#i was getting better at talking more but my anxiety has been getting worse . its like i get random slightly better days n then it Drops

[fierceawakening]

Yes! That’s… less of a clear answer than I feel comfortable with to join a movement or admire its leaders, but it’s something.

I always get the sense in conversations like this that people are much more comfortable than I am just being like “who cares about the edge cases?”

I care about them, both because I’ve *been* the victim of things committed by people too deep in their mental illness for anyone who tried to convince them to stop, and because if we truly believe everyone is a person (which I see as a key tenet of leftist values and part of why I choose them over right wing values in the first place) then we believe some things are too cruel even for people who do horrific things.

So I don’t see it as an issue we can avoid.

Also like I’ve mentioned I work at a homeless shelter. The reason a lot of academically inclined leftists can talk about crime like it’s rare is because they don’t spend time in environments where people who’ve committed crimes are common. I don’t think they’re wrong that most people are basically good, but I think they can be naive about what it takes to convince someone crimes are not a great idea. If someone has a patten of criming, it’s because that’s what they believe works for them. Getting them to stop is about changing their outlook and habits, which is far from impossible but a lot slower and more bumpy than many people who never did much criming want to think.

Also I think a lot of people really don’t have an accurate picture in their heads of serious mental illness. I think very often people have an idea that even very acutely ill people are fairly rational, and you can usually help them deal with their anxiety, give them meds, whatever, and they improve a lot. Again, I don’t think this is fundamentally incorrect; disease isn’t destiny. But having interacted with a lot of people whose illness is particularly intractable, I think that people often have… the same kind of image in their mind, where they don’t really understand how incremental incremental can be.

There are many people, including one client I’m very morose about, who improve a little when treated well, but a little isn’t enough. My moroseness? That client has been banned for fighting, unless she appeals the decision and wins. I don’t *like* the thought that she’s going to lose her place here and that’s likely to only make things worse… but I don’t have the fundamental confidence to say that kicking people out for violence is too cruel, we can make sure it’s fine. Making sure it’s fine is very clearly above my pay grade, and while there are people with more experience and better degrees than me I don’t have the impression they’re less confused.

All of which says to me that deciding we’re ready to stop imprisoning people who do bad things is at the very least premature (and to their credit a lot of abolitionists do agree that prisons will be phased out over time.) I think it’s unrealistic not just in a way that paints a rosy picture of humanity (as a whole? My picture of humanity is also fairly rosy!) but also in a way that fundamentally ill prepares us to really help perpetrators in ways that matter.

[tamagotchikgs]

my mom keeps saying she has a question for me later all serious but then not asking it and i am in such anguish... i m so Scared

[florida3exclamationpoints]

My mom just came in my room right after I got home to be like how did it go???? What happened???? When are you going back?? How do you feel??? Are you ok???? What are your hours???? What did they say??? And I know she means well but

[davdcorenswet]

🌪️ whirlwind.

scott miller x reader Synopsis: the bar has always been a safe haven after a long week of storm-chasing, but when tyler owens decides you’re his lucky charm for the night, you find that scott’s control has its limits. Word Count: 6.4k (pls don't look at me) Warnings: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI!!!, mentions of near-death experiences, tornadoes (obviously), brief insinuations to cheating, tyler is a pot-stirrer, public sex, dry humping, fingering (f!receiving), degradation, nipple play (f!receiving), orgasm delay, biting?, scott miller has a whore mouth, minor choking, use of pet names (baby, sweetheart), lots of dirty talk, no use of y/n A/N: my first time posting fic & writing for scott so pls go easy on me 🥺 sometimes you just have to let a smug little asshole take over ur entire life, am i right? if you enjoyed, pls feel free to reblog or give it a like and as always, my inbox is open if you want to chat!!! 🤍

It’s been a grueling week, one tornado after another hammering Oklahoma into a state of disarray.

You’re still shaken from the last one, the anxiety of being alone in a motel with your thoughts almost unbearable. You’ve tried to avoid being alone since then, afraid that something worse is always on the horizon, and the thought of being isolated in a room while the rest of the team is out doesn’t sit well.

The bar, though, is a familiar sanctuary. A small comfort amidst the chaos. Even though you’re drained and the idea of socializing feels monumental, tradition is tradition. Javi’s sad puppy eyes and the inevitable guilt trip on the drive back to HQ tomorrow is enough to push you out of bed and into the shower.

And, as much as you don’t want to go, it feels wrong when even Scott makes an effort to go.

By the time you step into the dimly lit bar, clinking glasses and the hum of chatter soothe your worries quickly away. Whirlwind may have seen more than its fair share of fights and other throes of debauchery, but it was a frequent, favorite stop.

And it’s already packed. Between the locals and the other storm-chasers crowding the space, you can’t find Storm Par anywhere. A roar of laughter strikes from the pool tables, and you quickly pocket your phone, realizing you’ll have no luck calling or texting when it won’t even be heard over the noise.

Oh, well. You’ll find them soon enough. Making your way to the bar to greet Jack, the burly bartender who’s been running the place for years and has grown more familiar to you the more you frequent, you hear — rather than see — one of the storm-chasers you were hoping to avoid tonight.

Tyler. God damn. Owens.

You weren’t struck by his Southern charm — your days of easy flattery were past you — but he was hard to ignore. Then again, you should’ve known better by now. Tyler always seemed to be at his best when he had a crowd buzzing around him.

“I thought tonight couldn’t get any better, and then you walked in,” he drawls, finding a space alongside you as he sets his empty beer bottle down, his voice smooth. “Can I buy you a drink, darlin’?”

You consider turning him down, not sure if you’re up for his ego tonight, but you also know Tyler. He wasn't swayed easily, especially if he saw a challenge. Besides, a free drink was well, free, and as grating as he could get, you supposed one couldn't hurt. So you nod. “Sure, why not.”

Jack, who’d wordlessly gotten your drink as Tyler approached, sets a bottle of your favorite down in front of you, his brow raising to get your attention. You hesitate before taking it and catch his gaze shift slightly past you.

Before you get a chance to follow, Tyler steals your focus with a grin, the ever-present pain in your ass. You can’t fight your instincts to be polite. “So tell me. What’s a girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”

You meet his gaze, all swirling hues and open attraction. Maybe if you were that kind of girl, his smooth, clichéd lines would work on you. But you weren’t that girl. You preferred sensible. Practical. Safe. It was why you’d joined Storm Par in the first place, rather than one of the many other crews. This tornado wrangler just wasn’t for you.

Unfortunately for Tyler, he always seemed to miss that memo.

“Same as everyone else, I guess.” You laugh half-heartedly. Maybe if the conversation is light enough, you can slip away without it turning into a spectacle. “Just looking to unwind.”

If Tyler notices your lack of enthusiasm, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he makes a show of settling into his spot next to you, grin stretching wide. The beer in his hands is fresh and cold, same as yours, though unlike yourself he’s already taken a few drinks while you start to pick at the label. Javi would've poked fun by now, but your friend is nowhere near. Typical.

Tyler takes another drink, resting his arm on the bar, your eyes drifting to his tanned bicep. His grin stretches when he catches you looking, and you try not to scowl at falling for his display.

He continues with a well-used, “Well, you sure do brighten up the place.”

Thank god. Playing along, you don’t waste a second as your gaze wanders eagerly around the bar. From your new position you spot a cluster of tables on the other side of the room, Storm Par filling out the seats.

Scott sits alone at one of them, as he always did, but his posture is rigid, and even from a distance you can tell his focus is far from the game of darts Javi tries to include him in. Unsurprising. But rather than being distracted by his phone, worrying about the next job the team would have to take, his eyes are locked in on you.

The intensity makes you shiver. A few bottles sit empty next to him, and you only know they’re his by the unmistakable Guinness label adorning the side. A half-empty glass rests in his hand like he’d meant to take a sip before catching sight of Tyler.

Since joining Storm Par, the number of things you knew about Scott could be counted on your fingers. And in that time, you’d never seen him unwind. Not truly, anyway. As frustrating as it could be, you'd come to respect Scott's unwavering demeanor.

Amidst the chaos, no matter how intense it got, Scott was the stoic anchor of the team. There was a reason for his lectures and regulations. He was as dependable as the code he lived by, but most of the team often dismissed it as rigid and unnecessary. You knew it took strength and reliability to remain true to your values.

Much like you were forgoing now, your polite smile tight on your lips.

Beyond Javi, the rest of the team is scattered around Whirlwind, some dancing with reckless abandon on the makeshift dance floor while others clink shots over a job well done with the other storm-chasing crews. Scott is still firmly planted on the barstool, setting his glass down with a white-knuckled grip.

Tyler, of course, pays no attention. He leans in, casually inching closer to you, wrapping up some story of an exaggerated Wrangler exploit. Close enough to brush against you. When you glance down at the contact, Tyler notices where you’ve grown distracted, that easygoing grin slipping as he takes in your view.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tyler says with a sigh, head shaking in disbelief. “Just admit it — I’m a hell of a lot more fun than Storm Cloud over there.”

You disagree, but keep it to yourself. Tyler and his crew were reckless, and, sure, while there was some level of risk that came with what you all did, there was a clear difference between you and them. 

It was part of what had drawn you to Scott in the first place. He was meticulous and no-nonsense, quick to call out mistakes whether you were out in the field or back in the office. But even Scott wasn't immune to a lecture or two — something he'd gone to great lengths to keep under lock and key.

And you only knew by accident.

Another sleepless night had driven you out of your room in search of coffee, leading you to a diner where you’d stumbled across him and Riggs in a heated discussion. Your Mama had taught you manners about eavesdropping, but you were frozen in place, listening to Riggs furiously drill into Scott over another fuck up (not his fault) and whether he was serious or not about the work they were doing. Before you could slip away unnoticed, not wanting to be lectured too, Scott’s eyes met yours, giving you a small, subtle shake of his head.

You’d run straight back to your room after, hoping that maybe it'd been a weird nightmare and you’d wake up to business as usual. But after another hour of tossing and turning, Scott’s familiar knock sounded at your door, and when you’d gathered the courage to meet him face to face, he’d looked just as conflicted as you felt. After what you’d heard, the way Scott took responsibility for every mistake and didn't throw anyone under the bus, keeping it between you two was the least you could do.

Something changed after that night. When a particularly nasty tornado touched ground a few weeks later and nearly swept you up in it, nobody questioned Scott’s decision to reassign you to Scarecrow. Nobody questioned why your partner had quit shortly after, either.

Scott still hadn’t asked why you’d been awake that night, just the same as you didn’t ask about Riggs.

You glance over at Scott again now, the memory fresh in your mind. His knuckles are just as white as when you’d found him in the diner, expression still shadowed, like he’s torn between intervening and letting it play out. But even with a crowd between you and the two men, the tension is thick, crackling in the air.

Tyler leans in closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as glances over at Scott. “He’s got that brooding thing down to an art, doesn’t he? Don’t you ever crave a little spontaneity?”

You shift away from Tyler, the weight of Scott’s gaze growing heavy. From the corner of your eye you can just barely make out the hard set to his jaw, no longer working the cinnamon gum he obsessively kept on him. You manage a tight smile, distracted, as Javi’s voice rises briefly above the noise — your attention divided between the brewing storm on the other end of the bar and the eye of the one you were currently stuck in.

“I… I think we all have our reasons for sticking around.” You say, just as Javi finally notices you, his smile dimming as his gaze slides to Tyler.

Shit.

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” Tyler’s drawl is playful, almost teasing, and if he sees that you’re not even looking at him anymore, he doesn’t seem to care. “I’m just saying. If you ever want to get away from Clipboard over there...”

This time you do look with a flash of agitation. “If I wanted that, I’d be part of your team, Tyler. Not his.”

“Now, hold on, just hear me out for a second.” Tyler takes another pull from his drink, but when he sets it back down, he’s too close yet again. Fingers brush unwarranted against you, his touch lingering in a way that immediately makes your skin crawl. “How about we make a deal? Let me show you a good time tonight, and I promise you won’t even remember his name by the end of it.”

The suggestion hangs heavy in the air. You're only just barely aware of the way your features shift as background noise fades and you’re left with a high-pitched ringing in your ears, each emotion rolling through you longer to process than the last. By the time disgust sets in, flinching away from his wandering hands, you see past the red just enough to catch his grin widening in amusement.

And you realize, with terrifying clarity, that he’s been toying with you the whole night, just to start something with your team. You try not to tremble, swallowing your rage, and remind yourself that you'll be kicked out if dump your drink on him.

A stool scrapes loudly from the other side of the room. Whatever semblance of peace snaps.

“Uh oh.” Tyler notices Scott’s approach, and has the audacity to flash you a smile. “Looks like we’ve got company. He sure knows how to kill a mood, doesn’t he?”

You don't have a chance to respond, Scott stopping beside you, barely restrained anger coming off him in waves. You instinctively step closer to him, your drink forgotten and unwanted on the bar. His eyes flash with anger as he regards Tyler, that muscle working overtime in his jaw — and you know he's seen everything, from Tyler whispering into your ear to the look of repulse that you'd tried to hide.

“We need to talk.” Scott’s gaze shifts to you. You recognize the silent message he sends, the urgency in his voice as he fights to control his composure for your sake. “Now.”

“Ouch, Scotty. Not even a hello? And here I thought manners came with that fancy degree.” Tyler whistles low, appraising Scott like he’s not seconds away from getting his nose broken. “I was just getting acquainted with your friend over here. Giving her the whole Wrangler pitch. You know how it goes.” His smirk growing, he takes your silence as a cue to continue. “Come to think of it, wasn’t that how Gabby left? Told me she was over all the huffin' and puffin', especially after—”

“Enough.” Scott's interjection is loud and clear, your heart stuttering at the icy tone. When he slides an arm around your waist, the weight unfamiliar, you can’t tell if it’s to keep you from lunging at Tyler, or himself. You glance between Tyler's satisfied grin and the glare Scott sends him, confused. Who was Gabby? “Shut the fuck up for once, Owens. Seriously. Do us all a fucking favor.”

You still swim with questions as Scott pulls you close, no longer waiting for Tyler’s approval or response — not that he needed it in the first place. Lights cast long shadows as he navigates you between tables, the ringing in your ears lessening the further away from Tyler you get. Scott ushers you out the nearest exit, his palm warm against the small of your back.

The back door slams shut with a final click as you spill out into the alley together. It’s as dimly lit as the inside is, a singular dying bulb flickering just a few steps away. The sounds of the bar are muffled here now that your hearing has returned to normal, leaving only the distant hum of traffic and your ragged breathing.

The chilled air immediately hits you as Scott pulls away, and you watch, lost, as he paces angrily while you try to sort your thoughts out.

“What the hell was that? I thought you said you weren’t coming tonight.” Scott’s voice is sharp, cutting through the night like a knife. He turns to face you with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken, his scowl reflecting the look he gets when he's about to unleash on someone. “You said you needed space, time to clear your head… So why are you here? With him?”

“I know. Plans change,” you reply, caught off-guard, hoping to sound casual even as you hook your finger nervously under the strap of your dress. You’ve never seen Scott this worked up before, and it’s unsettling.

“Plans change?” Scott scoffs, his voice rising with every word. “That’s your excuse? You say one thing, and then do the complete opposite? What was your plan, then? To drink with Tyler and maybe let him drive you home? Was that the idea?”

You’re taken aback by the sharpness of his words. “It was just a drink, Scott. I needed to get out and clear my head.”

“Just a drink?” Scott’s eyes narrow, and he takes a step closer, his frustration barely contained. “Do you really think I’m that naive? Tyler doesn’t just do ‘just a drink.’ He’s always looking for something more. And you—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. “He makes a mess of everything he touches. You know what he’s like. Hell, you’re smart enough to see through his bullshit. So why are you letting him get close to you?”

“Scott, it’s not like that,” you protest, your voice wavering slightly under his scrutiny. “I needed to get out. It had nothing to do with him.”

“And you couldn’t find another way to clear your head? Without him? Without the guy who’s known for causing chaos?” His voice is thick with emotion, the carefully controlled mask he usually wears slipping away to reveal the raw frustration and fear beneath. “You think I don’t see what’s happening here? I’ve been through this before, and I’m not going to stand by and watch you make the same mistakes.”

“What are you implying?” You ask, confused and angry.

“I’m saying I think you’re using Tyler as a distraction,” Scott says, his voice sharp, “A way to escape from everything you’ve been dealing with.”

Frustration prickles at his words, and even though you try not to, it’s hard to keep the edge from your voice. “Escape? That’s not— I’m not running away from anything.”

“We’ve had a rough week. I know it’s been hard on you,” Scott says, his tone softening slightly, though he still looks on edge. His jaw ticks again, and your gaze immediately darts to the pack of gum you know he keeps in his right back pocket. “But if you’re letting someone like Tyler pull you away from what really matters, it’ll only make things worse. I’ve seen too many people get hurt by him.”

Your anger flares at his scolding, hating that you found yourself in one storm, only to be led willingly into the next. “And what, Scott? You think you know me so well that you can just decide what’s best for me?”

“No, I’m just—” Scott shakes his head, taking a step toward you, then rethinking it. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“Safe?” You try to suppress a laugh, but it comes out bitter. “Safe doesn’t really exist in our line of work, and you know that.”

Scott’s eyes flash with a mix of frustration and something else you can’t quite place. He takes a deep breath, struggling to steady himself. “You think I don’t know that? When things go wrong, I need to know that I can count on the people around me to handle their shit.”

You raise an eyebrow, uncertain where this is going. “And what exactly does that have to do with Tyler or me?”

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asks, his tone almost pleading. “When you’re involved, everything gets complicated. I can’t think straight when you’re involved. I can’t focus. Hell, I can’t even sleep at night.”

Scott runs a hand through his hair, his fingers gripping tightly as if trying to ground himself. “That tornado— When the equipment malfunctioned because Dale failed to follow the calibration protocols I specifically fucking outlined— I was frozen, just paralyzed with fear. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I knew we couldn’t make it to you in time.”

You still, remembering how quickly Scott had cornered Dale when you got back. You’d thought it was because of the readings and the instructions he’d ignored that had nearly cost you both your lives.

Scott’s breath hitches as he continues. “It would’ve been my fault. My responsibility. My orders. I was convinced I’d lost you. And I thought if I could just keep you safe, try to control the chaos, that it might make things better. But seeing you with Tyler tonight... It’s like I’m back in that moment, feeling helpless, and I—” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “Look, I’m not going through that again. I can’t.”

His voice cracks, and you see the depth of his internal struggle. “I’m just… trying to protect you,” he admits quietly, “but I don’t know if you even see it that way.”

His words weigh heavy, the shock of it ripping right through you. Scott Miller didn't go out of his way to be kind.

You're pulled back through the last few months: the coffee, just the way you liked it, that Scott always had waiting for you after a chase; his lack of scorn when you fell asleep on him in the van the next morning, when exhaustion wins and his silence becomes safety; the lingering, unasked question on his lips every time you were tasked to go out onto the field again and you agreed, over and over, despite the very real fear of the very thing you chased.

For a moment, everything else fades away — Tyler, the bar, the noise.

“Scott.” Your voice breaks through the quiet in a whisper, drawing close to him. Your hands glide gently along the black fabric of his shirt, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palms. “I’m here,” you say, your voice steady but soft. “I’m with you.”

For a moment, that vulnerability continues to swim in his eyes. And then he steps closer, his fingers wrapping around your wrists. You think, for a split second of panic, that he means to push you away and close himself off the way he usually does; instead, his thumbs rub tenderly at your palms, the action so gentle and unlike him that it makes your breath stall.

Instinctively your gaze meets his, forgetting (as you often did) just how big he actually was. Tall, broad, and deliciously toned; when you thought of Scott, you thought of him behind a desk, not running laps around his neighborhood and clocking in hours at the gym. Your uniforms did an amazing job of hiding his physique, but it’s impossible to ignore now. His black undershirt clings to him like a second skin and reveals the hard, taut muscles of his body, further evidence of the control he wielded so effortlessly.

His eyes search yours, the intoxicating scent of his cologne enveloping you. You’ve never seen him so open before, and as his hands smooth down your arms to the curve of your waist, there’s a sense of urgency in his touch that he doesn’t vocalize.

Fear. Longing. Desire. His jaw sets again as his gaze drops to your mouth, and you think, for one terrifying moment, that he won’t do it. Would he regain his composure, push you away, then act like nothing had happened the next morning? His brows furrow, as if reading your thoughts. Maybe you’d be reassigned just to avoid the awkwardness of it all. Scott could send you packing with just a phone call.

Your heart pounds, frozen in place, each second lasting an eternity. His fingers flex on your waist, the electrifying touch causing your lips to part and your lashes to flutter. The sight makes his throat bob.

“God damn it,” he groans, his voice guttural.

It’s the only warning you get before his mouth descends onto yours. Though his lips are smooth, there’s nothing gentle about the way Scott kisses you. His mouth moves hungrily against yours, devouring and demanding and all-consuming, like you’re the very air he needs to breathe. You sigh, aching for more, that dull fire inside you growing hotter at the groan that escapes him. As he fists a hand in your hair, he wraps a strong arm around your middle to pull you closer, deepening the kiss.

“Scott…” Bunching his shirt in your hands, you’re helpless when he nips at your bottom lip, pulling desperate, needy sounds from you. As he trails hot open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, finding every spot with ease, his fingers wrap gently around your throat, your pulse racing against his thumb.

“God, I’ve wanted you like this for months,” Scott murmurs against your skin, his voice a low growl that makes your thighs clench. A soft moan escapes as you tilt your head to give him better access, his noise of approval rumbling deep in his throat. “I’ve dreamt of this.”

He presses you into the wall behind you as he ravages your neck, all teeth and tongue and the kind of marks that you’ll have to find excuses for in the morning. A shiver sends you arching up into him, fingers slipping into his hair as he palms your breast, lowering his mouth to suck a greedy mark there. You whine at the friction you’re missing, hips circling the air, desperately hooking your fingers into his belt loops to drag him closer.

“Shhh,” Scott pauses to hitch your leg up, slotting his knee between your thighs. Dark blue eyes drink in the sight of you as he squeezes your ass, a cocky smile spreading on his pink and swollen lips. “I know, sweetheart. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” You mewl when his knee brushes against your heat, enough to have you rolling helplessly against him but not enough to satisfy your desires. “So pretty, so desperate.”

“Yes,” You grip him harder for some semblance of a tether, that condescending, degrading voice only adding fuel to the fire. Did he know what you fantasized about late at night? The shower running to muffle your moans while you touched yourself to his deep voice, lecturing you over a simple mistake? Open desire swirls in your eyes, pleading now, every want laid bare for him. “Please, I want it.”

Scott’s low noise of approval sounds in his throat, pressing closer to give you what you need. You’d be half-ashamed at the way you eagerly grind against him if his own arousal wasn’t hard against your hip, straining, large and throbbing with every roll of your hips. The material of your panties do nothing to stop the delicious ache of his worn jeans against your clit, too many pieces of fabric between you, trying to quiet pretty sounds as you bite your lip.

“Look at you,” Scott growls, your dress inching higher as he seizes your hips, helping you find a rhythm. Hooking the lace of your panties under his fingers, he tugs the material up tight enough together to elicit a hiss, a dimple playing at the corner of his mouth as he smirks, “Is this all for me, baby?”

Barely managing a nod, you meet his eyes through thick lashes and whimper at the expression on his face. That intense gaze drinks in every inch of you like you’re a piece of art and the last thing he wants to remember, his usually stormy eyes hazy with desire.

“God damn... You just can’t get enough, can you, baby? When you touch yourself at night, do you think about me? Rubbing that needy little pussy on your pillow ‘cause you just can’t help it?” You press harder into him in response, his answering laugh dark against your ear. “But it’s never enough, is it? You always crave more, something thicker, something stronger.”

You whine against the loss of contact as he drops his knee, the sting of your panties snapping against your skin quickly forgotten when he trails his digits along the swell of your mouth. You open up greedily, the salty taste of his skin on your tongue intoxicating as you wrap your lips around him. 

“I bet you look so pretty,” he continues, his voice ragged, “Spread out like a top dollar whore with your cunt in the air, gagging on your fingers and wishing it were me. Wondering how many you need to suck on to fill you up just right. How many do you think, baby? Two? More?”

Scott pulls his fingers out with a pop, nuzzling against you as you try to remember to breathe. “Would you even be able to use that brain of yours, baby? Or would you be so fucking desperate to fill your hole that you’d use however many fit?”

He hikes up your dress while he pushes his hand in your panties, fingers slipping through your soaked folds. Fuck. He slowly circles your clit, stealing the breath from your lungs as you arch up into him. “Oh, I know, sweetheart. It doesn’t feel like this, does it?”

Not even close. Worst of all, you weren’t even sure if Scott knew just how true it was. Other men may have excited you, but nothing compared to this — not you, not the others you took to your bed, not even the fantasy Scott you envisioned. You buck helplessly against him, eager for more, whimpering out some sort of half-reply as you grip his wrist in a pathetic effort to keep him there.

Scott just grins. “What’s wrong, baby? Am I going too slow for you?” When he softens his touch, your nails dig into his skin, leaving little crescent moon marks. Lips desperately search for his, your eyes half-lidded and hazy. “I knew you’d be greedy,” he hums, gripping you roughly by the chin, his thumb swiping over your parted lips. “Letting me play with your pussy like this, where anyone could walk out and see how much of a slut you’re being.”

You bite back a moan as you remember where you are, glancing frantically at the door like it might open any second. Your pulse skyrockets when he resumes teasing, circling your clit then dipping down to press at your entrance. Fingers close around the fabric of his shirt, meaning to push him away and only pulling him closer with another desperate whine. “Scott, please…”

“Fuck.” There’s a dark look that flashes across his face, voice rough and ragged, and you watch, with nothing to shield his gaze, as his control snaps.

Sliding his hand over your mouth, it’s the only warning you get before he sinks a thick digit into your weeping cunt. The growl that escapes him when you automatically clench around it only makes you wetter, paralyzed with lust as he works you into pliancy. You pant, chest heaving, as he finds a steady rhythm that makes your eyes roll to the back of your head, every moan muffled against the palm of his hand as you arch into his touch.

You cry out when he adds a second finger, rocking your hips desperately as he angles his hand just right to rub against your clit. “Harder— Please, more—” The words are strangled, spilling out of you mindlessly now, unable to think beyond the way Scott stretches you out. You grab a fistful of his hair as he groans against your neck, dragging teeth and tongue along your skin, freeing your breasts from your dress before covering your mouth again.

“So god damned sexy,” he growls, quick to lap at your hardened nipples, the flat of his tongue spilling another pretty sound from your throat. He curls his digits deeper inside you, the wet schlick of your heat loud in your ears as he sets a brutal pace, switching his attention to your other neglected nipple.

Breath hot against your skin, Scott relishes how you become putty in his hands, holding onto him for support as he strokes that burning fire in you.

“Perfect fucking tits. Perfect fucking pussy. Jesus, sweetheart,” he nips at your skin, soothing the bite with his tongue. “Is this what you like? Being used like my own personal fucktoy? What would the others think if they saw you right now, fucking yourself stupid on me like a bitch in heat?”

He slips his fingers out long enough for you to beg, his smile dark against your skin while you whimper in desperation — and then he’s pushing back into you, stretching your hole with every rough thrust of his fingers. “Hear that, sweetheart? Even your body knows it’s meant to be mine.”

Scott kisses you hungrily as he drops his free hand to your breast, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you scream. His fingers slick harder into you, his cock thick and grinding into your hip while you try to breathe against his storm, your own control slipping as you fist his dark curls in your hands, looking for leverage.

“That’s it,” he growls, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “This is my fucking pussy, isn’t it, baby? You wanna cum for me? Let the whole bar know you’re my toy to play with?”

“Please, please, please—” You can’t think beyond the brutal pace he’s set, not even sure that your voice sounds human as you babble, eyes big and watering. “Wanna cum for you, please, I need it—”

“You need it?” You gasp as the pain on your nipple subsides only for him to pinch the other, something dark and destructive swirling heavy in his blue eyes. You shiver at the expression, the carnal desire written so clearly over his face, every word out of his mouth deep, commanding, leaving no room for debate. “I’ll tell you when you get to cum. This is mine.” Pressing the heel of his palm hard against your clit, he watches with glee as you clamp down on your bottom lip to keep from screaming, obeying his command even as your body fights.

Your knees nearly buckle at the growl in his voice. Every thrust of his fingers brings you closer to the edge, the heat overwhelming. How many nights had you spent with your fingers in your cunt, picturing scenario after scenario of him taking you in the van, in the bathroom, on his desk after hours? 

“Say it,” Scott insists. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You meet his gaze, the intensity of it nearly sending you over the edge. “I’m yours,” you say, caught between a moan and something stronger, your words choking off.

“Again.” His expression tightens, picking up speed. “Louder.”

“I’m yours!” Your body trembles with the effort to stay upright, writhing against him. The words feel like a vow, your grip on Scott tight as you sob them into him. “My pussy is yours, my body is yours— Just a pathetic, dirty, worthless hole for you to fuck— Fuck, Scott, please—”

Scott growls in response, fisting his hand in your hair as finds the spongey spot inside of you. His digits work you hard, the veins in his arms on display as you bite back a scream, waiting, begging, needing. “Cum,” he grunts, the sound of his fingers driving into you loud and damning, “That’s it, sweetheart. Cum for me.”

You fall over the edge hard and fast, crying out as all the tension from the night finally snaps. It feels like an eternity as he continues fucking you through it, every filthy promise spelled out clearly with his lips at your ear.

By the time you come crashing back down, you’re shaking and empty, blinking back stars as Scott steps back. “Oh my god,” you gasp, fighting to catch your breath, mind still a mess as you try to piece together everything that happened. “That was…”

You watch, mesmerized, as Scott sucks his fingers into his mouth, a groan of approval sounding deep in his throat. And when he squeezes at his bulge straining against his zipper, your core clenches tight at the thought of his weight on top of yours, fucking you into submission again and again until he gets his fill.

“Just the beginning,” Scott promises, stepping toward you to tilt your chin up, his free hand coming down to tighten around your soaked panties and pull. They rip easily in his strong grasp, his grin triumphant as he stuffs them into his back pocket. “You won’t be needing these anymore.”

“Why?” Your body tenses with anticipation, noting the defined dimple in his cheek, the kind of grin he only wore when he was about to be incredibly, infuriatingly smug.

“Because,” he hums, full of condescension, “I didn’t hear a thank you.”

Before you can fix your mistake, Scott silences you with a kiss, his mouth patronizingly gentle as a wicked laugh sounds in the back of his throat. “Don’t worry,” he says, dropping another chaste kiss to your mouth, your nose, the space between your creased brows. “It won’t happen again. I’ll teach you, sweetheart.”

Goosebumps rise on your flesh as Scott adjusts your dress to cover your exposed body, the act so gentle and unbecoming that you freeze enough to let him. The moment only lasts a minute, your eyes meeting as he squeezes the curve of your ass when he’s done, all that vulnerability you had seen locked away again, like he’s guarding himself as reality comes back to life.

A muscle feathers in his jaw as his gaze shifts from you to the back door you’d spilled from. You’ve known Scott long enough by now to know he won’t be the one to say what’s hanging in the air. It would be easier, safer, to walk back in like nothing had happened and return to the motel alone, hitching a ride with anyone other than Scott the next morning.

But if you turn away now, you’ll never see that side of him again: the side that stayed up with you when he could be sleeping, the kind that comforted you without words, the kind that lit your world on fire with every bruising mark he’d left on you. The chance of knowing the man behind the mask.

You don’t miss the way his muscles tense under your touch as you reach for him or the flash of relief that flickers through him. “You think I’m teachable?” You ask, turning big eyes up at him, begging him to see the way you lay yourself bare for him — hoping, praying, that he doesn’t turn you down even still.

“I’m not an easy teacher.” He says, low, still guarded. Still giving you one last out.

You shake your head, a laugh tumbling out. His throat bobs at the sound. “I don’t want easy.” The truth of that hangs heavy in the air, zipping between the two of you as recognition passes through his eyes. “Now are you driving, or am I?”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he presses his tongue into his cheek and takes a step back. “My van, my rules,” he says, his voice softer now but still firm, and you hear the familiar rumble of the Storm Par van coming to life. His keys jingle in his hand as he adds, “You should know that by now.”

You bite your lip, suppressing a smile, and follow him out of the alleyway.

You did know. And as you settle into the passenger seat, the scent of the van enveloping you — a mix of old leather and Scott’s cologne — anticipation crackles in the air. The night stretches ahead, full of unspoken possibilities.

You couldn’t wait to test how far those rules went... and just how much you both were willing to bend them.

[tsukii0002]

My demons' periods cycles. By Mc

Note: these are purely my headcanons at the moment, they are based on animal ethology and behaviours that I think would suit each character depending on their personality and Lore. I would love to read your headcanon in case you have them.

Warning: Long text. Possible grammatical errors. It's written as if Mc was writing for themself.

Hey, it me Mc, the best human. Here is a compilation of the behaviours of my demons during their periods, cycles, for practical day to day use. It wasn't easy but I sat them down and got to talk to them, with a little effort I now know what they need. So now I am ready to assist them during these complicated times and be prepared in case I find a dead goat on the porch as a tribute.

Lucifer, Mammon & Levi || Satan, Asmo, & Beel || Belphie, Barbatos & Diavolo || Simeon & Raphael

Lucifer

Light does not bother him, but he rarely sleeps during its periods.

During his cycle his wings are filled with new feathers, to make them more noticeable and showy, many are small and iridescent.

His horns are also covered with iridescent scales.

He's constantly preening his wings, and they are always stretched to their fullest extent (Be prepared to be plucking feathers off your head for months)

The more feathers the better health (The stress of everyday life affects his plumage at this time so if at any time you see it scarce don't tell him :()

Unlike what you might think his nest is not in his bedroom but in secret rooms in the HOL.

Peacocks build their nests by making holes in the floor, Lucifer simulates that feeling by making a nest with high walls (good luck trying to get in and out) .

During his cycle he becomes very territorial and protective over his chicks (his siblings) and his mate (Interestingly Satan has woken up in the nest the most times over time, followed by Belphie)

He doesn't go outside his territory (the house), he feels a strong need to protect the fort (so all RAD paperwork falls on this sheep) .

Lucifer has a pre-heat period which is when he starts to grow new feathers, he eats a lot more and stores some food.

During the cycle he hardly eats, for that he has been accumulating energy ( you have to insist and feed him yourself so that he doesn't end up weakened after the cycle) .

He can talk normally, although when someone outside his family approaches a guttural sound comes out of his throat as a warning.

He produces very strong pheromones, but does not mark with them because there is no need (No one will dare steal what belongs to him)

Although physical contact soothes him, don't rub him if you don't see him relax, especially his wings. Let him initiate the contact.

He's always on guard since he does not sleep. But don't want that his brothers see him in his period.

His main way of courtship is to show off, so to get him to let you live, flatter him, tell him how beautiful his wings are or how majestic he is.

It's funny because sometimes he'll expect you to court him back (I don't have wings Luci, I can't do it) .

His senses are uniformly heightened. Nothing gets out of his control. (Good luck going to the toilet)

His body temperature rises (prepare light clothing, more than for him for you, you're going to need it)

Does he purr? Yes, although it's more like the sounds certain birds make before they sing. It is difficult to hear >:(.

During the cycle his anxiety is accentuated.

Normally demons end up exhausted after their cycle, but because he is so proud he doesn't let you take care of him, and he ends up much worse off.

Mc: So the nest is important?

Lucifer: Very important, yes.

Mc: Essential?

Lucifer: Yes

Mc: … *thoughtful* Are you going to let me leave the house?

Lucifer: No.

Mc: And from your nest?

Lucifer: No.

Mc: …. Let's buy cervical pillows then

Lucifer: *grinning*

Mc: So if I forced you, will you eat?

Lucifer: I think it's possible.

Mc: *grinning * And how do I do it with a spoon or mouth to mouth like the chicks?

Lucifer: *blushing * You… don't make me regret having told you all this

Mc: *half asleep* Everyone is sleeping.

Lucifer: *watching them in the dark with his eyes shining*

Mc: Everything is in order *trying to climb the nest*

Lucifer: *picking them up and lifting them to the nest* … *purring*

Mc: Now, now, let's try to sleep…*still half asleep* you are warm.

Lucifer: *covering them with his wings* Rests Mc.

Mammon

He can stand the light but doesn't like it, during these periods he has a reduced sleep schedule.

During his period he feathers, these feathers help him to be more aerodynamic.

He needs to groom them but as he normally doesn't have that many he is terrible at it (So be prepared to give him a hand) .

He nests, but like crows he does it high up, (make sure you prepare a hanging platform on the second floor of his room or he will end up nesting on the roof) .

Unlike Lucifer, he goes out almost every day, looking for small prey or presents. And don't care if his brothers see him in his period.

During his cycle his obsession for shiny things is accentuated, they don't have to be valuable, just shiny: stones, crystals, metals, floors or polished surfaces (thanks for the idea)…

He is a collector and will bring these objects to the nest.

Mammon is not overly territorial, he doesn't expect his parnert to be in the nest for 24 hours either, but when he comes back from his outings please be there or he will panic. Last time the house almost burned down.

He produces pheromones, and he will only use it on his mate.

He does not have a pre-heat, but you can identify that he's approaching his period by her lack of attention (more than usual).

Mammon eats throughout his cycle, more than usual, mostly meat, but also certain grains and seeds that his relatives collect for him.

He will want to feed you and you will want to feed him. You can't get away from that, you just can't.

His pupils dilate and constrict in an exaggerated manners. And his eyes shine in dark.

Although he talks, he prefers to communicate by squawking and growling.

However, when he is affectionate mood mainly with taps and caresses.

During the cycle he becomes very needy of physical touch, at sleeping, eating and grooming times he must always be skin to skin. Stroke him between the wings or plumage and he will start to purr.

He is happy for you to initiate contact, he doesn't mind if you do it whenever you want.

He sleeps curled up on his companion.

Does he purr? Yes, like his brother it's a similar sound to certain birds, but it's easy to make him purr (pretty much whenever you pay attention to him)

And you always have to pay attention to him.

His form of courtship is to bring you gifts, where did you get coins, pretty stones, luminescent flowers … you can not refuse these gifts or he'll cry (however give a stone or a coin and will not leave the nest in hours, he will think that you have reciprocated the courtship and will be happy)

His senses are sharpened especially his hearing and sight, he can see for miles, there is no threat that escapes him, that is why he is able to leave the territory so much.

He is more honest than usual, if he wants you to hug him he will tell you straight out.

Mammon: *trying that mc eat a leg of an unidentified animal*

Mc: No- NO!, youuuu stay baaaack

Mammon: *grunt*

Mc: *giving him part of their bread * take it

Mammon: *with pupils dilate* Oh *happy bird noises*

Mc: *holding back laughter*

Mammon: Farther to the left

Mc: Here?

Mammon: *stretching his wings higher*

Mc: Here?

Mammon: *purrs*

Mc: How the hell did you preen your feathers before?

Mammon: *curled next to Mc holding tightly a monopoly coin*

Mc: *smiling while stroking his feathers*

Mammon: Love you...

Mc: So your period makes you soft…I wish you were always as honest.

Levi

Nocturnal, light bothers him and can hurt his eyes.

During his period he sleeps more than usual (although he should sleep more often).

His scales cover his whole body and become more colorful. And his horns grow new branches.

He does not need as much grooming as other types of demons, but he needs constant humidity.

During his period the bathtub in his bedroom is full, but sometimes a humidifier is enough.

However during the final part of his period he needs to be totally submerged (so be prepared to go diving)

During this phase Lucifer puts a spell on him to track him. Because his envy can lead him to hide in the deepest pit of the ocean.

Some snakes nest, but most do not, so Levi's safe place during his period is under a pile of blankets, thin cloths and other things (like a burrow).

Since Levi is Levi, you have to make sure to give him wet towels every so often to moisten his body.

Levi is very territorial but he is more elusive and prefers to hide, his insecurity increases and there is no way to get him out of his burrow ( make sure he hydrates because it wouldn't be the first time he gets sick)

He doesn't eat much during his cycle, and if he does it has to be raw, but he has poor hunting skills, guess whose turn it is to take care of this?

Although the final phase of the period (Underwater) Lotan often takes care of finding nutritious prey for him.

When sleeping he wraps his tail around your body, first because you are a source of warmth and second because you are you.

Levi becomes partially non-verbal, he uses a lot of hisses and grunts. After two days they can be easily identified.

He likes physical contact, but he is the one who has to initiate it. (Touch him without his permission and be prepared to search for him in the depths of the Devildom water bodies).

Levi's courtship occurs underwater.

First he shows off, where all his scales glow many colors, this is indicative of health (as Levi does not have a very healthy diet or routine, his color could be better, but we won't tell him that)

And in the second instance it gives a single stone of sea crystals.

The sense that develops the most is the sense of touch and hearing. His skin becomes super sensitive so he can only wear certain types of clothing. And excessive friction hurts him.

His body temperature decreases a lot, more and more as the period progresses because he can not thermoregulate ( that's why he needs to be submerged and that's why you will wake up underwater)

Does Levi purr? Of course, when you talk to him or when he is embarrassed.

After his cycle he will need several days to look you in the eye again.

Levi: *sad hiss*

Mc: I'm telling you that your scales are very pretty.

Levi: *self-deprecating hiss*

Mc: No, I'm not just saying this... but if it really makes you feel bad, starting tomorrow you're going to eat more protein.

Levi: *hiss of indignation* >:0

Mc: Levi, I bring you the food!! Levi?

Mc: *looking for him in the burrow* Levi?

Levi: *poking his head over the bath water*

Mc: There you are… Ah! The humidifier has turned off!!

Levi: *grabbing their sleeve*

Mc: *sighing* we have to be more attentive…. *getting into the bathtub* but now you have to eat.

Underwater

Mc: Who had said that automating a spell would save my life.

Levi: *snuggled next to them with his tail wrapped around their body*

Mc: Are you confortable Levi?

Levi: *nodding*

Mc: Good, love u.

If you have made it this far, thank you very much 🩷

[ln4bub]

oscar getting jealous over how close we are to logan?? but its so subtle that we don't really notice which makes it worse 🤭

Word Count - 1.2k

------------------------------------------------

Logan was struggling, being a rookie in Williams was usually a recipe for disaster, and he knew it. He was one of your best friends, having known him through his Prema years with Oscar. You couldn't have been happier when you found out that your boyfriend and your best friend had both gotten seats in Formula One for 2023. Dividing your attention between the two of them has been hard. Oscar's been having one of the greatest rookie seasons since Hamilton, but Logan has been struggling. You tell him every race how much you admire his perseverance but you can see how it's wearing him down.

You knew Qatar would be a tough race, the reports of the heat being dangerous filling you with anxiety. But what you didn't expect was to be in the medical tent on Lap 42 with a devastated Logan. He was dripping with sweat by the time you found him, guzzling water like his life depended on it.

Heatstroke.

He was distraught, he'd hoped and prayed he could get better for this race, but he couldn't. The decision to retire wasn't one he took lightly, and he made sure to express that to you whilst you watched the remainder of the race. You could barely find it in yourself to listen to Logan rant as Oscar held P2 with Lando right behind him. After his sprint win yesterday Oscar had newfound confidence, dead set on a McLaren double podium this weekend. Your heart was in your mouth as Oscar crosses the line just 4.8 seconds behind Max.

He'd done it, P2 from P6, and Lando had done it too, moving up from P10 to P3. A double. You and Logan erupted in cheers in the medical tent, hugging each other as Oscar gets his second ever podium in Formula One - a back-to-back double for the team secured. You rush out of the tent, just about getting to the grid in time to see Oscar getting out of the car. He approaches you, visor lifted so you can see the smile in his eyes. You wrap your arms around him, pressing a kiss to the side of his helmet as you hear cameras snapping all around you.

The energy back in the garage was insane, everyone was on a high. You congratulated Lando as he came back into the garage after media, Oscar being commandeered by Max for a chat. Oscar eventually strides into the garage, shy grin on his face as everyone cheers his efforts. He comes straight to you, burying his head in your neck as he wraps his arms around you once more. Your hand rests on the base of his neck, soaked in sweat from the race.

"Where were you when the race ended?" You hear from behind you, turning to see Jon. "Oh, I was with Logan in the medical tent but I came straight to the grid when the race finished." You explain sweetly, Jon nodding with a tight-lipped grin, eyes flicking to Oscar behind you. You miss the way Oscar's face drops, eyebrow quirking and jaw clenching at the newfound knowledge. By the time you turn back around his smile is gone but he looks calm, "Let's get back to the hotel, want to shower." He explains curtly, marching off to remove his race suit. You stand there slightly baffled by his change in mood but brush it off as exhaustion.

"Logan said well done by the way, said he's proud of you." You tell Oscar, looking up from your phone to see him sat on the couch. He hums dismissively, "I'll text him to say thanks soon, tell him to talk to me direct not through my girlfriend for once." He huffs. You gently place yourself next to him, perched on the edge of the couch in hesitation. "What's that supposed to mean Oz?" You ask, a hand resting on his shin.

"Just mean that you're my girl, and you were with Logan when you should've been watching me." He mumbles, pulling you back so you're in between his legs. "I was watching you Oscar, Logan retired from illness I was just checking in on him." You explain, Oscar's large hands splayed across your stomach as he fiddles with the waistband of your shorts. His lips find home on your neck, "I know you were just being caring my angel, but you know you're mine don't you?" He murmurs. His soft wet lips send your shivers down your spine, your body arching into his as the tips of his fingers slip below your waistband.

His gentle fingers run over your underwear, feeling the damp spot that's been growing since you saw him get out of the shower earlier. "Is this all for me?" He groans, fingers sliding your panties to the side to swipe through the wetness. You nod against him with a whine as he tugs at your shorts. You slide them down your legs, revealing your white lace underwear to him. He urges you to settle back into your spot, fingers back in there rightful place. He collects more wetness on his middle and ring finger before moving his hand up to your mouth.

He swipes his fingers over your lips and you open them eagerly, swirling your tongue around the thick digits until they're clean. "So good for me, all mine. Only I get to see you like this, a desperate. aching. needy. slut." He whispers, pressing kisses to your neck to punctuate each word. You moan around his fingers before he removes them, using the lubrication of your spit to slide them both inside you. You moan out his name, thighs closing in, but Oscar's strong hand pries them open again. "Uh uh baby, need you to take it like you always do." He groans, the bucking of your hips applying pressure to his growing hard-on.

His fingers curl against your walls, pleads for more dripping from your mouth. "Who's making you feel this good?" He murmurs, the hand on your thigh now on your jaw, tilting your head back against his shoulder. "You Oscar, only you, always you- fuck." You whine, his fingers never stopping. He smirks, tapping your lip again with his thumb. Your mouth falls open, tongue out eagerly. Oscar groans, "Trained you so well sweetheart." His lips pucker slightly as he spits into your mouth, watching as you swallow it eagerly.

"Maybe I should get Logan to see how dirty you are for me, show him that I own you, own this pussy." He imagines, feeling your pussy clench around his fingers. He chuckles mockingly, "Of course you like that idea, want to be treated like a whore in front of your best friend." Your cheeks tinge pink in embarrassment as Oscar ridicules you, your skin on fire with pleasure.

"I can feel how close you are, want you to cum all over my hand baby, show me what I do to you." Oscar whispers in your ear, sucking a purple mark onto your pulse point as you let go. Your legs burn as your back arches, a scream of his name leaving your lips. Oscar fingers you through your orgasm, drawing it out of you. You collapse against his front, chest heaving. You hear his groan as he sucks his fingers clean, head turning to see his eyes shut in pleasure at the taste of you. "If Logan didn't already know you're mine at least now the whole floor does." He laughs, kissing the top of your head, making you curl into him in shame.

"Now where do you want to be fucked? Against the window or over the railing of the balcony?"

[qqueenofhades]

I'm watching the results come in for the French legislatives first round, and I have been following American presidential race and supreme court from afar. I am depressed. Please say something wise that will give me hope. I never thought to live through times like this.

Anonymous asked: Hey I know you said you’re avoiding posting about politics so absolutely feel free not to reply, but any tips about not getting hopeless? Especially when the fellow young people in your life are all clamoring to talk about how both parties are the same, they won’t vote, etc, etc (😑)?

Welp. It seems that what the people want to hear at this point is some Wise Words From Internet Grandmother Hilary, so... I will do my best to see what I can come up with. It bears repeating, as I have said many times before and will do so again, that I still have heard no better advice for living through The Horrors than the Gandalf: "So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us." Because, yeah. That, in its simplest essence, is it. We cannot control The Horrors. Individual people have never been able to control The Horrors, and five thousand-odd years after the invention of documented human history, here we still are, making the same stupid fucking mistakes. That is pretty maddening to deal with, and if you try to think of it like that, it is impossible to wrap your head around and it will only drive you crazy. So, then. What?

I will freely admit that I am scared too. Despite my best efforts, the post-debate furor wigged me out, I had to log off all social media and news sites for most of the weekend, not look at anything aside from one site I trust for two minutes, and try to get myself back in an okay headspace. So yes, rule number one: STOP DOOMSCROLLING. Please get a muzzle on that little voice in your head that says you HAVE to look, you HAVE to read everything, you have to KNOW JUST IN CASE HOW BAD IT COULD POSSIBLY BE. Then you look at stuff that makes you upset, and that leads to other stuff that makes you more upset, and then there you are in a stew of anxiety and anger and everything else that doesn't help. Do not look at the Bird Site Formerly Known as Twitter or news sites or anything else that is liable to have stuff that upsets you, especially in Panic!!! moments like this. It is designed to make you feel worse and it obscures the fact that nobody actually knows. Like, I devoutly hope that the anonymous "adviser to a prominent Democrat" and the NYT editorial board and everyone else screaming about how Biden should drop out right now step on ten Legos a day for the rest of their lives, but they also DO NOT KNOW (and given the NYT nakedly admitting to a personal vendetta against Biden for not giving them an interview, everyone can see exactly what this crass and unbelievably stupid sabotage attempt is, but yeah). Even if they get quoted in prominent publications, they do not know what is going to happen. They are not prophets. The NYT has, as noted, showed its ass 800 times before and keeps coming up with polls that are so ludicrously pro-Trump that it's becoming a cottage industry to debunk them. They are crass and cynical and trash and all that, they have vested interests, they have a platform, but repeat after me: WE DO NOT KNOW "FOR A FACT" THAT EVERYTHING IS DOOMED AND WILL NEVER BE OKAY AGAIN IF WE DO NOT LISTEN TO THE ALMIGHTY NEW YORK TIMES. In fact, the NYT has been so fucking wrong so fucking many times that at this point, I would bet on it being the other way around.

As part of my Bad Headspace Night on Friday night, I did picture the worst-case scenario of Trump winning, American democracy being overthrown, fascists around the world being emboldened, etc. It was a nasty mental picture and I didn't like anything that would come about if it did, but I had to remind myself that even if it did happen, well, the world would still be here, and good people who care about its future would have to do something to make that future happen. It would be ten times harder and it would be the result of another unimaginably evil and cynical fascist sabotage campaign, but... those are not exactly unprecedented in human history. (See: making all those mistakes over and over again.) People in the past were faced with those same exact moments where everything seemed monumentally hopeless and doomed for a generation, and they fought back, and they won. That's the thing. Fascists are evil and awful and terribly unnecessarily destructive, but they are not unbeatable, and they never have been. If we make the choice to resist them, then, well, they can be resisted. It will not happen by posting vaporous screeds on social media, or sitting on your ass and waiting for some miraculous savior/revolution/whatever to swoop in and save you, but it can happen, and it can work. That's what is very hard to remember in the current Horrors, but it's the way it's been for as long as there has been evil. It is not the be-all and end-all of the human experience and never will be.

Likewise: if a la the second anon you're being surrounded with people who are saying stupid things and making you feel worse: just don't be around them any more. It's that simple and you should do it. You can unfollow people who are posting defeatist rubbish, or you can avoid spending time with people railing about how everything is already doomed and voting is useless, etc. You may feel guilty because these people are your friends or you don't want to cut off contact, but you need to do what is best for your mental health, and if all you hear is BS, then, yeah. Pull the plug, cut the cord, do whatever you want. You do not owe anyone else your headspace, your attention, your mental health, or anything else, especially if it is demonstrably idiotic and incorrect. Find ways to do something. Go out and volunteer. Put down the phone (again, this cannot be overemphasized) and stop looking at doomerists on Twitter who get their engagement fix from making you upset and angry. Read a book, watch a TV show, visit a friend in real life, take a walk outside (if you don't live in a furnace, which unfortunately a lot of us do right now). Just sit and close your eyes and meditate. Stretch or move your body. Drink water. Super basic ordinary things that get you away from the increasingly frantic death spiral mindset and put you back in the reminder that things are never over and there is still a lot of time for everything.

As I said: I am doing this myself right now. It is not easy. I know it is not. I wish that we lived in a kinder timeline where this was not necessary, but as Gandalf says, nobody ever wishes for this and yet it happens nonetheless. But we can still control how we react to it and identify the things that are doing their best to make us feel terrible and doomed and hopeless, and make a choice to move away from them. We do not know what's going to happen, no. But we also do not know that everything is doomed, and you know what, it usually ends up not being that way. So that's what I can offer for now. Courage.

[ahhhwomen]

How did R’s react when he ate sweets for the first time and how did Natasha and Wanda react?

a/n: I am very close to calling this its own chapter given the fact that it is 4.5k and I lost my mind trying to write it. Is it good? I don't know. Did I proff read it? Fuck no, I'm over this shit. Anyway, enjoy the girlie's first kiss ig.

Contains slight spoilers for unreleased chapters of Vampire Empire

Warning: Implied force-feeding, talk of vomit, food anxiety, gay simps

The goop inside your bowl is scarcely edible.

At least that’s what you think, not that it matters, you don’t have opinions.

Half of it clings to the sides of your bowl, strangely solid yet somehow entirely liquid, the other half of the sustenance is spilled and hanging off the bent metal´s side. The closer it gets to midnight, the worse it looks.

A whimper echoes against hollow walls and joins the wails of fellow prisoners as the shattering pain inside your jaw bares its ugly teeth at the thought of creaking itself open for the sludge that could be mistaken for concrete.

In the first few hours, it had a color close to desirable. Now, the color reminds you more of the ground stained with your bodily fluids, because much like your blood, dried grab slathers itself against the cold outside of your bowl.

Picture perfect representation of your life story: desired, if only for a moment.

The scarce portion left on the inside is like a heap of coagulated blood, it jiggles and splatters against the metal beside your cracked hands. You could almost swear it has a pulse of its own. Gasping for the same chilled air that burns your lungs, the traumatizing, grey, something, moves up and down- breathing.

Footsteps of a handler emit in the empty air, heavy like the raging rain, the clash of his boots forces you to move faster. Much like a hurt deer, you drag your body across the ground until you are close enough to grasp the cool metal and force its insides down your closing throat.

Your broken jaw shrieks and cracks as you use both your hands to split it open with a sickening crunch.

If only they cut away your sense of smell too, that way you might not gag as much while the thick liquid, with the stench of a dead body, gurgles itself down your throat. It's like swallowing a handful of sand mixed with the guts of a diseased fish.

At this point, starving yourself would be the better option, but there was no point. Unless you wanted a tube stuck down your throat tonight, you would have to stomach it yet another day.

Manicured nails wrap around the delicate throat of a wine glass. Red liquid, which will never quench her thirst, swirls gently as she rotates her wrist in a circular motion. The glass is chilled and smooth against her fingertips, a soothing distraction from her twisting thoughts.

It's almost humorous, most would be concerned if their pet didn’t eat, yet here she was, concerned that you did.

A frustrated sigh builds within her, crawling up her stomach until she has to fight the air she breathes, in an attempt to not startle you as you rest beside her outstretched feet. It's not that she wasn’t happy you ate her food, or that your lack of pickiness angered her, it was just weird.

No matter what she put in front of you, you would eat it but rarely look like you enjoyed it. Even the most lavish of meals would be regarded with horribly hidden cringing. With a sigh, Wanda leans forward slightly, being extra careful not to disturb you as she changes her position, she rests her elbow on the plush cushion to her left and mulls it over.

There had been multiple instances where you would end up serving the food right back up again after finally getting it down, a clear sign that you either didn’t like it or ate too much of it.

A frown settles over stern features at the memories.

Even after you would throw up, you would attempt to consume it again with a grim expression adoring your pale features. Luckily Wanda was always there to remove it before you could try a second time, but then you would look like a scolded child and hide yourself away for the rest of the day.

It's as if the very idea of leaving the damn food alone gave you a whole crisis.

So, that’s how she finds herself now, in dire need of a solution as your weight has been dropping rapidly due to the reverse your stomach so often does. She needs to find a way to make you understand that it's okay to dislike something and that it's also okay to express pleasure for certain foods.

With a huff, Wanda continues to swirl her wine gently, it swishes against the sides and glides into thick droplets before merging itself back into its voluminous state. The irony isn’t lost on the older redhead, she supposes it’s slightly amusing that the only drink she deems worthy of her time resembles her most addictive poison.

Drifting her gaze over to your sleeping form she can’t help but admire your neck for a moment, the smooth skin jumping up and down with the quirk of your sensitive pulse. Your vein is so close to her, ready at her disposal. Of course, she would never bite you, not until you were ready, yet she couldn’t help but fantasize every now and then…

Your heady taste coating her tongue and throat, Wanda inhales deeply as she watches you sleep, your scent burns like sweet bourbon. Much like your smell, she imagines your taste would be similar; rich, and sweet… Sweet.

Wanda almost has to refrain from an incredulous laugh as the thought strikes her like lightning, the most obvious choice of them all; sweets.

However, even with such a lethal weapon up her sleeve, there were still certain challenges that would follow.

Due to her preference for keeping your diet strict and healthy, she imagined you were quite unfamiliar with the concept of anything remotely sweet. She would have to do this carefully, not wanting food to become a point of stress for you, more than it already was, she needed to introduce the new taste with something you are familiar with.

Twirling the glass around Wanda stared down at the deep red in thought, her knitted sweater irked her slightly as it slid across her skin, following her motions. With a huff, she took a sip of her fruity wine, as it lathered itself against her tastebuds, a bolt struck her for the second time that night.

Fruits.

Wanda had seen Natasha attempt to introduce you to the foreign concept before. And though it ended with a rather grumpy you after Natasha tricked you into trying a lemon, you had seemed… happier with the simplicity of it rather than your dinners.

To be fair Natasha had only managed to convince you to try the simplest and most universal fruits, such as bananas and apples, and of course, that lemon- but that one also set Natasha’s progress back by a week as you refused to try anything else she offered you.

Wanda’s eyebrows knit as she thinks it over… so you do know how to deny food?

Then how come every time Wanda served you breakfast or dinner you would eat until you threw up?

Amid her deep loophole of theories, a cramp hit Wanda’s leg, unconsciously she moved it slightly to the left, toward you. It wasn’t until she watched your sleeping form arch away from her by instinct that she realized you truly don’t trust Wanda. At least not the way you do Natasha.

She really shouldn’t be surprised.. she had seen it endless times by now, but the idea that you would push your body to such lengths because of her was more devastating than she could ever imagine.

It pained her to think that you deemed force-feeding yourself the lesser evil of the situation.

Yet, that would have to be a problem to punish her mind with at a later date, the important thing now was to help bring stability to your life and diet. Even if you don’t trust her, you do seem to have some resemblance of trust toward Natasha, or well, at least after she swore never to trick you again, you do.

And though she can use that to her advantage, it doesn’t give an immediate resolution; Natasha was scarcely home before your bedtime and wouldn’t be able to serve you your breakfast or dinner, and it was important to Wanda that the routine they had built for you stayed solid as sudden change had caused quite a few mishaps in the past.

So, as the businesswoman Wanda is, she starts mentally preparing a game plan for tonight and sends a quick text to Natasha, asking her to pick up a little something before returning home.

If this worked in her favor, it could strengthen your trust in her, which would in return at least start the path to recover some of your weight.

A few hours later, you and Wanda had long since abandoned your napping spots on the couch in favor of slipping into your own corners of the house. The older woman in her office and you, most likely, under a piece of tucked away furniture where you knew you wouldn’t be disturbed.

The door opens with a silent twist of the expensive, vintage, handle. Natasha cringes as her boots drag across the carpet, she had warned Wanda against installing it right next to the main door, but her wife wasn’t easily persuaded. Sure enough, as soil splatters itself in distinctive Natasha-pressed footprints, Natasha knows she will be in trouble in about ten seconds.

1…

Nat discards her dirty work shoes on the little shelf to her left, leaving another muddy print on the metal.

2…

Fixing the grocery bag around her shoulder Natasha wonders what wicked plan Wanda has planned for the three of you tonight.

3…

The older redhead didn’t have to tell her wife that she was hashing out a plan, Natasha could figure it out just due to one of the items she was instructed to buy.

4…

It’s not as if her wife doesn’t like this item, it’s just that she never really requests it, and least of all so late and out of the blue.

5… 6… 7…

As the seconds tick by without a single sound from her wife, Natasha gets a little confused. Usually, Wanda would always be there to welcome her home and reprimand her for bringing in her dirty shoes.

8… 9…

Today, however, it seems her wife must be preoccupied with her little plan.

10.

“What have I told you about bringing your dirty shoes inside?”

Natasha almost jumps out of her skin when she feels the words breathe down her neck. Turning around in a millisecond, she sees Wanda smirk at her while she leans against the door.

“Jesus Wanda, you really have to stop doing that! One day I am going to have a heart attack!” Rich laughter travels through Natasha’s ears as Wanda sinks deeper against the door in her fit of indulgent giggles while she shakes her head at her wife’s spooked expression.  

Pushing herself away from the expensive oak, she slides her hands around her wife’s waist and nuzzles into Natasha’s neck, mouthing the words against her, “Darling, you don’t have a heart.” Natasha huffs but leans her head more to the left, giving Wanda space to kiss and bite as she sees fit.

“Not true…” The younger redhead mumbles it mostly to herself and Wanda simply hums against her as she drags the point of her canines slowly down from beneath Nat´s ear and down to her thoracic outlet.

Red, angry, lines form as she can’t help but add a little pressure behind the drag, feeling Nat’s pulse jump and hammer right beneath her tongue. Barley refraining from sinking her teeth in, Wanda releases Natasha with a sigh and one last kiss to the junction between her neck and shoulder.

Natasha attempts to lean back in hopes of gaining contact again, but there is no point. Before she can even blink, Wanda is halfway across the hallway, holding the bag Nat just had within her grasp.

“Not fair.” The younger woman whispers to herself and pretends not to see the smirk her wife sends her way.

Dark red heels click against the marble flooring as the rustle of plastic echoes within their space, “Find kitten and bring her to the living room, please.” The plea is more for show than anything, Wanda is more than aware that her wife can’t say no to her.

The grumbled, “Yes, ma’am”, is ignored as Wanda has already made her way out of sight before Natasha can get the words out.

With a huff and a quick check of her watch, Natasha makes her way upstairs to find the little culprit.

If anyone were to ask you, you would say Natasha Romanoff was a witch.

It’s the only palpable explanation as to how she always knows where you are, at least that’s what you think as you can hear her knock on the dresser you were napping under.

The bone knocks against the wood in a ticking manner, one knock, two knocks, and at last a rasp against the oak as she lets her hand drag across the dresser. It’s a heavy yet light sound that calls out to you as you are tempted to peek your head out and question her on her witch-like abilities.

You refrain from doing so and for a moment your body is unsure whether to be impressed or panicked at how easily she can predict you.

The cold floor beneath the dresser is tempting to melt into and never return from as you can hear her light steps drag across the floor beside you, any second now you know you will see her eyes look right through the darkness and find their resting place on you.  

Facing the world wasn’t something you wanted to do at this moment.

And yet, it never comes…

When you turn your head and expect to see cat-like eyes staring back at you from outside the dark corners surrounding you, you are surprised to instead see her sock-clad feet with strange plastic eyes plastered onto them.

The little black pupils rattle against her movements as she curls her feet in a manner that makes the strange sock creature look as if it’s been caught and feels guilty. It looks a little silly and you honestly don’t know how to react to the absurdity of it, so without realizing it a sweet giggle slips out before you can stop it.

Oh no…

When the realization of what you have just done settles within your storming thoughts you have half the mind to slap your hand across your mouth and pray that the older woman didn’t hear it, but as you hear a pleased huff of breath above you, you know you have been caught.

Natasha kneels down until she can peek under the dresser to where your scared eyes study her. She knew to keep her reactions to a minimum, but as soon as she heard your gleeful expression, Natasha had to use every ounce of willpower not to coo.

“Hey baby,” Nat smiles at you as you bite your lip, unsure of her reaction to your slip of judgment, you hold back the pleased grumble building within your chest at her smooth tone.

It ends up being one hell of a task to get you out of there, Natasha has to swear up and down that, your little slip-up didn’t anger her, and then she has to spend the next ten minutes waiting for you to peak your head out.

But, after a bit of coaxing, Natasha can hear your palms lightly slap against the flooring as you follow her a few steps behind. The dig of the wood beneath her feet lets her know that they should invest in some more carpets, or perhaps mats, as this could surely not be good for your weak joints.

The redhead walks in a leisurely stroll, letting you stay close yet still have the desired distance as you pitter-patter behind her.

When the plush carpet molds itself to her stance, Natasha’s movements come to a halt. She stops short of the couch, watching her wife sit in a rather relaxed pose. With her hands stretched out at the top of the cushions, she sits with her chin held high and her rump sunken low.

Natasha almost snickers at her wife’s overly dominant presence, but something about the look in Wanda’s eyes tells her to sit this one out and wait for further instructions.

Wanda observes the both of you as you present yourselves before her watchful eyes. You stay low, crawling forward just enough to satisfy the scary lady. The older redhead’s skin itches with the need to smirk as you crawl toward the both of them, something primal within her, pleased.

Humming, to soothe both her wife and you, Wanda directs her attention to Natasha as her wife waits for an explanation.

She wants to drag it out and make Nat guess as much as you will have to.

This will be a game of trust after all. The need to tease her wife is strong, so, Wanda does as she pleases.

Lifting her pointer, she waves it around in the air for a moment, building a little suspense as the whirlwind swirls around her aura, and then she points over to the living room table.

Atop the table is a plate of sliced apples covered in chocolate, placed deliberately outside of your view.

As Natasha directs her sight to whatever it is Wanda is showing off, you can’t help but try and sneak in a peak yourself. However, much to your disappointment, the item, or whatever it is, is sat just high enough on the table to where you can’t see from your kneeled-down position.

Someone may call you paranoid, but to you, it all seems awfully intentional on the clan leader’s end.

The waving pointer is redirected to you as Natasha smirks for whatever reason while she turns back toward her wife. With a pleasant, and a little scary, smile, Wanda eases your tension as she tilts her head to the side in adoration before ordering her wife to, “Give her a taste, darling.”

Your eyes travel up to the redhead beside you as she moves away for a moment only to return with a platter with some sort of brown rocks on top of it. They make a strange crackling noise as Natasha places it down on the small table in front of the both of you.

Then, a hand comes into view as Natasha heeds her wife’s commands.

Pale, cold, fingertips are wrapped around the strange item that you figure must be some sort of food given the clan leader’s figure of speech, but you aren’t entirely convinced as you view it with uncertainty.

However, the fight is futile as you look up to the tall redhead in questioning hesitance, she smiles gently and as much as it annoys you, you are what the two older women have previously referred to as a “goner”.

Taking a hesitant bite, the crunch of the apple is slightly muted by the strange crackling layer of chocolate. It takes a few bites before the flavor hits you. Chewing slowly, it lies bare for your raw tastebuds to reap, gliding and emerging with your senses.

As your jaw creaks in displeasure, you focus on the heaviness of the treat.

It’s rich at first, almost overwhelming you with its sweetness. It reminds you of wintertime when the bakery just a few streets down from the shelter would emit the most beautiful of smells. It brings you back to the cold nights when you would lay, naked and bruised, beneath your red lamp and envision yourself inside the bakery. Stuffing your face with whatever you might desire.

Weak bones fight themselves as you gorge on the sugary addiction, it sticks to your gums and sneaks its way into the most stubborn corners of your teeth, making a distinctive smacking noise as you bite down repeatedly.

Then the flavor settles, it’s a more muted and pleasantly balanced mix of delightful, creamy, sugar and slightly sour apple. Your jaw works deftly, moving up and down in an unsure manner.

It tastes… good.

It tastes wonderful.

Amazing even.

Perhaps the best thing you have ever eaten. Which all makes you feel like a fool…

It tastes like everything you were ever denied.

Therefore, you sit and wait.

While Natasha and Wanda sit before you with bated breaths, slightly confused by your lack of reaction, you just look at them with beady eyes filled with… betrayal?

It cuts deep, as if your emotions slice through any physical or emotional armor that may surround the two not-so-human creatures. Pain oozes inside their slowly beating hearts as the ice perishes and hot molten burns through their veins until horror takes place.

Wanda is on the ground in front of you before you can even blink.

“Oh, baby…” She leans forward, shifting her weight onto her palms as she rests them beside her bent knees, lowering her torso toward the wooden floor as she crawls toward you. Her shirt rolls up at the action, untucking itself and riding up her back until a sliver of pale flesh showcases itself, but she doesn’t care, instead, she keeps going, slowly.

You tense at the movement, unsure of yourself, you cower away from her, for every inch she advances, you slither back. Deep down you know Wanda would never hurt you, but you also know that if she ever were to desire your misery; she would be far worse than Master.

Calm eyes track your motions as you crawl away from her in a rather desperate fashion, the fact that it does not seem to deter her from getting any closer makes the panic, creeping up your throat, raw and painful as the taste of acid coats itself over sensitive tastebuds.

Sensing your oncoming panic, Wanda stops, for the time being, sitting back on her heels, she makes a show of resting her hands on top of her thighs. Her fingers glide over the material of her fancy-dress pants silently, the ruffles and stretching of the material calm you for a reason you cannot explain.

Little confused, wooden tiles burrow into you as you settle your rump down against them, letting the anxiety simmer and calm before seeking eye contact in an uncertain question. Your head tilting slightly to the left, you wait for her to illuminate her sudden display of surrender and levelheaded dominance.

Perhaps she just wanted first-row seats to your pathetic reaction.

Whatever they put in the dessert is sure to kick in soon.

“Ah…” Wanda hums as she views your saddened eyes up close.

“Natasha. Hand me that would you?” Natasha, who had been sitting rather shell-shocked for the past few moments as her wife hunted you down, shakes it off and tilts her head in confusion for a moment before realization settles in.

With a huff, something mixed with relief and disbelief, Natasha hands over the half-eaten chocolate-covered apple slice that had just been fed to you.

The half-melted chocolate covers the expanses of Wanda’s fingertips as she holds it out for you to see. Then, before you can get nervous about having to eat another piece, it disappears as Wanda puts it in her own mouth instead.

For a moment after you just stare.

Watching as her jaw works before your very eyes, you still can’t help but wait for a sudden change, a frown to deepen, or a foul sound as the flavor takes over the older woman’s senses.

Yet, it never comes.

Small crinkles form around Wanda’s eyes as she chews, they move up and down, changing together with her muscle’s expansion and retraction. They stay consistent with every motion, never faltering in its path.

Like tiny wrinkles on a sheet of paper, it smoothens once she finishes her piece. Letting out a pleased sigh as she does so, clearly delighted by the sweet treat.

And like the snapping apple piece.

You break.

It’s like raindrops against a windshield, almost a question of what tears will win as riveting streams trickle down your chin at an alarming rate. It’s nothing like the few traitorous tears that the redheads have been privy to, no it’s like a raging storm as you hiccup in sorrow at the prospect of respect.

At the sight, Natasha draws in a weary hiss, yet Wanda doesn’t seem to change much at all.

There is no pity in her eyes while she closes in, only determination as she slides another apple piece halfway inside her own mouth and lessens the distance. Too distracted by your own sudden outburst, you don’t even realize what is happening until chocolate grazes your lips as the redhead waits for permission while resting her lips only a few centimeters from your own.

The sudden action shocks you to such degree that you have nodded consent before you understand what that may mean.

Smooth, soft, lips press against your chapped ones, a sweet delight getting slid into your mouth and mixing with the rose that invades your nostrils. A slight string of spit is split between the two of you as Wanda uses her hot tongue to push the piece all the way into your mouth. You both stay like that for a moment, Wanda gazing into your eyes while you stare bashfully into hers.

Yet, just as quick as it happened, it’s gone again… And much to your own surprise, that may be the saddest part of the entire day.

But you can’t be sad for too long as gentle fingers wipe your tears away and a deeper voice asks if you want another piece.

So, this is why the two redheads like kissing so much. You think to yourself as Natasha kisses you with just as much worship as her wife had while the chocolaty goodness seems irrelevant.

They continue it like that back and forth. Wanda gives you one piece, then Natasha, then they share a piece, and so on. It still takes you a while for the tenseness inside your muscles to loosen, but toward the end, you are eager for each piece and wait with impatient eyes as the redheads share some.

It may not have been an immediate fix, but Wanda is more than happy with the result of her little test. For now, Wanda will lessen your portions until you seem happier, and she will have to look out for signs of your dislikes, but if all goes according to plan, with a little help from a secret sugary treat, and maybe a kiss here and there, your trust in her should build to be strong.

Even stronger than Natasha’s if Wanda gets her way.

Which she always does.

[blenselche]

insert for ch2

"Finn, come on."

background items: Marcy Acoustic set poster from Scream Queens, Fern's leaves pressed between glass, Finn's Candy Kingdom diplomat pin, the cash he won in a bet in the comic Marcy & Simon, the dimensional sword, root sword. I wanted to add more but thought it'd get too busy.

closer view and excerpt under the cut

He finds himself before the sink, mussing up his oily hair and disheveled beard to rid himself of wood chips, splashing water over his face and coughing after breathing deep off a stale cigarette. The cherry fizzles back at him against the aluminum as he taps it off into an empty. He tugs at the bottom of his eyelid — the whites of his eyes are yellowing again. Pressing his forehead to the mirror and staring at his reflection he sees Martin's eyes, jaw and brow. He sees his maladjusted view, understands now what he meant, in the end.

He can't look in a mirror without seeing the man staring back at him, and it only gets worse with age.

“You’re fine. Today was just a bad day,” he recites just as he’s been told to, loyal tool of the kingdom that he is, a coping mechanism PB calls self affirmation. He leans back, scoffing, “in a long line of bad days.”

His feet carry him to the stump set before his wood stove, and the air toasts his frozen fingers and melts away the pins and needles in the skin that his port connects to. Anxiety bubbles its way up his esophagus and he drowns it with a long pull off his homebrew, eyes flickering from the bottle to his prosthetic, foot tapping furiously. He sighs and gives into the itch at the back of his brain, taking the wish out and reading it over again, biting more teeth marks into a pencil already shredded down to the lead.

It’s something to look forward to. Something he can put off, hoping ‘it gets better’ but it hasn’t and he’s almost certain it won’t. A morbid form of motivation to get more built, work harder, save more people, hoping against hope he’ll wake up happy before he has to spirit himself away. But none of it matters without fulfillment, sat alone and suffocating under his own melancholy in this empty space, only a facsimile of a loved one on his chest for company. He wants to see his brother, he wants to see his mom. He wants from the bottom of his being to go back and smack himself for being dumb, deaf and blind in the face of his own wants and needs. He hunches more in on himself and clutches it harder, it crinkles back at him, threatening another rip.

Slim, sage colored fingers enter his vision and pluck the precious slip of writing from his hand.

“I’ll give it back if you clean yourself up and go to bed.”

“I have it memorized,” he sighs. “I thought you believed in nihilism, anyway, Miss nothing matters and the wind makes my decisions.” Their eyes meet and he can’t help himself but to smile, though it doesn’t reach the rest of his face.

“I believe in natural predeterminism inscribed on our souls by our great earth mother, not in being a sad sack with whisky dick.”

“Ouch. My ego,” he drones, throwing his palm to his chest in faux hurt. “Like I’m disappointing anyone these days. Cot’s closed, sweetheart.”

“So not why I’m here.” She rolls her eyes and holds her hand out, motioning for the bottle.

“If you crack it open against my floor you owe me a face cord of firewood.” He hands it over by the neck and she takes a fifth straight, wiping her mouth with the back of her glove and gagging. “Christ, bad day?”

“Not yet.” She sighs deeply, clearing her throat of the burn and takes a seat on the floor next to him. “You’re going to be pissed with me. I thought saying anything would just upset you, but you’re still set on doing this,” she waves the wish in her hand, “so. It might help. I don’t know.”

“What are you talking about?” His voice drops decibels, adam’s apple bobbing as he gruffly clears his throat.

“I swear to you I didn’t keep this from you on purpose.” She huffs a sigh and peers up at him guiltily. “You know, Fern crashed in my woods with LSP, but we never spoke. Not until the war.”

“…” his breath gets caught in his lungs, burning.

“I forgot. There was so much going on, back then.” She blinks at him, brows steepled, and covers his hand with her own. “What he said— when I did remember I thought it would just break your heart all over again, so I’ve kept it to myself.”

His hackles raise and defensiveness floods his veins, skin hot and starting to prick with nervous sweat. “Excuse me?” he asks, resistive.

Her eyes hold his though, expression full of pity unchanged. “Finn. Come on.” Her thumb brushes against his knuckles and he shakes her off.

His anger speaks for him, misplaced and protective of his brittle heart. “It’s been a decade and you think I’m like this over some kid I knew for half a minute when we were teenagers?”

“He wasn’t just some kid, I‘ve seen you- you know. Lurking in his tree. It’s a contributing factor in your whole bummer lifestyle because you never processed his death. Or are we still pretending that he has nothing to do with us?” Her voice is gentle but firm, not entertaining his usual evasiveness.

“I'm not doing this,” he snaps, shutting down. He stands and walks to the door, holding it open even though the cold night air will chill the space again. “I am sorry, ‘Tess, for— for whatever you think you know. I can’t rehash it. I’ve buried that shit deep, and it’s gonna stay there.”

“I asked him what he was fighting for. He was dying, falling apart under me, I was just trying to keep him distracted," she barrels ahead anyway. “He looked me in the eye and said ‘same as you.’ Maybe he opened up to me because of what was happening to him, or because he knew we had— you in common, I’m not sure.” She looks at him with such compassionate sympathy that it makes him nauseous. “He adored you, Finn—“ his knees buckle, “—he said he was happy to die for you if it meant he could 'make up for everything that happened after you left him behind’.” She stands and reads the wish, scrutinizing. “If you truly need to do this to be happy… knowing that can’t hurt.”

How he’s able to remain upright he doesn’t know, but a flash of devastation covers his face before he can recover.

“Please, don’t tell me his business,” he rasps, voice wavering. “I can’t,” he begs, croaking out the words through the raw vice of emotion choking him. “I can’t think about it.” He closes his eyes, pleading with his whole body.

He feels a hand brush against his cheek, and her lips press to his softly, whispering “I’ll miss you.”

When he opens his eyes again she’s gone. Bottle and paper placed neatly on his stool. He closes the door and leans against it, hugging himself and breathing hard, face hot with upset. The more he tries to calm himself the closer he comes to hyperventilating, and when the tears start his breathing only worsens. He crams his fist against his mouth and takes a shuddering gasp in, close to wailing over it.

[allmyhomieshatelawns]

Hiiiiii everyone I’ve become obsessed w Trolls, and by extension, several of the AUs here. In particular, @djmurphy ‘s Hypno Pop AU has had me in its clutches. I couldn’t stop myself so I wrote a lil somethin’ in between working on my Feral!Branch AU.

Bit of a warning, it’s def unreliable narrator, and yes, it’s supposed to be kinda creepy. I hope y’all like, please do not copy or post to another site. Lmk what y’all think!

"Hee, hee, hee, hee, heh, heh, eheh…" It wouldn't stop, no matter what I tried, nothing would make it stop. My face hurt, my entire body hurt if I was being honest. It was getting harder to do that. My voice wasn't my own, instead spewing false, toxic positivity that made me want to scream. It was hard to be honest even inside my own head when the compulsions wouldn't leave me alone either.

Keep Smiling. The compulsions hurt, but it hurt worse to try and resist. Like my nerves were being burnt. The compulsions made it easier to go about my day-to-day. I always knew what I was supposed to be doing, and how to be a good troll like everybody else. It was comforting to have a safety net.

Keep Singing. This one was harder to obey, but somehow even more painful to try and ignore. Whether I obeyed or not, it felt like liquid fire in my veins. I watched it happen over and over and over again. Every time I opened my mouth to sing, I saw her push me out of the way instead. It was painful fighting to go grey. My vocal cords always felt shredded, and they had lost a lot of their angelic body, sounding raspy, damaged.

Go To King Peppy. My numb feet carried me to the King's pod that he shared with his youngest daughter. I wasn't supposed to talk about Viva either, which was wrong. Poppy should know about her older sister, even if she never got to meet her. I knew a little about my parents, even if they had been taken before my egg hatched. At least I knew my parents existed. I wonder what my brothers are up to…

Part of me yearned to have them home still, that same part I was scared was getting dependent on the string. I would feel my feet quickening as the power of the string would begin to fade, heading to King Peppy's door, knowing I wouldn't skip. It was horrifying to think part of myself actually liked being like this. I still remembered resisting, or trying to, hating every moment of this prison. I remembered trying to scream, trying to get anyone to help me and I couldn't make myself do anything. Oh after the first close calls King Peppy had made sure to put in the compulsions to 'never alarm anyone'. Now people didn't panic when they saw me, and it was all thanks to King Peppy!

I reached King Peppy's office, knocking politely and entering the room as he bid me. King Peppy helped me when no one else could. He was the only one able to help me get rid of my greyness, the only one willing to do what it took to make me normal. I owed him everything. My smile was blindingly painful.

"Ah, Branch, perfect timing as always." King Peppy smiled broadly, opening his arms for a hug.

I leapt into his arms, the contact feeling like licking flames.

King Peppy held me for a moment, before setting me back down. He reached into his hair, pulling out a nearly-empty lyre, with one glittering pink string on it.

My heartbeat quickened seeing it, eyes tunneling to focus on the horribly beautiful string. It glowed with its own light, drawing me in and re-thickening the haze over everything I saw. I felt my shoulders begin to relax as the haze crept further, like a wild animal with its eyes hooded.

A few plucks of the string, and I felt my mind wash away in a comfortable haze. All of the anxiety and negativity bleeding away to the innermost recesses of myself. It was such a relief to not have to deal with all of those pesky emotions! Now I could just be happy and sing and dance and have fun like everyone else!

I smiled, my face comfortably numb from the fresh effects of the string. "Thank you, King Peppy! I feel much better now!" I chirped, hardly able to see him at all through the haze.

"I'm so glad to hear that, Branch! Now, I've still got some work to finish up, why don't you run along and find someone to play with until you're called for dinner?" King Peppy chuckled as he suggested it, placing the sacred string back in its spot, safely in his hair.

The village was still bustling even at this hour, people skipping about and holding hands and singing and dancing. It was amazing.

My whole body felt like it was floating, like I was only connected to it by a tiny string. I waved and smiled at everyone who greeted me, even if I couldn't tell who had spoken to me. It unnerved me not being able to see more than a couple of troll-lengths away at best. No shadows to see a hand reaching down for–

"Hey, Branch! There you are! I was just looking for you!" Princess Poppy's cheerful voice broke in before a compulsion could correct my thought.

My head whipped around to her voice, my smile still painful, but a little more genuine. Princess Poppy was a sweet girl, even if she was annoying. She was perfect and would make an excellent queen one day.

"Princess! What can I do for you today?" I asked, kneeling down in front of her. She wasn't that much shorter than me, but I would take any excuse to get off of them. I had to stay fresh for more dancing, after all!

She beamed at me, somehow making it look effortless and completely sincere.

"One of the performers for my party tonight had to backout last minute. Would you be able to fill in? I don't need a full set or anything, just a couple of songs." Her voice was pleading, eyes big and pouty. She should know by now I can't say no to her.

"Of course, what's the theme for the party?" My grinning kept up, my lips not allowed to turn down in her presence.

"Thank you so much Branch you have no idea how much this means to me!" Poppy rushed out in one breath, leaping at me and hugging me tightly. I responded automatically, not having to think about hugging back. That was the nice thing about being a puppet in your own body at least.

[dancingtotuyo]

Scathed 10 (Javier Peña)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: anxiety, trauma, self worth, smoking, references to the drug war and colombia, Narcos season 3 spoilers

Notes: Thank you @janaispunk for always beta reading for me. I love you!

Words: 3956

Series Master List | Author Master List

Journal Entry September 4th, 1994 Dear Javi,

So it’s been a month since you left. I’m trying not to be hurt by the lack of communication. Dad said you’re alive. The reports out of Colombia sound like you’re doing well even. I know you called your dad. He mentioned it at Ale’s riding lesson. 

School is kicking my ass. Passing the GED and actually going to class is a huge fucking difference. For the most part, I’ve managed the social situations fine. Classes are small, I can sit in the back. People don’t notice the old lady in the back. I’m pretty sure I’m only retaining a quarter of what I need to. I’m on too high of alert. I knew it would be hard, but it feels like my anxiety has gotten worse again. I feel like I’m moving backward. 

Standing outside the Embassy, Javier lit a cigarette. The habit had returned in full as he fought to manage the stress of the day and ghosts of the night. He’d managed to keep his bed empty and his ashtray full. It felt like the better option of the two. 

He still hadn’t called home. His voicemail still held last week’s message from Alejandra. He fought with himself every night. The push and the pull to talk to Emily, but every night ended the same, drowning in smoke and whiskey. He wasn’t clean enough to have her or the kids. It was better this way. 

He felt useless down here. What good was the DEA if they weren’t going to actually do any enforcing. He and the whole agency were just expensive window dressing here to make it look like everything was above board, to get the DEA stamp of approval on this surrender deal. Javier hated it all.  

“Can I get one of those?” A woman appeared next to him, her dirty blond curls threaded with the soft grays and white of aging. Javier offered one up in a silence. “I quit four months ago.” She smiled before bringing it to her lips.

Javier cocked his head to the side, still assessing her motives. He hadn’t seen her around before. She wanted something, Javier just couldn’t decide what. He lit the cigarette for her as they both took a drag, sizing one another up as they did. 

He briefly wondered if her hair style was what Emily had in mind when she mentioned cutting it shorter. He still preferred the idea of her long curls. His chest tightened. Not that he had any right to a say in that. 

The woman squared up to him. “Carolina Alvarez, El Tiempo.” She held out her hand.

Just what he needed, the press. He let her hand hang in the air just long enough to make her feel uneasy before taking it with an admittedly poor handshake. As he suspected, it didn’t take long for her to launch into whatever introduction she had planned, pulling up his history with Los Pepes and the current politics happening with Cali’s plea deal. 

It was a power play. Javier refused to let her win. “You can call the press office if you want a comment, Miss Alvarez.”

“Carolina, please,” she said.

In another life, Javier wouldn’t give her the time of day. Of course, he didn’t have to deal with the press last time. That had been above his pay grade. He tossed the cigarette butt to the ground, stomping it out with his foot. Of course, he didn’t have to deal with her now. That was what the press office was for. “Have a nice day.” He turned, started to walk away. 

“Have you heard much about the Cali accident?” she asked. His steps slowed down. He turned back around. “Four more people dead. Children. Dozens more sick.” She stepped toward him. “An empty chlorine gas canister was found nearby.”

Javier kept his face straight. His shoulders tensed. He’d seen the initial report, but hadn’t thought too much about it. 

Caroline continued, taking his silence for permission. “There’s a rumor its manufacturer is linked to a front company operated by the Cali Cartel.”

“It’s like you said, it was an accident,” Javier said, expression etched in stone, not giving anything away. 

Carolina let out a humorless chuckle. “By the end of the day it will be. No matter what the truth is.” She met his eye, giving it a second for emphasis before lapsing into Spanish. “Thank you for the cigarette.” 

She walked away, leaving Javier in the same place, same expression on his face. He fought against his surging emotions. He wasn’t going to let some journalist use him to do her research. Even so, it nagged on him throughout the day. He found himself taking extra smoke breaks.  

When he found himself watching the evening news, the investigator calling it an accident, caused by a natural gas leak, Javier felt anger surge through him. How many families had to be torn apart to protect these men? Innocent children had died. Mothers had children to bury. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t justice. 

Pictures flashed across the screen, the children killed by the exposure. He’d seen children die before. He’d watched a man he respected shoot a teenager in the head as a warning. He’d held a gun to a kid. Those incidents had messed with his head enough, but these kids were in their homes, tucked into their beds. They were supposed to be safe. How many times had Javier watched as Emily ushered her children to bed, kissed their heads, and trusted that they'd be safe in their bed. That they would wake up. 

Javier was never good at guessing the ages of kids, but each face that flashes across the screen seems to remind him of them. Miguelito. Alejandra. Mateo. Children he’d grown to know, to love even…

This wasn’t right. Cali didn’t get to get away with it. Not this time. He shut the TV off, walking over to Chris Feistl’s desk. He leaned against the wall. “You got a partner, right?”

Chris looked up at him, confused and a little shocked. “Uh, yeah. Kinda.”

Maybe it could be different this time. Maybe he could still bring justice. 

“Good, you’re going to Cali.” He walked away before Feistl could respond. 

This time would be different.

Journal Entry September 18th, 1994 Dear Javi,

It hurts not to hear from you. Dad said all reports from Colombia have been good. I’m sure you’re getting restless. 

I had a panic attack in class this week. I had to leave ten minutes into the class. I hadn’t had one since Escobar was killed. That’s the longest I’d been without one since I came home. I was starting to think maybe I’d never have one again. 

I feel… disappointed. 

Javier met Carolina at a cafe. She gave him information about Cali's money launderer, Franklin Jurado. She pushed him in a way he needed just as she had in their first meeting. It seemed weird that perhaps his moral compass would come in the form of a nosy journalist. 

“Are you going to take these men on or what?” she asked.

Javier let out a quick breath, formulating his answer very carefully. “I’m going to do my job.”

“And your bosses?” Her gaze was piercing, like she was trying to see his soul or haunt his dreams until the job was done. “Do they know what you’re doing?”

His eyes drifted to his coffee. “No comment,” he said, putting the cup to his lips, pinning her with a soft glare he was sure she saw right through. 

She called him with the address an hour after he left.

Javier didn’t have to sit long before Franklin appeared on the steps, bags in tow. He was going somewhere, but where was the question. A driver appeared, helping the man with his bags and once they were packed, a woman walked toward him. Javier watched from his SUV as Franklin took her hand. She didn’t look happy to be saying goodbye, and then he held her tight. 

A pang shot through Javier’s chest as the blonde woman folded into her husband’s arms. She didn’t want him to go, but she was there to say goodbye anyway. An image of Emily flashed through his mind. The night before he left, she hadn’t cried, but he saw it in her eyes, felt it in the way she hugged him. He wondered if his coldness had made her cry since that night. This was better for her. She would be better off without him. He let out a sigh as he turned the ignition to follow Franklin’s, cutting off the thought before it wracked his body with guilt. 

After following Jurado to the airport, Javier headed for his own flight to follow him. Stechner blocked it, pulling him into the jungle with a couple of senators to rub elbows, to take him out like a show pony, the man who brought down Escobar, except he wasn’t even in the country when that happened. Everyone seems to ignore that part. 

He seethed on the helicopter ride in, feigning a broken headset to avoid talking. There were plenty of other places Javier would rather be, anywhere else really. He was supposed to be taking down Cali, despite what his orders were. Hell, he’d rather run for his life through the communas again than take a couple of stuffy senators on a stroll through the jungle. 

Humidity hung heavy in the air as sweat soaked his shirt. He was used to the weather, but in dress shoes and slacks it was hell. To make it all worse, it was apparent from the get go that it was a set up, a fancy, high tailed lie to raise support for whatever the CIA was gunning for, fighting communists or whatever. Javier found the whole pursuit to be a gigantic waste of time. He’d smuggled a communist out of the country once, he’d do it again without a second thought, but one thing became abundantly clear. Cali’s surrender had nothing to do with the war on drugs and everything to do with fundraising. 

Javier’s blood boiled the entire ride home, replaying his conversation with Stechner. The way the CIA agent had laughed about the drug war as if it was a joke. Maybe it was, but Javier wasn’t ready to let this one go. 

“The drug war? We lost it. You were there!”

It echoed on a fucking loop, driving him crazy as he made his way back home. There weren’t enough cigarettes in the world to numb the blows and they kept coming. 

“Did you ever stop to think that someone who takes this as personally as you do, is doing it wrong?”

He stubbed out the bud against his truck door as he got out, marching up the steps as he knocked on the door. 

This was personal. He couldn’t go home empty handed. He couldn’t face her without knowing he’d made an impact on this fight, brought down men like the one who’d inflicted such scars on her.  

Colonel Martinez opened the door, breaking Javier from his thoughts. He looked surprised to see him. 

Javier cut to the chase. “Want to go after Gilberto Rodriguez?”

Journal Entry October 2nd, 1994 Javi,

Where the fuck are you? It feels like my best friend abandoned me. You abandoned me. 

The day they arrested Gilberto Rodriguez, Javier went through the wringer, the emotional ups and downs. The DEA was excited. The bullpen had given him a round of applause, wanted to toast him. He didn’t like that. The ambassador had torn him a new one. Javier wasn’t a fan of that either. A meeting of high ranking Colombian officials with the American representatives showed the scope. Some felt this gave them more leverage while others feared it would make things worse, but the president ordered that Gilberto go through the same process as any other citizen. Javier considered that a win. He didn’t take pleasure in the press conference. 

By the time he made it back to the office, he had a killer headache, but it was thankfully empty by then. Javier pulled out the whiskey and the cigarettes. He didn’t necessarily feel happy, but he felt as if he’d done something finally.

Javier didn’t stop to celebrate or rest. He turned focus right back to Franklin Jurado, refocusing his attention on the launderer, but not before stopping to put a big, red X through Gilberto’s picture. That brought him a moment of happiness, but he paused to wonder.

He wondered if she had heard the news, seen the press conference. Did Emily know how much of a driving force she was to him? How much he wanted to clear the earth of every single cartel and drug boss, to make her feel safe again. For a second, he contemplated calling her. Could he know? Had he atoned enough? He shook his head at the thought, gripping the marker tightly in his hand. He would never atone enough. 

“This is Peña. Leave a message.” BEEP

“Mr. Javi. It’s me. Alejandrina.”

“I’m here too!” Mateo’s voice called out, sounding more distant than his sister’s. 

“Miguelito is here too. Mom is working in the yard.”

“You shouldn’t be doing this!” Miguelito said. “Grandpa is going to see it on the phone bill.”

“You never called me back.” Alejandra continued. “I saw you on the news in grandpa’s office. He didn’t know I saw. It sounded like you caught the bad guys. Can you come home now?”

“There’s more than one bad guy.” Miguelito reminded her. 

Alejandra sighed frustratedly as she went off in Spanish at her older brother. There was static on the receiver and then Mateo started talking as his older siblings fought in the background. 

“Mr. Javi. Stay safe. We love you. Bye.” The machine clicked off. 

Javier spent the next week in meetings getting berated or praised for the DEA’s actions, but mostly the berated. The doubt crept in at times. Maybe he should have left well enough alone, but it never stayed for long. He’d done the right thing. He was certain of that. 

Neil spent most of his time listening to the Jurado tapes in search of a location of Franklin. Nothing was turning up yet, but he still held out hope. Each conversation Franklin and his wife had tugged on something in Javier’s heart. Maybe it was the way she begged him to turn himself in, her worry, the anxiety. 

Even as he sat at the end of the bar, eyes pinned to Christina Jurado, Javier felt the guilt ebbing at him. Last year, he wouldn’t have thought twice about using Christina’s situation to get the information. It was easy enough, buy her a drink, pull out the charm, trick her into telling him where Franklin was. So why did he feel so damn bad about it? Why could he only picture Emily in the same position? 

Her situation had been nothing like this. They were two separate people in two separate realities. So why was he struggling with this? Why couldn’t he separate the two women? He should call her. 

Javier shook his head, waving the bartender over. He ordered a drink for Christina, clearing his head and dusting off the charm as he waited for the drink to be delivered. 

She looked annoyed at first, but the moment his English caught her ears, he watched her entire demeanor change. Javier knew he had it in the bag, but it didn’t feel as good as it used to. And then the words slipped out, almost like his mouth had a mind of its own. 

“You reminded me of someone. Someone from home.”

She liked that line, but he wanted to shower the moment he said it. What right did he have to utter even her existence in this place? None, but he’d done it anyway. Further evidence that he’d done the right thing by not calling her. 

Even through the guilt gnawing at him, Javier played the dutiful flirt. Almost lost himself in it, almost dared to enjoy it.

“So what could pull him away from-” He looked her up and down. “From all this.”

The words repeated in his mind. What could pull him away from her? In both cases the answer was the same. The Drug War. This all powerful thing that had left him battered and bruised yet kept drawing him back in. 

Christina paused, gave him another once over and then slid from her seat. “Say hi to Texas for me.”

Javi gave her credit, she was committed to her husband, or maybe his flirting skills weren’t as good as they used to be, either way, it was plan B. He called out the name she’d never told him, told her who he was, and she all but spit in his face. 

When Javier showed up at her front door later that day, she didn’t turn him away. He may not have learned where Franklin was, but she gave him the time of day. She listened. She all but told him she would try to convince her husband to turn himself in. She couldn’t look at him, didn’t look at him as he set his card on the coffee table, a far away look in her eyes, no doubt replaying the past, just like Emily when- Javier cut the thought off. This wasn’t her. This was different. 

He reasoned that he was doing this to help Christina, to keep her safe, but he knew that wasn’t true, his own selfish motives landing in the forefront of his mind. It was for the greater good, but how many people had he harmed for the greater good? 

Before he left, Javier vowed to keep Christina out of harm’s way. It was the least he could do. This time would be different.

It worked. Christina called Franklin almost as soon as he left. By the grace of god, the tap caught the man thanking someone in the language, specific enough to track him down to Curaçao. 

Before the night was over, Javier sat at the airport bar tapping his fingers against the smooth surface. He still couldn’t shake the feeling, the deceit of it all. He was caught off guard when his SAT phone rang. He answered, keeping an eye out at the bar around him. 

“Peña,” He answered, taking a sip of his whiskey. 

“Uh, it’s me… Christina Jurado.”

“I’m glad you called… You okay?”

“Please don’t lie to me,” Christina said. She sounded nervous, worried. “If I do this- if I get my husband to- you can protect us? We can go home?”

Javier’s chest tightened. He finished off his drink. “You have my word.” But he didn’t know how much his word carried these days.

She hesitated before answering. “I talked to him.”

“You did? That’s good.”

“He’s gonna cooperate.”

“He said that?” Javier picked up his duffel bag.

“No, not yet- but he will. I just… I need a little time.”

“That’s fine.” Javier walked down the terminal. “You take all the time you need.” 

He hung up without another exchange, just before his flight was announced over the intercom. Internally, he repeated his early promise. He’d keep her safe. 

Journal Entry October 15th, 1994

I dropped my classes today. I haven’t been able to make it to class. I thought I could do it. You thought I could do it…

Javier had almost forgotten the adrenaline rush of chasing down the bad guys. The hunt for Gilberto had been one thing, but the thrill of actually chasing someone down, weaving through the crowds, finally getting him. It felt good. It felt like a win when even his wins felt like losses these days. 

In all of Javier’s days in law enforcement, he’d never had someone ask about their wife. Never had anyone worried for anyone’s safety but their own, and he assured Franklin that she would meet them in Miami. 

Javier couldn’t help but admire the Jurado’s commitment to one another. For one, it made it a lot easier to get his witness, yet there was something about them. Tangled up in this mess, but still committed, still loving each other. 

As they landed, his phone rang again. Christina called him, freaking out about the men at her apartment. He had to tell her they’d arrested him. She reacted as he expected, upset and anxious, and surprisingly, his guilt had subsided. Maybe it was because they had Franklin. Maybe it was because he knew if she could get herself to the embassy, she would be safe. He’d done it. He’d brought Franklin in, and he hadn’t destroyed a family in the process. She just needed to get herself a couple miles before they found out Franklin was in custody.

“Christina, you want it, this is it.” He cut off her rambling firmly. “As soon as we hang up the phone, you get yourself to the American embassy. You don’t talk to anyone. You don’t call anyone. You get yourself there.”

He caught the whispers of her agreement before the line went dead. 

He paused a second after the call ended, staring at the keypad. Maybe it was the American soil. Maybe it was the fact that he was actually starting to feel good about this. He thought about calling for real, so close to punching the numbers he had memorized. Then he was reminded that he was on the tarmac. The job wasn’t done, but afterward, maybe he would call her. Except, Christina never made it to the embassy. 

An envelope with Emily’s handwriting greeted Javier when he got back to his apartment in Colombia. The return address confirmed it as he stared at it in the dim light of his apartment, rereading the address like he might catch a clue to its contents in the ink strokes. He debated opening it. The kids’ secret phone call to him from a couple weeks ago, the only message that accompanied Emily’s on his answering machine, ran through his mind. 

It was too late for this. It had been a long couple of days. The guilt that had returned tenfold since he left Miami without calling Emily, with Christina’s whereabouts unknown, but he ripped the seal open anyway. 

It was likely Emily ripping him apart, angry with him for abandoning her. Even the kids’ voicemail hadn’t been enough to make him call. He didn’t deserve them. Any of them. He was better off out of their lives.

He rubbed his forehead as he unfolded the paper, but it wasn’t words that greeted him, but bright colors and advanced stick figures drawn in crayon, five people. He furrowed his brow, looking back at the envelope. In the corner was Alejandra’s name atop the return address. In the picture, two adults, three kids, and a couple of horses all smiled back at him. He couldn’t help his own smile that ghosted his lips. Paz and Hurricane. His heart clenched. He hoped that Ale was still taking lessons at the ranch, and the boys practicing with the lasso. Alejandra had written their names above each person. 

He’d been a dick. Hadn’t returned calls like he said he would, promised he would, but Ale still wanted him to have this, Emily still sent it. She didn’t have to. She could have lied and thrown it in the trash instead. 

Javier cleared his throat as the page began to blur a little bit. He needed to go to sleep. He grabbed the maintenance magnet, using it to pin the drawing to his fridge. 

This time would be different. 

...........................................................

Taglist: @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @burntheedges @southernbe @fanyyoouu @greengirlwurld

@mysterious-moonstruck-musings @weho2kcmo

[skyfallscotland]

@heartfeltletters-written asked me 💥 How do you feel about criticism? and it felt like something that needed its own post, so here goes: the hypocrisy of critics in modern fandoms, an essay.

Criticism. I don't like getting it or giving it when it comes to writing. I struggle to even gently give it to friends, even when they ask me what I think of their work. Writing is such a personal thing that we pour our heart and soul into and like you say, many criticisms aren't necessarily valid. By that I mean, there's a difference between "Amy you use em dashes a lot babe" (I do) and "This story would have been so much better if Remi were a virgin" (actual criticism I have received, lmao). 

Unlike traditional authors, we will never make money from this, we do it for the love of it and it's time we will never get back. For some of us, it's time we could be working on our own original manuscripts too. I don't think people who give the second type of criticism are writers, generally. They don't understand the craft and what goes into it. Whenever I post and someone says a chapter was short or they immediately ask when the next one is, and that's all they say, I die inside a little. I try not to take it personally, but it's hard.

Personally, I think fandom behaviour is getting worse and that flows over into our comment sections and tumblr asks. I have a whole other dissertation on this that we’ll call ‘the slow death of fandom as we know it: an essay’, but that’s perhaps for another post. I don’t know how welcomed that commentary would be. 

You said the word ‘entitled’ in your original ask and I think that’s spot on. People have become more entitled in general and downright rude (which is not restricted to online spaces, by the way). I write for ACOTAR, but you’ve never seen me discuss it here because no matter what you say in that regard, you can’t win. Someone will always attack you and I do mean attack. Even in regards to Fourth Wing, I don't talk about my opinions a lot outside of my own little bubble of friends and readers.

And that's the kicker to this whole conversation, really. If I were to criticise Iron Flame/RY everyone would jump down my throat (as has happened on other platforms), even though I'd never say it to her face. Do I stand by my opinions? Absolutely. But it would be rude to tell her them, unless asked. I’m not allowed to (validly) criticise certain elements of her story, a published novel, without being attacked for it, but those same people are fine criticising my work directly to me. Hypocrisy at its finest.

There’s a new influx of people to fandom spaces who are completely unwilling to integrate and completely unwilling to be kind. You mentioned those who criticised your work could have saved themselves the trouble and read the tags, but the thing is: they don’t want to. They can’t be bothered to take five seconds and figure out how they work, to curate their own experience, because that’s what half these people are like. They want an algorithm to do it for them, gods help us.

For me, personally, I'm my biggest critic. I also have raging generalised anxiety, so just posting on the internet is enough to send me spiralling (seriously, I feel sick just typing this out). It's very, very out of my comfort zone and I've been very, very lucky so far to have cultivated the readership I have, full of very like-minded people. Perhaps due to some of the darker content matter. But the second I get harshly worded comments, I get upset.

I don't say that to elicit sympathy, it's just a fact. I get upset about it the same way I would if you were standing in front of me saying it to my face, and for someone with depression and anxiety, that lingers. I'm getting better at laughing at them, but it's like when someone tells you they don't like you and your mum says "just ignore them"—not that easy, right? 

So yeah, I don't mind if you want to tell me I use a lot of em dashes, or that I've used a word incorrectly in context, but I don't need to hear how much you hate original character fic when you could just use your last remaining braincell the back button and continue on with your day. Just be kind, is all I'm saying.

[krirebr]

I Know I Should Know Better 1

Pairing: Curtis Everett x Female Reader, minor Colin Shea x Female Reader

Word Count: 2,873

Summary: Curtis has been working as your body guard for almost two years now. Standing by and watching you work and party your life away is becoming more and more difficult, but is there anything he can do about it?

Warnings: Angst, adult themes, minor age difference (not explicit in this part, but reader is mid-twenties and Curtis is early thirties), drinking, sex mention, exhibitionism (from unhappy observer's POV), explicit language, bad boyfriend, self-destructive behavior, anxiety, negative self-talk. The reader's having a bad time, you guys. All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

A/N: Alright you guys, prepare yourselves for a lot of angst and a sloooow burn. The focus and goal of this story is definitely Curtis x Reader, but as it starts, Colin x Reader is the actual couple. This first part is in Curtis’s pov, but the plan is to alternate povs by chapter.

I hope you love this Curtis as much as I do. If you could let me know what you think with a comment or reblog, I'd appreciate it so much. Thank you for reading, lovelies! 💜

Curtis hated this job. 

The sounds of lewd moans and the repeated banging of a headboard hitting the wall filtered through the bedroom door into the common area of the large hotel suite. The new guy, Jensen, shifted uncomfortably in his chair at the small bar off the kitchenette, his eyes frequently cutting to the bedroom door.

“Just ignore it. It’s none of our business.” Curtis growled from his place at the island.

“Right. Sure,” Jensen nodded and just kept looking towards the room. Curtis rolled his eyes. He’d get used to it. 

The stylist and hair and makeup people were already set up in the 2nd bedroom. They’d been due to start 20 minutes ago. Michelle, your assistant, came careening out of that room and stopped dead in the center of the living room, locking eyes with Curtis. “We don’t have time for this!” she pleaded with him.

Curtis sighed and nodded and walked over to the bedroom. He banged on the door three times with the side of his fist bellowing, “Time to get going!” He really hated this job. 

“What the fuck???” cried a masculine voice from inside, quickly followed by your own uncontrollable giggles. 

Five minutes later, you finally came out dressed in a robe from the hotel, your hair all over the place. A man followed you, dressed only in his boxers. Colin. He’d been around for a few months. He was a rockstar, but in Curtis’s opinion, everyone was using that term loosely. He was in a band that was working on its sophomore album. Curtis only knew this because the guy wouldn't shut up about it. He wasn’t any worse than the other fuck boys you usually dated, but he certainly wasn’t the best of them either. Colin collapsed onto one of the loveseats, legs spread wide, and helped himself to the fresh fruit that was laid out on the coffee table.

“Ok!” you said when you got to the center of the room, hands on your hips, megawatt smile fully on display. It was always so blinding, even when he was annoyed with you, like now. “Where am I needed?”

“Go in there, please!” Michelle pointed. “We’re running so late!”

You just laughed. “Which is why you always build extra time into the schedule. Calm down, we’re fine.”

Curtis walked over to Colin and nudged one of his shoes with his own foot to get his attention. “Get dressed,” he growled. “It’s time for you to go.”

“Oh! He’s coming with us,” you said, just as you disappeared into the room, Michelle right on your heels.

Colin smirked obnoxiously up at him and wiggled his eyebrows. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m coming with you.”

“Fine,” Curtis gritted out. “I assume you’ll be wearing clothes when we leave?”

Colin stood up and slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Curty boy, I’ll get myself all pretty for you” and then went back into the main bedroom.

Curtis ran his hands down his face and stared up at the ceiling as he tried to calm himself. He hated this job. Maybe it was time to get into corporate security. Anything had to be better than this.

As he was thinking, Jensen cleared his throat behind him. “Is it always like this?”

“Yes,” he growled out without turning around, and then went to get an updated ETA from Michelle.

Curtis had been with you for almost two years now. Your team had brought him on during the stalking incident at the MTV Movie Awards. That situation had luckily been resolved quickly, but he'd stayed on after. 

On paper, the job was simple. Keep the house secure. Make sure strangers don't get close enough to touch you. Keep your parents as far away from you as possible. Always know the exits. Easy enough.

And he’d been surprised to find that he actually liked you. Outside of the clubs and parties, the VIP sections and private rooms. When you were easier to imagine as just a normal person. You weren’t as entitled as he’d expected. You worked hard and seemed to want to do a good job, even if you couldn’t keep to a schedule to save your life. Sometimes he felt like the wild streak was just something you put on, an obligation. But that was a ridiculous observation. He just worked for you. He didn’t actually know you.  

So it’d been a good job for a while, but at some point the balance between wild child and committed actress started to shift. And with that, the hours got longer, the entourage got bigger, the parties got wilder. The fuck boys got worse. It was taking its toll on him and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could do it.

Curtis was standing in the green room of the talk show, watching your interview on the large TV mounted on one wall. Tanya, your publicist, stood near him, her arms crossed and brow furrowed as she watched, while Michelle sat on the couch, going through emails, and Colin parked himself in front of the food that had been laid out, now on his third beer. 

“She’s stiff,” Tanya remarked to no one in particular.

“Yeah, cause you wouldn’t let her have any of that,” Colin said, gesturing with a piece of meat in his hand to the ice bucket full of alcoholic drinks on the coffee table. Tanya had instituted a strict ‘no substances before interviews’ policy after the last time you’d done Kimmel and the interview had gotten a little too loose.

“She’s doing fine,” Michelle said, without looking up from her computer, but Curtis had to agree with Tanya. You did seem stiff. Uncomfortable. But he knew it had more to do with the current topic than any external factors. They’d dedicated an entire segment to the show you were on as a kid. It’s what made you famous. You never really talked about it. Didn’t seem to like to, but it almost always came up in interviews. Sometimes you laughed through it and it was fine, but other times it was more like what was happening now. He wouldn’t say that he knew or understood you, but he could read you and right now he could see, under your smiles and giggles that would fool anyone who didn’t spend their days watching you, that you were coming apart at the seams. He prepped a text to Jensen, telling him to pull the car around and saved it so all he’d have to do was hit send. Then he just waited for the interminable interview to end, clenching and unclenching his fists as he watched you put all your energy into just getting through it. 

Finally the conversation wrapped up and the host threw to a commercial after announcing the next guest. Curtis sent the text, grabbed a bottle of water from the ice bucket, and was already almost through the door and into the hallway when Colin exclaimed, “What the fuck?! She was supposed to mention my tour!”

Curtis was sure there was some sort of reaction to that, but he wasn’t around to see it because you were already coming around the corner, being led by a PA. You locked eyes with him and as soon as you were close enough for him to hear, you whispered, “Get me the fuck out of here.” He nodded and herded you down the hall, around several corners, until you got to a little enclave under a set of stairs with several plush armchairs. 

“Jensen’s bringing the car around,” he said gently, handing you the water bottle he’d been holding. “We can go out the back way. But I figured you might want a few minutes by yourself first.” You nodded absently, clutching the bottle of water in both hands. “I’ll leave you alone, but I’ll be just over there if–”

“Can you stay?” you interrupted, gazing up at him with pleading eyes.

Surprised, he asked, “You want me to?”

You nodded again and said softly, “Please.”

“Ok. Of course I’ll stay.” 

You just stood there for a moment, gazing down the dark hallway in front of you before you finally said, “I don’t get why they always have to ask about it. It ended over ten years ago. Like, who fucking cares? And the show was shit anyway.”

Curtis just stood and watched you, not sure what you wanted him to say, if anything at all.

“Like, I was a kid. I wasn’t even any good, you know? I’m just so fucking tired of talking about it. I don’t know why anyone wants to talk about it. It’s not like I have any good stories. Nothing good happened.” You seemed to catch yourself there and cut a wary glance to Curtis then shook your head. “I told Tanya that I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. That I wouldn’t answer any more questions. And she said that was ‘unrealistic,’ so here we are.”

 Curtis let the silence carry for a moment, making sure you had nothing else to say, then, softly, "I'm really sorry you have to do that. That isn’t fair to you."

You looked up at him at that, something akin to shock on your face and you shook your head at him. “What? No. No, It’s fine. I’m– I’m being dumb. It’s not that big a deal. I’m just being ridiculous. Like always.”

He really hated it when you did that, wormed your way in and made him feel deep, unrelenting empathy for you. It’d been happening more and more often lately. He needed to get out. “I don’t think you’re being ridiculous.”

You just stared at him for several moments and for the first time in ages, he couldn’t read what was on your face. Finally, you shook yourself out of whatever had been happening and said, “We should really get going, shouldn’t we? Can we go? I’m just making everyone wait, like usual."

His hands itched to reach out to you, touch you, but you didn't need that right now. Maybe not ever. Not from him. So instead he nodded and said, "Yeah, we can go," letting Jensen and Michelle know you were on your way. 

"You're such a fucking asshole!" you yelled in the alley behind a club in West Hollywood, hours later. You were drunk. Very drunk. Curtis really hated this job.

"I didn't do anything!" Colin threw his arms up in exasperation. 

"She was in your fucking lap!"

Curtis was standing by the door for now, hoping he wouldn't have to hold you back. Or, he thought, as he watched you sway dangerously, hold you up. 

“She just sat down. What was I supposed to do? Push her off?”

“You certainly weren’t supposed to put your arms around her!” You were getting really worked up now and Curtis readied himself to intervene. Jensen was supposed to be bringing the car. Where the fuck was he?

“I was being nice to a fan!” Colin shouted when Curtis saw a light out of the corner of his eye at the mouth of the alley. When he turned to look, there was a man standing there with his phone out. Shit.

He walked along the wall of the building, trying not to draw attention to himself. Luckily you and Colin were providing plenty of distraction so he was able to get close and snatch the phone away before the man noticed him there.

“Hey!” he shouted. “That’s my personal property! You can’t do that.”

“Uh huh,” Curtis said as he stopped and permanently deleted the current video and went back into the man’s photos to check for anything else. There were two more videos and a smattering of pictures. He’d gotten the whole fight. You did not need that all over the internet tomorrow. He deleted it all and then handed the phone back to the man who’d been yelling and swearing the whole time. Curtis pulled himself up to his full height and loomed over him, then said, “I better not see you again. You have a good night.” He glared and waited for the man to back down and walk away then headed back to you. You and Colin were still screaming at each other, but the topic seemed to have shifted.

“You’re so fucking selfish, you know that?” Colin yelled at you. “I ask for one thing and you can’t even do that.”

“It was my job! I was there to promote my movie, not your failing tour!”

“You’re a fucking bitch,” Colin said, as Jensen finally pulled up in the SUV. Thank god, because every muscle in Curtis’s body wanted to lay the asshole out flat, and if he’d had to wait one more moment for the car, he might have. 

“Hey!” Curtis yelled. “That’s enough!” he said to Colin and then turned to you. “Are you ok?” You nodded, but brushed a tear away. Fucking asshole. Keeping his eyes on you he asked, “We’re going now. Is he coming with us?”

“No!” you snarled. “Definitely not.” He nodded and opened the back door of the car.

“You’re just going to leave me here?” Colin pouted. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t care!” You yelled over your shoulder as you got in the car. “Get a goddamn Uber!”

Curtis was about to check in with you one more time, but you’d already slid to the other side of the car and were now staring out the window, so he shut the door and got into the front seat with Jensen. 

You were quiet on the hour long drive back to your house. Curtis looked back frequently to make sure you hadn’t passed out, but you were just staring out the window as the city zoomed by. He let you be while he conversed softly with Jensen about the rest of the night and the agenda for tomorrow.

When they got to your house and Curtis opened the car door for you, you looked up at him, surprised. “Hey,” he said quietly, “we’re here.” 

You didn’t really respond, just kept looking at him for a few minutes. Then your gaze shifted to your back door and your lip quivered. “You’re coming in, right?”

He stifled a sigh. He was really hoping he’d be able to get away with just dropping you off tonight, maybe doing a quick walk-through to convince you all was well and then finally taking off. It’d been such a long day. But instead, he nodded. “Yeah, I’m coming in.”

Jensen poked his head out the driver’s side window as Curtis helped you out. “Do you want me to wait?” he asked.

Curtis shook his head. “No, it’s late. You go ahead and put the car away and take off. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Jensen nodded and gave him a quick wave. 

Curtis guided you inside and turned on the lights. He checked your security panel to make sure everything was as it should be and then guided you to the kitchen. “You want something to eat?” he asked and you nodded. He wasn’t used to you being this quiet and it was throwing him off.

He went to the fridge and pulled out one of the dinners your housekeeper had left for you. He threw it in your microwave and then grabbed you a glass of water.

“I’m so tired,” you said.

“I know,” he said, “you can eat this and then go right to bed.”

“No,” you shook your head, “that’s not–” You frowned but didn’t say anything else, just placidly looked around yourself.

The microwave beeped and he took your food out, putting the dish and a fork in front of you.

Staring into your living room, you said, “I kind of hate this house.”

He had no idea what to say to that. He looked through your open plan first floor. Everything was gray and glass. Fresh flowers on multiple surfaces made it seem slightly less empty, but he’d always thought it felt cold. Cavernous. “You could move.”

You just hummed and turned to your food. You ate a few bites and drank some water. Just as he was gearing up to tell you goodnight and get out of there, you looked him dead in the eye and said “I think you might be the only person who actually cares what I want.”

The shock that flooded his system must have registered on his face, because you immediately started backpedaling. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so out of it. Just ignore me. I’m fine. Just ignore me.” He whispered your name and you shook your head. “No, you’re right. I should go to bed. I’m sorry. Goodnight Curtis.” And with that you got up and went upstairs to your bedroom, leaving him dumbfounded, standing alone in the middle of your kitchen. 

After a few minutes he pulled himself together, put your leftovers in the fridge and your glass in the dishwasher. He turned off all the lights and let himself out.   

He paused on your step and leaned his head against your door.

He really fucking hated this job.

But he knew he’d never be able to quit.

Part Two

[asteroidzzzn]

stargirl | part 6

pairing: leadsinger!ellie x bassist!reader

warnings: cursing, blood, mentions of a fight, angst if u squint

word count: 1.2k

a/n: so sorry for the wait, heres the last chapter!! hope this lives up to ur expectations also HA I BET ITS NOT WHO U EXPECTED

summary: now that you're officially a the fireflies bassist, you're going on tour, where trouble has found you.

"jesus... abby? what the fuck are you doing here?" ellie's hands dropped from your waist as she moved to approach the blonde woman.

abby ignored ellie's question, shifting her gaze to you.

"this the new girl that fucked you to get in the band?" she said in a mocking way, eyebrows furrowed in disbelief.

ellie inched closer. although she was shorter than abby, she held herself with such confidence that she didn't seem intimidated at all.

"i told you i wanted nothing to do with you after you left. what do you want?" ellie spat.

"wanted to tell you something important. let me talk to you in private," abby reached for ellie's arm, but she slapped the other woman's hand away aggressively, prompting a few curious heads to turn.

"anything you want to tell me she can hear too."

abby shrugged, "have it your way. at least go over there so we can sit down," she began to walk towards a table. ellie glanced at you before turning to follow her.

the three of you settled yourselves in the seats, ellie leaning her forearms against her legs and folding her hands.

"so?" she prompted, "what was so important you had to tell me in person?"

abby sighed, looking down at the floor, "it wasn't what you thought, els—"

"to you it's ellie."

"you became a bitter bitch fast," abby scoffed.

you watched the interaction, anxiety creeping up on you. you wondered if ellie didn't want you to be there. it seemed so private, and you didn't want to intrude.

"yeah, for good reason," ellie responded, "get on with it."

you noticed that abby wouldn't meet ellie's eyes. she suddenly became very self conscious.

"they had shit on my dad," abby eventually revealed, "i had no other choice. i was being blackmailed."

ellie's expression remained cold.

"i went up to you to talk to maybe ask to be back in the band, or at least friends with you all again—"

ellie's harsh laugh cut her off, "that's ridiculous. do you hear what you're saying?"

abby opened her mouth to respond, yet nothing came from her mouth. her eyes glanced frantically around the room as ellie pushed against the chair to stand, towering over the other woman.

"you should be grateful i left it at just kicking you out of the band, because trust me, i could've done so much worse."

you had never seen ellie this furious at someone, not even you back when she acted like she hated you.

"oh yeah? you're all bark, no bite. you couldn't hurt me if you tried," abby taunted.

for you, the rest was a drunken blur after ellie swung at her.

༊*·˚

you sat in ellie's apartment, cradling her hands in yours. neither of you had spoken a word since you arrived. you busied yourself with tending to ellie's wounds, while she watched you shamelessly.

she hissed when you gently poured medicine on the open cuts on her fingers, caused by her sharp rings getting caught during the fight.

"sorry..." you whispered, keeping your gaze fixed on her hand.

silence fell onto you once more. a few minutes later you had to shift up to work on her face. you studied her bruises, cut lip, and gash on her chin.

you sighed, eyes furrowed with worry.

"was it worth it, ellie?"

she remained quiet. her face occasionally twitched when your fingers grazed on a painful spot.

"...i'd been wanting to do that for ages," she spoke in a hushed voice.

"i know. but did it make you feel better?" you held her face in your right hand, while your left applied ointment to her cheek. her eyes fluttered shut, and you felt the weight of her head fall into your hand.

"no, not really. i wish it did but... i don't know. i just feel like a dick. i know she deserved it, though."

your thumb rubbed on her cheek, and you shifted to sit closer to her, needing to focus in on her forehead.

you hesitated for a moment, before sharing your thoughts.

"you seemed a bit...hard on her. if you think she deserved it, i believe you. but it just seemed a bit harsh, is all."

ellie began to chew on her lip, but winced and stopped when she was reminded of the cut by the taste of blood and sharp pain.

"she...she's done other things, too."

you nodded, not speaking, hoping she would continue.

"my ex cheated on me with her."

your gaze dropped from her forehead to meet her eyes. sad and vulnerable.

"i lost one of my closest friends and my girlfriend in one day. then i found out she also was selling my songs to a record label. she stole everything i cared about, and it just wrecked me."

your finger wiped away a tear that fell.

"hey... you don't have to get into it if it's too much for you."

she reached up and held your wrist. "i want you to know."

after a long and honest conversation, the topic deviated back to ellie's fight with abby.

you finished wrapping ellie's final wound on her arm as you spoke. "you know, people are talking about you on twitter."

ellie's eyes rolled. "what do they have to say?"

"there's a video of it all, apparently. it's about 50/50, some people think you're right, and there are people on her side. and some..."

your words fell short. you cut off the bandage and folded it. you cleared your throat.

"all done."

"hey, wait, what were they saying? was it about you?"

"...yeah."

"bad?"

your hands found their way into your own lap, and you began picking at your nails.

"i read a comment that said i wasn't even that good, and i just got in the band because we're...together."

"oh."

you nodded. you and ellie hadn't talked about being together. you assumed neither of you wanted something official. you were friends. that kissed once. and liked each other. but you were worried a label might make things more complicated than they already were.

what would dina think? what would jesse? any of the fans of the band? and if you broke up...what would happen?

all the thoughts rushed through your mind at once. there was a chaotic tornado in you, speeding up with every second.

the storm fell still when ellie's hand found yours.

"well, fuck them. we love having you with us. we...i need you here."

a smile grew on your face. "yeah, fuck them," you breathed as you leaned forward to kiss ellie.

regardless of what happened in the future on tour, you would overcome it. you would prove to everyone that you deserved your spot in the band. and you had ellie with you every step of the way.

that was all that mattered.

a/n: ahhh!! i know this is so short, but i'm so so so happy with this ending, and i hope u all are too! thank you to everyone to stuck with this story to the end and shared your love for my writing!! im so grateful and happy !!! 💘💘💘

taglist: @ximtiredx @gold-dustwomxn @elliesinterlude @fireflyelllie @trulygnomed @deluluwh-0-re @toesorhoes @pjrplee @elliewilliamsmissingfingerss @emluvselandabs @ariianelle @jokerpokimoon @lonelyfooryouonly @lil-elliesgf @yuaaa05 @ourautumn86

[larsisfrommars]

The Light Won’t Die

Halsin x Tav

Rating: E for Everyone

Chapter: 1/??? (Next Chapter ->)

Word Count: 732

Genre: Adventure, Hurt/Comfort

Content: Halsin x Male!Tav, Fighter!Tav, The Blood of Lathander the goodest weapon, Act 2, The Shadow Curse, Halsin has unresolved PTSD and not enough people talk about it, Tadpole anxiety.

“Tav was haunted by the gnawing desire to pry into the Druid’s thoughts. He wasn’t sure whether that desire belonged to him, or to the mindflayer tadpole burrowing in his skull.”

———————✨🌿✨———————

The events at Crèche Y’llek had been harrowing to say the least. The return to camp was arduous, spells depleted, muscles aching. But the rewards had been undeniable.

Tav twirled his new mace in his hands “The Blood of Lathander” the beastie was called. Tav was not a holy man, but he’d be a fool to reject the aid of the divine. Especially one so tied to the daylight as Lathander when they approached a place so dangerously opposed to it.

It glowed with the warmth of day even as the sun sank behind the mountains for one last evening. With its sinking Tav’s stomach followed suit, he was not afraid of the dark. Did not fret even that the shadow curse would get the better of his ever mightier band of misfits.

But he would miss the sun.

Tav’s heart twinged knowing he was not the only one who’d be denied this simple pleasure. Who’d been denied it before for far longer than he would have to endure, he realized a bit shamefully. Yet he found they were not the ones he felt the most concern over.

Tav felt a large hand on his shoulder, to whom it belonged was unmistakable. As though his thoughts had summoned the Archdruid to his side. He looked up at the elf before they both turned their gaze to Tav’s prize once more.

“A fine weapon, you were wise to seek it out before approaching this place. The land now crawls with undead, all that’s left of those who could not escape.”

Halsin’s gaze turned toward the gnarled path ahead of them warily. The edges of the curse already made themselves known in a trail of dead animals and gnarled, diseased looking tree trunks. That alone Tav was sure would be enough to burden any Druid’s heart. Though based on what Halsin had told them so far, Tav had a gnawing sense there was more to it than that.

“How did you? Escape I mean.”

Halsin’s breath caught and grip on Tav’s shoulder squeezed somewhat before departing from it. He’d surprised him. Wherever Halsin’s mind had gone, it was no where pleasant.

“Apologies, I was… lost in thought. Perhaps that is a story for another time. Better to prepare for the spring than to dwell upon the strain of the winter.” He cracked smile that neither of them believed as he tried to move on to other matters.

“Anything more you could tell us would be helpful, if it comes down to it…“ the looming possibility of failing hung unspoken in Tav’s words.

“If things turn for the worse, then I shall tell you. I have spent a great deal of my long life seeking a way to end this curse. I don’t think it behooves us to speak of failure before we’ve even begun.” Halsin replied in earnest.

The normally affable Druid had a slight edge of desperation to his voice that bid Tav turn away from this line questioning. So he bit his tongue for the time being.

“Of course, sorry. I almost forgot that not all of us are heading to this place due to unwelcome guests. I’m sure lifting this curse means a lot to you.” Tav responded, sympathy seeping into his final words.

“Yes, it does.”

With that, Halsin walked away. Leaving Tav with a further steeled resolve, and a leaden ball of apprehension in his heart.

Though the camp chattered in its usual manner, nervousness, curiosity, and from their Cleric an unusual level of excitement. Tav felt disconnected from them all, save for the large elf across from him.

Though no words were exchanged, a mutual understanding of the gravity of what they must do hung between them. Halsin it would seem taking the majority of the weight, given his stony expression. The usual warmth in his eyes dampened, but not altogether smothered, to Tav’s comfort.

It was peculiar, considering that if they chose to, the party could read one another’s thoughts, save for Halsin. Perhaps it was the notion of forbidden fruit. Tav was haunted by the gnawing desire to pry into the Druid’s thoughts. He wasn’t sure whether that desire belonged to him, or to the mindflayer tadpole burrowing in his skull.

That worried him more than anything than he had heard shadow curse may throw at them. He resolved to respect the Druid’s privacy. No matter how much he wished to know what motivations lie behind his abdication and plunging into danger. No matter how concerned he felt for the Druid’s wellbeing. Even though it would be oh so very easy to enter his mind.

No, Halsin would come to Tav freely, or not at all.

[milamilamilax]

Sydney's mental health

I’ve read plenty of theories about Sydney’s potential health issues, particularly whether she might have lupus, but I think the show could take a different approach. There are various clues throughout the two seasons pointing at mental health issues for Sydney, which I think these point towards things potentially getting worse for Sydney as she puts too much pressure on herself - or perhaps hints of a backstory for Sydney, but the clues are definitely there. 

We’ve seen general hints about Sydney having anxiety, e.g. struggling to sleep, haunted by memories of catering, and the stomach problems she has, likely due to stress. We also know that she is closed off emotionally, to the extent that she arguably even hides the truth about her mother’s death. Although we haven’t seen it officially yet, her “c’est pas grave” tattoo feels like something someone with anxiety would say to themselves as a kind of motto.

Specific things I’ve noticed while rewatching that support this include:

Sydney talking to Carmy (1x05) about the collapse of her business “My whole shit got rocked. And there’s not a night I don’t stay up just thinking about what I could’ve done different.” Sydney refers to her shit getting rocked separately to her credit getting fucked. Notably, when talking with Marcus about the same thing (the collapse of her business) in 1x08 is how this affected her finances - her negative credit score and moving back in with her dad, so she must be thinking of something else here. (I also think this is a sign of Sydney/Carmy > Sydney/Marcus; she’s more open with Carmy when they barely know each other than she is with Marcus when they’re hanging out outside of work as friends.)

In the shots of Sydney's bedroom (also in 1x05) the choices of posters could mean something more. There are 2 film posters that we see clearly in Sydney's room: (1) Jumping' Jack Flash, a film named after a Rolling Stones song, which recounts stories of intense suffering only to come out stronger, and (2) Speed, a film about a bus that has been rigged to explode if its speed drops below 50mph. This also made me of all the references to Sydney driving and how this is a metaphor for her ambition and work ethic (see here) - could it be a reference to this drive also being a weakness?

Sydney talking to Marcus (1x08), after he compliments her for not taking a day off and getting right back to cooking: “I’m just the type, like, as soon as I stop I just *mimics falling apart*". Clearly, she’s experienced this falling apart before, but this is something we haven't seen on screen. We don’t know the timelines of Sydney’s business and exactly when it fell apart, but could it be that the collapse of Sheridan Road drove her to also collapse? (This is also the conversation where she explicitly says to Marcus "It would be weird to work in a restaurant and not completely lose your mind," but I think this is something different to her references to losing her mind when she's not working.)

Sydney talking with her dad (2x02), she differentiates The Bear from her previous business, saying: “I’m in a much better place than last time.” I found this choice of words interesting - separately, she mentions that she’s learned lots of lessons, and has a partner now, but the reference to a “better place” is distinct. What kind of “place” she was in when she started and closed Sheridan Road? It sounds like whatever her emotional and mental state was, it was at least a factor in her failure there. It’s also interesting that she didn’t mention this as one of the reasons for leaving catering when she discussed it with Carmy in 1x05: she didn’t refer to any personal factors, focusing instead on the logistical challenges (on her business getting too big too fast, and the difficulties of running it out of her garage). 

Emmanuel to Sydney (2x09): “I know you can put a lot of pressure on yourself”; Sydney responds: “why can’t we put everything that we have into everything that we can?” And then, “I don’t know if I could do another one.” This exchange isn't subtle at all, because Emmanuel is a great dad and cares about his daughter, but I find it interesting how much he is focused on the pressure Sydney puts herself under; he's no longer focusing on the risky nature of the industry or her change in plan as he was in 2x02, he’s only concerned about her wellbeing here. We know how much pressure she is in fact putting on herself (to get a star, and to generally be the best) so could she end up pushing herself too far again?

Sydney talking to Carmy (2x09) in the infamous table scene: “What if I just, like, completely melt? Like I just, fuck up and fail?” Now, at this point, we haven’t actually seen Sydney completely melt. In 1x05 and 1x06 she handles crises at the restaurant like a boss and saves the day with her quick thinking, and even with the to-go crisis in 1x08, her initial response is to try to help - what makes her throw in the towel is Carmy’s attitude towards her. She could also be referring to the final pasta dish she did for Sheridan Road, but this also didn't sound like "completely melting" to me. I think she’s remembering another time here, a different memory that we haven't seen yet - or perhaps foreshadowing melting in the future.

I’m also interested in how the writers have made Sydney so similar to both Carmy and Mikey, two characters who we know have struggled with extremely poor mental health.

Now, Sydney and Carmy's clothes (think matching jumpers, uniforms, the Thom Browne connection - see post here), language (see this post), and even their names (see here) show how similar they are. This post, however, made me realise how much the writers have also made Sydney mirror Mikey. Maybe the writers are hinting at a similar spiral (although I couldn't imagine this involving drugs specifically, which is something we've never seen referred to in the context of Sydney). 

When Mikey was spiralling, Carmy was away - he didn’t even know Mikey was using drugs, and he didn't go home in the immediate aftermath. Likewise, in 2x10, Carmy is (for all intents and purposes) away and unable to help Sydney when she begins to lose control of the situation. Just as with Mikey, Richie is the one who is available - and, this time, he’s able to save the day.

Generally, Sydney appears relatively stable on the surface, particularly when we compare her to some of the Berzatto family - but I think this is at least partly a case of her being a character who doesn't let her emotions show as much. My own theory for S3 is that the above is either hinting at a larger spiral for Sydney, or is some heavy hinting for Sydney's backstory, which I hope to God we get to see more of.