#it just isn't okay to our morals. sorry.

[skaruresonic]

>>tfw the government they're telling you to vote for lest that government become even worse slaughtered 99% of your people and the people like you, then shunted the 1% of survivors onto actual prisoner-of-war camps and proceeded to beat the language and traditions out of their children

>>entire country is founded on illegal means because of said genocide >>country has broken every single treaty there is, leading you to believe nothing will change for you just because there's a rotation of the prison guard

>>cannot vote because if you do then you're serving this mendacious government your tribal sovereignty on a silver platter

>>"if you don't vote in this system literally built on precluding, erasing, and oppressing you, you're a psyop and personally responsible for fascism in our already genocidal country"

>>tfw they mess up their own government yet chide you for not helping clean it up

>>tfw you can't help but wonder how it is the Haudenosaunee managed to get along for centuries without all this fuckery, yet they're in charge of the place for two minutes and now it's on fire. >>muh democratic principles without Great Law. muh Constitution that doesn't consider slaves or indigenous tribes people. much greatness, many wow >>tfw they copy your homework and still fuck it up

[mad-hunts]

there is nothing so cruel as memory — and this not only applied to the jarring snapshot that barton was given of a much happier time in his life through the photograph he found. he couldn't help but start to reflect upon how both louis, as well as matilda, weren't even six months old whenever marceline died. which meant that they would only ever and still do only know of their mother through barton's word of mouth. with that, the level of sorrow that came from knowing that he had everything one day and the next, he only had but a fraction of that was something he was convinced would kill him back then.

but the fact of the matter was, barton knew deep down that that was something he couldn't let happen. because matilda and louis needed him. so making peace with marcy's death was, unfortunately, a harsh reality barton had to face. the doctor did contribute finding winslow, his surrogate father, mostly all up to luck after all. and so giving up on them was not an option. but the toxic point of view that barton's bio father likely would've enforced upon him (to simply 'pull himself up by the bootstraps' as if it were that easy) wasn't going to work. so, therapy seemed like the most viable option to help him cope with the massive amount of grief he felt.

thankfully, going to it was the right decision in the end. the funny thing about grief, though, is that it isn't linear. and like the waves of an ocean... the feeling that you're missing someone fundamental to your life comes back in to hit you when you least expect it. barton flexed one of his hands repeatedly as he tried to get his mind off of it. he supposed that, eventually, doing nothing in this space would end up making him and possibly jervis as well lose their marbles anyhow. barton's work. before he had gotten into their current mess, he was working on a new 'piece,' he thought.

well, the deadline that the doctor had to finish it by before was hopeless for him to reach now. they wanted it in just two weeks time and who knows how long they'd have to be camping out in the old car warehouse? but that could easily be explained away. just like artists couldn't be rushed, barton didn't produce his 'dolls' well under a lot of pressure. nerves and skin alike were delicate. it made him wonder whether jervis still remembered the woman who'd been on his autopsy table when they met.

for even though the horror of it all was something barton was used to by now, even relished in... he was a very empathetic person and so barton could see how it could haunt the other in a way. so the expression 'different as night and day' might as well have been created for them all things considered. barton scratched at the IV in his wrist, mentally figuring out if he could give jervis more pain meds than jack had administered to him. assuming his son had given him the proper dosage. barton hummed noncommittally before deciding to consult jack about it first.

❝ i suppose my son's bedside manner was lacking a bit when he gave you that tea, then. i mean he obviously meant well, but i think it would've been easier for you to drink it with a straw, ❞ an amused snort left barton and pretty much guaranteed that he wasn't mad at jack for it afterward. he was still young after all - and he was still trying to drill all of the 'in's and out's' of medicine that he could teach him into his head. but it didn't seem to be where jack's passion lied, the line the other uttered aloud being what ultimately broke barton out of his thoughts.

the room proceeded to become deafeningly silent at that moment. squinting at the other was the doctor's immediate response, trying to recall where exactly he might've heard that. maybe it was biblical? barton was surprised that jervis would recite it, though, in that case because he didn't peg him as the 'religious type.' it sounded like he was expressing to barton that he supposed he might've felt like he wished his suffering could be quantified, however. categorizing his misery in those years seemed like an impossible venture though... but perhaps that was the point of the whole quote?

barton didn't want to be considered a 'victim' of his father, and from the way this was sounding, jervis almost seemed to be implying that. he could acknowledge that wesley put him through pain but he didn't want to redefine who he was in the process. heat began to rush to barton's head, and it was like he felt like he wanted to jump out of his own skin. ❝ yeah. you don't know anything about me, because even if you witnessed everything my father did? you wouldn't understand how it made me feel because you'd still be separated from it all. ❞

barton admittedly sounded a bit bitter as he spoke, but didn't care to address that right now. jervis was comparing their situations and it made him inhale sharply whilst he covered his face with both palms. he had nothing to say about that, though, but when what he guessed were babies were brought up... he ran his hands down his face to finally reveal it once more. ❝ mm, well, i could discuss how senselessly out of control some of the events that have happened to me and to others around me have seemed all day with you. but i don't want to. its depressing, but yes, my son is adopted but he's still mine. and that's better than what would've happened if the two of them remained abandoned for longer. ❞

barton stated this in a very 'matter-of-fact' tone before he turned over all the cards that he pulled for jervis. then, seemingly right on time, jack came back into the picture with breakfast for dinner for him. that plate was gently set on the bedside cabinet. barton looked over to his son as if to check on him then. yes, he actually did appear to have taken on a pallor. barton tilted his head and promptly inquired to jack about it, ❝ are you feeling okay, punaise d'amour? (lovebug?) ❞ his son scratched the back of his neck and gnawed on his bottom lip.

❝ yeah. i probably just need to eat, like jervis said. i'll be right back, ❞ jack stifled a smile and subsequently left, not even giving barton a second to protest. he shook his head only partially jokingly afterward while saying, ❝ ugh, that boy... if he was feeling bad then i easily could have got it for him. but i guess we're starting with the 'wheel of fortune' card. ❞

Bright domes of blood welled up from the corner of Jervis' mouth; his earlier, absent worrying with his teeth had succeeded in breaking the thin skin yet again. The yuja tea took on a faint ruddy tint, a visual stimuli preceding the taste of iron on his tongue. He tried to lick it away as discreetly as he could behind his cup, still chewing meditatively on the rind, bowing his head and letting his hair cover his profile for the briefest of moments.

Better my lip than my cuticles or my hair. The last thing I need is to start wearing knit caps all the time, or to pick up a fungal infection from this wretched place. One more reason to scrub myself raw and bury every possible inch in a hundred layers of clothing, eh? Old habits died hard; kicking and screaming as they were buried. Some were easier to tame. Others proved more obstinate, harder to shake; their roots sunk deep.

Trauma and time changes us all.

Barton's agitation swirled around him like a dark cloud; foreboding. A marionette with scorching strings, desperately trying to maintain his center of gravity. Those talons he called fingernails were restless; always moving, always touching. Somehow, it reminded Jervis of a hawk keeping vigil. That thought wasn't exactly comforting, if he were being completely honest. He flinched as the memory of their first encounter, so many weeks ago in the other man's workshop, came bubbling to the surface; ripples in a cistern, deep and dark and unfathomably placid. The kind of quiet that said, "Don't look away."

Jervis' stomach pitched as he recalled the corpse Barton had uncovered; what he had done to her face.

The scalpel had glided with precision, following the intricate pathways of the supraorbital and supratrochlear nerves—key branches of the trigeminal nerve, those delicate conduits that carried every flicker of sensation from the scalp and forehead to the brain. Though that was a moot point, considering none of these nerves or even the skin itself were alive any longer.

Just atoms and molecules; a patchwork of bone, blood, muscles and sinew; dregs of various neurochemicals and hormones long halting as the vitality they once sustained shuffled off the mortal coil, grown stagnant. But still undeniably a person. Human. Utterly devoid of dignity in death; an affliction all suffer, in some shape or form.

Each was duly severed, spawning an unseen fire in their wake. Dispassionate. Meticulous. Gloved fingers swept through the woman's hair, clearing the path; dyed a dishwater-blonde, slightly curly.

A miniature gardening knife plowing through equally Lilliputian stalks of wheat.

Jervis swallowed hard, the chill cutting deeper than skin; positively algid. Barton’s boots scraped faintly against the concrete, his IV pole swaying in tandem. Under the flickering lights, his tousled curls caught the gleam, fair strands shimmering like fragile, golden lacework. He paused beside Jervis' own IV, studied it.

"A bit of both, I think..." No sense in hiding it. It was plainly writ in the overwrought cast of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw; the dim light in his eyes. Jervis tightened his grip on the blanket, on the teacup. Cast his eyes about the room. Wary, half-hooded. Dark gray irises shone against the whites, through his lashes, landed on the cards Jack had cut and dealt.

Rabbit feeling the snare brushing against its hind leg, desperate to escape being baked into a pie.

His heart sunk, as Barton spoke of his son. Paternal instinct and empathy flared again; a gleam of recognition, in a sense, too. A soft, rueful, humorless sort of chuckle escaped him, quick as a hiccup.

"'Oh, that my vexations were but weighed, and all my calamities laid in the balance.'"

Barton's hand froze on the IV. The absence of those pearly white lenses or that hideous mask did nothing to temper the intensity of his gaze; a blonde lock fell across his forehead as he tilted his head; scrutinized him, features as blank as if they'd been scrubbed clean of any nuance by unseen hands. Not quite anger, or so it seemed; not quite amusement at his extemporaneous rehash, either... curiosity? Confusion? Consternation? He couldn't tell. But it rolled off him all the same.

Jervis' ears flushing were the only signs he had any blood still circulating in his system, his pallor was so pronounced. He bowed his head; shook it softly. Shrugged in apology. Forget it. It's nothing; I meant nothing by it. Tapping his nails anxiously against the porcelain saucer clutched loosely in his fingers. Bloody hell... did I really just say that out loud? "Sorry... it's the first thing that came to mind... I didn't mean for it to slip out, wasn’t trying to come off..." He sighed, cheeks expanding; breath whistling faintly; eyebrows bunching together.

"... like I told you when we first met, I'm not insulting you. I'm not pretending to know anything about you, and I'm certainly not pitying you." His free hand curled back into the blanket; followed the demarcations of each colored square. "But I do know something about living in fear; of uncertainty, displacement." His lips thinned, twitched; a subtle rictus stretching along Jervis' cheek and nostrils for the space of a couple heartbeats. "People like to say everything happens for a reason, but not all events can be considered blessings; not by any stretch... especially when bairns are involved."

He turned back to the tarot deck. "In any case... scotching the snake, breaking the cycle... that's brilliant."

Silence fell. Barton gave him another long stare.

Jervis stared back and did not move.

Barton turned away, headed to the cards and drew three painted images. A wheel, six swords stretching upwards. A sun. His eyes roamed along their features; sharp, incisive.

Jervis' ears pricked up at another set of approaching footsteps; smelling eggs and jam preserves. Ahh...

"I hope there's enough left over for yourself," he murmured faintly, not unkindly, as he turned his head to look at Jack. "You look a bit peaky."

[problemnyatic]

Listen. I get it, ok? I really do. You're autistic, the american education system failed you, you were lied to, raised by bigots, you're just trying your best, you didn't know, I get it. It's not a moral failing not to know something, the default amount of information to have on anything is zero. It's only when you find out that you're able to learn.

But here's the thing. While ignorance isn't a moral failing, it becomes one when, once confronted with your ignorance, you try to justify it instead of putting that energy into accepting it and learning something new. When you're faced with having done something wrong, said something off-color, displaying ignorance, you have to swallow the impulse to go "but I'm a good person, I promise!!!" and make excuses.

We all have our limitations, it's part of being human. But the moment you use your ignorance and limits as an excuse to remain stagnant, you have become culpable in your own ignorance/bigotry/whatever, and it goes from being something inflicted on you by circumstance, to a decision you've made. And that's what brings your moral character into question, far more than any lapse in awareness ever could.

It's okay to be wrong. Normal, even. What's not okay is asserting your preconceptions, defending your "right" to be ignorant, and fussing over your sense of guilt instead of simply going "oh fuck , did I step in it? That's embarassing, sorry," and letting yourself learn.

[muniimyg]

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ bbydaddy!jk (7) ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ *nsfw*

series m.list // taglist request closed

note: i literally can't take myself seriously with this concept LOL where have my morals gone? lmk if anyone remembers classic kimi fics where smut was nonexistent HAUWHAUA 😭

🏷️ permanent taglist: @joonsjuice @pamzn @defzcl @maryy1300 @whoa-jo @taetaecatboy @jksusawife @un06 @firesighgirl @rrosiitas @butterymin @parkinglot-nights @musicjournalsjdb @kissyfacekoo @jkslvsnella @vampcharxter @bloopkook @somehowukook @bbystarcandykoo

//

jungkook has been looking over revisions for the past three hours. the promotion was more exciting when he worked for it... now, he feels way too overworked and honestly? for what?

the truth is, he only chased after the promotion because he knew it would be something you'd be proud of him for doing. you've always been the type to chase after things greater than yourself and wished for jungkook to do the same. well, this is it. this is jungkook doing just that for you. he hopes you can see it. he hopes you know it.

currently, he feels like his eyeballs might roll out of his head. he's bored and might lose his mind if he goes through one more slide (he has at least 200 slides left). irritated, he pushes away from his desk and stands up.

he stretches, trying to wake himself up a little more. then, he stares at the view from his office window.

the city is beautiful but he would much rather be looking at you.

suddenly, as if the angels heard him, his phone rings.

it's you.

he picks up immediately.

"hello?"

he doesn't know why, but he feels nervous. you never call. you always text or facetime... a call? what the fuck could be going on?

"hi... are you busy?" you ask, a little quiet. you sound tired.

he raises an eyebrow. "uhh... what's up? everything okay?"

a small laugh escapes your lips. "yeah. why? do i sound—"

"a little sad," he cuts you off, concerned. "___, what's wrong?"

you stay silent for a moment.

"nothing.”

he doesn’t believe you until he hears you sigh in relief.

continuing, you vent; "i just... i think i'm just stressed. i don't know. i wanted a break and suddenly i picked up my phone and called you. s-sorry. i... you're probably busy with the new promotion and—"

"i'm not that busy—"

like perfect timing, jungkook's office line interrupts. "mr. jeon, your 2pm meeting is being pushed back so you have time for lunch today."

jungkook clears his throat and thanks his assistant.

"new assistant?" you ask, letting curiosity get the best of you. "she pretty?"

"she's fired if you want."

"shut up!" you laugh. "i could care less—"

"oh, you care..." jungkook smirks. "hey, i'm glad you called. you can always call. i'm here for you when you need.. i don't want you to think anything else."

"okay.." is all you say.

jungkook takes a deep breath in. "did you eat today?"

"i ate. did you?"

"been busy—"

"you said you weren't busy!"

"hey, i'm not the lawyer!"

"still... i... listen, i'll let you go. i should probably get back to work or something—"

jungkook panics. "i'm cancelling my 2pm."

"what?"

"y-yeah... i'm looking at their revisions and i haven't even gotten through half of it. it's also shit so i'm just gonna tell them to redo everything. will i be the most hated boss? we'll find out."

on the other end of the line, you snicker.

"you can't blow off work."

"i can."

".... c-can i confess something?"

jungkook gulps, feeling sick to his stomach.

"what?"

you fidget with your fingers, unsure if you should continue.

"honey, what is it?" jungkook asks softly. "whatever it is... i'm here for you. you know that."

"i... uhm... i called because i was stressed..."

"... yeah?"

"jungkook," you pause, biting your bottom lip. is it too much to say this? at the same time... it's not like he has ever denied you anything. you might as well... "i need to relieve some stress. like, i need to focus on something that isn't work or our son. you know what i mean? everything is fine, honest! i just... i want to be focused on something and be present. i feel like i've been mindless for a hot minute... i just... look, if you're going home... is it okay if i come over? can i suck your dick or something?"

jungkook rushes home.

he changes his bedsheets and runs a quick shower. it's not like he needed to put in this much effort (it's literally the bare minimum) but it's the first time in a long time where you needed him. having sex and initiating was more so 50/50; but this was different. you need him.

he's your relief.

and also... it's a little funny, is it not? it's only 2pm on a random wednesday and you need him.

when you arrive, jungkook takes a few deep breaths before opening the door. his studio apartment is definitely smaller than your place (aka the place you two shared for 4 years), but it's okay. it's only temporary. he knows in his heart that he'll be back home with you in no time. this afternoon proves exactly that...

if today you need him for his body and tomorrow you need his heart; he'd give it.

"wow... i hate this already." you take a minute to laugh at yourself. you feel so beyond stupid and embarrassed... it's practically indescribable. though you and jungkook fool around and have always had an active sex life... right now felt different. right now felt... weird? but if it was ever going to feel weird; at least it's with him.

before you even step foot inside his place, you're turning your heel. "you know what? i should... uhm, this was stupid. sorry—"

jungkook grabs your arm and pulls you inside.

you stay still as he leans towards you face. he pokes your cheek and chuckles. "come on, honey. i said i'd be here for you. let me be here for you."

squinting at him, you move his finger off your face. "you just want your dick sucked."

"you offered," he snorts. "so pull through."

in hindsight, jungkook should've been more prepared than this.

but he isn't.

he fights to urge to spill himself all over your pretty hands every time you pump his cock. it's toe-curling the way you drag your wrist up and down. he throws his head back so much, it's beginning to get sore. leaving him with no option but to fucking watch you give him the most life changing blowjob of his life.

"are you okay?" you ask, batting your eyelashes at him. "you look stressed."

"i am stressed."

"what? why—"

"no! f-fuck, don't stop." he growls, not liking the way you suddenly stop. you purse your lips, catching on that he just feels edged out.

already?

... okay.

you continue to pump him, gripping on the base of his cock and moving your way up. his skin is so soft yet he's so hard. like... so fucking hard you know for a fact you don't want to fuck him right now. it'd hurt too much.

"you're so hard already," you utter under your breath. "and i swear to god, it's like your dick gets bigger every time i see it."

"i love you more every time i see you that's why."

"damn," you hiss. "can you... just let me do this? i wanna focus on... wanna focus on—"

"shut up."

you laugh, reaching up to place a kiss on his lips. he leans forward, gladly meeting your lips. when you pull away, you plop yourself in a more exact position in front of him. jungkook feels his balls get heavy as you kneel, part his legs, and begin to tie your hair up.

he helps you.

gathering your hair, you give him your hair tie. he quickly ties your hair before leaning back and trying to catch one last good breath.

he fails.

his breath hitches as you kiss his tip.

"w-wait—"

you don't.

you lick his length, dragging your tongue down to his base. there, you suck his balls and use your hands to pump. jungkook gulps, watching you do this. he doesn't know what to do. usually, he's really into it but there's something different about right now.

right now, he's in a trance.

he's mesmorized at how much your touch changes all the chemistry in his body. saying you send electricity throughout his body is an understatement. butterflies don't mean a damn thing either. it's captivating and everything but sweet.

it feels twisted in his stomach. it feels like he's on the edge on a cliff and the only way he can ease his fear is by jumping off.

he has to give in and let his body react to you.

he has to let you have this and from the looks of it (and feel of it); you've giving him everything you've got.

just then, you snap jungkook out of his thoughts as you attempt to take him inside your mouth. you make an effort to look up, eyes teary from holding in your gag. he's so big. there's no other way to explain it and there's no way you're going to stop thinking it.

he's so fucking big.

like what other choice do you have but to slobber all over it? you just have to. not to mention, he always tastes good. his cum, yes, but just his dick in general... is that weird? who cares.

jungkook's dick barely fits in your mouth. but you try to make it work. you want him—all of him. as you bob your head, easing your way to his full length, jungkook lets out a loud moan.

you look up and see his chest rising and falling. his abdomen twitches and so does his dick. you like the way he looks right now. as you suck, his breathing intensifies. soon, he's panting and you're near gagging.

you take a moment to catch your breath.

pulling away, your hands continue the show. jungkook brings his attention back to your hands and watches as the tip of his cock turns angry. god, it's getting bigger?

you practically drool.

jungkook leans over and wipes the access saliva around your lips. then, he shoves his thumb into your mouth. happily, you suck on it. bobbing your head, shutting your eyes, and letting out little moans; jungkook feels like he's losing his mind.

you look so fucking pretty.

when he takes his thumb out, you dive back to his dick. this time, he holds you by the back of your neck and guides you through it. jungkook pushes your head slowly but surely. then, he stops moving it. he keeps it in place as he lifts his hips and rolls them.

before you know it, he's fucking your mouth.

rolling your eyes back, jungkook moans at the sight. of course you're taking it like a slut. of course you're enjoying it too.

"you like this, huh? you like having your face fucked?" jungkook hisses in between breathy pants.

you gag in response.

jungkook pulls his dick out and slaps your mouth with it. his veiny member feels so good against your lips. you want it back in your mouth.

"answer me."

"mhmm," you whimper. "i like it so much. put it back in—mmhph—"

"fuck yes," he shoves his cock back into your mouth. "so pretty, honey. the absolute prettiest."

suddenly, he lets you go. it's then that you take the liberty to give it everything you've got.

you twirl your tongue around his tip, suck his length in every way possible. your hands pump to compliment your oral skills and jungkook can't help but think he's the luckiest man on earth.

then, it happens.

you feel his dick twitch. he instantly thrusts himself more aggressively to chase the climax. you behave and take it. then, squirts of his cum escape his tip. he cries, pulls out of your mouth, and aims at your face.

you shut your eyes, feeling his cum hit your cheeks and lips.

he lets out a moan of relief.

after a moment passes, you get up from your position and sit on his lap. wrapping your legs around him, he offers you a tired smile. then, he lifts his hands to wipe his cum off your face. opening your mouth, he gives it to you like icing.

you swallow and he feels like he might need a fucking minute.

then, you let out a little giggle when you notice how sweaty he is. you push his hair back and begin to laugh.

"w-what?" he worries. "why are you laughing at me?"

"you're sweating? as if you did any work—"

"i was literally fucking your face!"

"yeah but you're not the one that's gonna have sore cheeks for like three days or bruised knees!"

he shuts up.

you roll your eyes at him and continue to play with his hair. you feel his dick calm down under you. thank god. that fucking beast is scary when you're not in the mood...

"what time is it?" you ask, breaking the silence and breathing in the smell of sin.

jungkook shrugs. "dunno. also don't wanna move. stay like this with me."

you huff. "should i take my panties off or something?"

"why?"

"wanna cockwarm me?"

seriously...

he just might be the luckiest man on earth.

jungkook clears his throat as you straighten up your posture. "wait, i'll just put my panties to the side like this—ahh, mmhmm... y-yeah. like this.... feels good."

by now, jungkook's soft cock is inside you.

you like the feeling and so does he.

suddenly, you rest your head of his shoulder. he wraps his arms around you and holds you. kissing the side of your head, he asks; "you feeling better? relieved?"

"mhmm."

"good." jungkook tightens his lips, as he brings his hands to your hair. he runs them through and you take a deep breath in. you like the way he feels right now... so intimate.

"hey... did we talk a lot during sex?" he asks.

"don't remember."

"oh, okay..." jungkook looks around his studio apartment and suddenly feels embarrassed at how messy it is. "can i come with you to pick zion up today?"

"sure."

jungkook tightens his hold on you. you laugh and tell him it's too tight. he stops squeezing you and asks for a kiss. you give it to him. against your lips, he mummbles; "am i talking too much? i think i'm nervous or something—"

"then shut up."

"hey—"

you pull away and cup his cheeks.

"i feel your dick rising inside me. i don't have the energy for round two. either make the boner go away or i'll get off."

jungkook gulps. then, he shuts his eyes and thinks of every possible un-sexy thing ever... and it works. his dick softens again and you thank him with a kiss. jungkook takes his chance and intertwines your fingers together. you let him do so and his heart soars. something about him being inside you makes you feel so whole. there’s no denying that… and you love it, really. you love him, truly.

for a few more moments, you two stay like this.

you two are together.

[tomicscomics]

08/16/2024

Our deacon shared this anecdote last week at Mass. It's a little different each time I hear it, but the moral is always the same.

___

JOKE-OGRAPHY:

1. This cartoon is based on a widespread but often mutated anecdote. There are lots of versions, so I'm not sure what the original story is (share it in the comments if you know), but the two versions I heard recently go thuswise:

(1) An atheist goes up to a Christian and says, "If I believed what you say you believe about Judgment Day and the fate of those who reject Christ, I would crawl across the world on broken glass, begging every single person to repent."

(2) A Catholic and a Protestant walk together, but as they pass a Catholic church, the Catholic bows and makes the Sign of the Cross, as a sign of respect for the Eucharist inside. His Protestant friend says, "If I believed what you say you believe about the Real Presence of Jesus in the Eucharist, I would crawl to that altar on my hands and knees."

(Breakdown) In every version of the story I've heard, there are two characters: a faithful person and an accuser of some kind. The faithful is usually doing some small gesture of their faith, which the accuser sees as insufficient for the level of belief the faithful claims to have. I want to clarify that no one expects for evangelists to walk on broken glass forever to preach to everyone in the entire world, or for Catholics to crawl up and worship at every tabernacle they pass on a drive. We're human, so we need to find ways to manifest worship or evangelism while also going about our normal healthy lives with each other. Sometimes those ways are imperfect and small, and that's okay, as long as we're really trying. The accuser's point is hyperbolic, but nonetheless poignant.

(Moral) No matter which version of the story you hear, I think the question it poses remains the same: "Is our faith more than just talk?" It's easy to say we believe in God, but what does that belief do? It's a monumental claim, isn't it? Maybe the MOST monumental claim you could make. It seems like it should have a monumental impact on EVERYTHING we do, but instead, life just kind of moves along. How can we dare to claim that we actually believe? What does believing even mean, if it doesn't manifest itself in more than our words? Big questions from such a small story.

2. Our deacon recited the Eucharist-version of this story last week at Mass, and it made me want to illustrate it. I'm sorry this cartoon isn't gut-bustingly hilarious. Here, let me make it up to you with a fun joke. Knock knock.

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Someone Borrowed, Someone Blue.

an engagement party, your childhood best friend, one too many glasses of champagne. what could go wrong?

pairing - childhood bestfriend!steve harrington x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. cheating. alcohol mention. so much angst… i’d apologise but i’m not sorry.

word count - 3.7k

author’s note - get it? like, something borrowed, something blue… because it’s a wedding… I was half asleep when that popped into my head and I thought it was perfect, personally. I don’t condone cheating irl, but also… it’s your life, do what you want ;)

as always, reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics!! so, if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging. thanks, angels <3

masterlist. inbox.

The moonlight shines down, glinting off the diamond ring settled on your left hand.

Everyone's dancing, singing, laughing, enjoying each other's company in a rare moment of complete happiness. People keep grabbing you, hugging you, reaching for you to offer their congratulations.

Isn't it just so wonderful? Two people completely in love. Ah, to be young again.

The fairy lights twinkle where they're hung across the garden, acres of grass just begging to be decorated. You'd initially protested this venue - a huge country house in the middle of nowhere, with countless rooms and a huge courtyard.

It's just our engagement party, not our wedding. We don't have to be so extravagant.

This isn't extravagant - not for my family, anyway. Just say yes. I'll plan the entire thing, you don't have to worry.

And so you did. Say yes. To his proposal, the venue, anything he suggests. You can't find it in you to say no, to argue, to fight for what you really want. It isn't worth it.

"There you are, my soon to be wife!"

You take a deep breath, pretending the sound of his voice doesn't make you feel sick.

"My soon to be husband."

He can't see the grimace on your face, even though it's there, loud and clear. He can't read you, has never been able to.

"A car has just pulled up. You expecting anyone else?"

You are, but you won't let yourself get your hopes up. So you lie.

"Don't think so."

"Okay, well... you'll save me a dance, won't you? My mom wants to take some pictures."

You nod reluctantly, patting his arm with as much affection as you can muster.

"I think your brother is calling you."

You direct his attention to where his frat boy siblings are, hollering and yelling for him to come over.

"My guys!"

He departs as quickly as he came, leaving a wave of too strong cologne in his wake.

You take a walk from the garden to the front of the house, curiosity peaked. You scan the parking lot, and your heart stops when you spot the car in the corner.

A burgundy 1983 BMW 733i.

He's here.

You spin on your heel, searching almost frantically, when you hear someone clear their throat. You turn around, and there he is.

Leaning against a pillar, stood in a dress shirt and tailored trousers, hair perfectly styled.

Steve Harrington.

You're half convinced you're dreaming. The world moves around you in a daze, crickets chirping and wind blowing gently. You lock eyes with him, and can't fight the grin that spreads across your face.

“Don’t fret, baby. The life of the party has arrived.”

You scoff but almost run towards him, tripping over in your heels. He meets you halfway, arms snaking around your waist to keep you steady as you wrap yourself around him.

He smells the same. Cologne, spearmint, a faint note of diesel from the car. He smells like home.

Past home, you remind yourself. Not anymore. You have a new home now, with a soon to be husband that doesn’t understand you and a soon to be family that is built on morally questionable money and fake niceties. Steve’s a person of your past, a distant memory, a fading dream.

Except he’s stood right in front of you.

He's staring at you with a look in his eyes you can’t quite place. You’ve never seen it before.

"I didn't think you'd come," you whisper, begging yourself to pull away from his embrace. He doesn't let you go far, keeping his arms around your back as if he's worried you'll bolt at any given moment.

"And miss my best friends engagement party? Never."

"Best friends. We're not five anymore, Steve."

You roll your eyes, punching his arm lightly.

"What, I can't call you my best friend anymore?"

He picks you up, spinning you across the gravel of the parking lot. You're dizzy with it, the world passing by you in streaks of shapes and colours.

"Steve!"

"What?" he laughs. "You don't like this, best friend? What's the problem, best friend? Are you dizzy, best friend?"

"Put me down!"

Steve throws you over his shoulder as you both spin, strong hands preventing you from falling.

"Put me down, Steve, please - okay, okay! You're my best friend! Call me best friend all you want, please!"

Steve's crying with laughter, out of breath and rosy cheeked. He places you back on the ground, smoothing your hair down with rough palms.

You inhale carefully, grabbing onto his biceps as an anchor as you gauge your bearings. You look up at him, and lose your breath all over again.

Chest heaving, tongue darting over his bottom lip, hair mussed but still perfectly styled. He looks a picture, an ancient painting, a statue carved from the finest marble.

"I never want you to stop calling me your best friend," you whisper, so quietly that the breeze takes it.

"Then I won't."

Your hand slips down Steve's arm and into his, fingers linking gently.

"I missed you."

"I missed you so much, Birdy. You have no idea."

The childhood nickname shoots a lightning bolt through your heart, shiver running up your back involuntarily.

The two of you would sit and watch cartoons for hours on the floor of Steve's living room, pressing your little heads together to see the TV better. He'd joke that you sounded like Tweety Bird, all sweet and lispy. The nickname was born that day, and stuck ever since.

"How was California?"

"So good. I'll tell you all about it later. How's your engagement party?"

"It's good."

You try to sound convincing but your voice cracks, giving you away instantly. Busted.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. There's a few people you know back there - from school, the neighbourhood, family. They'll all wanna see you."

"I'll socialise later. Wanna talk to you first."

The intensity in his voice makes you nervous. You realise you're still holding his hand, so you drop it, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You didn't RSVP."

"Didn't get your invite. Travelling."

"I called your mom. She said she'd tell you."

"She didn't."

"She told me she did."

The crickets continue to chirp, gentle breeze blowing your hair into your face. You look at Steve pointedly, unwilling to be the first to break.

"What are you doing here, Steve?"

"It's your engagement party."

"So you've said."

"I haven't seen you in months."

"I tried to call, but you stopped answering."

"Birdy-"

"I'm just saying, Steve. We haven't spoken in months, I feel like you've been point blank ignoring me, I've had to come to terms with the fact that you probably wouldn't be at this party or the wedding and then all of a sudden you just show up? Unannounced?"

"I know how this looks."

"Do you?"

You're not entirely sure where all of this anger has come from, but you can't seem to tamp it down. It's bubbling, simmering, threatening to spill over the surface dramatically any second.

"I wasn't sure I could do this. Any of it."

"Do what?"

"Stand by and watch you make a mistake."

You scoff, laughing at him in disbelief. He's never been one to sugarcoat things, and usually, it's one of your favourite things about him. But not today.

"Don't you fucking dare, Steve."

"Birdy, be real. The guy is a prick. And you want to marry him? You're a smart girl, the smartest person I know. You've got to see that none of this makes any sense."

"So you showed up here to yell at me? Criticise my life choices? Thanks, Steve. Thanks a million. Some best friend, huh?"

"I've done nothing but support you."

"You ran away! Across the country! How is that support?"

"Fine, maybe I can't support straight up stupidity!"

"Am I smart or am I stupid? Which one is it?"

Steve sighs, running his fingers through his hair as he watches you pace the gravel in front of him. You're vibrating with fury now. It's something he's seen before. Something he knows how to navigate better than anyone. He knows you. He knows you need an outlet here.

He also knows that you're never more hyperaware than when you're mad. So, he takes his opportunity.

"I came here to tell you not to marry him."

You stop dead in your tracks, shaking your head in denial.

"...Why, Steve? Why would you say that?"

"You know why."

"No."

You take a deep breath and will yourself not to cry. In the garden, you can hear people laughing, singing along to some 70s pop song you've never liked. You pray silently that no one comes looking for you.

You take a step closer to Steve, standing up straight.

"Say it."

He looks at you incredulously, shocked by your sudden defiance.

"Say it, Steve. If you came all this way to say it, then fucking say it."

Steve steps into you, closing down the space. You don't move, determined not to back down.

"You're going to hate me if I say it, Birdy."

"I don't give a fuck anymore. Say. It."

Steve runs his tongue over his bottom lip, never once breaking eye contact with you. The silence seems to stretch on infinitely, thick and blanketing like fresh snow falling.

"I'm in love with you."

You feel like you've been punched in the gut. You take a deep breath and try to stay on two feet, wobbling where you stand. Finally, you find your voice.

"Fuck you, Steve Harrington. Fuck. You."

He laughs, but there's no humour in it.

"Yeah."

"How dare you? How dare you come to my engagement party and start confessing your feelings? You could have told me anytime, but you chose today?"

He goes to interrupt but you hold a finger up, effectively shutting him up.

"How long, huh? How long have you been in love with me?"

Steve's trembling, chest stuttering with the force of his confession.

"For as long as I can remember."

You haven't looked away from him once. You're frozen in place, suspended in the moment.

"No you haven't."

"You're gonna tell me how I feel now, Birdy?"

"Yeah, Steve, I am. Because I don't believe you. You're King Steve, ladies man, notorious player. You were never seen with the same girl twice in high school. Don't you remember? Sneaking into my room at night, whispering under my blankets about your latest hookup, telling me all the dirty details?"

"I remember," he whispers, voice laced with something like sadness. "Of course I remember."

"You don't get to tell me this now. It's not fair, Steve."

"Why not, huh?"

"Because I've always been in love with you! Always."

Steve stumbles backwards, dizzy and disorientated.

"No you haven't."

"You're gonna tell me how I feel now?" you laugh in disbelief. "I've always been in love with you. Everyone knows it. My parents, your parents, all of our friends... I think the goddamn mailman knew, Steve!"

"I didn't."

"Blissful ignorance," you chuckle humourlessly.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew it wouldn't change anything."

Steve's eyes go wide as he keels over, as if the wind has been knocked out of him.

"Wouldn't change anything? Birdy, it... I-I can assure you it... It would have changed everything."

You both look at each other, breathless and riddled with confusion. There's something flowing through your veins, something unintelligible, something unrecognisable.

"Why would you do this today?" you choke out, sobs threatening to break free. "Of all the days, Steve."

"Because I'm going insane!" he yells, voice raising. "I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't function knowing that you're going to marry a man you don't love. It's ruining my life, Birdy!"

"You don't think it's ruining mine? Huh?"

You take a breath, very aware that if you shout anymore, multiple people are going to come running from the garden.

"This is selfish, Steve. And you're not selfish."

He looks down at you, bottom lip wobbling.

"I am when it comes to you. Always have been."

"You're breaking my fucking heart, baby."

You choke out the words before bursting into tears, sobs wracking your frame. Steve grabs your hand and guides you to the stone steps, sitting you down next to him. Against better judgment, he slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

He smells so familiar, so comforting, that it only makes you cry harder. You bury your face in his chest, fingers tangled into his dress shirt, holding on for dear life.

"I'm sorry," he's mumbling. "I'm so fucking sorry. I had to. I really had to."

"I know," you're muttering back. "I know you did. I know."

You lift your head to look at him only to find he's crying too, years of emotion dripping down his face. You wipe his tears with your thumbs, your heart shattering at the sight in front of you.

Steve's only made you cry once before. In ninth grade, you'd stupidly assumed that the two of you would go to the prom together. Steve had made a joking comment about always being your date, and you hadn't questioned it. Then, one Friday night, he'd snuck into your room to tell you excitedly that he'd asked Lizzy Buchanan to the dance, and she'd said yes. You'd burst into tears immediately, much to your teenage embarrassment, willing yourself to play your cards closer to your chest. Steve had crumbled instantly, crying because you were.

That's how it's always been. He cries, you cry. You cry, he cries. He's just not usually the cause of the tears.

"I'm sorry, Birdy," he chokes. "This was the only way."

"I know," you soothe, rubbing circles into his wet cheeks with your fingers. "I know. You're not the villain here, Steve. You never were."

His eyes are trained to yours, silent communication passing back and forth. The two of you have always had the ability to practically read each other's minds.

You're not sure who moves first - perhaps it's the universe, pulling you together by the strings woven into your chests - but suddenly your lips are melded together, moving as if it's the easiest thing in the world. Steve's clinging to you as if you're his life source, a man in the desert without water.

You tangle your fingers into his hair to tug him impossibly closer, eyes fluttering when he groans, deep and visceral. He spreads his legs and pulls you between them, both of you slotting together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Your tears are dancing onto each other's cheeks, mixing like rain water and gasoline.

Suddenly, you yank yourself from his grip, standing up and smoothing down your silky dress. Steve prepares himself for the yelling, the screaming, a slap that he most definitely deserves.

Instead, he's met with you, chest heaving, skin warm, eyes heavy. You're looking at him expectantly.

"Come with me," you croak, voice hoarse and untrustworthy.

You grab his hand and slink through the front door, up the grand staircase and into a room with a heavy oak door. He follows you obediently, confused but completely trusting.

It's your hotel room. A marriage suite. A spacious, windowed room, with makeup scattered across the vanity and suitcases half unpacked on the floor. The bed is still made, which makes Steve breathe a sigh of relief. He hasn't had you here. The room isn't marred.

The minute you shut the door you're back on Steve, shoving him up against the hard wood. He grabs handfuls of your ass and spins you around, backing you into the cold surface behind you for stability. He lifts you easily, wrapping your legs around his waist as he kisses you again.

Steve trails his lips down your neck as you rock your hips, desperate to find some friction. You whine gently, fingers tugging at his hair a little rougher than intended to get your message across.

"What do you need, honey?" he murmurs, afraid to disrupt the atmosphere.

"You."

Steve throws his head back as he groans, exposing his throat to you. You waste no time in nipping up the expanse of it, sinking your teeth in with no regard for the consequences. You're too far gone now, not worried about looking back.

Walking backwards, Steve tosses you onto the bed, chuckling when you almost bounce off of it. He unbuttons and strips his shirt, pulling his belt from the loops as he goes. You can only lie there and watch, wondering when your best friend became less of a boy and more of a man. He's all corded muscle and tanned skin, freckled and perfect.

Steve crawls between your legs, kissing you tenderly.

"Wanna take my time with you," he murmurs between kisses. "Can't right now. Will, though. Promise."

You feel as if there's electricity crackling across your skin, pulsing and alive. It's never felt like this with anyone. It never will again.

"Promise?"

You can't help the slight insecurity that colours your voice, young and unsure.

"I promise, Birdy. Cross my heart."

He takes your hand in his and places it over his chest, as if to solidify his point.

You nod and kiss him again, desperate to have every inch of his skin on yours.

Steve shimmies your underwear down your legs, tossing them behind him somewhere. Shucking his trousers off, he pushes your dress up and around your waist, groaning when he gets a good look at you.

"Prettiest girl in the world. He doesn't deserve you. Never did."

"And you do?"

"I'll spend every day for the rest of time proving that I do."

With that he's pushing into you, sliding home with one smooth thrust. Both of you gasp, grabbing onto the other person to use them as an anchor.

"Please, Steve," you're whispering. "Give me everything. I want it all."

"You've got no idea how long I've been waiting for this."

"I do," you laugh, "I do. Because I've been waiting just as long."

Steve chuckles and leans down to kiss you, slipping his tongue into your mouth to memorise the way you taste. There's remnants of champagne on your lips, along with the minty lip gloss you've loved for as long as he can remember.

He wastes no time setting a steady rhythm, thrusts deep and measured. You rake your nails down his back, clawing at this skin, praying silently that you leave your mark. Little do you know, you staked your claim on him a long, long time ago.

"S'good, Stevie," you whine. "Fuck, so good."

"Does he make you come? Does he even try?"

You shake your head frantically, closing your eyes when Steve laughs dryly.

"Didn't think so. He can't make you feel the way I can, baby. He'll never be able to."

His words are only pushing you closer and closer to the edge, red hot heat building at the pit of your stomach. Steve places one hand at the base of your throat, the heavy weight of it causing your eyes to roll back.

Your sweat slicked skin is plastered to his, every inch of you pressed together. Steve leans down to rest his forehead against yours, panting into each other's mouths.

"I love you," he breathes, hips getting quicker. "I love you. Fuck, I love you."

"I love you," you sob, back arching as you find your release. Stars dance across your vision as you tighten around Steve, nails leaving crescent moons on the skin of his shoulders.

Steve's right there with you, back flexing and fingers leaving their prints on your hips as he groans. It's the prettiest sound you've ever heard. Your mind loops it for you, playing it on repeat as he collapses his weight on top of your body.

"I meant it," he mutters against your damp chest. "I do love you. Always have."

You kiss his forehead gently, smoothing the hair away from his face.

"I meant it too. I love you. You taught me what love was in the first place, Steve."

He leans up to press his lips to yours, tender and honey sweet.

You realise the gravity of the situation all of a sudden, your heart rate increasing in Steve's ear.

"Hey, hey. Birdy. Don't panic, okay? We'll figure this out."

You think for a moment, weighing up your options in your head. Unexpectedly, you're jumping out of bed, fixing your dress and slipping on your underwear and heels.

"What are you doing, babe?"

You adjust your hair and swipe your fingers under your eyes to salvage your makeup in the mirror, turning to face the man who's now dressing himself frantically.

"Have you had a drink tonight?"

"No, I drove here."

"Perfect."

You grab your purse and stand by the door, waiting for him to follow. When he looks at you in pure confusion, you chuckle.

"Let's run away."

"Birdy... what?"

"Steve. You heard me. Let's. Run. Away."

He scans your face for any sign of hesitation, but all he finds is love. Adoration. Assuredness. That's all the confirmation he needs.

He runs at you, picking you up and spinning you around. Grabbing his hand, the two of you sneak down the stairs, slipping out of the front door as quietly as possible.

You throw yourself into the front seat of his BMW, vibrating with adrenaline as Steve starts up the engine. It roars to life, and you're very aware that people are going to come looking for you.

But you don't care.

Steve links your fingers, resting your intertwined hands in his lap as he reverses. You go to look back towards the garden, but you stop yourself.

"Can't move forward if you're always looking back, right?"

Steve laughs, leaning over to kiss your warm cheek.

"Truer words have never been spoken, Birdy."

He brings the car to a stop before you begin down the winding driveway, looking at you carefully.

"You ready?"

You take a deep breath, grinning at him.

"I've been ready since we were five years old."

He smiles at you, bright and blinding, and there's no doubt in your mind that you've made the right choice.

Can't move forward if you keep looking back, after all.

@enigmaticloki @joekeerysslut @s-trawberryv-eins @wintressoldier36 @mangomastani

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

Angel Dust: (smirking) "Ya know toots-"

Vaggie: "You're insufferable. Yeah. We all know. What else."

Angel Dust: "-speaking of teasin' and toyin', ya sure do wear a pretty short skirt for someone who's datin' miss prim and proper. Don't she mind you lookin' like hell's saddest a knock-off halloween party costume hooker?"

Vaggie: "I dress nothing like you."

Angel Dust: "No shit. Ya barely dress at all. Zero effort."

Vaggie: "More like zero fucks given for any opinion other than Charlie's."

Angel Dust: "Oh so she DO like it?"

Vaggie: "Just because she's not the one calling her girlfriend 'sweetie' doesn't mean I'm not eye candy to her."

Charlie: (skidding into room) "-ISN'T IT SO PRETTY ON HER?? THE SKIRT!!"

Angel Dust: "Hot."

Charlie: "I KNOW RIGHT!!!!"

Angel Dust: "I ain't talking about the skirt."

Charlie: "Huh? But, but it is hot-"

Vaggie: "Sweetie, he means your flaming skid marks."

Charlie: "My what? Oh!" (starts stomping out her flaming skid marks) "Oh shit not again- the carpet!"

Vaggie: (smiling) "Got a little fired up huh babe?"

Charlie: "I can handle it! Nooo problem do NOT swap out the skirt!"

Vaggie: "Looks like it might a workplace safety hazard."

Charlie: (taking off jacket and desperately smothering the burning carpet with it) "NO NO IT'S NOT!!! It's, um, a key part of keeping up workplace morale!"

Angel Dust: "Pity it can't make anything wet other than you, huh Charlie Puff."

Charlie: "Not a workplace appropriate topic!"

Vaggie: "Want help babe? I could just beat the fire out with his corpse."

Charlie: "No one's beating anything either!!" (still beating the fire out)

Angel Dust: "Suuuuure ya won't be..." (sigh) "How's it you two disgustingly sweet flaming gays haven't burned down the hotel already?"

Vaggie: "It's fireproof. Mostly."

Charlie: "And after that one time, so's our bed!"

Angel Dust: "The BED?"

Vaggie: (groans) "Sweetie, why."

Charlie: (soot stained) (frazzled) "I'm sorry! I'm all hot and bothered now, okay??"

Vaggie: "Well that I can help with."

Charlie: "O-oh?"

Vaggie: "Easy fix. Wanna go check if our bed's still fireproof?"

Charlie: "Yes." (drops jacket) (flops into vaggie's waiting arms) "Yes, that's an amazing idea!"

Vaggie: (scooping gf up) "I have them sometimes."

Charlie: "Everything about you is ALWAYS amazing, Vaggie." (smooch) "Especially in a skirt. Um...... is this one fireproof?"

Vaggie: "We'll find out."

Charlie: "Should we take it off first then? For safety!"

Vaggie: "If you want, sweetie. It's one option."

Charlie: "Oh."(grins) "And the other one is...?"

Angel Dust: "Get a room!"

Angel Dust: (already alone)

Angel Dust: "... these are some shit work place standards." (yelling after them) "Make sure that skirt's a natural fiber before ya start some kinky hellfire stuff or it'll melt all over ya! If I smell shitty chemical smoke coming outta there I'm barging in with an extinguisher!"

Chaggie's door: (locks)

[lastoneout]

Honestly, I don't say it often bcs I know how this site is but I really do think for a lot of survivors of abuse, especially abuse that went on for years and years, sometimes the message "it's not your fault, you didn't do anything wrong/to deserve this" while ABSOLUTELY TRUE* isn't actually super helpful. For a lot of us there's a LOT of guilt tied into it, and even if things were truly out of our hands we will not be able to accept that we are truly blameless, at least not at first, and maybe for some of us not ever. So being told "no dw you didn't do anything wrong <3 <3 you're innocent" feels...idk like some toxic positivity style lies. It doesn't make me feel better, because I still do feel like there were things that happened that were my fault, that were in my control, even an ethicist or god or whoever could look me dead in the eyes, weigh all the facts, and assure me of my complete innocence, and I still wouldn't believe it. (Tbh, you have to be ready to forgive yourself and trying to force it early does more harm than good.)

And I occasionally see movies and shows and stuff get roasted all to hell for having the audacity to go with a different message, to offer abused characters not a platitude about how they are innocent and should forgive themselves asap, but instead say "so what if it was your fault? so what if you fucked up? you're still alive, you still have time, your mistakes(or perceived mistakes) don't make you irredeemable scum who deserves to suffer, it's okay that you fucked up, what matters is what you do next, and even if the horrible thing was your fault in one way or another or you did actually hurt people, you still did NOT deserve to be hurt in turn" because people think that is like, admitting that the person in question is at fault when they almost always aren't....but as an actual survior, I'm sorry, you can tell me I'm innocent till the cows come home and I won't believe it. What I need to hear is that even if it was my fault I didn't deserve to be treated that way. I still deserve help. I deserve to keep going. I am not forever stained by my mistakes. I deserve a future free from this pain.

I think before we look at things in this like...grand moral way where we try to make sure we're sending the most Correct and Healthy Message Possible, sometimes it's worth asking if that message is actually the one the people it's about need to hear. I'm sure for some people it is very freeing to be told it's not their fault, but that kind of message does not resonate with me. And I, as well as people like me, deserve to expirience stories about us that are cathartic, that resonate, that make us feel seen, and to not have to see everyone and their mom throw a fit because what helps us is "problematic".

Anyway this has been mulling around in my head for a while and I def have a lot more to say about the way guilt manifests in trauma born of abuse, but yeah I just feel like this is something that should be talked about when we bring up abuse narratives and how well written they are and if they send the Correct Message, because the "Correct Message" is never going to be the same for everyone. And that's true of ANY demographic you could choose to represent!

Like some disabled people might enjoy the "magically healed" trope while others find it offensive. Some trans people like stories where transitioning is easy as drinking a potion or getting a fancy futuristic surgery and some find that that trivializes their struggles. Some queer people want stories where there's just no homophobia at all, others find that a world without it feels fake and patronizing. Some women do want to read stories about how keeping hearth and home is noble and empowering and others want read about women who have other jobs and never have kids or get married. For some of us "you're beautiful no matter what" is lovely and some of us just want to be told being fat and hairy and having acne and scars and shit is normal and fine. Or, like the last post I reblogged says, sometimes "you're not a burden" doesn't hit as well as "being a burden isn't a bad thing". No one type of representation is ever going to work for everyone, and that doesn't mean one type of rep is objectively wrong and the other is objectively right.

So yeah, the next time you find yourself angry because you think a story is sending the wrong message about a marginalized or harmed group, maybe stop for a second to ask yourself if it's actually harmful...or if you're not the person who the story is speaking to, and if there's someone it is talking to who desperately needs to hear what it has to say.

(*Getting ahead of this now: Do not put words in my mouth. I am not saying that any abused person in any way deserved their abuse or was at fault for it happening, that is not up for debate. The fault is always in the hands of the person who chose to hurt them. I'm just saying it's nuanced and complicated and guilt is a huge fucking issue that survivors have to deal with all the time and it's not wrong to acknowledge that some of us are always going to feel like we did something wrong and not be eased by being told otherwise even if the person saying it is 100% correct and/or means well. I do not have time for people who are going to willfully misinterpret me. You will be blocked.)

[thefreakandthehair]

@steddiemas day 1: deck the halls | wc: 1.2k | rated: m

Robin Buckley loves Christmas.

Like, really loves Christmas. If she could convince Steve to put the tree up in their little shitbox apartment the day after Halloween, she would. In fact, she'd tried last year but Steve reminded her that a live tree would be a needleless fire hazard by Christmas Day and she refuses to entertain the idea of a fake tree.

Absolutely not. Live tree or bust.

And this is how Steve ends up at the Christmas Tree Farm the day after Thanksgiving, dragged around with a fond if not tired smile as she checks tree after tree, pulling their branches, checking their strength and health.

"It has to be a Blue Spruce to hold those heavy ornaments from my parents, and none of these are Blue Spruces!" She bemoans, whipping her head around to glare at Steve. "Are you even helping?"

He rolls his eyes and sips the hot chocolate that warms him from the inside. "I'm here as moral support and to cut the thing down when you find it." Steve wiggles the little saw he'd been handed and nods her on.

Robin scoffs and marches back towards him. "I think there are some Blue Spruces in the lot towards the back."

Without a question, he turns on his heel and follows her. This isn't their first Christmas Tree Hunt so he knows the drill. No matter how much he actually hates Blue Spruces because the needles are sharp and stick him when they hang the lights, he'll never say a word. Not when it makes his best friend this happy.

Eventually, they make the trek through muddy grass and Robin does, in fact, find a Blue Spruce that makes her eyes light up in the hidden away lot.

"This is it," she beams. "This is the one."

"Perfect, here, hold this--" Steve hands her his mug and starts to lean down, only for the tree to start shaking.

A man in ripped jeans and Reeboks lies beneath the tree, his own saw just beginning to make its mark in the stump of the spiky, healthy Spruce.

"Hey! Hey, what are you doing? This is our tree." Robin says, reaching through branches to hold it steady. "We were just about to cut it down, back off."

Steve sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. It's not that he won't defend Robin's honor and get into a fight in a Christmas Tree Farm for her, he'd just really rather not.

The mystery man pokes his head out from under the tree with furrowed brows and two needles sticking out from the top of his head, dirt on his denim jacket that protects what looks like a red and black flannel. Steve's definitely been watching way too many Hallmark movies with Robin lately because holy shit, he's cute.

"Listen, my best friend wants this tree, and I don't even wanna be under here but if she doesn't get this Blue Whatever-The-Fuck, someone's halls are getting decked and it'll probably be mine. So, sorry." He shrugs and returns to his place under the tree. 

Robin looks at Steve, bewildered and frazzled simultaneously. Do something, she mouths. 

Like what? He mouths back, scrunching his face and contorting his mouth. 

She widens her eyes and jerks her head to the side, desperate. 

He should’ve known Robin would be responsible for his demise. 

“C’mon, man, we’ve been here for two hours looking for a tree.” Steve gets no response, just a few grunts that shouldn’t go straight to his crotch but what can he say? It’s been awhile.

He steps forward and lies down beneath the tree with the Tree Thief. “Is she here with you? Your best friend who seems as fucking rabid as mine is here about these trees?” 

Steve watches as the man focuses on the tree stump, rhythmic back and forth motions of the saw moving his torso along the ground with his tongue poking out between his lips. “Maybe I can talk to her? Or send Robin? She’s… convincing?” 

“Chrissy wants this one, dude. Hate to break it to you.” 

“Ah, okay. Robin and Chrissy. Well, I’m Steve, and you’re…?” 

The sawing stops as he catches his breath. “Eddie. I’m Eddie. And unless you’re gonna help under here, you might wanna move. I don’t wanna drop this on you.” 

Steve pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and takes a chance. Reaching out, he places one hand on top of Eddie’s. “Can I make you a deal?” 

Eddie startles, eyes flickering back and forth from the space where their hands touch on the rough bark of the tree up to Steve’s gaze. 

“Depends on the deal, I suppose.” Maybe Steve imagines the flush to his cheeks and the playful grin that blossoms across his lips. All he knows about Eddie is that his best friend’s name is Chrissy and that he has the most beautiful brown eyes Steve’s maybe ever seen. 

Not maybe. Definitely. 

“Uh,” he shakes his head, trying to pull himself out of whatever Christmas romcom he thinks he’s living in. “What if we help you and Chrissy find another tree and I help you cut it down? I’ll even carry it to the car for you.” 

“What are you, some sort of lumberjack?”

“Nope,” he lowers his voice conspiratorially, joking as he leans closer, like an idiot. “Just desperate not to get my halls decked.” It earns him a genuine smile and surprised laugh punched from Eddie’s lungs. 

“Alright,” he taps the saw on the trunk and smirks over at Steve, mere inches apart beneath a Christmas tree. Close enough for the faint scent of Eddie’s cigarettes and Old Spice cologne to permeate the strength of the resinous spruce. “You help us find another tree, lug it to the car, and then meet me for coffee after? Seems like the least you can do, all things considered.” 

Trading numbers with the guy he met while bargaining for Robin’s dream Christmas tree isn’t the weirdest moment of his life, but it’s certainly on the shortlist. As is plucking rogue needles out of his hair when they come up from beneath the tree.

He ends up lugging two Blue Spruces to the parking lot an hour later in two trips— Robin chatting with Chrissy in front of them and Eddie at his side, gravitating closer and closer until their arms nearly touch. 

“You know, you didn’t actually have to do this,” Eddie says, moving away from Steve and to the other side of Chrissy's sedan to help tie the tree to the roof. “You’re not like, actually obligated or whatever.” 

Steve finishes tying his end of the knot and looks across at Eddie, finding him standing with hopeful eyes and a piece of hair drawn in front of his face. 

“Oh, I know.” He smiles and shrugs. “But I want to. Especially the coffee-with-you-after part.” 

“Not until we get this thing up and decked, Munson!” Chrissy pops up next to Eddie at the same time Robin appears next to Steve, both of them practically bouncing on their heels and grinning ear to ear. 

Robin nudges Steve in the side and he looks down to see her phone held out, Chrissy’s number typed into her contacts with a tiny pink heart to it. He gives her a subtle, excited thumbs up from below Eddie and Chrissy’s view beneath the car. 

Eddie slings an arm across Chrissy’s shoulders and ruffles her hair before she fixes her ponytail, indignant. 

“Alright, alright,” Steve laughs. “I’ll uh, I’ll text you?” 

Eddie nods and turns himself and Chrissy towards the front of the car. As he gets in the passenger seat, he looks back at Steve with a mischievous wink most likely emboldened by Steve’s brash flirtation. 

“The sooner, the better.”

[bananayuyu]

Heart Burn

Pairing: Yunho x f reader

Genre: fluff

Word count: 1.4k

Summary: You and your boyfriend have been planning this fun little scene for weeks now. Unfortunately your stomach has other plans.

Warnings: suggestive stuff, established relationship, reader has bad gut pain, (no smut but they are playing out a fantasy scene in the beginning kind of)

A/n: My tummy hurts and I want him to love me :(

All you'd wanted was for the scene to go well.

It had been in your calendar for three weeks now. You'd finally told him, in the cold comfort of the night, that'd you'd had this fantasy ever since you met him. Ever since you met him at his old law office, when you went with your friend to be moral support.

The suit really did it for you, you can't lie. You'd visited him at work many times just to see him in it. God did you wish he could take you right there, right in his little office, only unzipping his pants enough to fuck you.

But today as you stand in his apartment, the cool stone of the countertop hitting your lower back, you just aren't in the mood.

Your stomach is fucked, has been all day, and you don't know what it is. You haven't eaten anything you shouldn't, haven't done anything different. You've taken all your meds, like you always do. You even rested today in preparation for this, making sure your schedule was clear. But you haven't been able to eat since the late morning, and you're exhausted despite the rest.

"Hello, can I help you?" Yunho quips, stepping out of his tiny home office to greet you as if you were a perspective client.

"Hi, sir, I'm here to meet with Mr. Jeong," you say, bowing your head to him.

"Ah, you must be y/n," he smiles, bowing in response. "I'm ready for our meeting, if you'd like to follow me." He holds out his arms towards his office, waiting for you as you step past him through the door. He's moved the setup of the room around a bit, to accommodate the night's activities, so his desk is now in the center of the room, and one of his dining chairs has been placed in front of it. "You can have a seat in this chair here," he says, pulling it out for you. You sit down gently, trying to remain focused, trying to get into the scene, into the right mindset. But you just can't.

Yunho walks around to the other side of his desk, sitting down in his chair and ruffling with some papers. He plays the part so well, so easily, and you know if you weren't in so much pain that you'd be eating up every second of it.

"So, we're here to discuss your grandmother's estate, is that correct?" You just nod along, letting him lead you in the made up story. "What exactly has been the problem?"

"It's my mother, sir. She is determined to keep the money and assets away from me and my sister, even though my grandmother stated she wants it to be split between us. I just wanted to make sure we had the right legal protections in place," you say, hoping it sounds plausible enough to suffice.

"It's good you're getting ahead of this. Or I'm assuming you are, your grandmother hasn't passed yet, has she?"

"No sir, but her cancer has returned and she's decided she doesn't want treatment this time. She's on hospice. We probably still have a few months with her, but we don't know exactly," you say, sighing.

"I'm so sorry to hear that. I hope my help can ease some of the stress you must be feeling. Are you feeling okay?" Yunho cocks a brow, looking straight into your eyes. He's a bit surprised with the direction you're taking the story; it's much darker than he expected, and your sigh sounded all too real. He knows you're not that good of an actor.

"I'm fine, sir," you respond, but tears are brimming a bit, and you're clenching your arms around yourself because of the pain in your guts.

"Are you cold? I apologize, the heat isn't so great in this room," he says, staring at you now with extreme concern.

"A- a bit, sir," you nod, staring down at your crop top, depressed by the bloated look of your abdomen. You'd planned this outfit weeks ago, just like you'd planned his, but your body didn't really feel fit for it this afternoon when you put it on.

"Let me grab you something," he says, stepping up from his desk and leaving the room, returning not long after with one of his zip up hoodies.

"Here, you can take this. I keep it here in the office in case I need to work late and it's cold," he smiles, the words tumbling out of him with such ease. You snake it around you, wrapping it tightly instead of zipping it up, curling up into a ball on the chair. "Can I help you zip it?" he asks, looking for an in to touching you, and finally getting this scene more underway.

"Sure, thank you," you say, and he fixes you with a look that you know all too well. "Thank you, sir," you correct yourself, watching as his expression changes and he squats down in front of you, zipping up the hoodie for you.

"There, does that feel better?" he asks, rubbing a hand down your upper arm, smiling up in such an endearing way. But just as he does that a sharp pain snakes up your esophagus, and you can feel your whole gastrointestinal system is on fire. You wince, but try to hide it, nodding your head to answer him.

Suddenly his face changes, and his body language too.

"Baby, what's wrong?" he asks you, his voice different, not in character anymore. You just stare at him wide eyed, confused. You hadn't used your safe word, or said anything else to break the scene. Even if you maybe should have.

"I'm taking us out of the scene for good tonight if you don't tell me what's wrong," he says, voice stern but loving.

"My stomach," you sigh, looking beyond him, tears brimming again.

"It just started hurting?" he asks.

"All day," you shake your head, frowning.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks, taking your hands in his.

"We'd been planning this for a while," you pout, still not looking at him.

"Baby, we have all the time in the world to do these things together. If you're not feeling well then we should reschedule. How you feel is what matters most," he says, and the tears start flowing, your breaths getting shaky. "Shh, come here," he coos, bending forward to pull you into a hug, tucking your head into his shoulder and holding it in his hand.

"I'm so sorry you're not feeling well, love," he says, placing a gentle kiss on your temple. "Have you eaten anything today?"

"Only breakfast," you mumble into his shoulder.

"Poor thing, you must be feeling exhausted," he says, and you nod into him. "Can I run you a bath?" he asks, and you mumble mmhm in response.

A few moments later he's off to start it, returning to carry you to the bathroom, slowly taking off your clothes. He knows the scene won't be happening tonight but he still loves getting to see you naked, even when you're feeling so shitty and constantly telling him to look away.

"You're so pretty," he says, and you whine in response, staring down at yourself. "I wish she'd fucking behave," he points to your stomach, leaning down to place a gentle kiss just to the right of your belly button. "She needs someone to punish her and make her get in line," he jokes, and you laugh too.

He then starts stripping off his clothes too, his beautiful suit taking a while to fully unbutton. You watch in awe from the bathroom, as he stands in the hallway, gently placing his suit back on it's hanger in the closet.

"What?" he asks you, quirking a brow jokingly. You roll your eyes, looking away briefly, but not able to keep your eyes away from his naked form for long. "You can't stop staring," he says, smirking, finally moving back in to join you. He helps you gingerly step into the tub, stepping in along with you. He sits himself behind you, his strong legs stretching out along the bottom of his large tub, and he carefully places you on top of him.

You whine and lean your head back, another pain striking somewhere in your small intestine. But the heat of the water is very relaxing, making things feel like they're moving in the direction they need to be, in the direction of feeling better.

"Come here, my love," Yunho says, wrapping his arms around you, kissing your forehead. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," you say, closing your eyes and letting your body completely relax against his.

Soon you're out, the warmth and comfort lulling you out of this reality, and finally you're getting the rest your body really needed tonight.

[mintkookiess]

It's Always Been Her.

A/N before anything else: Hey there I'm Mint! I finally got the guts to actually post something instead of keeping it in my private blog sue me (╯•﹏•╰)

Felt a bit angsty today and I've been practicing more on my writing so, I decided why not post it

Please also note the characters here are aged up, none are minors, and Miles and our dear lovely fem!reader here are old enough to live together (Feel free to think up what age you want esp since there isn't really an age stated her). Plus, this has only been proof-read like twice and ran through grammarly once, hope it turned out okay still with the grammar and typos ಥ‿ಥ

Anyways enough about that, you can go ahead! Hearts and reblogs are appreciated

(Pls be nice ty)

Love,

Mint

P.S. AO3 saw it first here!

Summary: Y/n finds Miles comforting his ex girlfriend Gwen in their home.

Word count: 2.6k

Tags: Miles Morales x Fem!Reader Slight mention of blood (those are paper cuts I promise), angst (no happy ending babe), heartbreak, cutting up onions .°(ಗ д ಗ。)°.

"Y/n...?" Miles looked as if he had just seen a ghost, "How long have you been—" She hadn’t even realized how she stood by the door, crying with her mouth covered, her other hand clutching her aching chest, until he noticed her.

"Miles..." Y/n managed to choke out, her voice barely a whisper as she looked at her supposed lover Miles, comforting Gwen on the floor of their shared home's living room. Her eyes were filled with absolute sorrow, betrayal, hurt, anger, and anguish all rolled into one. She stood there helplessly, feet seemingly glued to the ground even if her brain has been telling her to run.

But she couldn't seem to look away or move a single inch as the tears continued to flow down like a stream down her cheeks that have turned pale from shock. Miles was rendered speechless, he had never seen Y/n like this, and he hadn't seen her cry much either.

"Y/n..." He said with a weak voice, his voice breaking ever so slightly as he slowly unwrapped his arms from Gwen, standing up to take a step towards her. He knew he should come to her, to hug her, comfort her, tell her it's okay but he couldn't seem to bring himself to do it. His hands trembled as he looked into her eyes. Y/n could see the fear and regret in them.

"What... What are you doing with her?" She croaked, still in a tone that made her voice sound like the harsh cold wind of winter. Y/n had watched Miles comfort Gwen for the past thirty minutes, and all she could do was see how vulnerable they were to each other, how Miles' comforting voice that felt so much like caramel soothed his ex-girlfriend who had been weeping like a deer in his chest.

It was another sense of betrayal and hurt, a whole new level of pain that Y/n couldn't even begin to explain. No words could describe how... broken she felt.

"She's... She's having.." he started, before pausing, trying to configure the right words to say to her—"She's having a hard time right now." He finally finished, his voice sounding weak. All Y/n did was stare right at him, tears still rolling down her eyes.

Seeing her cry made him want to do anything—to hug her, comfort her, and just say “Everything’s fine. I'm sorry, please stop crying, I love you." Miles didn't know what to do, it seemed as if he couldn't stop her from crying and it broke him.

Y/n started to let out small sobs from her lips that had dried and cracked from letting out so many tears. Her hands crept up to her face, trying to see if she could wake up from this dream that's become her new hell.

She was shaking her head slightly, shoulders sagging more and more as she felt all her patience thin out like paper. "You promised... You told me that you don't talk to her anymore." Y/n said slowly, her words slightly muffled from her hands.

Oh, how she tried so hard to not have her voice crack, even though she could hear her heart break into a million pieces per second.

Upon hearing her words, Miles visibly flinched. He looked down at his feet as if he was suddenly ashamed of himself. His head tilted back up to her, his eyes filled with shame. Miles stood there frozen, a few feet away from her, unable to bring himself to approach or move a single inch.

It was as if he wanted to make it up to her, but he was too scared, too fearful of what would happen. "Y/n..." The way he said her name was like it was a silent prayer, a plea. "I'm... sorry..."

After a few more tears, she removed her hands from her face. Her head hung low, but her eyes looked up at Miles with newly found determination and courage but still with a tinge of fear and hurt.

"You still love her."

Her words itself may have downright punched her heart as she could feel it gets beaten up and shatter, falling to the depths of her very soul. She didn't want to utter what she had been thinking since she saw the way Miles comforted Gwen with so much love that she thought was only reserved for her. Y/n feared that once she said it out loud, it would become real.

But deep down she knew that this had become her reality, whether she said it or not.

Miles felt like he was stabbed at every syllable, how deep her words wounded him. Yet he had to admit that the truth in what she said made them all the more gut-wrenching.

He looked away from her, trying to gather some little courage before facing Y/n once more. Miles' brown eyes bore into hers, two pairs of eyes containing remorse, regret, and betrayal. "Yes..." He finally answered, the weight of his guilt dragging every word down with him.

The second he confirmed her statement, it was as if her vision went black. "Thank you... for your honesty." Was all she could say.

Y/n's feet may weigh a thousand pounds right now, but she forced herself, dragging herself out the door. The only thing that she could think of was that she had to get away.

To run.

To hide.

To go to a place where Miles wouldn't find her.

His simple “ yes “ reply was enough to tell her that she was no longer wanted or needed. She felt herself to be a burden, someone holding back Miles from truly loving Gwen. Even though he had made promises to her, that he'd keep his and Y/n's relationship safe and out of harm.

As she started to walk away, Miles' heart severed apart with each step she took. He had never felt so lost, so scared, as he did right now. He hasn't even spared Gwen a glance behind him as he tried to take another step towards the direction Y/n disappeared to.

She walked away from him and he could only watch. All he wanted was to ask her to stay, to forgive him. He didn't want to lose Y/n, but he was too scared to act, fearing that it would make matters worse than it already was.

If that was even possible.

Y/n turned right towards their shared bedroom, her eyes sticking to the ground because she refused to take in the sight of the many pictures of her and Miles scattered around the walls and tables of the bedroom.

She made a beeline to the closet, pulled out luggage, and just threw in all the clothes she owned, every accessory in their shared drawers, and every perfume that decorated the vanity.

Y/n was slowly removing every trace of her in the bedroom.

Once she was done, she zipped the luggage close, and stomped to their framed pictures, their polaroids that were clipped to the walls, everything that had the both of them in it, and started throwing them across the tiled floor. She didn't let out a single scream, letting the picture frames break to make all the noise for her as she couldn't let out any noise.

Every time it shattered against the polished floor, her heart broke along with it.

Y/n continued to break and rip every picture, tears streaming hot down her cheek, dripping off her chin, and staining the dissipated pictures and smashed frames by her feet.

Miles stood there, his heart in his throat, hearing the sounds of glass smashing and wooden picture frames hitting the floor. He didn't move, though it hurt to hear that, and seeing the pictures being destroyed hurt even more.

He knew he should do something, he knew he should call out to her—but he was too much of a coward. He watched her destroy everything that held memories of their now-broken relationship.

Once everything was laid out on the floor either broken or ripped to shreds, Y/n fell to her knees, her hands covered in deep cuts as it started to bleed out from how hard her grip was while smashing the frames and destroying the pictures.

But she could only stare, her soulless eyes glazing over her two hands that had so much resemblance to her emotional and mental state. All wounded and cut up, bleeding for the whole world to see.

Her fingers shook ever so slightly, her perfectly manicured nails were now tinted a crimson shade from her blood, and all she could do was stare.

She didn't even feel any pain.

Miles finally snapped out of it, letting out a pained gasp as he sees her lacerated hands. He knew he had to do something and so he tried to walk to her, taking each step as if they were as heavy as lead weights. "Y/n... please... stop... you've hurt yourself..." He said as tears made their way down his face once again.

It was as if Y/n didn't hear him even though she did. She refused to respond, picking up the little pieces of the pictures she destroyed and examining them with her bloodied hands.

Every picture she saw, each one was of them that stared back at her with wide smiles. So much life, so much love and passion.

Now look at them. Look at how they ended up.

It was so pathetic that she thought it was laughable. How could their picture-perfect relationship turn into something so hideous, so ugly? Her mind was on constant replay of the way Miles' arms were wrapped around Gwen, whispering sweet nothings to her as she cried uncontrollably against him.

"Why did you do this to us Miles? We were doing so good..." She muttered. Y/n's face no longer held any sadness or... Any emotion. She was just there, kneeling on the floor with her cut-up hands and body staying still like she became a doll devoid of feelings.

"Y/n—" He started, his voice quiet and unsure. Miles continued to inch closer and closer to her, though it was clear he did so with caution. "I know that right now it may be hard for you to believe me, but... I'm sorry... I didn't mean for things to go this far I swear..." Miles whispered with quivering lips. He was trying so hard to remain composed, but he could feel his emotions overflow and take over his entire body.

He continued towards her until he was inches in front of Y/n, his heart practically beating out of his chest and with hands that were mad trembling.

"Y/n... Please don't leave me..." His voice convulsed in guilt. Miles knelt to be at her eye level, to beg for her forgiveness. He didn't care that the frame shards were probing his knees. He eyed her injured hands, reaching his hands toward her as if he was trying to stop her from leaving him forever.

But he could sense it. They both could. It was the end for the two of them.

Y/n was too tired, too exhausted to push his hands away. She remained in her spot as she felt walls around herself build-up, her soul fading further away from reality, causing her to be numb. Her eyes drifted to the hands that belonged to him, she couldn't help but remember how these same hands were the place she called her safe space for so many years.

Now, she thinks of it as the hands that had ruined her ruined them.

She sees the hands that had comforted someone who wasn't her, another girl who wasn't even supposed to be in their lives anymore. "Go to her Miles..." She whispered weakly, still refusing to look at him.

Miles' breath hitched, and his face paled at the words that came out of her mouth. "Y/n... no..." he tried to say something, to make her stay, anything. There were so many words on his tongue that he wished to utter out, but he didn't have the courage or strength to say a single one.

He wanted to say how much he loved her, but he knew that Y/n was drifting further away from him with each passing second.

So Miles did the only thing he could and stared at her, with a face frozen with shame and fear.

His words slowly snapped her out of her trance, like a spell that seemed to have awoken her back to reality.

She slowly pushed herself up, wiping down her hands on her skirt to remove the remaining blood that hadn't dried out. Her e/c eyes finally looked down at Miles, kneeling before her.

Y/n felt her blood boil at how pathetic he looked. She wondered how he could look in such a way when he was the one at fault, who practically shredded their relationship into pieces the moment he let Gwen inside their home.

"Go to her Miles," She repeated with a more stern voice. Her breathing started to become heavier with all the anger inside of her threatening to spill over. "That's what you wanted anyway right?" Y/n said a bit louder now. "It's her! It's always been fucking her right?!" She was yelling, each word leaving a strain on her throat and a bad taste on her tongue.

Her hands balled into fists, feeling the sting of her nails digging into her new cuts and wounds but she didn't give two shits about it right now.

The fire in her eyes scared Miles. He started to hyperventilate, his chest tightening and feeling his lungs scream in search of air. Her voice was laced with so much malice and hatred that it scared him. “Y/n, please... I—" His words were getting tangled, and they were sounding more and more like a mess.

"It's always been her. No matter how many fucking times I tried to be perfect for you, to be the best woman for you. It was never fucking enough because I WASN'T HER!" Y/n cried out, her hand clutching her chest so hard that she thought she would dig into her skin and her heart would bleed out.

She was heaving alongside him, their chests rising up and down in sync. Her every word tasted sour to her like each syllable was a dart of poison that was stabbing her insides and gutting her out. Miles flinched as her words pierced through him.

It was his fault, and he knew it. It hurt him to see the person he had come to love, hate him. He knew he deserved the anger, the hate, and he just felt himself hit rock bottom.

How could he do that to her?

To destroy her trust?

Gwen had wanted to talk to him about something and started telling him about her problems. He wanted to be there for her, but not realizing that he was jeopardizing his relationship with Y/n until it was too late. Some of his heart still belonged to Gwen, but god did he wish it didn't.

"Well, you should be fine now though, right? You can go back to her because I'm leaving." Y/n said with a newfound calm tone. She walked past him to grab her luggage, wincing in pain from her wounds as she pulled them out of their bedroom, leaving Miles in the heap of ripped-up pictures and broken frames.

She also walked past Gwen who was sitting silently in the living room.

She tried to approach Y/n, but the wounded girl was quick to walk out the door, slamming it behind her as she disappeared into the night, leaving the place she'd called theirs for the last five years.

But now, it wasn't her home anymore.

Fin.

See more of my Miles content here babes!

(if yall wanna be on my taglist feel free to let me know!)

[fluentmoviequoter]

Find Another Moment

Pairing: Jim Street x fem!SWAT!reader

Summary: Through a trip to find his mom, a series of explosions and executions, and an impromptu dinner date, you realize that you need Jim Street by your side all the time. Almost as much as he needs you.

Warnings: spoilers for 2x22 "Kangaroo" and Cinque story line from s2, angst to fluff, Karen Street being a bad mom, lots of comfort and love!

Word Count: 4.2k+ words

A/N: I shocked myself by making a rewrite that isn't chock-full of verbatim lines from the show! I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think!🤍

Masterlist Directory | Jim Street Masterlist | Request Info\Fandom List

There are very few people you rush to answer the phone for. When Jim Street calls hours after your shift ends, you nearly trip over your feet to get to the phone and talk to him.

“Street, hey,” you greet when the line connects. 

“Hey, sorry for the late call,” he says. “But I, uh, I wanted to ask if maybe you could get another ride to work tomorrow? I know it’s late notice.”

“Sure. Is everything okay?”

Street sighs, and your worry and concern for him grows.

“You can talk to me, Street. You know that. But you don’t have to.”

“No, I want to,” he answers. “It’s my mom. That thing with the credit card information worked out and I got an address. Now that I know where she is, I can do something. I’m going to go check it in the morning before I head to HQ.”

“No problem. Family comes first. If you want me to come along though, just wait in the car, I can. You shouldn’t have to do this at all, but it’s really messed up that you’re having to do it alone, Jim.”

You don’t often call him by his first name, so you hope he doesn’t take it as trying to force your way into his personal life. He gets enough grief from Hondo about his mom, and the last thing you want to do is make him think you want to interfere and give your opinion, too.

“Your decision,” you add. “But I can definitely call in a favor from someone else. And my car should be back from the shop this week, so I’ll finally stop asking you to chauffeur me.”

“I don’t mind. Just… with my mom, I don’t want to make anything awkward between us if she is there.”

“Street, there’s nothing that could happen that would change how I think of you or our relationship,” you assure him. “I understand if you want to go alone, though.”

“I don’t,” Street says softly. “I really don’t.”

“Then pick me up before you go. What harm can some moral support do?”

“Thank you.”

“What friends are for.”

“No, really. I don’t think you realize just how much you’re doing for me. Thank you.”

“Goodnight, Street.”

Street sits back and sighs. You said nothing could change your relationship, but after moments like this, he wants to be the one to change it. Being friends and teammates is great, but you could be more. And, for once in his life, Street wants to do something for himself, to be happy with you without any care for what others think. If his mother doesn't scare you away, by some miracle or chance of fate, Street will tell you that he has feelings for you. Then, you get to take it from there because Street has been manipulated too many times in his life to find comfort in causing others to rush into big decisions. Especially when his heart and happiness are on the line, too.

The following morning, you wait on the curb of your usual parking spot for Street. He seems nervous as he pulls in, and you hope that the moral support you came to provide eases him. You’ve heard the horror stories about his mom but haven’t talked to her extensively like some of your other teammates. If she is here, you’ll give Street room to do his thing and then navigate the rest as he instructs. Street is special to you, and you refuse to lose him by overstepping or pushing his boundaries. He’s your friend, and you stay there because if you lose Street, you lose everything that matters.

“This is it?” you ask.

Street leans over the steering wheel to look at the old, sinking apartment complex. People wander aimlessly around the building, and clothes and furniture hang from windows. A distinct sense of doom and gloom escapes through all the cracks and crevices, showing the building's age and lack of care.

“Come in with me?” Street requests. “Please?”

You nod as you open the door. As you walk toward Street, you have to step over broken beer bottles, cigarette butts, and empty nos canisters. At his side, you smile, trying to remind Street that you’re with him, no matter what.

Inside, you follow Street up a staircase lined with trash. The hallway at the top is dark and dirty, and the cheap laminate floor is peeling from the corners. No one deserves to live like this, you think as you notice someone sitting at the end of the hall, rocking back and forth.

Street slows beside an open door, and you stop as he pushes it open further. Music plays inside, and Street looks over his shoulder at you and nods once.

“Good luck,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

You watch Street step inside, then turn slightly to see inside the apartment. It’s trashed and nearly unlivable, but Karen Street is sitting on the floor and laughing at an old cartoon. Your eyes move to Street as he tries to get her attention. A sound down the hall draws your attention momentarily, but you turn back quickly when Street asks who someone is.

“Bryce,” the unseen man answers.

“So, you leave the apartment and disappear for weeks without a word and starting using again ��cause you chose this guy?” Street asks.

“Name ain’t ‘this guy,’ it’s Bryce,” Bryce says. “And you need to go.”

You can see Street, but not Bryce from your position in the hallway. When Street stands quickly, you step inside and watch as he shoves the man against the fridge.

“Okay,” Bryce pants.

“Hey, stop it,” Karen calls as she stands. “Stop it, stop it! Eddie, baby, please.”

While Bryce asks who Eddie is, you debate whether you should walk back into the hallway or try to help Street. When Karen hugs Street while talking to his father, you wait. You step toward him as he shoves his mom back.

“Oh, Jimmy,” Karen says when she realizes it's Street and not her husband. She pulls her robe closed and murmurs, “I’m gonna… straighten things up.”

She moves toward the kitchen, and you follow her, nodding at Street. You gently place your arm before Karen and smile when she turns toward you.

“Hey, Mrs. Street,” you greet softly. “I can straighten up for you, but why don’t we go somewhere else for now?”

“What’s she on?” Jim asks behind you.

“We took a mix,” Bryce answers. “A mix of a lot of things.”

“Maybe we could go get breakfast,” you suggest. “Wouldn’t you like some time with Jim?”

Karen nods and turns toward Street. “I can make waffles,” she offers. “I might have to go to the store though.”

“I don’t want waffles, Ma,” Street answers.

Street grabs a blanket from the table and drapes it over his mom’s shoulders. “I’m taking her home,” he says as he places his hand on her back. “Bryce.”

You follow Jim and Karen for a few steps, then stop. “Bryce,” you call. “If I find out that the mix of a lot of things was your creation, I’ll be back.”

“It wasn’t!” he yells after you.

You wave your hand over your shoulder as you exit, leaving the door open behind you. When you catch up with Street, he’s almost back to his car.

“You take her home, I can call someone,” you offer.

“I’ll drop you off. Tell Hondo I’ll be late?” he replies.

“Sure.” Street closes the car door, and you catch his wrist as you ask, “Are you okay?”

He shrugs, and you nod in understanding. You squeeze his hand gently, then release him to get in the car. Street means more to you than he’ll ever know, and you’ll do everything you can, even covering for him to Hondo, to be here for him.

“Street, it’s me,” you say to the voicemail. “Hondo knows you’re running late, but I didn’t tell him anything specific. I’m going to the courthouse with Cortez. Um… if you need anything, let me know.”

After you hang up, you exit the car and meet Jessica on the sidewalk. She knows who you called, you’re sure of it, but you’re hoping that she won’t try to meddle or give you advice. The walk into the courthouse is a comfortable silence, which you’re grateful for. As you sit, Jessica speaks to the reporter on her other side, but you keep your eyes on the defendants before you. When they stand suddenly and begin chanting, you roll your eyes. They’ve been saying the same thing since they were arrested.

“The time to be good to each other has passed,” they add. “The system will be burned to ashes, starting with this courthouse.”

You look at Jessica as you lean forward.

“That’s new,” she says.

Outside the courthouse, people begin yelling, and you don’t hesitate to stand and walk toward the door. Jessica follows behind you, and when you enter the hallway to see Cinque on the screen, you stop in your tracks.

“Cinque,” Jessica says. “He must have hacked the feed.”

She raises her phone to film the live video, but you listen to Cinque rather than focus on who is with him or where he is. Hondo and the rest of your team will be watching back at HQ, but if you can help, you want to be prepared.

“So,” Cinque continues, “this time we don’t want money and we don’t want to bargain. We’re going to burn the system down and rebuild on its ashes.”

Cinque raises a phone and presses the screen. Several cars outside the courthouse explode, and you duck down as the people around you scream. Jessica pulls her gun and instructs people to move farther into the courthouse. You stay beside her and fight every instinct to run out and help the people closest to the explosion.

“Cortez, this isn’t over,” you say over the chaos behind you.

Jessica holsters her gun and pulls her phone out of her pocket. “He’s going to sentence a politician on live television every hour,” she tells you. “He’s just getting started.”

“That was the 4th Street bridge, but he’ll move. You need my team.”

Your phone rings before Jessica can respond. Street’s name on the screen is the best thing you’ve seen all day, you think as you answer the call.

“Street,” you greet when the call connects.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine. Cortez is good, too. No casualties here. How are things there?”

“Hectic. When are you coming back?”

“When am I coming back?” you repeat, looking at Jessica. She shrugs, it’s your decision. “I’m not. I’m going to stay with Cortez and keep an eye on everything here.”

“Be careful,” Street implores. “Keep me updated.”

“You, too.”

“Councilman Strub’s body, hanging from the 4th Street bridge, it seems familiar.”

“Figure it out, Street, we both know you can.”

“I have to tell Hondo all is good there.”

“I’ll see you later, Street. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Less than an hour later, you’re still at the courthouse when Cinque executes another politician. You don’t watch this time, but you text Street to be careful immediately after the broadcast ends.

Back at HQ, Hicks tells Street, “Get the rest of your team and go grab Cinque!”

“The rest of my team isn’t here,” Street mumbles as he and Deacon exit the situation room.

“I know you’re worried about her,” Deacon says, “but she’s okay. If we want to get her back here safely, we have to stay focused, Street.”

Deacon joins Luca as Street calls for Chris and Tan to visit the location of Cinque’s last IP address. As he works, Street realizes that Deacon is right and wrong at the same time. He doesn’t just want you back to be part of the team, Jim Street wants you by his side all the time. Having you at his side, as a teammate, when things are bad, is great, but that’s not all he wants. He needs more.

 After successfully saving Councilman Washington, 20 Squad is surprised to see Jessica back at HQ. Street, however, only looks for you.

“She’s still at the courthouse, waiting for things to settle there,” she tells Street. “Deputies didn’t mind the help.”

Street nods and watches Jessica walk to her office with Hondo. He’s glad you’re okay and safe, but he’d prefer to see you in person. You stepped up this morning to help him with his mom, and now, Street isn’t sure when he’ll see you again.

“We need to find Cinque,” he tells Luca.

“For personal reasons or the public’s safety?” Luca asks knowingly.

“Why not both?”

Your phone rings during a conversation with a bailiff. Jessica’s name on the caller ID makes you answer it before you even excuse yourself.

“Cortez, hey,” you greet. “Everything okay?”

“It will be. Cinque is in custody, and Deacon and Hondo are reviewing all the intel we have to find the last Emancipator. I need you to join me at City Hall, if everything is under control at the courthouse?”

“As under control as it can be. They’re understandably freaked about the explosions and the live broadcasts, but they can spare me. I’ll be there in twenty.  Do you think we’ll actually find anything or have to wait for another lead?” you ask as you exit the courthouse.

“I wish I had an answer for you.”

Before you leave for City Hall, you text Street to let him know where you’re going. You hesitate over the ‘Send’ button, then add, I’ll see you soon. It’s a promise.

“Find anything?” Street asks as he enters the situation room.

“There’s a live press conference at City Hall, we think it’s the next Emancipator target,” Hondo answers. “Cinque’s been planning all of this for a while. Was there anything going on at City Hall in the last year?”

“Let me see,” Deacon murmurs. After a quick search, he pulls up a record and photos. “They installed new security cameras four months ago, and the installation crew had to scan IDs to gain access to the building. And that work crew sure looks like our Emancipators on trial.”

“They used the installation job to plant explosives inside City Hall,” Hondo realizes.

Street’s phone buzzes, and he continues listening to Hondo as he reads your message and rereads it.

“Cinque likes an audience. Now he’s got one on live TV,” Hondo adds.

“Tell Cortez,” Deacon urges.

“She’s not the only one there,” Street says, looking up from his phone. “They’re both in a death trap.”

“Call her,” Hondo commands as he raises his phone to his ear. “We need everyone out without raising flags.”

Standing in the crowd at City Hall, you watch as Cortez turns to the side and answers her phone. Your phone begins buzzing immediately after, and you step back to answer the call from Street.

“The Emancipators are planning to blow up City Hall,” Street says, skipping his usual greeting. “Hondo wants everyone out.”

“Got it,” you answer.

“No, hey, listen to me. You get out of there.”

“Street, I will.”

“Don’t wait, just get out of there and come back here. Okay?”

“I’ll be back soon, Street. I promised, didn’t I?”

Now, you just have to keep that promise.

Back at HQ, Hondo preps 20 Squad, and they roll out in Black Betty less than five minutes later. In his seat, Street forces himself to pay attention to Hondo. If he doesn’t focus on his job, his mind will run rampant and make him think of everything that could happen to you.

When people begin exiting City Hall, the final Emancipator detonates one of the explosives hidden inside. You’ve strayed from Hicks and Cortez to make sure everyone gets out safely, and when the building shakes and the first explosion echoes through the halls, you cover your head.

“Go, get out of here!” you yell to a man in the same hall.

The explosion sounded like it was on the two-side of the building. Though you know the sound may have been distributed oddly and you could be wrong, you begin moving that way. Street told you to leave, but you’re this close; you can’t sit back and do nothing.

“Go,” you call as you run past civilians exiting doors off the hallway.

You near the two-side as the explosions continue, ranging in speed and location. Without communications with your team, you have no idea if the bomber is even in the building. Or anyone else, for that matter.

“22-David, Chris got the bomber,” Luca alerts.

“30-David to D-Team. Status,” Deacon requests.

“26-David, clear,” Street answers.

“25-David, clear,” Tan adds.

“20-David, all clear,” Hondo reports after a moment. “And I’ve got Cortez.”

“Just Cortez?” Street asks.

Street doesn’t wait for an answer before he rips his phone from his pocket and calls you. You don't answer, and Street runs toward one of the only standing entrances. As he enters the falling building, he yells your name, screams through the dust, ignores the burning in his eyes and throat, and climbs over the rubble.

“Talk to me!” he yells, feeling ready to collapse. Leaning against a pile of debris, Street yells your name once more.

Each explosion disorients you more. Between the dust, the noise, and how the closer explosions throw off your balance, you lose sight of the exterior wall and your escape. Instead, you focus on moving forward and keeping your hope of finding any door.

Someone yells in the distance, but you can’t decipher where they are. Everything is muffled, and your steps are growing slow and heavy in your oncoming lethargy.

“Street,” you whisper, reaching for your phone before remembering you dropped it while running past a falling pillar.

Your eyes flutter closed as you lean against a wall. Investigators will be inside soon, so you rest amongst the wreckage and consider simply waiting for them. Until someone yells your name, that is.

“Street?” you ask without opening your eyes. You try to imagine the voice in your head again, and the simple thought of Jim Street gives you the strength to stand. “Street!” you yell. You’re interrupted by a cough, but you call for him again and hope you aren’t imagining his presence.

“What can you see?” Street yells.

He sounds closer now, and you smile as you reply, “Dust!”

“Cute,” Street says, his voice quieter but clear.

You turn to the side, and your eyes widen when you see him. Street steps to you and pulls you against his chest, hugging you tightly. He cradles your head against his chest for a moment before he pulls back and lays a hand against your cheek to look at your face.

“Let’s get out of here,” he suggests. “You feel okay?”

You nod and agree, leaning against Street as he follows Luca’s radioed directions to a clear exit. In the light of day, you can see that you and Street are both covered in dust, but there’s no one else you’d rather have beside you for support. You like having him by your side, you realize, and you wouldn’t mind staying at his side even when you’re off-duty.

“Thank goodness,” Street sighs. “I thought I’d forgotten what you looked like without all the City Hall powder on you.”

“You stare at her enough it should be burned into your mind,” Luca teases as he waves at you. “Have a good one.”

“You too, Luca,” you call.

“You want to come over?” Street offers, pulling his backpack onto his shoulder. “I can make you dinner.”

You smile as you close your locker. “I really want to, Street. But isn’t your mom at your place right now? Don’t you need to spend time with her, before, you know?”

“Is that the only reason you’re saying no?”

“I didn’t say no,” you argue with a smile. “I don’t want to intrude, though.”

“Come with me,” Street repeats, offering his hand.

You lay your palm over his, and you know you are home. Your place has always been by Jim Street, and you’re finally seeing that.

“Go ahead,” you murmur at Street’s door. “I’ll either be here to take you to my place or I’ll come in later.”

Street nods and squeezes your fingers gently. As he enters his apartment, he sighs. “Hey,” he tells his mom.

“How was work?” she asks.

“It was good,” Street lies. You were in danger, it was terrible, but his mom has enough to deal with already. Not that he would have told her the truth anyway. “How you feeling, Mom?”

“My headache’s cleared away, so… Thank you so much for coming and getting me. Uh, thank your friend, too. You okay?”

Street doesn’t answer, his eyes straying to the door, where you’re waiting to be everything he needs and more. Not because you have to or feel some obligation or twisted sense of responsibility for him, but because you want to.

“I’m so sorry, Jimmy, that you had to see me like that,” Karen continues. “Sometimes your mom’s just pretty sick.”

The door opens, and Street doesn’t turn around because he knows it isn’t you.

“Mrs. Street,” Karen’s parole officer says, “I have to remand you back into state custody for parole violations. You missed several check-in appointments and were found under the influence or narcotics.”

“You reported me?” Karen asks Street.

“So that you can get treatment, get better,” Street explains.

“I can’t go back to jail. Jimmy, I can’t go back to prison, I can’t. After all I’ve been through and all I’ve done for you, you’re sending me back? What kind of son would do this to his mother?”

“The kind that doesn’t want you to die.”

You watch as Karen is led out of Street’s apartment. With her back to you, she never sees you, but you heard everything. The door is still open, but you knock regardless as you step into Street’s home. His eyes are on the floor until you enter, and then he looks up with sadness evident on his face. Jim Street has never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but with you, he’d rip it out of his chest and place it in your loving hands without second-guessing that you’d treat it better than he ever could.

“Jim,” you say softly. “I’m so sorry.”

Street gently grabs your left wrist, closing his fingers around your skin and feeling your pulse thump beneath his touch. With his other hand, he pushes the door closed. When you step closer to him, Street pulls you into his arms and drops his head to your shoulder. Carefully, you move your hands to rub between his shoulders while gently brushing through his short hair.

“You did the right thing,” you promise him. “You love her. Even if she can’t see it, you did the right thing.”

Street’s arms tighten around your waist, and you close your eyes as you hold him.

“What do you want for dinner?” Street asks against your shirt.

You chuckle at his sudden change of subject, but neither you nor Street move. The comfort, the peace, the love you feel at every point of connection you have with Street is better than anything you’ve ever felt or will ever feel in the future.

“What if we order from your favorite place?” you suggest.

“Why?” Street mumbles, his hands clutching the back of your shirt.

“Uh, because you like it.”

“No, I mean, why stay with me, be here for all of this?”

You gently push Street back to look into his eyes. With your hands on either side of his face, you smile and answer, “Because I want to be. Right here is the best place I’ve ever been.”

Street smiles, his dimples appearing beneath your thumbs at your honesty. With his hands at your side, Street leans his forehead against yours and sighs.

“I really am hungry,” he admits.

“I thought we were having a moment,” you tease, brushing your thumbs over his dimples.

As you look into Street’s eyes, you desperately want to kiss him. After everything that’s happened, you don’t want to make him uncomfortable or force him into something he isn’t ready for yet. So, you wait.

“You didn’t listen to me. When I told you to get out of City Hall… you were all I could think about and when we realized what Cinque’s crew was doing, I realized that I need you, all the time,” Street confesses.

“I thought you were hungry,” you whisper.

“You can’t have it both ways,” Street replies happily. “Unless you want it both ways, and then I’ll find a way to make it work.”

“I want you, Street,” you say. “Now and forever, I want nothing but you.”

“Even with all the drama?”

“And the trauma,” you affirm with a nod. “We all have pasts and baggage, Street.”

“Would kissing you immediately after sending my mom back to jail be weird?”

“Now that you’ve pointed it out, yes, it would.” You step back and suggest, “Dinner and then we try to find another moment?”

“Only if you’re in it,” Street answers.

[zombyjuice]

NOBODY BETTER THAN YOU! - eunseok.🍨🦷🐆🍦 t(>.<t)

In which your boyfriend you recently just got back together with is coming over for the first time since.

bf!eunseok x fem loser!reader

toxic relationship, fluff, angst, smut! suggestions to the reader having depression (NOT ROMANIZING.) suggested cheating. etc..

so many things inspired/helped me make this so I’m just gonna . @melobin and @anquelic on insta and my playlist below took inspo from there too <33 lol!

“Eunseoks here…” one of your roommates sneered from the other side of the door you could almost feel the face they gave eachother. You hop up and rush to open your door with a wide smile on your face “Hey baby” your boyfriend, walking towards you, a hand in one pocket and a bag of Burger King in the other an extremely attractive smile on his face “hii” you practically melted pulling him into your room and hugging him tight.

“Please don’t fuck yet! Give it a week!”

“shut the fuck up!”

He chuckled kissing your forehead and pinching your sides, you loved it when he did that, made you feel so safe you could practically feel your heart melt watching his movements as he placed the bag on your table.

That feeling goes away in an instant as you watch him sigh as he moves some of your clutter to the side. This made your heart flutter with sadness and your brain go a bit fuzzy.

He understands you more than anybody really, he’s patient and he does seem to care for you, he understood all those months before you guys were ever official you’d disappear trying to decide if he’s the one and if you should give him the chance.

He understood the nights where you’d just sit in silence not wanting to be touched or talked to, and he understood the nights you guys would be talking like normal only for you to start crying out of nowhere, or the nights you’d scream and push him losing your temper only to end up in his arms letting him watch you crumble under him. “It’s okay baby, it’s okay I've got you, doing so well for daddy” “‘m not mad at you, okay pretty, it's okay”. He understood the nights when you were finally your silly self after spending a weekend alone.

He understood all your quirks and interests. Once he dragged you to one of his sets because he remembered someone working on it had a dog who understood multiple languages, remembering your rather odd fascination with it how. can they do that? And watching as you said sit to the dog in Spanish, French, and Japanese, complete shock and happiness painted on your face as you laughed and laughed, adoration painted on his.

So how is it that you caught him multiple times all over the girl, the same girl he had a pass with, rumor has it they were “casually” sleeping together before you ever entered the picture you know it was deeper than that. To him “it wasn’t that big of a deal and he was just being nice.” You had to constantly shift your morals just so you could be happy with him, he knew you hated it, he knew the disgust you felt with yourself every time you’d go back with him. But you loved him so it's alright.

You knew the irritation and anger that bubbled up inside of him when you'd ask “Are you unhappy in our relationship?” or “Am I annoying you? I'm sorry” but he loves you so he's got to deal with it, right?

And no matter how many times you believed he cheated he was stable, nothing in your life is stable but him. So maybe that’s why you feel you always go back to him. And only him. Because, to you, there's nobody better than him.

He turned to you already able to read your face “It's alright, today's our lazy Sunday isn't it? We'll clean a bit tomorrow but for now, cmere let's lie down”

The smile that was once on your face came back and you gladly took his hand as he led you to your bed and cozy. Watching some of your favorite horror movies and munching on Burger King you between his legs a hands squishing your thighs and head dropping down to your neck every now and then to suck a hickey at your favorite spots your hands would grab at his knees as you whimper and giggle. “quit it, they’re finally escaping”. He'd quietly pout and slightly rut his hips up against you visibly hard.

{2:49 am}

Your eyes meet your boyfriends and grab at his hand that's hitching up your inner thigh, yours visibly smaller “Should we play some-” he smashed his lips against yours, your first actual kiss of the night “fuck I know we said we wouldn't do anything, but shit you look so good, sound so good, need to fuck my babies in you, make you mine forever” he grabbed at your neck and slid it down to your arm, manhandling you under him.

You could only submit to him, knowing this would have happened by the end of the “night”.

“Can’t believe I spent so many Sundays without you, felt so wrong, I’ve missed you so much” he'd moan against your lips grabbing at your thighs and aggressively pushing them up as he grinds against you, whimpers slipping out of you “missed you so much more” you’d whisper mind going elsewhere remembering exactly why you spent so many night away from each other’s grasp.

“Let me fuck away all that nonsense,only have you think about this cock” as if he could read your mind “please”.

And just like that he’d do exactly what he said.

[kurtmustdie]

okay heres the fucking thing about this script controversy that some people don't seem to get.

just gonna say it blatently:

strap in babes this is gonna be a long one!

The way Miguel O'Hara is written in the leaked transcripts is blatantly racist, here's why from a Latino himself!

all wrapped up in a sweet little bow for everyone who doesn't know how to comprehend what they're reading, cheers!

er. i mean.

¡Salud!

Miguel fans are not mad that they depicted him in a bad light and that they made it clear that he is in the wrong

WE FUCKING KNOW. WE'RE NOT STUPID.

Miguel has been depicted as a morally grey asshole since the early 1990s, which is when Spider-Man 2099 was initially debuted. And while yes, the movies are.... inaccurate, to say the least, it still stands.

The issue here is how he is depicted. They directly call Miguel O'Hara, a Latino man, an ANIMAL (he is directly called an animal TWICE. FUCKING TWICE.)

[1st image id: Miguel leaps onto Vulture, Clawing his way in past the renaissance armor. he is an ANIMAL. (keep in mind ANIMAL is literally in all caps.) /end id]

[2nd image id: Miguel SLASHES at the walls of light that surround Miles. Clawing the energy field apart, an animal in the throes of bloodlust -- /end id]

I need you to really soak in the fact that he is called "AN ANIMAL" twice. I'm awful at alts and ids but I feel I must so you can read it in plain text. sorry if they suck.

Our issue is not that the writers seem to have a bias against the character. a lot of writers write characters they dont particularly like and in turn tend to write them from a foggy lense of their own perception. An example would be Kate Cary and how she didn't like Crowfeather, a character she had to write about. I'm sure some of her bias seeped through. but this is different.

writing a Latino man as a bloodthirsty animal, implied to be called a predator because they call one of the people he fights (im not sure if its miles or the vulture, im leaning towards believing the former.) his "prey", THOSE ARE ALL RACIAL STEREOTYPES. ALL OF THEM.

[3rd image id: But Miguel can only see his prey: /end id]

There is no context to be needed here, the context is that this is miguel we're talking about and that they call him an animal. it does not matter if he is a villain or not (which he isnt, factually he fucking isnt im tired of having this conversation, fuck you). it matters that he's depicted in a racially insensitive way.

and this person brought this up pretty well actually, I didn't even think of it:

[4th image id: Tumblr user @/404-505 saying:

i want to be so mean to them

they couldn't write miguel crossing the border and stealing a job so they wrote him crossing into another universe and stealing his own identity

they couldnt write miguel as a drug addict so they gave him spider steroids instead /end id.]

They bring up a really good point about these clear stereotypes being seemingly. . . disguised behind points that are narratively relevant? This could literally just be pure coincidence, but noting how the writers wrote him before... it isn't looking too good for them. Sorry. Not sorry.

It is clear that there is some kind of bias against miguel that led to really disgusting, racist retoric. Whether or not it was intentional or if it was a first draft or whatever, the writers, which may i remind you were white, still wrote this at some point.

it makes me question whether or not they hated him because of his "bullshit utopia", their words not mine, or because of their own racial biases.

We cannot know because miguel is the only mexican character on the cast. I know Miles is Puerto Rican, but there are differences between how they were portrayed. also Puerto Ricans and Mexicans come from competely different cultural backgrounds that share simularities but are still different dont even try i will destroy you.

Using another users words again, but:

[5th image id: Tumblr user @/transmiguelohara says:

Don't talk to me about the Miguel parts in the script. I'm so disappointed in how the writers view him.

The difference between the way Miguel is written (antagonist, not the villain) vs Spot (the villain, whats to kill Miles' dad and everyone he knows) is soooo.....I don't know man it just screams racism in sorry. Describing Miguel as a bloodthirsty animal? Repeatedly? Treating him like he's mindless and has no motivation beyond having a hair trigger temper? It sucks man. /end id]

It also strikes me that now that we finally have a brown-skinned miguel, they write him like, well. this.

I don't really know if this is petty or not, but I want to wrap this back to the way the fandom also sees Movie Miguel.

Because TRUST ME it is not good either.

Miguel O'Hara Vs. FANDOM: Spoilers, it's been troubling since the beginning.

From the beginning (and by beginning in this case I mean since he was announced to be a character in this movie) Miguel has been continuously sexualized, beyond belief. He is repeatedly called "papi cholo" which NEED I REMIND YOU "Cholo" is a derogatory term used to call someone, usually a mexican person, a criminal or a delinquent.

FUCK YOU if you are not Latino OR hispanic and use this to describe people. from the bottom of my heart.

I'm pretty sure the majority of the people who called/ still currently call him "papi cholo" are mixing it up with "papi chulo" (white people moment.) which means something completely different but is still troubling as hell.

"papi chulo", which is slightly different in the way, just directly translates to "big daddy". Which again, Latino men being overly sexual "Latin Lovers" is ALSO A RACIAL STEREOTYPE. also its just blatant fetishization. Point blank fucking period.

Not only that but I notice a lot of art and fanfiction depicts him doing a lot of violence, or being very overbearing and demeaning, or in short terms.

a lot of people write him as physically and sexually aggressive.

fuck do you mean he growls during sex i can and will send you to space with no return.

which

for the millionth time

racial stereotype

halleluiah or however you spell it.

Having him say random spanish phrases you don't know the meaning or connotations of in your fanfiction is icing on the cake at this point.

fucking end me.

it isn't even only sexual depictions, since he's been shown in the movie, a lot of people seem to just see him as this guy who goes off and tries to kill children at a hairs trigger. which uh. fun fact no he fucking doesnt.

you clearly didn't watch the movie as well as you thought you did. hes just sarcastic and generally pretty level headed through the majority of his runtime, whether its implied by how characters around him act, or its just what we see on screen.

He doesn't necessarily have anger issues, the moment we see at the climax of the film is quite literally a mental break. he is not acting in a way that he usually would because he was cracking under the stress of holding the multiverse together with some scotch tape and orange glitter glue.

Also side tangent but he also has a mental break in the comics that's a little more... droopy and sad as compared to the movie, but it still happens. he has shitty mental health is what im saying. he only really lashes out angrily when hes at his wits end because that's how he grew up. he was taught to suppress his feelings and seem smaller when he was upset.

he is the result of abuse and neglect. of course he wouldn't be amazing at emotional regulation.

Which before anyone says it no, this is not an excuse for his actions. just an explaination that isn't "hes an angry animal that has it out for miles UwU" that everyone seems to have in their brain. I'm tired of you all. truly.

the sentiment that hes agressive and angry and his only emotion is anger and upsetness unless he's horny which is when he experiences all these emotions tenfold is. racist. idk how clear i have to be for people to get it through their damn skulls that the way the fandom depicts him is harmful. do i need to slap you in the face with a fish until you understand. do i need to burn your fanfiction. will you get it now that a 15 year old latino boy has to scream it in your face.

and dont even get me STARED on how inaccurately he is written

this is a more light hearted section because idk. feels like i should have it because this part is just comical, pun intended. How can you fuck up this hard guys.

I was gonna give them the benefit of the doubt because "Miguel has fresh trauma!" "He only shows up for like 10 minutes!" "insert 3rd reason!" for his drastic change in demeanor and personality, which, without context, are valid reasons for him to be a little different. trauma fucks you up man. we only see 10 minutes of him. but at this point im chalking it up to complete incompetence

it doesnt take that long to read a comic book guys. you could have done a little research, I know you can do it.

first off:

[6th image id: Miguel's SPIDER-SENSE goes off! He races to the edge if the building and peers into an empty alley -- /end id]

LMFAO WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN "SPIDER-SENSE"

Unless you didn't get the total of TWO jokes that they made in ONE scene (the vulture fight scene), Miguel doesn't have a spider sense. at all. He has elevated senses, but he doesnt have a spider sense.

guys

guys.

you made TWO jokes IN A ROW about it. YOU WHACKED HIM IN THE HEAD TWICE WITH IT. HOW DID YOU FORGET

I cant help but laugh! this is a rookie mistake! these are seasoned writers! They could have done at least a little research, or at least remembered that he doesnt have one, no? is it that hard? or does his lack of a spider sense only matter when you're making fun of your least favorite character? thats what I thought.

this one is less funny. not to sound like a stereotypical comic nerd but this infuriated me a little bit I'm not gonna lie.

[8th image id: tumblr user @/darksidecorner reblogged tumblr user @/spiderxpawz with:

They definitely didn't

a screenshot of the script reads:

AN INDUSTRIAL TANGLE OF HUGE PISTONS -- the literal DARK UNDERBELLY that undergrids Miguel's bullshit Utopia.

Miles doesn't know where to go... but he doesn't need to: SOMEONE YANKS him up into the safety of an alcove.

the user then continues:

This in particular made me PISSED because they quietly canonized that Miguel is CEO of Alchemax while conveniently ignoring that he did everything in his fucking power to BETTER Neuva York. Downtown wasn't built by him. It was built by people WAY before him.

I can excuse and defend some comic deviation, but THIS? Holy FUCK /end id]

I honestly cant tell if I find this part funny or pathetic because seriously. he did not do this. why are you blaming him for something he had nothing to do with. i dont think he decided "hey i should build a city for rich people over poor people because reasons" when he was like... not even alive. Alchemax did this before he was even sentient. it had always been this way since he was born. he also actively hated this decision. because he actively hates alchemax.

but right MIGUELS bullshit Utopia yeah HE did this that EVIL LITTLE BABY i cant believe him

kill me.

In conclusion:

I. . . Don't really know, to be honest. I'm still processing all this. I am genuinely disappointed and upset because this isn't okay. It never will be, and if it takes yet another blunt essay with absolutely no filter for people to understand it then so be it. I don't care if this comes off as mean. This is something I feel qualified to talk about and I will express my disappointment and anger if I want to.

All of the posts I reference I have reblogged within the last 24 hours of making this post, they shouldn't be that hard to find, but if you want the links to them here they are:

https://www.tumblr.com/spiderxpawz/735344322114977792/live-mexican-reaction?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/404-505/735289664739606528/they-couldnt-write-miguel-as-a-drug-addict-so?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/transmiguelohara/735289238625648640/cant-believe-the-writers-have-the-same-reading?source=share

if you want your image to be removed or for your link to be removed just ask and I'll do it. but currently im kinda bummed out and tired.

goodbye.

[theloganator101]

The Great BNHA Review: How do you fuck up teaching a moral THIS badly!?

Ah themes and morals... not every story or show needs to have these kind of things. Not every story needs to be deep or thought provoking, but for stories that do, it's important to have them correlate well with the story so we can understand what it's trying to say.

Like Ratatouille's moral of "Anyone can cook" or even the first Spongebob Movie's message of "You are who you are" is told really well.

And what is the moral BNHA tries to convey to it's audience?

"Anyone can be a hero!"

Okay, fine, that can be a good message to tie into a story about heroes. And how does this message get conveyed into the story?

"Oh the main character starts off quirkless but obtains the Number One hero's power."

... So literally by making him like everyone else around him? Wouldn't it make the message hit harder if he strived to be a quirkless hero to prove everyone that called him weak or worthless wrong?

"Oh but if he stayed quirkless then he wouldn't be able to partake in the final fight!"

Oh is THAT why All Might came in to fight AFO with a mecha suit!? If technology is SO advanced to where this kind of thing can exist, then why can't Izuku have the same courtesy huh?

For real I blame the narrative for making people believe a quirkless hero is impossible to be in this show when it's clear that it can be a thing! For whenever I bring up this idea, I ALWAYS get hit with the same quote of:

"Well the plot wouldn't be the same if Izuku stayed quirkless! Izuku can't go up against AFO or Shigaraki that way!"

And that's the thing! I'm not asking for the same plot but with Quirkless!Izuku, I'm asking for a story where the main character proves he can keep up with his classmates with quirks! You can't exactly tell that kind of story when you make the main character like everyone else!

And on top of that, it also twists the message of:

"Anyone can be a hero...! But only if you fit in with the majority!"

Which is kind of fucked up when being quirkless can be compared to having a disability in real life... so the story is basically saying you won't amount to anything worthwhile if you're not like everyone else.

But enough about the whole quirkless thing, let's move on to another thing the series tried to shove down our throats and treat it like a meaningful message...

"Win to save, save to win"

A saying that you and I have grown familiar with, something that was only created for the sole purpose of bringing Izuku down to Bakugou's level and solidify them as rivals... Even if the saying fucking sucks and SHOULDN'T be hero material.

I mean SERIOUSLY!? Winning isn't everything, and while it could be somewhat true... it's seriously a bad message considering that this is supposed to be a series where the main character teaches that there's more to being a hero than winning and getting fame and glory all the time.

Ah yes, and that one moral I keep saying...

"If your abusers are sorry, you should forgive them and keep them in your life! And if you refuse their apology then you're just as bad if not worse than them when they hurt you."

This moral... this goddamn moral is what stood out to me the most throughout BNHA. It is flat-out terrible and I'm honestly surprised NO ONE on the writing or illustrating team caught on to this and brought it to Hori's attention. It's enforced with Izuku and Bakugou, it's enforced Shoto and Endeavor, and it's somewhat enforced when Overhaul was begging to see Eri but luckily the other characters were like "No."

And the thing is none of this would be a problem if it didn't have the victims forgiving them and instead tells them to fuck off because they screwed up enough of their lives already. Why would you ever give the person who hurt you a second chance? Why would you risk letting them repeat the same mistakes?

I just wanna say one thing regarding all this...

You are NOT responsible for your abuser's actions or things they choose to do, it is NOT your job to "make them better" nor should it fall on your shoulders to keep them in check, you do NOT owe them your time, your efforts, your patience and kindness...

You 👏 Do 👏 Not 👏 owe 👏 them 👏 SHIT!!

So for the next part I'm actually gonna go off track and talk about the other characters in BNHA and just how utterly wasted they really were in this story, and hopefully it won't take as long as this one!

[honey-stars12318272]

just a bunch of incorrect criminal minds quotes

—————————————————————————————————— Morgan : Reid and I are no longer friends.

Reid: DEREK THAT IS THE WORST WAY TO TELL

PEOPLE THAT WE'RE DATING!

——————————————————————————————————

Reid: Being gay is a constant battle between "I wish to sit on a window bench with my lover, our legs tangling as we listen to the birds" and "Hey, let's go throw rocks at fascists" and I think that's very sexy of us.

Morgan: If the window's open and you time it right, you can do both.

——————————————————————————————————

Prentiss: Surgery is basically just stabbing someone to life.

Hotch: Please never become a surgeon.

——————————————————————————————————

Reid: BE A BETTER PERSON!

Morgan : WHY?!

Reid: BECAUSE SOMEONE NEEDS TO HAVE MORALS IN THIS RELATIONSHIP, AND IT SURE AS FUCK AIN'T GONNA BE ME, SWEETHEART!

——————————————————————————————————

Reid: Ugh, crushes are so dumb.

Morgan : I know. Whenever I'm near the person I like I just start acting stupid.

Reid: But you're always acting stupid?

Morgan : …

Morgan : Yeah, don't think about that too hard.

——————————————————————————————————

Morgan : My hands are cold.

Reid: Here, let me hold them.

Morgan: My lips are cold too.

Reid: *covers Morgan 's mouth with their hand*

——————————————————————————————————

Reid: Wow, Morgan, you want to hold my hand before marriage? How awfully lewd of you.

Morgan : We literally slept together yesterday.

Reid: That's NOTHING compared to the lewdness of holding hands.

——————————————————————————————————

Morgan : You got a date yet Reid?

Reid: No...

Morgan : Well you do now! Get your ass up and hold my hand!

——————————————————————————————————

Reid: We should get you to a doctor for a check up immediately. What if it happens again, and there isn't anyone around to help you? What if it's congenital? Oh my God! Was it me? Did I hurt you?

Morgan : …You realize any other person that made their partner pass out on bed would simply feel really proud of themselves, right?

——————————————————————————————————

Morgan : Reid is playing hard to get.

Morgan: Little does he know, I'm a master at playing hard to get rid of.

——————————————————————————————————

Morgan: Sorry I'm late, I was doing things.

Reid: Hi, I'm 'things'.

——————————————————————————————————

Hotch : You know, Morgen gives Reid flowers everyday, I wish you'd do that too.

Rossi: Okay?

*Later*

Rossi: *gives Reid flowers*

Reid: ???

Rossi: I don't know, I'm confused as well.