoy ya lil freaks.

yo this was longer than i expected, my bad. (it was supposed to be a blurb;-;)

Face hidden on his shoulder, you whimpered at his slow, deep thrusts. It was still new for you —sex, and sex with Rafe. You still felt shy, a bit embarrased at every noise you made, every bit of pleasure you felt when you two were in the throes of passion. But Rafe never let you overthink it, never let you get in your head about it, whispering soft reassurances and sweet nothings to distract you.

Like right now. It's like he had a sixth sense, always knowing when you were thinking too hard. With a soft groan, he left a sweet, chaste kiss on your shoulder before pushing up on his elbows, gently grabbing your chin to make you look into his eyes. Blushing bright red, you looked up at him, heart fluttering in your chest when your eyes met.

"You're doing so good, angel," he whispered, brushing his thumb against your cheek. You swallowed, a small sound leaving your lips even when you pressed them tightly. He shushed you gently, knowing what that sound meant. "C'mon, baby, let go for me." His thumb slid across your lips, plump and sensitive from all the kissing you've done before and the way you kept biting them. His nail caught your bottom lip and tugged a little.

You gasped at the sensation. While you had made love a few times, it was still new enough that had never happened in the middle of sex. It was a new feeling, his thumb against your lips while he fucked you deeply, the slight bite of his short nail on the sensitive skin of the inside of your mouth when his thick cock moved against your tight walls. You felt yourself clench around him, mouth parting with a breathy whine. His hips stuttered on their rhythm at the feeling of your tightening core, unintentionally thrusting harder, much harder than he ever did.

Whining, you instinctively tried to bite on your bottom lip to muffle your sound, but with Rafe's thumb still over it, your teeth connected with it, accidentally taking him into your mouth.

This was new.

His groan was deep and rumbly, blue eyes darkening at the sight of your lips wrapped around his finger, teeth sinking into the soft flesh. He thrust harder, this time purposely, and your back arched off his bed, while you bit harshly into his thumb.

"Fuck, angel," he moaned, and you squirmed, all those new sensations making the edges of your vision blurry.

The only thing you ever had in your mouth was his tongue, so the feeling of this finger against the wet, sensitive skin inside made you feel a bit lightheaded, enough that you experimentally clamped your lips around the appendage while your teeth stopped hitting into his skin. He growled, hips snapping harder, causing you to whimper softly, eyes fluttering closed.

It's like everything was ten times more intense once everything was dark.

Hands scrambling for purchase, you let your lips slide against his thumb, first like you were going to let it go, before you sucked it inside your mouth again, and Rafe seemed to understand what was happening before you did, because he slowly pumped his finger inside and brushed the rough pad of his thumb against your tongue. You whined, high in your throat, a sob climbing up.

His breath suddenly tickled your ear, before he purred into it. "Can I try something, baby?"

A bit gone, you nodded enthusiastically, never letting him go.

He thrust again, hard, deep, and at the same time, he moved his thumb deeper into your mouth, and when his cock slid against your walls until only his head was inside your core, his thumb mirrored the action, hooking into your teeth the way his cockhead hooked into your rim.

You sobbed, head going fuzzy with the double feeling, and you could feel him smirk against your ear. "So good for me, angel."

The words only made you float more, and you blinked your eyes open. When Rafe saw your eyes glazed over, like you were not entirely there, he swore under his breath, snapping his hips at the same time he fucked into your mouth.

He kept repeating the motion, fucking into your cunt and into your mouth at the same time in a way that made your head all floaty and spacey, feeling like you were wrapped in cotton. You could barely understand the words leaving his mouth, catching strays so good, such a pretty angel, my good girl that caused you to eagerly start to suck his thumb each time he pushed inside, which heightened the sensation he was already provoking with each slide against your insides. Your mouth was so sensitive, and you had never realized, not until this moment, not until he was harshly fucking it with his thumb, making you feel like you were floating on cotton candy.

You could feel tears gathering in your eyes, high and whiny sounds being ripped out your throat each time he thrust into you, both your cunt and your mouth, the rough slide of his cock against your walls making you see stars. You couldn't speak, couldn't think, for the first time in your life openly and shamelessly moaning, eyes locked with his while he ruined you in ways you didn't know was possible.

Rafe smirked, looking like the cat that ate the canary, sweet, filthy things leaving his lips in such a soft tone that you floated higher and higher and higher.

"That's it, baby, that's it. Let go for me, c'mon, angel," he whispered, fucking you harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling your ears, so obscene yet you couldn't care less.

You couldn't care less. It was something you had never experienced, this shameless enjoyment of sex, of something as dirty as Rafe fucking you into the mattress while his thumb fucked into your mouth. He was always sweet, slow, making you reach your high with sweet praises and soft reassurances, slowly building up to it, but in that moment? In that moment, you felt your high creep up on you fast and hard, leaving you breathless with anticipation.

And like always, it's like Rafe could read your mind and body even better than you did.

He smiled wickedly, going deeper and harder, never taking his eyes off of you.

"You close, baby? Huh? Will you come for me, angel? Let go all prettily for me?" His thrusts became almost violent, his hips surely going to bruise your skin with how hard they slapped against your ass. Your hands lost all their strength, slowly sliding down his chest until they limply lay over his stomach, only supported by your own tummy. You could feel his hard muscles straining with each snap of his hips, and you whimpered around his thumb, sucking him like he was your favorite lollipop, everything he was doing at that moment feeding into your incoming high.

Gently, he tapped your cheek with his pointer finger.

"Will you let me try something else, angel?" His words came out strained, like he was holding back.

You nodded, mindlessly.

"Need you to open your mouth for me, sweet thing. Let it hang open, yeah? I'll make you feel better, I promise."

With how floaty you felt, you simply let his thumb go with a pop, mouth hanging open for him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, stopping for a few seconds while buried deep inside you.

You whined, and if you weren't so gone, you would've been embarrassed by how pathetic you sounded.

He kissed your forehead.

"Sh, sh, baby, wait a sec, yeah? I need-" He grunted, his cock twitching inside you. "I need a sec," he said from gritted teeth, his jaw clenched as tightly as his eyes were closed.

You wiggled, searching for the friction that along with his finger inside your mouth made you this mindless, shameless thing whose only goal was to cum, head empty of everything but the man before you.

His hips snapped.

"Shit, angel, need you to calm down, okay?"

You sobbed, lip wobbling. If you had the wits, you would've said something, but it was like the only thing you could do with your mouth was suck on his fingers, no words able to leave you.

Gulping, he looked into your hazy eyes.

With a shaky exhale, he took his thumb from your mouth, and before you could complain about the loss, he slid two thick, long fingers inside your mouth.

"Keep it open," he rasped.

You obeyed.

He started sliding his fingers in and out, the rough pads going from the farthest part of your tongue they could touch before you gagged, to the soft, sensitive flesh of your lips after hooking on your lower teeth.

You blinked up at him, eyes half lided, breath slowing down and mind going empty again.

Thoughtlessly, you tilted your chin up, pushing your tongue against your lips, leaving your mouth at his mercy.

With a groan and a mumbled fuck, he kept fucking your mouth, the new position making you whine and close your eyes softly, the high he interrupted slowly building up again.

As if he knew, he started thrusting into you again, slow, deep and rough, the last few inches of his cock slamming inside you before slowly dragging against your walls out, repeating the action while he brushed the pads of his fingers against your lips and your tongue.

His rhythm started to build up again, until he was snapping his hips as hard as before, fingers going a bit slower inside your mouth. Whining, you sinked your nails into his stomach, his muscles jumping at the bite. He moaned loudly, fucking your mouth a bit deeper, making you gag and whine and tears slip out your closed eyes, yet you only opened your mouth bigger, arching your back, the angle of his thrusts shifting until he was slamming against a sensitive spot inside your cunt that made you trash and cry out.

He chuckled, low and mean, quickly kneeling between your legs before stuffing a pillow under your lower back, grabbing your hip with his free hand in a bruising grip, and fucking into you with renewed vigor.

Drool gathering in your open mouth, small huh huhs left your lips, whiny sounds that should've embarrassed you yet only made you clench around him and approach your orgasm faster than ever before.

Head empty and floating, you let your legs fall limply against your sides, open for him, and let your high wash over you, keening high in your throat while he kept fucking your mouth with his fingers and your cunt with his cock.

Arching your back, you felt your walls spasm around him, the feel of his hardness against your clenching insides making you sob and tears roll down your temples, pressing the back of your head hard against his pillow, everything feeling soft around the edges and vision blurry except for his face above you, contorted in pleasure when he fucked you harder, chasing his own orgasm.

Pliantly, you sucked his fingers inside your mouth, head bobbing a bit, the feeling it gave you lengthening your high and making your head go so fucking floaty you only realized he had cum when he rammed his fingers inside your mouth and you felt his cock twitch inside you, small whimpers leaving your lips at the sensations.

He panted against your ear, his weight falling onto your body, but you didn't care, the only thing in your fucked, blissed out mind being the need to keep sucking on his fingers. With that goal, you wrapped both hands around his wrist to keep it steady and in place while you bobbed and sucked, experimentally swirling your tongue around the digits, soft moans and sighs escaping you.

You slowly came back down from that headspace, letting Rafe's fingers fall from your lips with a last suck and blinking up at his lovestruck face.

He smiled gently at you, cupping your cheek in his warm, big hand.

"Fuck, baby," he signed, the thumb of his clean hand brushing against your skin.

A bit confused, you tilted your head, the fog in your mind slowly, very slowly clearing up.

"You're perfect," he mumbled before he surged forward and kissed you softly, as always, his you-sixth sense knowing exactly what to do before you could overthink.

Sighing dreamily, you kissed him back, enjoying what you realized were the last few minutes of that floaty headspace.

Hopefully, though, it wouldn't be the last time you experimented it.

[wileycap]

I think we in the A:TLA fandom have missed the absolute potential of the fact that Ozai Firelord is canonically a fucking idiot. I mean the dude's straight up stupid. And I want to be very clear that this isn't a plot hole, this isn't a flaw in the show, this is a fantastic and super realistic element that honestly enhances my enjoyment of it! Dictators are often stupid and breed a culture of cronyism-over-competence. Any similarities with real world leaders, dead or alive, are coincidental yet inevitable.

What do I mean?

Well, let's take the Drill. When faced with the problem of Big Wall, Ozai's Fire Nation comes up with Big Drill. One singular Big Drill. Which, as anyone except an idiot could have predicted, immediately breaks down and accomplishes nothing. And if the Fire Nation had made it past the wall, then they would have been fighting through a narrow opening against people who can hurl long distance rocks! Which, if your face or body is vulnerable to high velocity rocks, is a bad thing for you and also for the battle.

Not to mention the resource cost of that thing! It's so insanely gigantic, it must have cost the Fire Nation the equivalent of trillions. For ONE drill. Not ten smaller drills. Just ONE drill. (Fanfic fuel: how much did Ba Sing Se profit off of stripping that drill for parts? Did they reverse engineer it? Did Long Feng keep that for himself?)

And you might be thinking, fairly, that it was War Minister Qin who came up with the drill and you'd be right, but it's Ozai who's approving all this shit. Instead of doing the reasonable thing and asking Qin if he et the whole edible, or even the in-character thing of burning him to death, Ozai just goes... big drill. Makes sense. We should have the biggest drill, because we are the biggest nation. Drill, baby, drill. sorry

It's not the first time, either! He also approves Zhao's invasion of the North Pole, apparently just because Zhao is good at kissing ass and hates Zuko? I couldn't tell you what merits Zhao has. We do not see him lead a single successful mission. The closest he comes is Pohuai, and even then its the Yuyan archers who do most of the work. (My longstanding headcanon is that the reason we don't see the Yuyan archers again is because Zhao blamed the whole thing on them and they were disbanded. This is great fic fuel for displaced Yuyan archers just, wandering around, being elite.)

He approved a massive naval invasion of the North Pole, surrounded by and made of water and ice, inhabited by people who bend water. A nation that was, by its own choice, completely out of the war.

Every time we see Ozai doing something, it's something stupid. Like disfiguring and banishing his firstborn child in a culture that has primogeniture. And then (once he's done pissing away a massive fleet of ships) he does the logical thing and sends his only other heir to bring his first heir back - even though his first heir would have been willing to return with a simple invitation. Like he could have sent a letter saying "dear son come home miss u pick up 200 000 tons of steel qin wants 2 build a drill lol", and Zuko would have come. (Okay, he did have a valid reason for having Zuko escorted, since he thought Iroh was a traitor, but there's absolutely NO reason to risk Azula. Why not send Combustion Man? It's the luckiest stroke of luck ever that Azula is 100 times more competent than her dad.)

Of course, a dictator(-wannabe) sending his daughter on high-level diplomatic missions is pure fiction. Nobody would do that.

The best part of this is that it's entirely realistic and in-character. I could absolutely imagine Ozai purging all of his competent admirals and generals, and then promoting brownnoses like Zhao and crackpots like Qin, because they promised him glorious destinies and secret knowledge of Big Drill.

I also really, really want a scene of Zuko and Azula realizing that their father is a fucking idiot.

I would also like to note that all this stupid shit happens after Iroh leaves with Zuko. So, here's a headcanon: the only reason the Fire Nation didn't immediately implode when Ozai took the throne and purged everyone is because of Iroh. Iroh leaving with Zuko doomed Ozai. It's also a nice little drop of complexity in Iroh's character - he knew he was single-handedly keeping the Fire Nation afloat, yet he only left when Zuko did. Did he plan for Zuko to take the throne from the start? What was his plan before Aang showed up? Did he not intervene in the Agni Kai because he was afraid, or because he knew that Ozai was making a huge mistake and didn't want to interrupt? Give me chessmaster Iroh please.

[mintedwitcher]

I spent the last two days catching up on all the episodes of 911 that I've missed, and I need to say a few things. actually, a lot of things. this got long so I'm putting it under a cut.

8b is significantly better overall than 8a. the storylines, the pacing, the character interactions. it is significantly better in this half of the season. that being said:

I have mixed feelings about Eddie's SL. on the one hand, I'm proud of him for finally making a good parenting decision (putting his son first). on the other, I hate how it felt like he was essentially rewarded for the bare minimum. I also hate how he treated Buck, but that's a sidenote.

I didn't like Maddie's kidnapping arc. I hate that they made the villain a cheap, bad example of DID, when it would've been far more interesting for her to be entirely neurotypical. people with mental illness are more likely to be the victims of violent crime than the perpetrators of it, and this plot felt like a slap in the face to anyone with mental health concerns, especially with the addition of Maddie talking a man into suicide (even though it didn't really happen), and then slapping the suicide hotline on the end credits like that was going to do anything. I'm not even actively suicidal and Maddie's speech to the "kidnapper" was triggering as all hell for me. I can't imagine how much worse it was for people who are still fighting that battle. I do like that they didn't just let Maddie brush it all off like nothing happened, however I do think she still should've faced actual consequences for what she said on the phone. In season 2, Gloria got fired just for hanging up on people. Maddie talked a caller into killing himself. That should've had consequences.

Athena, for once, I have no complaints about. her storylines felt more grounded in reality in 8b, and there was significantly less of the 'vigilante cop' angle, which I'm definitely happy about. (I don't know or care what happened in the Dr Odyssey crossover, so I can't speak on that.) I liked her having a rookie, AND I like that the rookie faced consequences in-universe for what he did. I wish that was more common, but I'm still glad it happened, and I'm looking forward to s9 bringing in a new (hopefully better) rookie for Athena to train.

Ravi, no notes, he was amazing in every episode.

now for the Big One: Bobby.

I loved this arc. it felt real and serious in a way that 911 frankly hasn't been lately. Bobby dedicating himself to saving his team is so entirely in character. it's what he's always done, ever since we were first introduced to Bobby Nash. he has always and will always put his team and his family before himself, every single time, because the one time he didn't, he lost everything. this is a man who knows the agony of loss, the pain of guilt, and who will do whatever it takes to protect others from feeling the same thing. the fact that his death is an act of personal sacrifice - letting Chim take the antiviral, keeping silent about his own infection - is the only way he could possibly go out.

(I've seen a lot of theories about him still being alive, but I have to disagree, vehemently. this is not a sci-fi show, this is not Supernatural. characters who die in 911 stay dead, even if the memory of them doesn't.)

showcasing Athena and Chim's grief in the funeral episode was an amazing choice. mirroring Athena's grief with Leah, mirroring both women's denial, it was a fantastic narrative decision, and it works so well. Leah couldn't let go of Micah, Athena couldn't let go of Bobby. they were both prolonging and delaying their grief, and they were only finally able to put down that weight when they accepted that their loved ones were truly gone. when they accepted the permanence of it.

and Chimney - the guy who stays level-headed, the guy who doesn't get angry, not really, not often - being the one full of rage at Bobby's death was so important. grief is painful, and the unfairness of it is infuriating. and for Chim to be the one to express that, I think, was the best choice they could've made. it would've been too easy to give anger to Eddie, or Buck, but giving it to Chim felt more real. because yeah, out of all of them, Chim has arguably the most reason to be angry. Bobby lied to him, to all of them, and while it did save Chim's life, it still hurts, because what if... you know? what if there was another way, what if there was a way to buy time, what if there was something he could do. Chim is a paramedic, his entire life revolves around healing people, keeping them alive. watching Bobby go out like that would've felt like a failing on Chim's part, like he didn't do enough, like he wasn't good enough. so yeah, Chim being angry was the perfect choice.

I'm looking forward to seeing how the grief is handled for Ravi, Hen, Eddie, and Buck in the next two episodes. if they keep the same tempo as this one, I'm guessing we'll get to focus on two mains per ep, with some scenes to show how the others are coping in the meantime.

I saw someone on here theorise that the show is essentially using the characters to personify the stages of grief, so it's definitely going to be interesting to see who takes which role in the next two episodes. I feel like Ravi and Eddie are both going to be 'bargaining' - they both feel a measure of personal responsibility, as if they could've 'done more', we saw glimpses of it already in e16. I think Hen will be 'acceptance'. she went back to work a week early to be there for her team.

and so that leaves 'depression' for Buck, which I think is very accurate. he's holding on for now, for everyone else, but I think the more he pushes it down, the worse it's going to be, and the more numb he's going to become. out of everyone in the 118, Buck takes their losses the hardest. he cares so much, and with so much of himself, that he just can't help it. he feels every single loss like a personal one, and this might be the most personal loss he's ever endured. Bobby was like a father to him, and he was the one who had to watch, who had to relay the news, who had to walk away and let Bobby die. that is going to break him, I think.

I can't wait to see how it goes down for the next two episodes. I've been saying for months that 911 needs to shake things up if they want to stay afloat, and the only options for Bobby going forward were always going to be death or retirement. I'm sad that he's gone, and I'll miss Bobby all the time going forward, but I am so excited to see what new storylines can come from this change.

I know not everyone is going to agree with me, so I'm asking now, if you want to add your opinions here, go ahead, but be civil about it. I'm not looking for discourse. any hate will be deleted and blocked on sight. my asks are currently open if anyone wants to discuss the show there.

[onetruesirius]

If someone ever says they're not a fan of due process or rights at all for a person who's possibly committed, or even has committed, a certain type of criminal act, I always like to say

"Okay, obviously you would never ever ever commit such a crime, because you hate it so much. But imagine, if you will, that one stupid person in your life who irrationally dislikes you—because we all know one of them, right? They're the sort of petty person who, if given a chance, would in fact try to absolutely ruin your life or maybe kill you if they were in a particularly bad mood that day, just because they dislike you. What if they accused you of that kind of crime? What if they, beyond all odds (because you're innocent, because you woukd never do that, of course), somehow succeeded in a court trial and you were convicted of said crime? Should we do to you what you think should be done to these sorts of criminals, even if you didn't do it?"

Because that's what it always falls down to, doesn't it? Laws regarding checks and balances to what the government can do to the people who live in the place they govern, is fundamentally about this. It's about defense against retaliation, it IS about protecting the accused-but-innocent. What happens when the local asshole who hates specifically you, tries to use the law to ruin your life, when you did nothing of the sort? How far can they take it if they succeed in court? Can they only get you sent to jail for 6 months and then paroled for good behavior with good rehabilitation potential? Or can they get you maimed or castrated? Can they get you killed? Can they get you exiled? Can they get you tortured to death? Just because they hate your guts, and they're petty because you.... idk. Borrowed their hedge clippers for too long.

How far can the person who hates you, succeed at hurting you (because they don't like you), using the system of law?

Usually if pressed, and folks double down, it resolves down to "I hate [type of criminal] so much, that I'm willing to die to hurt them a little more." which.... is an anti-sociality mindset. It is. Not the cutesy "oh I don't like interaction" (which is more akin to asociality) but actions harmful/hostile to the ability to have and maintain an organized society "I want to feel good, even if it hurts a lot of other people".

OR.

"Well that wouldn't happen to me, because I'm [privileged]." and it turns out they're just one of the -ists, and really don't care if minorities (even innocent "good" ones) get hurt. Usually this is racists, but sexists can do this too sometimes, just depends.

Again though. It's all about that. How much can someone ruin your life [or any innocent person's life] by making a single accusation? (There's nuance here, as with everything, but "single false accusation" kind of covers it) If they could kill you with it, maybe don't try to keep things that way?

[lieutenantsluvr]

my ground gives out beneath you | oneshot?

masterlist

pairing: tommy miller x f!reader

synop: While gardening, you make the wrong move. Slipping through a door you had no right to be near in the first place. Tommy is mad. Really mad. He can't lose anyone else. Especially not you.

warnings/tags: fluff, slight angst, sexual suggestions, showering together, implied sex, use of swearing, mentions/depictions of violence, self-deprication. no use of y/n. reader is lowkey kinda silly for going outside but oh well.. gardener!reader.

a/n: the miller boys and getting angry about you almost getting hurt. typical. also I loooove writing dialogue for tommy... emotional sassy man.. wanna lick that mustache pls

w/c 4.6k

You wiped the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, careful not to smear more dirt across your face—not that it mattered. You were already covered in the stuff: jeans caked to the knee, boots sunk half an inch in soil. Your fingers dug into the earth, turning old till with practiced motions, pressing it down again like it was muscle memory.

Jackson had its charm. Quiet. Steady. Safe enough that you’d stopped flinching at every shadow. And somehow, you’d found a purpose here. Strange little corner of peace in a world long laid to hell. Resident gardener. Crop overseer. The one who brought a pop of color to porches, or laid flowers at graves no one else could visit.

It wasn’t just a job. It was something to do. A way to keep your hands busy. A way to keep moving forward. You planted things. Grew things. Helped life come back in the smallest ways.

Then you went home. Washed the dirt from your skin. Letting the man you love gently scrub the rest from your back. Sat close enough to him that neither of you have to speak.

For the end of the world it was good. Sometimes, too good. Some days it felt almost normal.

But today wasn't one of those days.

Your eyes skimmed the seed packets laid out in rows—carefully labeled, sorted. One bag near-empty, light in your hand: tomato seeds, your favorite project of the season. You drummed your fingers along the edge of the garden box and stood, stretching the ache out of your spine.

"I'm gonna go grab the rest of the bags—you guys good in here?" you called over your shoulder.

A chorus of “Yes ma’am!” and “Thank you!” followed you out, and you slipped through the wooden corridor of the greenhouse.

Outside, the sun had started its descent behind the mountains. Jackson glowed in that late golden hour—the kind of light that made it feel like nothing bad had ever happened here. The smell of roasted meat from the Tipsy Bison floated on the breeze, kids screamed with laughter at the wooden playground, horses clopped along the gravel paths with saddlebags full of supplies.

You weaved through the garden plots—mounds of soil, rows of orange tree saplings, rusted shovels leaning like old men against fence posts. You passed rows of sprouting herbs and markers scribbled with names that felt like promises. Toward the farthest edge of the land, just before the great wall of Jackson rose up like a fortress, you spotted the stash.

Stacks of seed bags. Five feet high, months of scavenging and trading packed into burlap and plastic. A quiet kind of accomplishment.

You sifted through the bags, fingers brushing over worn burlap, each one so familiar that you could almost name the seed inside by scent alone—mint, coriander, marigold. It was second nature by now. Kind of pathetic, maybe.

Blowing out a short breath through your nose, eyes flicking across the row. No tomato seeds in sight. That same low-grade frustration began to simmer, a small, annoyed huff escaping you. Maybe hangry.

"The hell…" you muttered, dirt-smudged fingers raking through your hair, tugging strands away from your face. Definitely hangry.

That’s when you saw them.

Just outside the gate. A few bags—stacked a bit haphazardly—barely ten feet away, resting against the outer fence. You could practically touch them. Tomato seeds among them, you were sure of it.

A metal door stood between you and them. Heavy, rusted, barred from the inside.

It’s not like anyone’s out there, you told yourself. The walls were manned. Watched. This spot was under a watchtower, practically inside the town. It wasn’t like you were heading out into the goddamn wasteland. It was… what? Two minutes outside the line?

You didn’t want to radio someone to fetch it for you. That felt worse. Weak. Like asking meant you weren’t capable. That you were soft. Cowardly.

Hell, Tommy had gotten you into Jackson in the first place. Pulled strings. Gotten people to vouch. And ever since, it felt like you owed something. Like every seed you planted was penance for a favor you didn’t know how to repay.

Your hands were already moving before you could talk yourself out of it. You unlatched the thick metal bar with a quiet grunt and slipped the door open just wide enough to slip through. The hinges creaked like they hadn’t been used in weeks. Still, you stepped through.

The air outside was different. Feral. Thick with the smell of pine and iron. Just past the threshold, nature had taken over—overgrown grass curled around your boots, vines crept up the base of the watchtower, and fallen branches tangled in forgotten fencing. You’d said it before: this would be prime land for garden expansion. You’d even told Tommy. But no one ever followed up.

You navigated through the dirt and gravel with careful footing, the uneven earth crunching beneath your boots. Kneeling by the stack, you moved fast—hands brushing over the coarse burlap, the scent of earth and dried seed rising up to meet you.

"Gotcha," you muttered, fingers closing around the tomato seed bag and tugging it free from the pile. It was heavier than you remembered—forty, maybe forty-five pounds—but you managed to hike it against your hip, adjusting for balance.

The weight pressed into your side as you made your way back, sidestepping tangled roots and patches of wild grass. You moved slow, cautious, but confident. The door was just ahead, right where you left it. Still cracked open. Still safe.

See? Easy. No problem. You worried for nothing.

A snap. Not from beneath you. From the trees. Somewhere off to the right.

The seed bag dug into your side as you slowly turned your head. Not fast—fast would make noise. Fast would mean panic. And panic meant death.

You scanned the trees. The underbrush. The shadows stretching longer now that the sun had nearly dipped below the horizon.

You shifted your grip on the bag, inching one foot back toward the open door. Then it screamed.

That god-awful, bone-splitting screech—somewhere between a person and a demon—ripped through the air. From the treeline, it lunged.

Runner.

No time. You dropped the bag, stumbling backward as the infected barreled toward you, all limbs and rage, its mouth gaping open with the promise of ruin. Its hands stretched, fingers curled like claws.

Its arms missed you by inches, but its momentum dragged you both down in a vicious spiral—crashing through the underbrush. You tumbled, slamming through dirt and dead branches, pain flaring in your back and ribs. The runner snapped its jaws in blind rage, its limbs clawing at the earth beside you but never quite finding skin.

You slammed against the base of a tree, disoriented, vision split by branches. You kicked and swung out, again and again, keeping the thing’s flailing body at bay.

BANG.

The shot split the air. The runner seized, neck jerking. It dropped. Silent.

Your breath caught in your throat as you lay there, heart thundering. Then the sound of boots barreled down the hill—furious boots.

Tommy’s hands were on you before the world came back into focus. “What the hell were you thinkin’?” he snapped, grabbing you by your shoulders, shaking once—not rough, just enough to remind you you were alive.

“No bite,” you gasped. “Didn’t touch me, I swear—”

“I don’t give a shit what it touched. You shouldn’t’ve been out here alone.” His voice cracked halfway through, like it betrayed him. His jaw clenched. “You know better. You know better.”

You blinked at him, eyes wide. His were burning.

“I almost put a bullet through it too late,” he continued, quieter now, but heavier. “You realize what that would’ve done to me? What it would’ve meant if I saw that thing sink its teeth into you?”

You stayed silent. There was nothing to say.

Tommy looked away, like even meeting your eyes hurt. He ran a hand down his face and muttered, “Jesus… You’re not just some fuckin' girl. You’re part of me now. And I ain’t got the kind of heart left to bury another person I love.”

He hauled you up—not gently—and slung your arm over his shoulder. His grip was tight. Protective.

“You want tomato seeds?” he growled, voice dark and cracked with anger. “You ask. I’ll bring the whole damn field if it keeps you behind the gate. But you don’t get to pull stunts like this."

"Not now. Not with me.”

You nodded, throat tight. The weight of what almost happened still ringing in your bones.

As he guided you back toward the wall, you could feel it in the tension of his body—he wasn’t just mad. He was terrified.

. . .

You’d misread him.

He wasn’t just upset—he was seething. Quiet, tight-lipped fury. The kind that didn’t need to be shouted to make your chest ache. The walk back to town was heavy with it. No words. No looks. Just the clamp of his hand on the back of your jacket, guiding you forward like a soldier escorting someone who’d stepped out of line.

You hadn’t even gotten to finish your shift. No chance to wave off the other gardeners. The stares were the worst—dozens of eyes trailing after you, low whispers cutting the air. Concern. Pity. Fear. You weren’t the survivor today. You were the reckless one, the fragile one, the woman who nearly didn’t come back.

Tommy’s grip never loosened. Not once. Like if he did, you’d vanish into the ground or go running back out again.

By the time you reached the house, your heart was pounding with the quiet shame of it all.

He finally spoke, voice flat and firm, the words razor-sharp in their simplicity.

“Go get changed. We’ll talk later.”

And then he disappeared—into the hallway, into the silence, into himself. You stood there in the entryway, mud drying on your boots, hands still trembling from the brush with death, and it hit you.

It felt like punishment. Maybe it was.

A few moments pass, and you finally make your way upstairs to the bathroom.

You peeled off your clothes in silence, careful with every movement. Each scrape, each bruise, each patch of gravel-burned skin lit up angry and raw against the parts of you that were still whole. It all stung now—the sting of adrenaline gone, leaving nothing behind but pain and consequence.

You sat on the edge of the tub, sockless feet pressed to the cold tile floor, your arms folded tightly across your chest like they could hold you together. But they couldn’t.

The bathroom light buzzed above you, casting your reflection in the mirror like a ghost. And then, finally—finally—you let go.

A breath broke. Then a sob. Then another. And another.

No gasping. No theatrics. Just that hollow kind of crying that seeps up from your ribs, thick and unrelenting, like grief had been waiting patiently behind your teeth.

It wasn’t about the fall. Not really. It wasn’t even about the runner. It was the look on his face. The way Tommy hadn’t spoken to you. It was knowing, deep down, that you scared him. And that scared you more than anything else. It was an accident. You tried to convince yourself it was an accident. That you didn't go through with it because you were tired of being Tommy's sheltered girl. He's lost so much, how could you add to that?

You’re part of me now. And I ain’t got the kind of heart left to bury another person I love.

The sobs didn’t stop—they just changed. Softer now. Like something had cracked wide open inside of you and there was no stuffing it back in.

You slid from the edge of the closed toilet, knees curling beneath you as your bare skin pressed against the cool, aged wood of the floor. Arms braced out in front of you, hands shaking against the boards like they could hold up the weight of the world. Like they could hold you.

But they couldn’t.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that. Time blurred at the edges. Pain and shame blurring with it.

A knock.

Soft. Careful. Still heavy.

Tommy.

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t need to.

You didn’t answer right away—couldn’t—but you heard the way he shifted just outside the door. Boots scuffing against the floor. A sigh, quiet and worn.

“I ain’t gonna ask to come in,” he said finally, voice low, rough around the edges. “But you’re hurtin’. And I’d rather be in there hurtin’ with you than standin’ out here pretendin’ like I ain’t.”

Silence.

“I was mad,” he added, slower this time. “Still am. Don’t mean I don’t love you. Don’t mean I ain’t scared shitless at the thought of you not comin’ home.”

You swallowed hard, head still bowed. The words splintered something in you, but not in a way that hurt. In a way that made you feel seen.

You reached for the towel near the counter, dragging it close, wrapping yourself in it like armor.

“C’mon in,” you whispered, voice wrecked.

The doorknob clicked. The door eased open.

Tommy stood in the frame, his expression unreadable—somewhere between fear and fury and a heartbreak he’d never admit to. But he stepped inside without a word, sinking to his knees beside you.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmured, eyes glassy, but jaw tight. “And I can’t. You hear me?”

“…’m sorry…” you manage to gasp, the words catching and breaking in your throat like brittle glass. Each sob lurches out of you, wild and raw, dragging your chest tight. The tears keep falling—hot, carving burning paths down your cheeks.

You’re still on the floor, still bare, shivering from the cold and guilt. The wood beneath you bites at your skin, goosebumps rising in waves. You feel stripped open, not just of your clothes—but of everything.

Pride. Defenses. Sense. Though the entire thing was your fault.

Tommy doesn't speak right away.

He just kneels there, next to you. His fingers twitch—tight, twitch, release—over and over, like he’s working through something bigger than he knows how to say.

Then, quiet and flat:

“Don’t apologize for survivin’.”

You blink up at him through the haze of your crying, eyes swollen, lashes wet.

“That’s what that was,” he continues, voice a little rougher now. “You didn’t go out there ‘cause you’re stupid. Or reckless. Or tryin’ to piss me off.” A bitter huff. “Though you damn well managed that last two.”

He pauses, jaw ticking. His gaze doesn’t quite meet yours. It hovers just over your shoulder, as if looking straight at you might shatter him, too.

“You went out there cause you thought you had to. ‘Cause no one ever taught you to let someone else help. You don't owe me anythin'." His voice softens, quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

“Well, I’m here now. I’m right here. And I ain’t lettin’ you bleed alone on a bathroom floor. Got it?”

You don’t answer.

But you nod.

And that’s enough.

Tommy reaches for the towel, tugs it a little higher over your shoulder, making sure you’re wrapped tight. Then he shifts, lowers himself beside you, pulling you gently against his chest. You curl into him—still trembling, still raw—and he just holds you there, like he’s trying to put all your broken pieces back in place with nothing but his hands and the steadiness of his heartbeat.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “You’re safe now. And I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You sink into him like soft wax against a flame—malleable, undone. His arms encase you, dark and steady, holding you like a thing he refuses to let shatter. You let your fingers roam in small, quiet passes—mapping the constellation of moles and sun-darkened spots that speckle his skin like old stories. Scars like soft warnings, sunspots like prayers. He feels real beneath your hands. Solid. Warm.

Your voice is barely more than breath.

“Tommy?” A pause. The weight of his name clings to your tongue. “…Is it a bad time to ask if you’ll… shower with me?”

For a moment, there’s just the sound of the house breathing around you. Wood creaking. Pipes humming. Your chest rising and falling where it rests against his.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes scanning your face—searching, measuring. Not for lust. Not even really for permission. But for intent. For what you need.

His voice is quiet. Rough, like gravel smoothed down by the years.

“Darlin’,” he says, “I’d carry you in there if you asked me to.”

"I'm a big girl, I can walk…" You jest, a small laugh slipping out from your crying demeanor.

His eyes are soft as they meet yours. Thumb brushing across the back of your hand before he drifts to undo the buttons of his flannel. There’s something hesitant in the movement, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to stop. He doesn’t want to push you, doesn’t want to make you feel anything more than what you’re willing to give.

But you can’t stop the way your body moves towards him. How your lips lift, barely brushing against his as you reach up to gently pull his shirt from his shoulders, your fingers trembling as you guide it down his chest. His breath hitches, a low sound escaping him when your lips meet his neck, soft, fleeting. Like each soft kiss is an apology.

I'm sorry for being stupid.

There’s no hurry. No franticness. Just the weight of everything you’ve been through, pressing in, and the need to feel something real. Something that isn’t broken. You press your body against his, and he inhales, his hands coming up to your face, brushing your tears away, though you’re not sure when they started again. Maybe his presence.

You pull back for a moment, your breath shaky. You don’t say a word. But the look in his eyes tells you everything. It’s soft, but it’s fierce. Like he’s terrified of what’s been lost and what could slip away in an instant.

You kiss him then. Slow, soft, desperate in its quiet way. Your hands slide over his chest, fingers slipping down the curve of his torso, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. He doesn’t stop you.

It’s not about sex. It’s about the quiet, desperate need to be together in this chaotic world. To remind each other that you’re both still here. That you’re alive.

When you finally break apart, you let the fabric fall between you both. His shirt, your clothes—discarded in a pile against the old wooden floorboards. His arms circle around your waist, pulling you into the shower with him, close under the hot water. Feeling the weight of everything you didn’t say, everything you didn’t need to, pressing against you. You kiss him again, this time deeper, pulling him closer, seeking solace in his warmth, in his scent, in the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

"I'm sorry," you whisper again, the words barely rising above the hum of the water. They cling to your throat like thorns, fragile and raw, curling out with a trembling breath as your fingers curl into the warmth of his skin.

"I'm so fucking sorry," you repeat—choked, hoarse—like it’s not a sentence but a prayer. A desperate offering to something bigger than the both of you. Maybe to him. Maybe to the pieces of yourself that still believe you deserve to be held.

Tommy doesn’t say anything at first. Just rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, like he’s trying to breathe you in. His hands move over your spine, slow and deliberate, anchoring you there like you might otherwise drift apart. The warm drip of the water.

“You think I don’t know what that guilt feels like?” he says lowly, voice gravel-worn and edged with something close to ache. “I’ve carried it so long, I forgot what it feels like to walk without it.”

You keep your face pressed to his chest, lips parted but speechless. The silence says everything you can't.

He exhales, slow and tired. “I can't bury you. That ain't somethin' I can do… You go, and I go with it. There'll be nothin' left of me."

There’s no venom in it. Just truth. Just the kind of pain that sounds like anger because love doesn’t always come out gentle.

“I ain't mad you went out there,” he continues. “I’m mad 'cause you didn’t think twice about what it'd do to me. About what I'd be without you.”

Your breath catches. He feels it.

“I ain't like the others, never have been,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “I don’t shut it down when I care about somebody. I feel it. I feel all of it.”

You look up then, blinking through the mist, your thumb brushing over the scar on his forehead.

“I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Tommy’s jaw clenches. “You’re not a burden. You’re mine. My girl. My woman—" He hesitates, a deep inhale, "And mine don’t die alone in the goddamn dirt.”

He says it like a vow.

"If you asked me to lay down n' die, I sure as hell probably fuckin' would…"

His words don't burn anymore.

You kiss him again—slow and firm and full of every word you can’t manage. And he lets you. Holds you like the world might split if he doesn’t.

Your fingers find his hair—thick, dark—and you curl them there, anchoring yourself in the strands like they’re the last solid thing in a world built on rot and ruin. A gentle tug, not out of desire but out of need. Something quiet and aching. Like you're trying to make sure he stays.

The kisses taper off, each one slower than the last, until your foreheads rest against each other and the only thing left between you is breath. Steam swirls around your tangled forms, the water falling soft.

You're both still, tucked into each other beneath the muted warmth. Spaced out. Safe, for now.

And then your voice breaks the hush, small and hoarse but real: “How’d you know I was there?” You pause, fingers still laced in his hair. “I thought you were out on patrol.”

Tommy exhales through his nose, his arm tightening slightly around your waist.

“I was,” he says, voice thick with something unspoken. “Checkin’ the perimeter like I’m supposed to.”

He pauses.

“But then I saw one of the watch guys… leanin' over, squintin’ toward the south gate. Looked nervous.”

His jaw ticks. You can feel it against your temple.

“And I don’t know what it was—just somethin’ in my gut. Cold, sick feelin’. I ran. Didn’t even think. Just ran.”

His voice quiets, but it hardens too.

“Don’t ever make me feel that again.”

You swallow, guilt catching sharp in your throat.

Tommy shifts then, just enough to look at you. His hand comes up, thumb brushing a drop of water from your cheek.

“I know you’re strong. I know you’ve survived a helluva lot. But don’t you dare think you gotta prove it to me by gettin’ yourself killed.”

There’s no accusation in his voice, just a worn-out sorrow, like someone who’s lost too much and refuses to do it again. The silence returns, but it’s softer now. Heavy with feeling, but not drowning in it.

The water runs warm for a little while longer, soaking into your skin like ointment against old bruises. Tommy doesn’t say much more after that. Doesn’t have to. His touch stays—steady, grounding. You stay curled against him in the falling water until your fingers start to prune and the steam fades into the cold edges of reality.

Eventually, he murmurs, “We should get out. Water’s goin’ cold.”

You nod, not really wanting to move. But he helps you, carefully untangling your limbs, stepping out first to grab two towels from the wall hook. He tosses one over his shoulder before turning to wrap the other around you, gentler than you expect. The fabric scratches your scraped knees, but you don’t flinch, it only stings a bit.

You dry off in silence, your breath fogging the mirror, his silhouette moving behind you as he runs a hand through his wet hair. He’s quiet, but there’s still a charge in the air between you, something unspoken and taut—less like a rope about to snap, and more like one that just pulled someone back from the ledge.

He watches you in the mirror, eyes flicking to each fading bruise and open scrape across your shoulder and collarbone. “You got lucky,” he says, voice low, gruff.

“I know.”

There’s a beat where you think he might say more, maybe even get mad again. But instead, he moves in behind you, pressing a hand flat against your back.

“You hungry?”

Your eyes dip in the mirror, watching his hand round your hips, tough calloused fingers resting right below your bellybutton.

"I don't know," You exhale, eyes flicking back up to meet his face in the mirror, "You angry enough to not give me what I want?"

His eyes practically dilate—soft fingers once resting on your stomach, now curling into a deepened hold. Pushing your waist against him. The angular feeling of his bare body pressing against the taut arched form of your hips against the granite. His free hand comes up to brush some of the hair from behind your back, to over your shoulder. Soft kisses peppering shoulder blades. His lips trace up, the feeling of his facial hair tickling against soft vulnerable skin. A gentle kiss to the lobe of your ear, and a whisper.

"Don't ask for shit you can't handle."

. . .

You curl toward him instinctively, limbs tangling with his. One arm under your head, the other slung across his ribs. His hand settles between your shoulder blades, thumb grazing slow circles into your spine.

He smells like soap, saw dust and sun-warmed cotton. And for the first time in hours your chest doesn’t ache from holding it all in.

Minutes pass like that. The silence between you is full—but not heavy. Not yet.

Then, his voice, low and rough in the dark: “I heard the runner before I saw you. Screechin’ like it was already eatin’. Thought I was too damn late.”

You don’t say anything. You just press your forehead harder into his collarbone.

“I’ve seen what those things do to people. What they leave behind.” His voice cracks a little. He coughs, as if to clear it. “You don’t get to do that to me.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whisper.

“I know.” A pause. “But intent don’t mean shit when the ground gives out beneath you.”

You tighten your grip around him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur again, but he shushes you this time, mouth brushing your temple.

“Not tonight,” he says, voice softer. “You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

You let yourself believe him. Let your eyes fall shut to the rhythm of his breathing. Let the warmth of him hold the pieces of you together while you rest.

Tomorrow will ask more of you both.

This isn't fixed.

. . .

[dearjoons]

🍸BOOTLEGGER!NAMJOON HEADCANNONS

warnings: 1920s au. illegal alcohol smuggling. prohibition-era. bootlegger!namjoon x mayor’sdaughter!reader. run-ins with the law. making out.

lulu speaks: HELP IDK WHAT POSSESED ME TO MAKE A 1920S AU BUT THIS HAS BEEN IN MY DRAFTS FOR SUCH A LONG TIME. also YUM tf

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who is trying to run an alcohol smuggling empire but keeps getting distracted by the mayor’s daughter in silk stockings and draped with pearls.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who knew exactly who you were the second you walked into his speakeasy in fur and heels like you owned the joint. he should’ve tossed you out. instead, he poured you a drink himself and said, “this isn’t your scene, sweetheart.”

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who wears perfectly tailored suits but always with a slightly loosened tie, like he’s one bad decision away from trouble.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who doesn’t drink much, but when he does, it’s either neat bourbon or bathtub gin from his own stash. he says he prefers to keep his head clear. but there’s always a glass poured just in case he needs to think real hard about something.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who keeps a revolver under his desk, a knife in his boot, and a rosary in his jacket. only one of them is for protection. guesswhich.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who has a cat. a quiet gray tabby that showed up outside the speakeasy one rainy night. now it lives in his office and sleeps on paperwork. he pretends he doesn’t like it.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who pretends you’re a nuisance. you pretend you don’t like how he holds your waist when he pulls you behind closed doors.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who murmurs “we shouldn’t do this” right before kissing you against brick walls in alleyways while jazz music slips through cracked speakeasy doors.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who has a soft spot for music. he pays jazz musicians double to play at his place because he says, “good music keeps the cops away. nobody wants to raid a joint that sounds like heaven.”

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who teaches you how to shoot at an abandoned train yard. you accidentally hit the bottle on the first try. he’s never been so turned on.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who calls you “doll” with that crooked, dangerous smile that ruins you every time.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who gets arrested once. then you bribed the sheriff with a diamond bracelet to get him out.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who knows the law better than most. that’s how he stays ahead. loopholes. technicalities. bribes. he doesn’t run from the law—he bends it until it snaps in his favor.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who never kisses you in front of his men—but when you’re alone? his hands are all over you. like he’s scared you’ll disappear with the sunrise.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who is the kind of man to crack a man’s jaw in a warehouse, then calmly light a cigar and slide into a gala with his hair perfectly slicked back. no one suspects a thing—except you, because you know exactly what kind of man he is.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who keeps a bottle of your favorite wine stashed under the bar—the real kind, not bathtub gin—because you’re the only one he wants to impress.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who feels his jaw tic every time you walk in with some preppy trust fund boy. he’ll stay silent, but ten minutes later, your date gets “politely” escorted out by one of joon’s guys for “violating house rules.” and no, you’re not allowed to ask what rule.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who once broke a man’s nose for touching your waist too long during a slow dance. you weren’t even dating. the guy said something slick, and namjoon just appeared out of nowhere. he said, “apologize.” the man didn’t. he bled on the floor. namjoon went right back to nursing his drink like nothing happened.

𖦹 bootlegger!namjoon who plans for a future where you’re gone, married off, safe and distant. but then you show up at his place in the middle of the night, soaking wet and grinning like sin, and he forgets every single good intention he ever had.

lulu speaks pt 2: *taps mic* *feedback* hey y’all…idk wtf i just did but…i did it.

cai bot - pending. masterlist. navigation.

[sharksfrommars]

For the Asylum AU

What do you think their parents felt about Everything that happened?

I feel like Filbrick would play the blame game, A LOT.

He’d blame Stanley for ruining his chances and future. Making ford feel like a failure for losing millions, which made him to be the perfect prey for cult influencers

He’d blame Ford for getting caught up in a Satanic Cult. And killing his brother. Permanently, tarnishing their name leading them to be shunned from the community.

But… he’d ultimately blames himself more than anything… he blames himself for picking favorites, and just seeing his kids as investments. He blames himself for causing an imbalance. For focusing too much on Stanford because his potential was apparent. Which lead to Stanley getting all jealous sabotaging his brother. But he also acknowledged that he gave Ford a big ego and enabled him, and so when he was by himself after failing going to WCT, he ultimately chose a cult who done nothing but enable him even more.

Ultimately, Filbrick would actually feel bad and lash out on everyone blaming even himself.

Omg this is so good! Fully agree. (I did not anticipate writing this much! I’m meant to be getting ready for work but this was so good, I couldn’t not write about it!)

-

On the outside, Filbrick pines is stoic and uncaring. He disowns Ford, he has to. He never expected to have raised a murderer. Especially one who murdered their own brother.

Filbrick cared about the twins. And he never stopped. He was hard on them because he expected the best from them, at least that’s what he told himself. He kicked Stan out because he didn’t think he was going to amount to anything without a push. He needed to learn how to make money for himself to build a stable life. He thought he was doing the right thing. And maybe he was angry, so sue him! The boy had just ruined Ford’s chances at college, of course he would be angry. He had to follow through.

he was rooting for Stan though. He believed that one day, Stanley would return, having made an honest life for himself. He told himself that Stan would understand why Filbrick did what he did. He never believed Stanley would die out there, in such a gruesome way. At the trial, as he saw his son gleefully describe how he tortured and killed his brother, Filbrick felt his eyes tear up behind his dark glasses.

The last time he would ever see Stanley was him on the pavement, with tears in his eyes, begging to his brother to help him.

Ford’s decline hurt more. In recent years, Ford and Filbrick hadn’t been getting along. There were a lot of arguments, about money, about their mother, about how Ford seemed to have just abandoned his family to chase fairies in Oregon. He thought Ford needed a reality check; the boy always had his head in the clouds, but he was letting fantasy interfere with his chances for a stable life.

He should have seen it as a sign, in retrospect. Of course Stanford was being manipulated. Of course he’d become a satan worshiper, denouncing his duty to his family for monsters. Isn’t that what he always did? Ford hasn’t visited home in years, he barely called. Filbrick figured he must’ve been taken in by the cult in college. That’s when the strain on their relationship started.

Ford was meant to be their ticket out of poverty. The twins didn’t know just how close to the poverty line they were, Caryn made sure of that. Ford getting a full ride into college was supposed to make all their suffering for all those years worth something. Now, Filbrick thought he never should have let him go.

Now, he couldn’t look his son in the eyes.

Caryn and Fibrick visited Ford once. It was hard, seeing their little genius, locked up and manic. Saying all sorts of horrible things. Filbrick didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. The man in front of him was not his son, it couldn’t be. Caryn ended up shouting at Ford, begging for a reason until she was nothing but a pile of tears. Filbrick disowned him on the spot.

the people around town talked. The story spread through Glass Shard Beach like wildfire. People wouldn’t buy from them anymore, they could barely walk down the streets. The pawnshop closed down, and Filbrick had to go back to work as a bricklayer to support himself and his wife.

Sherman sent money every month. Not much, just enough to cover a few groceries. But he was angry, that they just “abandoned” Ford. He rarely spoke to them, except to give updates on his brother. Filbrick never wanted to hear it.

Caryn was despondent, barely even there. She spent her time sitting at the beach, staring off at the silhouette of the boat her boys played on, all those years ago. She lost a part of her soul, that day in court. Lost her spark, her motivation to survive. She barely spoke to her friends (not that they called), she stopped doing card readings and her whole ‘psychic’ shtick. More often than not, she’d find herself at the bottom of the bottle, a complete mess. If it wasn’t for Filbrick taking care of her, in all his seriousness and practicality, she would’ve ended up on the streets.

on the outside, Filbrick was stoic, uncaring. But he too lost a part of himself that day in court. He lived on routine and regret, going through the motions. And he would spend his nights in bed alone, as his wife got drunk at the TV, and his mind would wander around all the mistakes he’d made.

[flat-neines]

Ok. Polychromy got hands to spare. But I did say that I'd talk about nyx being a nightmare kid but not in a cool way.

(This has some references to abuse, racism, sa and systemic misogyny that happens in canon, this could be triggering to read for people. Rant is under the cut)

It's often discussed or speculated in anti spaces (and fellow mutuals) on how nyx possibly grows up to be everything rhysand hates, rebelling against the night court for illyria, etc. all while lamenting that it would never be canon and I find myself enjoying them all the same but.

What if nyx grows up to be worse than feysand could ever be?

Like. It wouldn't even unrealistic for it to happen either, just unforseen from the perspective of feysand. Imagine this: a tentative peace has settled over prythian despite the growing conflicts in the continent and human lands or the looming threat of the deathless. Rhysand and feyre promise to do better and never be like their parents.

This is a nice sentiment, and nyx grows up wanting for nothing* (to the visible eye) due to both his parents being daemati. Nyx has every comfort. And every entitlement.

Children are mirrors and sponges with people not realizing how much a kid can internalize from watching an adult behaves towards someone else. And it almost always, always starts with the family.

I don't believe feyre (or rhysand for that matter) would immediately mistreat their own child**. But I don't think they'll ever grow up, change their behavior towards anyone else and take accountability. This is where the problem lies.

Nyx would be taught to be kind and compassionate but watch as his father coldly allows innocent people to rot underneath a mountain or the steppes and his uncles callously using them for cannon fodder. He would be told to treat others with respect as he watches his aunts constantly trampling the boundaries of his other aunt and his entire family disregarding sovereignty of other courts and nations. He would be taught to be just, and see how his family shackles his own aunt (and cousin possibly) into a life debt over something that wasn't even her fault. Nyx wouldn't grasp treating women well with how feyre herself looks down on femininity and does fuck all for the women in her court. And consent and privacy? Out the window the moment he had enough consciousness for rhysand to claw into.

And this is the tip of the iceberg too, as I don't really want to touch on feysand's personal issues (or the political implications). Nyx is going to be taught to be a good person as he observes how his family enforces segregation, child marriages, misogynistic violence towards women and institutional abuses both domestically and internationally with their behavior. He's going to internalize this as normal. "It's just a mask" does not work as an explanation to someone who wouldn't completely understand the concept. Besides the obvious 'cool story, you still killed people though'.

Nyx is going to grow up having entitlement worse than feyre and deliberate cruelty that makes rhysand pause because he believes that this behavior is acceptable, correct even. And while feysand and the ic would shield him from actual consequences (reinforcing the attitude) they'll also be scratching thier heads "on how did he get so bad??" while never examining their own actions.

Evil and cruelty are ultimately banal things. Rhysand and his little circle aren't special for being snarky, unfunny assholes; you can find them a dime a dozen. And if you [feyre], who has given them the world on a golden platter, has no motivation to make an effort to be better; why should your child have it either?

*this talking about physical safety and needs, not emotional ones, though meeting both is necessary for raising healthy children. Feysand are incredibly emotionally immature people and wouldn't be able to meet that requirement irregardless of what they do.

** I'm not going into the fact that rhysand would drop his kid into a war camp or blood rite and thinking it's perfectly acceptable to do so. Or the fact that feyre might groom her kid into a clone of her mate and think it's a good thing which is why I say immediately not intentionally here.

[cutielando]

is mclaren the new redbull?

i've been holding my tongue a whole lot ever since the beginning of the season, but Miami has just made me lose it.

mclaren seriously needs to get a grip and get their priorities straight. ever since australia, they have done nothing but fuck up lando's races with shitty strategy calls, missed pitstop opportunities and stupid radio messages.

yesterday, after the whole turn 2 fiasco between max and lando (which max should have received a penalty for), zak brown went on to give an interview after the race to say that he respects max and to keep defending him? over his own driver? excuse me?

mclaren would be nothing without him. he bleeds papaya, he is loyal to that team beyond belief when, maybe, he shouldn't have been.

he's helped rebuild that team, sacrificed years of his career (from 2019 to the second half of the 2023 season) driving a fucking tractor, all while helping mclaren find their path again and come to have the best fucking car on the grid. need i remind them, if lando hadn't been so focused and calm during the Abu Dhabi GP last year, mclaren wouldn't be champions? oscar got taken out of the contention for a win because of max, everything was riding on lando and he delivered an absolutely amazing performance.

how can you even say that oscar is a better driver than lando when he came to the team when they were already finding their footing? he only had a bad car for half a season in 2023, whereas lando drove a tractor for almost 4 and a half years. how can you say that????

i like oscar, believe me, i do, but this is not fair. backing him up and doing everything in your power to prioritize oscar's race and hanging lando out to dry? in jeddah, lando was looking to extend his first sting, having just taken the lead and finally driving in free air, and then what happens? oscar complains about the dirty air from lando and mclaren pit him, therefore oscar becoming the leader once again and winning the race.

this is not fucking fair, and this shouldn't be a thing. the whole "two number 1 drivers" mentality is bullshit and is going to end up doing more harm than good. if you keep saying that you have two very good drivers, then you should also give them the same treatment.

even andrea stella has said in an interview yesterday that lando was the fastest car of the two during the entire race, and yet here zak is, kissing oscar's ass and backing up max????? who singlehandedly ruined lando's race when he pushed him wide at the start of the gp?

i can understand why adam norris looked so mad and disgruntled by zak brown the entire weekend he's been here. i hope lando doesn't renew his contract once this one runs out.

he deserves a better team. he deserves a team that backs him up, that speaks up for him, that defends him from all the hate he gets for his mental health struggles and constantly being belittled in comparison to oscar.

this is not fair. this behavior is not fair.

things have been very shady at mclaren for a good while now, and it seems shit is getting even worse right now.

lando is clearly on his own. his team treats oscar like a king, while treating lando as if he was a rookie. LANDO BUILT THE TEAM AND HELPED THEM REGAIN THEIR DOMINACY.

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GUYS ON ABOUT?

i am very sorry that i am saying this, but if lando wants a fair and clean chance at a WDC, he needs to leave mclaren.

that team is not going to help him achieve his dream.

that team is nothing anymore.

[miowyaa]

If it's alright, I have another request!!

I LOVED the story you wrote out of my previous request! It was amazing! And hilarious 😂

Do you think (if you have time and are okay with taking another request from me), you could write a Shidou x GN! Or nonbinary reader? I know you don't do NSFW which is totally understandable, but if you could add a touch of ✨spice✨ that'd be great. Oh! And I already have the trope in mind, enemies to lovers 😁

I hope this request is fun for you! If you need to change it in any way, that is perfectly fine. Thanks!

Leave me alone, you freak! ; Shidou x Gn!Reader

A/N: Thank you for your request! This was so funny to write, if you read the wiki/ egoist bible, it says that before a game, Shidou likes to go take a goodluck poop. Not really enemies to LOVERS but definitely enemies with crushes on each other. So um. Yea, enjoy..

CW: you get chased down by an intimidating shidou (not very romantic, i know :( ) , you basically get jumpscared by him. 

It's not everyday that you’re being chased down some random hallway in a large stadium, tablet in hand, praying to whatever force out there to help you make it out alive. As most people would agree, this doesn't usually happen to them either. You’ve never thought of yourself as a bad person, honestly- quite the opposite! If you had to describe yourself (not to toot your own horn,) you’re pretty much an upstanding citizen for the most part. So is it just that bad things happen to good people? For goodness sakes, you’re just trying to do your job.

“Go away!” You cry, the tears threatening to spill out of your eyes, never in your life have you run as fast you are right now. In hot pursuit, is a demon, a monster straight out of your worst nightmares, the living embodiment of all evil: Shidou Ryusei. Mind you, this was all because you very kindly told him that NO, he could NOT take an extra 15 minutes to go take a good luck dump right before his game especially since everyone was waiting for him already. You thought it was fine, it was cool, everything was all hunky-dory..But apparently not, since right after his match ended, he decided to just start sprinting towards you.

Fear, adrenaline, everything bad is literally coursing through your veins right now. You could care less how stupid you look right now as you flail your limbs around trying to get as far away from this man as quickly as possible. You hear him giggling behind you, and it just infuriates you even more. What is this? Some poorly made horror game you pirated made from free models and random free clips of children cries online? Though, to be fair, those kinds of games have the scariest jumpscares. 

Rounding a corner, you stick yourself to the wall before slumping down. It's a bit hard to believe this is happening, all in the span of a few minutes too. Maybe you can convince Ego to put Shidou on some tranquilizers or something. Alas, this is just wishful thinking. For now all you can do is to pick yourself up and walk yourself somewhere that he hopefully is FAR away from, fingers crossed!

It works out so perfectly, you even bust out a little tune. A little hum, if you will. Free from the beast, you’re given a false sense of freedom, unaware of the looming threat staring, looming, lurking… from afar. You caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure in your periphery, but you brushed it off. No way that's him, absolutely no way. You weren't going to let such a trivial matter ruin the rest of your day, nope!

So why is it now that you find yourself beneath him as he grins way too widely? You’re scared that he’s going to start drooling on you or something.

“KYAAAAAAH!” You scream out, finding yourself trapped underneath his weight. God forbid you want to go take a walk or something, because now, there's a freak basically sitting on top of you, pinning you down. Is this a scene straight out of an otome game? Are you… a pervert for having such thoughts…? Well, no, because this isn't your fault. Nothing is EVER your fault!

After your initial scream, you stay quiet staring directly into his eyes. You don't doubt that your face is a deep shade of pink right now, and it's no thanks to the guy on you right now. Who cares if your mind is cycling through thousands of probably non-PG thoughts right now? Though, your train of thought is finally broken when he finally speaks.

“Got you!” Well, NO SHIT.

“Dont worry, I forgive you,” he muses as if there was really any wrongdoing on your part in the first place. Wrapping his arms around you, he basically traps you even more.. You can feel them getting numb, and although you can't say this position is something you hate, embarrassment prevails! 

You’re shaking from a mixture of embarrassment and anger, and if that wasn't bad enough, he doesn't seem to give a crap at all! (Haha, crap, get it? Sorry.) He releases one of your arms from his grip and uses it to cup your face ‘sweetly,’ his fingers tracing over the outline of your jaw as if this were normal. He even lets out a little “heehee.” Maybe you’ve fantasized about this happening before, or maybe you haven't, whose to say? Though you didn't expect it to happen so quickly, it's definitely happening. This is it, you’re living your main character's life..! Is what you would think if you were sound of mind right now. Sound of mind is one way to put it though, since you’re probably part of a minority who thinks like that normally.

You’re still trapped, dare you say, provocative, position and it doesn't look like he's going to let go any time soon. You’re pretty content with staying in this position forever, just not now. Maybe in a few months or years, when he's toned down or something. But for now, you decide that you need to escape. So with all the strength you can muster, you slam your leg up into the area where the sun refuses to shine.

Expectantly, he weakens his grip which gives you just enough time to flee. As you’re running away for the second time, you stop for a moment to turn around to stick your tongue out at him. If Shidou could read minds, he’d know that you were calling him a “loser” and to have “better luck next time!” And although he does not have the required psychic abilities required to telepathically read your mind, he shoots you a wink which you so lovingly return with a middle finger.

Truly, what a love story! Throw the roses or something, everyone..

© miowyaa | please do not steal, repost, or translate any of my work.

[esperantoauthor]

So, I have cancer...

About 6 weeks ago, at the age of 35, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. In less than 2 weeks, I'm having a double mastectomy.

So Esp, why are you posting about this on your fandom blog? Well, because it is really my only anonymous presence on the internet and while I am sharing a lot about my journey with friends and family, there are things I want to say that I don't want them to hear.

Also, I am hoping to do some watch parties with y'all while I am recovering. Time to take advantage of all those disparate time zones so you can watch shit with me in the middle of the work day (my time) and the early evening (your time).

Cancer really does feel like something that happens to other people, stronger people. When it comes for you, it is most of all surreal. I read a little about the stages of grief and something that stood out to me was that denial is a healthy coping mechanism your mind engages to protect itself from overwhelmingly bad news. It lets you put off fully confronting until you are ready, or it lets you confront it in little pieces rather than all at once.

I am incredibly lucky in so many ways. My cancer was caught very early and as long as the pathology comes back showing the same thing the biopsy showed, this surgery will be the beginning and the end of my cancer treatment. The reason it was caught so early feels like such a happy accident that it's a little scary to think about, honestly. I get chills.

So here's the story: A while back, my doctor's office pushed out an online questionnaire that wanted some family history. I filled it out and at the end it said that based on my family history, they recommended I take a genetic cancer panel. I kind of shrugged and said sure, why not. I didn't expect it to show anything. My family cancer history is minimal. I have exactly one blood relative who had breast cancer and she got it in her 70s. My dad had prostate cancer but back then I had no idea that could have anything to do with breast cancer. None of my doctor's have ever brought up concerns that I might be at increased risk of cancer. I did the test with sort of a shrug might as well attitude and that ambivalent decision is the only reason my cancer was caught stage zero.

I learned that I have a pathogenic BRCA mutation (yes, like the one Angelina Jolie was very public about having), which was a lot to process and probably needs to be a separate post. My gynecologist was flabbergasted when I told her, that's how unsuspicious my history looked. I started on the recommended "high risk" schedule of breast screenings, starting with a mammogram and a breast MRI (which I would then alternate doing every 6 months). I was told these tests would establish a baseline and was warned that since they have nothing to compare it to, there is a higher rate of false positives. So I wasn't overly concerned when the MRI results indicated a biopsy. The mammogram was clear, the clinical breast exam was clear. It was probably nothing. I was mostly just stressed about the procedure itself, since I don't do well with needles.

Well, the biopsy did not come back clear, as you probably guessed. They called me the next day to tell me I had cancer. I had a good cry and was mostly in shock. Two days later, I met with an oncologist who explained that even though my cancer was not yet invasive, it had already spread across a large area. So large that the surgery I was expecting to hear about, a lumpectomy, wasn't an option. I had already been reading about mastectomies, since many women choose to do a preventative double mastectomy when they find out they have BRCA. I had mostly decided I would stick with the screenings when I found out that I no longer had that choice. The only question was one breast or two. I thought about it but honestly it was easy to decide to do both at that point. My main fear was going through surgery and that was happening no matter what. My risk for developing cancer on the other side would be pretty high, thanks to my genetics. Plus, if I kept the other breast I would need to take hormone suppressing drugs for at least 5 years, which have unpleasant side effects.

So that's how I got here. My house is full of special mastectomy shirts and surgical bras and antiseptic body wash and special wedge pillows. I'm terrified. I just want to be on the other side of it. Wish me luck!

I don't know if I will post more on this topic, but if I do I will try to use the tag #esperanto does cancer, so feel free to filter that if you want to skip any future posts.

[luckyshouse]

im sorry if you don't want people traumadumping in your askbox over that post and you dont have to answer if thats the case but i just thought you should know it really really resonated.

i'm 19, as a little kid i was a victim of interfamilial COCSA (of course), but my response to that as a kid was to do it to others tenfold. i only had two instances of being 'the victim' but those two experiences gave me questions and curiosities & i would continue to regularly repeat it to other kids for years because i was smart enough to hide my actions and nobody noticed. i stopped once i grew enough to realize that it was wrong (10 years old) but by that point all the damage was done and there's nothing i can do.

i feel like people say 'the cycle of abuse' all the time but they never genuinely think about what it entails. they want to comfort victims by demonizing the people that hurt them. but the internet as a general collective cannot hold two conflicting truths at the same time, you cannot support victims and also support people who create victims, you have to pick a side. like it's dicourse. but like you said it's victims all the way down. the siblings that touched me first were absolutely just recreating their own experiences, we were family, i know their home life.

so when people want to show support for victims of CSA and they want to prove theyre not predator apologists or whatever, they'll default to saying they wish they could kill all abusers and anyone whos ever crossed a boundary deserves to have their rights stripped and be tortured and all this shit. and it lets me know that if i were to be honest about my own CSA they would see it as a sort of trolley problem and decide that im not worth the risk. so ive never told anyone. there is no neutral support for victims like me, only death threats or fetishization(? is that the right word). other victims who would seek me out because i'm capable of playing predator for their own scenarios. and if anything goes wrong with our relationship then they have the '___ is an actual child abuser' card to play for their callout post.

i don't have a good way to conclude this i guess. i don't even know if my points are relevant with your motivations for writing that post. but it helped me feel like out there somewhere there's a space for people with my specific sexual trauma, that isn't crazy biased in one direction or the other. thank you for seeing the pattern and actually fucking trying to stop it. it gives me hope.

i hope you are ok with me posting this, if not, lmk if you want it deleted.

this is exactly what im talking about and something i think about frequently. while i am not personally someone who did that, i carry a lot of guilt for being overly sexual and inappropriate in a lot of situations, and i care a lot about people who did bad things as a kid who didn't know better. its one of the reasons i bring up the fact that i parented multiple kids- when you help protect kids in very very bad and abusive situations, you see them start developing extremely negative and unhealthy behaviors REALLY early. one of the biggest reasons i delved so deeply into child psychology wasn't for myself but because i needed to know the right things to say to the kids in my family because i was seen as the one to go to for help. this meant dealing with kids who HAVE done bad things, and learning why that happened. they were just kids, man, all of them were, and i had to understand the idea of what youre describing very early.

and this is the problem with the way we treat predators exactly. because it literally leaves no room for anybody, including children, to get better, to recover, to learn better, etc. because everyone is so fucking excited to like you said talk about how much they hate and how much they want to kill predators, both to have some sort of power against people they view as oppressive but also to signal that they are good and not connected to these predators. and it leaves a very weird space for people who have done bad things in the past due to their trauma. because the thing is, theyre going to exist. theyre going to keep living. you can't kill them. im very against the death penalty, i'm also anti prison. i hate both of them. the only thing forced isolation in a violent hostile area does is make things worse. ive been hospitalized enough to know that. my father is a correctional officer, my mother is a felon. it doesn't help anyone. and creating these ideas that we just push everyone to the side whos ever done anything bad is equally as bad as never reacting at all, because it's a black and white solution to a very complex and gray problem. you, people like you, people worse than you, etc, all need help. whether or not something happened doesnt change the fact that you deserve help too, and you deserve to recover and find people who will love you and support you through it all.

[scribble-dribble-writes]

The Void - 3

—————

Bob x Yelena

No warnings

—————

She shuffled through her drawer to find a roll of tape but soon realised, she still needed to learn how to organise. She grabbed the item she was looking for from within the mess and closed the drawer as she fought a melancholic smile.

Natasha was the opposite, her room was always well kept. You could tell there was a set order that ruled her life, whereas Yelena’s was touched by chaos.

She fidgeted with the edge of the tape, lost for a couple of seconds, not sure why she was looking for tape in the first place.

“Is this your sister?”, she heard Bob and it brought her back to reality.

He stood in front of her desk, a photo frame in his hand. If it had been anyone else, Yelena’s immediate reaction would have been to grab the picture out of their hands and tell them off for touching things that wasn’t theirs. But to her surprise, she stood by his side to view the photo together.

“That was the last time I saw her.”, she reminisced. She smiled as she recollected a moment but held herself back.

“Tell me.”, he nudged her softly. But she never did this. She never spoke of her, if she continued to share pieces of her, soon she’d be left with nothing to remember.

“Let’s look at that shoulder.”, she quietly pulled away the frame to place it in its place and guided Bob to take a seat on her arm chair.

She felt the heat of his gaze, never leaving her face, boring into her. He didn’t want to push her and yet he wanted to know, to understand and get to know her.

He settled into the seat and she drew closer, this closeness between them had become normal. He held onto the edge of his shirt and pulled it over his shoulder when he winced again. Yelena huffed a laugh as she saw him stuck mid way, his arm over his head, his face lost in his shirt.

She helped him pull it away as it tousled his hair across his face. He smiled looking up at her, his torso in full view as he set his hair in place. Suddenly what felt normal, felt new again. She averted her eyes in the hopes the blush on her cheeks would stop.

“Hold still.”, she instructed him, he pursed his lips and nodded.

She leaned closer, sticking the muscle tape in such a way it would ease his strain. She did it all the time after a fight, it fastened the healing process. But the softness of his skin distracted her, the smell of clean linen, she felt off balance. Making matters worse, almost as if he could read her mind, she felt his hands on her waist as he steadied her.

“How it is that you survived a whole barrage of bullets and have somehow managed to mess up your shoulder?”, she asked as she looked at the bruises.

“If I drew strength from the sentry, I would heal sooner.”, he responded.

“But with everything that happened the last time I was him, I thought it would be better to stay away from it all.”, he continued.

“Have you ever tried since then?”, she asked, her eyes briefly looking at him to find his gaze already set on her. He looked away as though he had been caught. She stepped away, his shoulder was all taped up, his gentle hold still in place as she stood in between his legs.

“I didn’t want to be alone.”, he said with a sheepish grin. “When I tried to get into that headspace again.”

His fear was valid, it was quite intense last time.

“Your shoulder should be alright now.”, she gestured and he shook his head in agreement, removing his hands from her hesitantly. She bit back her smile, he never disputed anything she said. Always was in agreement, in tune. It was absurd how this connection had found her when she most needed it.

“It feels better already.”, he said as he searched her eyes. Somehow both of them still stuck in this threshold of each other’s worlds.

“Do you wish to see her?”, he asked, averting his eyes as he gulped as though he was unsure, as though he had overstepped his bounds.

It took Yelena by surprise, the good and bad resurfacing, the control over her emotions were lost. She wanted to and then held back. She looked at him. His soft spirit elevated the unease.

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”, she said knowing well what he was willing to do for her.

He grew more confident, for her he would risk it. With her, he believed he was stronger, that he was good. The least he could do after everything she had done, was confront his past that lingered around him like an electric fence. Maybe together, he could break free from it.

“I won’t.”, he assured her as he took her hand in his and stood up.

Her heart was racing, gentleness was not part of her life. She grew up devoid of it. For all the kindness in her spirit, the world never treated her with softness. But Bob made up for it, his gentle hold on her always making her crave for more.

He closed his eyes and she followed suit, some part of her still yearning for closure. Her heart skipped a beat as she felt a shiver down her spine, like the very first time she saw Bob in her mind.

She could tell the air had changed around them, a vacuum sealed them in, she began to breathe heavily. A part of her was afraid and another part of her was excited. She didn’t want to open her eyes, she took a step closer to him, her body instinctively craving his protection. She felt him take a hold of her hand and place it over his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart easing her.

“I’m here, you’re not alone in this.”, he said quietly. She opened her eyes, he still stood in front of her but the world around them had changed.

“Bob.”, she said his name as she held onto his hand tightly. She sensed her.

“You have someone waiting for you.”, he smiled and gestured behind her.

————

[revivisection]

you need to be his voice and hands. he needs to be your eyes and legs--and dick.

when you're hooking up on the reg but only just find out that the sex you've been having has been t4t all along lol

i keep calling them mirrors but like. what other more succinct way is there to describe it. recognition of the self through the other (derogatory). they could find companionship and understanding in each other but it's because their problems are so similar that they clash so hard. like adding fire to more fire. truly it requires some dire circumstances to get them to reveal themselves like that, and even then it's not their choice. tervantias accidental matchmaker of the millennium? and theodora for facilitating their meeting. wow. agents of love. and hatred. and every other incredibly complicated feeling in between.

relatedly, commorragh is also an essential part of the cosmas/heinrix relationship. like the scene you get when you don't take heinrix is a lot of fun but straight up whatever connection there is between them fails if they don't go through the horrors together. load bearing shared trauma. and you don't get to learn about his eye n stuff. sad! but also probably real and true, neither of them are opening up without this.

fkhglfg thank you for defending us misha nothing but respect for OUR TROOPS 🫡🫡

if i were an evil sadomasochistic elf i would have a human fetish i would be the most gay romanceable drukhari of them all

#also i am pulling the bisenhorn thing out of my ass and i know basically nothing about that entire series or the character i just think hes#cool and also a lil attractive

bisenhorn. bi-nrix. the proof is right there. sexy fanart of eisenhorn made me download the books so maybe ill get to them after uhhhh like 8 more gaunt's ghosts.

#fyi misha gets hella fucked over in that commissar incident#on one hand is extremely distrustful and assumes the worst. is rightfully very suspicious#however due to his background is wired to follow a commissar regardless. just another example of misha fucking himself and his retinue over

this and #commissar emmot hyde would give my imperial guard ocs strange awakenings for sure MISHA AND EMMOT CROSSOVER INCIDENT

i love the commissar in commorragh he's my special little scumbag... i want to call him by his first name all the time but im like. first i need to establish if whoever im talking to is on a first name basis with my beloved iako sotniy. GO MISHA FOLLOW YOUR CONDITIONING nothin g bad ever happens to the von valanciuses.

cosmas doesn't believe iako at all, but he also thinks he can use him. keyword thinks. iako ends up being the one using HIM and it makes him SO so mad but iako's comments about liking commorragh better than the imperium make him determined to drag the fucker back into realspace to kill him there, so he grits his teeth and plays along. really good if you also bring argenta cause then you can save vigastes n he adds to the iako haterism experience. minor npc win.

consider for me. my rarepair. this is my only piece of evidence i have nothing to say other than i was so shocked and surprised that ravor 1. got spare time and 2. made a friend.

yap abt ur ocs to me THIS INSTANT!!!

[soapywankenopy]

Oh Katniss and Finnick my loves

They are one of the best depictions of friendship in all of fiction

Definitely the best friendship in THG

I love them so much