#i always feel vulnerable when i post different stuff

[ddeongies]

simple

childhood friends (with benefits), angst & smut, non-linear narrative, a lil toxic a lil spicy | 4.2k words 🔞

Yeji always comes back, and they always come back to this. To confident hands pulling Ryujin’s shirt over her head, to undone belt buckles and tripping out of their pants, to lips meeting again, harder this time, desperate.  Ryujin moans, she sighs, she rolls her hips. She throws her head back to let Yeji paint the skin of her neck with purpling bruises. She’s feral as ever. Laying claim to what isn’t hers. (What never has been, what always will be).  But maybe Ryujin can be hers again. For the night at least. And maybe again and again after this until Yeji finally falls too fast for a pretty girl over coffee and they go back to being friends who don’t do this.

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[mariemariemaria]

Does anybody else feel the waves of history crashing over them constantly and like they can't escape the generational trauma that permeates and poisons every interaction they have or do I just need to chill and have a drink lol

[netscapenavigaytor]

guys who say "do anything you want forever" when their friends get shy about potentially doing something Embarassing. and then get shy about it when themself trying to do anything they want forever

[sceletaflores]

SINK IN ME WITH YOUR DOG TEETH!

ೃ⁀➷ pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ wc: 7.0k

ೃ⁀➷ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, feral nasty unhinged logan yes god, logan only slightly losing his humanity but like it’s a lot less sad than it sounds, maybe some toxic relationship dynamics but who cares it’s porn, predator/prey dynamics, p in v, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, HEAVY scent kink (like don’t make me say it…but beware of some very subtle armpit stuff), pain kink, biting is just another form of sexual penetration guys, blood, so much come and come talk, creampie, squirting, this is just gross, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ nat's note: hi…hi y’all…so here’s the winner of the poll and i need everyone to just hear me out for a second! walk with me! this is probably the most unhinged thing i’ve ever written, like omg those tags. this upsetting depravity was inspired by this post by @stupidfuckingwindow and this post by @monimccoythings which both altered the chemical balances of my brain so fiercely i blacked out for a while and when i came to this was in front of me. merry christmas and happy holidays! take this not at all christmas themed fic as my present to you my precious angels. kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

you notice a strange shift in logan...

There’s something off with Logan.

The changes were subtle, but you’ve been with him long enough now to pick up on them. And while he's always had a raw, untamed edge to him, a sort of wildness simmering just beneath the surface, this feels different.

It started with the way he would go quiet for longer than usual, like his mind was too far away for you to reach—lost to somewhere distant.

Logan has always been quiet, but this was a different kind of silence. Conversations that used to flow with ease now hang in the air, unfinished. All of his responses reduced to nothing but low grunts and clipped words.

And he was more territorial over you, so much more.

His hand has started to linger at the small of your back or the curve of your waist for a lot longer when you’re in public, his strong grip firm enough to remind you—and anyone nearby—that you’re his.

He would fume at even the slightest hint of someone else's interest in you, a low warning growl escaping his throat to anyone who spared you a second glance.

It wasn’t just the physical closeness, though. It was also in the way Logan has started to watch you—his sharp gaze a never ending constant. An all imposing, heavily looming shadow.

There were even times late at night when you thought he was asleep, that you’d find him staring at you in the dark.

Not the usual, protective gaze he’d have when he thought you were vulnerable, but something deeper, more intense. His breathing would be slow, measured, but there was this energy, this tension that hummed between the two of you.

The nights he did manage to sleep, he’d hold you close to him, his grip iron-tight, his face buried in your hair. If you tried to shift away, even for a second, he’d stir, his arms pulling you back with a quiet, possessive growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

There were bite marks on your neck when you'd wake up, small enough to pass off as nothing—at least, that’s what you tried to tell yourself, but each one felt like a brand. They were deeper, more deliberate.

Then there was the scent—his scent.

You swear it’s gotten stronger, more potent. It clings to you like a second skin, lingering in your clothes, your sheets, even your hair. An intoxicating blend of leather and pine and musk that makes your head spin.

Each time you left the house without him, he’d pin you to the mattress and rub himself all over you before begrudgingly let you walk out the door. His hands or his face running along the delicate skin of your neck, of your stomach, of your wrists.

Everywhere.

He was claiming you in ways—new ways—that left you both exhilarated and confused.

There were other things too, smaller but no less odd things that were starting to add up.

More and more of your clothes have slowly started to go missing over the past few weeks. Each morning when you open any of your dresser drawers, it seems like there are less and less filling them.

Shirts, shorts, socks, bras, panties. All things you’ve found shoved under his side of the mattress or tucked under his pillow. The most memorable hiding place was the front pocket of his leather jacket, your favorite pair of panties haphazardly stuffed inside.

You haven’t said anything about it yet, unsure if you should be concerned or amused.

It isn’t like he’s truly hurting anyone.

He’s just acting…strange.

A part of you can’t help but be drawn to it—the new intensity, the new rawness. There was something undeniably magnetic about the way he clings to you, like you're his anchor in a world constantly shifting beneath his feet.

You’ve seen Logan at his worst—bloody, broken, and lost. But this? It’s never been like this before.

Whatever it is, it has its claws in him deep, and by extension, you.

You just got home from a run, barely walking through the door and kicking your shoes off when a call of your name rings out from the bedroom.

Logan’s tone stops you in your tracks—low and rough, like gravel crunching underfoot.

Your reaction is nearly instant, breath hitching in your chest, heart skipping a beat as a warmth that has nothing to do with the temperature outside starts to pulse through you steadily.

It’s like you’ve become reprogrammed to respond to him this way, your body reacting before your mind can even catch up as his deep, familiar voice rolls over the sweaty expanse of your skin.

You drop your bag at your feet and slowly make your way to the bedroom, a bead of sweat trailing down your temple as you push the door open.

All the curtains are closed, the only light in the room a yellow glow that shines from your bedside lamp. 

Logan is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his palms, but there’s nothing casual about his posture.

His gaze is locked on you, dark and intense, tracking every step you take, like a lion stalking a gazelle as it drinks from a watering hole.

“Didn’t tell me where you were going.” His eyes gleam as the lamp’s rays reflect off of them, his pupils dilated so he can see you better in the darkness that shrouds your room.

You swallow hard, trying to be as nonchalant as you can as your feet carry you to your dresser. “I went for a run,” you reply, your voice a little too steady, a little too casual.

You tug open the top drawer, rifling around for a clean shirt with a little more focus than necessary to distract yourself from the way his eyes burn a hole into your back.

“You didn’t tell me,” Logan repeats, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. “You know I don’t like it when I don’t know where my girl is.”

There’s a sharp edge to his words, but it’s not anger—it’s something far more primal.

The energy in the room crackles like a storm about to break, and you feel it in your bones, in the way your skin prickles under his gaze.

"I was only gone for an hour," you say, your voice measured, careful. "You were still asleep when I left, I didn’t want to wake you." 

You chance a glance over your shoulder, and the sight of him steals the air from your lungs.

Logan hasn’t moved an inch from his perch on the edge of the bed, but the sheer force of his presence keeps you rooted in place, heart hammering in your chest.

“Hmm, that’s real sweet, baby,” he drawls, sitting up straighter now, leaning forward.

The motion makes him seem larger somehow, shoulders broad and imposing in the dim light. His tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip, and the way his gaze rakes over you feels like a physical touch, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

Your fingers still in the drawer, fabric slipping from your grasp as your pulse pounds in your ears. You can’t bring yourself to look away from him, caught in the snare of his sharp, predatory focus.

You turn slowly, arms falling to hang limply at your sides. "I wasn't gone long."

Logan tilts his head, a low, amused sound rumbling in his chest as he rises to his feet with a fluid, deliberate ease that makes your stomach flip.

“Didn’t feel that way to me, darlin’.” His voice is a deep, gravelly purr. It sends a shiver down your spine. “Felt like forever.”

His eyes never leave yours as he crosses the room, the green completely swallowed by the dark black of his pupils as they seep into the color like oil spilling out over the surface of a lake.

You’ve never seen him like this before, so hungry.

"Logan," you say slowly, back pressed tightly against your dresser. "You're really starting to freak me out." 

Logan hums idly, head cocked to the side as he watches you. "I can hear your heartbeat." 

His tone is calmer now, but there’s still a dangerous edge to it, like a knife pressed just lightly enough against the skin not to break it.

Your pulse races, heat simmering in your stomach despite the slight edge of fear clawing its way through your chest.

He stops in front of you, so close that his scent invades your senses strong enough to make your knees feel like they’re about to buckle beneath you.

“There’s nothin’ to be scared of baby,” he mutters quietly, thick arms coming up to cage you against the dresser. 

Your hold on the wood tightens, your knuckles turning white with the strength of your grip.

It’s almost chemical, the way you can feel your body start to give in to him. The thought fills you with as much arousal as it does unease, a heady combination that churns in your stomach.

You muster up enough will to breathlessly nod in agreement, a quiet submission.

Logan’s lips quirk into the faintest smirk, his heavy gaze dipping to the curve of your neck, lingering on the rapid flutter of your pulse. “That’s my good girl.”

Any words you might say get caught in your throat as you stare up at Logan, wide eyed and steadily leaking wetness into the gusset of your panties. 

His nostrils flare, and a knowing sound rumbles from somewhere dark and low in his chest as his eyes flutter shut on a deep inhale.

Your thighs clench together instinctively, the overwhelming need to be filled wracking through your body like thunder.

When Logan opens his eyes again, there’s no trace of anything but pure animal need. The muscles in his jaw working furiously under his skin in time with the strain of his forearms still caging you in place.

“Yeah…” he trails off slowly, tone both condescending and soothing all at once. “I know you’re not all that scared, honey.”

He leans in, tearing a small whimper from your throat at the way his beard scrapes against your cheek as he crowds you.

His breath fans over the shell of your ear, hot and enticing as they brush against your skin when he speaks again. “I can smell how fuckin’ wet you are.”

Logan’s words send a sharp jolt through you, a broken moan falling from your parted lips as your cheeks heat up so fiercely it’s as if you’ve been slapped.

Your body moves without thinking, pressing up into his hard, unyielding frame like you can’t help it—and maybe you can’t.

“L–Logan…” Your voice trembles, a weak thing that dissolves in your throat as he noses along the skin of your neck.

His hands come down to rest on your waist, palms rough and possessive and warm and a perfect fit where they lay over your curves, anchoring you in place.

“Shhh.” His lips trail down your jaw, leaving wet kisses in their wake. “You don’t gotta say a thing, princess. I know what you need.”

Logan’s hands slip lower, cupping the backs of your thighs with ease before hoisting you onto the dresser like you weigh nothing. The sharp edge of the wood digs into your legs, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about the discomfort.

Your hands go to his shoulders without much of a second thought, nails digging into corded muscle as you try to keep your balance. 

Logan’s hands stay on your thighs, his grip strong enough for you to feel the power behind them without hurting you.

He noses along your sweaty skin like a hot-tempered hound, desperately inhaling greedy lungfuls of your scent wherever he can get it.

Behind your ear, in the crook of your neck, along your collarbone, the exposed swell of your breasts, dangerously close to your underarm.

He groans against your shoulder, a full body shiver jolting his frame. “Smell so fuckin’ good darlin’, drives me goddamn crazy.”

You can’t form a coherent thought, let alone a response. His mouth finally finds yours, claiming you with a ferocity that steals your breath.

Logan's tongue slides against yours, a messy, desperate kiss that has you moaning into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer.

It’s filthy, fueled by nothing but raw need and desperation. Spit drips from your chin to trail down the length of your throat until it gathers in the valley of your breasts. Whether it’s his or yours, it doesn’t matter.

It’s a perfect mix of the both of you, lewd and messy in the way it claims your skin.

Logan breaks the kiss with a low moan, his chest heaving the same as yours as you both inhale harsh lungfuls of air.

His lips are red and raw, swollen in a way that your own must mirror. A string of saliva keeps you connected, drooping thinner and thinner in the space between you until it breaks under the weight of gravity.

Logan doesn’t give you long to catch your breath. His lips trail down your jaw and latch onto the sensitive spot just below your ear, teeth scraping against skin before he sucks hard enough to leave a mark. 

Your head falls back against the wall as his mouth moves lower, dragging the strap of your sports bra down with his teeth.

The way he’s acting—like a man crazed, like he needs you more than he needs air—has you dizzy with need. But there's a part of you that’s still trying to hold onto some semblance of control, to hold onto something familiar in the chaos.

It’s only then that you realize this may be a bad idea. 

Whatever this is, is clearly an accumulation of all the things you’ve noticed over the last couple of weeks.

Maybe indulging Logan will only make things worse, like giving in to him when he’s in such a state could be the tipping point to a much deeper and all consuming issue buried somewhere inside of him.

It can’t possibly be healthy for him to act like this, and it can’t be healthy for you to bask in it as much as you are.

“W–wait.” Your thighs slip shut, hands coming up to push at Logan’s shoulders weakly.

There’s no real force behind your ministrations and you keep your neck bared to him all the while, but he stops anyway, rearing back with a displeased noise. 

His face hovers inches from yours, and for a moment, you swear he looks almost pained—his brows furrowing, jaw tightening as though reigning himself in is a Herculean effort.

His hands remain on your thighs, trembling slightly as he keeps himself rooted in place, clearly fighting every instinct roaring through him to just take what he wants.

“You don’t want me to stop, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, a stark contrast to the restraint in his expression. His thumbs stroke idly against your skin, his touch soothing even as his words drip with pure, feral confidence. “I can smell the way your pussy’s achin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re shakin’ for me.”

You are—your whole body feels like it’s on the verge of unraveling under his touch, your resolve crumbling faster than you’d like to admit.

Everything you were going to say gets clogged in your brain on the way out, leaving you silent as you hold his gaze.

You don’t even have the capability to feel embarrassed at the way you blanch, lost in the way his scent attacks your senses, in the rough drag of his palms over your bare thighs, in the way your lips still tingle from his kiss.

Logan sighs, long and all suffering as his hands come to rest on both of your shut knees. The impatient raise of his brow paired with the dissatisfied curl of his lips is enough to shake you to the core.

“Now, you gonna show it to me?” His fingers drum along your knee, his patience thinning. “Or am I gonna have to make you.”

And it may sound like one, but you know it’s not a question. 

It’s a choice.

Your mind races, hands clenching and unclenching on Logan’s shoulders as you weigh your options. His own hands squeeze your knees, just hard enough to let you feel it in your bones.

You spread your legs.

Logan doesn’t waste a second, dropping to his knees in front of you with a satisfied rumble and a predatory gleam in his eyes. His hands grip your thighs, pushing them even wider. Wide enough to make you feel exposed, vulnerable in the best way. 

Your head dips, chin falling to your chest as you watch the way Logan takes up the space between your legs. Your shorts are soaked, fabric so drenched that it’s melded to the shape of your cunt, your puffy folds on display for his greedy eyes.

“Fuck,” Logan breathes, his voice cracking like a whip in the quiet room. His hands find your waistband, and the dull sound of fabric ripping rings out.

The sturdy cotton tears like tissue paper in his hands, the scraps of your shorts falling carelessly to the floor, leaving you in nothing but the light blue panties you slipped on before your run. 

The way he gazes at the space between your thighs is feral, unrestrained, like he’s a man starving for his next meal—and you’re it.

“Look at that…” Logan mutters, almost to himself as he runs his knuckle along the wet cotton of your panties. His touch is featherlight, barely any pressure at all, but it’s enough.

Your breath hitches, a sharp intake of air at the teasing touch, and your hips instinctively cant forward, silently begging for more. 

Logan's eyes flick up to yours, a dark smirk curling his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you—and how much you're already falling apart.

“Eager fuckin’ thing,” he drawls, voice rough with arousal. He leans forward, his hot breath ghosting over your soaked panties, sending a shiver racing down your spine. “You want me to give your pussy some kisses, baby?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words never make it out. Logan’s lips press against the damp fabric, placing a kiss right over where your covered clit throbs with need.

Your head falls back to rest on the wall behind you, a shocked moan bursting from your lips.

“Logan.” His name is pulled from your mouth like a plea, but he doesn’t let up, the sharp edge of his teeth scraping over the sensitive bundle of nerves hidden beneath the soaked barrier of your underwear.

“Hmm?” He hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core. “Thought you wanted me to stop?”

The taunt is maddening, the rasp of his voice and the teasing flicks of his tongue combining to unravel you piece by piece. 

You shake your head furiously, thighs trembling where they rest on his broad shoulders. “N-no—don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Logan chuckles darkly, his hands sliding up your thighs to hook his fingers into the thin waistband of your panties. 

“That’s more like it,” he taunts. With a single, sharp tug, the ruined fabric joins the scraps of your shorts on the floor.

Logan groans at the sight of your bare cunt, slick with your juices and flushed with arousal. His mouth waters, his tongue running along the sharp points of his canines in anticipation.

You’re already so ready for him.

“You smell so fuckin’ good,” he growls, leaning in to drag his nose along the slick seam of your folds. The deep inhale he takes is obscene, sending a ripple of anticipation through your entire body. “Know that you taste even better.”

Logan licks a broad stripe through your folds, groaning like the taste of you is enough to satisfy him completely. His hands grip your thighs tighter, keeping you spread and utterly at his mercy as he begins to work in earnest.

He alternates between laving the tip of his tongue over your clit and dipping down to fuck into you, his beard scraping along the skin of your thighs in a way that’s almost too much. Your head falls back, hitting the wall with a soft thud as your vision blurs.

“God, Logan.” You squirm on the vanity, but he holds you steady, growling low and deep into your core like your moaning only spurs him on.

“That’s it,” he mutters between licks, his words unmistakably smug. “Make those pretty little sounds for me, baby.”

Logan circles your clit with the flat of his tongue, alternating between firm, deliberate strokes and light, teasing flicks that leave you gasping for air.

You cry out, fingers tangling in his thick, unruly hair as he repeats the motions, your thighs starting to tremble on either side of his head.

Every time your hips buck against him, he growls, the vibrations of it sinking into your skin and amplifying the pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Stay still,” he orders, his voice muffled against your dripping core but no less commanding. His hands tighten on your thighs, holding you in place with an unrelenting grip. “You’re not in charge, sweetheart.”

You whimper, your whole body trembling as you fight the urge to grind against his face. But it’s impossible to stay still when he’s licking into you like a man possessed, his mouth working you over with an intensity that has your vision going hazy.

“I know, you're just so damn needy, aren’t you, baby?” He drawls , pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with your arousal. “You love this, hmm? Lettin’ me take care of you?”

You can only nod, words failing you as his fingers replace his mouth, sliding through your spit soaked cunt.

“You’re so goddamn pretty down here.” Logan mutters, almost to himself, spreading your puffy, abused folds obscenely wide. 

He teases your entrance, fingertips dipping into your warm heat only to retract a second later. You whine, high and embarrassing as your hips twitch with want.

Logan watches your face closely, his expression equal parts smug and adoring as he finally sinks one thick finger inside you, curling it just right.

“Fuck,” you breathe, your head lolling back he adds a second finger, stretching you in a way that has your toes curling. He pumps them slowly at first, each deliberate thrust sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body.

“Takin’ me so well,” Logan murmurs, his thumb brushes over your clit, drawing tight circles that make your thighs tremble. “So tight and wet for me. You’re makin’ me crazy, darlin’.”

Your moans grow louder, unrestrained, as he picks up the pace, his fingers plunging into you with a rhythm that has your skin burning hotter and hotter.

Logan’s mouth returns to you with renewed fervor, tongue and lips working in perfect tandem as he drags you closer to the edge. 

He shakes his head back and forth like an animal, his nose rubbing up against your clit deliciously as buries his tongue as deep in your cunt as it’ll go. The coarse hair of his beard scratches the sensitive skin of your inner thighs red and raw.

You can’t think, can’t breathe, your entire world narrowing down to the feel of his mouth on you. 

“Logan—” Your voice cracks, your head falling back against the wall as the spring of pleasure inside you winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. “I’m—fuck—I’m so close—”

“Good,” he growls, pumping his fingers in time with the flicks of his tongue. “I can feel you squeezin’ me. I want you to come for me, baby. Wanna taste every fuckin’ drop.”

You’re powerless to resist.

You cry out, thighs clamping shut on either side of his head as you come on his tongue. Your body shakes so violently you knock a few things off the vanity, the distant sound of glass shattering hardly registers. 

Logan growls, low and dragged from the back of his throat in such a way that makes it reverberate in the space between your legs. His own arms come up, grip strong and encouraging as he forces your legs around his head even tighter than before.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, licking and sucking and pumping his fingers to drag you through the aftershocks like a man obsessed. 

When you finally come back to yourself, panting and trembling, Logan’s holding your shaking thighs apart, his mouth still pressed to you in soft, languid strokes.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, voice rough and gravelly as he presses a final kiss to your oversensitive clit. 

Logan’s hands slide up to your hips, gripping tight as he rises to his feet, towering over you with that same dark, predatory gleam in his eyes. 

His lips are even redder than before, swollen and slick with your juices. His beard is damp and shining in the low light, and the smug, satisfied smirk on his face sends another pulse of heat through your already spent body.

“Good girl,” he purrs, not even bothering to wipe his mouth before leaning in to capture your lips in a kiss that’s all heat and possession. 

You can taste yourself on his tongue, the salt and musk mingling with the raw hunger. It’s filthy and intoxicating, and it leaves you gasping for air when he finally pulls away.

But Logan’s far from finished.

His hands slide under your ass, lifting you off the dresser with ease. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he carries you to the bed and tosses you on it with little preamble.

Your back hits the mattress hard enough to have you bouncing on it once, twice, three times before Logan is crawling up to blanket your body with his. 

The heavy weight of his metal laced bones sink you into the soft plushness, keeping you stuck beneath him with nowhere to go.

Which you know is exactly where he wants you.

He slots his hips between yours, dragging the straining jut of his cock along your sensitive cunt. You can feel the warmth of him even through the thick material of his sweats, a scalding plane of heat that makes your cunt ache with need. 

You can feel the damp patch where his clothed tip nudges against your clit, and you know from that alone he’s already soaked through the cotton with pre-come. His cock leaking like a faucet in the harsh confines of his bottoms while he ate you out.

“Feel that?” Logan asks, voice hoarse as he buries his head in your neck. “That’s all ‘cause of you, baby. Got me drippin’ like I busted a damn pipe.”

The sharp intake of air you suck in at his words does nearly nothing to help your breathlessness, your desperation bleeding through as your frantic hands push at the waistband of his bottoms. “Off. Off.”

Logan huffs a rough laugh against your neck, his warm breath skating across your skin as his lips ghost over your pulse. “So fuckin’ bossy.”

He doesn’t move to help you, not right away, savoring the way your hands fumble and tug, your frustration bubbling over in breathy little gasps.

“You want it that bad, huh?” he teases, the rough timbre of his voice a stark contrast to the gentleness of his lips pressing along your jaw. “Look at you, so damn needy. Can’t even wait for me to get my cock out.”

You only tug harder, patience nonexistent as your fingers curl into the waistband. “Please, Logan. Don’t tease.”

“Alright, alright.” Logan finally gives in, sitting back just enough to push them over his hips, freeing his cock.

It springs free, slapping against his stomach heavy and slick with pre-come, the ruddy tip glistening in the low light.

The sight alone has you clenching around nothing, a devastatingly desperate noise falls from your lips as the ache between your thighs builds to an almost unbearable throb.

He makes quick work of ripping his shirt over his head, carelessly tossing it behind him before he’s back on you.

This time, when he bullies his hips in between yours, there's nothing separating you.

You feel every inch of his cock as it grinds along the seam of your cunt. The velvety skin is almost scalding as it drags against your own, the drool of pre-come only adding more to your own wetness.

Logan presses you into the mattress harder, rutting against your cunt almost desperately as he noses along your damp, overheated skin.

His mouth is everywhere. Sucking marks where the junction of your neck meets your shoulder, lapping up the sweat that pools in the valley of your breasts, licking a filthy stripe across the side of your face that has your cheeks burning.

He buries his nose in the sweaty skin of your underarm, whining and panting like a surly dog all over again. Each breath is hot and wet against you, and it only seems to make him hungrier, greedier. His cock blurts even more pre-come onto your skin with every inhale he takes.

It should gross you out. 

It should be utterly mortifying, but the sight of Logan like this only leaves you thrumming with want. 

His desperation, the raw, unfiltered way he takes you in—like he can’t get close enough, can’t have enough of you—has your pulse racing and your mind spinning out of control. 

You feel his nose press harder against your skin, the heat of his breath fanning over you as he groans, a deep, guttural sound that reverberates right through you. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice gravelly and broken. “You smell so goddamn good. Can’t help it. Can’t fuckin’—” His hips jerk, the weight of his cock sliding slickly against your cunt, bumping up against your clit in a way that makes you shiver. 

“Logan,” you whimper, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders, nails digging into his skin. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing the friction, the relief, the unbearable stretch you know only he can give you. “Please, I can’t take it anymore. I need you—need you so bad.”

He smirks, his lips curling against your skin as he nips at the curve of your jaw. “Need me, huh?” he murmurs, his tone dark and teasing. “Need my cock inside you, stretchin’ you open? Tell me, baby. Tell me how bad you need it.”

“So bad.” Your hips tilt up instinctively, desperate for him to push inside. The head of his cock catches at your entrance, the blunt pressure sending a jolt of electricity through your body. “Need you so bad it hurts. Please—please don’t make me wait.”

Logan growls, a feral sound. “Such a good girl when you beg for me.” he snarls, big hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise so he can flip you on your front, gently manhandling you until you're on all fours. “Gonna fill you up, princess.”

His hands knead the soft flesh of your ass as he lines himself up behind you. The weight of his cock presses against your entrance, slick and ready, and for a moment, he just stays there, teasing.

Your arms shake beneath you, elbows locked as you force yourself to stay still, patient.

The head of his cock nudges against you, spreading your slickness, and your body trembles in anticipation. He sinks himself into you in one deep, unrelenting thrust.

The stretch is instant, the burn delicious as he pushes inside, inch by inch, filling you in one fluid, devastating stroke. A choked gasp spills from your lips as he bottoms out, his cock seated so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

“Fuck.” Logan stills, his cock pulsing inside you as he lets you adjust, but the restraint is fleeting. 

His hands glide up your back, palms rough and grounding as they map every curve, every quiver of your body. He starts grinding his hips in slow circles, pressing every inch of his cock along your velvety walls. 

Your head drops between your arms, brows pinched together as you take in greedy lungfuls of air. You’ll never get used to this, the way Logan fills you so perfectly, no matter how many times it’s been.

“Come on, baby.” Logan leans down to press a soft kiss between your shoulder blades, his lips fever hot. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you could hardly wait. Now’s your chance, fuck me.”

It takes a few long seconds for his words to cunt through the molasses clouding your mind, the small thrust of his hips hinting at what he wants you to do.

You let out a pitiful whimper, hands digging into your bed’s puffy comforter as you start rocking your hips. 

You start slow, letting yourself build up a nice, steady rhythm as Logan purrs words of encouragement from behind you. His hands never leave your hips, thumbs rubbing soft circles over your skin as you start to pick up the pace.

“That’s it,” he encourages darkly, giving the rippling muscle of your ass a sharp swat. “Find the fuckin’ spot, baby. Write your name on this cock, tell everyone who it belongs to.”

You cry out at the sting of his palm, bouncing yourself on his length impossibly faster. Your arms burn under the strain of your movements, but you can’t stop chasing the high of pleasure that shoots up your spine.

The sound of skin on skin fills the room, a lewd slap slap slap as you fuck yourself on Logan’s cock like he’s a replacement for the cheap suction cup dildo collecting dust in a box hidden away in your closet—like he’s nothing but a expertly shaped lump of silicon molded solely for your pleasure.

You can feel yourself getting close to the edge, and in nearly no time at all. The telltale coil buried deep in your belly winding tighter and tighter as you work yourself on Logan’s cock hard enough that the cheap frame of your bed thumps against the wall.

It might be embarrassing if you weren’t so far gone already, so fuck drunk that the too loud moans falling from your lips hardly phase you.

It's like there's nothing but the feel of Logan inside you, bumping against that spot inside you that has stars shining behind your closed eyes. 

“Close already?” Logan taunts from behind you, voice just the tiniest but breathless, but the way his cock pulses and jerks where it’s sheathed in your cunt lets you know he’s right there with you. “I know you are, honey. I can feel how she’s squeezin’ me, so damn tight.”

His hands dig into your hips, not even waiting for a response as he starts thrusting in time with your bounces. He pounds into you, hips snapping against your ass hard enough to sting.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come too baby,” he bites out, the rhythm of his hips getting sloppier. “Gonna come so fuckin’ hard, fill you up so good. Shit–”

Logan pulls out enough that only the thick tip of his cock stays sheathed in the warmth of your cunt, his body falling to hunch over yours as he pumps his come into you with a feral growl.

You whine at the feeling of his release filling you, painting your insides with spurt after spurt of thick come. It’s so much, it’s always so much. A rush of warmth that floods your insides each time without fail.

And just like that, the feeling alone has you coming.

Your back arches as your cunt gushes over the tip of his cock, drenching his thighs and the rest of his shaft in your essence. You think you may scream, but it’s hard to tell over the white noise rushing through your ears.

Your arms finally buckle under you as Logan helps you ride out the last few tremors of your orgasm with a few slow rocks of his hips, and your spent body collapses onto the mattress.

Logan’s low noises of pleasure barely register as your chest heaves almost violently, your lungs desperately trying to get as much air as they possibly can.

But you barely have time to catch your breath before Logan plants his knees back firmly on the mattress and starts thrusting, again. 

“Logan!” Your hands scramble for purchase on the mussed sheets of your bed, the overstimulation making your legs kick out frantically.

“You thought we were done?” Logan asks, his tone equal parts amused and mocking. “You popped twice already, baby. S’only fair that you let me catch up.”

With no warning, he takes you in his arms, pulling his cock out just long enough to flip you on your back. He throws your legs over his shoulders before plunging back inside your fucked open cunt with a filthy squelch. 

He feels even bigger like this, yet your body swallows his cock like it’s nothing. The spongy warmth of your walls melding to the shape of him like it’s what you were made for. 

The coarse hair of his happy trail drags across your clit each time he thrusts, adding to the blistering feeling where the knife's edge of too much too much too much meets not nearly enough.

His come stuffed in your trembling cunt only makes it all the more filthy, his cock plunging inside you and coming back out slick and wet on every thrust. 

Your lips fall open on a broken moan, eyes screwing shut as you work your cunt around him, feeling the way his release gets fucked deeper and deeper inside you.

Logan notices, of course he does.

A dark chuckle rumbles against your own as he leans down enough to whisper into your slack mouth. “You like havin’ someone come in your pussy, baby?”

You moan into his mouth unabashedly, loudly. Both of your eyes burning as tears threaten to fall down the flushed skin of your cheeks, your throat going dry and scratchy in the best way possible. 

“Shit–” Your hands claw at the rippling muscles of his back desperately, nails digging into his skin hard enough that you feel the unmistakable slickness of his blood coating the tips of your fingers.

The pain spurs him on, his head tips down on a low groan and his eyes squeezing together for a split second before he’s spewing filth again.

“You want some more?” Logan asks, tone going dark like he already knows the answer as his hips speed up impossible faster. “You want me to come again?”

You don’t respond, you can’t respond. You can barely make a coherent thought. 

All you can manage are whiny moans that fall from your slack lips, broken little uh uh uh’s that get punched out with each new thrust. Your nails rake down his back mercilessly, leaving behind deep red welts that heal as you go.

“Yeah, I know you do.” He turns his head to nip at the skin over the delicate bone of your ankle where it bounces near his head, sharp teeth digging in enough to have you whining pitifully. “You love havin’ a messy fuckin’ pussy, don’t you? Love being stuffed so full of my come you can’t even hold it all, huh?”

His words hit you like a physical blow, lighting up your body from the inside out. Your thighs shake where they’re wrapped around his hips, ankles locking over his lower back so he couldn’t pull out if he wanted to.

His come mixes with your juices to coat his cock, completely drenched all slick and shiny in the dull light of your bedroom. It drips down almost leisurely compared to the near feral snap of his hips, trailing all the way down his length to his heavy balls. 

“Yes.” He groans, reverent. “Give it to me, baby. Wanna feel you come on my cock again, feels so fuckin’ good. Can’t ever get enough—”

You’ve never heard him like this, so high of pleasure that his speech slurs and his words all meld together into one filthy stream of ramblings that has you sinking your nails even deeper into his back and coming on his cock with a loud wail.

Your cunt convulses around him, shaking with the force of your release, milking him. 

“Fuck, princess.” Logan pitches forward, his sweaty torso covering yours as he keeps fucking into your shaking body, desperately chasing his own release.

Finally, with a muted roar of your name, he sinks his teeth into the tender skin of your neck and comes for you.

You cry out at the sharp sting of his teeth bearing down hard enough to draw blood, your vision whiting out with the pleasure of being claimed in every way imaginable.

Logan’s hips only stop when he’s drained of every last drop, his body shaking where it lays over yours. He laps at the broken skin of your neck, a soft gesture that isn’t quite an apology for making you bleed—because you know that he isn’t sorry whatsoever—but it’s nice nonetheless.

Your arms come up to circle around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as the exhaustion hits you all at once. You get lost in the steady rhythm of Logan catching his breath, in the way his heart pounds against his ribcage where his chest is pressed to your own, in the way his fingers twitch and flex on your hips.

The last thing you hear as you drift off, his come starting to leak down your thighs in thick streams of white, is a hushed whisper of “I got you, baby. I’m right here, I’m always right here.”

It puts you at ease, all the worry you felt over the last few weeks slipping from your mind like grains of sand through your fingers.

Maybe, this new side of Logan isn’t so bad after all.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[rafesangelita]

hey sweetie, can i request please [🍪] chocolate chip cookie with rafe cameron and based on the song " hard times" by ethel cain. you know how much i like her (both of you are so talented). you're free with the plot, you can make it angst, fluff, smut, whatever you want with a soft or a dark!rafe. as you please. tysm for considerate it and also congrats on your 5k. so proud of you. and take your time !! so excited <3

♡ “i’m tired of you still tied to me, it’s just the way that you are. i’m tired of you, too tired to leave.”— the never ending cycle of rafe causing you pain and making you feel better.

warnings: a lot of angst, barry being the mediator, crying, shouting, description of unprotected sex, emotional abuse (?)

a/n: i won’t lie, i hadn’t really given ethel cain a chance but when i was reading the lyrics to base this fic off of- MY HEART. i related to this song so much, it shocked me how i never gave it a try. thank you for participating and sending in this request :( i love you so much!! @nemesyaaa

you were everything rafe wasn’t. sweet, gentle, nurturing, patient. surely you two couldn’t work, right? instead of your differences driving you two apart, it drew you closer like the pieces of a puzzle. you filled his voids while he filled yours. maybe you were too young, but you couldn’t recognize that love, this love, could be bad. you clung onto the remnants of rafe that was good, to you it overshadowed everything else. the rage, the cruelty, the possessiveness, the pain. it was who he was, and you were okay with that.

“why are you cryin’? i told you about that shit already!” you jumped when rafe slammed his fist down on the table, his knuckles already split and bruised. “you’re shouting at me, what do you expect?” you cried more, your pink nails glittering under the light of barry’s dingy trailer. barry cleared his throat awkwardly, flashing you an apologetic look as you rushed to wipe your eyes. rafe ignored your sniffles while he sorted out his product. “do you really ‘gotta make her cry bruh?” barry took a seat after you left the kitchen.

rafe was quiet for a moment, eyes trailing up to look at your curled up form on the worn out couch. he saw the shake in your shoulders, the ruffles of your long skirt disheveled from laying on the thin fabric. you didn’t ask to be here. you didn’t ask for any of this. rafe’s jaw clenched as he handed the scale over to barry. “weight this out, i’ll be right back.” he grumbled, walking over to you. rafe was terrible at comforting people, let alone you who just happened to be the most sensitive person in the world. “hey..” his voice was low as he squatted down.

you took a breath, moving your hair away from your face as rafe turned you around. your skin was flushed, your cheeks hot while your lips swelled from biting on them so hard. “you look pretty.” he wiped a stray tear from your cheek before pressing a kiss to your temple. “you scare me sometimes.” you rasped, tracing his jaw as he picked you up, scooping you in his arms as your head rested on his chest. rafe walked you two down the dark hallway, and entered a bedroom where he laid you down.

you knew what was coming, your hand finding rafe’s as he hiked your skirt up around your hips. rafe knew you wanted intimacy, unfortunately this was the only way he knew how to give it to you. with every thrust of his hips bringing you closer and closer to that peak, you watched his expression morph into one of confliction. like he was sorry for doing this, but also on the edge of pure euphoria himself. you came with a cry of his name, your fingers wrapping around his digits while you felt him empty himself inside of you.

in those few minutes of post orgasm bliss, he held onto you and kissed you like you were the only thing that existed. it was pure heaven. and like always, just when you think you can stay like this forever, he gets up and leaves you naked and vulnerable. “me and barry got some stuff to do. we’ll be back later.” he stroked your cheek before shutting the door. there, in the pitch black darkness, you listened as the engines of rafe and his business partner’s dirt bikes roared to life, the sound fading away as he left you again.

[moonstruckme]

happy new year lovie!!!! i feel bad for requesting this bc just thinking ab the volume of ur inbox is a little overwhelming and ive gone a bit overboard 😭

but..... bodyguard!james finds out his mum is quite sick right before his shift one day and leaves to take care of her after letting reader know. he has to take the week off and reader is visiting and bringing them their favorite homecooked meals everyday (which she has memorised bc, bless him, james loves to talk abt his mum) and james is LOVEEESTRUCK. she's there, bright and early every morning (with a different bodyguard bc god forbid she leaves the house with no protection right in front of james' own two eyes!!!) with muffins and flowers and bags of food in hand :( james is enamored and so sweet on her!!!!! and reader is obsessing over how vulnerable and emotionally in tune james is at a time like this!!!!! i'm thinking maybe confessions are getting pretty hard to hold back by the end of the week ☹️🩷

thank you! (if you do decide to write this or if you dont for letting me ramble on in your asks x)

Don't feel bad my love! Thank you for requesting :)

cw: sick family member

bodyguard!James x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

No matter how many times James has visited home throughout his adult life, he always manages to discover something he’s forgotten about living there. Like how particular his mum is about the way the dish towel is folded, or which drawer the scissors are kept in, or the ungodly amount of door-to-door salesmen that come by on a daily basis. 

Lately, he’s being plagued by the last. He recalls them being vaguely annoying when he was younger, but James’ family is currently going through a difficult time that leaves one with somewhat frayed nerves. He very nearly snapped at a particularly tenacious primary school student selling chocolate yesterday. Not one of his finer moments. 

So when the doorbell rings while his mum is trying to sleep down the hall, James has to make an effort to reel his wrath back in before he’s even answered it. 

Funnily enough, any negative emotion completely evaporates when he sees you on the front steps. 

“Hi,” you say, looking apprehensive. 

“Hi,” James echoes. He opens the door the rest of the way, nodding to the fill-in guard you’ve brought with you. “Hey, Singh.”

Singh nods in return. 

“I hope it’s alright that I just came by.” You give him a sheepish sort of smile. “I didn’t even realize I don’t have your phone number until now. You’re always just…there.” 

James laughs, the mood that’s descended over him since getting the call about his mum lifting slightly. “Yeah, I suppose I am. What brings you out, sweetheart?” 

You hoist the bags you’re carrying a bit higher in your arms. “I brought some stuff for you and your mom, if that’s okay.” 

A tiny hand fists around his heart, squeezing pleasantly. “Course it is,” he all but coos. “Come on in. Singh, you alright to stay here and keep watch?” 

Luckily, the other man doesn’t think to remember that James is currently on leave, and so defers to him with a curt nod. James shoots him a smile as you come inside, closing the door behind you. 

“They put Singh on day shift?” he asks, taking one of the bags from you and leading you into the kitchen. “He’s barely finished training.” 

“He seems fine,” you say in your good-natured way. 

“He took you to a location that’s never been reconned without even bringing another guard to post outside.” 

“It’s your mom’s house, Jamie.” The smile is evident in your voice, sweeter even than the smell wafting out of these bags. God, he’s missed you. “I doubt he suspects either of you are going to try and hurt me.” 

“He should be prepared for the possibility,” James says, but he can’t manage to work any menace into his tone even to tease you. You tilt your head at him, mouth curving up to one side like you’re well acquainted with his particular brand of silliness, and he lets his grievances go instantly. “You didn’t have to bring us anything, angel face.” 

You flush a bit at the endearment, directing a soft smile down at his family’s old wooden table (which is great, because now James is in the position of being jealous of a table). “I wanted to do something,” you reply simply. “How’s your mom?” 

“She’s alright.” Not great. Not worse, which is always good. If the only thing he accomplishes in a day is that she doesn’t get worse, James can feel good about that. “She’s sleeping in this morning.” 

“Oh, shit.” Your voice drops to a hush like the breeze blowing through leaves. “I haven’t woken her, have I?” 

James grins. “No, you’re good. She can sleep through anything.” 

You lose a breath. “Right, well I brought some meals to last you a few days,” you say, digging some containers out of the bag. “It can all be heated up whenever you’re ready to eat, and—oh, also some flowers. I know it’s stupid, but I thought they might brighten things up for you two.” James doesn’t think it’s stupid at all, but you go on before he can tell you so. “Can I put these in your freezer? I brought some muffins for this morning too, if you want them.” 

“Yeah,” James says, the word leaving him on a breath. “I mean, yeah to both. Thank you.” He grabs several of the containers as well, showing you to the freezer. You both start cramming them in between things, wherever they’ll fit. He takes note of the food as it goes in, a heady warmth growing in his chest. “Did you make all of this?” 

You hum in brisk affirmation. “I had plenty of time on my hands yesterday. Turns out things are pretty boring without you around.” 

“How’d you know what to make? This is all—these are our favorites.” 

You turn to him, a tenderhearted sort of smile curving your lips. “You talk about your mom a lot, Jamie,” you say. “I know all her favorites by now. And the things she’d make that were your favorites, too.” 

James hadn’t realized he’d spent so much time rambling about his mum. It hurts his chest a bit to think of it now, worse to think that you’d been listening so intently. 

“This is only really enough to get you through a few days,” you go on, oblivious to his yearning, “but I figured I’d come back with more if you’re both alright with it.” You look at him as you pack the last of the food away, your gaze careful. “I don’t want to intrude or anything.” 

“You could never intrude.” James isn’t sure how he gets the words out, his heart ballooning until it’s nearly cutting off his airflow. The cool air breezing onto one side of his face stops, and he realizes you’ve shut the freezer. “This is just…so, so kind of you. I don’t know what to say.” 

��James.” Your voice is soft. Your smile has faded, and now you look at him with an unabashed, steady kindness. “You don’t have to say anything. I can’t stand the thought of you and your mom going through this. I wanted to help, somehow.” One of your shoulders comes up in a sheepish half-shrug. “Even if it’s really small.” 

He wraps his arms around your shoulders, and you hesitate only a second before bringing your arms around him too. You squeeze him tight. James lets himself relish the feel of it, lovelorn. “It’s not small,” he says fervently. “It really…it means a lot, sweetheart.” 

You only squeeze tighter in response. When he lets you go, your gaze is sad. Worried. You ask without prelude, “Are you doing okay?” 

James gives you a half-smile. The truth of it. “Yeah, we’re alright over here. It’s hard to see her like this, but I think everything’s going to be okay.” You nod, solemn in your understanding. “Sounds like I might be doing better than you, actually, if your company’s bad enough that you’re entertaining yourself in the kitchen all day.” 

You crack a smile at that, and James’ heart lightens. “Yeah, Singh’s no you. He doesn’t seem to like to chat.” 

“Ahh, so that’s why you’ve really come out here, yeah? You just missed me.” 

“You’ve caught me.” 

It’s said like a joke, but James’ pride inflates foolishly nonetheless. “I hate that I can’t be there,” he says. “Especially now that I know they’ve put Singh on my shift.” 

“He’s not so bad,” you laugh, heading towards the table. You fold up the bags. “Anyway, it’s more important that you’re here. And I’ll be back in a couple days to restock you.” 

James fixes you with a look as you start for the door. “You really don’t have to.” 

“I’m going to,” you say breezily. “Don’t forget to put the flowers in water, and the muffins are strawberry chocolate chip.” He grins. His mum’s favorite. “I’ll tell Singh you were raving about him.” 

“Oh, please do.” He rolls his eyes, feeling lighter than he has in days. “Thanks, angel.” 

You shoot him a smile worthy of the moniker as you go out the door. “See you in a couple days, Jamie.”

[rasenko-tsudzu]

On Limits

CW for serious discussion! This isn't a teasy post, sorry! I'm still talking about hypnosis stuff, so keep that in mind!

I don't know what exactly prompted me to say this, but:

Any limits you have are entirely valid and nobody can take them away from you.

People fantasise about having their inhibitions taken away. And that's fine! You can fantasise about whatever you want! And as long as you and anyone else involved is ok with it, you can make that fantasy as close to reality as you want! But! There is a difference between "I want to be seduced/hypnotised/convinced/'forced' to break this inhibition" and someone genuinely breaking a limit.

Sometimes it's an accident, and that's ok! Misunderstandings happen, and most people get that. However! This is usually very easy to avoid! Check people's limits before you do things with them! But even that alone isn't the whole story. Sometimes, people just don't feel like things right now, or change their minds, and that's ok too! You can totally like something a lot one day and not find it appealing the next, that's a part of experimentation and the way we develop as people!

Hypnosis is fun for a lot of us precisely because of how open and malleable it makes us. It's fun to be helpless like that! But the reason we can afford that vulnerability is because of a fundamental level of trust. If someone breaks that trust, you don't owe them anything. Your mind is an important thing! It can be fun to pretend it isn't, but it is!

You might run into a situation where someone asks you to do something you aren't sure you want to do. You feel good, because you're hypnotised and you like that, but don't let that feeling good make you do things you ABSOLUTELY DO NOT WANT TO. This is especially for those who are new to this! Some people are, unfortunately, cruel and exploitative, and will try to use that good feeling in ways that are genuinely immoral. Here are some red flags to watch out for:

Someone who tries to put you into a trance whenever you disagree with them on liking something. I don't mean in the bratty way where you actually really want to give in but put up a resistant front, I mean in the genuinely "I'm going to change your mind regardless of how you feel" way as if they can bypass your desires entirely.

Someone who complains about how restrictive your limits are or says you're a bad person or a prude or anything like that because you won't try things you aren't comfortable with.

Someone who you don't know at all who thinks hypnotic triggers are like a magical spell they can use to do whatever they want to you or that one glance at something vaguely hypnotic will make you so mindless you'll ignore how creepy they are.

This may seem obvious, but it's sometimes hard to think clearly if you're entranced and blissful and overlook how manipulative some people are being.

Also, always remember that you can take things back! Consent only lasts as long as you want it to! You don't need to justify yourself. You can decide what you like and what you don't, and change it as your feelings change or situation changes, and a respectful partner will understand and accept it. You can have different limits for different people, or be largely open and have very specific limits even if they're uncommon ones, and that's fine. You don't have to let people call you things you don't like, even if it's just a gut reaction. You don't have to let people sexualise you in one way even if you enjoy it when they do another way.

Anyone who tries to tell you that your limits aren't important, or are dumb, or contradictory, or hypocritical, or anything like that shouldn't be listened to or trusted. It's all right to be confused by someone's limits and try to better understand them. It's ok to find that someone's limits aren't compatible with your wants. But never, ever let tell someone tell you that your limits don't matter.

[nipuni]

Hello! Time for another blog post! I think my last one was two months ago and a lot has happened since 😊

We have been attending a ton of historical recreation events so I still have many photos to share, hope you don't hate those! It's been really fun! We are exhausted and all out of social battery however so we are taking it easy this month. Another thing that's been happening a lot is that even when we are not dressed in historical clothing we keep getting stopped by strangers on the street because of our everyday outfits, it's been like that for a couple of years now so we are no longer startled or nervous about it but it's happening more and more often now and it's so nice! we always end up chatting about the events we go to and our jobs and hobbies and exchanging contacts or they ask for photos and stuff! people are really kind and excited about it and I still find it so surprising in the best way. We grew up in a very hostile city and environment and that makes you paranoid and cynical so these interactions and response has been healing really. I know their words will stick with us for years to come 😭 Sadly the unbearable heat is starting though so that means our outings for the next three months will be limited to the crack of dawn and after sunset 😞 but at least the summer brings a lot of fruit with it so we can sit at home and eat pineapples and strawberries while we wait for autumn.

My family came to visit a few months ago too and we made them watch most of Doctor Who's season one to four and some of our favourite episodes from all the other seasons lmao. And much to our delight they really enjoyed it!! They both loved Ten the most and my step dad is now in love with Martha 🥰

We have also been watching the current season and it's been so fun keeping up with fandom theories in real time and talking about it and speculating with friends in person, it's the first time we get a chance to do it since we got into the series and we are enjoying it a lot!

We also watched season one of Jessica Jones and we loved David's performance as Kilgrave!! He stole the show for real. Kilgrave is such an incredible villain, one of the best I've seen and DT does such an amazing job portraying every aspect of him. He's detestable and volatile and frighteningly powerful and has such an intimidating terrifying presence in the narrative while also being pathetic and vulnerable and ridiculous and childish and so human with all it's worrying implications. It was just so gripping and I wish he had stayed for the rest of the show honestly!! Now we have to pick our next David Tennant series to watch! 😊

Also!! Dragon Age is back!! AHHH I wanted to thank everyone that commented on my last DA pieces, it has made my month to read the comments, I didn't expect so many people to remember my art or my character after so many years and it's so touching and flattering you have no idea 😭💘 I look forward to making more and sharing them with you all, I'm truly grateful for the kindness you've shown me both back then and now I hope you know.

I feel so spoiled lately with all these franchises that I love releasing new content!! I've never been in these many fandoms at once!! I have so many ideas to draw and keep jumping back and forth between drawings from different shows and games AAAAA it's a good and welcome change honestly, keeps me busy and inspired!

Anyway that's all for now I think! I hope you are doing well and this summer/winter is kind to you all ❤️

[arliedraws]

I've seen your posts about AI. I also know it's a pretty polarizing topic and what the majority opinion is, especially in regards to art and writing. And being an artist myself, I totally agree that it sucks, like you have to pay attention and all, but.... I hardly dare to say this because I know how emotional the discourse around AI is, especially on a platform like tumblr, which sometimes seems so strong that I don't participate in a discussion about this topic at all because I feel like people here would hound me for it, but I still use different AI software, but not in the way that I use it to create something that I can publish and pretend that I spent hours creating it myself. I think it can be really helpful.

If I need information about something quickly, it's more efficient than spending a lot of time searching different websites for a particular piece of information.

I also like to think of it as a group member when I'm working on projects. That doesn't mean that I get the ideas from it and then just copy them. In the same way that group work is beneficial, you pass the ball to each other with the AI and exchange ideas that you can then develop further. Or it can help you if you're looking for another word to describe something better, like a dictionary. And I still know how to use real dictionaries or do proper research, because I know that AI can make mistakes and you shouldn't believe everything. Just like it is with information from the internet in general. Anyway, now I come to the actual “confession”, which is that I also use it, not to let the AI create the art, but as a tool to help myself creating it. I usually use reference images for drawings to help me get the scene itself or the anatomy correct etc. Andy capture it properly. But sometimes I have a very specific scene in mind and can't find a suitable reference, and it can take me hours to find something that fits. So I like to use AI to create that reference for me, because unfortunately I don't have people modeling for me and personally it helps me extremely to have examples to work from.

Idk where exactly I'm going with this. But since the general opinion on generative ai seems very clear here, I wanted to finally get this off my chest because I always kept my moth shut being afraid of how others might react, even though I think that my methods are still quite legitimate, as I still do the real work myself. Anyway, I'm looking forward to your opinion.

Ahhhh okay, well, thanks for the vulnerability here.

You know my opinion on AI. I’m not going to tell you you’re a terrible person or anything for using it, but I’m also not going to justify your personal decisions. Instead, I invite you to change your perspective.

My opinion is this—and it’s more of a question: why are you creating the art? I’m going to hit a few of your main points and just pose questions because I think this gets to be more philosophical than a cut-and-dry “if you use AI, you are a bad guy.” Because I don’t think that—I also don’t think you should use it.

The reason I don’t blame people for being attracted to using AI is because as human beings, we’re designed to find the most efficient way to do things. Thinking and using creativity is a huge caloric expenditure. Right? Naturally, we’re attracted to ways that things can be done FOR us and reduce our cognitive load. Your brain is working as it was designed! But this is also a really cool way to take away your voice and mold you into someone who cannot think for themself.

(This is also what you’re doing by “confessing” to me. You’re unloading your cognitive/emotional burden so you can keep on doing the thing you know is probably a bit shady.)

First of all, I don’t know you, so I don’t know what your art training is. However, you need to train your brain to start coming up with stuff on your own. I am really sorry, but I don’t buy the “I don’t have enough references.” When there are free resources like Unsplash.com and even just looking at buildings around you, the furniture in your house, etc, you DO have the references. But you need to learn how to use them. This is a tool.

Second thing, if the reference isn’t exactly what you need, then you need to start learning volume and shapes. You need to study anatomy. Eventually, you will be able to look at a reference and understand how perspective works and be able to transform a reference in your head to what you need. OR - start combining references. If I’m doing a full scene, I probably have about 5-6 reference photos I’m working from. This is a tool.

Third, start taking photos of yourself for reference images. If you can’t find what you need, do that. I periodically have to go into my camera roll to delete the god-awful reference poses for myself. This is a tool.

Fourth, start a collection of things that “strike you.” Start a reference blog. Have a folder filled with images that intrigue you. Personally, I take an insane number of photos when I’m traveling. For example, I went to a mansion for a tour and took photos of all the early 20th century objects and rooms so I would have these in my arsenal. This is a tool.

My fundamental question is this—why are you having an algorithm create what’s in your head for you? Why not learn how to do these things instead? Your imagination is so cool. The process of creating is making happy mistakes. What do you think Bob Ross would say to you? When you use AI, you’re just copying. The imaginative part has been done for you. You’re just a tool of the robot.

We do so much to avoid frustration, but frustration is the part of creating. When we can see the skills we need to learn, that’s how we know we’re improving. It means you’re trying, and when you press through that discomfort, that’s when you grow. Stop seeing this as a block to your end goal but as an opportunity to continue your infinite journey as an artist. Celebrate that there are so many beautiful things to learn.

Additionally, please don’t see AI as a group project. A group project indicates that all parties involved consent to participate, and I know most artists do not want their art to be used in this way. Imagine if you learned to do all the things I’ve described above and taken time/years/frustration/love to develop these skills, and someone years later then took your work and said “It’s okay - we ALL contributed to this.” It’s just not true.

The artists you see online don’t simply sit down and draw a bunch of cool stuff without practice. I watch Youtube videos of professionals. I draw a gazillion sketches of just MOUTHS or hands so I can create my own references in my mind. Why would you deprive yourself of this?

Look, I think it comes down to this: if you’re looking for efficiency and ‘getting it done’ quickly, then why are you doing it? Are you enjoying the process? If you aren’t, why are you even doing it?

If you need a robot to imagine something for you, then you don’t actually want to do it.

[youhideastar]

Fangs of Fortune Recs!

By popular demand! This list is very preliminary, since new stuff is being written all the time! But for now, here are a few of my favorites:

Throw the Windows Wide by achray (@achray1)

You know when an author writes a fic that captures exactly the vibe of a pairing that made you fall in love with that pairing in the first place? It’s so hard to do, because you have to start by perfectly capturing both characters as individuals, but this author makes it look effortless. Here, Zhuo Yichen sees Zhao Yuanzhou kissing Li Lun—a sight that definitely wasn’t meant for him—and has a conversation with him about it afterward. The author’s command of the characters’ speech patterns and body language is flawless, and this fic gave me SO many feelings about these two. Bonus 1: it’s followed by a VERY HOT sequel. Bonus 2: I would rate this as pretty accessible to folks who haven’t seen the series yet. Bonus 3: check out the same author’s Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Demon Sex (But Were Afraid To Ask), which is SO cute and features a lot of embarrassed Zhuo Yichen (my favorite!).

unbroken vow by ximilu

One of the great gifts this show gives fic writers is the multiplicity of opportunities for fuck-or-die setups (or, to be more specific to the genre, “only dual cultivation can save you” setups), and there are several great examples, but this one is my fave. Set during the arc when Zhuo Yichen is carrying around massive amounts of demonic qi but no demonic core to ground it… well, I can’t do better than the author’s summary: “Stop me, then.” Li Lun isn’t looking at Zhuo Yichen at all when he says it, all his attention turned to hurting Zhao Yuanzhou instead. “Save your precious Xiao-Zhuo daren. Fuck a core into him yourself.” Absolutely nobody is having a good time in this fic, each for their own different reasons, and the angst is so, so delicious.

Honorable mention goes to full of tangled karma by angryteapot, which uses dual cultivation to solve the Episode 34 dilemma with a delightful mpreg threesome scheme – come for the porn, stay for Wen Xiao righteously and literally kicking Zhao Yuanzhou when he’s down because he trampled all over her agency.

 Silly Concern, Serious Question by dykemania (@yeliuxi)

After the mpreg joke during the Ying Long arc, Zhuo Yichen asks Wen Xiao if she actually thought he might be pregnant. Their conversation is so tender and so vulnerable – the author has such a great handle on their relationship and on the two characters as individuals: Wen Xiao matter-of-fact and protective, Zhuo Yichen bravely persevering through his embarrassment. I’ve re-read this like three times already because reading it feels like a warm hug.

Others!

I also recommend Onmyo-Jin’s (@onmyo-jin) awesome collection of bite-size fics, of which my favorites are Out of habit (Zhao Yuanzhou doing a great impression of the cat who sits on your laptop while you’re trying to work) and In danger of you (the classic “we’re being chased so we have to make out to conceal our identities”).

Finally, I love fruits of your labor by ghostrunner (@witchmachine), which is another great fic that’s super accessible to folks who haven’t taken the plunge to watch the show yet. It’s a missing scene from Episode 31 (the gathering-branches-from-the-sacred-tree bit), but most of all it’s Zhuo Yichen and Zhao Yuanzhou finally stepping over the line between friends and lovers, taking joy in the discovery of one another’s desires.

(And I’d be remiss if I missed this opportunity to plug my own post-canon fic, The Wedding of the Great Demon, which is also very accessible for a reader who hasn’t seen the drama yet!)

[kayadrake123]

Love 

Tim Drake x Reader long Headcannons

Hey guys! Hope you’re all good. I haven’t posted for a while and I thought it would be nice to make a come back with a long head cannon about you and Tim’s relationship. Here you go! I will be posting more stuff soon!

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

Contrary to belief, Tim is actually a very affectionate person

And he has different ways of showing it depending on who you are

With his siblings he always makes sure to ask them about their interests and to get frequent updates on their lives 

He doesn’t mind them talking his ear off, even though he pretends he does with them by groaning and rolling his eyes 

Might get them a gift here and there

For example whenever he sees a book Jason may be interested in, he sneaks it into his apartment later that night with a note that says ‘hopefully this will make you leave me alone for a while’ 

He’s just kidding of course

With his friends he does pretty much the same thing, but he makes sure to add in a lot of reassuring hugs with them

Now with you his lover, he’s the softest he has ever been. 

He didn’t even think it was possible for him to be down this bad, I mean he’s been in other relationships but NOTHING will ever compare to the love he feels for you

He finds himself being vulnerable without even wanting to because you just have this effect on him where he instantly melts and feels safe in your presence

He has many love languages, but his main three are definitely physical touch, quality time and acts of service

He wants to be near you all the time

You radiate warmth and beauty and he finds himself being pulled towards you, that’s how you met in the first place 

He loves hugging you 

The feeling of your arms wrapped around him as he clings to you brings him immense happiness 

A hug from you can heal anything and everything 

He has a habit of crossing your body parts when you sit next to each other, with or without people around 

What I mean by this is that you’d be sitting next to him in a booth at a restaurant and Tim would make sure to cross your forearms together on the table where your hand is resting and hold your hand 

He drapes one of your legs over his when you’re sitting next to each other on a couch 

Neck kisses. 

He loves the way you squirm when he kisses you there and the beautiful smile that spreads across your gorgeous lips

He loves when you kiss him on random places of his body, such as his back when he’s facing away from you or his arm when it’s positioned above your head

He loves when you drag the tips of your nails across his arm or his back, he falls asleep to that all the time, especially on the hard nights 

He loves giving you massages, anywhere at anytime 

Whenever you guys go on walks he likes to link your pinkies together because he thinks it’s so wholesome and gentle - you’re both very independent but still want to be close to each other even if it’s the slightest touch 

Always opens the car door for you. ALWAYS 

He actually gets upset if you don’t let him do it 

He will hold your bag for you DO NOT EVEN TRY TO FIGHT HIM ON THIS 

Loves that when you do your nails (if you get your nails done) you ask him what colour you should get 

Loves it even more when you listen to him and choose the colour he chose 

Your feet are sore after walking in heels the whole night? He will pick you up bridal style and carry you. No questions asked. 

At galas when he can see you’re getting hot, he’ll grab a fan that he stored in his suit jacket and wordlessly fan you 

He loves laying his head in your lap and when you stroke his hair

Loves when you give him kisses on the tip of his nose 

When you first bit him he was like ???? What are they doing ??? 

But he got used to it and understands that you get a cuteness overload that makes you bite those you love

If you’re also a vigilante he always wants to be your partner on missions and patrol 

Hates when you get hurt like he actually cries I’m not kidding 

Not in front of his siblings (unless you’re dying or the injury is very severe) but later when you get home after confirming you are in fact okay 

Once you got shot in the knee when he was all the way across town from you on patrol

He dropped everything he was going to see you and make sure you’re okay (bailed on a lead he’s been following for 6 months) 

When you told him you were okay he nodded but you knew he didn’t believe you

The truth is Tim heard your scream over the comms and how in pain you sounded - he also knew you were still in so much fucking pain because your body was tense and with every movement he could see you forcing yourself to not cry out in pain 

Hates to see you upset when he gets hurt and will spend the next few days, weeks if he has to, reassuring you that he is okay 

He worships you. 

In and out of the bedroom 

He takes his time with you, kissing up your legs, your stomach, your chest and then he captures your lips in the most desperate and passionate kiss that leaves you breathless and wanting more of him 

He loves the feeling of your body against his, skin-to-skin 

He always picks positions where he can feel your body against his

He also likes cuddling skin-to-skin 

He thinks you are the most beautiful and amazing human he has ever met and he feels so privileged and lucky to have you as his lover 

He loves being loved by you and he loves loving you 

You help him with a lot of things such as his anxiety, anger and his overcompensating 

Tim wasn’t ever really good at letting people love him, with his parents not being very affectionate and loving with him when he was younger 

He’s always been the one who loves and doesn’t get that love back 

But you, you changed that 

You let him know everyday that you love him and that you genuinely care about him and want to be with him 24/7

You’re his best friend and his soulmate and he will love you till his last breath and even beyond the grave

[unreliablesnake]

Home is where your heart is (Vincent de Gramont x reader)

Summary: Vincent keeps you in a golden cage, but you want to get out. Winston's arrival gives you hope.

Note: Sort of the continuation of this. / If you find mistakes... that's on me. I was in a hurry. / If you want to know when I post new stuff, follow @unreliablesnakefics and hit the get notifications button. I don't have a taglist.

Warnings: afab!reader, power imbalance

An arm was protectively–or maybe possessively–wrapped around your body when you woke up in the Marquis' bed the next morning. Technically, he was still a stranger to you, yet you had fallen into his trap the night before, giving in to this primal need that he brought out of you.

At this very moment, when the fog was rising from your brain, you felt disgusted. Was the sex good? Sure. Did you lose your pride? Absolutely. So you tried to pry his arm off of yourself, hoping to get out of bed and take a long, warm shower to wash away every trace of him, but he only tightened his grip on you.

“Stay,” was all he said, but you didn't stop. When he realized you weren't giving up just because he said so, he let out a groan and forcefully turned you around to face him. “If I tell you to stay, I expect you to do it.”

You gulped, unable to decide what the best strategy was in this situation. If you resisted, he could easily get mad and hurt you. If you remained silent and nodded obediently, you would simply submit to him. “I just wanted to take a shower,” you told him quietly.

“Good, I'll join you. Later.”

His green eyes were watching you with a curious look and you could feel your cheeks heat up from the unwanted attention. This man had you in a chokehold somehow, but there was nothing you could do to escape it–and honestly, you weren't even sure if that's what you wanted.

Because as terrible as he was, he had a charming personality when he put some effort into his behavior. He was like a black hole, pulling you in and tearing you apart no matter how hard you tried to resist.

You wondered what he thought you were to him. A pet? A prisoner? A guest? Whatever the answer was, you felt like you were locked in a golden cage, kept under close surveillance by him. He barely let you out of his sight, you were always expected to be near him in case he wanted something from you.

Because there was always something–a compliment, a well-calculated touch, or a rhetorical question he didn't really need you to answer. He was giving you mixed signals and you hated it. What the hell did he want from you? Was this all what he was planning to achieve, to lure you into his bed?

“What are you thinking about, mon amour?” he suddenly asked while he pushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

Under different circumstances, it would have sounded like he truly cared, but you knew better than to believe that. He just wanted to see inside your head, probably wondering if you were plotting against him. After all, being naked in bed next to you made him vulnerable. Sure, he could protect himself, but you were also good at this game and he knew that.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked in the end. He let out a questioning hum, his palm threateningly resting on the side of your neck. “Why did you bring me here? You didn't answer my question last night.”

A small smile appeared on his lips, as if he was thinking about something funny. “I always get what I want. And this time, I wanted you,” he explained. “Do you have any idea how disarmingly beautiful you are? The first time I saw you in pictures, I didn't realize this. But when we met in person, I instantly knew that I needed you on my side.”

“As a prisoner or a slave?”

He leaned closer and kissed you surprisingly gently. “As a partner. My lover. Call it whatever you want,” he whispered against your lips.

Sadly, you believed him. You believed him when he said these words, when his hands moved from your neck to your waist, pulling you on top of him. Without him giving you an order or even saying a word, you kissed him again, and this was the best you'd felt in a long time.

Two days later he told you he was meeting someone in the Louvre and that he needed you to be there. Not like he hadn't been taking you to all of his meetings in the past days, but something was different about this one. It was almost… personal.

He didn't let you have a say in anything, he just pointed at an outfit and told you how to do your makeup. There was no freedom for you here, you knew that by now, but this was unusual, even for him. In the car the Marquis told you to start calling him Vincent, and something told you the timing wasn't a coincidence.

In the Louvre you quickly found out why he needed you to be there by his side. He was meeting Winston there, but when you wanted to stand up and welcome him, Vincent put his hand on your thigh to stop you. He didn't even look at you, he just instinctively reached out.

Winston immediately noticed his move and gave you a look of concern, but you just shook your head to make sure he didn't do or say anything that would enrage Vincent. You saw what he had done to Charon, you didn't want the same thing to happen to him.

As it turned out, he brought a message from John Wick himself, the very man who had just challenged him to a duel. He got tense, you could sense it, but you didn't say or do anything that would calm him down. Winston then presented his request regarding the Continental and his own position, but he didn't stop there. “I also want her back in New York,” he said as he looked at you.

After taking a deep breath, Vincent ran a finger down from your neck to your shoulder until his hand was once again resting on the back of the couch. “She stays with me, but the rest is guaranteed if Wick wins the duel,” he said coldly.

“That won't do. I need her in the Continental,” Winston pressed on.

“My answer is still no.” Thick silence fell between the two men, although Winston raised an eyebrow expectantly, forcing Vincent to speak up again. “Why don't we ask her?” he suggested.

He sounded sure of himself, but you were left dumbfounded by his words. Did he really think you would choose him? Were you weak around him? Maybe. Yes. But your loyalty lied with your boss, that didn't change.

“What do you say, love?” Vincent asked with his head curiously tipped to the side.

Your eyes locked with Winston's as you said, “I want to go back to New York.” You could feel the Frenchman tense up next to you, but it didn't bother you. Instead of stopping, you decided to twist the knife even more. “And I want to talk to Winston. Alone,” you clarified.

He drew in a sharp breath as he watched you, burning a hole into you with his stare. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “My men will keep an eye on you, though. I don't want you to leave just yet.”

Nodding, you stood up and followed Winston outside, walking next to him with your hands folded behind your back. You were painfully aware of the two men who were walking not far behind you. Close enough to see your every move, but far enough to be out of earshot luckily. This conversation wasn't meant for them or Vincent, it was supposed to be private.

“What was this all about?” he asked, taking his chance to speak up before you.

“I failed you, I guess.” He raised an eyebrow in question, patiently waiting for your explanation, but you didn't know how to tell him what happened. Then you took a deep breath and said, “I fell straight into his trap and slept with him. I shouldn't have done that, I know, and I'm sorry.”

To your biggest surprise, he began to laugh. “That's all? I can see what he's like. He's used to always getting what he wants, I'm sure he knows how to charm a woman,” he explained. “Is this why he brought you here? I saw the way he was looking at you in New York, I can't say I would be surprised.”

“He wants me to be by his side as his lover,” you replied with a shrug. “But I don't want to stay. I just want to get out of his gravitational field as fast as I can.”

Winston came to a halt and put a hand on your shoulder. “This will be over soon, don't worry. The Table will restore the Continental and we will go on with our lives as if nothing happened,” he tried to assure you.

But despite his best effort, you couldn't calm down, especially after the words Vincent had told him on your way out about what would happen to him if John lost the duel. It was a risk you didn't want him to take, but he was probably too sure of his friend's victory to worry about the outcome.

“We will be fine,” Winston said, somehow knowing what you were thinking about.

You nodded, doing your best to believe him. “And how are you holding up after everything that happened?” you asked, glancing back at one of Vincent's men who had been in New York that day.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he thought about his answer. “I will be fine once everyone is back to normal,” he replied. “You need to hang on just a little longer, then we're going back to New York together. I promise.”

“Is John already–”

“Time is up,” one of the guards said, interrupting you by putting a hand on your shoulder.

You gave your boss a worried look, but he only nodded. “He's already here. We'll meet the Marquis tomorrow,” Winston told you with a supportive smile. “Just one more day and it will be over.”

With that he began to walk towards the exit, and you were escorted back to Vincent. When you entered the room, you were welcomed by his cold gaze. Before you could say anything, he pointed at the couch he had left while you were gone.

“Sit,” he ordered sternly, and you automatically did as you were told. “You want to leave me that badly?”

You didn't know if it was true or not, but you could have sworn you heard a hint of disappointment in his voice. As he was watching you with his hands on his hips, you felt your heart sink for some reason. Did you feel bad for him? No, that couldn't be.

“Answer me.”

“I just want to go home,” you told him quietly.

For long seconds he was just staring at you in silence, but then he cleared his throat and walked over to the couch to look down at you from up close. “You're already home.”

**********

Note 2.0: Should he stay alive after the events of the movie? Should she stay if he does? I can't decide.

[bambi-kinos]

You said in the other post, Paul understands the inner workings of other people well enough, so he's probably not autistic.

What do you think about his poor self awareness? And the (supposed) problem with touching people. And the fact that he often hurts people and is then baffled by it when they tell him?

I'd love to hear more of your opinion!

I think Paul's cold persona, reluctance to touch people, and not understanding when he's hurting people is all related to his personal stubbornness, PTSD, and radical self preservation.

It's hard to explain why Paul is the way he is so I don't blame anyone for thinking he's autistic and I actually agree that he leans that way a bit more than the other Beatles do, it's not coming out of no where. There's a missing coupler between Paul and the rest of mankind. But I think for Paul it is more emotional than a genuine difference in brain structure as compared to allistics. Paul perfectly understands facial expressions, changes in vocal tone and body posture, all that stuff. The disconnect is a deliberate choice on Paul's part to not accept other peoples' feelings in order to protect himself from harm.

A lot of it stems from Mary passing away and how Paul's family did stupid fucking shit for no reason in reponse. Like at one point Paul and Mike were off in their room crying because DUH THEIR MOM HAD FUCKING DIED AND THEY WERE UPSET and one of the aunts came in and told them to stop it because they were hurting Jim when they cried??? LMAO?????????? Then Jim made it worse by having his fits and would belt Paul across the face when Paul talked back to him. (And the thing is we know Paul's family realized this was wrong because one of Paul's aunts later claimed that Jim never hit the kids despite testimonies from Paul and Mike about the "bashings." It's easy to dismiss this stuff as "well it was a different time" and there is truth to that but I find it telling that the McCartneys tried to hide Jim hitting his sons despite corporeal punishment being encouraged and embraced by society at large until like, the 1990s at best. Almost as if Jim's abuse was something shameful no matter how encouraged or recommended it was by his peers.)

The point is I think that this means that Paul learned early on that no one gave a shit when he expressed his feelings and that he would actively be punished and savaged for it if he did. It's commonly understood that he's repressed as a result but it seems less understood that this is the likely source of Paul's inner well of rage. Brian's comment that Paul is an angry person is a really fascinating insight into a man that we would not ordinarily call angry. So where is the anger coming from? What did it do to Paul and his relationships?

That kind of upbringing and Paul's natural tendencies to withdraw into himself means that he learned to protect himself early. If he's getting yelled at and punched by his own family members for minor infractions like "crying when my mother dies" and "I want to hang out with my boyfriend" then I don't see why he wouldn't be a seething ball of anger and resentment. It's still present in recent memory with the Howard Stern interview where Paul talked about Jim hitting him and how Paul eventually managed to stop it by saying "Go on do it again!" At which point it stopped being fun and the wind came out of Jim's sails. Never happened again. (Funny how that works isn't it?) Paul is extremely sensitive to being mistreated and knows whose fault it is when he is punished for being human. He doesn't accept being scapegoated for something he didn't do.

That seething anger and resentment turned Paul into someone who had to hide everything for his own safety. And it made him someone who locks people out because he doesn't want to do the emotional labor of giving a shit about their opinions and feelings, it always backfires and it always hurts him. No one, absolutely no one except Linda, ever reciprocated his vulnerability and trust. Paul actively had to hide his grief over Mary's death because his aunts got mad at him over it. He tried to split time between his father and John when they both wanted him resulting in one of those two guys physically attacking him over it, and it wasn't the one who has a reputation for being a wifebeater!

That is what makes Paul choosing John over Jim so momentous. That was when Paul decided that he wasn't going to care about Jim's feelings anymore. He no longer took his POV into account. Jim did nothing but hurt him when Paul needed him to be a dad. Refused to be understanding, even struck him when Paul defied him. This set a much bigger pattern that persists today where Paul refuses to perform the emotional labor of getting invested in other people and their feelings. He tried that for years for his own father, look where it got him? He had to shed that completely just to make it to the fucking Cavern much less as an international superstar.

But this also has a knock on effect. If Paul stops giving weight to the emotional input of the closest people around him and then the people who aren't close to him, then he effectively loses the skill of pausing for a second and thinking "what will happen to other people if I do this, will I inconvenience someone? Will they be ticked off at me? Am I hurting someone if I do this?" That's not so bad when he's climbing to the top but it is a bigger problem when he's trying to function as a human being outside of the paranoid shithole that was Forthlin Road.

I think that Paul is frightened of and resentful about having to care what people think (remember how pissed off he would get when he got bad grades in school from teachers who got sexually excited from caning students) and that this wellspring of emotion has never dried up inside him. The original targets of his rage are dead and gone but the rage still remains because justice was never served and Paul didn't get closure. Those self defense mechanisms don't disappear when he is happy and comfortable which means that he accidentally hurts John when John tries to open up to him and that he's callous to Linda when she's having issues in their relationship. This is because the last time Paul gave a shit about how his actions appeared to others, his own father slapped him for it or his own aunt told him that being sad wasn't allowed because it hurt daddy's feelings or his three best friends spent 2 years trying to bully him into signing with a crook even going so far as to character assassinate him in the press.

It's akin to scar tissue IMO, Paul has accumulated a lot of it and it interferes with his ability to be self aware and his attempts at physical affection. If you get hurt in the wrong place and develop scar tissue then you can't extend your arm or leg to its fullest extent. Paul suffers from the same thing, just emotionally. He cannot afford to care what people think of him which really means he has to shoot from the hip and hope his instincts land him in the right place.

Like it is true that Paul is affected by internalized homophobia and ohhh societehhhhh and all that so he struggles to express himself because oh my god what if the gay and oh my god i look like a girl what if they treat me like i'm a giiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrllllllllll. But a much more fundamental insecurity is that no one in Paul's immediate circle was willing to make room for his true feelings without judgment when it mattered. His friends and family members happily used that against him to abuse him and had the goddamn gall to pat themselves on the back for it lmao. That's been a major theme in Paul's life and I 100% think that "lack of self awareness" is a defense mechanism he developed so that he protects himself from the burden of expectations. Thinking of himself in the eye of others means opening himself up to their judgment and that's deadly for him. Otherwise he'd be running in 20 different directions trying to make everyone happy which is exactly what he ended up doing when the Beatles were breaking up, with the exact same results of his friends/family members ganging up on him and using his emotional investment in them against him. Which is exactly what Jim tried to do with Paul becoming a Beatle in the first place. Once again it took someone else stiffening Paul's spine (in this case Linda) to get Paul out of the emotional labor pit.

And the thing is Linda Eastman is the only person in the world aside from Paul's kids that didn't try to use Paul's stumbling atrophied attempts at vulnerability against him, ever. She could give him hell in other ways but she never did the below the belt tactics that everyone else in Paul's life (except for Mike) used against him. Paul made a literal physical monument to Linda in response:

And I'll be honest dude I'm 100% projecting here but I find Paul's upbringing very relatable. Those are internal conclusions I came to years ago as well, even up to fielding accusations from other people of not being human and other snide insults John tried throwing at him in Melody Maker. Like no cuz we're perfectly human we're just not going to waste that humanity on you specifically because look what you do with it every time. Ain't no one got time for that.

When Paul says that he feels confused by someone expressing their pain, he's referring to finding out that they were in pain after the fact like when he found out like 13 years later that John was mad at him for not composing the Family Way movie score with him. That is what Paul finds baffling, because he's not going to perceive that in real time (why the fuck would he) and he's sure as hell not going to waste brain power on it. If it is actually that important then someone can bring it up with him again later.

I do know there is a quote floating around about Paul having to tell John to stop adding personal expenses to the Apple account and that Paul was nervous about having to tell John the bad news. I read that more as Paul being bewildered that he was the only one who seemed to be taking these things seriously despite the other Beatles being just as greedy as he was. However it has also been a long time since I read it so I wouldn't stand on that.

Paul ignores other people and their feelings as a self defense mechanism which results in him repressing his natural inclinations for affectionate gestures and reciprocal relationships. Notice that his most natural looking photos are with his wives and children, no one else. He refuses to spend energy on other people after a life time of being pushed around and used and stabbed in the back. No matter what sort of therapeutic language gets thrown around there's no shaking the results of decades of experience. This has become such a foundational building block to his person that it is to Paul what having a beer with dinner is to other people. He isn't even aware that it is something he is doing and has to actively fight it because it is so unconscious.

And that is a lot of things, none of them very good. But I don't believe it makes Paul autistic. It is a separate complex that presents in a very similar way to autism without being the same thing.

[fairydares]

loook i get why the idea of riding the "anti/pro" fandom disk horse makes people gag a little in their mouth and try to opt out entirely, but here's why i went from feeling exactly the same way to taking a firm profiction stance. I've been meaning to make this post for a while.

~10 years ago, I posted a fic for the first time and it got its own harassment campaign. The fic wasn't even sexual, and wasn't going to be (it remains incomplete). It was accurately rated T on fanfiction.net. Anyone in the Fairy Tail fandom will understand this: I literally got harassed for writing a "Lucy leaves the guild" fic💀.

After many nice comments, someone left a pretty nasty one. Hurt, I messaged them back. They acted super attacked that I'd responded (lmao) and after we argued, threatened to "rip my shitty story apart in the comments section" if I responded again. I told them "go ahead lol."

They went ahead.

Now know that it was a relatively small harassment campaign, but at the time, it was devastating. Right around then, I wound up in the hospital. After I got out, I went to excitedly check my fic, and found several reviews saying things I wouldn't repeat to my worst enemy. I was suicide-baited more than once, told "thank fuck you finally abandoned this shitty story, dumb cunt," stuff like that.

There were several accounts involved, and I can't say for sure, but I suspect at least a couple different people were involved, though probably at least half of it was one person.

All the other comments were screeching about how I hadn't updated, mostly. "NO UPDAAATEE WHY DOES THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS TO MEEEE??!!!" was one that stood out after I'd been miserable in a hospital for an extended period of time.

Idk what people think is going on when FT fic authors write this trope, and frankly I don't give a fuck. Because while I was partly writing the story out of some young, cringe feminist rage, I also did genuinely have a real story I was compelled to tell. I was inspired by another, popular fic I loved which used the trope to talk about how trying to shoulder our burdens alone really just hurts both ourselves and everyone who cares about us.

My own story was ultimately going to have similar themes, with more focus on strength, what it means, and in what contexts earning and having it actually matters. In retrospect, no wonder I wound up in hot water, because at the time "Lucy vs. Strength vs. Misogyny" was the FT fandom's Designated Nonsensically Activist Debate™. But that's partly why i wanted to write about it; engaging with the fandom had gotten me thinking about it 🤷‍♂️

Not too long after that, FFNet oh-so-benevolently granted us the ability to delete comments from our own stories (they never took my reports seriously at all, afaik). I deleted all or most of the harassers' comments (may still be a one or two up, and i'm fairly sure there's a couple comments defending my fic from the harassment) without saving screenshots, which I really regret now. I was just so mortified and full of self-loathing about the whole thing that i wanted to forget it completely. Something that had brought me joy at a very lonely, vulnerable period of my life had turned so negative, and i couldn't even tell the people closest to me about it without being made fun of for writing anime fan fiction.

I didn't understand why this happened at the time, but--after a period of trying to forget/bid out of it all with a slight anti lean (a common approach I see people use, and one which I'm not proud of adopting)--I just had to figure out What the Fuck Even Happened There. And I'm telling you, after years of reflecting, wrestling with both sides, and educating myself, that this "status quo of harassment" culture which pervades fandom goes way deeper than you think and comes out of a way darker well than you probably realize. An astonishing amount of this is, quite literally, TERF shit and evangelical shit.

Trying to be in fandom and take a stance of, "Anti/Pro shit? Ew, I'm Not Touching that," is like swimming in a heavily polluted river and being like, "Poison? Cringe. Not me lol."

You might be lucky enough to be in a less-polluted part of the river (AKA a relatively non-toxic fandom, in which case good for you!)...but tbh this rhetoric and peer-signalling will still seep in.

I can't stress enough that pro-fiction, AKA "proship", is the normal, leftist-about-art-and-sex opinion. Pro-ship is against all the horrible things you're against; in fact, pro-ship isn't trivializing real trauma by equating it with fictional trauma, or trying to apply literal evangelical/radfem solutions--which are proven not to prevent or help. Profiction/proship is literally just saying, "Fiction is fiction, reality is reality, and the two don't have a 1:1 relationship. And historically, trying to censor just things we've decided are bad has done nothing but get LGBTQ+ and POCs censored. Therefore, depictions of illegal things shouldn't be censored." That's it. "Proshippers all ship problematic ships," is a brazen lie. Many of them share other fans' disgust for those ships, they just don't believe in censoring fic authors over it.

It is also taking a stand against harassment because--and I hope my own story has helped drive this home--as with all groups who adopt ingroup/outgroup thinking, antis are defined by their tactics, not actual stances on real, serious issues. What happened to me was absolutely a result of anti, "it's okay to 'bully out' anything I just don't like" mindset pervading fandom. In a way, this was the mindset's final form. They didn't even feel the need to cite a reason the trope was "bad" or "wrong"; it annoyed them, and they viewed their own feelings as a valid enough pathway for policing to go right ahead and do so.

In the interest of offering solutions instead of just bitching about problems, I might make a "how to know if you've bought into these types of views"-type post sometime. Also might come back to this and provide some sources/citation.

[butchcarmy]

ALEXITHYMIA CH 1: onions, weed, and pizza

Roommate AU: Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

ao3 link ch 2 ch 3 ch 4

Summary: Carmy can’t put into words how he feels about his roommate. It’s only been a couple months, but here he is looking forward to going home and sharing a smoke with them. That’s all it is, though. There are no underlying feelings, none at all, even if everyone around him has something to say about it. 

Or: Carmy is repressed as ever, but through the combined power of vulnerability, weed, and the horny, Carmy too can find love. 

Tags: hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, cursing, yearning, repression, SO MUCH REPRESSION, angst, mental illness, canon-typical imagery, unresolved tension, for now, virgin carmy, use of weed, alcohol, all that good stuff, carmy character study, eventual smut, gender neutral reader, nonbinary reader, up to you

A/N: HI I've never posted fic on tumblr before but i deeply love Carmy...please enjoy!!!

CHAPTER 1: onions, weed, and pizza

It always stays the same. 

This is the thought that Carmy has when he wakes up, gasping for a chance to just catch his breath and keep it. It’s a kitchen knife twisting like a lock and key in his chest. It fits just right, as all awful and familiar things seem to do.

No matter how many times he wakes up, he’s never anywhere different. That drowning feeling suffocates him in his sleep and follows dutifully into his waking hours. He can’t remember when that haunting started, only that it’s always been with him.

He hates feeling like a drifter, like he’s lost (even though he is both of those things), so he picks a goal and runs after it like a monster. He’s an animal, hunting and working and bleeding until he fucking makes it work , because that’s who he is, and that’s who he’s always been. He can’t not make it work. Because if he can’t do it, then…then what was it all for? 

What is he even for?

These are the thrilling thoughts that serve as the background music to the swirl of his cheap morning coffee, oils rotating in a slow circle. He thinks about getting a nicer brand next time he goes grocery shopping. But that would mean change. That would mean less money on the restaurant, too.

Yeah, so it tastes like shit, but it doesn’t matter. Even if it mattered once. Less and less matters to him these days.

Mornings in Chicago are not technically quiet by definition, but when compared to other times of day, they are. Especially when most of his day is spent in the kitchen wringing out his throat. It isn’t bad to have a quiet morning by normal means, but for him…

The quiet is dangerous.

It’s not silent, but it’s not enough. There’s distant beeping of impatient cars. The whirring sound of the old AC unit. He tries to listen to them, but his rampant thoughts nonetheless rise above them all, buzzing everywhere with nowhere to land. 

A brief analysis of his thoughts reads as such:

Beef sandwiches eggs flour shipment Michael cigarettes smoking sore throat late shipment so tired not sleeping Michael Sugar Mom coffee tastes bad it’s too early my stomach hurts Michael fucking hates you Michael Michael Michael Michael Michael you piece of shit you fucking ki—

“Mornin’, Carmy.”

Until his roommate wakes up, that is. 

When he moved back to Chicago, there was a fact, plain, simple, and unchanging. He wasn’t gonna make rent on his own, not with the restaurant. Not with everything. So maybe he didn’t need to deal with a new roommate, but it’s not like there was a choice. It seemed bearable, survivable enough.

He keeps waiting for the thing that’ll make him grit his teeth, make him regret not getting a place on his own, but it never comes. They’re easy to live with. It’s so easy, as a matter of fact, that it feels strange. The difficulty that he was so certainly expecting just isn’t there. 

If anything, he looks forward to being at home. For someone who lives at work, that feeling is completely foreign.  

They don’t steal his food (not that there’s much). Instead, they cook him food, leaving heated leftovers on the stove on late nights. In Carmy’s case, that’s most nights. They don’t bring over obnoxious company and keep him up with the noise. Rather, he basks in their company, and they make a ruckus between their laughter. Their presence doesn’t stifle him, it soothes him, just like the candle they leave lit in the kitchen for him when he comes home.  They’re not just easy to live with, they’re good to live with, and that’s…

That’s been a hard adjustment, Carmy would say. It’s too much of a good thing that he’s not sure what to do with himself.

On those late nights, they’re usually fast asleep by the time he’s home. But as he sits and eats the leftovers they’ve kept for him, he wants to say something. Something about how a long time ago, there was once a Carmy who cooked for himself, who looked after himself, but that he’s not that Carmy anymore. That it doesn’t matter that he’s a five star chef and they’re just some guy in the kitchen, as they would put it, because he’s…

He’s grateful. Incredibly so.

And yet, the words will never come out. He feels the words tingling on his lips, but it feels scary. He can thank them as many times as he likes (which he does) but it will never capture what he’s really trying to say when he says thank you . There’s too many words, and it just can’t…it just can’t—

It always stays the same. 

“You’re up early,” he says to them when they enter the room. It’s a rare sight to see them up at the early hours he frequents. He sees the morning drowsiness in their mussed hair and big t-shirt stained with hair dye. They yawn back at him, nose scrunching.

Cute , he thinks, and he stamps it down as soon as it flashes through his mind. 

“Randomly woke up.” They fall into the empty seat next to him on the couch, and they rub at the crust around their eyes. “About to head off to work?”

“Unfortunately, yeah,” he replies. There’s a certain sentiment that lies on the tip of his tongue, something about how he wishes he could have a slow morning with them instead. Of course, he can’t voice it. He can’t even come close.

“The plague of the working man,” they sigh. “Well, I got an idea that might cheer you up.”

“...And that would be?”

“Let me paint you a beautiful picture,” they start. They clear their throat and gesture widely with their hands. He notices their chipped nail polish, the writing callus on their middle finger. “Imagine this—you come home from work, tired. You need to relax —something you need to do more often,” they add with a pointed look.  No comment. “And I have dinner ready. Some sort of soup, pasta maybe. I need to check the fridge.” They pause with a yawn. “And before we eat, we smoke a big, fat joint.”

He snorts as they finish, unable to hold back a laugh. 

“That’s a nice picture,” he admits. He doesn’t remember when he started smiling. “Y’know, I was wondering when the joint was gonna pop in.” 

“You fucking know me, man,” they reply, blooming with his interest, his smile. Not that he can perceive that. “So? Thoughts? Haven’t done that in a while, right?”

“Right, right,” he echoes faintly. His mind is already sorting through the pile of tasks on the schedule. “Well, I gotta go over this new recipe with Marcus, today,” he mutters, partially under his breath. “But before that, ingredient orders. And those invoices before the end of the day—and that, that toilet guy was supposed to come today…I think?”

“Dude, I do like, one task, and the day’s over for me,” they say sympathetically, and the look on their face is so serious that Carmy struggles to hide his smile. “You’re crazy.”

“I, I’ve seen you do tasks,” he argues. 

“Name one,” they argue back.

“You did two loads of laundry and did the dishes all before lunch time once,” he says, the memory clear and instant. “And when I woke up, you were vacuuming the whole place.” The immediacy surprises him, and it seems to surprise them, too. 

“Damn, I said name one , but I guess I’m just that good!” They laugh, a breathy, exasperated sort of thing. “Well, point taken. Anyway, it sounds like you’re not gonna be home early tonight.” 

“It is a Friday,” he says, “but…”

“But.”

“Can’t make promises I can’t keep,” he sighs, and shame melts over him like butter on a stainless steel pain. This isn’t anything new. 

“I know, I know,” they say, gracious as ever. “It’s okay. Such is the life of a business owner, yeah?” He searches for some thinly veiled shred of disappointment, frustration in their expression, but he doesn’t. No matter how many times he lets them down, the explosion he’s waiting for never comes. They remain patient, collected through it all. 

Says more about him than them, he supposes. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, “such is the life.” 

“C’est la fucking vie,” they say, and he laughs with a shake of his head. 

It can feel strange to laugh. He worries that the lightness in his chest will expand like a balloon, and he’ll float away. It’s uncontrollable, foreign. It should be scary, how his emotions lead him when he’s around them, not the other way around, but it’s not. 

It’s not scary to loosen up around them, and that’s the scary part. There are no words to describe why. All he can see is that the fear exists, stubborn and persistent. That fear is what makes him snap out of it, makes him look at the clock. He holds back a sigh. 

“Time to go,” he mutters, and they nod.

“And time for me to go back to bed.” They salute him. “Best of luck with your day, brave soldier. And just shoot me a text if you do end up coming back early, ok?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll try. And, thanks. You, you too,” he gets out. He stands up, readjusting the waistband of his pants. “I’ll, uh, see you later.”

“See you,” they say through a yawn, waving at him from where they’re lying down. They’ve taken his spot, sprawled across the couch, tangled hair flayed out on the pillows. 

Cute , he thinks again, and hearing the thought in his brain makes him wanna panic. 

He doesn’t wanna panic, doesn’t wanna think about it at all, so he nods, shuts the door, and heads out to work with a cigarette hastily lit in his mouth. 

By the time it’s Carmy’s lunch break, he swears his vocal cords must have snapped by how tight he was wringing them. 

The soreness has never stopped him from lighting a cig, though. As he stands outside in the back, finally forced to go on his 30, he smokes rather than eating. There’s a sandwich in his pocket, one that was bearing the brunt of test ingredients. He can feel the aluminum wrapping at his fingertips. 

Eventually, he does eat, though, because he sees the way his hands are shaking when he flicks his lighter. He doesn’t wanna shake when he uses a knife, so he eats. He tastes it, but he doesn’t really taste it.

In truth, he wasn’t even planning on taking his lunch break at all. Most days, he forgets about it. The kitchen’s always busy, there’s always something missing, there’s always something that hasn’t been prepped that’s ruining everything, the lights in the hallways keep flickering because they need to fixed, Fak’s supposed to fix them, but he can’t, because Richie’s still out getting the replacement bulbs, the pile of papers on his desk are bigger than he remembers, he doesn’t have enough fucking time—

But then he’s in the middle of chopping an onion, and the cutting board slips. The half-chopped onion and its sliced offspring scatter on the floor with the cutting board. The sound of its fall draws Sydney in like a whip. 

“You okay? Need a bandaid?” Sydney’s already kneeling by him, helping him pick the onions off the floor. 

“I, I’m fine, didn’t drop the knife,” he explains, and it feels like an ocean current is rushing by his ears. “Fucking, I just—such a stupid fucking—” He sucks in a breath and goes silent. 

His entire body feels tight, wound like a spring. He can barely fucking breathe. 

“Hey.” Carmy turns his intense stare from the onions to Sydney, and when he sees her searching expression, he remembers himself. “Maybe you should go take your lunch break.”

“No, I’m fine, really,” he repeats, and he feels like he’s heard this before. From someone else. He can’t remember. Who was it? “The onions—we’re behind on onions—”

“I can handle onions for 30 minutes,” she interrupts, decisive and firm. “Seriously.”

Carmy’s about to say something, but then he’s looking at the onion half in his hand. His hand is shaking. 

“Okay,” he sighs after a beat. “Okay, yeah. Sorry. For fucking up.”

“It happens. We all have our moments.” She shrugs. When he keeps standing there, she makes this shoo-ing motion with her hand. “Go on. Take your 30!”

So here he is, taking his lunch break a whole hour later than he’s supposed to. Although it’s better than most days where he doesn’t take it at all.

She wouldn’t have had to tell you to take a break if you didn’t fuck it all up, he thinks to himself, eyebrows knitted together. When the last time I’ve fucked up something so fucking easy?

He thinks about his dream from last night. A familiar sight of red fire and flames up to the ceiling, crackling so loud it sounded like screaming. The only good part is that when he woke up, he wasn’t at the stove burning his place down. It hasn’t happened at this apartment yet. Carmy hopes it never happens. 

Just get it together, he thinks. He aggressively taps the ash out onto the decrepit ash tray they have in the back. It’s full. You’re supposed to be at this shit. So just be good.

“Cousin.” Carmy snaps his head up, and Richie’s at the door, stepping out. His presence yanks him out of his inner whirlpool, a quickly descending spiral. “Gimme one.”

Wordlessly, Carmy hands him a cigarette. Richie plucks it out of his hand like a flower.

“You had a lighter, but no cigarette?” Carmy comments, squinting at Richie pulling a busted up red lighter from his jean pocket. 

“Shut up,” Richie mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. “Got the wrong damn light bulbs,” he explains unprompted. 

“Alright,” Carmy sighs. He has so little energy that the frustration bypasses him completely, diving instantly into deflated acceptance. “Just return ‘em.”

“Can’t,” Richie says, and when Carmy gives him a look, he elaborates, “no receipt.” 

“ Dude .” Carmy opens his mouth, but then he shuts it again. It’s just not worth it. “Thanks anyway, cousin. We’ll get it done.”

“Don’t fuckin’ thank me, you asshole. I didn’t do shit.” Richie nudges him, but like before, it’s not an angry thing. “Also, toilet guy’s not comin’ today.”

“The fuck? Why ?”

“Canceled,” he replies simply. 

“Fucking hell,” Carmy mutters under his breath. “Did he say when he could reschedule?”

“Not yet.”

“Great.”

“Yep.” Richie tilts his head up, blowing out a slow stream of gray cigarette smoke. “Might as well wait for Fak to get his ass back in town at this rate.”

“I guess.” Carmy sighs. He thinks about all the things he still needs to do. “I dropped this onion I was chopping, earlier,” he mentions out of nowhere. 

“Okay.” Richie gives him a look. “And? You bitches chop those things up faster than I could cut one in half.” 

“I dropped it on the floor,” Carmy tries again, but Richie’s expression remains unchanged. “I never do shit like that.”

“Well, cousin, you did.” Carmy feels something in him deflate. “What’s the big deal?”

“Nevermind,” he replies, because he’s a coward. “Just—just forget it.”

Silence. The spark of a lighter. 

“I’m gonna leave early,” Richie says, like he can just do that. Which…he can, Carmy supposes. “If no one’s gonna show up, what’s the point?” He slaps Carmy’s back, and Carmy doesn’t watch him as he heads back inside. 

Guess all I need to do later is get rid of those papers on the desk , Carmy thinks to himself, idly moving the shortening cigarette between his lips. Then that’ll be it, I guess.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s gone home early. It’s hard to even imagine what he does on days like those. Sleeping, probably.  There’s nothing much else for him to do, not with how tired he is—

Shoot me a text, okay?  

He hears them in the back of his head all of a sudden, and he remembers. 

Oh, he remembers, hands moving to take out his phone. Almost forgot.

“Sorry to bother you, chef.” Carmy’s not sure how he didn’t hear the door opening. Marcus’ head pops out, nose covered in flour. “Just wanted to let you know that we’re gonna need more flour for tomorrow.”

“Order’s not gonna come for a couple days. I thought we had an extra bag left,” Carmy tries, but the guilty look on Marcus’ face explains it all. 

“Dropped it,” Marcus grimaces, and Carmy’s already fucking over it. 

“We’re all fucking up today, chef,” Carmy replies, and the day goes on. 

. . . . .

It’s a strange, delightful miracle, but he manages to get out of the restaurant before the sun sets.

Considering their collective track record, the fact everyone was able to leave early was cosmic intervention. It helps that the toilet guy didn’t come, in an unfortunate way, but still. Standing outside of the restaurant in the evening like this feels…weird. 

It’s not that Carmy’s complaining about a nice thing, it’s just that he wasn’t prepared to have anything good today.

Shower, dinner, and weed, he thinks absentmindedly on the way home. He juggles the three around in his brain. Just the thought of it feels like relaxing. A little.

With company , his brain helpfully adds, and his stomach squirms. 

Self control, he thinks. He needs more self-control. He can’t just keep thinking of them so indulgently. He’s not allowed to think of them that way, because it’s not fair to them. Even if no matter how many times he chastises himself, it never works. Even if they remain in his brain like sun-spots in his vision. Even if it’s not his fault that he just can’t help it.

The thing is, though, it always is. Even when it’s not his fault, it actually is. Always.

You dropped that fucking onion , his brain helpfully adds for no particular reason. Fucking loser.

Fuck off , he thinks back as he approaches his front door. Predictably, it does not stop.

Just as his fingers search for his keys in all of his pockets, he hears something that makes him pause, hands stopped on his waist. It’s music, distant and muffled. They’re probably listening to music in the kitchen. He stands, trying to place the song, but he doesn’t recognize it. 

He does recognize the voice that’s singing over the music, though.

Oh, he realizes. That’s them.

The way their voice clumsily layers over the music shouldn’t make him pause like this. He shouldn’t be doing this, standing in the doorway and listening rather than opening the door. The keys are in his hand. This, this is a breach of privacy, he tells himself, feeling a little dizzy with distress, he just needs to just—

There’s an abrupt, loud clang, and he shoves the door open.

Concern is on the tip of his tongue, but it dies there. The source of the noise lays face-down on the floor—a pan sitting in what seems to be tomato sauce. The matter next to it is what makes the words evaporate from his lips, like they were never there at all. 

They’re kneeled down next to the pan, paper towels in hand, but all they’re wearing is an apron. 

His mind blanks. He thinks he stops breathing. He’s never seen so much of their skin at once. He needs to look away, he thinks, but his eyes keep traveling, traveling, and traveling. It just happens so quickly. He doesn’t mean to look, he doesn’t, but they’re right there and he can see right down their—

“No, I—I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were coming back early!” They exclaim, quickly crossing their arms over their chest, and that’s what makes him tear his eyes away. 

“I—I thought I texted you,” he says quickly, hot face turned to the side, “on my lunch—...“ He stops there, the memory reconstructing itself. 

He forgot.

“It’s fine, I just feel bad about dinner, and, uh—okay, I’m just gonna change real quick, and then I’ll clean this up,” they reply, words rushing out. In the corner of his vision, he sees their bare legs dart to their room.

It seems wrong to just stand here staring at the tomato sauce slowly expand outwards on the floor, so he cleans it up. A couple paper towels later, he’s gotten most of it, and they’ve returned with a change of clothes.

“Sorry,” Carmy starts right as they also go “I’m sorry”. He pauses, meeting their eyes. It’s a lot easier now that they’re wearing leggings and a t-shirt as opposed to, well, nothing. Not to say he doesn’t appreciate the leggings. 

“Sorry you had to see me like that,” they sigh. “I don’t—I don’t usually walk around the place naked, I just—I didn’t think you’d be back—“

“I should’ve texted,” he interrupts. He struggles to not think about them walking around the living room naked. “I forgot. But it, it’s fine. You’re fine. Really. Sorry for not texting.”

“Okay. Cool.” They exhale, a tired noise. “And it’s okay. It happens.” They look at the floor and make a sound of surprise. “Did you clean this up?” The look they give him has far too much gratitude, and it feels like a searing hot iron.

“Yeah, uh.” His hands are moving like he’s trying to explain something, but no words crop up. “Felt weird not to.”

“Well.” They smile, grateful. “Thank you. That was gonna be dinner, but…” They trail off, looking at the floor with a sour expression. “I fucked up.”

“It’s just that sort of day today,” Carmy mutters.

“Shitty day for you, too?” 

“Yeah. Lots of shit went wrong.” Especially me, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it. “You?”

“Gotcha.” They shrug. “As for me—yeah. Really not my best day. It was just, uh, some family shit. You know how it is.”

Carmy makes a sound of acknowledgement. “That sucks.” He doesn’t know much about their family other than that they’re fairly shitty. It’s the same the other way around, too. 

“It’s whatever,” they say, even though it really isn’t, and he knows it. They look at the floor one more time before looking up at him. “Do you just wanna order pizza or something?”

“Yeah, I do,” Carmy replies, his words coming out much more despondent than expected. 

They settle on some pepperoni pizza from a place down the street. It’s a tried and true method—they deliver, it’s cheap, it’s oily, it’s cheesy, it’s good. Just talking about it makes Carmy taste it on the tip of his tongue. 

“You can go and shower if you want. I’ll get the door when pizza comes,” they offer. They’re standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up. 

“Okay, thanks.” Carmy pauses then, gears turning. He’s vaguely worried his memory is going to shit. “Did—did I just say I was gonna shower?” 

“Oh, no, you didn’t, you just always shower when you get home from work, right?” They say it like it’s the weather, like it’s familiar, and that’s when Carmy realizes because it is. After several months of living together, of course they’ve picked up on his habits. It doesn’t need to be a thing. There’s no reason for it to be a thing.

“I do,” Carmy replies faintly, and for some reason, that’s all he can say. 

“Thought so.” They look at him for just a moment, but it makes him feel like his body’s gone transparent. “I notice these things, you know.”

“Yeah.” Carmy looks at them when they turn back to the dishes, back facing him. “You do.” 

He tells himself he’s not gonna think any harder about any of it. He’s not gonna think about the singing, the apron, the way they just notice these things, but then he does. 

He’s in the shower, and he thinks about everything.

The water pressure is pathetic, but the warmth still feels nice. Between that and the sound of the running shower, it’s usually enough to quiet his thoughts. This time, though, it doesn’t. To his credit, he does try to think about anything else. 

He thinks about work, because he always does. He thinks about flour, about onions, about knives. He thinks about the shampoo lathered in his hair. He thinks about those lightbulbs they still need to get. He thinks about food. He thinks about them. He thinks about pizza. He thinks about the way they sing when no one’s around. He thinks about the way they know him. 

He thinks about them, knees on the floor only in a—

He thinks of bashing his head into the tile wall until he explodes.

“Shut the fuck up,” he whispers to himself, rivulets of hot water trailing down his forehead and dripping off his lips. “Shut the fuck up.”

The soreness is still present in his body, but that never quite goes away. He does feel a bit better now that he doesn’t have sweaty, sticky skin, though. It gets even better when he puts on a clean white t-shirt and his favorite sweatpants. It’s a nice surprise from his past self who did his laundry for him. 

This amount of niceness is okay. This is what he’s used to—a shower and comfortable clothes when he’s home from work. That’s enough.

He steps out into the kitchen with a damp towel on his head. He finds them sitting by their one shitty window that opens, pizza box in front of them and joint lit. It casts an orange glow to mix with the golden light from the window. 

“Hey, pizza’s here!” They slap their hand on the greasy cardboard box. “Just got this joint started for us, too.”

“So you weren’t gonna smoke it all on your own?” He doesn’t mean to tease, but he does. He slips into the seat across them, arms resting on the table they placed by the window. 

“I couldn’t smoke this whole thing even if I wanted to,” they protest. “Besides, joints are made for sharing. Here—now you get to take it. Isn’t that nice?” With their elbow propped up on the pizza box, they hold up the joint to him. The lit end of it sizzles a bright orange, emitting a thin trail of smoke up to the ceiling. 

“That is very, very nice,” Carmy agrees, taking it carefully from their fingers. Their face spreads into that contagious grin of theirs, and he’s far from immune. Sometimes he smiles so much around them that his face hurts, rusty and unused. 

Sure, he can blame that on the weed, but if he’s being honest with himself (a rare occasion), that’s a complete lie. Obviously the weed lessens the tension, the stress that winds him up tight. It’s not just the weed that gets him to relax, though. 

It’s them. There’s something disarming about their presence, something that makes him loose-lipped around them. Even when he’s sober, he finds himself feeling comfortable. He’s not quite sure how that happened, or if that’s ever happened. He supposes that isn’t a bad thing. Just something he’s noticed. 

He wonders if they’ve noticed. 

“You like the new rolling papers?” They tuck their knees under their chin, propping their feet up on the chair. 

“Hm.” Carmy lowers the joint from his mouth to give it a good look. He rotates it around in his fingers. “Strawberry?”

“Yeah, it’s strawberry,” they confirm, poorly hiding the excitement in their demeanor. Not that they were trying to. “Can you taste it?” 

He pulls from the joint, the edges of the paper sizzling red with the weed. It’s an even burn this time. He rolls his tongue around in his mouth after he exhales a cloud of smoke. 

“Still no,” he decides after a beat, and they sigh. 

“I don’t know why I ever get my hopes up.”

“I do taste something else in this, though.” He takes another hit, stews on it. “Lavender?”

“Shoulda known you would’ve gotten it on your first tray. Yeah, it’s lavender. I found some lying around.”

“You made this one pretty nice,” he observes, eyes tracing the shape of the joint. “Between the lavender and the new papers, I mean.”

“Well, y’know.” The smile on their face is small and shy. “I don’t smoke joints often, so I wanted to make it nice, and I, uh…”

They’re paused for so long that Carmy interjects. 

“And?”

“And I—want that joint,” they finally say, outstretching their hand. Carmy has a strong feeling that they weren’t originally going to say that, but he hands over the joint nonetheless.

“Strain?” He asks curiously. He can feel the body high creeping up his shoulders, fluid and light.

“The strain that gets you high,” they reply with a grin.

“Oh, thank god,” Carmy sighs in relief, and the way that makes them laugh… It makes his chest tight. 

“To actually answer your question, though—I dunno.” He likes watching the smoke drift from the tip of the joint as they talk, thin gray wisps in the air. “I think it’s a hybrid? Not sure if it’s more one way or not, though…”

“As long as it’s not the weed that puts you to bed.”

“Um…well, if you smoke enough of it, it can.”

They sit together like this for a while, just sitting and taking turns with the joint. It’s an easy, fluid exchange, flowing between them like smoke. No matter how much they both try to blow it out the window, it always comes back in. The smell of weed is strong in the air, earthy and pungent.  

Although he would never describe himself as a talkative person, sitting stoned across from them makes the words come out. Sometimes, he thinks he likes himself better when he’s high—his mind isn’t running circles around itself, and the soreness of his body just floats away. He feels more like a human than a poor imitation of one like he usually does. 

This weed smells kinda good, he thinks, and when they laugh, nose scrunched up, he realizes he said that out loud. 

“That’s literally what I’ve been saying,” they agree, a bright grin lingering on their face. “That’s how you know you’re a fuckin’ stoner!” 

“Feels weird to call myself a stoner,” he muses. He plucks the joint from their outstretched hand. It definitely looks shorter from when they started a moment ago. “But I guess…”

“If you like the smell of weed, you’re too far gone,” they say with a grave expression. “It’s so fucking over for you.”

“Fuck,” he whispers, equally as serious, and then they’re both bursting out into laughter. He likes the sound of their laugh—it’s unabashed, fills up the space. 

“Dude, I’m high,” they whisper after they both calm down, like it’s some sort of secret, and Carmy can’t stop himself from laughing all over again. “Oh my god. Are you high?”

“I—I think I might fucking be,” he gets out between laughs, and that sparks them straight into another cackle of laughter. He’s not supposed to be able to make others laugh, he doesn’t even make himself laugh—but then he’ll say something, and they’re lit up with laughter. 

“We need to eat this pizza now, ” they yell, projecting over their combined noise. They flip the pizza box open, and it smacks Carmy right in the face. 

“Oh,” he reacts mildly.

“Shit, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine, it’s not like you punched me in the face,” he reasons, but their guilty expression persists. “It didn’t hurt, it’s just cardboard.”

“I’m sorry, I’m high,” they sigh apologetically. 

“I know,” he replies with a little smile. His eyes drift down to the pepperoni pizza sitting before them, glorious in its perverse amount of oil. “So, we’re gonna eat this, right?”

“Oh my god, yes we are,” they gasp, and the moment is forgotten. 

When he tears off a pizza slice, the cheese stretches in thin, gooey strings. They grab the slice adjacent to it to snap the strings in half, but they’re both leaned back in their chairs, pizzas in hand, and the cheese is still connected. 

“This doesn’t seem right,” Carmy mutters, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “We should’ve just cut it.”

“How could we have predicted this?” They pull their pizza further back, and the string still doesn’t break. “Wow. I’m honestly impressed. I don’t think it’s ever been this insane before.”

“I think we’d remember.” He’s not sure why he’s still talking and not just running his finger across the string to break it. 

“I think we would, too.” They snort, shaking their head. “This—this is some spaghetti type shit.”

“What? Spaghetti?” He’s genuinely perplexed.

“I—I mean like—that fucking disney movie. With the dogs.” They pause for a moment, mouth silently moving. “Fucking—lady and the, the truck—”

“Uh.” He has to hold back a laugh. “...The lady and the tramp?”

“ Holyshittheladyandthetramp ,” they blurt out in a rush, and the cheese string finally snaps in half. “…Well, I guess it’s not exactly like the lady and the tramp, then.” They take a large bite of their pizza, and it reminds Carmy exactly how hungry he is. 

“You mean lady and the truck,” he corrects, and he can’t stop himself from smiling. Especially not with how good this hot pizza is, delightfully salty and greasy in his mouth. 

“Shut up, I was trying,” they grunt through a mouthful of food. 

“How exactly is this like the lady and the tramp, again? Or, uh, not like it?” 

“Well, it was just like it, but then the string broke.” Somehow, they’re already halfway through their slice. “Could’ve been a beautiful spaghetti moment.”

“Spaghetti moment,” he echoes under his breath, holding back a laugh. “Remind me how that scene goes?”

They go quiet for a moment. It’s like he can see the gears turning in his head. If he’s being honest, he already remembers how that scene goes, but…he wants to hear them say it. He needs to hear them say it. 

“Uh, well, they’re…eating spaghetti. The titular lady and tramp.”  Their eyes are fidgety, flickering back and forth between their pizza and the window. “And they’re sharing the plate, the two of them. They’re eating together, and, um…” 

“...And?” 

They meet his eyes, mouth hanging open, and then they close it. 

“Um, I don’t remember, actually,” they say, shaking their head and blinking. He sees it for the blatant lie that it is, and yet. “Do, do you remember?”

As he stares back at them, unable to look away, he wonders. He wonders about what this really means. About if this really means anything at all, about if he’s going to find out if it does. 

“I don’t remember,” he answers quietly, cowardly, and neither of them say anything else.

Out of the two of them, they’ve always been better with recovering from awkward moments, so they do. They start talking about something else, and the world keeps turning. But in the back of his head, Carmy remains in that moment, unwilling to let it go. 

Why did you say that you didn’t remember? He wants to say. Why didn’t I say that I remembered how it went? Because I remember. They kiss—they fucking kiss. Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that what I wanted to hear?

But because he’s Carmy, he doesn’t say anything. He just eats.

He’s so hungry that the pizza disappears in minutes. It’s delicious, but he’s so high he’s not completely sure he can taste it. Somehow, it remains the best thing he’s ever eaten. 

The rest of the night is a blur. He remembers getting onto the couch at some point. They both decide on a random movie he doesn’t catch the name of. They finish off the joint on the couch together, sinking into its cushions. It burns hot in his throat as it reaches the end. 

And as it turns out, the weed he smoked is the one that puts him to bed. 

“...Ca…Car…” Someone’s calling him. “...Carmy, c’mon. You’re gonna complain about your neck tomorrow if you keep sleeping here.”

“Mhm,” he replies helpfully. He turns his head into the cushion. His body feels like an abstract blob, perfectly molded into the couch cushions.

“Okay, you made a good point. But. ” They laugh quietly, under their breath. “Movie’s been over for like 20 minutes now.”

“Mhm,” he repeats, nearly inaudible. He doesn’t wanna get up. Whenever he falls asleep, it always feels like he’s never gotten an hour of sleep in his life. There’s nothing he needs to think about, worry about. He’s warm and comfortable, and he doesn’t feel like letting that go just yet.

Everything goes silent again for a moment, save for the cars on the road. He begins to drift away again, slipping back into his dreamless sleep. 

But then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and it’s like a smoking brand on his skin. His eyes fly open and he jolts awake, jerking upright. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” they apologize, fretful. Between the dark of night and haze of sleep, they look pretty different. The blue light from the television is streaked across the blurry planes of their face.

“It’s fine,” he replies, drowsy. Speaking feels…heavy. Begrudgingly, he adjusts to sit up. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Weed,” they say with a shrug. 

“How, how long was I—?” He cuts himself off with a yawn, wide with condensation in the corners of his eyes. 

“Only like, 30 minutes.” They yawn back. Typical infectious yawning. “End of the movie sucked anyway.”

“Oh.” Pause. “What was the ending?”

“Love interest died,” they state plainly. “He told her about how he felt, got rejected, and then she died in a car accident. Pretty tragic.”

“Huh.” Carmy makes a face. “That does suck.”

“Yeah, a bit.” They’re idly fiddling with the remote, scrolling through Netflix without reading anything. “I feel like the movie was trying to say something profound about the unpredictability of life or something, but the writing was shit.”

“I guess it’d be too perfect if they got together,” he muses.

“I guess,” they echo. They turn off the tv, and the room goes dark. The only light is from the yellow street lamp right outside their window, wonderful in its inconvenient placement. It illuminates the shape of the back and leaves their face in shadow. “I think I remember how that scene went,” they say suddenly. 

“Oh.” Carmy’s heart feels stuck in his throat. “And how does it go?”

“Well, they’re—both eating spaghetti. Like I said.” They’re not facing him, leaving their face shrouded in shadow. He’s not sure if he’s imagining the shake in their voice or not. It’s beyond him why there would be any shakiness at all. “They somehow get the same noodle, so they, uh, kiss.”

“They kiss,” he repeats for some unknown reason.

“Yeah.” They let out a quick laugh, but it doesn’t sound like they actually find this funny. He wishes he could see the look on their face. 

“I don’t think pasta works like that,” he hears himself murmur faintly. For some reason, he can’t help but think that was the wrong thing to say. But he’s already said it. Maybe it’s the same reason as to why his heart is beating so urgently. 

“No, I, I don’t think so either,” they mumble. He refuses to place the way they’re feeling. 

I can’t fucking do this.

The thought resounds like a gong, hit with a mallet right next to his ear. 

“It’s late, I gotta head to bed.” It feels like someone else is speaking for him, moving his body for him. He can’t stop them. When he stands up, he avoids their face.

What the fuck are you doing?

Another thought resounds. He doesn’t respond.

“Right, I—didn’t even notice the time.” He pretends he doesn’t hear the strain in their voice. No, he didn’t word that right—there is no strain in their voice. “G’night.”

"Night,” he murmurs back.

This is enough, he tells himself as he falls into bed. His sheets are tangled. This is enough , he repeats, and it’s not because he’s scared, afraid, anxious, or any other stupid synonym. It’s because he believes it, needs to believe it. 

He tells himself, this is enough , even though he wonders, what is supposed to be enough? He doesn’t listen. He stamps down the protests, the thoughts that are out of line. The high usually helps with that, but it’s worn off, now just leaving him in a weary, sleepy state of things. 

This is enough, he thinks, and he falls asleep looking at their shrouded face behind his eyelids.

[siswritesyanderes]

Hii! Would you ever consider writing a yandere snowjanus x reader fic or imagine?

-🐣

Oh boy, I love it.

Imagining they both noticed you at around the same time, separately.

This could be in the Capitol or in District 12; the difference does matter, as far as power dynamic and the tactics available to them and frankly their hairstyles, but for the sake of this post we'll say it could be either one. If necessary, maybe I'll make a separate post for what they're like specifically in the Capitol or specifically in the Districts. (Actually, whether you're a Capitol citizen or a District citizen is also a means of variation, so really there are four different combinations, unless we treat Sejanus' kind of District-born Capitol citizen status as a separate category, in which case five; being District-born Capitol would only matter in the Capitol setting, not the District. Does any of that make sense?)

They both fall for you, but Coriolanus is better at hiding it behind a formal, personable mask. He observes that Sejanus likes you, and if it were anyone else he would feel annoyed and possibly threatened, but he feels pretty in control of Sejanus, so he actually nudges him closer.

His thought is, if he can get Sejanus to do all the work of courting you, he can pretty much slide in there effortlessly once that's done. Let Sejanus clear the way, ward off suitors, prove his loyalty and affection. (Meanwhile, Coriolanus can focus on his University work, his mentorship with Dr. Gaul, whatever other ladder-climbing he's got going on.)

If Sejanus manages to actually win your affections, Coriolanus can use Sejanus' affection for him to add himself to the relationship.

If Sejanus can't win your affections, then at least he got rid of the other suitors. Coryo can take it upon himself to be charming and win you over, and then he can graciously allow Sejanus access to you as well. He does actually like Sejanus and enjoy the idea of charitably sharing someone like you with him; he just will always see himself as the de facto highest-ranking and most important member of the polycule.

The way this looks, in practice, is: Sejanus admires you from afar and feels a passive envy towards any other romantic entities in your life. Coriolanus urges him to act on these feelings, needles the productive insecurities and soothes the unproductive ones. Sejanus trusts Coriolanus when he says that certain people in your life are taking advantage of you or hurting you in some way, believes him when he says that getting rid of them is the right thing to do.

So, Sejanus does things that, left to his own devices, he might only have fantasized about.

It's Sejanus' money and shooting skills backed by Coriolanus' rationalizations and manipulations.

Inside, Sejanus knows that what he's doing is wrong, but Coriolanus is good at making sure the worst of him is rewarded with praise, attention, and you.

With you, Coriolanus is smooth and flattering. He has all the social graces and charming repartee down to a science, if not an art. He is observant, accommodating, and just generally great to be with.

Sejanus is less polished, more endearingly stuck in his head. He's a smart, witty guy, but around you he gets really shy and earnestly wholesome in a way his years in the Capitol have not encouraged. He's been bullied, and he's learned not to be too vulnerable with people, but he finds himself saying really heartfelt stuff to you, and that makes him feel even more helpless than knowing how many crimes he's done to get here.

Coriolanus loves the degree of control over Sejanus promised by the fact that he's the only one who knows about the crimes Sejanus has committed. Like I said, he genuinely likes Sejanus. It feels good to know Sejanus is in so deep and can't turn back. He's going to want to have the same kind of leverage on you, whether it's secrets, financial power, or whatever else. He needs to make sure you need him.

Being with them is nice. They're cute, they're pleasant, they make you laugh.

Sejanus is one of the few people you can talk to about not liking the Hunger Games who will explicitly agree. Coriolanus just sits silently during these conversations, rolls his eyes fondly at both of you, and reminds you not to say any of that in public.

The fact that Coriolanus basically is a Gamemaker now is something that Sejanus weirdly tolerates. You're not sure how the guy who threw a chair in anger, back at the Academy, has resigned himself to just sighing about the inhumanity of it all while sharing a loveseat with his Gamemaker boyfriend. Maybe his time as a Peacekeeper tamed him somehow.

He's comfortable. You're also comfortable. It's weird.

This isn't a kidnapping scenario; you're just in a relationship with the two of them, and as long as you don't try to break up or withdraw in any way, it's all smooth as satin.

If you start going against the grain, though, you're going to find out how many hooks Coriolanus has already put in place. You'll start to see the strings on everything in your life, including Sejanus.

You want to take a trip with your family instead of staying in town to attend a formal event with Coryo and Sejanus? All of a sudden some private statement you made in the past about disliking the Games has been flagged as treasonous, and you're not allowed to travel until the matter is resolved. (If you go to the event with them, the issue swiftly goes away. He explains that he had Dr. Gaul pardon you.)

You want to take a break from staying over with them every other evening, because someone in your family is sick or injured? Suddenly, the hospital can no longer care for your relative for an affordable price, because the Plinths' donations have mysteriously stopped and treatment prices have skyrocketed. Coriolanus is glad to personally pay for them to be cared for.

The more you push, the more stuff will fall apart. If the first little intimidation tactics work as intended, you won't have to see the full extent of the trap.

Coriolanus gives you a jabberjay in a birdcage, as a gift, and uses it to spy on you. He might place Sejanus in charge of obtaining information from the jabberjay, because Coryo loooooves to keep his hands clean.

(Let me know if you liked it!)