#i take the things that matter in life very seriously. i try my very hardest to be committed and dedicated and strive for excellence

[erosology]

a taste of domesticity | simon "ghost" riley

❀ cw/tw: NSFT, fem reader (afab anatomy, fem pet names), established relationship, american author trying to make an english person's dialogue sound authentic, you'll have to pry blond-haired and brown-eyed simon from my cold dead hands, tooth-rotting fluff, undertones of obsession and codependency (because duh it's me), soft dom simon, thigh riding, body worship, praise, oral (f! receiving), unprotected sex

❀ wc: 7,248

❀ a/n: i will never, ever apologize for writing simon as a lovesick slightly pathetic man

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Simon “Ghost” Riley during your time together, it’s that he takes his job very seriously. So seriously, in fact, he’s often too tired to do much other than eat the dinner you’ve prepared him, take a shower, and go straight to bed. Despite his demanding and hectic career path, you both find ways to spend time together—him allowing you to sit in his lap as he does paperwork, you sneaking into the shower as he gets ready for the night, him coming home early and helping you with dinner—all small things to piece together a picture of domesticity and love Simon has craved his entire life.

But sometimes, he thinks, things in the bedroom are a little…lacking.

He only has himself to blame, really, considering he chose a job that demands every bit of strength he has. But there are times when he’s looking at you, your body wrapped in one of his t-shirts and your hair thrown up into a messy bun as you’re curled up on the couch reading, and he wonders if being a butcher is really that bad.

It’s no matter, though, because as insane and hectic as his job might be, he knows, deep down, he wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re a breath of fresh air for the man who is constantly drowning in his desire to be useful, a lighthouse for the man who is constantly swimming in his failures, a safe place for him to strip himself of the wet clothing trying to cling on to this body (much like how his stormy thoughts try to cling on to him) and bask in your warmth. He’s enamored by your compassion, utterly and completely in love with your honesty, and bewitched by your loyalty—a soulmate for someone who has only ever known chaos.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ❀ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

“We should have lemon garlic shrimp tonight,” you suggest to your partner, leaning against his office door frame in hopes maybe he’d look up.

Simon’s eyes don’t even leave his computer as he asks, “What’s the special occasion, love?”

“You’re home in time for dinner for the first time in a month.”

It’s a small stab, he knows it, but it still hurts nonetheless, and you can see him flinch at the blunt edges of your words. He fists clench and unclench, as if debating if he can physically fight off the sense of guilt wrapping around his broad shoulders, before he saves his report progress and shuts his computer down. His movements are always so methodical, measured, but there’s nothing measured about the way he nearly chokes on his own spit when his eyes land on your outfit. Dressed in nothing but one of his t-shirts, thigh high stockings, and a pair of panties, you look nothing short of absolutely divine, and Simon nearly has to check his pulse to make sure he hasn’t died and gone to heaven.

You gaze at him through your eyelashes, eyelids half-closed in lust and the smallest of smirks on your lips. “S’matter, Si? Cat got your tongue?”

It never fails to astound him how easily you rev him up, how you make him feel like some horny teenager on prom night trying to score with his date–clumsy words spilling from his mouth as he tries his hardest to find the magic words to part your legs, palms sweaty as they try to hold your hand, body vibrating with anticipation to see what your tongue tastes like. He’s so unbelievably attracted to you, it makes his head fuzzy with hormones and irrationality, even after all of this time together.

He’s careful as he walks from his desk to you, strong arms wrapping around your waist and his lips brushing your hair. “Are you my starter?” he asks and pinches your thigh for good measure.

You giggle at the rare show of unabashed flirtation from your normally stoic partner and reply coyly, “I could be your dessert if you behave.” Feeling rather bold, you pull him into the kitchen by his belt, and he has to bite his lip to keep the groan clawing at his mouth at bay. You’re too precious for something as barbaric as fevered kisses and frantic hands eager to rip your clothes off. Valuable crystals deserve only the most tender of hands, the most careful of eyes, handled with the utmost precision and patience, and he’s always considered himself a good gemologist.

“C’mere for a second, love,” he says as you turn your back to get started on dinner. Before you can fully turn towards him, he gently cups your jaw and tilts your face up towards his, lips ghosting each other before he finally slots his against yours. You can feel how eager he is, how much he’s holding himself back so as to not break you, so you wrap your arms around his neck and deepen the kiss that much more. That’s all of the motivation he needs, evidently, and he’s quick to wrap your legs around his waist and place you on top of the kitchen counter. Whatever small grip he had on self-control has snapped—a hungry beast finally let free and allowed to feast however he pleases. He wants to completely devour you and keep you safe in his chest—strong bones to keep filthy, undeserving hands from touching you. One taste of you and he’s already drunk on love and all of its promises of companionship and domesticity. 

His hands tangle themselves in your hair, fingers massaging your scalp as his tongue gently prods at your mouth. That’s when you pull away, much to your disappointment, and he groans at the lewd line of spit connecting your lips. Mind hazy with lust, he tries to tilt your face towards his again, anxious to eat until all that’s left is a pile of bones and love, but you gently stop him by pressing your fingers to his mouth.

“Was I too rough?” he asks worriedly. “We can slow down, if you want. I just…miss you, is all, and you’re right about this being the first time we’ve had some time together in God knows how long. I…I know ‘s my fault, and I want to make it up to you—if you’re alright with that.”

And he looks so sincere—dark eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort, hands resting on your thighs and not daring to move, tongue nervously darting out to lick his lips, chest rising and falling with anticipation—you nearly allow him to devour you right there on the kitchen counter. But you’re determined to have a proper dinner with the man you love more than you could ever hope to comprehend. And what’s a good dinner without a nice show?

Your hands fiddle with the collar of his shirt, teeth gnawing at the inside of your cheek in hopes it’ll calm the hunger rolling around in your stomach. “You weren’t too rough, honey, I promise.” At that, you can see relief flood his features, and you gently tug on his collar so he brings his forehead down to meet yours. The pure adoration in his eyes nearly makes you choke, and you swallow down the lump of emotion that had begun to form in your throat. Simon has always been a gentle man despite his very impassive shell, never pushing you and always ready to communicate boundaries and comfort, so to see him so unraveled after a month of missing him is bringing out a masochistic side of you you’d never knew was buried underneath all of the domesticity. Still, you want to be able to enjoy him as much as possible before the moon hangs high and exhaustion begins to settle into heavy bones.

Simon mildly pulls your hand away from nervously toying with his shirt and kisses your fingers—an action that causes you to shudder with admiration. “Did I push you too much?”

“No, sweetheart. I just really, really want to have a nice dinner with you.”

Chuckling, he kisses your temple and helps you off of the counter, his hands lingering on your hips a little longer than necessary before swatting at your bottom and allowing you to begin cooking. “Then a nice dinner together we shall have.”

It’s intoxicating how much your thighs rub together as you cook dinner, how they jiggle and ripple, and Simon isn’t sure what he’s more hungry for. Your hips sway to and fo to the music—nothing inherently sexual about the movement, but his heart speeds up nonetheless. His dark eyes drink in every inch of you like a parched man in the desert, lapping up every single drop so much, he fears his stomach may burst. But it’d be worth it. It would be absolutely worth any form of torture to be able to touch you, hold you, hear you laugh, watch your lips form the syllables of his name. His greatest high, his greatest weakness, the person he’d try to find in every life after this one, the song he hums to himself when he thinks no one is around—all wrapped up in the prettiest package he has ever had the privilege of laying his eyes on.

Simon “Ghost” Riley, special forces operator trained to deal with things most people only see portrayed in overly-budgeted action movies, is absolutely hypnotized by how absolutely gorgeous you are.

“Didn’t know I was getting dinner and a show,” he nearly purrs at you as you pour him a glass of bourbon. Kentucky, of course.

“Hmm?” You innocently cock your head. “I’m just making you dinner, silly, a very normal thing.”

“Whatever you say, love.”

Lust and hormones roll off of your body in tidal waves, nearly drowning the man under the chaotic waters, but he wouldn’t mind, not really. He could spend hours, days, weeks floating around in all of your oceans, exploring every part of you until he has a clear map ingrained in his brain. He’s in love with your heart, in lust with your body, and enamored by your mind.

A warmth only alcohol can provide spreads across his body, and Simon Riley, known by even his closest friends as stern and forthright, dares to relax in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him and his eyes half-closed as they watch you sway to the music. At times like this, Simon is reminded of what it’s like to be naïve again, excited, ready to face the world and all of its possibilities. He’s content, basking in the security you provide him with and the knowledge that he has you to call home. He’s safe, and that’s something he’ll never, ever take for granted.

“You look happy,” you giggle, taking note of the pink flush to his face.

He hums, and in the blink of an eye he’s got his arms wrapped around your waist and his chin resting on your head. His lips brush against your hair, fingers fiddling with the t-shirt clinging to your body, and he swears he could stay like this forever if you allowed him to. He thinks this is what paradise must be like—his soulmate wrapped in his arms, the scent of delicious food hanging in the air, music softly playing over the sound of your giggles, his heart let free from its cage and soaring in the air.

“Must be because I am,” he utters into your hair. “I really, really am, sweetheart.”

And though he’s never been one for grandiose displays of affection, he finds himself spinning you around your shared kitchen, strong hands pressed into the small of your back and swaying your bodies to and fro, a makeshift ballroom squished in between the living room and his office.

Your hand fists his shirt, giggles bubbling out of your lips—the most beautiful sound he’ll ever hear. “Simon Riley! What has gotten into you?”

The smile he bears is a gentle one full of love and admiration, and you swear you feel your heart squeeze in your chest. “I’m very lucky to have you. In fact…” And then, his lips are ghosting over yours and his hands are clutching at your hips, desperate to feel you close but scared to admit how much he needs you. “I’d wager I’m the luckiest bastard on this shithole planet.”

“I think you’d lose,” you whisper back, a joyous light dancing in your eyes. “Because I’d wager I’m the luckiest person on this shithole planet to have you.”

He kisses you before he can stop himself, before he can second guess whether or not he’s worthy of your lips, before either of you can begin to decipher what love is and why it heals as much as it hurts. He kisses you and tries his hardest to commit dedication to memory. He kisses you and forgets what the definition of pain is and all he can feel is your fingers carding through his hair. He’s consumed by you—the smell of your shampoo stubbornly clinging to your hair, the feeling of your heart hammering against his, your eyelashes brushing against his cheek, the little squeal you let out when he picks you up, everything, everything everything. All he wants is this moment right here tattooed into his brain, burned into his eyelids so every time he closes his eyes all he can see is bliss and sunlight filtering through.

And though he’s the one with the infamous appetite, he swears he’d crack his ribcage open and allow you to feast as much as you need to. What is love if not all-consuming—cannibalistic desires flooding empty veins until the need to eat is unbearable? Hungry teeth clash against a bare tongue, and he groans loudly into your greedy mouth.

“Simon,” you gasp, “the food—”

“Can wait,” he finishes for you, and you both find yourselves stumbling into a chair. Quickly, he sits down with you on his lap, careful as to not hurt his precious meal. He can feel your cunt throb against his thigh and, god, he needs to eat, eat, eat before he goes completely mad. His thumb draws circles against the growing wet spot on your panties, a groan reverberating in his chest and deep eyes rolling to the back of his head. He sees you’re wearing the pink lacy panties with a white bow that always drive him up the walls of your shared home, and he has to fight the animalistic urge to rip them clean off of your body. No, he won’t be rough no matter how hungry he is. He’s not a beast void of all humanity. He’s simply a man with an empty stomach and the prettiest meal sitting on his lap, and his teeth miss how your skin feels pinched between them.

He easily slides your panties off, an expert in disarming prey, and brings them up to his nose, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Simon,” you moan out at the sight. “Simon, please—”

His hand strikes at your bottom before you can finish your sentence. “Ride my thigh, love.” And he pockets your panties, promising himself he’ll give them back one day.

His big, calloused hands grip your hips as you drag your pussy across his thick thigh, your juices coating his pants but he doesn’t even care. How can he when you look so precious moaning and pleading on his thigh, shaky fingers grasping at his tie to gain some sense of balance? His brown eyes gaze down at you with a predatory light, his bottom lip pinched between his teeth as your grinding becomes more and more erratic.

His voice is strained when he speaks, husky, a caged animal frustrated at not being able to roam free. “That desperate for me, hm? So impatient…” But he can’t deny the erection swelling in his boxers, nor can he deny how hypnotizing it is watching how your brow furrows in concentration with every swivel of your hips. The squelching sound of your drooling cunt is downright filthy, but it’s so intoxicating to the man who gets drunk off of your submission. Adam’s apple bobbing, he tries his hardest to swallow down all of the primal urges flooding his body, to allow you to continue chasing your high, but he can’t stop himself from planting a kiss on your exposed shoulder, nor can he stop himself from resting his forehead upon that very same shoulder. His arms wrap around your torso, bringing your body closer to his so your chests are flushed together, and he groans when he feels your leg brush against his aching cock.

“Si…,” you gasp.

“Shh, just let me do this, darling,” he whispers, his breath tickling your neck. “I want to be close to you.”

Tears poke at the corner of your eyes and your throat constricts, a small gasp leaving your lips before he kisses them gently. A vulnerable Simon is a rare one, but you’re so parched for the smallest taste of intimacy you’re nearly afraid of draining him completely. Still, you wrap your arms around his neck and quicken your pace—anything to keep him close, to keep his face buried in the crook of your neck and his hands stroking at your spine. Shaky fingers bury themselves in short blond hair, pulling at the strands and his heart strings. Trembling thighs squeeze around his own muscular one, and he feels just how hard your heart is slamming itself against your ribcage. What should’ve been an act of climacteric horniness is truly an act of desperate love, depraved intimacy that has been simmering under the surface—two people trying to find themselves buried in each other’s chests.

“Si…” His name rolls off of your tongue so easily, a sound that floods his veins with a warmth his blood couldn’t possibly supply. “Si, please!” Fingernails dig into his back, and he knows just how dire it is for you to feel all of him, but, fuck, he needs to hear you beg a bit more. He needs to be reminded that yes, he is worthy of love, and yes, even with a heart as scarred as his, he is capable of loving back. He needs his ears to be flooded with the sound of unhinged adoration and unwavering dedication. He needs to run his hands all across your skin until he’s able to commit romance to memory and he can’t bear the thought of touching anything else.

Pulling his head back, his amber eyes search your face, fingers gently tracing your bottom lip, and the sheer intensity of his expression has your movements slowing. You’re surprised to see him hesitant, unsure, because in a world of war and uncertainty, Simon Riley is a man made of osmium. He can’t afford the luxury of insecurity in a market that feeds off of humanity. But here he is, one hand keeping your hips stilled as his other one languidly traces all of the bumps and curves of your body, his brow furrowed in concentration as if afraid of breaking you with the slightest of pressure, his eyes full of worry.

“Si—”

“You know I love you, right?” he uncharacteristically cuts you off, his tone steady despite the tremble in his hand.

You answer without missing a beat. “Of course I do. I love you, too, honey.”

He nods, moreso to himself than you, and finally meets your eyes. You’re surprised to see the fire burning in them, how his soft eyes look nearly deadly as he wraps his arms around your chest and brings your body flush against his once again. “Then we’re going to do this the right way.” And before you can ask what he means by that, he lifts your body up with ease, earning a surprised squeak from you. His lips attach themselves against your shoulder, and you wrap your legs around his waist to allow him to carry you easier. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he confesses softly between kisses. “You keep me grounded, sweetheart. You keep me sane.”

Longing strangles you and you can’t help but shutter at his raw declaration of love. Simon reminding you how much you mean to him isn’t rare in the least bit–he’s rather forthcoming about his feelings after many months of you teaching him how to loosen his tongue–but to hear it said so tenderly, as if your ears are made of paper and he spits razors with every word, is something worth crying over.

And you do.

Glistening crystals poke at the corner of your eyes as he tenderly lays your body on the bed, and it’s at this moment Simon Riley thinks you’re something worth dying over. His fingers swipe at your tears, rough palm resting against your cheek, and you nuzzle your face into the callouses, a soft smile on your lips and galaxies in your eyes. He’s hopelessly, painfully, undeniably in love with you, and he absolutely hates himself for neglecting you so much.

“Sweetheart,” he begins, voice strained with love and weakness. How can he look into your eyes and apologize for being a horrible partner? You—with your patience and kindness and strength and dedication and selflessness—you deserve better, better than being left alone to wonder if he’s safe and alive. Better than brisk pecks to your forehead after a thoughtfully prepared breakfast. Better than rushed showers and swift promises of love before a day of unguaranteed nights. Better than him. Better than anything someone like him could ever hope to offer you.

And of course—because you’re you, you, you—you place a kiss on his palm. It’s an innocent enough gesture. A quick press of your lips to the palm of his hand. It’s something that he normally wouldn’t think twice about, something he would smile about and then kiss your cheek for. Definitely not something worth gasping over. Not something worth losing his breath over. Not something worth the shudder that wracks his body. Not something worth splitting his soul in two over. But, as he hovers over you, he can feel his shell crumbling away until all that’s left is the part of his heart he’s been saving for someone like you. He can’t breathe, can’t think, not when you’re kissing the same hand that has killed, that has failed, that has been scarred and covered in blood. And then you’re kissing the pulse in his wrist and then his forearm and then his bicep and before he can even warn you to save your kisses for the worthy, you’re kissing his shoulder in the same tender manner he was kissing yours moments ago.

He feels your breath dance across his neck and refuses to move until you give him permission.

“Simon,” you whisper, and his ears ring at how much affection you place in the syllables of his name. “I love you more than I could ever hope to fathom. I don’t think you realize how much you keep me sane.”

“Sweet—”

You silence him with a kiss to his neck, humming at the steady beat in his jugular. “You’re my comfort. You’re my safe space to be myself with no worries about what’s going to happen tomorrow because you’re prepared for anything. You allow me to be neurotic and moody and a ball of stress without judging me or trying to baby me. You understand that sometimes I need to be neurotic and moody and a ball of stress. You’re caring and thoughtful and straightforward and I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”

You can’t be real. Even the holiest of heavens couldn’t craft something as angelic as you, and yet here you are, touching your forehead to his and filling his lungs with your stardust, divine hand caressing his cheek, sephric eyes holding so much unfiltered love he can’t stop himself from kissing you. His lips are tender at first, trying their best to memorize immortality and savoring how ethereal you taste, but when you place your hand on his neck, he feels himself giving into his mortal instincts. Using his body weight to his advantage, he lowers you back down to the mattress, never daring to break the kiss. His hands begin to tug at the shirt clinging to your torso, and you’ve never been quicker to dispose of clothes.

“So beautiful,” he mumbles against your lips, hands grazing across your thighs and squeezing them appreciatively. “You’re so beautiful, darling, do you know that?”

A sudden bashfulness warms your body, and you fight the urge to hide behind your hands. “You make me feel it,” you reply shyly and try to pull his face back down to yours, but he stops you by kissing the tips of your fingers. Pouting, you try to grab his face again, but again, he simply catches your hand and kisses your palm, his eyes resting on yours and full of unadulterated dedication. “C’mere, I wanna kiss.”

“You’ll get plenty of those, love, don’t worry.”

Forever and ever, he silently promises himself, I’m going to kiss you forever. And, keeping his promise like the dutiful man he is, he kisses his way up your arm, every touch of his lips measured and careful, until they gently brush against your cheek. You giggle at his breath tickling your neck, and he swears he feels his heart collapse in on itself like some pathetic parody of a supernova. This right here—you stripped down to your underwear and allowing him to love every inch of your supple skin, him stripped down to the bone and being forced to let go of control–is something he used to fantasize about, something he never ever thought himself worthy of, but when you look up at him with your eyes full of trust and dedication, he can’t stop himself from drinking in every second of it. His lips brush against your neck, right above the jugular so he can feel how your heart rate spikes, and then your collarbone, and then his tongue gently swipes across your nipple, earning a soft gasp from you.

“Simon,” you whine, “no teasing, please.”

His fingers brush against your cheek, lips still attached to your breast, while his other hand snakes down to your cunt. “‘m not teasing, darling, I promise. Just want to show every part of you some love.”

He’s an expert at unraveling you, at lightly grazing his fingers just above where you need him most, at dragging his tongue across your peddled nipple, at nipping and sucking at your breasts until you’re bucking against his hand. Even after all of these past weeks of quickies and fevered shower sex, Simon Riley is nothing short of a master at making you moan out his name. His penchant for precision is often deemed a tedious mindset, something to hold him back from admiring the big picture, but it’s a gift from the heavens above when it has you a writhing mess underneath him. Your juices are coating his hand and his ears are full of your vows of love and lust, but it still isn’t enough for him. He needs all of you, all of your tears, all of your gasps and whines, all of your shaking thighs wrapped around him, needs to feel skin brushing skin and the promise of loving and being loved forever.

Your shaking hands bury themselves in his hair, pulling and tugging at the strands and causing him to groan against your skin. “Simon, f-fuck, you’re so good.”

A moan stutters in his chest at the unexpected praise. He needs to feast on everything that is you until he’s full. Without so much as a warning, he kisses your forehead once more before throwing your legs over his shoulders in one swift movement. You open your mouth to protest that he deserves a little love too, but his lips are already attached to your throbbing clit and all you can do is cry out his name. You can feel another groan reverberate in his chest, his hands kneading at your plush thighs and pulling you closer, closer, closer, until his nose is buried in your pubic hair, and he looks nothing short of a man utterly in love with the person beneath him.

“Simon! Oh my fucking god, Simon!”

He slides a finger inside of your fluttering hole, and then another, curling them and scissoring just the way that has your thighs twitching around his head. Brown eyes roll to the back of his head, and he somehow manages to bury his face even further into your pussy. “Like that, baby? You like it just like that?”

“Yes, Simon, yes, please!”

“Fucking hell, darling, I could stay here forever.” Forever doesn’t seem like a long time as long as you’re by his side…

Simon isn’t sure what he’s more drunk on—the alcohol he indulged in earlier, or the juices dripping from your cunt. He’s intoxicated on submission and domination, lust and love, every saccharine memory with you in the past and every hopeful wish with you in the future, every broken piece of you and every picture he’s painted on your skin. He’s drunk on you. All of your moans and pants and pleas for more, more, more—eat until you’re full, Simon! Completely devour until all that’s left is an illustration of what love is!

He was never an indulgent man until you came into his life and discovered just how large his stomach truly is.

His tongue draws languid circles on your clit as his fingers pump in and out of your cunt, his half-lidded ambers watching the rise and fall of your chest. Once he finds a good rhythm, he brings his free hand up to pinch and roll your nipple between his nimble fingers, and you’re sure this is what heaven must feel like.

Simon Riley is almost certain you’re an angel in disguise, but you’re starting to suspect he’s a god who’s too humble to admit his omnipotence. How else would he know exactly how to curl his fingers just right to get your thighs to shake? How else would he know how much you love when he flattens his tongue and slowly drags it along your clit? How else would he know to kiss your inner thigh as he takes a minute to catch his breath and rest his jaw? He looks up at you with ambers filled to the brim with worship and adoration, but you swear you can see a flicker of greed lingering somewhere in there—obsession disguised as fascination, possession parading as love, anything to keep you by his side.

“Look at you, so wet for me,” he coos up at you, using his fingers to spread your pussy lips and admire the mess between your legs. “Do I make you feel that good, sweetheart? Can’t help but fucking drip for me, hm? So wet for me, baby, so good for me.”

“S-S-Simon!”

“Keep moaning my name, sweetheart,” he groans as he brings his mouth to your cunt again, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the tightness of his pants. “Fuck—scream it, I don’t care. Just wanna keep hearing you.”

“Simon fucking Riley, please, you feel s-so good!”

Taunt skin is pulled across knuckles as you grip the bed sheets underneath you. Eyes rolling to the back of your skull, thighs uncontrollably shaking around his head, chest heaving as if you just ran a marathon, sweat clinging to your skin, cunt throbbing rhythmically along with the pumping of your partner’s fingers, you can feel your orgasm swiftly approaching. Simon must be able to tell also, given the way his licks to your clit are becoming more and more frantic and he’s starting to goad you on.

Desperation is laced with fascination as he begs, “Go on, baby, it’s okay. Cum on my fingers. Cum for me, please, let me make you feel good. I know you can, love. Just cum for me.”

As if under his spell, you feel the control you had been trying to grip on to snap and unadulterated pleasure crash over your body, leaving you heaving and twitching underneath his touch. He easily helps you through your high, gentle as he kisses your thighs and slowly eases his fingers out of your throbbing cunt. Crystals poke at the corner of your eyes, causing them to look like stained glass on a sunny day, and Simon is sure to say his prayers as he kisses them away.

“So, so gorgeous,” he whispers between the brushes of his lips. “So pretty when you’re cumming for me. Fuck, love, you’re so beautiful.”

Relishing the praise he’s pouring on your skin, your shaking fingers begin to tug at the shirt clinging to his chest. He tries to stop your ministrations and tell you that predators typically don’t get help from their prey, but you shush him and tell him that not every prey is helpless just like not every predator is invincible. He watches your hands fumble with bemusement, and after a moment of struggling you decide to flip your bodies over so you’re now straddling him.

He’s surprised to say the least, eyes widening and body struggling to regain control, but after a kiss to his forehead and a nip at his ear, he begins to think that having control isn’t what it’s all cracked up to be. Besides, why would he deny himself the perfect view of your body—of your breasts heaving in front of him, your pulse thumping in the hollow of your throat, of your neck exposed and ready to be bitten? Why would he deny himself of the feast before him, coated in sweat and glowing with love?

“Off,” you mumble against his neck and tug at his pants. “Off, please, Simon, take them off.”

Desperation drips from every syllable that falls from your intoxicating mouth, and he’s quick to dispose of the pants that restrict him. Strong fingers cup your jaw and bring your face in front of his, hungry ambers drinking in the sight of adoration and lust. His lips slot against yours, hands grasping at your hips and dragging your cunt across his hard cock, and he swears this is the sweetest form of torture.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I want you to look at me while you put me inside of you. C’mon, baby, don’t be shy now.”

Your trembling hands find his dick, and you have to stop to admire the masterpiece laying underneath you—a pretty red head beaded with precum, a prominent vein running along the side of his shaft and wrapping until it meets with a tuft of blond pubic hair, stomach muscles contracting with every breath, pink-flushed cheeks on a stern face, a naked chest rising and falling with anticipation. He’s beautiful. He’s everything every artist has tried to capture on blank canvases and fell just short of. He’s ethereally gorgeous but also alarmingly human. He’s an angelic face with blood-stained hands. He’s Simon “Ghost” Riley, and you’ve never been more proud to be able to call him yours.

Bashful eyes meet greedy ones and you’re lowering yourself on his cock before you can begin to ask yourself who’s more vulnerable in this moment—the prey on the pedestal or the predator whose appetite can only be satiated by one person. The swollen tip of his cock rests easily inside of you, and right when you’re about to start rocking your hips, he sits up so your chests are flushed together, much like how you were in the kitchen.

His lips brush against your shoulder, and you’re reminded of how gentle he can be despite the calluses on his palms. “I want you close, baby, please. Need to feel all of you. Every inch, inside and out. Will you let me do that, sweetheart?”

A thick blanket of submission wraps itself around your shoulders, and your head is nodding before you even give it permission to. “Want all of you, Si! Need all of you! Jus’ wan’ you.”

He begins to rock his hip, bones digging into plush flesh, and swears he can see flashes of golden gates with each thrust. “That’s it, baby. Such a good girl—my good girl.”

“S-Simon!”

Watching your breasts bounce as he bucks into you is hypnotizing, and he has to dig his fingers into your thighs to keep himself from bucking into you wildly. No, he refuses to be the beast he keeps buried down. It’s taken years of self-discipline and self-discovery to keep it locked away. He can’t unleash it now during a moment of vulnerability. But there’s something so tantalizing about you, so tempting and delicious that causes his teeth to sharpen and his mouth to flood with drool…

“Roll your hips, darling,” Simon whispers into your neck. “Be my good girl and roll your hips.”

And like the obedient girl you are, you listen, clit brushing against his pelvis and sending delicious waves of pleasure over your body. He thinks he’s dragging you down to hell with him, but you’re certain this is what heaven feels like. The love of your life beneath you, a light blanket of sweat over his body, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tries not to overindulge, his heart slamming against his ribcage in a frenzied attempt to reach you, his hands touching every inch of you they can reach, his lips kissing away the tears that stream down your face… No, this is better than heaven. With his hunger and your curiosity, you’ve both managed to find a place better than the promiseland, better than anything any god or mortal could even begin to hope to comprehend, a place where he’s free to feast on you as much as he wants and you can bury yourself in his ribcage.

Strong fingers slip under your chin and force you to look in a pair of shining ambers, and you swear Simon has never looked more beautiful than in this moment. “Kiss me, sweetheart,” he pleads, his hips stuttering.

Starving lips come crashing together, and it takes every ounce of self-control to not feed until his stomach ruptures.

And the worst part of it all is he knows you would allow him to.

You would absolutely allow him to eat, eat, eat, Simon, sharpen your teeth and bite as hard as you want! You’ll never go hungry as long as you’re with me! Just eat, goddammit, eat, eat, eat! Eat all of me until we aren’t sure where you end and I begin! Eat until I’m swimming in your veins! Just fucking eat!

Simon buries his face into the crook of your neck in hopes that maybe he can get through the night without any bloodshed, struggling to keep himself under control. But you have other plans. Lacing your fingers through his blond hair, you guide his face to one of your breasts in a silent plea for him to suck on it as you ride him. He obeys, of course. How could he not when you look so delicious covered in sweat and bouncing on his cock?

With teeth as sharp as diamonds, he tugs onto your nipple, and you cry out his name until it’s all you can dare to think about. “Fuck, baby,” he swears, one of his hands massaging your other breast, “you’re so beautiful. You know that right, darling? Have I ever told you how beautiful you are as you ride me?”

Your thighs begin to shake, and it’s then you both know you’re at the brink of unadulterated pleasure. Mustering as much strength as you can, you slam your hips down on his in frantic motions, feel the head of his cock prodding at your cervix, and tears poke at the corners of your eyes in anticipation of the feast about to come.

“So close, baby,” your partner moans, “so fucking close. Just a little more, love. Can you do that for me? Can my good girl ride me just a little bit more and make us both cum?”

“Y-Yes! Anything for you, Simon! Jus’ wanna be your good girl…”

Your whines and moans become more and more warbled the closer you get to your orgasm, and Simon is drinking every ounce of your submission. Unable to maintain self-control in the face of greed, sharp teeth pinch your nipple, the swell of your breasts, your shoulder, your neck, your jaw—anywhere he can feed and hear you squeal out in delight, just so long as he eats, eats, eats. Every time enamel pinches plush flesh, he can feel a piece of you slither down his throat and land in his ever-growing stomach—somewhere you’ve learned to consider home. Whispers of praise and love dance across your skin, his hands running up and down your spine as if coaxing you to give him just a little more of yourself, just a bit more so he can sedate the beast and continue to be the practical man you know and love.

“So fucking good for me,” he moans into the crook in your sweaty neck, his cock beginning to throb with the need to release. “That’s my girl, just a little more. I’m so close, love.”

Shaky hands bury themself into thick hair, and you pull until you can hear a hiss leave his lips. “Please, Simon, cum with me, please!”

“My baby wants me to cum with her, hmm?” he teases, albeit weakly. He’s losing control, you both know it. His abs flex with strain, his brow is shining with sweat, and his lips wobble with weakness, and yet he’s fighting to have you cum first just so he can taste how sweet you are on his tongue before he’s no longer human.

“Yes, please! I’m begging you, Simon, cum with me!”

“O-O-Oh, fuck...” Though he’s never been much for blind optimism, a part of him hoped maybe he finally could have control over his desires around you. A foolish thing to think, really, when you call to the beast buried in his ribcage so easily… “I’m gonna cum, darling, cum with me!”

And you do, almost embarrassingly quick. With your arms wrapped around each other, your face buried in his chest and his buried in your hair, your hips clumsily crashing together, you both cum together loudly, lewdly, your names burned into each other’s throats and echoing off of your bedroom walls. 

“You did so well for me, baby,” he mumbles against your shoulder, his lips fumbling to kiss everywhere his teeth sunk into. “I love you so much.”

You sigh and lean into his kisses as much as you can, arms still hanging loosely around his neck and your lungs trying to pull in oxygen. “I love you too, sweetheart, so, so much.”

“C’mon, I’ll go prepare a bath for us.” Gently, he untangles your limbs and lifts you in his strong arms. With one last kiss to your forehead, he begins to make his way to the bathroom, you curled up against his chest and listening to how hard his heart is hammering.

And somewhere between the sound of running water and satisfied giggles, Simon swears he hears a growl coming from his chest—low and threatening, a warning he only has so much time before he loses control and he can no longer contain how he feels about you.

And, for the first time since he discovered that wretched beast, he thinks he might be okay with that.

[margindoodles2407]

Okay the quiz is *half* accurate. I don't think that rules are made to be broken, and I think that rules in general are good and there to keep people safe, but what I do hold is that an unjust law is no law at all. But everything else is... well it's more or less accurate, on varying levels XD

(i don't think i'd be magic/spellcasting, cause again I'm a very hands-on person so I'd probably fight with a weapon, but that's the only other nitpick)

Tagging: @whyoneartheven @kommandantpinks @turdofanerd and @luke-shywalker :D And anyone else who wants to hop on!!

hiii im doing a tag game because they’re fun as heck so.

do this picrew and do this quiz‼️‼️‼️🗣️

tagging (no pressure of course): @gh0st1al @misty-eyed-memory @thelingering @sunnfl0w3rr + anyone else who wishes to join‼️‼️‼️🧡🧡

[kikyoupdates]

Tears of a Villainess ⭑˚🗡️⭑ 𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑦

yandere!ocs x reader

yandere, reverse harem, isekai, original characters x fem!reader, slowburn, slowburn yandere

Reincarnation isn't as great as it sounds, especially when you've been reborn as none other than the villainess. Fated to die if you stand in the heroine's way, you immediately resolve to distance yourself from the plot. As long as you have nothing to do with any of the relevant characters, surely, you'll be able to avoid an untimely death. But in a horrible turn of events, the heroine ends up wanting to get close to you. Are you really doomed to meet the villainess' tragic end? Or is there an even more sinister fate that awaits you?

previous | story masterlist | next

Man. Am I seriously going to have to reject another guy from the same family? 

You blink tiredly, not even bothering to hide your lack of enthusiasm. Rowan grips your hand tight and faces you with a bright, expectant gaze, still down on one knee. Fiona’s been trying her hardest to retain her composure, but you can hear her squealing excitedly in the background. 

To put it simply, there’s a lot happening right now. Certainly not how you envisioned your day going. 

Well, alright, then. Better to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“Sorry, but no,” you say, and you watch as Rowan’s eyes go wide from shock. “This is very abrupt, first of all. And I already mentioned that I’ve been recovering from illness, so now isn’t an appropriate time to be having this discussion. You can’t just spring something like this on me. Also, I didn’t get to finish my apple juice earlier because you decided to trespass all of a sudden.” 

Rowan furrows his brows, but he doesn’t stand up right away, nor does he let go of your hand. 

“You won’t marry me?” he frowns. “You didn’t even take a moment to properly think it through. I apologize for startling you, but if you just give me a fair chance, I’d be happy to prove what a fitting partner I would be. I believe I’m a suitable candidate, and I’m confident that your parents would approve of our union.” 

…shit. 

Come to think of it, that’s right. You already told your dad that you would be fine getting engaged to pretty much anyone other than Alistair. Rowan has a point in saying that your parents would likely be on board. They may dote on you tirelessly, and you’re spoiled as can be, but they still have a few basic expectations, and one of those is that you marry a wealthy, respectable man. 

Since Rowan is Alistair’s cousin, they share the same household name and prestige. In fact, your parents might jump on this opportunity in an effort to try and mend ties with the Calderwood family. You’re not sure how you’ll be able to get out of this one. 

Then again… do you really have to? 

You take a moment to think about it. Officially, Rowan had nothing to do with the plot of the game or any of the villainess’ bad endings. He didn’t fall for the heroine, nor did he ever interact with her, as far as you remember. He’s a side character. Even less than a side character, perhaps, because his character doesn’t tie into the progression of the storyline whatsoever. 

Even if you agree to get engaged to him, it’s unlikely that anything bad would happen. The only reason you’re so hesitant is because he’s related to Alistair, but why should it matter to him if you end up marrying his cousin? You’re still not following the plot of the game, and you’re not interfering with his love life either. 

You know that most of your concerns may be rather unfounded, and a lot of that is due to simple paranoia. If you break things down and analyze them rationally, getting engaged to Rowan carries little to no risk. It’s certainly not a death sentence. 

Unfortunately, there’s another issue.

You just don’t like this dude. 

He gives off a bad vibe. The fact that he waltzed in here uninvited isn’t a good sign. Nobles have certain rules and etiquette they’re expected to follow, and while it’s understandable that an outsider like you would need some time to adjust, he didn’t seem to care that he was acting without any respect or regard for your feelings. 

Not to mention that his intentions seem incredibly crass. What kind of person would jump at the opportunity to get with their family member’s ex-fiancée? It’s in rather poor taste, you have to admit. Plus, his expression when he was recounting how he’d heard of Alistair’s engagement falling through…

He looked positively delighted.

You hastily withdraw your hand, much to Rowan’s visible disappointment. All you really know about him is that he and Alistair don’t seem to be on good terms. They had a few brief, unpleasant exchanges in the game. Just a few sentences of dialogue, but more than enough to convey how disconnected they are.

It’s entirely possible you’re reading into things too much here, but if your hunch is right, then it sounds like he wants to marry you purely to spite his cousin. 

And that’s the kind of pettiness you’d rather not have in your life. 

“I’m not sure how my parents would feel about you going after your cousin’s former flame,” you remark with a grimace. “I’ve never heard of someone within the same family openly pursuing their relative’s ex-fiancée. It makes me question your character, if I’m being honest.” 

Sensing you likely won’t be swayed anytime soon, Rowan finally stands up. He takes a moment to adjust his coat back in place, and despite being rejected, his self-assuredness quickly returns. 

“The heart can’t help what it wants,” Rowan smiles. “And I’d been interested in you well before Alistair even announced his engagement. I had been working up the nerve to propose to you for quite some time, so imagine my surprise when I heard that he’d already beat me to it. I felt incredibly discouraged, but he’s family, so what could I do? I simply endured all the while and tried to work through my frustrations, but when I heard the news, I knew I couldn’t let this opportunity pass me by.” 

Everything he’s saying reeks of bullshit. What was stopping him from proposing to you sooner, as he claims he wanted to? He didn’t need to wait and ‘work up the nerve’ to do anything. He could’ve just gone ahead and done it.

“Of course, even then, I still wasn’t completely convinced,” Rowan piles on. “I’d heard many tales of your beauty and extravagance, but now that I’m actually seeing you and speaking to you, I can confidently say I’m sure of my decision. I admire your strong spirit, and you’re so inexplicably charming, in a way I can’t even describe. I understand that it doesn’t paint me in a flattering light to covet the woman my cousin once planned to marry, but I’m not the kind of man who can deny what he wants. My heart is set on you, and I doubt that will ever change.” 

Fiona squeals again, having to clamp her hands over her mouth to try and quiet down. It’s not like you can really blame her. What she’s watching right now is basically the equivalent of a soap opera. 

You narrow your eyes. If he’s really doing all this just to stick it to his cousin, that would be horrifyingly pathetic, but also kind of impressive. You have to admire the sheer strength of will it takes to commit to something so stupid. 

“Well, I’m not thinking of marriage right now,” you say. “My engagement with Alistair only just recently settled. Above all else, I want to focus on myself for a while, and I need to properly assess all my options. I’m not just going to rush into yet another engagement.” 

Rowan looks like he still wants to keep pushing the issue, but fortunately, he must realize he’s not going to make much headway, so he relents. 

“I understand,” he nods. “I’m sure you must have a lot of things weighing on your mind. And it must be especially difficult hearing this after you spent a grueling night recovering from sickness. You’re such a strong, dauntless woman. It’s truly breathtaking.” 

Bro. Is this guy ever going to stop kissing your ass? 

“Uh, sure,” you reply, scrunching up your nose. “Anyways, I gotta go now. Please show yourself out.” 

“But you’ll consider my proposal?” Rowan asks hopefully. “Because I really do think that we would make an incredible pair. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove my worth to you.” 

You’re just about to brush him off again and put an end to the conversation, but as it so happens, that’s not what fate has in store for you today. 

Instead, your father emerges from the manor.

Oh, balls. 

You already know this can’t possibly end well, so you go as far as trying to shove Rowan along—much to his blatant disbelief. It’s difficult to get him to budge since he’s bigger than you in stature, but either way, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference, because your father has already spotted him. 

“[Name]!” your father calls out. “What’s happening? Who is that man? One of the servants said they noticed a strange carriage pulling in. Hey, you there! Get away from my daughter at once! Just what in the world is the meaning of this?” 

He’s furious—or at least, as close to furious as he can be, all things considered. You’ve come to realize that he’s not exactly the most intimidating guy. Unless you’re the kind of person who’s terrified of math problems, that is. 

Your father cartoonishly stomps across the lawn, looking less authoritative by the second, but Rowan still minds his manners (which is something you didn’t think he even had) and bows deeply.

“Please forgive my intrusion, Count [Last Name],” Rowan says, greeting him with a calm, confident smile. “My name is Rowan Calderwood. I understand you must be startled by my appearance, but I came here hoping to speak to you and happened to chance upon [Name] while she was out in the garden.” 

“He was just leaving,” you blurt, but of course, your attempts to end the discussion are futile. 

Your father glares at him. “How dare you solicit my daughter’s company after showing up here uninvited. You didn’t even have the decency to announce your arrival. And you say you’re from the Calderwood family? I was under the impression that our households weren’t speaking. This is remarkably classless of you.” 

Hell yeah! You tell ‘em, dad!

You’re tempted to start pumping your fist in the air and cheering, but against all odds, you manage to hold back. 

However, if there’s something you’ve learned about Rowan in the brief time you’ve known him, it’s that he’s a stubborn, determined son-of-a-bitch. It takes a lot to faze him, and even then, he doesn’t let his smile slip. 

Most people in his position would have been ashamed to be called out for their rudeness, but he manages to face your father with a clear, unwavering gaze. 

“I am Alistair’s cousin,” he nods. “It’s true that we’re related, and that I am technically from the same household as him. But his decisions have no bearing on my own, and although that side of the family may not be speaking to you at the moment, it doesn’t change how I feel. All I care about is [Name], and today, I came here to ask for her hand in marriage. With your blessing, of course.” 

You sigh. 

Well, he went ahead and said the thing. You suppose there’s no backtracking now. You’ll just have to hope that your father won’t be so easily swayed by—ah, never mind. He’s already struggling to contain his smile. 

“You want to marry [Name]?” your father blinks. He pauses to clear his throat, but the twinkle in his eyes is unmistakable. He looks as excited as a child on Christmas morning. 

“She’s an incredible woman,” Rowan nods. He’s not an idiot, and he clearly realizes that the best way to turn the tide in his favor is to start praising the ever-loving shit out of you. “We admittedly haven’t spoken for very long, but I can already tell that she’s a very intelligent young lady. She has such a vibrant, distinct personality too. I find myself drawn to her more and more with every passing second.” 

Your father fails to hide his smile altogether this time. “Well, of course,” he hums. “My daughter is remarkable in every possible way. And she’s not just intelligent, mind you. I daresay she’s an honest-to-goodness genius.”

“That’s no surprise. I instinctively knew she was far more distinguished and impressive than any of the other ladies I’d spoken to. She’s the type of woman who can’t possibly be forgotten or overlooked. She shines as brightly as a lone star in the dark of night.”

…okay, I’m all for being complimented, but they seriously need to stop acting like I just solved world hunger.

“Yes, yes, I’m amazing,” you mumble half-heartedly. “Anyways, I was under the impression that I would have the entire day to rest and recover my strength. I’m not well enough right now to be entertaining guests.” 

You’re not being subtle about how desperately you want Rowan to hurry up and leave already, and the bastard clearly knows it, not that he gives a single shit. 

Luckily, your father still seems to believe that you nearly crossed over into the afterlife last night, and he quickly assumes a more stern expression.

“That’s right,” he frowns. “Forgive me, sweetheart. You must still be suffering from the aftereffects of your illness. I’m afraid we’ll have to cut today’s meeting short, Rowan. You must not have known that [Name] wasn’t feeling well, but all the same, she needs enough time to fully recover.” 

Rowan glances over to you, and although he does a pretty good job of hiding it, you can tell that he still doesn’t buy into the story about your ‘sickness’. 

Which, fair enough, since the story is total bullshit.

“Of course,” Rowan nods gravely. “I didn’t realize that [Name] was unwell when I decided to make the trip here. Given the circumstances, I understand why it would be difficult to come to a decision right away, and I don’t mean to rush you along. I just wanted to make my intentions clear. I hope that you will at least consider me as a potential marriage candidate, and allow me to court [Name] in the meantime.”

Your father stops to purse his lips, then looks over at you hopefully. It’s obvious that he wants you to get engaged, and normally, most noble parents wouldn’t even bother asking for their child’s opinion on the matter. You’re fortunate in that they love to spoil you rotten, otherwise this decision would already be set in stone.

“[Name], I know you’ve just recently ended an engagement, but you were saying you’d be open to marrying other men,” your father prods gently. “I will give you some time to think it through, but will you please give Rowan a chance for the time being? Your mother and I want you to find a good man to spend the rest of your life with. It’s important to keep an open mind.”

Rowan smiles brightly. “Please allow me the chance to prove myself, fair lady. I promise to devote the rest of my life to your happiness.” 

He certainly says a lot of pretty-sounding words, and by the looks of it, your father is quickly being won over. 

Still… at least there’s no official engagement or anything. Your father is giving you the opportunity to date him for a little while and see how you feel. Plus, you did say that you would be okay with virtually anyone besides Alistair. It wouldn’t be fair to shoo every man away without even giving them a chance. 

“Alright,” you concede. “I wouldn’t mind meeting with you for a while and seeing how things go. But I make no promises. My engagement with Alistair taught me that I’m looking for someone who is up to my standards. I don’t want to get engaged again without feeling confident about who my partner is.”

“That is completely understandable. As expected, you are mature beyond your years, and I wouldn’t expect you to settle for anything less than what you deserve.” Rowan crosses a hand over his chest and bows once more. “I will do whatever it takes to reassure you that I am your perfect match.” 

Well, he’s definitely confident, you’ll give him that. 

“I wish you a swift recovery, dearest [Name].” Rowan grabs your hand in his again, and without wasting a beat, raises it to his lips and gently kisses it. You wish you could say that you’re completely unfazed, but he’s damn attractive, and it’s admittedly been a while since you had any love in your life. 

He offers you one last smile before he goes, eyes twinkling with amusement, delight, and some other emotion that you can’t quite make sense of. 

“Good day, my lady. I will await our next meeting with bated breath.” 

Finally, he leaves, and he’s barely halfway in the carriage before your father pulls you into his arms and starts peppering your forehead with kisses. 

“Oh, my sweet, lovely girl!” he praises. “Look at you! It’s hardly been a few days since you broke things off with your former fiancé, and you’ve already got another suitor lined up! I apologize for ever being stern with you. I should have known you would have countless other prospects. A fine lady such as yourself will have her pick of all the men in the land.” 

You chuckle weakly and let him hug to your heart’s content. It’s good that at least one of you is excited. Actually, Fiona looks pretty damn excited too, based on how she keeps grinning ear-to-ear and clapping her hands. 

Even now, you can’t help but worry that Rowan has ulterior motives, but you suppose it’s a good thing you’re going to have a little trial phase. You can get to know him and figure out what he’s actually like. He didn’t make the best first impression in your eyes, but perhaps his rudeness can be overlooked if he genuinely wants to be with you. There’s no harm in at least giving him a chance.

Besides, how bad can he be? 

Charming, handsome, benevolent, desirable—those are only some of the words that have been used to describe Alistair. 

In truth, he’s heard just about every compliment there is. Having grown up in a family that constantly stressed the importance of reputation and elevating oneself, he devoted his entire life to becoming the kind of person he could take pride in. Even now, he continuously seeks to improve upon himself. As his father once said, a man never stops growing, and he should never seek to be satisfied with mediocrity. 

Alistair isn’t perfect. He knows he will never be perfect, and nor will anyone else, because humans are inherently flawed. 

But he can strive to be as close to perfect as possible, and that’s exactly what he’ll spend the rest of his life doing, until his very last breath. 

Lately, though, he hasn’t been feeling so good. Something happened to him that completely shook his worldview and left him in utter disbelief. Something that reminded him of just how imperfect he truly is. 

And that, of course, is the fact that he was rejected by you. 

Alistair isn’t good at handling rejection, mainly because he’s gone his entire life without ever being spurned. He’s used to being met with nothing but praise and approval, looks of adoration, and oftentimes, envy. 

So, when you kicked him to the curb and outright called him ugly, right to his face, his ego took a massive hit. 

It just doesn’t make any sense. 

Roughly a week has passed since you broke off the engagement. At the start, Alistair felt rightfully offended, but he told himself that it was for the best. He never wanted to marry you in the first place. Clearly, you are even more unstable and thoughtless than the rumors suggested, so good riddance that he’s not being forced to become your husband anymore. 

It’s better this way. He was able to avoid a painful, miserable marriage. Now he can move on with his life and focus on what he actually wants to do.

And yet, his mind is filled with thoughts of you, no matter how hard he tries to make them all disappear. 

He simply can’t wrap his head around it. Someone like you actually had the nerve to reject him? Seriously, you? The most infamous noblewoman in all the land, who is notorious for stirring up discord and being utterly distasteful? 

It wouldn’t have hurt as much if some other woman had rejected him. It still would have shocked him, of course, but it wouldn’t be such a bitter pill to swallow. 

After all, what does that say about him? If even you didn’t find him fit to be your husband… how can he ever hope to reach the heights he’s always dreamed of? What kind of pathetic life is he living?

He’s so ashamed he can’t even put it into words. 

“Greetings, Alistair!” 

…and unfortunately for him, it’s about to get even worse. 

Alistair knits his brows together. His least favorite person in the world (other than you) has just arrived. 

Rowan, his insufferable cousin, proceeds to flash him a grin. He’s always got a rather off-putting expression, but today, it seems especially pronounced for some reason. 

“What do you want, Rowan?” Alistair sighs. “Yet again, no one was expecting you to come by. It’s quite tiresome how you keep showing up without warning. My parents aren’t even home right now.” 

Rowan keeps smiling. “Do I really need a reason to visit family? I found myself in a good mood today and figured I would drop in. It’s a shame that my uncle and aunt aren’t around, but surely us cousins can exchange a few words, no?” 

Alistair doesn’t bother to hide his scowl. That’s honestly the last thing he wants to do right now. Goddammit. It figures he’d be stuck dealing with this asshole when he’s already in a terrible mood.

“Make yourself at home,” Alistair shrugs. He beckons a servant closer and asks them to prepare a fresh pot of tea, then sits down on one of the sofas and folds his arms. Rowan sits across from him, still with that shit-eating grin on his face.

What does he keep grinning about? It’s so irritating. 

Alistair narrows his eyes. “Is there something on your mind? It looks like you’re rather excited for some reason.”

“Oh, you noticed?” Rowan muses. He leans forward, interlacing his hands, and his grin widens, disturbingly enough. “Forgive me. Like I said, I found myself in a good mood today. I got rather lucky earlier, if I say so myself.”

“In regards to what?” 

“Ah.” Rowan stops to frown for a few seconds. “Sorry. Now that I think of it, I’m worried it may not be a good idea to share the news right now. I’m afraid it may still be a sensitive topic for you.” 

Naturally, Rowan could care less about hurting his feelings, but now that he’s said those words, Alistair can’t help but want to know. 

And so, he takes the bait. 

“What are you on about now, Rowan?” Alistair mutters. “Just stop with all these mind games and say what you want to say. Get to the point.” 

Heavy silence settles over the room, until finally, Rowan chuckles. 

“In that case, I may as well be candid. Truthfully, earlier today… I paid [Name] a visit. I received her father’s permission to begin courting her. With the intention of marriage.” 

Alistair blinks. 

Uh, what? No. There’s no way. It can’t be. Surely he must have misheard or something. 

Because… because it just wouldn’t make any sense. You rejected him not long ago. You told him you couldn’t foresee a future with him. For the first time in his life, he was tossed aside and treated like he was useless and unwanted. 

And now, he hears that you’ve already picked someone else to replace him? And not just anyone, but his piece of shit cousin, Rowan? 

Alistair feels sick. He clamps a hand over his mouth and draws in a sharp, shaky breath. It feels like the room is spinning. He swears he can see stars. 

Needless to say, Rowan has never been happier. 

“Oh, my,” he mumbles in a fake, condescending tone. “Are you quite alright, Alistair? You look rather pale. See, this is why I was hesitant to share the news. I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle it. Chin up, cousin. You’ll get through this.”

Alistair doesn’t respond. It takes a while to get a hold of himself, but he slowly withdraws his hand from his mouth and lets it fall to his side. 

Once his breathing finally settles, he proceeds to glare at Rowan with the intensity of a thousand blades. 

“...are you fucking kidding me right now?”

More chapters are available on Quotev!

⊱.⋅follow + post notifications on for story update announcements or join the author's discord!⋅.⊰

🗡️ main masterlist! ♡ character appearances

[artist-issues]

Snow White and Treasure

While I’m on her topic.

I noticed treasure in my re-watch of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Every key character’s treasure reveals their true nature on the inside.

Nowhere is it more evident than in the Queen herself, obviously.

Her treasure is holding the title of Fairest of All. That’s what she cares about. How she’s perceived. After all, why else does she sneak out of the castle through the catacombs? Why does she have the Huntsman do her dirty work—why not just kill Snow White on her own? She clearly gets way too much joy out of the idea of poisoning Snow White.

But she can’t do that. She has to hide her true nature, so she sneaks out of her own castle.

Ironically, her treasure is Being the Fairest—but she’s not beautiful on the inside. She’s ugly on the inside, like a rotten apple! And that fixation on getting her treasure eventually puts that ugliness on the outside, no matter how much she wants to look the opposite.

The next character we have who’s treasure reveals his true nature is Grumpy. (My favorite.)

All of the Dwarves treasure their own comfort to some extent. But Grumpy doesn’t just treasure comfort. He treasures his own safety. After all, what is grumpiness if not a person who has been afraid and self-protective all their life? He’s always defensive, always on the lookout for a scam.

Grumpy is the last to change…and the only one who’s true nature is revealed when he does. Also, Grumpy is the only character who’s treasure changes.

Grumpy starts out being the most against Snow White. All of them are, at first, until they interact with her and she shows them what she can do for them.

But Grumpy takes the longest to warm up, because he’s not just afraid that she’ll bring the Queen to the cottage and put him in danger. He’s afraid of feelings. They make him feel unsafe.

I know that sounds weird but seriously. That’s his big beef with Snow White. He clearly likes her in spite of himself, but he’s terrified of opening up, because she’s A) new and different and B) getting attached is vulnerability, and vulnerability is dangerous.

That’s the opposite of Snow White! When she’s being her most vulnerable about her wish, he’s meeting the whole idea with scorn: “Ha! Mush!”

But he can’t help feeling, anyway. Because Snow White is so pure, and so not defensive, she gets under his skin.

And his treasure changes.

He goes from saying “get rid of her, she’ll bring nothing but trouble” to LEADING THE CHARGE to save her from the Queen.

He goes from treasuring his own safety to treasuring Snow White’s safety.

And that new treasure reveals his true nature: Grumpy is sentimental, and feels things strongly. Who is the Dwarf crying the hardest when Snow White dies?

Those two characters show that one’s treasure reveals their true nature, no matter how they try to guard against it or hide it.

The Queen’s treasure of her own appearance reveals that she’s ugly on the inside.

Grumpy’s treasure of safety reveals that he is very vulnerable on the inside.

But Snow White? Snow White’s treasure is not defended. Snow White’s nature is not hidden. Because Snow White is utterly innocent and pure. She just is who she is, beautiful and simple, and that’s what so great about her. She treasures love—and she is loving. She tells the birds at the wishing well, and sings out her wish, for love. That’s rewarded; the Prince hears it and promises her his heart. (She’s his treasure by the way.)

She tells the Dwarves that she’s got faith in his love, and she knows he’ll come back, and they just adore her.

She’s every bit as beautiful and vulnerable on the outside as her treasure of love is on the inside.

When she encounters lost birds, what does she do? Love them. When she encounters orphans, what does she do? Love them. When she encounters Princes openly giving their hearts to her, what does she do? Love them. Her nature reflects what she treasures.

There’s no sign of anything but innocence, no hiding, no disingenuousness—because why should there be? The thing she treasures is a good thing. So that’s what makes her beautiful.

Beautiful enough to be the Fairest of All dressed in rags and dirt.

Beautiful enough to be granted mercy by a Huntsman who’s own life is on the line.

Beautiful enough to be buried in a glass coffin, instead of buried alive when the Queen’s plot succeeds.

Beautiful enough to be searched for and found, against all odds, by the Prince who fell in love with her at first sight.

Someone who values love highly, and lets that treasure shine out through every part of their nature, is powerful. They can strike fear and hatred into the hearts of the most self-absorbed, and transform the most stuck-in-their-ways, and inspire love in anyone who comes into contact with them.

That’s what’s wonderful about Snow White. She’s pure, from what she treasures to her very nature, and needs to hide nothing about herself.

[therealslimshakespeare]

| Ida’s Law

Introductory Part

Summary: The American War Effort had conceded to the enlisting and commissioning of women into the Air Force at semi-integrated status. Deemed a more reliable if not safer combat post, the going rank of officer in the Air Force was intended to secure fair treatment and combatant status for these women, as it had for their male counterparts. Like most things in war -or life, if one is a woman- such recognition must be fought for.

Warnings: disturbing content- if you made it through last one this one should be a breeze, however it picks up where we left off so expect mentions of war, wounds, illusions to past rapes, Nazis being racist fucks, possibly some internalized misogyny about it all and some hopefully very 🥹🤧 reunions

A Note Going Forward: With this part now published, I am happy to open this series up for prompts. Ideally I’d like this series to end up being exclusively prompt-inspired and will be putting out prompt lists accordingly. I think that will be a fun way to keep the interaction going, stretch my own skills and explore all the different scenarios that may intrigue y’all. You’re welcome to come up with your own prompts, too. All are welcome, none guaranteed but let’s be real -I’m obsessed with this AU so I’ll likely do it. For now I’ll be keeping all writing to POW Camp and Liberation and Post-Liberation timelines.

“Well, what do we know?” Ida Brady asked the first officer out on the other side as they began to filter through the laborious processing of the camp. She counted them down, one familiar face after another appearing through the doorway again with no worse indignity than the new identification tags hanging from their necks.

“I hate a guy named Johann, and I like a guy named Fritz, and the lieutenant guy wasn’t bad.” Maureen declared, straightening her precious cap atop muddy auburn tresses. “Who went and named their son Fritz after the last war? I mean really? Who does that to a kid? It’s like he’s making up for it now, though, awfully nice.”

“Mm, I thought so, too.” Ida hummed, “Might keep an eye on that one, work on him a bit. You think, Kendeigh?”

“Work on him yourself, Ida.” Maureen scoffed.

“Not much to work with.” Ida retorted, the first general reference to her disfigurement she’d made. “What do you know? What’s up?” she left off to inquire after Tallulah Smith who came out the other side of processing looking more than exasperated.

“Know? They don’t know squat.” she said, “Never heard of a Cherokee.”

“I’ll be.” Maureen was grinning sharply. “Wasn't enough being a woman for ya Smith, ya had to go and be a brown one.”

“You’re tellin’ me.” She griped, “They kept insisting I was a fighter pilot. That’s what all the ‘dark ones’ are, according to them. Told them I’d rewire their insides and maybe then they’d take my engineering degree seriously.”

“I’d like to see that.” Maureen murmured, drowsiness beginning to take over at the comparative calm of their new surroundings.

“Looks like we got everyone, yeah?” Ida peered over the heads of the crowing room and counted out her charges in a silent tally.

“Looks like.” Smith agreed. “Got billet assignments?”

“I do. Colonel Clark, most senior prisoner here, said the combines are strict but the rooms aren’t. Let’s try to behave until we feel our way, then we can swap, if they allow.”

“It’s going to smell like feet no matter where and who we share it with.” Smith pointed out and Ida heaved a great sigh as if that were the hardest prospect she’d yet encountered.

“Mm.”

“Buck is out there!” Maureen suddenly cried out, grabbing at Ida’s arm, pointing out the window at the muddy yard.

“How nice. Gotta get this sorted first, eyes in, Kendeigh.”

Maureen reluctantly tore her eyes away from her dearly missed pilot. “Yes sir.”

“All right,” Ida’s voice carried as well as it ever had, commanding immediate quiet and attention, “those in the 350th, 419th, -the hundredth!- on me. Gather ‘round. That’s it, come on. Alright, well, we made it, well done. Truly, well done to all of you. Now I know you well enough to not accuse any of you of being pure idiots, just because we made it to where we wanted to go doesn’t mean any of what’s ahead is going to be easy. Be wary, don’t let your guard down, you don’t know plenty of these men and they don’t know you, I’m sure there are measures in place for spying already. Be sensible. I am certain we can rely on the kindness of those in the hundredth, but even then keep in mind, if you are cold, they are too, if you're hungry, you best believe they are hungrier, the last thing we need is a crisis of chivalry in here. Rely on them, except their help, but don’t ever take from them. Understood? And one more thing, since the human spirit is irrepressible I feel it’s warranted to make one more housekeeping note. None, and I do mean none, no inner relations at all are allowed. I don’t care how cold you are, how sweet he’s been, or how much you’ve missed him. The Red Cross aren’t sending rubbers, and don’t ever take the promise of a pull out. Do you want a one-way ticket to a death camp or a bullet to the head? Get pregnant. Simple as that. You think the Jerries think poorly of you now for being female? Try being a matron. The point is to blend in as much as possible, keep that in mind. Whatever you do, keep that in mind. Understood?”

“Yes sir!”

“Colonel?” One voice demurred, raised hand and respectful title only forerunners for an obvious objection incoming.

“Yes? Sanchez, isn’t it? You’re not one of mine, I think.”

“No, sir, 55th -fighters.”

“Yes, well, welcome. What’s your question?”

“No offense sir but- what about the guards?” Sanchez asked.

“We don’t know yet,” Brady replied with typical candor, “I believe so far we’ve seen a mix here. I’m sure our friends can give us tips on who to watch out for.”

“No sir, sorry I meant-“ Sanchez kept her teeth clenched until her thoughts seemed to form better, “-you said no relations. What about the guards? No disrespect meant colonel and I don’t know about yours, but mine -they weren’t pulling out.”

“Mm.” Maureen thought that if Ida smashed her lips together any tighter they’d turn whiter than her skin, the bent aviators she had managed to preserve this entire time did a remarkable job of masking whatever feeling was stiffening her spine to the current degree, but all the same, her spine was stiff, “no offense taken, an excellent point. I’ll inquire about any possible…remedies. Anyone else?”

A multitude of hands shot up and Ida Brady scanned them with bewilderment until she realized her lapse in specificity. “Anyone else with questions, I meant! Saints alive. No? Good, let’s claim our bunks and see about a wash.”

After the dark interior of the building, being processed for hours, the hazy late afternoon light of outside glared painfully against Ida’s bloodshot eyes as she stepped out, leading the way down the three wooden steps to the muddy yard. Monochrome, this place, brown wooden buildings and brown earth and a muddy sky and brown flight jackets one after another.

And there in the midst of it, waiting for them with ever constant patience and thinned stateliness was Gale Cleven and his lost blue eyes and an alarmingly symmetrical set of facial scars.

“Major.” Ida felt her face soften into an odd expression she realized was likely that of relief. Cleven had that way about him, it was better suited to her preferences than Egan’s blustering warm hearted concern, Colonel Harding’s gruff joviality or her John’s perpetually intense concern. Her little brother was, oddly, nowhere to be seen now and that was a comfort in this wide open, highly observed space.

“Colonel.” Gale Cleven’s eyes weren’t a lost blue anymore but a pair of stormy seas and Ida steeled herself for pity. She found smoldering rage in his face instead. Another relief.

“How was it?” he was nodding to the command hut.

“Fine.” she assured.

He was searching for something in her face and Ida was sure it was easily found skin deep along her puffy, purpled left cheek, but if she had anything to do with her expression alone, he’d be kept guessing for ages. “Good.” he decided at last but his smile was tight, “Made John wait in the combine, he’s in there pacing like a madman. They make a note of who’s attached to whom, Colonel,” he explained, “a more discreet reunion seemed in order.”

“We’d appreciate all the direction you—“ Ida had begun but was cut short by Lt. Kendeigh who broke ranks from the processed group and came out of the hut behind Ida like a bat out of hell, running up to Cleven and tackling him in a hug, rather like a dog with their long lost master.

The Major’s lanky frame staggered under her surprise attack, perhaps more from shock and ill preparedness than poor rations and a weakened constitution. Or at least Ida, hoped that was the case.

Well, there went all intentions for discretion about partiality on their part, five seconds had gone by and Maureen still hadn’t let go, her valued cap about ready to knock off her head and his too. Seeing the gig was up, Cleven even belatedly brought an arm up to hug her shoulders, his pleased face bashfully pacifying her intensity. “If it isn’t my favorite bombardier.” Cleven mumbled, his lips failing not to tug upwards in the tiniest of smiles, and he gave her a pat on the back.

“Buck!” Smith was coming in hot behind Kendeigh and knocked Ida’s shoulder in her haste to get around her and join in. “Thank Jesus you’re here.” she grunted as she squeezed him and Kendeigh both, “I mean -we’re sorry you’re here but since we’re here-“

“Glad you’re here, too, Smith.” he assured her gently, another pat on another back and Ida watched Cleven’s composure began to flake as he took stock of their roughened appearances. “It’s gonna be ok now.” he offered, and coming from someone else that statement would’ve sounded a great deal less impressive than it did coming from him. It also sounded hollow without Bucky’s typical parroting of the upbeat sentiment. “Let’s get you girls sorted.” he nodded at Ida who fell in alongside him, if only to distance and displace Kendeigh and her over familiarity just a tad.

“What’s your Kommandant like?” Ida asked by way of conversation as Gale directed them in a trudge along the brown paths towards his specified hut.

“Think I know him as well as you.” Gale admitted, “Tried to stay low, been no reason for socializing. Wouldn’t advise a trip to the camp doctor though.” He added the last part after a beat.

“Why?”

“Your Johnny says he’s got an experimental mind.” Gale smiled wryly but there was a grieved look behind it that made Ida’s pulse pound in alarm, “If you go in with a cold, you might come out with a radioactive arm instead.”

“Noted.” Ida muttured with a shiver, wishing to god her jacket hadn’t been taken off her a couple stops ago, the sun was waning in the dull sky and the breeze was frigid without it. “Speaking of doctors,” she decided to go for it, “is Johnny -my John- is he alright? At the gate it was such a racket, was he…standing?”

Gale paused in his step up into the combine, brows knitted in surprise and she noticed along with him that their little march had drawn quite a little audience from the fellow inmates. Females in a Stalag -what a novelty. “Yeah, John’s fine. He’s fit.” Gale still had that quizzical look on his face.

Ida swallowed hard and gave him another curt nod, one she wanted to come across as grateful but wasn’t sure it did, her battered cheek was responding less and less to her mind’s commands. “Right. This us?”

“Yeah. Figured we’d try to keep as many close as possible.” He explained, “Welcome to paradise.”

“What did y’all name this shack?” Maureen asked him as she stepped over the threshold, it was dark inside and smelled of lumber and smoke.

“We haven’t.” Gale admitted, forlorn at the realization that things like that didn’t occur to people like him. If Bucky had been here, he’d have had it named in an hour, and something awful, too. Something that would make them all laugh.

“Damn oversight, Gingerale.” Maureen teased merrily but Cleven noticed the dimming light in her eyes as she took in the cramped, uninspired utility of the place. One wooden doorway after another.

“Talked it over with Colonel Clark during your processing,” Gale said, “decided it were best if we mingle you all among the men we know. Boys from your squadrons, friendly faces. A few of you in each room.”

“I call dibs on yours.” Maureen unabashedly grinned up at Cleven but Ida saw how a heartbroken look of protectiveness skittered across his features.

“Alright.” he muttered without a fight for once.

“Mm, Smith, Sanchez, Tong, you in here.” Ida decided and having snapped her fingers she was moving on to the next stuffy room. Asking Cleven at each about their current occupants, and with the precision of memory required of a woman who had to memorize her opponents on the promotional ladder, chose their new bunk mates accordingly.

“And where’s Johnny bunked?” she asked him in a low tone as she watched the next set settle in from the doorway.

“In with me, further down the hall, Demarco, Hambone, a few others.”

Ida seemed to hesitate as she eyed up an extra bunk in the current room that the last of her girls were settling into.

“Don’t be a stick, colonel,” Maureen spoke up gently, a surprising liberty even for her, “you need friends right now. Bunk with us. Everyone’s going to be fine. Can’t be all places at all times, ya know?”

Ida didn’t reply but after a moment she admitted, “I should go see John.”

Gale and Maureen exchanged a look and then moved in unison to catch up to her as Ida Brady walked, brisk as if she were back home at Thorpe and about to pick a fight with Jack Kidd, down the long hall to one of the last rooms. “In here?” she asked Gale, pointing at the closed door -they liked to keep it so for warmth and privacy, and to acclimate the guards to it being closed when the radio was out.

“Yeah that’s us.” Cleven replied, reaching out and snagging Maureen back a step as Ida turned the handle. “Let’s give ‘em a minute.” he suggested, referring to the Bradys.

He held her jacket sleeve for a brief moment before turning it to grab her hand, he’d missed those hands. To his horror their usual calloused elegance was a swollen paw of bruises. “The hell, Maureen?” he whispered in shock, turning it over to examine it, grip strong around her wrist before she could pull away. “Who did this?”

Maureen did her best to shrug, “Some bitch stood on them.” she said simply, and surrendered the other hand for a similar heartbroken inspection.

Kendeigh was indeed not as visibly marred as Ida Brady or a few of the others, but still, Gale kept turning her crushed hands over and over, recalling with vivid agony the way he’d admired them at all manner of work before. To hurt them that way, to restrain her so meanly- “Maureen,” she’d never heard his voice dip so low, and his eyes were simmering where they cataloged her hurts, “what’d they do to you?”

“What’d they do to your face?” she shot back, perhaps more perturbed by the immaculately symmetrical scars on his once porcelain face than her own condition. Women expected the treatment they’d gotten, in some twisted way, but this on the other hand, it disturbed her.

Gale looked taken aback by her question and quickly dropped her hand to touch his right cheek as if to remind himself the scar was obvious to everyone. “Flak.” he replied a beat too late.

“Awfully precise.” she snarked.

“I asked you first.”

“I told you, a bitch stood on them.”

“I’m your superior officer.”

“Who it looks like someone had some fun with,” Maureen snapped back, “who did this?”

“What happened to you?” He hit right back but his voice quavered.

“I’m fine now. I wanna go see the boys. Come on.”

“Just- give them another minute.” Gale insisted, pulling her back away from the doorway again, “It’s a lot.” He reminded, “For a brother to see his sister like -that.”

Maureen couldn’t argue with that, besides Gale looked so sad and more fragile than she’d ever seen him, and the gentle hold he had on her jacket was as needy and scared as a child’s. “I’m glad we’re in this together.” she whispered.

“Me too.” he admitted, guilty and sad over how true that was before letting her press her lips to his.

Ida Brady didn’t know what she expected when she opened the door, not much she supposed, just a living brother with any luck. It was a decently tidy room, plates stacked on a rough hewn board at the far end, eight bunks lining the walls, stacked three tall. A table was in the middle and there sat dear old Crank and Hambone too, Murph with Benny. A card game was ongoing.

They looked so fine, quite normal, all in all.

All motion in the small room stopped upon her entrance. Cards were dropped and cigarettes forgotten in open mouthed shock.

“Holy shit -colonel?” Demarco didn’t have a dishonest bone in his body, and his disbelieving horror over her appearance came through loud and clear in his greeting. She hadn’t seen him at the gate.

The same for Hambone’s face, one that had never bothered to be discreet in pleasant circumstances, much less in shocking ones like seeing a notorious superior officer come in looking about as battered as a body could get -although his torn cheek was one to talk. Crank recovered first, in his mild, stammering sort of way, glancing at the lean figure who still stood looking out the lone window.

“Well, if it isn’t Ain’t Pretty Brady.” Crank clapped uneasily, summoning her nickname from basic just to cut the tension, it served to startle John.

He turned from the window abruptly, blank faced and unblinking as he realized the sister he had been watching for had already arrived. If their ole nan from the motherland had suddenly materialized before him he could have hardly looked more haunted or aghast, wide fringed fox eyes and that straight fold of a mouth -always so very held together, her little brother. Even after his third belly landing.

But those startled unblinking eyes...

Ida wanted to tell him to blink, that it was all alright now, that they were both alive and that it was good enough, it had to be. But she seemed to have fully lost all power over her throbbing cheek at last, she could feel her lips move in a motion she realized with supreme panic was likely a wobble of emotion. She ripped her aviators off, as if seeing her eyes might help his to come alive.

“John John?” she croaked in greeting, oblivious of the childish endearment tumbling off her lips in a room full of soldiers. If it were something their family was in the habit of doing, Ida Brady might have rushed him like Maureen did her pilot, or held out her own hand to be held, asked for a gesture from him -after what she’d gone through, surely it couldn’t have been weakness to want a clap on the shoulder, a flick to the bicep, a little “well done” for staying alive.

But she just stood there and watched him clock her shame. She could feel her swollen lip splitting in real time as the swelling and incessant trembling tore the taut skin apart, they’d passed around a single canteen in processing and it wasn’t enough, the walls of her throat felt collapsed together. Maybe she should have asked for a mirror first, maybe Cleven or Kendeigh or Smith should have told her she’d bring a whole room to a frozen standstill by her looks alone. They’d seen her at the gate -were these meager lightbulbs really so much more illuminating?

“Eye-eye.” Johnny let it out in a breathy rush as if he’d suddenly come to, and then he was in front of her, hands cradling the sides of her neck, thumbs hooked gently under her bruised jaw. A calloused pad swiped away the ticklish trickle of blood sliding the crease of her mouth.

Eye eye -his onetime baby babble for Ida, and she’d never let him forget it.

She could have wept at the useless sentimentality of it, of the gentle familiarity of familial hands, at the seething loyalty storming across his face.

“The fuck did they do?” he articulated at last, voice gravelly as shit but also reminiscent of the squeaky olden days when his castrato role suddenly no longer served one Sunday in choir.

“You’ve got legs.” she answered instead, sounding maniacal in her happiness.

He looked at her like she’d gone fully crazy as well as beat, “Yeah? Yeah I do.”

“They said, they said you didn’t.” she chuckled, a bizarre merriment trying to take hold in her relief, “During interrogation, that bespectacled cunt told me you had your legs crushed when you crashed.”

“No? No- no I jumped.” He insisted, then let go of her face to step back and gesture to two fit legs, as long and lanky as she remembered, as long and lanky as her own. “I jumped, I’m fine. They told you that?”

“Yeah.” Ida said, “Told me the longer I didn’t comply the longer you were without medical attention. I -I’ve been so…uneasy…about you.”

“I’m fine.” He repeated, hands back on her shoulders and she was grateful for it despite the bruises he was gripping, grateful for the way he kept touching her like he was going to hold her together with his own two hands, same blood, same flesh, same memories, maybe whatever she’d lost he could supply back like a blood donation. “Those sons of bitches.” he cursed them.

“Plasma for planes.” she agreed.

He kept looking at her, at her cheek and at her ragged hair and at the missing buttons, “You didn’t tell them anything did you?” he suddenly asked, wide eyed. “You know i’d rather die than have you tell.”

Ida scoffed, and gave him a grin, the best one she could manage with her cheek and split lip, “What do you take me for, Johnny?”

“A cold hearted bitch, I hope.” he returned the small smile but his voice cracked, still that hint of something long gone and juvenile.

“That’s what their Lieutenant called me.” Ida confirmed, a little proud, and sensing a renewal of his inquiries, Ida chose to take the offensive and call out for a conspicuously absent Kendeigh, “Candy! Didn’t you want to tell Johnny about your charming admirer? The Lieutenant?”

Kendeigh came round the doorway hastily, her lips puffy and cheeks oddly red. Cleven followed after and matched her, and his blush did nothing but highlight those scars of his. “Brady.” Maureen greeted, boldly hugging Ida’s very stiff brother without care —due to his red cheeks and rigid shoulders Ida concluded Cleven had given his own inner-relations talk to the men—, “Yes, I wanted to -oh hello Crank, Benny you son of gun- wanted to tell y'all about my ticket outta here -hell Hambone, how’d you manage to get uglier? -see my integrator, he found me fairly fetching. I think one of these days he’s gonna roll up in his shiny car and take me away from here and you’re all gonna wish you’d taken time to learn a little know-how about Alligators and their hibernation tactics in the winter. He was enthralled.”

There was an awkward silence hanging in the room, Crank grimaced a smile out of sheer generosity of heart and Benny Demarco still sat with his cigarette neglected on his open lip. Cleven, used to her preening brazness kept a tight lip, though a thousand questions seemed to swirl in his eyes.

“He the one who stood on your hands?” John Brady asked her without hesitancy.

Maureen whirled round then, comedy hour over and an angry flush creeping up her neck at his directness. “No.” she snapped. “Can’t some of them be alright?”

“A German’s a German.” he countered.

“There’s Fitzs and then there’s Johanns.” she disagreed nebulously and only Ida got her reference.

“And a shower is a shower,” Ida butted in before this became an experiment in an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force “which we need, badly. We’re…filthy.”

“We’ve got working sinks, trough sinks.” Cleven clarified with an apologetic look as if it were his fault the showers only ran once a week and poorly at that, and the water they had was frigid already in autumn.

“Water is water.” Ida reasoned in return, wondering when Johnny was going to finally let go of her arm.

“We’ll clear it out for ya.” Cleven said.

“And we’ll guard the entrance.” John added emphatically.

“Thanks.” Ida muttured, “Some of us could use to mend our uniforms.” she added, refusing to blanch at the subtle inventory of her jagged tears and crusted blood being made by every man in the room.

Maureen at least had her jacket intact. Her cap, too.

“Here, you can have my trousers while I stitch yours.” her John decided and was unbuckling his belt before she even registered the hand gone from her shoulder.

“What?” Ida balked, “You’re going to go ‘round in your skivvies?”

“Not as uncommon around here as you’d think, Ida.” Gale said, a small smile on his face. “I’m afraid order and decorum has gone to shit without you.”

“Well I’m here now.” she replied sternly but didn’t stop Johnny as he stripped.

“And so am I.” Kendeigh grinned and all Ida could do was to bless the saints for having let only one terror into the camp, were Bucky Egan to be here too, things would become intolerably lax. As soon as she thought it she repented it, sending up a prayer for the poor, absent bastard.

“Say Benny, you’re shorter, can I have your pants?” Maureen pleaded.

“Why mine?” Demarco protested, only offended at the height implication.

“Because Cleven’s too tall and I’ve already been in his pants.”

“Maureen!”

“Ida, order somebody to give me their pants.”

“You can have mine.” Crank offered kindly, and then stood up and bashfully began to unlayer. It left him in skivvies, a snuggly sweater and his flight jacket.

“It’s a good look, Crank,” Maureen grinned at the finished product as he handed the trousers over. “I’m seeing you in a different light.”

“Maureen!”

“Just sayin-“

“Take the pants with you to the washroom!” Brady interjected desperately as Maureen looked ready to strip right here and now. “Jesus, Kendeigh.”

“Touchy, touchy.” Maureen ribbed him, out for blood in her tired state and if she couldn’t have that of the Germans she would of her friends’.

“Alright let’s - let’s settle down.” Gale implored, a tired expression firmly etched onto his face and Ida herself considered giving up on the wash altogether and tumbling into the available bunk to court the oblivion of sleep. Were it only blood and dirt she just might, her usual tidiness be damned.

As it was -it was, there was…the filth was so much worse.

And if Ida thought on it too long she’d go mad and want to pour boiling lye on herself to wash herself clean and to kill the shame of it. She’d have to scrub the pants before she gave them to Johnny to be mended, it was bad enough for a brother to see the blood and busted seams.

“Yes, settle down for God’s sake.” she echoed Cleven, and something about her hoarse voice compelled Maureen to temper herself more than any direct order could. “A wash, come on, let’s get the girls. Oh and one more thing, Cleven-“ Ida turned to Gale and found him alert, eager to help. She was afraid she was only setting him up for failure but she had to make an effort to find those “remedies” she’d promised Sanchez. “There any lemons around?”

The incredulous look on his face suggested he thought she knew better, but he was ever polite in his reply, “No, colonel. No lemons.”

“Mm. Nutmeg?” she tried to recall each wicked trick she’d heard condemned when a girl got herself in the family way without the needed family in place.

“No, no nutmeg.”

“Mm.”

“Nothing but potatoes and cigarettes, ma’am. Do you- why?” he asked.

“Nothing.” she assured, “Just, a hot toddy sounds good right about now. You know?”

“Uh,” he floundered, half in suspicion and half in genuine confusion, “never had one.”

“Well then,” she grinned as she passed him, “that’s something to add to our to-do list for when this is all over. Jameson, though, none of that Kentucky stuff.”

“Yes ma’am.” his tone was vacant, smiling concern brittle, “You uh, you alright, Colonel?”

Ida gave him a withering look and then Gale too, had cause to be repentant.

“Come on Kendeigh, let's get the rest.” Ida gestured as she followed Gale back into the hall, aware of Johnny’s eyes still on her, still taking stock, “They better not be in bunks without a wash. Come on, showers, everyone! Out, come on out. You can sleep afterwards. Out! Would one of you be so kind as to wake us up in time for roll call?” she inquired of the male officers straggling behind her in the hall.

“Course! Yeah, for sure.” about five offers went up.

“You wake Me up.” she clarified coming to a full stop, wary of the enthusiasm, “I’ll wake up the rest.”

“I’ll get you up.” Her John said.

He’d probably sit and watch her sleep, too, needle and torn pants in hand, like a creepy little owl but that was one of those things she figured make or break a family, you either find it endearing you have a brother who rarely blinks or you go mad. Today, after all of it, she didn’t mind having a guardian Angel. Or a watchdog. Speaking of-

“Hey,” she asked him, “you two flew out together, where’s Bucky?”

But no one had an answer for that, not even Little John.

💋Hope you enjoyed AND REMEMBER -prompts are now open.

Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

MOTA taglist, I only have one so ignore if this is not the universe you signed up for. 🤓 :

@stylespresleyhearted

@ab4eva

@earth-to-lottie

@suraemoon

@blurredcolour

@steph-speaks

@crazymadpassionatelove

@rubyfruitjungle

@taestrwbrry

@storysimp

@javden

@sexualparkour

@jointherebellion215

@sunny747

@ask-you-what-sir

@xxanaduwrites

@pretty4u

@yorkshirekiwi

@waitedforlove743

@elvismylove04

@blikebarbie92

@luminouslywriting

@euryno-j47

@justheretoreadthhx

@bookotter01

@mads-weasley

@ka-ski

@darkestbeforethedawn16

@slowsweetlove

@richardslady121

@barbeygirl

@prfctplcsreads

@vaf24

@harrys-housewife

[kinda-cute-kinda-insane]

Give Time a Chance.

Yoru x gn!reader

Warning : blood(Reader radianite abilities need blood), ooc maybe, I just need him man. No pronouns used I believe, tell me if there’s more warning I should add. Is biting one’s neck should be counted as a sexual activity???

Fic is inspired by Indonesian song

Yoru, you knew of him, not enough yet but you do, of course you do, even your heart whisper his name softly, for you to have him.

And because you know him, you understand how he is. Arrogant, and very closed off to almost everyone, even then you wouldn't stop, even if he gave you unpleasant look, you must have him, because a life without love feels like a night without a stars, empty and lonesome.

You still smiled anyway even as he rolled his eyes at you as you offer him a hot chocolate after his mission at icebox, the warmth of the beverages should have made him feel better.

"Seriously? what do you take me for a kid?" He scoffed at you, looking down at the cup on your hand. "If you want to be a bitch about it just give it to me," Jett rolled her eyes and gently took the cup from you. "Thanks Y/n," She smiled before leaving you both in the kitchen, you only nod at her.

Even as his words sting, you still smiled "sorry, I'll keep that in mind next time," you then walk away as he looked at you weirdly, just what the hell is wrong with you? you must be some weird fuck to enjoy being treated like that, whatever.

Even as your action was never reciprocated, you still try anyway, you can make him fall in love you're sure of it, even if he doesn't feel the same way. He just need to give you time, and love will come because he's used to it.

The least he could do is give you some time and a chance before he want to rip your heart apart, at least then you'll lose after trying your hardest.

The rift walker looked at the red roses on his desk, very basic choice from you but there were barely any options since he never talked about his preference in flowers.

His eyes scanned through the handwritten letters you left along the bouquet.

'Keep the rose, maybe the fragrance will convince you to get to know me?'

He grimaced at the cheesy letter, but it was a bit creative, but cheesy.

He hated how you made him feel lately, the way he searches for you in a room full of people, the way he is anticipating compliments from you whenever he does something, the way he carefully look at all the little things you do.

He hate the way he has to fight back his smile whenever you're around, hate that his leg move without him thinking just to look out for you, hate the way his heart drop seeing you shaking all alone in your room.

You must get rid of your bad habit of not fully closing your room, but you can correct that mistake later, because now you could only stared at the door in shock as Yoru barge in.

"What happened to you?" He kneel down beside your bed, your face was pale as a ghost, your whole body shivers as if you were put inside a freezer.

"uh, I overdid myself on the mission," you nervously answered, growing shy at the close proximity, the warmth he give to your heart should've been enough to stop your shivering, but then again that's not the reason.

"Then why don't you go to sage you idiot?" His hand reached out to your forehead, his brow furrowed at how cold your body became, almost like a corpse.

"Well sage won't really be a big help," you bit your lip in shame, as if you even have control over what your body can and can not do. You're always like that, putting the blame on yourself no matter the situation, he hated that about you.

"Since you never seemed to notice or care," you shyly looked away, shielding yourself from his intense gaze before continuing, "Sage healing is great truly, but it wouldn't really work for me since my ability is basically fueled by blood."

"Like a vampire?" He interrupted you mid sentences, "I mean, what the hell, sure."

You backed away from him as he lowered his shirt "woah, hey now!" you panicked looking at his neck to his collarbone. "Get your mind out of the gutter, you need this."

You shyly stared at his neck, "Are you sure, I mean it's not the most nicest experience." He rolled his eyes at you "I've been shot and stabbed before, this would feel like nothing." He then grabs you by the back of your neck and push your face closer to his neck.

"uh- ok, here we go," you nervously sink your teeth into the flesh on his neck. He let out a low groan, well you sure as hell weren't lying about it, it didn't hurt but sting like hell, there's a certain effect your canine teeth that feels foreign than a normal bite from an animal.

In the midst of the moment, his hand found it way to your waist and grip on the flesh to ground himself from the sting, you nervously inhaled the air from your nose from the sudden contact.

It only took a minute for you to finally gained back the color in your skin, and the warmth you needed. Slowly you detached yourself from his neck, breathing heavily.

"Thanks," you shyly mutter, which earn no reply from him, his hand still on your waist. Maybe time has finally done it's job, maybe your love finally get to him.

If only you knew, your love has affected him long ago, the dried rose sitting hidden deeply in his room serves as a silent witness of his growing love, as the rose died his love bloom.

"If you need help again, just come to me," he slowly walked to the door, hoping you wouldn't notice the redness on the tip of his ears. "Wouldn't I be bothering you?"

"Well you're okay doing it before, what difference does that make." You grinned stupidly staring at his back, you may not notice his blush but someone else did.

"Well at least you both make up," Jett teasingly said, as she was passing by your room with Phoenix beside her. "More like make out," Phoenix continued, staring at the bite mark left behind on the rift walker neck.

[triplexdoublex]

Let Go (Chapter 1)

Paring: Jaden Hossler x Landon Barker

Tags/Warnings: blonde Jaden, dual POV , internalized homophobia, homophobia, religious gulit, scent kink, masturbation, mentions of Coopers death,

A/N: Breaking this long ass fic into chapters as requested. Landon’s 20 as this takes place last year.

Landon

Ever since Jaden started working with my dad and signed to his record label, our house has become his second home. And with a new Album in the works, Jaden’s been here more than usual lately, recording with my dad in his home studio until late at night. Most nights after recording he just crashes here. Despite the house having numerous guest rooms, Jaden usually opts for sleeping in my room.

The first time my dad introduced me to Jaden the two of us clicked right away and quickly became best friends, so I don’t mind the company; in fact I might enjoy it a little too much.

Jaden

After a long , but productive day of recording it feels great to just chill and play some video games in Landon’s room before we go to sleep. Landon’s sitting cross-legged on his bed just scrolling through social media, while im sitting at the end of the bed kicking serious ass in Call of Duty. I honestly love that about our friendship, how we can be doing totally different things at times and yet still enjoys eachother’s company. And there’s never any need for annoying small talk or pressure to feel like either of us have to keep the conversation going. But at the same time we can talk to each other about anything and everything. The only other person I was able to do that with was Cooper. Fuck, I miss him, man. His death broke me, and although I’ve been getting help and healing I’m not sure I’ll ever be fully put back together, but I’m trying. It’s part of the reason why I crash in Landon’s room almost every night. Besides it being easier than going back home for the night, staying with Landon makes feel less alone and keeps me from getting lost in own head. He’s been a big help with adjusting to life in LA too, Moving from the south to LA a few years ago was a bit of a culture shock for me, and I don’t know what I would have done without Landon in my life to guide me through it. I seriously love him so much…No Homo. Ugh, I wish I could stop feeling the need to think or say shit like that anytime I compliment or express how much one of my male friends mean to me. Growing up in a Conservative Christian household in Texas and Tennessee will definitely do that to you. I’ve definitely grown as a person and have become more open minded and accepting since moving to LA. I’ve met and worked with some of the coolest people, a lot of which are from the LGBT+ community, including some of my fans—who i adore more than anything. I’m tying my hardest to let go of the homophobic ways of thinking that’s been ingrained in me from my life in the south and Christianity, and for the most part I have. I even joined an inclusive church out here but something about it still makes me uncomfortable for some reason and I can’t quite put my finger on it, and why I have the insitent need to make sure no one assumes or gets the impression that I’m gay, because I’m not, I’m totally straight.

Landon

I’m bisexual, I’ve known that for some time. Maybe bi-curious is more accurate? I don’t really know. All I know is as far back as I can remember I’ve found both women and men attractive, I thought everyone did. It wasn’t until I was like fourteen and one of my friends asked me if I liked the outfit he had picked out for the first day of freshman year, and I told him I thought he would look cute in it, and he asked me if I was gay? I never gave it much thought before, with LA being one of the most LGBT+ friendly places in the United States, I never really had to, it didn’t matter. But after that I found myself wanting an answer to that question too. And with some unsupervised computer time and a bottle of lotion, I quickly learned that I was, in fact, at the very least, bisexual. And although I never actually developed any crushes on my male friends or felt the urge to experiment with them, the glow of the computer screen in my dark bedroom at night became a routine, became like NyQuil to me. I’ve kept it to myself all these years, never feeling the need to come out as it was more of just a guilty pleasure and I was content with not taking it further in real life, but that all changed one day this past year while playing basketball with Jaden in the LA heat. I was about to go for a slam dunk, when Jaden jumped right in front of me, arms up, blocking my shot. The sweaty musk of Jaden’s underarms fighting its way through his fading deodorant took me by surprise. I don’t know if it was his pheromones or what, but I would have bottled the scent and doused myself with it until I drowned, It was that intoxicating. I wanted more, wanted him, his sweat, his smell, his body, his everything— fuck, I wanted Jaden.

Jaden

I’m about win Call of Duty when out of nowhere I get shot.

“Fuuuck, I was sooo close,” My body falls back in defeat, my head accidentally landing in Landon’s lap. “Oh shit, dude, sorry!” I quickly sit back up, but Landon stops me.

“It’s fine,” he says “I don’t mind. You’ve been playing that game all night. Just relax.”

“O-ok, you uh..” I scratch the back of my neck, “You sure?” I question, but I’m laying back down before he even answers.

My brain is overflowing with confusing thoughts: Is this normal? Do guy friends do this type of stuff? Is this cuddling, it certainly feels like at least a form of cuddling. And my body seems to be responding the same way as it does to cuddling; I feel safe and comfortable and a little warm inside. I’ve only cuddled with girls though. I didn’t know you could cuddle with your guy friends too? And that’s like acceptable? I’m still learning where the line between anti-toxic masculinity and being gay crosses or if that’s even a thing? But one thing is for sure, LA and the South have VERY different opinions on what’s considered gay.

What’s considered gay in the South: looking at another guy for more than two seconds, hugging another male (a quick pat is all you need), giving a guy a compliment, having excellent hygiene— hell I know some guys that don’t wash their ass cuz ‘it’s gay.’

What’s considered gay in LA: Actually being gay. So since I’m straight I guess this is okay? I hope so because I hate to admit that I really like this.

Landon

Don’t touch his hair, don’t get hard, don’t touch his hair, don’t get hard .But fuck it’s all I wanna do. I’ve had this fantasy many times before except usually he’s face down in my lap, my fingers lost in his hair as I palm the back of his head.

I shake my head to clear the image from my mind like an Etch-a stretch.I hate that sometimes my desire for him is so strong, I think about him in ways I know he wouldn’t approve of. It feels like betrayal, it feels wrong. He’s my best friend, I don’t like hiding this from him, but I know, he would be disgusted with me if he knew, I mean wouldn’t anyone, gay, bi or not? Imagine finding out the person you trust the most has been secretly getting off to you. I do my best not to give into the temptation, but how can I not when he’s gone at the studio all day and my bedsheets still smell like him.

I shouldn’t but I do, I let my fingertips flirt with pieces of his bleach blonde hair— my absolute favorite look on him by the way— aimlessly twirling small tuffs as Jaden searches through Netflix for something to watch. In the short time it takes him to choose something, my fingers have found themselves even deeper, my nails lightly grazing his scalp in a circular motion. I half expect him to tell me to stop any second now but when he lets out a small moan, it’s me who stops.

Jaden

“Holy shit, man, I’m sorry. I-I just got way too relaxed there for a second,” I blurt out in embarrassment the second I feel Landon’s hand pause in my hair. It was kind of an odd thing for him to do in the first place, and at the beginning, my old ways of thinking started creeping back in, but then I noticed my body slowly relaxing into his touch. We’ve spent so much time together lately, I think he’s just stating to know me better than I know myself, because after a long day in the studio, relaxation, is exactly what I need

“No worries,” Landon says with a small chuff of laughter “Everything’s all good bro. You really gotta stop apologizing tonight.” He starts scratching my scalp again but then pauses once more. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Actually, umm i-if you don’t mind doing it just a little longer, it’s really helping me unwind before bed.”

“Of course,” Landon agrees.

Landon

And now he’s asleep in my lap. God, he’s so beautiful, I could stare at him forever; his flawless skin, jaw so sharp it could kill a man, his full pink lips just slightly part—nonooonoo, fuck, I gotta get him off me before my dick wakes him up first. I cradle the back of his head with my hands and gently lift him from my lap, replacing my body with a pillow. He’s on my side of the bed, so I have no choice but to sleep on his.

Not even five minutes into being on his side I know there’s no way I’m getting any sleep, because despite being tired, part of me is very alert right now. I can’t control it, his smell is all around me; the sheet under me, the blankets on top, and don’t even get me started on his pillow— I can see the TMZ headlines now: ‘Landon Barker dead at 20! It appears the son of Blink182’s drummer, Travis Barker has died from accidentally asphyxiating himself with a pillow.’ I’d bury my face in it and forget to come up for air.

There’s only one thing I can do to fix it, it certainly isn’t gonna go away on its own. This time I allow myself to think of Jaden as I tug on my cock because I know it’s the quickest way to finish; alternating between pretending my tight grip is his mouth and his ass. I get too lost in the fantasy and before I can stop myself a breathy “Jaden,” tumbles from my lips…

[ley-med]

Hello.I’m seriously considering the ICU specialty.Can you tell me please some advantages and disadvantages of it ? :) Im pretty coolheaded,love to solve probs and small invasive procedures are ok ,too for me.. How does a life at ICU look like? I was on an ICU placement just once in my life as an internal medicine resident ,as a student ,and the work there really fascinated me.. Intubations,monitors,cardio versions.. Is it possible to specialise just in intensive care but not in anesthesiology?Thank You!

Hi Anon! You prompted me to ramble about one of my favourite things, my job, so sorry, long answer ahead...

To start with your last question, I know there are countries where intensive care and anaesthesiology are different specialities, but here it's one and the same. It is kind of possible to choose one or the other once you are an attending, and work at the right place, but you have to specialise in both. I started this residency because I was interested in intensive care, but my rotations started with anesthesia, and not gonna lie, I absolutely fell in love! Now doing both, I still say anesthesia is the real love of my life, and I can't imagine doing only intensive care without the relief anesthesia brings to it.

The pros of intensive care is that it's rarely dull, and when it's dull, the patient usually gets admitted back to their ward soon (yay!) (or you know, unfortunately there isn't much else to do for them, then the end of the story is near). It's important to like invasive procedures, because as they say, where there is a hole there's a tube, and where there is no hole, there will be... My favourite part about ICU is that we get to see and treat the patient as a whole human being, not just one organ or the other, because humans are a very complex system and you usually can't focus only on one part. Our job is mostly trying to hold up various balances, which will lead to the balance on the fine line between life and death. It is pretty exciting, in my opinion, but most of all, I just love knowing all these things about the human body. (And there is so much more I need to know...)

If you come from internal medicine, that's a huge advantage, but you will need to forget half of what you know. We don't really care about the long term stuff, we are always working in the present. It all needs to be done (almost) immediately, and needs to have an (almost) immediate effect. If we need some longer lasting solutions, we will absolutely consult medicine :) (Though in our hospital, we don't have any internal med wards, so it's usually the intensivists who get consulted for internal med questions anyway... But no we don't know everything, so far from it)

And many times, it's really only supporting the body until it heals on its own, with a little help here and there. Intensive care is really only about buying time...

The cons of intensive care, is that the stakes are always really really high. It's either an enormous win, which is one of the best feelings in the world, but most of the time, it all ends in death anyway, no matter what you do. Sometimes it feels like I just got a first class seat to watch people's suffering, without any way to help. I don't have any statistics at hand, but I would say 70% of our patients don't leave our ICU alive. We do what we can, but we aren't gods, and we can't cheat death. It can be really taxing, because while providing palliative care is just as important as any other kind of care, seeing gruesome death after gruesome death takes its toll, mental health wise. And that's why I say thank god it's a joint speciality with anesthesia, because when it all gets too much, a day in the OR will fill you up with instant successes (hopefully). When my patient wakes up and smiles at me, because they were so afraid but the dreaded surgery is finally over and they are alive? Always makes the world a brighter place.

One of the hardest parts for me, that sometimes you have to play god in this field, no matter how much you don't want to. The number of patients we can admit to the ICU is a definite number, so we have to decide who gets this chance at survival, and who to spare this torture. It's good that I'm still a resident, and the attending will make the final call, but nonetheless it is our responsibility...

On the bright side, this responsibility also brings me into the position of command sometimes, even if I'm only a mere resident. If they call me in for a consult, or if I end up in a situation which turns into an emergency, I am the team leader, and if I say come on we are putting our shoulders into saving this patient, everyone will work under my hands without a complaint.

This is all a teamwork. I think the whole of medicine is, but it applies to the ICU and OR tenfolds. Most ICU nurses aren't made of some delicate thing, it can be hard to earn their help, but without that, you are lost. Intensive care patients need constant supervision, and the nurses are the ones who are with them, they are the ones who know each beat of the patients' heart, they will be the ones constantly administering life saving medicines, and they will save your (and the patients') ass several times. And in cases where they are needed, we are dependent on our surgeons and traumatologists, because no matter how much we support this or that organ, as long as they don't work their magic, it's all a lost cause. (Honestly, sometimes you have to just stand there in awe, when you are thinking it's all lost, and they come up with such an ingenious solution...) Same in the operation room, it's a constant conversation and a very delicate cooperation between anesthesia, surgery, and the nurses.

To sum it up, it's all pretty hard work, with long 12 hour shifts that sometimes feel like 5 minutes because you just can't sit down and everyone is trying to die on you, and in the end you will find that the answer isn't that much different from internal medicine, it's usually either: oxygen, morphine, fluids, and or furosemide; you just have to figure out which one. And at times, figuring out isn't that exciting, it can consist of elevating the PEEP on the ventilation machine every hour or so, and hoping for the best. Those 12 hours will be the longest, with nothing to do, only waiting, and waiting...

[theuniversetraveler]

UPDATE: Changed Dusty's hairstyle to closer match the rest of the cast. (Feb. 2025)

Took me way too long to get this uploaded, I went through a mental slump and dragged my feet finishing the drawing and I struggled to get the bios typed up because I didn't know what to say for some of them. Anyways, let's get into it.

The A-B groups focus on Dusty and the characters from his world. They're all a part of a comic project that I've had rattling around in my head since I was young.

In essence it follows Dusty as he uses his powers to protect the city from evil, as well as helping the citizens with whatever they have going on. Think Sonic the Hedgehog meets Spider-Man meets Steven Universe.

and now the bios (left to right):

Dusty (15): A teen that lives with his mother Michelle in Somewhere City. He acts as the protector of the city and saves it from disaster whenever the need arises. When he's not saving the day, he lives like an ordinary teen. He attends high school and is part of the cheer squad, in his free time he spends it reading his favorite comic, The Adventures of the Daring Dinah Dynamo, or listening to his favorite music. Optimistic and headstrong, he's an outgoing and friendly guy who is always willing to put the needs of others before his own, sometimes to his detriment.

After being exposed to a strange chemical, he gained above average strength, speed, agility, stamina, flexibility, and durability. His arms are elastic, and he can throw punches and grab things at a distance.

Darcy (14): A girl from Somewhere City who is Dusty’s best friend and classmate. She's the first person Dusty befriended after he moved. Always full of energy, she's always constantly on the move and has a hard time sitting still. She's very outspoken and says whatever is on her mind, which more often than not gets her into trouble. She's incredibly loyal and will stand by her friends no matter what.

Michelle (36): A woman from the city of Marklynn. She moves to Somewhere City with her son Dusty for a fresh start. She’s a woman with a rough edge that tries her best to be a kind and nurturing mother, but her short temper sometimes gets in the way. She’s an expert mechanic and is very capable at fixing things.

Cliff (48): A man from Somewhere City. He’s a single dad that has two kids, Connor and Darcy. He and his wife split when the kids were young. Since then, he’s done his hardest to ensure that they have a good life. He is a fount of wisdom that many people rely on, and he has a surplus of patience. He does have his limits however.

Jackie (33): The mayor of Somewhere City. She's a highly motivated and well composed individual who takes her job very seriously. Sometimes a little too seriously, to the point where she forgets to take breaks. Fortunately for her she has the support of her friends to keep her from working too hard, Cliff being one of them. The two have been friends since they were kids and have a sibling-esque relationship.

Bolt (N/A): A highly advanced robot created by Darius Mason, a brilliant roboticist and engineer, and one of Dusty’s friends. He was built as part of an experiment to create a fully autonomous robot that could think and feel like a normal person. Bolt himself is a kind and inquisitive individual with a passion for helping others. He's a bit naive when it comes to his perception of the world, always trying to see the best in people.

Bolt was built to be nearly invulnerable and was later upgraded with super strength and the capability of flight. Along with these features, he was given the ability to unleash energy blasts from his palms.

Aura (15): An alien from the far reaches of outer space. They crashed in the mountains near where Dusty and his friends happened to be camping. She can understand what Dusty and friends say, but can’t communicate with them. Her body contains an inordinate amount of energy unique to their race, and she can float and survive in the vacuum of space. They’re a kind and peaceful individual, and aren't afraid to face danger to help her friends.

[specialagentlokitty]

Mr Evershed x Daughter!reader - who you are to me

Oh! Maybe for part three you can have the Reader stand up for Evershed when some of the teachers talk bad about him? - Anon 💜

Part three:

You were moved in with your dad, he helped set up a room for you, get you everything you needed, catch up on any missed work and return to school but you still kept your distance.

You didn’t talk much to Mr Evershed, or anyone for that matter.

You refused to talk about your past, you refused to get any sort of help for getting through it, you wouldn’t even let your dad help you with anything.

You refused, and he didn’t really know what to do.

He felt lost.

Sure, Mr Evershed had kids, but teenage kids? Who had been through so much, hurt so much they couldn’t see a single good thing in life?

He didn’t know what to do.

He was sitting in his office, reading through the papers Anne had given him to try help and get you to open up to him a bit more.

You in the other hand we’re just walking the hallways, waiting for your next class and that’s when you heard it.

Mrs Carp talking to a teacher your didn’t recognise.

“Seriously, she’s his daughter. I couldn’t even imagine what he must be feeling..” the other teacher whispered.

“Oh please, he can just toss her out in a few years if he wanted to, it’s not like he’s done much her entire life.”

You stood around the corner listening to the conversation.

“I mean he didn’t know.”

“Oh I bet he did, no wonder he was so eager to move here.”

You carried on listening as Mrs Carp trash talked Mr Evershed, a couple of other teachers coming in to join in.

Calling him a horrible person, blaming him for what happened to you, saying it was all his fault and he was a terrible father.

You had enough, and you walked around the corner, slamming the door closed.

“You shut your damn mouths!” You snapped.

They all stared at you in shock.

“Yeah, okay, Mr Evershed may not have been in my life until now but why the hell would that make him a horrible father?!” You yelled.

“Calm your tone.” One of them warned.

“No! You wanna talk crap about him go ahead, talk crap about him to my face.”

They all stayed quiet and you scoffed.

“That’s what I thought. He isn’t a bad guy, he didn’t know, my mum never told him, how was he supposed to know? He’s got happy kids of his own, kids he raised with love and respect, he respects and cares for every single one of the students here, taking the problems as his own.”

You shook your head a little, running a hand through your hair as you looked at them.

A look that could very well rival that one their bosses when he was furious with them.

“I may not have the faintest idea of what a loving family looks like, but his daughters? They will, because of him.”

You looked at them all and kicked a chair in anger.

“Go ahead, talk all you want but you know the truth. At the end of the dad he’s my dad, but he is no way responsible for who I am or what i have done. If he’d know then maybe he could’ve helped me sooner, maybe I wouldn’t be so screwed up like you so kindly put. I know I’m screwed up, I’ve accepted that. But don’t you dare blame an innocent man who is trying his damned hardest to fix what my mum has done, to show me I’m more than what my mum raised me to be.”

With that you stormed away, walking straight into someone and you stopped.

Looking up at your dad you said nothing as you walked away, leaving the school to go back to his house.

And that’s where he found you when he finished work, sitting on your bed.

“Hey…” he said softly.

You looked up at him and didn’t utter a word and he walked over, sitting on the edge of your bed.

“Thank you (Y/N).”

“For what?”

He smiled, looking at you.

“For what you said.”

You looked up at him.

“Didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. They’re blaming you for something you didn’t do, not your fault.”

“I know that. I just… god I wish I knew, I wish I could’ve helped you sooner..”

You shook your head and set your phone down.

“It wouldn’t change the past, it wouldn’t change the outcome of anything.”

“Maybe it would’ve made it easier.”

“You can’t blame yourself for what you have no control over, you weren’t to know. Even if you found out a few years earlier I still would have the same childhood, I would still have the same personally, the same problems. That’s just how it is.”

He turned a little to look at you.

“But it doesn’t have to be, you don’t have to let this be it, let this be the rest of your life (Y/N), we can work through this.”

You looked at him, he gave you a warm smile and you sighed.

“I’ve done what I’ve done, I’ve grown to accept that. It’s not going to change that, I can’t change my past.”

“You can change your future.”

“Why? I’ll end up just like my mum one day.”

He sighed, shaking his head.

“You won’t, you’ve got so much potential, so much to give to this world, I just… I don’t know how I help you see that…”

You shook your head.

“I just… you have to understand I don’t.. I don’t understand parental love. I don’t understand how to play happy family…”

“As your dad it’s my job to teach you this, show you that you are loved, because I love you. I know I missed your whole life so far, but I don’t want to miss anymore. How about we start with something small?”

“Like what?”

“Can you cook?”

“Yes.”

He smiled and stood up, walking over to your door and stopped.

“Well, come on then, let’s see if you’re better at me then cooking.”

You pushed yourself up and followed him, unsure what to do but he was patient with you. He didn’t push you to do anything, and he stepped back when you seemed uncomfortable.

He was amazed because you were a natural at cooking, you did it like it was second nature and you didn’t his help so he just stood back and watched.

It was a small start, but it was a start, a start at trying to build a relationship with you

[saganssorcery]

Hi again! 🎀

I’m AA ♑️ and my ex is SR ♋️

What is my future of me and my ex or will we be separate ways ? My ex’s mom really saw visions of us being together, but my ex broke up with me because they couldn’t anymore because of one obstacle. Yesterday I found out they have blocked me without notice and found out the reason because they told a friend they weren’t ready to talk to me because they still have feelings for me. I seriously still have feelings for them too, but my ex is trying to push it away :(

Ty 🌷

From an advice perspective and not a tarot one, I would like to help with what you're dealing with. I understand what it's like trying to hold onto someone, the emotions are intense and it's likely we can't imagine life without them. The thing is, someone out there will fight to be with you no matter the cost, when we chase someone who is trying to part from us all we are doing is stopping ourselves from allowing the right person to enter our lives. At this moment in time you may very well believe that this person is the only person you could ever want, but trust me, in time, when you meet the person who will fight for you and treat you like royalty, you will come to understand that the new beauty you allow to enter into your life by letting go of the old, far outweighs anything the old connection had to offer. To achieve this though we really need to come to terms with ourselves and understand that what you love about this person you are chasing is actually a thing that exists inside you, and when you learn this lesson innately the right person naturally gravitates towards you. It does take a time of processing and coming to terms with ourselves and our souls before this can take place, but the sooner this journey is taken the faster our lives and our emotional state will improve. It is a hard, if not one of the hardest lessons to learn, but once it is mastered you will never allow yourself to fall into its trap again. That is true power.

With this said, let's see what the tarot has to say:

You have drawn the Five of Cups and the Seven of Wands. This unfortunately does show the loss of a relationship, you're so focused on the loss but are attempting to fight against it no matter the odds that are against you. This action is preventing you from turning around and recognising the beauty that exists right behind your back. It's likely going to be hard, and you will want to fight it, but why hold onto sorrow and attempt to keep fighting it when something more beautiful can take its place?

[ Tip jar ] ✨🙏✨

For an expanded reading please check out the [ full list of my services ] and DM me for any information you may need to get your reading underway 💙☄️

[busyfish]

i honestly wish my well like everything was a little better and little more put together because self advocacy seems like something i could be very good at?

i feel really behind still.

i feel like there are things i'm doing for the first time that people were doing when they were 14-15 years old.

i am also just like unable to do a lot of things that are every day life for people.

i don't understand money and bank accounts and i'm highly motivated by interests and having zero in that kind of thing has made it ever more difficult to like get my head around because i will be perfectly honest, i get bored and roll my eyes and just tune out.

when i went completely non verbal a few years ago for like 16 months or so, it really "set me back" a lot too.

my speech has never recovered from that. i got so out of the habit and disinterted in spelling and grammar and using the correct tense and all that right?

so i speak very much like in a way sometimes that's difficult to take seriously sometimes.

and don't get me started on my appearance lol.

BUT

BUT

i think i should not let this kind of thing like discourage me because i really want to be able to like in some capacity help others by speaking up for myself and people like me and help people understand that like speech abled people are not unformily functioning at the same level.

and as a matter of fact like, envrioment and other factors can really affect how well one thrives despite being speech able.

it's been a big interest of mine lately to do more research and just learn more about myself and my condition and looking at other people and how they are and their condition.

some of it has been selfish and motivated by trying to like learn how to succesfully persue a romantic partner or whatever but like it's been still good form e to like understand how to function betetr on my own terms in a world built to really kind of give me the hardest time

and while that isn't fair, i can still make something of myself despite that

[ramshacklefey]

All the posts floating around about how young protagonists in adventure stories are really abused child-soldiers are starting to get on my nerves.

Look, it's not that I don't see the point of them. In the real world, the things that kids in fantasy books go through would be horrific and traumatizing. It's a fun deconstruction of a common trope to point that out, and to point out that the adults around these kids are massively failing in their responsibilities if they're letting children end up in these situations.

And yet.

Fantasy and science fiction, when at their best, serve as mirrors in which people can observe their own fears and struggles in a safe way. This is, in my opinion, an especially helpful form of literature for children, because it can break down the overwhelming concepts of the adult world into things that are objective and make sense. Complex, internal struggles can be externalized as monsters and evils that can be overcome. The massive darkness of the world is congealed into a Dark Lord or Evil Empire. And this can all be done without coming across as a preachy metaphor.

Some of the hardest things about being a kid are existing in a world that gives you very little autonomy, being surrounded by seemingly all-powerful adults who don't always listen to you or support you or care about your well-being. Adults may ignore you when you're in trouble. They might even be malicious. And their world is alien to you. You're supposed to be learning how to exist in it, and yet there is a gulf between you and them.

Kids also understand a lot more of adults than we give them credit for, even if they don't have the experience or context to fully understand our reasons for why we behave certain ways.

So there you are, small (literally and figuratively) in a world that is bigger and stronger (literally and figuratively) than you. What do you want out of that world? You want autonomy. You want to be taken seriously. You want the things that matter to you to matter to other people.

Stories about kids who get to be heroes and do things that, in reality, no kid should ever be doing, resonate on a deep level. They give you a vision of a world where you can deal with problems. They give you a world where adults may not be taking you seriously, but in the end it doesn't matter because you end up seizing control yourself and winning the day. They give you a world where the things you're trying to learn about society are broken down into ways that make some goddamn sense, and the protagonists learn to deal with those things.

As adults, we can look at the trope of the child hero and see a situation where we, as adults, would want to step in and protect a child from a terrible situation. And as adults, that's a fine lesson to learn. But also we should be looking at these stories and remembering that, in addition to care and protection, kids need the autonomy and independence that lets them overcome obstacles and grow.

When we read a story where a kid goes through harrowing situations and ends up saving the world (or at least the part of the world that matters to them), we should remember that, for a kid, that's important. Being a kid can be a harrowing experience all by itself. Maybe in the world of the story, the kid's life would be a lot easier and safer and better if the adults around them were to solve the problems, but what would be the point of that story? What's the point of a story that says, "You're just a kid. Let the grown ups handle everything and go play"?

One thing that kids learn at a very young age is that grown ups don't have everything under control. And yet they are constantly told to shut up and not do anything. Telling them that they can have power, and they can have autonomy, and here are the ways of wielding those that are moral and just seems like a pretty damn important thing to me.

[fortressofserenity]

Superhero Style

When it comes to trying to do a faithful adaptation of a superhero outfit these days, for some people a good number of superhero outfits either as they are or made are kind of rather very sexualised for their tastes. Ben Affleck admitted that his Daredevil outfit was evocative of bondage, that some men aren’t keen on showing their things to others suggest that many superhero outfits as they are in the funnybooks are too revealing for their tastes. Kind of gay if you believe Peter Bagge, not helped by that sometimes such outfits look as if they’re painted on. Also I think no matter how many times cosplayers actualise those outfits, they always look ugly and as my relative pointed out superheroes have next to no fashion sense.

That’s not to say people can’t appreciate tights and flamboyant outfits on real life characters, it can be pulled off but in ways that don’t always resemble what we see in the funnybooks. Male sprinters wear tights but it’s kind of skimpier than what the Flash wears, as if he were redesigned to dress like an actual sprinter he’d have to dress less than what he does. Let’s not also forget that while wrestlers do wear tights and sometimes what appears to be underwear over their tights, they don’t accessorise them with capes and other times it is skimpier than what you see in DC and Marvel. Sometimes it’s just briefs, sometimes it’s just leotards.

Same goes for weightlifters to some extent, that’s not to say tights can’t be pulled off in real life. But that they have to be pulled off in a way that’s either practical, doable within religious restrictions or stylish and many superhero outfits fail these. I think if people were so desperate to make realistic superhero outfits work, they should really take more cues from actual athletes and pop musicians to show you what it could’ve and should’ve been. More Usain Bolt and David Bowie than Jack Kirby, more in lines with what a real person has worn. Maybe superhero designers are trying their hardest, but the problem is they’re too married to the archetypal superhero look to ever bother venturing out more.

If people were to make the Flash dress more like an actual sprinter, he’d have to be this heavily redesigned to even wear like what they do. Superhero designers and cartoonists are too married to bother doing anything out of the blue with superhero outfits, that’s without resorting to the casual superhero look but when it comes to style I get the nagging feeling that some of them aren’t too familiar with other kinds of outfits. Especially when they’re worn by not just athletes, dancers and musicians but also those belonging to music subcultures, like Goths and punks.

Maybe they did to some extent, well with some characters but not as much as they could’ve. Even if these kinds of outfits provide the right balance between real life seriousness with superhero flamboyance, if because an actual person has worn those outfits. At other times I believe superhero outfits tend to be ugly, if because most superhero cartoonists aren’t that keen on fashion and sports to make such outfits both presentable and practical. That might have changed for the better these days, but when most superhero cartoonists’ point of references are either superhero comics, porn or underwear catalogues that’s probably why they look the way they do.

[hermitcatlongposts]

Sprite Animations

Hello! I'm here to talk about my sprite animations in my upcoming touhou-clone game.

This was even more overwhelming than portrait artworks. Because to animate is to draw even more when just drawing once overwhelms me. But here I am at the end of it.

Let's start from the easiest to hardest.

Bellhead Monk was a smooth sailing because since long ago I always knew that all I needed was to just extend his arms and reverse. His main theme of attack is about expansion and shrinkage.

Here's all 3 frames. I love how I briskly redrew the gray fur piece to deform instead of going the lazy route and just move only the arms and call it a day. I'm always afraid of sounding like a self-lusting narcissist, but it is very unexpected; the way even the smallest things I do as an artist make me feel proud of myself. Maybe I shouldn't be concerned about projecting the perfect humble gentleman image. Maybe creating art to make yourself happy is the point of life. Sorry, I got sidetracked.

Next one is Buckethead Knight. He's harder but only because I shot myself in the foot by drawing the first frame without coming up with the animation idea. If I did know motion he would perform, I would've put the sword and the shield on a separate layer from the rest so I wouldn't have to awkwardly erase and redraw things.

oh now that I look at it straight like this, it looks like a death animation, doesn't it. Well, he will anyways, tough luck.

I cannot remember the reason why I put these two in one gif. They're not duo boss. For Flaskhead Alchemist and Lamphead Scientist I felt curious about utilizing particle effects and keep the actual animation frames as simple as I can because I'm suffering from skill issues.

But even with that being said, this one's a bit of a step up because it's one more frame than previous two character.

The spinning staff is separate sprite because it still spins on while the body animation stops at the last frame.

Now, I could try the similar thing as Buckethead Knight and make a slashing (more like just swinging around) animation with only his one arm moving. But the time inevitably comes where I have to cut the "lazy and smart, haha" bullshit off. He moves all parts of his body so it's time to draw every frames from scratch. Ok, forget my big talk. I was joking. I'm still a piece of garbage. Due to the absolute requirement of outline thickness consistency, all these sprites are first drawn in 512x512 pixel canvas and then shrunk down to 128px inside the game engine for pixel per unit to camera size technical yada yada. But his long sword, or rather a bamboo stick couldn't fit inside the 512px canvas. What I should've done is to simply resize the canvas to 1024px and draw in the sword. But I was stupid and drew the sword in separate file and now it's kinda awkward relationship which slightly stops me from uploading his full resolution frames. But it doesn't really matter, you're only gonna see a very small 128px version in the game anyways. So here's a bunch of screenshots of the frames seen from the engine:

And 3 frames of physics:

Tho I didn't have the hutzpa to do it on the lower part.

But can I gush a bit about the base frame. My expectations are constantly at absolute lowest and I always get happy when it actually turns out great. (subjective) I really hope it stays this way forever. God I hope it won't be the case in the future where after I practice art seriously it gets reversed and I always have too high expectations and live in a constant state of disappointment and hatred.

Thank you so much for bearing with me while I take on this overwhelming challenge. I'll go now and do less overwhelming but even more bulky task to the finish line. Until then, cheers!

[xexiar]

Rant 006

You ever been so lost and tired that you don’t recognize yourself no matter how hard you try. Where you keep wearing a mask but not sure how to take it off?

Like I been so focused on saving money for potential rental deposit, since a lot of “assistances” wasn’t helping with that. I also focused so hard on keeping on top of a chore that helps keep me functionally alive, which is washing my dishes.

But because of this I had to cut out things that I still require funds for. Such as taking a shower. This is in part because the trailer park I currently reside has paid showers. Yet, to try to save as much as I could I neglected a huge part of my self care. Along with dealing cleaning my living space. So everything has gotten so overwhelming.

Last Friday I found I could afford getting $2 in quarters, from my roommates, so now I can shower. They even allowed me to wash my towel with their laundry. That was another factor that made self care difficult. Because I typically hand wash my laundry and only pay to dry, but during December I forgot to wash my towel. So it took forever to get that done with how I had no laundry money.

So, now that I finally have a clean towel and shower money, I’m going to finally get a much needed shower. I don’t feel like myself when things pile up on me. From my fight with depression, not being able to celebrate my birthday because of dealing with housing situation, getting the news I wasn’t getting that apartment. So, yeah, things kept piling up and with my avoiding tendencies for dealing with my emotions, everything became a downward spiral.

I almost get hit by a car with how much things had affected me. I been trying to deal with things by pretending it doesn’t bother me, and just trying to stay positive. When the reality is I’m scared of where my thoughts would go the moment I do face what I’m feeling.

I struggled my whole life with suicidal ideations and self harm, that when I finally am at a point where the thoughts aren’t screaming, I don’t want to stop moving. I try my hardest to write my emotions the moment I experience had calming it made me feel when I discovered poetry in 2nd grade. I tried painting and drawing things to keep me looking at the brighter side when my whole reality was a nightmare, both sleeping and awake. When I discovered gaming it became another safe form of escapism.

I been forced my whole life to be small and quiet because it’s I’ve learned my words would never be taken seriously. I’ve learned how much of nothing I really was to the people around me. Dealing with going to therapy since I was 5 because I almost hanged myself. Yet, around the same time, one of my sisters hang me out the second floor window, ready to drop me. But, from her recollection, our parents stopped her and saved me. So by all accounts I was so close to death at the age of five. If not by my own hands, but by a family member.

Also at the age of 5, the eldest, which is a boy, became a father to my first niece. I was already not wanted and to have another child in the family made things worse. Not to mention, the very sister that hanged me out the window is the same sister who was forced to raise me. She claims she doesn’t resent me, but in her every action says otherwise. Especially since she likes to used that fact she raised me over my head. Pretty much at every chance she gets she reminds me that if not for her I wouldn’t be alive. To her, I was pretty much her slave. She never viewed me as a sister. Even though all I ever wanted was to help her and pay back all she done for me.

Thanks to her I hate owing anyone. Thanks to my family I don’t believe people can be genuine without underline motives. I trust people at a distance. I could express myself but at the same time I have a face for everyone I meet. It’s so bad that I don’t even recognize myself.

But as I been living in Oregon for the past 3 years, I been getting better at talking to people. Trusting is something I simply can’t do because I don’t trust myself. That’s something I look forward to learning when I finally live alone. Because living alone will be the first time I don’t have to think about someone else. Where the only feedback I would have is myself.

I already know myself enough to understand the nuance that is my gender, sexual preference, baseline belief system, and baseline personality. But outside of that I don’t know much about myself. I’m still learning to care for my physical body, and that’s difficult. To learn what foods I can eat without issues. To learn my hair type. To learn how to care for my skin after years of self mutilation. To learn to think for myself while vocalizing those thoughts without fearing the consequences.

The reason why I post my thoughts publicly is not only because this whole blog was a college assignment. I also public my thoughts because I hated feeling alone. So if someone who is feeling similar to what I feel I wouldn’t want them to feel alone. I want to feel seen. There’s also the sense of finding comfort in connecting with people.