#it's all building up that self system

[awallflowerdraws]

shen qingqiu be like: BINGHE NO?!

[functionalasfuck]

Love for Love’s Sake is really just out here giving us two people who have terrible self worth, who can’t understand how anyone could possibly love them, and making them fall in love with their mirror image. Therefore proving they are worth happiness and love.

[sophiethewitch1]

kinda wanna write a fic where the dog is literally the deus ex machina

[lapdogchase]

every day i leave my room and i go to the dining hall or the lobby or whatever and i’m being so brave and like yeah it’s for me so i don’t go fucking crazy in my room alone again but it’s also bc i hope every time they see me it reminds them what they did. i hope they feel like a tenth of the shame i live with constantly when they see me. like. fucking look at me. i’m still here. you can’t hide from what you did any more than you can hide from the dining hall. and i hope someday they’re more ashamed than i am

[anothermonikan]

Favorite iterator rain worl?

five pebl,,,,it's not even a competition that guy has so quickly become one of THE characters of all time for me, gosh, he is so so personal and I think about him all the time, his whole thing makes me have big big feelings! He's so stubborn and self-righteous and scared, he hurt himself and by extension his sister, he can't see that all any of his friends want to do is to be there for him through what he did to himself until it's way too late and he's rotting in his can alone, he doesn't want to be lectured, he doesn't want anyone's pity, he's so determined to fix what he's done by himself, he can't face what he did to to himself, AUGHHHH. PEBBLES!!!

[lord-squiggletits]

Like I'm not one of those story "critics" who will nitpick the smallest inconsistency and call it a plot hole that ruins the whole story. I'm okay with inconsistencies and even the occasional plot hole if it ends up producing a story that's interesting, gripping, and brings up interesting things.

The problem is that suspension of disbelief only stretches so far. And secondly, stuff like character drama and themes are only as strong as the plot that supports them. If the plot is full of contrivances, plot holes, and really stupid things that make it feel like the author is just forcing something to happen to move the story along, then the themes and character drama become much less convincing.

[incorrect-immunology-facts]

Jane Prentiss’s landlord underwent pyroptosis send post

[blackvahana]

On the whole "fetch" thing: It's a separate part of self. Let that self pilot the astral body when you're not in it, not about a separate body or self at all.

In the way that there's the divination complex and other things... Fetch complex, the trained autopilot that mimics a conscious mind and body, that's allowed to hold and use the astral body. So... Programming and tweaking. How should it feel, what parts of you should it present, how should it present them, etc

In this life, central theme of Self Love and Self Companionship, it acting as a constant alternate force and presence and so on makes sense. First, it being present allows a babysitting of the astral body, second, it allows you to carry out things without splitting up the conscious mind, third... uh. Dialogue is enabled then where it can alert you to Astral things without having to be consciously bilocating, acting instead as a spirit following and your astral self being in tune with the environment and present

[aheeheemwhimper]

since when can your life expand to be able to encompass all that you wish to be doing with it? how long could so much more have been incorporated into it while instead it was shrinking as you removed every significant aspect from it?

[oathed-milk]

Yeah the romance in Warframe 1999 is great and all but fuck have you considered the lore we are getting? And I by that I mean, actually having character motivations and exploration centre stage and explored in depth, followed by total fucking clownery tidbits. The absolute bullshit and shenanigans we are getting alongside some of the most heart wrenching reframings of the Drifter’s trauma and experiences?

Albrecht dragged an 8 foot tall bird into the future just to dip it in hell, also the Drifter thinks everyone loves the Operator more than them. Lotus, Ordis, fuck maybe that’s the only reason Teshin ever trained them?

Lettie named her nice rats after beloved friends, and her naughty rat after an ancient war god, and also Drifter hasn’t left 1999. It’s implied they could. They choose to stay because they don’t feel they belong back in the Origin System and never did.

Despite struggles with isolation and depression, Eleanor strives even to see the upsides of being infested every day, such as being able to jerk off with her tongue. Drifter grew up alongside Dominus Thrax and their friends in Duviri, playing every day, but then they grew up, and one day, probably after a slow and torturous build up, Thrax finally killed them for the first of countless times.

Quincy still has his dick, thank god for him. Drifter made the same choice as the Operator, to take the Man in the Wall’s hand, but instead it abandoned Drifter and merely saved, “them,” all the other Tenno, just as it said. Condemned to solitude through an unknowable entity’s arbitrary fucking games and wordplay. On a child.

We thought we’d be trauma healing the Hex this update but no actually, this is just Drifter’s first chance to talk to someone that isn’t their ~10 year old self and their mother about this.

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Neighborly

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: Implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

It was supposed to be a one-shot.

You didn’t know hate until Johnny MacTavish.

He bought the only house within half a mile, the one you expected to stay silent and empty ‘til death did you part. So, you had reason to dislike him from the start. But you were raised right, and you pushed down the snarling hermit in your soul to be a good, friendly neighbor.

The first meeting was fine, even if he was a boombox of a human being.

“Neighbor? Oh, aye! The hermit? Sorry. Heard about you when I toured the place last month.” His eye lands on the plate of cookies you’ve brought to welcome him. “Those all for me?”

You made small talk at the door, swapped names, and set the groundwork for a reliable, limited relationship as polite people who just happened to live in close proximity.

Then the first snow fell.

You spied him outside, shoveling the shared drive that led up the hill. He cleared it all, which was kind, if a little stupid. The weather system promised another two inches by midafternoon, so everything would be solid white again before sunset. Still, not your problem.

But. He was shirtless. Ripped as fuck and shirtless.

As the wind flung each shovelful of snow back in his face, the powdery flakes stuck and melted on steaming skin. Muscles flexed as he made a spectacle of himself, and your thoughts turned to strategy and available resources.

You wrapped your palms around your ugly, handmade mug and sighed, sipping hot chocolate and wishing you’d gotten a neighbor with at least two scoops of common sense.

When he didn’t appear with his shovel the next morning, you knew your foreboding prophecy had come to pass.

You brought out the stock pot, fished out packs of frozen produce harvested from your garden, and sacrificed your last bag of chicken breasts. The skeleton saved from an old rotisserie bird joined the ingredient army. Might as well go all-in. A man with that many muscles needed bone broth to recover.

Since you didn’t know if he was a picky eater, you minced the garlic and onions small, even when your eyes burned to the point you had to stop for a break. You let the aromatics brown, added celery, carrots, potatoes, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. The precious seasonings survived the winter under grow lights and protective sheeting on your dining room table.

You doubted your neighbor would appreciate this gift for everything it was, but whatever he did as an idiot neighbor would be leagues better than the presence of a rowdy ghost.

When the chicken was tender and the broth tasted like home, you poured it into individual portions and packed them in a canvas bag with a loaf of bread, a box of tea, a jar of local honey, and a thermometer. It wasn’t terribly heavy, but the cold froze your fingers through your gloves. Your hand was cramping by the time MacTavish answered the door, red-nosed, pale, and bleary-eyed.

He let you in, mumbling a scratchy-voiced welcome, and if you’d known what that conversation would incite, you would’ve let him waste away like the families you failed playing Oregon Trail.

“Eat one now and keep the rest in the fridge.” You stack the single-serve containers in the fridge as you speak, sure he won’t remember the minutiae of your instructions. The last you pop in his microwave. He’s staring at you with feverish eyes, confused and helpless like a sick dog left on the side of the road.

Everything comes out of the bag, lining his counter so he can see them – and hopefully remember he has them. The thermometer comes out last.

“If your fever is over 104 in the morning, call the doctor. I’ll drive you if you need me to.”

That glassy stare isn’t shifting. The man doesn’t even blink.

“Did you get all that?”

He clears his throat. The action and sound are both strangely slow in his exhausted state, and you’re determined not to feel bad for him.

“Aye.” Finally, he blinks. “Eat the soup. Watch for 104.”

Good enough.

“Okay.”

The microwave beeps, you pull out the soup, leaving him to fetch a spoon from wherever the hell he keeps them. You don’t wait for him to show you out. “Take care of yourself.”

He didn’t call for help, and you took your turn shoveling the drive with proper protection after the last wave of flurries passed.

The next time he saw you in passing – you were returning home and he was just leaving – he let you know your soup was delicious, that the bread was amazing, and the honey did wonders for his throat. He never returned your containers.

Ah, well. They were replaceable.

Then the next snow came, and the dumb bitch went shoveling shirtless again.

It wasn’t as much snow, and it didn’t take him half as long, but you steamed, glaring from the safety of your kitchen window. You refused to replace your meal prep supplies again. And local honey was expensive. The brat could freeze and die. Something about taking a horse to water and all that shit.

You drank your coffee black that morning, just to make a point to no one in particular.

The man didn’t know how to take care of himself, and he had no idea how to winter-proof his home.

His pipes froze. You brought buckets, old towels, bottled water, and the number of an excellent plumber. Then you explained why he should pay attention to the forecast and let faucets drip to keep the water moving. You told him to open the cabinets under sinks so heat could combat the chill along exterior walls.

His truck’s battery succumbed to the cold. You gave him a jump and escorted him to town to make sure he didn’t get himself stranded.

When he didn’t keep things stocked and tried to panic-shop before a big storm, discovering that small town shelves couldn’t meet demand, you shared staples from your pantry.

He didn’t have more than two cheap blankets in his living space, so when the holidays rolled around you gave him your latest assemblage of granny-squares. And a scarf.

He gave you burnt cookies – “Biscuits” – in return.

(And a half-empty bottle of whiskey.)

He never remembered to drag his trash down to the main road.

And gods help you if the power went out, because the man had no generator, very little in his pantry, and rarely more than a quarter tank of gas in his ride.

He was careless. Clueless. Nearly helpless.

What were you supposed to do? You couldn’t leave him to his fate. It was unneighborly and inhumane.

He made you angry. But you didn’t hate him until his friend moved in.

A few months into his residence, you went to Johnny’s door to ask if he needed anything from town before the next storm shadowed the forecast, and a stranger came to the door.

A hulking monster with a skull painted over his balaclava.

The doorway shrank around his broad shoulders, and he ducked when he stepped out. You weren’t sure if he entirely needed to, but you understood the urge – like an adult stepping out of a child’s playhouse. Scarred knuckles wrapped around the doorknob, and you knew his grip would swallow you whole by the way it engulfed the brass handle.

Animal instinct jarred you. Every hair from the base of your skull to the end of your spine stood on end as you tried to smell the air, listen to the wind, spot the predator’s intent before it was too late.

You didn’t have a problem with people balaclavas. You’d worn one the other day when you were shoveling the drive, but this looked less like protection and more like a threat.

Was he robbing your neighbor? Had a serial killer come to town? Oh, fuck.

You took a step back, reaching for your phone because you didn’t carry a weapon, especially not on a grocery run, and it was the closest thing you had to help.

“You the neighbor?”

He asked so casually, vaguely irritated, but relaxed. It wasn’t the voice of a man who’d just been caught committing a felony, and you took a second to look beyond the stranger’s mask (and size). There was a mug in his hand, and he wore a t-shirt with sweats. His socked feet lingered on the front step, just shy of the blue road salt and crisped ice. Not robbery gear. More like a… houseguest?

Your neighbor never had guests before.

It caught you so off guard your brain short circuited. He had always been a lone, helpless figure. Made sense he’d have friends, though. You couldn’t imagine he’d survive anywhere long without someone looking out for him.

You were still a little irritated that your neighbor had invited his own friend to his own house on his own property without informing you, but that was just the recluse inside snarling at a new face. Or half of one.

And – well – manners.

Holding out a mittened hand, you introduced yourself, adding, “I stopped to see if Johnny needed anyth-”

“No.” He shut you down so fast you reeled another step back. “Don’t need anything.”

He closed the door and that was that.

Sun glittered on the season’s collection of snow, a frozen fairyland that wouldn’t entirely melt until spring. Then there would be roads washed out, and mud, and you’d need to teach Johnny flash flood safety and…

It didn’t compute. Johnny was still home, so surely he’d pop out with an explanation.

You waited.

But he didn’t.

The absolute fuck?

Your spinning thoughts kept you trapped in your head for a solid minute, processing what had happened, what was implied, and what that meant for your neighborly relationship. Even when you managed to move, drive to town, and run your errands, the interaction prickled in your mind like a splinter.

You must’ve done something wrong.

Aged fluorescent lights strobed out of time with your cart’s shrieking wheels. You discovered your list wasn’t in your pocket. It waited at home, next to a pen to add Johnny’s requests. You’d already added things you doubted he’d think to ask for, and it would take time to pick apart your needs. The list wouldn’t have saved you, even if you’d remembered it.

Three bags of flour went into your cart. That was fine. They’d keep, and baking was a good way to combat cabin fever (it warmed the house as a bonus).

Two gallons of milk.

Wait.

No.

You put one back, self-conscious. A young mother with her baby stood just behind you, and an old woman was reviewing her coupons across the aisle. You refused to make eye contact, convinced you’d catch them watching. Did they see? Were they worried about your germs on the product you put back? Did they think you were too broke to buy what you needed? Maybe they thought you’d just broken up with your boyfriend or something.

You counted the squares in the linoleum as you marched away from the refrigerators’ humming. One less source of white noise. It didn’t help as much as you’d hoped. The real buzzing roared inside your skull.

Johnny was a pain in the ass, but at least he was friendly. He wasn’t considerate, but he always thanked you. His friend was a whole different beast. Unfriendly. With a spare set of teeth snarling at the world.

The stranger hadn’t even introduced himself. Was he staying long? Moving in? What was he to Johnny? That question alone would answer so many others.

Because you’d never seen him interact beyond basic business with the mechanic, you realized you had no idea of his sexual orientation. Was he gay? Bi? Pan?

His shirtless shoveling shenanigans annoyed you, yes, but you’d unconsciously granted him a little leeway, assuming it had to do with misguided masculine showmanship. The rooster strutting where the hen could see. The dumbass alpha male proving he was a good, strong provider who was also quite nice to look at.

Clearly you were wrong, and in retrospect, you couldn’t see him as anything but a narcistic dipshit in need of training wheels.

You’d thought, maybe, he even liked you. As a friend? A comrade against the cold? As something.

But you were just a stop-gap. Useful.

Convenient.

Until his real friend joined him.

You found your attention unraveling like a cheap sweater. No matter how hard to you dried to darn the holes, you couldn’t keep up with the loose thread undoing all your conscious measures. It was quickly becoming one of those days when you convinced yourself your therapist had lied about everything.

When you messed up, even in your head, everyone knew.

If they didn’t say otherwise, you were annoying everyone in the room. If they did say otherwise, they were just being polite.

You weren’t likeable, not loveable, and the minute you weren’t useful you should make yourself scarce. Otherwise, things would get awkward, and no one wanted that. You could be the adult. You could hack off a limb and smile about it.

It didn’t hurt, and even if it did, it shouldn’t, because you didn’t have a right to that feeling.

Alright. Fine.

You realized, just as you joined the line for the cashier, that you’d forgotten matches and sugar. They’d been on your list. But someone joined the line behind you, and unspoken social rules that probably didn’t exist shackled you in place. Too late. You’d look stupid. You’d bother someone. Oh well. You’d just have to make another trip. Soon. But not too soon. Now there were two sets of eyes watching you from the connecting drive, and you didn’t want to give them reason to gossip and laugh and assume…

Your pile of groceries looked too small on the conveyor belt. Roughly half what they’d been lately. Would the cashier notice? You were sure she did. The way she recited your total sounded disappointed. Was she counting on you buying more? Were you hurting the employees’ holiday bonus? Shit. Fuck.

The bags felt too heavy. Too light. You forgot your reusable sacks at home, and the plastic dug guilt and accusations into the crease of your palms. On top of everything else, you were killing the planet.

You drove home.

Along the river. Through the trees. Up the hills to your corrupted sanctuary.

At least you didn’t need to make a second trip to bring in all the shopping. Your haul landed on the counter, you threw the damned milk in the fridge, and you realized, as you opened the pantry, that you already had four bags of flour. Two all-purpose, two for bread. Because you’d planned to bake for two.

The flour hadn’t been on your list.

And there was no room for it.

Your lip wobbled, and you bit it ferociously, chewing it until the texture changed and bits of skin started peeling.

It wasn’t a problem. You liked being prepared. You’d dump it in one of the emergency storage totes you kept in the hall closet and be ready when something went wrong.

You did just that, popping open the plastic lid and layering the flour over dry lentils, black beans, and shelf-stable cartons of broth. You decided to add more baking supplies to the list. Even if the power went out you could use the wood-burning stove in the living room to make griddle cakes. Maybe even soda bread.

There. Yeah. That wasn’t so bad. A silver lining.

As you returned to the kitchen, brainstorming ways to atone for the plastic bags you’d used, the scent of coffee wafted down the hall. Which was strange. Because you hadn’t put the moka pot on. You rushed in, frowning.

The old drip machine you only used for company burbled in the corner, and the groceries sat precariously on the corner, shoved aside by the beast who’d wandered through your unlocked door.

A tall, mohawked figure groped, shoulder-deep, in your cabinets.

MacTavish.

The Scottish mumbling would’ve tipped you off even if you weren’t so familiar with his figure (and hair, and limited wardrobe).

Your angst tasted bitter as you swallowed it down. You needed space for the feelings popping like firecrackers in your chest.

Relief. Hope. Dread.

He was in your space without invitation, and with the morning you’d just had, you felt anything but comfortable. Either you’d jumped the gun, or he was bringing a delayed apology for his friend.

“Johnny? What are you doing here?”

He smiled over his shoulder as he pulled two cups down from the shelf. One with your college logo and your prized ugly mug.

“Hello, neighbor!” He cackled, laughing at his own joke. “Wanted to give you a heads up and have a chat. My friend’s come to stay with me.”

Friend? What flavor of friend?

“I know. We met this morning.”

“Aye. Real barrel o’ sunshine, isn’ he?”

“If you say so.”

You wanted to be nice. You wanted to be his friend, too. But you weren’t, and you’d worked so hard to be a good, reliable person he could depend on in a new town – you were drained.

“His name’s Ghost.”

Most people grew out of their edgelord status by their early twenties. Ghost –with his skull balaclava and gruff voice – seemed better fit for the emo table of a suburban high school cafeteria than the adult world.

Johnny kept prattling, making an introduction for someone who wasn’t even there. “Told him all about you! He was impressed. Smacked me over the head about the pipes and said we’d go into town for a generator before the next big snow.”

“Hard to predict the next big snow.”

“Aye. He said that, too.”

If Ghost could keep your insights out of his mouth, you would appreciate it. It felt like he was stealing something from you, and you found yourself shifting from foot to foot, arms crossed, waiting for something terrible to happen.

And it did.

Gesturing as he described his old buddy and new housemate, his elbows danced around your kitchen like battering rams. First, he struck a cabinet, which hurt him more than the wood. He laughed it off. Kept talking. You didn’t need to say a word. By that point, you probably couldn’t even if he left space to speak.

For the life of you, you couldn’t riddle out what his visit was for. It was exhausting. He never chattered so much when you brought food or showed him how to keep his home in one piece. Ghost must make him very happy. His joy made you anxious.

His arm wide, indicating the views he’d fallen for and not the practical considerations of living in the goddamn woods on a goddamn mountain, and you watched in slow motion as his forearm caught your ugly mug’s handle.

It spun, wobbling to the edge of the counter, and before you could move, it plummeted.

A bad day instantly became your worst in years.

It must’ve made a sound when it hit, but you didn’t hear it. Or didn’t remember it. You didn’t remember going to the floor after it, either.

Your mug was in pieces, and when you pulled them to safety, wrapped tight in your fist, the glazed edges cut deep. It was such an ugly little thing. Your ugly little thing. You’d made it in one of those sip-and-spin pottery classes with your pals before you stopped going to see people face-to-face.

The mug wasn’t a friend. It was all of your friends. It was the fun you, the one who went out and did things, and moved through life like a real, entire person.

It practically exploded when it hit the tile. Some pieces were bigger than others, but there were dozens of them. Glittering chips and flecks that you knew you’d be finding with your feet through the rest of the winter.

There was no fixing it. It hurt. You were bleeding. Red oozed up between your knuckles and snaked down your wrist.

“Oh, shite! Shite, shite, shite. Are you alright? Here, let me –”

You didn’t want him to touch it again. Didn’t want him to touch you and act like he gave a fuck. This was a big, ugly feeling bubbling up inside, and if he didn’t dislike you yet, he would when he saw all the tears and snot.

A pretty crier you were not.

And no one wanted to see that, or deal with it, or cope with someone else’s messy emotions.

“It’s fine. I’m okay.” You grit your teeth and smiled through them. “But I need to clean this up, and I still have groceries to put away. How about you get your friend settled and we can talk another time, okay?”

“Are you sure?” His attention was fixed on the blood. Bright red was such an alarming color. You could understand.

“Yeah. Just a little scratch. Promise. But I can’t play host and clean myself up.”

His neck went stiff, and his eyes flicked from your face to the floor. Several times. Like he was having an argument with himself. But in the end, he listened, nodded, and got back on his feet from where he’d knelt in front of you.

“If you insist. But we’re right over there if you need anything, aye?”

“I know.”

Finally, he left.

You got up and locked the door behind him. If you’d taken time to do that before you put away the groceries none of this would’ve happened. You would still have your mug and you wouldn’t be on the floor, crying and cradling the remains of something that mattered to you.

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

He kept coming over when he needed things. Usually after Ghost’s truck rumbled down the drive. Sometimes he wanted advice. Sometimes he needed help. Usually he took tools and supplies he should’ve bought for himself.

You put your curtains to good work. You couldn’t remember a time you drew them so often. If he knocked, you’d answer, but the curtains were a good deterrent. Not foolproof, but something that gave you a little more power over your privacy.

Long jaunts into town have become escapes from your own home. Better the eyes of strangers – fleetingly painful – than the paranoia of sitting under glass where your neighbors might read your habits and foibles by the way the lights turn on and off through the night, might judge your messy hair through the kitchen window as you wash the dishes. Might, might, might. There were terrible possibilities in all that potential.

They were always there. One ready to freeze you out, the other hanging on your apron strings like a teenager who just got his first place. The conflict rubbed over your nerves like a match on a boot heel. Too much, too fast, and you’d combust.

So you found a lot of reasons to go into town. You remembered how much you liked the library, the joy of a cinnamon roll someone else baked, and hot coffee that didn’t come with a side of flashbacks.

The forecast predicted heavy snow overnight, and you made a day of grocery shopping, collecting novels from the library, and avoiding your neighbor’s last-minute requests.

You barely noticed the teens rushing out of the parking lot as you left your final stop, canvas bag loaded with enough media to keep you entertained through the storm of the century. No windows were broken. No key marks scuffed the paint. If they committed any mischief, it was minor.

Gas theft didn’t cross your mind until your engine quietly gave out and your car rolled to a stop between Nowhere and Nothing.

Understanding dawned with grudging revulsion. Like looking at the toilet and realizing it wouldn’t flush.  

The little shits had siphoned your tank.

You smacked the steering wheel, cursing.

So much for the benefit of the doubt. You couldn’t escape. Everyone everywhere just wanted to use you.

But it was fine. Everything would be fine. You were always prepared in case someone fucked you over. Your wellbeing was your responsibility, after all.

Climbing out of the warm cabin, you headed to the back and pulled out the emergency gas can.

The red plastic was shockingly light. You didn’t realize until you’d already thrown your weight into the yank. Unbalanced, you tottered, and your heel skidded over ice.

The snow cushioned your fall, and you stared blankly into the white limned branches overhead as you tried to process the last five seconds. Things like this happened to idiots. They did not happen to you. Careful, cautious you with your backup plans and reserves.

You had simply made a mistake. Somewhere. Somehow. You’d find an explanation.

When you sat up, still in a state of shock, you examined the can, expecting signs of a mouse, or a crack, or…

An I.O.U. was taped to the back.

You knew the handwriting all too well.

That shitting little…

The snow arrived. Silence swallowed the mountain, and the gloaming snuffed the last of the sun’s warmth.

You sat alone on the side of the road, well aware that no one would come up this way for hours. Days maybe.

You had made a mistake.

You made your neighbor chicken soup.

Your nose burned, and you sniffed. Hot tears rolled down your face, burning as they went, and you wiped at them furiously. The wool of your mittens chafed your cheek. Your lip wobbled, and you hurled the empty can into the woods.

Fuck Johnny MacTavish.

Fuck Ghost.

Fuck your life.

[syoddeye]

simon doesn't pursue people, he operates more like a one-man strike team. his approach to human connection is transactional, pragmatic, a matter of logistics.

on the rare occasion he's looking for company, he wants someone easy, who won't fuss when he introduces them to a thin motel mattress. won't ask what he does for work or try to make plans for the morning. won't bother him about 'next time'. nothing long-term. no strings.

he doesn't have a 'type' so much as a protocol: pick someone malleable, pliant, and preferably on the pill.

then you start working at his local.

the first time he sees you, he doesn't notice much beyond the basics: efficiency, attentiveness, pouring pints and bantering with the regulars with aplomb. by the second or third time, he's paying closer attention. you're not just good at your job—you're quick, always three steps ahead of the chaos. you give out smiles left and right, but it's more muscle memory than genuine warmth. and you're clever, too. funny, even, when someone manages to earn your attention for longer than a transaction.

you could probably keep up with his humor. go toe-to-toe.

you're off-limits, though. that's the rule. bartenders are switzerland—neutral territory. don't shit where you eat. it's a system that works, so long as he doesn't let himself think too much about the view when you lean over the counter or the lilt of your voice when you ask what he's having tonight.

then one evening, you take another man's number. some leering idiot, too comfortable with inserting himself into your space, grinning like he's cracked your code because you haven't humbled him. simon doesn't react, not outwardly. he nurses his drink and watches as you smile, slip the napkin into your pocket, and turn back to the bar.

but that's when you become a problem.

he tells himself it doesn't matter, that it's nothing. he doesn't want a number or a date. but the thought of someone else having you—someone who doesn't know what to do with a woman like you—it's a splinter buried just deep enough to keep him thinking about it. irritating, prone to fester.

how to approach you, though? he can't be as direct as he'd like, can't pin you down with a look or crass words. no way to corner you when you're safe behind the counter, or disappearing through a staff door. hanging around until you're off would be pathetic. dog behavior, he thinks, with a twinge of contempt for the mental image. he's got too much self-respect for that, at least.

no, he's got to actually make an effort. use his words.

the next time he comes in, he waits. no more corner tables or watching from afar. he sits close, pretends not to notice how your hands look slicing a lime. he orders his usual and tries not to overthink your tone when you set it down in front of him.

"you alright?"

you reach for his card, fingers pinching the plastic, but he holds on, smirking when you tug and then huff.

this is the moment. his moment. the one he's been building toward in his head for days. but there's a hitch, a blip in his usual confidence, and he fumbles. he blames your perfume.

"so…you come here often?"

not what he meant to say, but not the worst.

the shockwave of his nuclear-level failure doesn't register until your lips twitch, and it finally sinks in. his eyes widen a fraction as the realization lands. oh, he's fucked it. all his rehearsing, for nothing.

"…yeah," you say, voice flat, a single brow raised as you gesture vaguely toward the bar around you. "i work here?"

his mouth dries, but his face doesn't change. he doesn't fight it when you pull the card out of his grasp. there's the barest glint of something in your eyes—amusement, maybe, or pity. he's not sure which is worse.

you turn away to ring him up, but when you glance back, he's gone.

next

[daggers-drawn-returns]

🏳️‍⚧️🏴Homeless Trans Woman Needs Help Raising Funds to Build Home In Slab City (a squatter town in Southern California)🏜️🛖

January 27th 2025

Hi, I'm Thistle Ishtar Daggers-Drawn and I'm a homeless organizer (an organizer who is homeless and who organizes homeless people) living in a squatter community in Southern California.

I have aspirations to help this community put together self-sustaining systems of community care and services that supply the people here with necessities and the means of self-organization. Read my pinned post for more details.

Unfortunately I have been having difficulty setting up my own camp and own home here in Slab City. Given the blistering hot summers I'm trying to build an underground house to limit the heat and provide natural cooling, which would be better if constructed with heat resistant materials like foamcrete.

I need to raise $200 to make this home a reality. If I get funding I'll post showing how I'm using the money and how I'm building my home, plus I'll post updates around my community work.

Cashapp: $ThistleDD

Venmo: @ThistleDD

Please like, reblog and share and know that every dollar counts. I appreciate all the support I get.

[goddessinnerglow]

Become Your Best Version Before 2025 Masterlist

Hello! This is the Become Your Best Version Before 2025 masterlist. It’s a collection of all the posts from the series, gathered in one place to make it easier for you to access and follow along.

I hope you find it inspiring and helpful as you work towards becoming the best version of yourself!

Day 1: What Does Becoming Your Best Version Mean

Day 2: Understanding Yourself / Self-assessment

Day 3: Identifying Limiting Beliefs

Day 4: Identifying Your Core Values

Day 5: Setting SMART Goals That Actually Stick

Day 6: Creating Your Personal Mission Statement

Day 7: Building Better Habits

Day 8: Mastering Time Management

Day 9: Auditing Your Relationships

Day 10: Mastering Your Emotions

Day 11: Taking Care of Your Body

Day 12: Stress Management

Day 13: Financial Planning and Budgeting

Day 14: Career and Purpose

Day 15: The Power of Self-Talk

Day 16: Digital Detox and Mindful Living

Day 17: Decluttering Your Life

Day 18: Creating Healthy Boundaries

Day 19: Self-Care Rituals That Actually Stick

Day 20: Building Confidence

Day 21: Overcoming Fear & Self-Doubt

Day 22: Developing New Skills

Day 23: Personal Style & Self-Presentation

Day 24: Setting Up Progress Tracking Systems

Day 25: Designing Your Accountability Plan

Day 26: Personal Development Tools and Resources

Day 27: Hobbies & Passion Projects

Day 28: How to Keep Yourself Motivated

Day 29: Prioritizing Yourself and Your Needs

Day 30: Creating Your Vision for 2025

Day 31: The Beginning of Your Best Year Yet

*** Divider Credit: @thecutestgrotto ***

[ennabear]

ʕ≧ᴥ≦ʔ dreaming about sevika fucking you on shimmer… 18+

while sevika tends to have a pretty gruff exterior— that resting bitch face, giant metal arm, six feet of pure muscle, and deep, husky voice— as soon as she gets some shimmer in her system, it’s like a switch is flipped and she’s suddenly so much lighter.

sure, she only really uses it for an adrenaline boost, but times like these are her favorite— when she gets to play around with it. although it’s a little bit freaky, the way her arm twitches and rattles as it guzzles the shimmer down, it’s so beautiful. she’s so beautiful. the way it illuminates her pretty dark scars, sending a shock of neon purple down her body that perfectly compliments the brown and gold of her skin and arm.

she notices you staring, eyes practically turning into hearts as you watch. soon enough, she’s on top of the world, forgetting about all of her phantom pains and the bitches in the past who’ve wronged her. she grins lasciviously, “you ready?”

and she’s got you on your knees in an instant, ripping your underwear in two before you can protest. she yanks the fly of her pants down, her lengthy cock springing out hungrily. no matter how much you assure her you’re ready, how much you beg her to start fucking you, she still follows it with a “you sure? ‘cause we’re not stopping ‘til i’m done.”

then she slips inside you abruptly, sparing you only a few milliseconds to adjust before she’s pounding into you. you swear the whole building shakes with her thrusts, it’s one of the last thoughts you have before you get fucked completely stupid. her mech hand comes up to grip at your shoulder, steadying herself as she gets lost in the pleasure.

something animalistic awakens in her, a string of drool dripping onto your back as she smacks her hips into you. “you like it when i fuck you like this?” she taunts, knowing you’re already too far gone to respond. she chuckles at your silence, assuming the way you grab at her mech hand is a yes.

it’s so cute how she gets with some shimmer in her system. she’s growling behind you, saliva dripping down her face onto her neck, laughing and giggling at something only god knows. you understand how refreshing it must be for her to completely lose herself, let the pleasure take over for a while, forget about all responsibilities and only focus on you.

before she can even register it, you’re squirting around her. she snaps out of her daze as you groan at the overstimulation, bending down to sink her teeth into your neck. “sevika!! b-be nice.” you plead. she smirks wolfishly, licking up a bead of blood from your neck as she, too, tips over the edge.

she only pauses for a brief moment to catch her breath before flipping you over completely. her once silver eyes are now a soft lavender, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat casted over her skin that makes her look like she’s sparkling. her arm twists and zaps a little as it reloads, another vial of shimmer draining itself into her.

one of your favorite smiles creeps up onto her face, showing off her tooth gap. you almost melt. god, she’s so adorable. you giggle, fully aware that sevika’s using every ounce of self control to give you a moment to rest.

“ready for round two?” she chuckles, although you can hear the desperation in her voice. you yank your shirt off of your head, leaning forward to capture her lips in a heated kiss before she can grab at your chest. “ready when you are.”

[novelistwriter]

Ghastly Connections

DP x DC Prompt

This prompt was inspired by "Building a Proper Support System Straight from the Box"

Danny's life is pretty good so far. His parents had accepted his Ghost Half, Vlad isn't being his usual Fruitloop self, his grades are slowly getting better because his Ghostly Rogues are scheduling fights, the Observants aren't as obnoxious and demanding on him because he's the Ghost King/Prince, and the GIW seem to have given up on him, as no one has heard from them at all.

The GIW didn't give up. They just pulled back temporarily to get better. They trapped the entire town and started subduing any and everyone that was Liminal and Ghosts and dragging them... somewhere.

Danny, Dani, Dan, Vlad, the Fentons, and anyone else tried their best to push back against the GIW. Nothing was working, so the Halfa's pulled off a raid to free the Ghosts and people trapped by the GIW, sacrificing themselves in the process.

The Ghosts that were freed and sent to the Infinite Realms/Ghost Zone were too shocked to see that Danny, their King, destroyed the portal without following behind them. They had to help their King and the rest of the Royal Family, but they need help, so they are heading to the people they knew when they were alive to ask them for help.

Pandora is ashamed for letting the White Suits best her because of her weakness to their weapons, but she heads to Themyscira to get aid from Hippolyta and the rest of her Amazon Sister's.

Johnny and Kitty are heading to Star City to see if Johnny's younger brother will be able to help, Johnny knows that little Oli is still alive.

Ember is heading to her home city, Gotham, to see if the Bat can help her. After all, she was a popular singer, and the little Street Rat she knows is Robin will be on board to help.

Skulker is going to Metropolis, his old "buddy" Alexander still owes him some favors, and he's going to cash them in.

Lunch Lady is going to Smallville to see if the Kent's still live there, she knows Superman is Clark, and she hopes they still live on the farm she visited her old friend has, after all, Martha Kent and her were quite the rambunctious duo in their prime.

Youngblood is going to Central City to see if his best friend Barry still lives there and to see if he has any kids to play with when everything is over and done with.

Desiree is going to her favorite Drunk British Man, but not to mess with him. She is on a mission to save the Realms from being destroyed. She'll mess with him later.

Now it's a race against time, and the Ghostly Rogues of Phantom need to gather help fast, or else the Realms will cease to be when the Royal Family is ended by the GIW.