#i get sweary when i get angry

[offtorivendell]

If you would scroll past or enjoy...

Art about Ship or Character A, but report or bully Ship or Character B art with the exact same content, you are a part of the problem.

A fic about Ship or Character A, but report or bully a fic for Ship or Character B with the same tropes/scenes, you are a part of the problem.

A theory or headcanon about Ship or Character A, but report or bully the writer of a Ship or Character B theory or headcanon for theorising along the same lines, then you are a part of the fucking problem.

Let people enjoy their fav ships and characters, FFS. If your response to seeing something that makes you uncomfortable (but is otherwise unharmful) is to report, bully or even doxx (this fucking fandom, I swear to fucking god) then you need to sit down and do some serious self evaluation, because I hate to break it to you, but the problem lies with you.

[jamiesfootball]

Please tell me more about gender flipped Jamie because that seems like So Many Thoughts that I would love to hear

I have so many thoughts and yet they are so ephemeral and unspecific and this has been languishing in my askbox and this isn't technically what you asked for but here's what I wrote instead:

Chelsea sent Roy into retirement the way you sent an aging dog to be euthanized. Slowly and gradually, an inescapable march towards a day you knew was coming. Roy's agent gently broke the news to him that they wouldn't be renewing his contract, but there was no gently breaking Roy.

The retirement itself was an underwhelming affair; he stayed numb throughout the presser, answered questions, and left the spotlight. No bang--not even a whimper.

That was months ago. Now Roy Kent, former Chelsea star, was daydrinking at a bar in Richmond at half-three in the afternoon, wondering if he could convince the matron of the house to change the fucking channel.

"Rough season our girls have had," the proprietor, Mae, explained in a tone befitting a bartender cleaning a pint. In reality, she'd joined Roy at the bar with her own glass of chardonnay. "Lot of shake ups. New owner, new gaffer. Still, it could be worse. This new coach of theirs might be from the States, but we're sitting higher up on the table than we have in years. Does your lot keep up with the Super League, then?"

It was one in a series of loaded questions. Roy couldn't imagine you could be a bartender in London without knowing who Roy Kent was. Sheer wasted optimism, he'd had, moving out of Chelsea and assuming anything short of leaving the country would get him away from the haunting specter of his own fucking jersey.

"Yeah," Roy answered reluctantly. "Yeah, some of us keep up. All the teams in the Premier have sister teams, don't we?" Except for Richmond. The one outlier--the only team in the league without a big brother to speak of.

"Mm. Then you heard about the scandal?"

Roy grunted. Of course he heard. Everyone knew about Rupert Mannion ages ago; it was about bloody time someone did something. Awful for his ex-wife that it'd fallen to her to do it.

Mae topped off his chardonnay before pouring the remainder of the bottle into her own glass. "This new gaffer though, he's one of the good ones. He hangs around here sometimes, and you can tell just by listening to him--he respects those girls."

Since retiring, Roy had gotten used to living in a fog. He spent time with his niece, met with the yoga mums, let old ladies in bars talk his ears off to their heart's content, but anything he did between those events was a drudgery--a slow painful effort to drag one foot in front of the other, metaphorically and physically.

So he couldn't have said what it was about Mae's offhand praise for the Richmond Whippet's new gaffer that rankled him into talking back.

"Is he any good though?"

"What was that?"

"Their new coach," Roy gestured with his wine glass at the television in the corner. "The American. Is he any good?"

Mae shrugged one shoulder. "He's gotten better."

"So not really then."

The look Mae gave him could've scoured paint from a wall. "Well, talent isn't everything. Is it, Mr. Kent?"

She left under the guise of check on the three men in the corner. Regulars, by the looks of it; and the three of them the only ones aside from Mae wearing supporting colors for the local team.

He hadn't watched a match in ages. Oh, he'd caught highlights--it was impossible not too--but the few times he'd tried, unfairness ballooned in his chest like an atom bomb, and he gave up.

He hadn't bothered to watch anything from the women's league either. What difference would it make to try watching a different league. Sure, he didn't know any of them the way he knew the men in the Premier League, but football was football and envy was envy.

From what little he'd seen so far, he didn't envy Richmond at all. Everton had them on the ropes.

Roy winced as Number 14 knocked one off the crossbar. It'd been a good attempt. A solid cross from Number 9 had put it in the path, but with no one else nearby she'd gone for a risky shot.

From what little he'd paid attention to, only 9 and 14 were making any actual progress on the pitch, with 9 working double time to cut up the field. Every time the ball dropped back down the center, Richmond lost possession. Every. Time.

It was Number 6 that was the problem. McNally, that was it. Red-head, center-mid, captain. Roy knew her by reputation. A tough, seasoned player, who'd gotten her fair collection of caps for England. She had the experience; it didn't make any fucking sense why she'd be the weak link.

Roy looked away. He took a gulp of his chardonnay and relished in the unpleasant way it stung his nose. It'd be masochism to keep watching.

He kept watching.

Within five minutes, he'd cracked it.

Number 6 refused to pass to Number 9.

The gameplay split off like a branching tree. Either 6 got possession, crossed to another player, and they lost it to Everton's deep defensive line; or 9 got it herself and took it up the field, at which point the entire Richmond side narrowed down to the actions of 9 and 14.

What the fuck was going on?

In the aerial cameras showed two Everton players marking Number 9. Number 6 crossed to Number 24, and 24 took it to the net only for a defender to block her out easily.

A close up lingered on Number 24. She couldn't have looked more upset with herself. Young thing. Good talent, bad nerves. Fixable with the right support.

Number 6 got into Number 9's face and shouted. So where's her fucking support?

The camera panned in on 6 and 9 as what looked like a shouting match took place between the teammates. There was McNally, red-haired and red-faced and openly swearing even if the mics couldn't pick it up, and then there was Number 9. A cut of a girl, strong featured and iron-jawed, with her forehead set down like she intended to ram McNally like a bull if the captain came any closer.

What a fucking mess.

The camera panned to the gaffer, who stood with his hands in his pockets and a frown under his mustache. He called neither player off.

The match went back into play and almost immediately Number 9 took a foul. A blatant hit, tackled before she could grab possession again. Everton had singled her out just as clearly as Roy had.

Number 6 stood off to the side while 14 and 24 argued with the ref. The captain watched in open annoyance as Number 9 levered herself off the ground with a wince, her left side stained with grass and a limp.

Some fucking captain.

Number 9 took position for a free kick, and her name finally flashed across the screen in a font large enough for Roy to read. Jamie Tartt. Tartt lined up for the kick, for all the good it would do when she was a good forty meters back--

Tartt walloped the ball cleanly into the net.

A frisson of electricity ran down Roy's spine.

The lads at the end of the bar broke into cheers.

Half of the Richmond Whippets descended on Tartt. The other half shuffled around in discontent.

Number 24--Obisanya--nodded at Tartt, who nodded back. They didn't hug.

Extricating herself from (half) of her teammates, Tartt threw an arm around the only person she'd passed to all night--14, Rojas. Heads pressed together, headband to matching headband, they looked furtive and serious in their two-person huddle.

The camera panned back to the gaffer. He clapped but he didn't celebrate.

The whole thing was bizarre.

No, Mae was right; talent wasn't everything. Because Richmond had talent--what a spectacular fucking goal--and they were a fucking mess, like nothing Roy had ever witnessed before in his career.

If Mae was willing to put up with him, he might have to come back for the next match. Who knew, maybe he'd try swinging by on an off-match day to catch their gaffer and give him a piece of his mind.

Finally, something to look forward to. His sister would be so proud.

[powdermelonkeg]

Just read your fic, I don't think I've seen anyone write Lambert so...calm? Not a critique whatsoever, I'm just shocked at how levelheaded he was, even when the dwarf was threatening him. It's a nice change of pace!

Thank you!!! (Fic in question here)

A lot of people write him as this angry, prickly, sweary little bastard. Which he can be, for sure, but when he's at his limit.

In the books, he's only mentioned for his mentorship of Ciri. <- Translation (to me): Good with kids. Compound that with his TW3 backstory of how he was treated as a kid, and you've got protectiveness.

In TW3, we see a lot more of him. His angry moments boil down to:

When he's tracking down a guy that murdered his best friend

When Yennefer says she's going to torture a being (that, to his knowledge, might be his niece under a curse) potentially to death

When he's being threatened by monsters that throw boulders at him

When Vesemir shows up with torture equipment that he kept for sentimental value

When Vesemir's dead and Geralt's pushing buttons

When he's relived some of his worst moments during his last trial where he lost ANOTHER friend of his, pointlessly

Which, tbh, are pretty solid reasons to be pissed off.

Is he sadistic? Yes. He killed two people that threatened his life by charming them into killing themselves and told the story to get a rise out of Geralt, and he's proud of the vengeance he got to exact on his dad.

Is he snarky? Absolutely. In nearly every sentence he says.

But off the top of my head, I've only ever heard him raise his voice twice: Once when demanding Jad Karadin's whereabouts, and once when Yen proposed the Trial of the Grasses.

Witchers are "emotionless mutants." This isn't true, but they ARE masters of their own bodies, from their reactions to their mutations. They can control the literal dilation of their pupils at will. Couple that with the kind of training that was exacted on them during Kaer Morhen's heyday, and you get someone who can shut down on command.

Lambert in TMYTIA, so far, hasn't been put in any position to make him angry. He's in control of the situation. He knows what he wants and exactly how to get it. Being able to hide how he's feeling on a job is always an advantage.

And beyond that, Lambert isn't governed by his wrath. He's bitter, sure, but he's also playful. If you take the few moments you get where he isn't grieving, you get someone who's incredibly silly, who likes to do impressions, who goes for a hug when someone says they love him, he names animals, he has the stupidest ideas when drunk. He plays Gwent and likes cracking jokes.

He's the kind of guy not to feel bad whatsoever about murdering a man. But he'd also drop a kid in a pile of snow just to make them laugh, or play whatever role game they asked him to.

[charliespringverse]

i've touched on this before but like . i really do think rowan's feelings get accidentally overlooked by readers that ,,, Aren't a bit obsessed and rereading for the nth time

and it's understandable because the version we primarily get of rowan is fereshteh's warped fanon & jimmy's longtime best friend mental illness riddled descriptions . and Because jimmy is unwell he almost idolises rowan in a way that holds him up as a pillar of stability and permanence — which is what jimmy needs and it's not a wholly negative thing, but he also inadvertently fails to accept any evidence to the contrary

whereas with lister we Learn a lot because jimmy is learning a lot — through deeper-than-usual conversations or blatant cries for help or very revealing behaviours — we don't get to discover anything new about rowan, and so when he's kinda mean or angry or distrusting it's easy to misinterpret that as him being deliberately and needlessly nasty

but if you stop looking at him through jimmy's lens, that boy has had an absolute bastard of a week . the jowan photo leak affects him as much as jimmy (arguably more so, because all the while he's dating bliss, jowan is an Active Lie rather than just an untruth), he's dealing with the same contract stress, his secret relationship has been exposed to the world, his girlfriend is ignoring him at a really difficult time, he's watching his two closest friends fall apart, he's learning that he really doesn't know one of them very well at all, his best friend is missing, the other is definitely an alcoholic making no moves to resolve that, his girlfriend has dumped him, he feels like they (and bliss) are being stalked by a member of a group he already feels like he isn't safe around, he feels like he's losing the two people closest to him

and all this time he's considering himself wholly and singlehandedly responsible for fixing all of this, feeling he has to hold himself and the world together . there's no real safe space for him to unload any of this because the three people he's closest to are either dumping him or going off the rails, and the only way he's ever known how to make himself comfortable is to have complete control over a situation, which just Is Not available to him here

it's not the fault of jimmy's narration that we never get to truly sit with the extent of what's going on with rowan, and in fact it really Really adds to the themes of being unable to truly know somebody and personal perception destroying objective truth

but GOD it breaks my heart to see people say they don't care for rowan, or don't like him, because he's snappy and sweary and short with people . because that's such a natural response to having that much shit piled on top of you in under a week AND losing your only coping mechanism (in this case, taking the weight of everything and moulding it into something tangible and possible to hold)

anyway. i am a rowan omondi stan first and a human being second and WOW rowan needs therapy and jimmy needs to stop idealising him

[swearyshera]

This scene in canon legit made my blood boil cuz I was very much NOT aboard the "everyone welcomes Catra on the team" train yet, so this bit was... less than endearing. The writing team and target audience had obviously been in agreement with Catra being cute for a long time but... I had yet to be persuaded and wouldn't be for a good while.

I know its to show how out of her depth Catra is dealing with actual friendship and how much of a ball of sunshine Bow is, but 'specially with the lack of Angella resolution this cutesy shit felt like they were jangling keys in my face to distract me from the past. Bow here showing he hasn't forgotten what Catra did even in a minor way lifted the fug off this scene for me. Amazing how I can get SO angry yet be appeased by the smallest changes. This series is like emotional/narrative aikido. Or maybe I just take shit in media way too personally and need my little hand held thru every scene that isn't immediately solving my foremost issue. Regardless, great job.

I think this episode, and to some extent the two either side of it, creates a lot of tension in the audience because of how uncertain everything is with Catra and Adora. And I don't mean tension between people who think Catra's all fine and forgiven now and those who don't, it's a tension where we see the characters going on as if everything is normal when we, the audience, know it's not. I've been thinking about this from two points:

Firstly, it's from a story structure point of view. This part is where Catra, and Adora to a degree, have what they want (each other), but not what they need. The entire story so far, on a personal level to them, has been about wanting each other back with them - and now they've got it, so everything is fine, right? They want to believe it is, so they act like it is. But they haven't learnt what they needed to (now what that is is open to interpretation, but for this, I'll say they needed to open themselves to love), and so you have this really uncomfortably awkward situation where they're both forcing themselves to accept that this is it. This is all they needed. And it's not.

If I refer once again to John Yorke's excellent Into the Woods, this puts us firmly into Act 4 territory: Your character will have changed in some way, but not enough to achieve their goal and overcome their flaw. The weakness is revealed in a low moment of the story (for Catra and Adora, this moment is the end of Failsafe). These few episodes are, by design, supposed to evoke the same sort of response you've had. In regards to Catra getting angry about being called cute, that's a perfect example of her not having overcome a flaw.

The other way I've been looking at it is from another, more realistic, and how people with BPD (if you're playing Sweary bingo, cross that one off!) would react to being reunited with their Favourite Person(TM). It's an innate ability to many of us with Brain Please Don't to suddenly forget the shit that happened when that one person graces us with a tiny amount of love (or, at least, something that isn't outright hostility). And I think for Catra here, that's exactly what's going on. Adora saved her, welcomed her back, waited for Catra to stop being angry, and now everything is FINE. Catra doesn't want to think about the past, she doesn't want to think about her flaws (or Adora's) that led to them splitting apart and fighting each other for so long.

You can see throughout this episode, the stress of forcing herself to be fine just so it doesn't rock the boat with Adora, coming out in these moments where she gets intensely angry for just a moment. I think, ultimately, they've moved from the unstable 'we're apart' relationship to the unstable 'we're together' relationship, and both need to learn a little more about how they fix that.

So yeah, this scene and this episode aren't really about 'Catra's suddenly been forgiven by everyone', but more 'everyone thinks Catra's been forgiven but they haven't sorted out the real problems', and that drives the conflict for the latter half of the season.

[tiredpandaportfolio]

Hey-ho, go on and tell us about how much everyone in DMC swears and do include your characters!!

Oh bless you for asking me an easy one on a Monday evening lmao. I do have thoughts a-plenty.

---

Let's start with the least sweary of the bunch and work our way up.

Vergil is almost as obsessed with dignity and an honorable appearance as he is (or was) with power. Swearing is uncouth and very un-Sparda-like, in his opinion. The worst you'll get out of him is a highly threatning "You..." with a full gamut of implied swearing. Or something like "buffoon" or "cretin". He's entirely capable of digging through a thesaurus for obscure ways to insult people.

On the other hand, V will say "shit" when things truly are as dismal as they can get. Quietly, under his breath, but with pathos. Griffon does 90% of the swearing for him. And if we believe Griffon, Shadow does about 9% of the rest but he refuses to repeat what she says, claiming it's too vile. But it's Griffon, who buys it, right?

Now, Kyrie, sweet and lovely Kyrie is a master of the Precision F-Strike. She has the patience of the saints and she's raising three boys and a whole-ass adult child who swears like a sailor. So her moments of dropping F-Bombs are very rare, but always editorial. Kyrie however has the amazing ability to be insanely passive-aggressive when annoyed, all while being incredinbly pleasant... and capable of making "thank you" sound like "fuck you, you soulless bitch".

Roy, Tess' elderly, sweet familiar, has a patience threshold that reaches beyond the moon. He is the epitome of the unflappable, stiff-upper-lip Brit without being British. It takes a lot to motivate him to swearing, but get him there, and he swears quite heartily like a Scottish sailor... and not above employing long-dead languages. But do expect you to insult you on the sly or call you a "silly cabbage" which is somehow more insulting that being called, say, "fuckface", coming from a being as old as he is.

Contrary to his image, Dante swears surprisingly little. He needs to be made really, really mad to start dropping F-Bombs and again, his threshold is pretty high. Childish insults don't count, which is why he'll happily call some hapless demon "buckethead" and shit all over their skills in battle without swearing.

On the other end, Trish will swear only when inconvenienced, and mostly under her breath. She learned swearing from Dante and has become aware that a lot of Dante's swearing is incredibly childish and infantile and therefore cringe. Her association with Lady is definitely helping. She's more likely to laugh at someone than call their mother something unpleasant.

Lady swears when particularly frustrated, which is rather often. And much of the source of her frustration is Dante. Or demons. Or shenanigans that cost her money. Or hijinks that damage her equipment, which costs her money. The woman has many reasons to let it rip and she does. She's very fond of rude gestures.

Nero is the problem child, this kid will start swearing loudly and heartily at the slightest provocation and loves pissing people off by insulting their mothers. He's not very creative about it... yet... but he's getting there as he hangs out with people who know more swear words than he does. He's very good at stealth insults.

As angry and sweary as he is though, there is yet another level he can only aspire to achieve... and he pays attention.

The sweariest and most vehemently offensive of the bunch is Tess who makes up for her small stature and unassuming looks with a wellspring of vulgarity and cursing that is as deep as outer space. Piss her off enough and her speech becomes a constant, uninterrupted stream of vile swearing that can go on without repetition for 5 or 6 minutes in about 4 different languages. Nero is in awe of this woman and Dante winces when she suddenly goes off like a grenade. He is wholly convinced this is a matter of stature-- "She's tiny, so all her rage and spite and swearing gets super concentrated."

[calamitys-child]

what story/book has impacted you the most?

Ohhh good question!! I get a lot of my personality and influence from various books, mostly ones I read with my dad when I was definitely too young for that kind of genre fiction and he was frantically trying to read aloud the sweary bits so he could edit round them rather than leaving me with them (hhgttg my best friend and only fond memory of one terrible holiday). I think in regular life, one of the books I reach for most is Night Watch by Terry Pratchett. There's a huge emphasis on social change, revolutionary ideals and the radical idealistic spirit facing up to the reality of everyday issues of keeping everyone fed, clothed, and healthy ["You'd like truth, justice, and freedom, wouldnt yoy Sergeant?" "I'd like a hard boiled egg."]. There's a lot of reflection on your own history and your own future. There's a major subplot about the slide of civil society into fascism and about the vital importance of keeping a close fucking eye on yourself to make sure you never let yourself leap to that kind of extremist blinkered violent position. There's a recurring phrase in there which is to the effect of "the world is huge, and horrible, and terrifying, and incomprehensible, but there's one good deed that is the next thing you can do, and all anyone can ask is that you do it, and all that needs to drive you is that you must do it, you must take the next step with the thought in your mind of trying to make this next bit hurt the least it possibly can" - You Do The Job That's In Front Of You, and sometimes that job is defusing a riot and getting scared angry people a safe haven with soup and hot tea to keep them warm and maybe giving some of them arms to take up against tyranny, and sometimes it's training honesty into the new kids on the job, and sometimes it's standing up for what's right even if it gets you a beating, and sometimes it's sending everyone else to safety and staying back just to make sure the fascist burns to death in agony, because someone has to, and it shouldn't have to be anyone else. We're slowly approaching the annual reread for the 25th of May and honestly one day im gonna get a tattoo for it

[seriouslysam8]

Your last chapter was amazing but I hate you for not bringing Sirius to safety before the end of it. Hahaha

Since you were mean and left us on a cliffhanger can you give us a few Harry head-cannons. It can be older or younger Harry.

Something had to happen at the gala! It’s been way too long since we had a lot of drama.

Hmm…

I always picture Harry having a lot of freckles and moles. Not like Ron or Ginny - obviously - but like 10-15 freckles peppered up and down his arms. Maybe 1 or 2 on his face. A mole on his neck. A couple on his back. I dunno why. I just like him to have some freckles.

I also think that Harry doesn’t use sweary words often. You’ll notice when I write, if Harry swears, he’s stepped into scary angry territory and it’s very impactful when he does. He’s not like Ron or Sirius or even Ginny who swear all the time. Harry just doesn’t. I also headcanon his kids swear a ton and it just annoys him.

I also don’t think Harry would use pet names. He’s not calling Ginny love or dear or anything. It reminds him of his Aunt Petunia and he tries to be the exact opposite of the Dursleys.

Harry is really good with kids. Kids love Harry. Harry treats kids with respect. He gets down to their level and talks to them like little adults and really listens to them. He’s the uncle who could stop even the worst tantrum. He rarely raises his voice. Like his kids know if Harry starts yelling, they really fucked up and went too far.

Harry’s a lightweight with alcohol. And he’s oddly romantic and sappy when drunk. He recites and writes some very enchanting drunk poetry to Ginny when he’s completely sloshed and she loves it. Somehow, her Valentine always gets brought when when he’s drunk around her. If she’s not around, he always asks if they can go see Ginny yet which makes Ron roll his eyes.

I also headcanon Harry is terrible with names. Like if someone isn’t in his orbit, there’s a good chance he doesn’t remember their name. He’s the type of person who refuses to use someone’s name because he’s not 100% sure he knows it until someone else says it around him. This is especially bad when he’s Head Auror and Head of the DMLE. He knows the good Aurors, the ones that have impressed him. But he’s shit at remembering the new recruits or the Aurors who haven’t shined as bright.

[us-the-voices-and-more-voices-2]

honestly if anyone wonders why I (pop) am most in charge half the time.

I’m not it’s a lie I’m just half me and L like at any given moment.

(I usually post here because it’s nice and easy and I can be myself and L and also Poppie at times can be themselves and have fun on our main)

or whatever, I just never really talk about it lol.

I handle all the normal day to day activities because that’s my whole deal and L handles all the family and friend stuff.

I get confused sometimes about it all, but she’s pretty chill with it.

I’m the freak. she’s like supposed to be as normal as possible, we work together to be a slight fuctinal human person.

I have my friends she has her’s, I mostly know her friends because again always around in some form.

And yeah I try my best, L has things more in the bag where as I am tortmented and angry and about to breakdown always lol.

different guys, she does video editing and art and stuff I do writing and shit. Because she is SUPER FUCKING DYSLEXIC I am not because I have brute forced my way into writing well.

it’s super fucking weird, because she doesn’t really remember me?

and I don’t remember her very well??

there’s like barely a barrier but yeah it’s kinda fucking there, like it’s weird because she basically is fine her life has been fine.

and I’m over here in a state of ever present panic and anxiety, like sometimes I envy that like I got all the bad shit when she can kinda function perfectly fine?

she’s done most of the school and I’ve done most of the work, she’s very passive and very calm and sweet. And then I switch in and it’s just so weird because I’m so sweary and weird.

like I can deal with life I can deal with the worst shit and take the pain and suffering and whatever but it just sad.

[firespirited]

Mum accidentally ended up under a pile on when she said death threats against DV survivors were not okay when JKR was brought up by someone totally ignorant of the past decade's drama and the very angry very sweary 'death to joanne' replies poured in. She was then labelled a terf by some teenagers for asking why their anger was directed at jkr and not the tories in power which made clear she was British and an older woman.

She's very literal and doesn't believe in death threats against paedophiles either, just that they should be locked up. That's just how she is... Readmore for length.

So I had to explain what trans exclusionary radical feminists were, how they labelled themselves & it's not a slur and how outrage online isn't rational and often isn't focused at the systemic issues but fallen heroes also often turn into the biggest scapegoats.

The thing that really got to her was the disproportionate energy people had for hating jkr but not other authors or politicians who are far worse, the energy for outrage but no political/community engagement elsewhere.

I wasn't really able to explain why people have energy to be mad at jkr but don't do any offline activism or even get that angry at politicians, there's a sort of passivity, the sense that the game is rigged I guess but people feel maybe they might have the power to make jkr uncomfortable talking smack about marginalised people in public ??

It's hard to explain, on some level I feel like people enjoy bullying and when there is a righteous reason then it's ok to engage in such "fun". On the other, I'm seeing this strange manifestation of trauma where people will be vicious with people who fail to live up to perfection (and that definitely includes trans women - think Hot Allostatic Load: it's a great article that explains something I've seen play out too many times but also isabel fall and the lady who made the mistake of griping about being locked out of the local lesbian scene and ended up painted as the evil pervert who coined the cotton ceiling - she was just really lonely and rightfully sad) with the stored anger and pain that deserved to be directed at multiple systemic issues and instead comes out like a firehose on a peer who is no longer a 'good' peer so they're the enemy. I'd love to read any psych studies but I'm not sure what key words. I know a lot of people are noticing this: energy for rage, apathy for even minor changes we can make. I've seen multiple "stop with the 'omg look at this terf who deserves to die' when you're just retraumatizing trans people by boosting" in the same way that people of colour had to beg for folks to stop boosting black and brown people being brutalised, just graphically making people relive that trauma but please boost actions and learning instead. You know what I'm talking about? Right.

I know the world is terrifying right now but the way social media has raised folks to channel it is not healthy let alone constructive. I'm not sure how to help and not sure how mum can ever regain her purity in the eyes of the little book group she's in. She doesn't like gender, she's actually long been gender non conforming but doesn't know any of the vocabulary. She's still processing trauma from DV and being in a cult so being told how to think gets her hackles up even when she's trying to be as logical and fair as possible. I'm scared the gender crits will reach out and say "hey we're real feminists who care about women, we don't even hate trans folk, come hang out with us and leave behind the rude meanies".

I don't know where to start. With pretty much all other marginalisations we have had people in our life to relate to. Mum's got lesbian, gay, black, Muslim, jewish, sex worker, disabled and mentally ill friends but zero point of reference for trans folk above 14-15 (a friend's child is autiqueer). If any of her friends came out as trans she'd be eating every book available and ready to advocate for them at doctors appointments but right now it's just an abstract concept that makes no sense when she's never been feminine enough to be more than a failed woman and never been that attached to gender.

How do you explain gender dysphoria to someone who's never experienced gender euphoria?

This is someone who never once questioned the anger behind some black lives matter posts, never took wypipo or 'white woman tears' personally because of course anger comes out messy and of course people don't like to think they're racist and have to deliberately learn to be anti racist and will mess up.

The problem here is that it's very hard to talk gender with someone alienated from anything gender related except misogyny.

I remember back when I got into feminism and she'd given up on all that because it didn't have anything to say for working class women who love men. Womanism had the keys to her heart: loving men + hating the patriarchy that crushes their souls along with yours, not wanting the capitalist dream but a different society.

If you've read this far you deserve dog pics, thank you for letting me rant. I'm going to try and find some books by older trans men and women from similar working class backgrounds (no showbiz) and some intro to Judith Butler. Maybe something on the left eating it's own to explain why these younguns don't know how to just boycott and never listen to jkr again.

Replies are welcome, reblogs not. This is delicate and personal. Please have grace. She's trying. I'm trying.

[aia-prima-raufton]

I wish there was a "two or more of these" choice because my anger language varies. As a teacher, when I get angry, I speak with a low and scary voice. On the road, I get all sweary. With personal relationships, I become completely silent.

fuck the love languages they’re bullshit written by a conservative asshole with zero counseling credentials anyway

[thestalwartheart]

00Q - Semi-NSFW 22. … trying to play footsie with the other during a meeting

This was such a hysterical prompt, thank you! 😂 I apologise for the delay in getting around to it.

You can read the fill under the cut or on AO3. Enjoy!

ire.

Q isn’t angry. He isn’t.

He’s furious.

Evidently, everyone gathered around the heavy mahogany conference table can see it because all of them have averted their eyes. Except for one person, of course. The very person who sparked his ire in the first place. As he keeps his eyes level with Bond’s highly-amused gaze, Q thinks about the man’s poker advice. You never play your hand, Q. Always play the person across from you.

“Sir, if I may. That car has cost the department four and a half million pounds so far. It contains some of the most cutting-edge experimental weaponry my department has ever developed. If you recall, the last time Bond took one of my cars on a mission—”

“I was chasing down a terrorist group with even more terrifying experimental technology,��� Bond interrupts.

Mallory levels them both with a look. He’s tired; that much is evident. Q has a feeling he and Bond are only adding to the man’s perennial aura of exhaustion.

“I’m sorry, Q, but I’ll need the car reassigned to 007.”

“009 is scheduled for Barcelona tomorrow—”

“And 007 is to be in Paris today. Reassign the car, Quartermaster.”

“Fine,” snaps Q, closing his folder of repair receipts and sitting back in his seat.

Q misses a lot of what gets said next, not that it matters much. It’s something dreadfully boring about a policy being driven through the House of Commons, the details of which Q is already very well-acquainted with. His ears are too busy ringing with the sound of his own pulse. Even worse, he can feel the heat high on his cheeks where he’s sure he’s tomato-red. Distantly, he remembers his doctor’s stern warning from his last check-up: If that blood pressure doesn’t come down, you’re going to have a stroke by the time you’re forty. Q had been keen to get that in writing so he could show Bond just how much havoc he’s been wreaking all these years. Regrettably, the doctor only looked at Q over a pair of wire-framed glasses and tutted at him about eating more vegetables and avoiding cholesterol.

Well, bollocks to that. Q takes a butter-laden pastry from the middle of the table and tears into it.

Four and a half million pounds, surely down the drain now. The last time Bond had wasted this much money, Q was called into an internal review whose findings were passed on to the bloody PM. Q had protected Bond then, saying some very nice things about the value of agents and the worth of human life, not to mention all the impossible circumstances agents face in the field. If he ends up in another review because of this, he’s going to throw Bond under the bus this time. The man probably has enough of his hazard pay stashed away to pay for the repairs himself.

While he’s thinking of that — both the possibility of emptying Bond’s bank accounts and watching him slide oil-stained and casually dressed underneath an Aston Martin — he feels a touch at his ankle. It only lasts a moment, and he assumes Tanner, who is still occasionally levelling apologetic glances at him about the car, is to blame. But a moment later, the touch is back. It lasts longer this time, making its way slowly up his trouser leg.

Across the table, Bond’s lip firms itself ever so slightly, as if it’s trying very hard not to curl into a smile.

Oh, absolutely not.

With a decisive, abrupt snap, Q pulls his leg back and watches as Bond’s body jerks a bit, trying to find equilibrium. Mallory pauses halfway through a sweary sentence about the never-ending red tape of government.

“Are you all right, 007?”

“Fine, Sir. Carry on.”

The rest of the meeting is uneventful, and when it’s all over, Q wipes a few stray croissant crumbs from his trousers, shoulders his bag, and strides out of the room, all with far more force than he might usually do.

Bond, of course, follows. With every step they take towards Q Branch, the prickly outrage in Q’s chest grows. He isn’t one of the nurses in medical, nor is he one of the secretaries who do a terrible job of guarding confidential documents against prying eyes (honestly, he’d managed to get one fired after he’d come home to find Bond sprawled on his couch, calling Q by his real name).

No, Q stands for Quartermaster, and he won’t be charmed into forgetting that by James fucking Bond.

“If your intent was to flirt your way to a luxury car—”

“I already have the car,” interrupts Bond, quite calmly, as they turn into the tea room.

“Then, if your intent was to distract me from your plans to wreck it, it didn’t work. My memory is excellent, 007. I remember the Jaguar I gave you two weeks ago, and the BMW before that. Not to mention the DB10 you drove into the Tiber.”

“For which I bought you a lovely bottle of champagne.”

“For stealing it, not for wrecking it. That leaves two million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, two-hundred and ninety-five pounds on your bill, at least.” Q flicks on the kettle more viciously than he intends. “Am I to expect a briefcase full of cash or a cheque? I’m afraid I don’t accept games of footsie as currency.”

Bond huffs a laugh, and Q tries to quiet the part of his brain that finds that endearing. When Bond speaks again, he’s standing right behind Q. Their blazers brush together, which is all a bit much, to be honest. “If I promised not to wreck the DBS, will you let me away with it in our next meeting?”

Q lets out a derisive snort. “If you manage to bring back that car in one piece, I’ll let you blow me under the bloody desk.”

There’s a beat of silence where they both register that. Q yearns to take it back, if only because it’s probably hinted at the very real desire he has to fuck Bond. Or be fucked by him. Or both. On days like this, it’s hard to imagine which would bring better stress relief. He decides to let it be. It’s out there now; silence and denial are the only defences he has left.

When he next looks at Bond, he’s expecting him to look a bit shut off, in that way most heterosexual men look when they’ve just been propositioned, however flippantly, by a gay man. Instead, Bond’s eyes look him up and down with intent, which — oh, Christ — is far more arousing than it should be. So either Bond is a consummate actor, or—

“A word of warning, Quartermaster.” Bond leans in close enough that Q swears he can feel the touch of lips at his ear. “Never make a bet you’re not prepared to lose.”

Content with having the last word, Bond swans out of the room.

"Shit." Q turns to look at the little cat statue next to the kettle. "Well, I'm not, am I? Going to lose, that is. I bet he's already punctured a bloody tyre."

The cat remains still and ceramic. And for the next few hours, Q tries exceptionally hard not to think how Bond might use his mouth for things more pleasurable than a bout of verbal sparring in the tea room.

[missymurphy1985]

There's Something About Kate (Cillian Murphy X fem!OC) - Part Fourteen

Warning - none, just very angry and sweary...

Taglist @queenshelby @margoo0 @being-worthy @peakyscillian @peakyciills @janelongxox @elenavampire21 @ysmmsy @cloudofdisney @lauren-raines-x @misscarolineshelby @screemqueen @peaky-cillian @misselsbells06 @datewithgianni @heidimoreton @jardinsecos @bitchwhytho @gypsy-girl-08 @queenofkings1212 @look-at-the-soul

"She slapped me," Cillian said to his brother on the phone later that night.

Paddy was laughing too hard to form a coherent response. Cillian felt his cheek burn from the contact of her hand in the pub, and his blood pressure rising incrementally with every bellow of laughter he heard down the phone line.

"When you've finished laughing at my expense..."

"Sorry bro but that is hilarious... What were you expecting? Her to suddenly rush back into your arms like the last six months hadn't happened?"

"Well no, obviously, but I thought she'd let me explain?"

"Cill, I love you man, but fuck me you don't know women do you?"

"Lucy never -"

"Stop. Don't compare them. Totally different women with completely different experiences of you. One of them loved you unconditionally. The other clearly wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire," he started laughing again and Cillian swore to himself that when he got home he would kick the ever loving shit out of him.

************************************************************

"You're kidding me?? He actually said that??" Nina sat on the other end of the phone listening to Kate in shock.

"I slapped him."

"Good girl!!"

"To throw the fucking robins in my face after six months of FUCK ALL... The nerve of the man!!"

"Did he explain himself?"

"Didn't let him. Don't wanna know."

"Look, I know Rose thinks she's trying to help, but I can't go back there. I can't let him walk in and out of my life when he feels like it, you know?"

"I know my cousin can be a bit overbearing at times but she does act out of love, Kate. She just wants you to be happy."

"I am happy!"

"You're fucking miserable, and you have been for six months."

"I'm fine!"

"Dated anyone else since you moved?"

"No..."

"Had offers though, haven't you?"

"Well, yeah, but.."

"None of them were him, were they?"

"You're as bad as your cousin!!"

"Family curse."

She fell silent for a few minutes, nibbling on her nails as she thought back over the last six months. How she'd left her life behind to make a fresh start. Moving into Rose's apartment in Queen's Park, a new job coordinating care work for the NHS. Her record was clean after the investigation proved no wrong doing had occurred, but she felt her name had been tarnished, in Dublin anyway. Moving away to a new city, a new country, was her only option if she wanted to stay in care. And she couldn't imagine being in any other industry.

"So you're not even slightly interested?" Nina interrupted the silence. Kate paused again and lied through her teeth.

"Nope."

************************************************************

"So are you going to at least try and talk to her?" Paddy had finally stopped laughing after Cillian threatened to cut his balls off with a rusty knife and turned his serious head on.

"And say what? I'm sorry I got you suspended, I'm sorry I ghosted you for half a year. I'm sorry I broke your heart?"

"That would be a good start I think, yeah."

"No way Pad. I'm not a fan of getting my ass handed to me. I don't like arguments and confrontation."

"If you love her as much as I think you do, you'll make it work."

"Who said anything about love?"

"I did. Because I know you."

"How's Ava?"

"She's fine. Don't change the subject."

"Is she there?"

"Marie's taken them shopping. Stop avoiding the truth, Cillian."

"God you're annoying."

"Kate's number is still in your phone. Text her."

"No!"

"Call her then."

"Stop being an asshole."

"I will when you do."

************************************************************

For an hour Cillian sat in his room. A solid hour of thinking. Arguing with himself. Typing a message, then deleting it again.

And again.

And again.

Rose had avoided him since he got back to the shared house. Something he was grateful of, he was furious with her.

But not too furious. Not actually as furious as he probably should be.

Hitting send on the message he'd typed for the 78th time, he turned his phone off and put it in the drawer beside his bed.

Whatever the outcome of that message could absolutely wait until the morning.

Kate read the message countless times. Each time getting more emotional than the last.

She read it once more.

"You know what? I deserved that. Totally deserved it and you were well within your rights to do it. Rights... Funny things aren't they? You're either entitled to them or not. They're the foundations of our behaviours in a way.

I didn't have the right to hurt you the way that I did. Especially after what you did for us.

And I don't have the right to think about you. I don't have the right to dream about you. I don't have the right to miss you.

Because I do miss you. I miss your smile. I miss your eyes. I miss your lips on mine, the way you held my hand as we walked together along the beach. The way you bonded with Ava, and made her feel happier than she had in months. You made me realise I was allowed to be happy with someone else. I was allowed to feel things for someone else.

But I don't have the right to have those feelings reciprocated. And I accept that. And if you agree with me, I'll walk away. For good this time.

But if there's even a glimmer of hope... Even the smallest of shimmers.. then maybe you'll meet me this weekend. Just you and me, a coffee in a nice cafe just outside of Kilburn. It's called O'Malley's, and I hear they do a decent Irish coffee. I'll be there on Saturday at 10:30am.. No pressure. I won't push you.. your call, and your right to call it either way you please.

Cillian."

[businessbois]

yeah okay before i go to bed for all three of you late night crew who care heres like the first 500 words of my samskids vigilante au. i already posted the first half of this but here it is together in nonscreenshot version

There is a boy in Sam's door.

In all his fifteen years of vigilantism and nine years of fatherhood, Samuel Dued has seen just about every corner of hell and all its hand baskets, but this particular bump in life’s road might be the strangest so far.

When he got the alert about one of his safehouses being broken into, Sam’s mind flashed with visions of supervillains and nefarious plans and bombs disguised as gift baskets. (And maybe even the stupidly hopeful notion that one of his kids was back in town.)

Instead, he found a loud, angry, sweary scrap of a boy banging at the indestructible metal of his industrial door. 

This safehouse is one of his favorites, tucked between a fabric store with unbeatable bargains and a heaven-sent, mouthwatering bakery, and for that Sam might've gone a little extra on the defenses.

Including modified doors that, when tampered with by unauthorized personnel, open up and trap the saboteur inside them.

“LETMEOUTLETMEOUTOUTYOUFUCKSHITPIECEOFSHIT!”

A charmer, this one is.

Having entered through a second, separate entrance Sam is thankful for his foresight of soundproofing the outer side of the trap, but curses his lack of cameras on the inside. He hovers over the control panel, fingers drawing forward and back. Child or not, an intruder could do serious damage with access to the safehouse. Sam knows best of all the capability of children.

Interrogation time it is then. He puts on his The Warden voice and drops his hand. He edges closer to the wall.

“Who are you?”

“FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCK..." the boy replies, calmly.

And now Sam's cursing the fact that he didn't soundproof both ways

He sighs. “I can’t let you out until you tell me why you’re here.”

The kid actually takes a pause in his swearing.

Sam is too well-trained to feel relief.

“Well, it all starts when two people get really, really ho—”

His intuition never fails. “Okay, kid, don’t be smart, I need your name and for you to convince you’re not some mini-supervillain trying to gain access to my tech."

“I AM NOT MINI!”

“Or a supervillain,” Sam wheedles.

“OR A SUPERVILLAIN!”

Shrugging, Sam says, “Good enough for me,” and flicks a few levers. The back portion of the door flips open, revealing the boy, who stumbles and nearly falls flat on his face at the sudden change.

He's tiny, is Sam's first thought. As much as he'd like to say that he first assesses the intruder's threat level (not very) or possible motive for breaking in (Prime, he's barely four feet tall), all he can see is a BMI chart and routes to the nearest fast food restaurant.

Everything else filters in afterwards. The kid has a head full of dishwater blond curls and startlingly blue eyes and is that a bowling shirt?

When he sees the Warden, his eyes widen and he stumbles back against the now-sealed door. Cornered, the boy scowls, fists against his sides, and something about the image catches on Sam's damnably soft heart and pulls.

He kneels to meet his level. He removes the bottom half of his mask with a hisss.

"Hey, kid."

The boy eyes him.

Sam smiles.

"You hungry?"

--

protip number one: do not adopt the strange boy who tries to break into your safehouse.

protip number two: do not accept food from the strange vigilante man who caught you trying to rob him.

thanks for reading this far and stay safe

[freedfromthegalactichivemind]

I cannot stop thinking about this set of panels. This thing is just a webcomic / abridged series, right? Meant to make goofy on a fucking cartoon, and yet, the writing in it gets to me. Entrapta's backstory here feels the same as my entire life. To this day, I don't understand how friendship happens, nor how to keep friends. It seems to sort of happen for me over shared interests (which seems to be the common theme), but, eventually things drift apart, people part ways over busy lives and differing interests. This is especially true if you find it easier to "make friends on the Internet" because sometimes a friend just disappears. (I'm always really happy if I see someone pop up again out of the blue on Facebook or somewhere, just so that I know that they're alive). Still, it's like "We don't talk anymore." And, of course, I fuck it up for myself on a frequent basis. I'm too forthright, blunt, with whatever beliefs I have or emotions I'm having at the time. I outright scare people off - both by being weird and... you know how you meet people who will go on and on and on about how compassionate they are toward mental illness? And then, it turns out when someone actually displays symptoms, they run? Yeah, that's happened to me a lot, even with treatment. I have a reputation even in this very fandom and online life because of misunderstandings (which I'm sure are still rumored about), and a meltdown...and me behaving genuinely awful during the meltdown, and, well, I sort of accept that some people will never give me a second chance. That's just the way things go. It hurts, though. I keep thinking about it. I feel like some people who used to be friends are angry that I returned. Apology becomes awkward, and impossible when people disappear. And I'm left thinking about how I am just not good with people. When I was a kid, my best friends were my cats. People forget how they've treated you, too - as what I learned when I encountered childhood bullies on Facebook one time who denied everything and didn't even seem to know how much delight they took in slamming me down. And you're left with your art and your animals and your robots or whatever... and kind of wishing to see a rip in the fabric of spacetime so you can talk to God. No wonder I became really religious during my teen years. That was a whole mess that I regret, and yet I kind of miss it, too... I miss my old church and having been a part of something (even though a lot of the people side-eyed me, there, too). Some of us were never made to fit in or be forgiven, Entrapta. It is enough if we find one or two people who actually "get" us. I am glad you found Hordak. And Adora, and Scorpia. (Yes, I count "those people who can't stand up for you because they don't know how, but they try and they still like you" to be friends. It happens. We're all human). I don't know. I guess I just want to thank Sweary She-Ra for what's going to be brought up in my next therapy session later this week.

[jolalibrary]

Stood Up + Salads

Diego Hargreeves x Fem!Reader Words: 1.5k AN: Set with a S1 Diego but not S1 or S2 storyline. For a friend, you know who you are.

He didn’t need to look up when the door goes, he knows it’s you. Because when it rains, it pours.

Diego wonders if he should be more upset about his father, rather than being upset he’s had to see the others. Only for him to take his frustration out on you, consciously or not.

The fact you allow the door to meet the frame with such a loud thud is enough of a signal to him that you’re pissed.

Diego takes a second, thinking of his next steps as he swipes his tongue over his teeth, staring at the punching bag, as if it’s going to provide any answers on what he should do. How he could get out of this. Because if he plays this wrong, which he will, it’s going to spiral. Becoming so much worse than it already is.

A whole lot fucking worse.

And it’s already bad.

Hitting the bag once, twice and then thrice, he pays attention to your footsteps nearing. Not turning, not needing to see if your arms are folded, lips pursed and giving him one of you signature dead expressions. He knows you will be, because Diego fucking knows you and you know him.

And he hates it.

He despises that you know about his tick. About his family. About his upbringing, talent and everything else in between. He hates that you suggested calling off the meal before he did, and he hates himself for agreeing to go even if he knew he wouldn’t attend.

Because he’s decided he hates being happy.

He likes being miserable, likes fighting petty crime without anyone to come home to.

“Asshole.”

Rolling his head, he casts his eyes over you. Finding you exactly as he’s imagined. The only—slight—difference is the look in your eyes.

Sadness. A look which doesn’t suit you. One which stands out to him, because he’s seen it so rarely.

It swirls in your eyes, mixing with your usual shade, darkening them as they pin him to his spot. Or try to.

Letting his hands fall to his sides, he lets out a sigh before he can help himself. And the glare you send him is enough to force him to turn to face you.

When it comes to you, he isn’t sure if he hates how close you are to him physically or metaphorically; not sure if he dislikes it more that he wants to kiss you or let you love him.

“Hello to you too.”

Your lips twitch into a smirk. “You don’t deserve a hello.”

“Touché.”

“Surprised you know that word.”

“Under all this, I’m clever y’know?”

“Are you?” you snap, and you roll your lips together.

Those painted plump lips that’s kissed every inch of him. That he’s woke up dreaming about and gone to sleep pressed against.

“You’re angry—“

“Oh, I’m past angry, Hargreeves,” you says, tapping your foot on the gym floor. “I was angry when I was on my second glass, wondering where you were. I was fuming when I left, embarrassed and ready to hunt you down. Now, now I’m almost murderous.”

He hasn’t been called his surname in sometime. Hasn’t found himself in hot waters, with you at least, in sometime. Even angry, he feels your eyes rake down his frame, following a bead of sweat which falls from his neck down his chest and stomach.

Pulling the gloves undone with his teeth, snaps your eyes back up. And he finds himself smirking at you and his own foolishness simultaneously.

Because deep down he’s known this day would come, where you—like most—tired of him. Finding yourself irritated with his ways, of his selfishness and his impulsiveness.

“Let me have it then.”

He throws the gloves to the floor, shifting his weight as he notices the slight narrowing of your eyes. The way your lips twitch, whether a smirk or a smile, he can’t be sure. Usually, there’s less talking when you’re like this; usually you’re already pinned under him or against something. Now, you don’t even look at him like you’d welcome that.

Diego hates you for that too.

Despises that you have gotten under his skin, throwing him off his game. He’s dated. Well, since Patch they’ve not been constant. Real or permanent.

But you, you got to him. He still doesn’t even know how.

You don’t bend as easily, don’t surrender as you should. You fight him, sometimes tooth and fucking nail, and fuck, he doesn’t hate that about you. He loves that. He loves it when you steal the wind from his sail; when you cut him down. You don’t pander to him, you call him out, and he needs that even if he can’t admit it.

He even doesn’t mind that you sooth the insecurity, recognising when enough is enough. Halting anything before it goes too far, leaves too many wounds. You make him want to try to be a little better, even if he fails most days.

“No.”

“No?”

You snort. “No. Because if I rip you a new one, you’ll find some way to say sorry. And, then you’ll kiss me, and I’ll melt, and then you will forget that you’re an asshole.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”

Your jaw tenses, almost impossibly so. “For someone in your position, you have a lot of snark.”

“Be careful, you may hurt my feelings.”

Nodding, your lips twist before straightening to an unreadable expression again. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m done.”

His muscles relax.

And his heart stops.

Yet Diego is somehow, not as surprised as he should have been.

Even if he looks at you, staring at your eyes and hoping to see a tease, a jest. He looks hoping you will change your mind, that he hasn’t successfully pushed another person away.

“Took you long en—“

“Im done talking,” you continue, cutting him off. Taking closer steps, slow ones, full of purpose as you dig your eyes into him. “I’m not gonna ask you to do right by me, I’m not gonna ask for an explanation why you decided to stand me up tonight. Hey, you don’t even have to talk to me.”

His forehead creases, flicking his eyes from your eyes to your mouth.

“Because I know why. You want me without the commitment, without the expectations of being a good person. You want a hole to fuck, so here I am, Hargreeves. You’ve got one.”

Fuck.

He stifles a sigh, especially as your finger press into his chest, nail digging down into the skin as you roll your lips and then he has to focus on not groaning. Especially when you bat your eyes lashes and smirk so condescendingly he wonders if you’ve been sent to test him.

“You want to pretend you don’t crave normal, that you don’t deserve it,” you continue, looking up at him, “I’ll play pretend. Hey, I’ll become the best damn actor in your movie you’ll ever know. But, I’m done talking.”

You place your other hand on his, moving his to your hip as you smirk.

“So, lights camera action, baby. Where do you wanna fuck me first?”

He feels your lips ghost over his. His hand clenching around your hip. Everything inside of him telling to just go with it, to not talk, to not burst open in front of you.

To kiss you.

To throw you down on the mats and not talk for hours.

“I-I’m s-sorry.”

“No. No you’re not,” you says, full of sadness, your expression not changing to match your tone. “If you were, you’d have come to dinner. You’d have stabbed your fork into the salad before I’d have told you I want street food.”

You didn’t move, and neither does he. Your hand spreading over his chest, his hand still on your hip.

“You don’t let yourself enjoy anything, because what? Your dad was an asshole and your brother went to the moon?” You ask, head tilted. “Diego, I don’t give a shit if you’re number two, you’re number one for me. But you have to try. You have to try at least ten percent otherwise it’s just me, forcing you to be with me.”

He never feels forced. Not with you.

You’re sometimes the only thing which is good. Which isn’t fucked, tainted or ruined. You’re good, if not a bit too sweary and a bit too good at drinking. But, you’re… nice, and unwilling to let him settle.

“You’re m-my number o-one too.”

“Cool.”

“I mean i-it.”

“Nice.”

“Baby, c'mon?”

You sigh. “What, Diego?”

Diego. He’s Diego again.

He doesn’t smile, even if he wants too.

He doesn’t kiss you, even if he’s fighting every part of himself.

He just stares, using his other hand to cup your cheek. “I am sorry.”

“Salad at a fancy place too good for you?”

He smirked. “Yeah, kinda.”

“Good. Because it’s too fancy for me too.”

“So why we’re we even fucking going, baby?”

“Because,” you say, defiance in your tone, “it’s what normal people do. They don’t meet over a bad game of darts and several beers, and fuck on a boxing ring. They don’t fight a literal mugger with trained assassin-level knife skills a month after beginning to sleep together.”

Your shoulders sink, your expression softening. “They date, at restaurants who charge too much and hold hands across parks. And for a second, one tiny fucking moment, I wanted that for you. I wanted normal, meet-cute type romance before we grabbed whatever was in a cart and we fucked on my new sideboard.”

His thumb brushed over your cheek. “I’d have liked that.”

“You’d have loved that. But—“

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer, more meaningful, “I’m s-s-sorry. I really am.”

“I’m still mad.”

“That’s okay.”

“You owe me a fancy salad.”

Smirking, he nods. “Baby, I’ll give you a salad bar if you want it.”

“I don’t like salad.”

“No?”

“No.”

Smirking, he cups your cheek with more purpose. “What do you want then, baby?”

He watches your eyes darken. "Oh."

"Oh, indeed. You have a lot of making up to do.”