#it feels wrong. a reminder that I fucked things up with us

[yameoto]

angel in your pocket quinn fabray.

warnings; sub!quinn, angel!reader. not hate-fucking. irritated-fucking. masturbation (in the same room as an angel), voyeurism because God Is Always Watching, motel room sex. supernatural!au wc; 2k.

Quinn hasn’t had alone time in what feels like a fucking millenia. In the grand scheme of things, out of all that she’s sacrificed for the hunting life; her innocence, childhood, a normal, healthy relationship literally any human being—all negligible compared to the great and terrible woe, of having absolutely zero time to masturbate. Like, almost zilch. Hell, nowadays she’ll flop back to bed after a hunt and pass out from exhaustion. Not even enough time to sneak in an innocent tryst against her pillow.

So, of course—with the rare occasion of her baby sister and her being (forcibly) split up for a hunt, for once; and Quinn having her first free day in—well, years (also, forcibly)—when she cranks the blinds down, sinks onto the motel room mattress, bedsprings creaking underneath her—she’s prepared for the most blissful, mind-numbing, apex-of-Nirvana type of relaxation. Involving; a bolt-locked door, three fingers, and a whole lot of time.

Except, things can never go Quinn’s way. Because just when she’s sufficiently worked herself up enough to sport a damp spot, hips rocking upwards as the barest brush of her fingers catches the hem of her underwear—there’s a sudden, blinding crack of light—the familiar crackle of ozone; and such heralds her favourite (derisive) and only guardian angel standing over her bed. 

“What in the ever living fuck?” Quinn hisses, scrabbling to fling the blankets over herself. “What the hell is wrong with you?” (You’d think, around an angel, Quinn would tone down the swearing. Except being raised by a gunslinging, monster-smoking preacherman meant Quinn never went near using the Lord’s name in vain. It’s just built into her; though, it meant she cussed more than a fucking sailor. Swear words are made-up. God isn’t.)

You scrunch your nose, wings outstretched, tips brushing the motel room’s popcorn ceiling. You sniff the air. Heady. Thick with the scent of Quinn’s arousal. 

“It reeks.” 

Quinn prays you get asbestos in your feathers. 

“Were you indecent?” In your stupid angel get-up, feathery wings and all, the inquisitive tilt of your head makes you look like an oversized bird. A quizzical owl. She’s also just being mean in her head on purpose because 1. She knows you can hear this cute little introspection, if you can be bothered listening. (No, she’s not bitter that you’ve been ignoring her prayers for weeks.), 2. She also knows you’re just fucking with her, because your lips are quirking upwards, and Oh, laugh it up. Hoot-fucking-hoot. “Shouldn’t you tell me?” Quinn scowls, yanking her top over her head as she grumbles. You’ve breezed right on to the topic of the coming rapture. Sweet.

“Lilith. Her arrival cometh in four days. You and your sister must cross state lines by then.”

“Okay.” Quinn is only half-listening. She’s far too preoccupied with the red-hot pulse still throbbing at her crotch. Her briefs cling, damp against her skin. Sticky. Underneath the blankets, she squeezes her thighs together. Shit. Shiiiit. It gives her a brief reprieve, but it’s still not enough.

“—and if you do not give the angels an answer soon, they will keep coming. Michael—”

“It’ll be a cold day in Hell before I ever say yes to that fucker. You hear me?” She growls as her fingers run over the sodden fabric of her underwear, lashes fluttering as she skims up her waistband—because the reminder that she is, apparently, destined to be a hollow shell housing an archangel to shank the devil (housing her baby sister) is not enough to kill the last lingerings of her good mood. 

“I hear the Ninth Circle is unpleasantly frigid.” Quinn snorts. “You are such a smartass.” She circles her fingers, ever-so-slightly, against the thin barrier that just barely separates the ache in her soul from sweet, sweet relief. You are still, depressingly, there, and rambling on about scriptures and duties and blah, blah blah. She’d memorised all of that stuff since she was eight. Burned into the back of her skull. Experimentally, she applies a bit of pressure, just to ease herself. Quinn swallows, hard. 

“You’re not listening to me.” There’s that pretty little frown. 

“No, m’totally listening.” Quinn bucks her hips upwards, and her clit bumps against the ridges of her fly. She almost moans out loud. “I’m just saying no.” Maybe if she rocks her hips it’ll get a little friction righttt—ah, yeah. There’s the spot. “You’re aroused.” 

Whatever snarky quip Quinn was about to say wilts on her tongue. She pauses her movements, of which was hooking her index down to shimmy her briefs down her thighs, to glower—cheeks puffing out to exhale a frustrated huff. “Yeah, well, you picked a pretty shitty time, if you asked me.”

You sigh. “The dawn of the apocalypse will not wait for you to finish masturbating, Quinn.” 

Then, promptly and unceremoniously, you rip the blanket off of her. She is ashamed to say, she squeals. “Wh— hey!” Cold air rushes quick enough to shiver, band of her briefs rolled just enough that her cunt is exposed, and a current runs down her spine at the way your gaze falls, honing in on it.

Instinctively, Quinn goes to wrench the covers back over, of course, but attempting to tear the scratchy thing out from your hands is like trying to move a literal mountain. It’s also, long-forgotten in the swift way  you glide forwards, smoothly sliding to your knees and clasping strong (and somehow, gentle) hands at her knees and nosing between her legs and—

“Um. What’re you doing?” The words spill out in a rush, body tense—alarm bells ringing, because in the brief time she’s known you, Quinn has discovered she doesn’t quite know as much about angels as she thought she did—or as Father had told her— but she certainly didn’t think angels were in the business of peering up at her with those innocuous, unblinking doe-eyes of yours, through those stupidly lush lashes. Nor prying her thighs apart and swiping a thumb over the sticky residue left behind with a low, rumbling hum and shit. When did she get that wet

“You’re not focusing. You must focus. This is the most efficient solution.”

“Fucking me is the most efficient solution?” Quinn gapes, and if her voice cracks and comes out an entire register higher, that’s her business. “That’s—you’re shameless!”

“I’m shameless? An Angel of the Lord visits upon you, urges you of your role in the Holy Scriptures, and you pleasure yourself.”

Okay, when you put it like that, Quinn doesn’t have much ground. 

“I was finishing,” She blusters, cheeks flaming She’s arguing for the sake of arguing—with all the petulance she can muster, because otherwise, she doesn’t know what is an appropriate reaction to an angel’s tongue flicking up your skin, nose nudging between the crook of your warm, wet folds and inner thigh. 

Her breathing grows ragged. Fuck, fuck— fuck. “It’s not my fault you come at the worst time ever—” She’s aware she sounds like a bratty teenage girl, but you also lecture her with an ego the size of a small city, and when your tongue finally meets the sopping heat of her cunt, she makes a sound the furthest thing from holy. “Can—fuck—a girl not knock?”

“The Lord doesn’t knock.” You retort plainly, flat of your tongue dragging upwards. Quinn speaks through gritted teeth, fists curling. 

“‘Behold—I stand at the door, and knock; if any man hear my voice and—oh, fuck..—open the door, I will come into him—”

You stop in your tracks, head lifting. Any disappointment at the way your tongue slips out from her folds is quelled by the sizable strip of satisfaction unfurling in her gut. Seeing you; stare incredulous, mouth still open. For once, you’re the one taken off-guard. 

“Did you just.. quote scripture at me?” A draught sweeps in the room, and your fingers twitch inside of her as if considering whether to curl them to the knuckle or jerk yourself out entirely or reach up her ribs and perhaps yank her heart out from the inside. You do none of those things, and instead settle on gaping in utter disbelief. Quinn grins. 

“Revelations; chapter three, verse twenty, baby.” Quinn’s not her Daddy’s girl for nothing. 

“..It was an euphemism.” You grumble, annoyed, and if Quinn didn’t know any better—embarrassed—though from here, she can only see the flushed tips of your ears. Tne hand gripping her thigh tightens, a pressure so negligible Quinn might think she’d imagined if—if it weren’t for the fact, that, out of fucking nowhere, your thumb presses hard against the swollen bud of her clit. 

She cries out, hips jolting up off the mattress, and you don’t let her come back down–one hand supporting her entire bodyweight, as her legs quake. She scrabbles for purchase, and finds your hair a suitable levy.

“Ah—what the—fuck—” “And you call me the smartass,” You grunt, and another finger snakes in underneath the others, with a squelch so obscene Quinn almost blushes, though she only whines with approval instead. You thrust, deeper. “If you had talked back in such a way in B.C, I would’ve ripped out your tongue.” 

Score. Quinn totally knew she got you all hot and bothered. Despite it all, she can’t stop the smirk worming its way on her lips. You can’t win against a celestial being shaped by God—but you can savour the little victories. 

You’re panting, she can feel it—each puff of your breath—coming hot along her thighs and against her ella’s and into her cunt. Quinn is all at once hit with the dizzying thought that, that same breath has blown entire civilizations to dust—and right now—right now it’s being used to dirty-talk into her pussy. 

“It wasn’t even written in B.C, you sanctimonious—oh, fuck.” Apparently, you don’t appreciate her sense of humour, because you ravage her like you’re trying to carve out a space for Michael yourself with your teeth, fingers sliding in deep and pressing out against her walls, fighting against the resistance in their tight clenches—stretching out, as your tongue swirls over her clit. For a moment, her entire brain empties, and the tension—winding, winding, winding in a band she didn’t even know existed—snaps. Her hiss is strangled, nails curling into dank bedsheets and a white-hot flash has her thighs crunching together, slamming down against your head and all as she gasps at the feeling, like iron striking stone. It’s the most surreal thing she’s ever fucking experienced. She grasps, free hand fisting the back of your head, tightly, and she’s grinding out the sopping, slick folds of her pussy against your open mouth, legs coiled around your neck like a vice. 

In the bleary remnants of thoughts she has, she figures you can’t mind too much. Angels don’t need breath, after all. (The sexy heaves of your chest when you pant, splattered with demon blood or the spine-arching way you glide up her thighs is designed, specifically, to torture her, she thinks). 

It’s the quickest orgasm she’s ever had, in all whopping twenty-six years of her life.

Your chin come away glistening, a glassy sheen coating skin and trickling, down the holy, unblemished stretch of your neck to your clavicles. 

“..Wow.” She croaks.

Her eyes, unbidden, follow the bob of your throat. You swallow. An audible ah bursts through your lips, like you’ve just downed a bubbly pitcher of beer rather than her cum. Through the renewed pounding in her head and cunt, she hears a strangled whimper. She only realises it’s her own, too late. 

She needs a beer, right about now. She watches, with hazy eyes, as you simply get up off the mattress and stray to the rickety table that hosts nothing but empty cans and spare ammunition. You pull out two chairs, opposite one another.

“..Not the cuddlin’ type, then?” She rasps, weakly. Damn you for looking so fucking unruffled when you still have her juices dribbling down your throat. She’s overcome with inscrutable urge to wrench you back by the collar and lick her salt off your skin.

“Come. We must finish our talk.”

Quinn flops, her face buried into the pillow. Her eyes are heavy, lids dropping as she groans into cushion.

“..You’re not serious.”

“The apocalypse, Quinn.”

[ezziedoodles]

Why Season 2 Of Arcane Felt A Little Off

Let me preface this by saying I adore this show, and I loved this season. I laughed, I cried, and I had a good time watching it. The art direction and animation is a masterpiece. This is probably my favorite show, but I think it's good to critique the things you love and this entire season I felt like I was waiting for something.

For a show titled Arcane, season one had remarkably little to do with the arcane. Yes, there was Hextech and magic, but the show was centered on this class divide between Piltover and Zaun and all the conflicts that stem from this. The very first scene of the show is enforcers killing citizens on the bridge, with Powder and Vi finding their dead parents' bodies. Zilco's reasoning for doing anything he did was because he believed he was helping Zaun, including raising Jinx the way he did. Vi was so passionate about her city and the injustice facing it. Caitlyn witnessing this injustice is what causes her to question the systems she is a part of. Viktor and Jayce (but especially Viktor) created technology with the intention of wanting to improve life for the undercity. Ekko is a revolutionary doing so much to give his people a community and a chance to live their lives. My point is literally every single character is connected by this conflict between the cities.

Now let's take a look at the second season. Where is this part of the story that was so essential to the first season? There's a brief revolutionary beat with Jinx and her followers but once they escape from prison, the show moves on from this and never touches it again. We see Caitlyn's descent into corrupt madness, becoming everything she and Vi wanted to stop. Eventually she realizes how wrong she was but do we see her make any reparations to Zaun specifically for the damage she caused? She gassed the city, poisoning the air even further (with gas that has been confirmed to make people sick in the long run), harming hundreds of innocent people. And Vi, a character so vehemently against enforcers in the first season, goes along with this for how long? Days? Weeks? And only stops when she can visually see the impact of Caitlyn's madness as she almost kills a child in front of her. These characters are flawed and I love that, but we see them get their happy ending without ever truly addressing or helping with what they did to Zaun.

Ekko sees an alternate universe of everything his city could be, everything they all wanted so badly in the first season. Equality, safety, education, food security, and more. He says he is thankful for the reminder and I fully believe he will go forth with this vision in mind, but do we ever see it? And that right there is the problem. We don't know what happens to Zaun in the end, we don't know if things get better. All we see is Sevika on the council but we don't know if that will fix anything since people have stood up for the undercity in council before and it did nothing.

I want to see Ekko rally his people and repair the damage caused by the war. I want to see Vi open up the last drop and make it what it was always meant to be, a place of community. I want to see schools open in the undercity in honor of Viktor and Jayce. I want to see the two cities heal from the damage done to each other. Fuck it, I just want literally any closure on this plotline! Just tack on a 2 minute montage of what happened to this city after the war and I'd feel a little better. But instead this part of the story was completely sidelined throughout the season and ignored entirely in the finale. I'm not someone that thinks every story needs to have a moral, but this show was trying to tell us something! The first season was screaming from the rooftops to beware of privilege, beware systemic oppression, to fight inequality, and I find it really sad that there was no conclusion for that.

I do wish there had been three seasons to give it a smoother transition form politics to magic but it is what it is. Nothing is perfect. This season gave me so much including the best depiction of soulmates I've ever seen in my life so you win some you lose some ig.

[beescrafting]

Please Johnny come back to me.

4 months, 14 days, and 36 minutes… thats how long it had been since Johnny was KIA.

That much time had passed and yet his heart still ached, the feeling of feelings hitting harder each time he tried to suppress them. Simon wasn't a therapy guy, he was the kind of guy to suppress everything until it came to much to bare, have a mental break down for a day, and then continue the same pattern over and over again. That was until Johnny at least… Because with Johnny it felt like he had some comfort, someone he could keep from the path he had been on… He kept Johnny off the path of darkness only for Johnny to end up on the path of death himself.

Makes sense to be fair… that the Ghost would lead his Johnny to death, what a person he was… He was the cause of this, death follows him around like a looming cloud and it takes those he cares about. It hurt him so bad, it made him ache, it made every part of his heart, soul, and mind ache with such pain.

Ghost grumbled opening his eyes, he looked at Gaz who sat across him right next to the captain. They were being send out on a mission, it was a mission involving some damn gas, the same gas that Makarov had been working on… Fucking Makarov, at least that prick was dead and gone…

Price grumbled fixing his weapon a bit, Ghost gaze went towards his captain, his captain who he was able to save at least… but just that once…

"You with us Ghost?" Price grumbled looking at the Lieutenant.

Ghost simply nodded.

"alright, we have to be quick.. in and get a hold of the gas, its in the southern part of the warehouse, Simon you will head straight there, Gaz and I will take the east and west wing and together will take the north after shipping the gas out." Price reminded Ghost of the mission and its details. That was good. Very good.

~~

They had landed a bit of a distance away from the warehouse what ever it took to get this damn mission done… Ghost slowly approched hte building, knifing anyone in his way. He wouldn't use his gun until he got the go ahead form Price.

5 dead, more to come…

Ghost with cold eyes watched as another man got to close to the shadows, he was quickly delt with a quick throat slash and he was gone. Left to gurgle on his blood and die in the mud. Simon crushed his radio in front of him watching the fear and light leave his eyes. Every time he did this now he only imagined Makarov's face, that brought back satisfaction to him.

He moved forward going into the building, making sure as to be as silent and stone cold as the reaper that stole Johnny from him. The dim green lights of the building gave it an old chill, like something was wrong here, something deeper then what Simon could tell.

With his feet on the move, with his whole body on the move he made it to the room where the gas was being held and created. A lab.. with tubes large enough to hold a person of his size as well.. "Found the gas, waiting for orders" Ghost grumbled into his coms as he went through the room. He found the papers on how the gas is made, as well as… human experimentation.. tch… of fucking course.

Ghost read through the report, skimming it a bit.

Gender: Male Height: 187.9 cm tall (6'2) Nationality: Scottish

Ghost heart froze for a moment, thinking of Johnny as he skimmed over the nationality of this person…

His heart ached thinking about Johnny, his Johnny… His sergeant… With a deep heavy heart he took the papers as well, they would be useful for later in research and evidence.

He put the files next to the gas before walking around the room, moving some things around before he found a strange rug… He grumbled moving it to the side, bring it away to reveal a door hatch.

"found a door hatch" Ghost grumbled over the coms, their was no response from the others… something was fucking wrong, deadly wrong…

The silence over coms made this whole mission worse. At least until Gaz's voice grumbled over the coms, "copy, be there soon"

Price gave a quick gruff, "search the room."

ok… so they were okay and fine, not dead… that's good, he doesn't need nor want anymore dead teammates after all. Ghost opened the door hatch moving his night vision goggles on turning them on as he headed down the stairs. This could be more storage for gas, meaning they could have underestimated how much these fuckers have.

Once he reached the bottom of the flight of stairs he continued through the room, shifting through the stuff around it was only wooden crates of the gas no doubt. He frowned, before noticing the door. He frowned scowling in anger and rage. How many rooms of gas did they need? What were they planning, what were they doing?!

Ghost went to the door trying the handle.

Locked… Of fucking course it was.

"Found a locked room, breaching now" Ghost grumbled before kicking the damn door down. He had to move, get through this room before returning back up their to guard what they had come for.

He looked through the room, raising his weapon. It was dark without his night vision goggles thus him having to do a overtake of a humanoid figure…

Wait… No… it couldn't be…

Slowly the person turned around the slights dimly flickering on in a dark green color..

"Johnny?" Ghost croaked out before he attacked, the man he loved was alive but fighting him.

No… No… NO!

Ghost dropped his gun instead taking Johnny's wrist when another punch was thrown and took him down to the floor. He had the other pinned down underneath him as he stared into the others eyes… His brown hazel eyes that were like dark voids peering into Johnny's eyes… they were the peaceful ocean blue he knew and loved, they were this strange green glowing version.. What the hell… what the absolute hell.

Johnny was under him glaring with those alien green eyes, this mask on his face was a black metalic color with clear holes showing the same green color running through it.

"Who the hell is Johnny?" He growled.

Johnny didn't remember his own name, he didn't remember him… he forgot them… damn it.. damn it.. it hurts so bad.. it hurt… knowing that, hearing that…

Simon knew it was for the best the Johnny forgot about him and how he failed him, but he was selfish.. Selfish like his father in the way he didn't want Johnny to forget him. Selfish in the way that Simon wanted Johnny to remember him, remember all of them, and everything that they had been through. Both good and the bad…

Simon's heart raced through his chest, aching in pain but love in seeing his Johnny alive once more…

"You are Johnny… You…" His voice was shacky as with one hand he held both of Johnny's the other removing that blasted mask that exhaled that damn blasted gaz. "You are Johnny, John 'soap' MacTavish, sergeant to the 141… the most crazy lad I have ever had the pleasure of dealing with… Johnny…" Simon mumbled looking at the other, he felt tears building up, the same damn tears he had been holding back since he held the others bleeding body…

their were so many questions running through his mind as to how he was standing here infront of them, well infront of him.. and not really standing but pinned down but thats the main idea.

The voices over his coms came through but he couldn't hear them. He could hear his captain or gaz asking for a report on what was going on…

"Johnny.. Johnny please come back to us… to me…" Simon all but begged. Simon was nothing but a past memory without Johnny…

A Ghost was nothing without a person to follow…

[19catsncounting]

Hey I think there's something that I have to keep reminding myself and maybe you also need to remind yourself of sometimes and that's that it's actually really hard to Fandom wrong.

Like there's a lot of writers and creators who produce works better than I could. Frankly, I suck at meta. And that's fine! I'm not gonna get called to the Fandom Principal's Office to be told that I'm failing in Fandom and need to get my grades up or I'll lose my spot on the posting team. I can commit to the most wildly OOC portrayal of a character and people will just not like it and that's!!! Okay!!!

No one is getting paid for this! You can't get fired! It's nice to find like-minded individuals but you don't have to change your mind for the sole purpose of finding community!

We are playing in sandboxes and it is Normal and Good to play in your corner and see other people playing differently in theirs. You should fight any urge towards conformity in your mind because it is the final sanctuary where you can be free.

And while this is mostly a "Hey feeling insecure about how you participate in Fandom is something you can and should challenge" I do also mean "Hey people who make Fucked Up content and people who make Fixed Wholesome content are not and never should be enemies."

I tend to make things leaning towards Fixing and Found Family but that will never earn me a place in heaven and has no weight to my own morality and does not make me a good person and I would drive any Noncon Torture Sadist Darkfic creator to the airport at 5 AM and bring us both homemade lattes. I have taken so many pieces of great characterization for my domestic hopeful comfort fics from Really Fucking Dark fics because those fics break open characters in new and intense and beautiful lights. The ONLY reason I don't write hurt/no comfort is because that's not the enrichment I'm looking for, it isn't the treatment I need for my personal psychic wounds but it is perfectly! Beautifully! Worthy! As a trope all the same! And it is beneficial for people who are not me!!!

Fiction is morally neutral in every way - no matter what you create, whether it is hopeful or tragic, or beautiful, or mediocre, you are allowed and encouraged to make it.

[alwaysthefool]

House of Horrors (x Xavier)

Tags: Comfort, action, MC Reader, GN Reader

Warnings: scary, long, violence mention

Synopsis: You see just how much Xavier tries to keep you safe during and after a mission.

Happy late Halloween 🎃?

This one was meant to be a solo mission, and Xavier, though he would always come with you if he knew, was deployed elsewhere. The circumstances surrounding the mission were odd; firstly, Jenna was on a break so it was handed to you by the robots in charge, and secondly, this was unlike any mission you’d had before.

Some tourists went missing after booking a house for their stay, and the investigation team reported strange happenings in the house, outside the gambit of police as it seemed to have something to do with Wanderers. Things weren’t too busy in Linkon either so it was confusing as to why you had to handle it alone. Nonetheless, you didn’t want to bother Xavier, so you informed Nero and Tara that you’d be going alone.

Although, as you parked your car in the driveway of the western-style , secluded from the bustling city and dark already at 6PM, you felt an urge to text Xavier, frowning when you noticed there was no service in the area, and even your hunter’s watch wasn’t functioning. That should have been your first cue to leave, but you were informed this was typical— which is where your evol would come in handy in checking for metaflux fluctuations.

Plus, in the house’s and probably your defense, it was well maintained from the outside and there were functioning CCTVs, just secluded. The tourists wouldn’t have suspected anything wrong, it was just the knowledge and silence thereafter that scared you.

You turned to open the electronic lock with the code given to you, but the door creaked open by itself.

I have a gun, you reminded yourself, heading inside.

The living room was covered in police tapes, the vintage furniture covered in plastic. You felt around the dark room for the light switch, but upon turning it off and on, it seemed to be non-working. You expected that too, so you relied on your torch.

It almost felt like ghost-hunting as you walked around the eerie house feeling for any hint of metaflux, your heart rate increasing for no apparent reason. Although your watch couldn’t sense Metaflux or send any signals, it depicted your blood pressure as ‘extremely high’, advising you to sit down. Given your syndrome, you should have, but you only had the basement left.

You climbed down the first floor, back to the living room, feeling something amiss, as if something had moved, or was different from before. You were also certain you left the front door open, but it was now shut. You chalked it off, pulling out your gun, as you found the door to the basement.

You knew it’d be dark, but even with the torch, you could barely see the stairs. You carefully took your first step down when the door behind you slammed shut.

Fuck.

The only way now was further down.

And with what you could hear, there was definitely something else there.

You gulped, every step a screeching creak, the scent of rot hijacking your nose. You didn’t dare use your peripheral vision, or look behind you for you were sure something was surrounding you. When you reached the floor and shone your flashlight, there was nothing to be seen. Quite literally, no light penetrated the basement, from where, amidst the terrorising feelings of fear and dizziness, you sensed it.

A Wanderer.

You couldn’t shoot shots into the dark, neither could you go back up, so you took a single step into the dark, trying to rely on your other senses.

Terrible idea. The logical voice in your head spoke.

You felt something grab your ankle in the pitch dark, dragging you at high speed. You let out a scream, hastily reaching for your gun which was knocked out of your hand by something sharp.

“Let me go!” You screamed, pushing at whatever held you. It lifted you up by the foot but you managed to land a shot somewhere on it, making it let you go. You fell face first, terrified, scrambling, reaching for where you dropped your torch, the only hint of light in the room. You managed to reach the basement steps, before being tripped and pulled back.

“Xavier!” You cried, your hand holding on the floorboard with dear life. You didn’t know why you called for him of all people, at the darkest moment of your life too. Your heart pleaded for him to be somewhere close by, regretting not taking him with you, hoping he’d be his stubborn self and look for you anyway.

“I’m here.” He replied, his strong hand taking yours and drawing you into the light. He pulled you safely behind him, his evol lighting up the basement. The Wanderer howled at the light, trying to hide in corners, behind the dryer, but Xavier was onto him within seconds, blazing sword slicing him into dust. With a final screech, the being fell, leaving only a Protocore behind.

Xavier let it fall to the floor, rushing back to you, holding you tightly in a protective hug. You held him back, scared, crying on his chest, letting down how brave you had tried to be.

“You’re here.” You sobbed, and he stroked your hair, shushing you gently, kissing the top of your head.

“You’re hurt.” He pulled away to look at your face in concern. You noticed his white coat covered in blood, and wondered what a mess you must have been looking like. Xavier carried you in his arms, outside, to the car, and although the Wanderer was gone, you did not dare look at the house, choosing to bury your head in his neck instead.

You were taken to the nearest hospital, doctors taking you to a bed to examine the wounds. Xavier decided to give you privacy, but you held his hand, not able to say you needed him with you. He sat beside you, squeezing your hand back, silently reassuring you he’d stay with you. His face never left yours as you were covered in small bandages. Your ankle was also dislocated, but luckily you didn’t sustain any other major injuries.

Xavier took you home, listening to the doctors and buying your medicines on the way back, and it broke your heart as you reached your front door, where you knew his hand would finally leave yours.

“I’ll be up if you need anything.” He spoke softly. You could tell he wanted to scold you for not informing him where you were going before, but you were already visibly traumatised to the point you let go of all shame and almost pleaded to him, your face a sure mess with puppy dog eyes.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

Xavier looked at you with care and love, giving you a gentle nod. “Then I’ll stay with you for as long as you need.”

You nodded, allowing him to go get his things while you showered and got rid of the blood on your face. You were right, you did look filthy. If it was anyone else, would they have put up with your clinginess? Maybe Xavier just had a lot of patience.

Showering felt like a terrifying task, you having to constantly watch for any sounds or discrepancies, even looking into the mirror afterwards feeling difficult.

Thankfully, Xavier was already outside, with dinner on the coffee table. You practically ran to him, and he was more than happy to pull you into a hug. Although he’d never done it before, he kept you on his lap, turning on the TV to your favourite comfort movie.

“Thank you.” You rested your head on his chest, accepting when he fed you popcorn with his hand. He laughed at that.

“This is the first time you’re the one being clingy to me.”

“I’m being clingy?” You lifted your head up, eyes droopy. Xavier pulled you in his embrace again immediately. “But I like it.”

“Get used to it,” you leaned into him more, snuggling as he wrapped a blanket around the two of you. “Because I’m never going on a mission without you again.”

[fleastinger]

[puppyeared]

for like 3 weeks i was wondering why i was sleeping so much and felt listless. and just now I managed to email 3 people and responded to a month old message in the span of an hour because I got back to TAKING MY FUCKIN MEDS..........

[theradicalace]

i just think it's so funny that when *i* lash out and start bitching *about* management to my coworkers because of a stressful day at work, i get pulled into the office to discuss my attitude, but when a manager lashes out and bitches *at me* because of a stressful work day, i get a halfassed "oh sorry, but-" and i'm expected to roll over and take it.

[fragglerockopinions]

I'm like. spiraling.

My body hurts and it's falling apart and there's nothing wrong with it and there's no way to fix it. I'll never be able to have a normal job again. I can barely stand how am I supposed to finish college. I need help and I keep asking people to help me and that makes them uncomfortable and I'm asking too much of them. I say there is no food in my house. They say why don't you go buy food. I say I'm too disabled to drive. They say oof lol. How does oof help me. How are you not worried about me. How when I say I haven't bought food in a week or washed my clothes in a year people respond omg lol and not holy shit are you okay do you need help how are you alive. Not to be lazy or anything but I would actually literally kill for someone to hold me and say it's okay you don't have to do this alone anymore I'm going to help you. I would commit unspeakable acts of violence for someone to offer to drive me to the store. Once you're disabled you're trash you can't contribute to society just let yourself decay. I make everyone uncomfortable by just existing as myself and I ruin every event by either being visibly in pain and pulling an ugly face because my legs are about to give out or by not going because my spine is broken and I can't leave my bed. My family won't help me they don't believe me I'm not allowed to flinch or look like I'm in pain because my face is ugly when I'm in pain and I'm just faking it to get out of doing anything at all. I don't have a single support system or way to survive this shit. I'm in so much pain constantly there's not even a word for it because I can't just say it hurts nobody takes me seriously or understands just how bad it hurts. I can't say it's like a knife in my spine that sounds so fucking fake. It's like a knife in my spine and every tiny cell that moves hurts it because it's a fucking blade stuck between my bones. It's cutting and mangling my skin and muscles and everyone is like why don't you just stop having a knife in your back and the doctors say you do not have avknifevin your back and my parents say everyone has a knife in their back and you're just pretending it hurts and being lazy because you hate me. How am I still alive why am I still alive why does it just keep getting worse

[running-in-the-dark]

okay but seriously the way everyone always focuses on me finally getting a job as if that's the ultimate end goal of life and there's nothing else that matters at all is making me feel like. if I can't do that. what is left.

like it's.. not that unlikely that no matter how hard I try I'll never be able to work full time (or even part time, who knows at this point honestly), and it makes me feel like - okay so then I just need to stop existing I guess

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

.

[polyamoryprincess]

I truly do understand the fear people have regarding people doing “fanfiction commissions” and making money off fanfics after the Anne Rice debacle, but we don’t have to act like it’s an inherent moral failing and like you’re a Fake Fan tainting fan spaces if you want to be paid for your work the same way fan artists do.

Anne Rice is a dick head for what she did and should be treated as such, treating the fear she’s wrought as some holy thing is fucking weird.

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

analyzing hermes, emet-selch, the ancients and ascians, how they're written, and the fandom's reaction to them be like hm. emet-selch's role in this fuckery is compounded by the fact that his backstory as a genocide survivor is incongruous with his ruling a huge genocidal colonialist world power in the present da [ANTISEMITISM BLAST]

[hinderr]

Friendly reminder that din's covert isnt. A cult. Like. Come on guys we've been through this before

[crimson-moonflowers]

.

[http-bee]

not sure what comes next