#let me know if this is terrible so i can never do it again

[froginthemachine]

This is why I saw AA failing people when I was trying to get sober a couple years ago. At the main group I was going to there was this great, upstanding guy I'd known who had like 3 years of sobriety, who I was gonna ask to be my sponsor.

Now, AA had given him plenty of tools to stay sober, and he'd "worked the steps" a couple times over, but not much was ever done beyond that (at least not among many of these people) to decentralize the focus from alcohol and drugs. Their lives were still about how much they didn't drink alcohol underneath anything else they had going on. Their entire support networks were built around former alcoholics that kept the focus on the length of sobriety, kept tying his accomplishments since then to the absence of alcohol.

So one day nobody's heard from him in like two weeks, and he shows up at the meeting looking terrible. He'd slipped up and had one beer, and then oh, I guess it doesn't matter, I already threw away 3 years of sobriety, right? And he went on a week-long bender. I saw a grown man capable of things I never thought I'd be able to do, thinking he had to come crawling back at his lowest to these people after "fucking up", which I thought was ridiculous for a moment until I saw some of the other people in that room eating that shit up like it made them feel better about themselves. Made me sick to my stomach how these people I respected were now projecting their own failures onto him to categorize themselves as better than that. None of them had made the mental or emotional progress they were putting on a show of. (Granted this group had some horribly toxic queer drama that just didn't belong anywhere near AA, but it got in anyway.)

I realized, if that's how I was gonna be when I messed up, I gotta stop focusing on sobriety as the one solution, and focus on the entire problem, find support around me instead of through one lens in one group. I have to understand why I drink and smoke weed and go overboard in the first place, so that I know I can manage myself and let go easily if I ever do decide to do it again and not hang onto it like it's my last lifeline.

And it worked. I stopped wanting to drink alone, and then stopped wanting to drink at all. I stopped wanting to smoke weed all day, and then I kinda stopped wanting to smoke weed altogether. It stopped being a big fucking deal!

every time I mention how many days sober I am I appreciate people congratulating me and telling me to keep up the good work. it is nice. but I also wish that milestones in addiction recovery weren’t still so pinned to length of sobriety/abstinence

yeah yeah I’m 50 days sober who cares. how about the fact that, when I do drink, it tends to be nipped in the bud after two days nowadays instead of weeks or months? how about the fact that drinking has been condensed to a six pack because I’m at the end of my tether, instead of browning out every night? how about my friend who has decided to stop drinking alone, and is actually sticking to that? recovery doesn’t always look like sobriety and I wish it was more normal to talk about that. yknow. when addiction is normal to talk about at all

[pixiexdusts-world]

Underneath the metal

Thunderbolts* Bucky Barnes x teammate!reader

Summary: After you’re injured on a solo mission, Bucky—your enemy-turned-teammate—steps in to take care of you, revealing feelings neither of you can ignore.

Word count: 1,965

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You and Bucky Barnes didn’t get along. From day one, it had been glares, snide remarks, and the kind of tension that made everyone else on the Thunderbolts team either exit the room or place bets.

He was brooding and cold. You were fire and sarcasm. Oil and water—if oil had a metal arm and a hundred-yard death stare.

Which is why it was almost funny—almost—that you got shot on a mission you’d begged to be sent on instead of him.

You’d been tracking a rogue scientist through an old Hydra compound in Slovakia, determined to bring him in without backup. But things went sideways fast. You barely made it out alive, collapsing just inside the hangar of the Thunderbolts’ safehouse, soaked in blood and pride.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You wake to pain.

A bright, aching throb in your side. Something tight around your ribs. The sterile smell of disinfectant.

And Bucky.

He’s sitting next to your cot, face grim, arms crossed. That stupid metal one glinting in the dim light.

You blink slowly. “If this is hell, it’s disappointingly sarcastic.”

His eyes shoot to yours. Blue and burning.

“You almost died,” he says, and it sounds more like an accusation than concern.

“Yeah, well. Almost doesn’t count.”

You try to sit up and immediately regret it. Your ribs scream in protest. Bucky’s hand shoots out to steady you, warm fingers surprisingly gentle as they press to your shoulder.

“Lie back.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

You glare. “Didn’t ask for your help.”

“No,” he snaps, “you didn’t. You just snuck off like an idiot and bled all over the compound.”

You open your mouth for a biting retort, but something in his expression stops you cold.

He looks—wrecked.

His jaw tight. Hands clenched. And his voice, when he speaks again, is low and raw.

“Who did this to you?”

The question hits harder than the bullet did.

You glance away, throat tight. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t.”

He leans forward now, and there’s no teasing in his face, no smug grin or sarcastic jab. Just worry. Sharp, undiluted worry.

“Tell me.”

You swallow. “It was one of the guards. Saw me before I saw him. Got a lucky shot. I handled it.”

His metal hand curls around the edge of the bed. “You didn’t handle it. You nearly bled out alone.”

“I didn’t want to risk dragging anyone else into it.”

He lets out a sound between a scoff and a growl. “So instead you’d rather die being a goddamn martyr?”

You bristle. “You don’t get to lecture me.”

“I do when I’m the one who carried you back.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“I found you in the hangar. Barely breathing. You passed out before you even saw me.”

He stares at you like he’s memorizing your face, as if making sure it’s really you.

“I thought you were gone.”

Something inside you cracks.

You’ve spent months trading barbs and pushing each other’s buttons, but right now, none of that matters. Not when he’s looking at you like you’re the last thing tethering him to this world.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “For going alone.”

He doesn’t reply right away. Just looks at you, searching your face.

Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him, he murmurs, “You scared the hell out of me.”

You blink, stunned.

And then, because the painkillers are still fogging your brain and your heart is wide open and aching, you whisper, “Why do you even care?”

He stands abruptly, pacing once before turning back. Frustration radiates off him.

“Because I do,” he says, exasperated. “Because somewhere between you calling me a fossil and nearly blowing my arm off during sparring, I started giving a damn.”

You stare at him, pulse hammering.

He rubs a hand down his face, eyes tired. “I know we’ve never been exactly… civil. But I’d rather take a thousand of your insults than lose you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t know you felt—”

“Well, now you do.”

His voice is quiet again. And something about his vulnerability—that bare, open honesty—feels heavier than anything Hydra ever put you through.

You shift in the bed, trying not to wince. “Can you… stay? Just for a bit?”

His gaze softens. “Yeah. Of course.”

He settles back into the chair beside you. For a moment, the room is still. The air between you has changed, no longer charged with animosity but with something tentative, delicate.

You break the silence with a smile. “Still hate you a little.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well. You’re a pain in my ass.”

But his fingers brush yours on the edge of the cot, feather-light. And you don’t pull away.

You let them rest there.

Warm. Steady.

Real.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Two Weeks Later

You’re back on your feet, still sore, still healing—but training again. Bucky watches you from across the gym, arms folded, pretending not to look. Which is a lie, because he hasn’t stopped looking since you stepped onto the mat.

You fake a punch toward the bag and glance at him. “You stalking me now, Barnes?”

He smirks. “Making sure you don’t get yourself killed again.”

You toss your gloves onto the bench and walk toward him, towel slung over your shoulder. He doesn’t move as you stop in front of him.

“You’re a terrible liar, too.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

You nod, stepping close. “You don’t want me alive just because we’re teammates.”

“No,” he agrees, voice low. “I don’t.”

You’re close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him.

“You gonna do something about it?” you murmur.

He hesitates, eyes flicking to your lips. “Only if you want me to.”

You lean in just a bit. “I do.”

His lips brush yours, tentative and reverent. It’s not a fireworks explosion. It’s something softer—like a wound finally healing.

And when he pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he whispers,

“Next time you run into danger without me, I’m chaining you to the jet.”

You grin. “Kinky.”

He groans. “Regret. Instant regret.”

But he’s smiling, and so are you. Because for the first time since this whole twisted Thunderbolts mission started, you’re not just surviving.

You’re living.

And maybe—just maybe—falling in love with the man you once thought was your greatest enemy.

[kissingraine]

Small excerpt for Grendel King cus....🫣

Bury a Friend — Grendel King x f!Reader

• The jungle reeked of blood and ash, barely making you flinch anymore as you sat down in a small clearing filled with luminous viridian blood and your own crimson one. Lungs punctured and streaks of blood trailing down your nostrils. Pretty sure you're on the brink of sleeping forever. But you're not. You won't. Your hands are scratched raw from digging—stone and bone barely give a shit about human skin. You'd wrapped your best friend's body in the tattered flag of your wrecked camp, stubborn fingers with bleeding nails tying each corner like it mattered. Like it'd hold her together and she'd wake up again.

• But you know better than anyone that she won't. That it's partially your fault you couldn't have protected her better, a sinkhole forming in your chest and threatening to swallow you and your surroundings. It did. For a short moment, you drowned in that inky darkness. Moving on instinct and watching through your eyes like a camera lens as if your life was a tragic movie.

“You cannot carry her weight to the stars,” a deep, bone-rattling voice emerged from behind your crouched form.

He'd never met anything so vicious. Fury so bright it could burn an entire galactic system. Your strength is undeniable in the midst of four bodies that were once his proud warriors. He was warned by his council of an ooman's indomitable will. He just didn't think you could go this far. Then again, he's been collecting fleshy champions for so long he shouldn't be surprised. Still, he is.

• The alien steps closer and you bare your teeth, lips curling and eyes wide with murderous intent. “Decide now.” It continued to say in that warbly tone that came from his metal wristband. Turning, you find the Grendel King standing half-shrouded by the smoke—towering and brutal. Mandibles flaring, but his eyes—those terrible, intelligent crimson orbs—watched you with something like curiosity. Or maybe adjacent pity.

“She's going home,” you say hoarsely but filled with wrathful conviction. “Even if I have to walk the whole damn way. She's going home.”

A long silence and he steps forward, claws clicking like he's unsure how to react accordingly. Because this isn't protocol. He bent, reaching for the second ooman's body until you intercepted. Fingers broken but a grip so tight it incites his instincts. They're screaming. Kill this one. Don't even think about bringing her onto your ship. Keeping her.

You blink, tears having flowed continuously that a vessel popped and now it's spreading across the whites of your eyes. His tongue flexes behind sharp mandibles, wanting to taste.

“I will do it. Then, you can do whatever you want with me.” Insisting, you let go and hoist up the body before you even as your bone creaks. Straining from the weight of a body going rigor mortis. He chuffs but follows you, spinal cape rattling as it trails behind. A charge, just until you've said your mortal goodbyes. Not because he wants to see if you'll snap at him again. Certainly not.

[fellominaarcher]

New York's Finest — Spiderwoman!Sophia x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS

» » When your girlfriend Sophia decides the best way to help you overcome your fear of heights is a romantic swing through Manhattan's skyline, you're pretty sure this isn't what the self-help books had in mind. Between your death grip on her shoulders and the very undignified screaming, it's not exactly the graceful spider-and-passenger duo you'd imagined.

» » genre: AU, superhero, romance-comedy

» » warning: fight scenes ig, fear of heights, swinging thru Manhattan

» » fic type: oneshot

» » inspo: i literally had a dream of sophia being a spiderwoman and was my gf in that dream

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12:37AM. Obviously, midnight. The two of you, Sophia and you, were waiting for these small numbers of people to dissolve. Away from the dock you two were at. Waiting for the lights out too. A part of you were thinking that this is a terrible idea.

Definitely is a bad idea. Very ironic because you're dating the Spiderwoman but you're scared of heights which was quite the irony, even when you're climbing onto the chair to hang a tinsel on the wall. It gives you the slight heebie jeebies.

“In the count of 3,” Sophia said in a low voice, literally sticking to a wall under the darkness and her eyes were as sharp as a high specs digital camera.

“2...”

“1,”

“Okay!” Sophia then jumped further into the darkness and so quick, she changed from her hoodies and jeans to her spider suit. Jumping out of the darkness and did a little flip to show off in front of you before landing.

Were you excited? A little. So you stepped up to her and desperately clung to her. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Soph?” you questioned the principle of the situation.

“Jumping heights to heights is my stuff, Y/N,” Sophia's answer did not assure you for one bit.

Definitely one of the worse ways to overcome your fear of heights. Internally, you started to curse at the world but not your girlfriend because you love her so much and so the two of you tip toe to the nearest giant pillar that led to a crane.

You gazed up, the view zoomed out and the height of that pillar felt nauseating to you, almost making you dizzy. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope,” you muttered under your breath.

Sophia gestured to you to climb on her back, “Hop on, princess!” she teased you a little and so you did, climbed on her back. Legs around her waist and arms wrapped around her neck.

Crazy. You should get off the moment you climbed on your girlfriend. How does Sophia deal with all of these for two years? Nobody knows. With you on Sophia's back, she started to climb up and up, her movement was not too fast just so you could get used to the height.

“Try looking down for a sec then look up and look again then brace yourself,” Sophia's voice was a little muffled through the mask and you hold onto her tighter, afraid that one slip will bring you down.

“I literally cannot do that,” you squeaked, your voice about three octaves higher than usual. “My eyes are permanently glued shut, thank you very much.”

“Come on, baby, trust me. I've only dropped someone once.”

”ONCE?!”

“Kidding! Kidding!" Sophia's laughter vibrated through her chest. "I've never dropped anyone. Well, except for bad guys, but that's intentional.”

Your Spiderwoman noticed that you were slightly trembling and she shot her webs on your feet and hands to stick onto her for maximum security.

“There you goooo,” Sophia assured you in a sing-song voice and the two of you continued to climb up on the crane before stopping at the top of it.

Finally reaching the top of the pillar, Sophia paused to let you catch your breath. The city sprawled out below you both, twinkling like scattered diamonds. It would have been beautiful if you weren't currently having an existential crisis about gravity.

“See? Not so bad—”

“SOPHIA, I CAN SEE MY APARTMENT FROM HERE AND THAT'S NOT A GOOD THING!”

“Y/N, it's about to get fun!”

“Fun for who exactly?” you muttered, but before you could protest further, Sophia shot a web line across to a nearby building.

“Ready?” she asked, but didn't wait for an answer.

The world suddenly dropped away beneath you as Sophia launched into the air. The scream that tore from your throat was probably heard in New Jersey. Your arms locked around her neck like a vice grip, and your legs squeezed her waist so tight you were pretty sure you were cutting off her circulation.

“SOPHIA LAFORTEZA I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!” you shrieked as the two of you swung through the night air.

“You'll have to survive the swing first!” she called back, and you could hear her laughing even over the rush of wind. “Besides, look at that view!”

“I'M NOT LOOKING AT ANYTHING!”

Your scream echoed across the Manhattan skyline as Sophia launched both of you into the air. The sensation of falling and flying simultaneously made your brain short-circuit. You were pretty sure you were going to die, and your last thought would be about how your obituary would read: "Died because her girlfriend thought web-swinging was good exposure therapy."

“YOU'RE INSANE!” you screamed into the wind.

“BUT YOU LOVE ME!” Sophia called back, clearly enjoying herself way too much.

“I'M RECONSIDERING THAT!”

The city lights blurred past in streaks of gold and white, and despite your terror, there was something oddly exhilarating about soaring through the Manhattan skyline. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the way Sophia moved with such confidence and grace, but for just a moment, you felt like you were flying.

Then you made the mistake of opening your eyes.

“OH GOD WE'RE SO HIGH UP!” you screamed, immediately squeezing them shut again.

“Y/N,” her voice was gentler now, coaxing. “I promise you, it's beautiful. And I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere.”

Against every instinct screaming in your brain, you slowly opened one eye, again. Then the other.

Manhattan stretched out below you like a blanket of stars, lights twinkling in windows and street lamps creating golden rivers through the darkness. The harbor sparkled in the distance, and you could see the faint outline of bridges connecting the boroughs like delicate jewelry.

“Oh,” you breathed.

“See? Not so bad, right?”

“It's...” you paused, still clinging to her but feeling your death grip loosen slightly. “It's actually kind of gorgeous.”

“Just like my girlfriend,” Sophia said smugly, and you could hear the smile in her voice even through the mask.

“Did you just... did you seriously just use this moment to flirt with me?”

“I use every moment to flirt with you. It's part of my charm.”

“You're unbelievable.” But you were smiling now, some of the terror ebbing away as you took in the view.

Despite the terror, there was something almost magical about it, the way Sophia moved with such confidence, the graceful arcs between buildings, the fact that you were literally flying through the air with the greatest of ease. You might have even started to enjoy it if you weren't busy having a panic attack.

“See? You're getting the hang of—OH SHIT!”

“OH SHIT? OH SHIT WHAT? SPIDERWOMAN DON'T SAY OH SHIT!”

Sophia's trajectory suddenly changed, and you both swooped lower toward an industrial area. Below, you could see a group of people in dark clothing moving around what looked like stolen goods near a warehouse.

“The Crimson Crew," Sophia muttered. "I've been trying to catch these guys all week.”

“Soph, no. Whatever you're thinking, no.”

“I just need to—”

“SOPHIA LAFORTEZA, SO HELP ME, IF YOU—”

But it was too late. Sophia was already changing course, swinging both of you down toward the warehouse. Your romantic evening of facing your fears had just become an impromptu superhero stakeout.

“I'm going to need you to hide while I take care of this,” Sophia said, gently lowering you behind a stack of shipping containers and didn't forget to rip off the webs she had stuck on you.

“Hide? HIDE? I just survived aerial acrobatics without a safety net and now you want me to HIDE?”

“It's dangerous, Y/N. These guys have been planning something big all week.”

You peeked around the container at the group of criminals. They looked like discount Halloween villains, all dramatic black outfits and unnecessarily complicated masks. “They look like they shop at Spirit Halloween.”

“Spirit Halloween villains can still shoot people, babe.”

“Fair point.” You crouched lower behind the container. “Just... be careful, okay? And maybe wrap this up quickly? I'd like to get back to ground level sometime this century.”

Sophia squeezed your hand. “Stay here. I'll be right back.”

You watched as she swung into action, and despite your terror about the height and the danger, you couldn't help but feel proud. Your girlfriend was literally a superhero. She was graceful, powerful, and had a surprisingly extensive repertoire of spider-themed one-liners.

“Hey guys!” Sophia called out, landing dramatically in the middle of the group. “Hope you don't mind if I drop in!”

You winced. “Oh, honey, no.”

One of the jumpsuit guys turned around. “Oh, come ON! We were having such a good night!”

“Sorry to web up your plans!” Sophia shot a web that yanked a weapon out of another guy's hands.

“Did she just... did she actually just make a pun?” you whispered to yourself. “My girlfriend is making PUNS while fighting CRIMINALS.”

The fight was actually pretty incredible to watch. Sophia moved like she was dancing, flipping and swinging and somehow managing to avoid every punch and kick thrown her way. She webbed two guys to the ceiling, used another one as a human yo-yo, and somehow managed to tie three of them together without them realizing what was happening.

“Is this your first day?” she asked one particularly confused criminal. "Because usually people try to hit me BACK."

“We are trying to hit you back!” the guy protested.

“Well, you're not very good at it!”

You had to clap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Your girlfriend was literally roasting criminals while beating them up. It was the most ridiculous, amazing thing you'd ever seen.

But then one of them got lucky and managed to knock Sophia off balance. She recovered quickly, but not before you saw her stumble.

That's when your promise to stay hidden went right out the window.

“BEHIND YOU!” you shouted, banging on the glass as another criminal tried to sneak up on her.

Sophia spun around just in time, but now all the criminals knew exactly where you were.

“GREAT JOB STAYING HIDDEN, STRANGER!” Sophia called out as she webbed the sneaky guy to a wall.

“I PANICKED!”

“I CAN SEE THAT!”

The fight continued, and you found yourself getting genuinely invested in the action. You cheered when Sophia landed a particularly good hit, gasped when she narrowly avoided a thrown wrench, and definitely did not swoon when she did that thing where she flipped upside down and shot webs with perfect accuracy.

“Okay, that was actually pretty cool,” you admitted to yourself.

Finally, the last of the Crimson Crew was webbed up and ready for the police. Sophia stood in the middle of her handiwork, hands on her hips in classic superhero pose.

"Another successful night for your friendly neighborhood Spider-Woman!” she announced.

“And her extremely terrified but supportive girlfriend!” you added, emerging from behind the container.

Sophia swung over to you, landing gracefully beside your hiding spot. “So... how are we feeling about heights now?”

“I'm not saying I'm ready to take up base jumping,” you said slowly, “but... maybe it's not so bad when you're with someone who actually knows what they're doing.”

“Does this mean you'll let me take you web-swinging again?”

You considered this. The terror had been real, but so had the exhilaration. And watching Sophia save the day had been pretty incredible, even if her one-liners needed work.

“On one condition,” you said.

“Anything.”

“We workshop your superhero quips. 'Web up your plans'? Really?”

Sophia laughed, pulling off her mask to reveal her grinning face. “Deal. But I'm keeping 'your friendly neighborhood Spider-Woman.'”

“That one's a classic, I'll allow it.”

She wrapped her arms around you, and for a moment, you both just stood there on the container, looking out over the place. It was beautiful and terrifying and absolutely nothing like the quiet evening you'd planned.

“Ready to head home?” Sophia asked.

You looked at her—mask off, hair messy from the fight, eyes bright with excitement and affection and felt that familiar flutter in your chest that had nothing to do with fear of heights.

Even if you were definitely investing in a helmet for next time.

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[dilf-docs]

High Heels, Hushed Whispers

harry castillo x younger fem!reader

summary: a black dress, high heels and a fancy dinner. that's all it takes for you to fall into harry's scheme. or, better said, trap.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, (eventual) smut, foes to hoes, (one sided) enemies to lovers, angst, rich ppl (yes that's a warning), slowburn, reader may be a bit of a cunt (sorry if this x reader fic is mischaracterizing u), ft. dbf!harry (love this trope so much and had to squeeze it in, my bad)

word count: 3,560 words

side note: i'm lowkey crashing out in FOMO so bad bc materialists won't release in my country until july 31th💔 the need to move to US for my master's just to inherit a lifelong debt but never missing out as a cinephile again,,, HhmmM also, streets saying we're getting the gladiator II treatment in the marketing sense💔💔 UGH WHY WON'T YOU CHOOSE BILLIONARE IN THIS ECONOMY? PEDRO PASCAL FACED BILLIONARIE??!! tbh i'm a hypocrite bc if pedro was poor i'd still chose him anyway... this is in honor of materialists NYC premiere today, hope my man goes 🕯🕯

part: prev | masterlist | next

Picking up calls you shouldn't pick up is a lesson you've yet to learn. Damned be your work habits slipping up into your personal life.

"Let's see if I understand" from the other line.

You take a deep breath, pausing. "Yes?"

"You're going on a date and didn't tell me"

You roll your eyes, looking out the window.

"I would've told you if it was a date, Rach"

You were always a good liar.

"At least I could helped you pick your outfit" she whines. "Like old times!"

It's almost as if you can see her pouting through the phone.

"I would've let you" you concede, "but I already chose the dress you gave me last Christmas"

A fine red garment tailored in authentic silk that hugged your body just right.

"Great choice. That's a killer" then, there's silence, followed by a loud gasp that elicits another eye roll from you. "Wait. Don't tell me- You're already there!"

Your lips quirk up in a smirk. "Maybe"

"You are a terrible friend" but Rachel's words carry no real weight. "At least give me a clue?"

You remember the address, marked in the GPS screen in front of you.

"Boring"

"That's not a clue" she huffs, "everything's boring to you"

You look out the window, the mansion coming into your view.

"Extra boring"

"It's a social gathering, then. You hate those" and you hate how much she's right. Probably knows you better than your dad. Yourself even.

"Your silence proves I'm right" and again, you roll your eyes.

"Goodbye, Rach"

"At least find someone to take home. Your house reeks of loneliness"

It's a joke, but there's a weird pit in your stomach when you hang up. It shouldn't matter that much, but you can't keep pretending you are choosing to spend more time at the office, because going back to a place where the only sound is that of your own steps, echoing back to you, the surface and space looking so artificial, like a hotel room, has become some sort of torture.

Your driver, Joaquín, parks right in front of the entrance. Before he moves, you raise your hand.

"I can do this by myself. Thanks"

He knows better to contradict you and you don't know if you are convincing him or yourself.

"Have a nice night, Ms. y/n"

You open the door, sighing as the heels dig into the pebbled road. I'll try.

As he drives away, you can't help but think again what were you really doing here. It's not like you needed the money, so, again, why did you agree? Willingly accepting to help Harry and his friend, people who you could care less, the first even nearing enemy territory. But for some reason, the moment those brown eyes landed on you, it felt like yes was the only correct answer.

"Welcome, Miss. Can I see your invitation?"

You think it's pointless: would you've driven all the way here if you weren't invited?

"Here"

You don't know why but the moment you step in, your eyes search for him, Harry, as if your body moved on instinct. Betraying.

A waiter walks by and you take whatever it's on his tray, downing the liquid with a gulp. Once the small tingling buzz settles into your system, you find that easy practiced smile of yours: cold enough to be polite but not warm enough to be confused for anything more.

"Having fun?"

You spin, dress doing a little reveal of your bare legs, yet he doesn't even look your way, that kind of silent promises and respect faithful men hold onto when they've swore their heart to only one woman.

"I'm trying"

"That's the spirit" he chuckles, lowly. "Is there anything I can do to make your night better?"

You fake a pondering gesture.

"Maybe get you another drink?"

"Thanks, but I want to walk straight when I exit through that door"

"Smart girl" he quips, "but I hope you don't plan on leaving soon"

You take the time to look at him under the chandeliers.

"I have manners"

This man has a kind smile that reaches his eyes, a dark grey but still holding onto a spark for life, not dull at all. His hair matches his gaze, and so does his neatly trimmed beard. His face is aged, probably about the same age as Harry, if you were to take a guess.

"Paul" you recognize. "Paul Lauder"

Lauder offers his hand and a charming smile, like all the men from his circle have been cut from the same cloth: gentleman manners that hide calculating characters. Still, there was something about the man and owner of the house standing before you, that seemed genuine.

"Am I that easy to recognize or has my friend already talked about me?"

A million questions raise through your head. If he was talking about him, how did he know you knew each other? It was a given in your society, yes, but to speak about you both in such friendly terms? Or worse: had Harry spoken of you to his friends?

"Forgive me. I talk nineteen to the dozen"

Your body tenses at just the sound of his voice, and there he is, the man of the hour.

"Harry" Paul calls him, another gentle smile making its way to his face.

"The one and only. Don't tell me you know another one" he jokes.

He still hasn't looked your way, and you don't know why that makes your skin hot.

"You're irreplaceable, my friend"

Now you see why he insisted on helping him. Paul's a true friend: a rare gem, especially in New York's elite.

"This is y/n" Harry introduces you, "David's daughter"

Its only then that Harry looks at you. A fast up and down, barely noticeable, but you were an observer, always. Part of your work and charm, just what made you perceptive and deadly enough. His eyes linger on the open skin, in the cut of your leg, and then move to your face, gaze holding. Daring, almost. And the he chuckles. Harry fucking chuckles, the sound low and grave. A fuzz settles in your cheeks and you choose to blame the alcohol rush.

You desperately wish to know what Harry's thinking.

"Ah. So this is she" a knowing smirk makes its way into his mouth. Then, his eyes widen. "Wait, David? Oh, haven't you grown? Into an extraordinarily beautiful woman, nonetheless. You sure look like your mother"

The compliment feels paternal at best, but a knife slowly twists into your ribs at the last sentence. None of the men seem to catch this.

"She has" and Harry takes your hand from seemingly nowhere, body closer than you anticipated. Grabs your hand and kisses it like he means it. The other man observes it all in silence. "The belle of the ball"

"Except this is my birthday, not a dance" Paul banters, nudging the billionaire gently on his side, as if you hadn't gone completely at loss for words. You hated to be unprepared, yet Harry always seemed to turn you into a house of cards, his wind sweeping you off your feet.

"There's music" Castillo is quick to reply. "That has to count for"

Paul lets out an easy laugh. Then, looks over his shoulder, and you don't miss the way his eyes light up, unaware adoring smile on his face, the rest of the world reduced to a meaningless blur.

"It's my turn, I suppose" you don't understand what he means. "I want to introduce you to my wife"

You see Harry's body tense and smile falter by centimeters, barely noticeable.

So this is it. This is the part where you meet her. Your newest job.

Your eyes follow Paul's direction, only to be knocked breathless.

Her beauty is obvious, insulting even, making you uncomfortable in your own skin. It's in the way she carries herself, smiles all white, her teeth perfectly lined; blinding. Dress ivory and clean, making your red one feel vulgar in comparison.

You wait for the cold to hit you, but when Paul slides a hand across her back, resting behind not to claim nor brag, but to belong and feel her warmth, she smiles, not for the room, but to the man who looks at her like she makes life worth living.

You're confused.

"This is Grace" he introduces her, proud.

The woman shakes your hand. Even her gestures seem the perfect mixture of delicate and proud. You tell her your name and suddenly, she's smiling again.

"Pleased to finally meet you. Harry has talked so much about you"

His stare burns from your side. So he has indeed talked about you before. You decide not to dwelve too much on how that makes you feel.

"Alright, that's enough" he laughs, clipped. A hand slides across your back, and it feels deliberate.

An instrumental cover of an old 90s ballad you can't quite place begins to play.

"This is my favorite" Grace beams, green eyes sparkling with joy.

"I know. That's why I asked it to be played"

She swats his chest playfully while yours aches with a silent press. Grace links her arm with Paul and gives you a goodbye smile.

"I'll leave you two alone. I have an important dance to attend"

Before going, Paul gives Harry one last look, one you can't decipher. Your breath feels oddly constricted.

"Just us again. Is this perhaps fate telling us something?"

You scoff.

"That I should go home"

"Is that so? Didn't take you for a downer" Harry laughs.

"I'm not" you protest like a child, embarrased.

He's enjoying this, by the way he smirks. "I don't believe you"

"I don't care" but you keep looking on his direction.

"Fine. How about this? Give me a dance and I'll believe you"

You face him, annoyed.

"Do you ever stop doing business?"

He just offers his hand.

"Quick. Offer's expiring and everyone's staring"

Harry's right, though. You hate their whispers and looks, so, be it the pressure or way your heart beats when his fingers slip between your own, you concede.

"Just one. You're lucky I don't like unwarranted attention"

He guides you to the center.

"You better get used to it. You're a natural"

The soft strings and notes of jazz waft through the air. Grace and Paul laugh somewhere to your side.

"But I hardly know this beauty by my side"

You might break your neck with how fast you raise your view, stuck before on the sway of your feet.

"Huh?"

"Lady in red?"

His hand softly caresses the silk of your dress, like a wind breeze.

"Me?" you ask, voice caught in your throat.

Harry laughs. With or at you.

"No, the song"

That's why it was vaguely familiar.

He quirks an eyebrow. "Don't you know Chris de Burgh?"

"All I know is my feet are killing me"

"So dramatic" yet his voice is soft. As the cello hidden behind drums and bass. Too soft. Stable as the Roland TR-808 drum machine for the drum pattern. Tension hanging like the synthesizer, acknowledged but not spoken of.

Harry had this effect on you. He just brought this side of you, a more unguarded side no one saw or dared to search for. Not even Rachel, who you spoke to. You talked to Harry. Because he looked past your walls. He tried. Took the time to pluck brick by brick. Like it mattered. You weren't New York's most sought-after divorce lawyer nor David Beaumont's daughter, just a girl who tried too much and is tired of doing so, and had finally been seen: the eyebags and the pleading eyes. The yearn for something she would never say outloud, between pride and the refusal to name something she can't even name.

"We always end up dancing" you comment, hand firmly holding his. Because it has become too much, and you'd rather go back to the light swimming than the drowning.

"We always end up doing the same things"

You think about the first time you met him. Not the very first, but the one you saw Harry Castillo for the first time.

It was at your father's fourth wedding, with a woman you can't seem to remember by face nor name.

"I hate weddings" you had said, not expecting to be heard but to be understood; the entlitement of your silver spoon was inherit. You felt as if you were wearing a costume of some sorts: a polished aspect that hid that bitter taste of seeing your father's failure and betrayal all over again, front row. You saw by the corner of your sharp eyes the way Harry tensed, unsure if he should even acknowledge you. So you sat in silence for the rest of the ceremony, answer hanging in the air, and when your father swore an expiring love again, you walked out, not before sparing one last glance his way.

He did too.

It made you falter a bit, unsure, almost tripping on the bench. For a moment, it seemed like he could see what you hid: the light tremble in your hands, the unopened invitations yet showing up at the last minute because you had no one else in this life, and how, despite your cruel jokes and harsh words, your eyes turned glassy when you allowed yourself to look at the bride as a kid looks at the shiniest toy behind the display, forbidden to be touched. For a moment, Harry Castillo saw the little girl who wore the heavy crown of a last name, words and grown face like an armour.

"I hate you"

Or maybe you fear him and the way he picks the scabs of your best hidden wounds, searching for the meaning of you past the shells of healed by force scrapes.

He closes his eyes, feigning hurt. "And here I thought we've gotten past base one"

"I hate you" this time sharper. You wish you could mean every ounce of venom laced within.

"You don't mean that" softly, like his gentle tug on your dress. Like the calm of your storms.

No answer, but the tiniest phantom of a smile graces your lips.

"Tell me about Grace"

Harry's grip tightens on your hands. "What about her?"

"I don't think she's the villain you're trying to make her be"

He narrows his eyes. "Give it a few days. She's just a pretty face"

"You say it like that's all there is"

"No" he's quick to answer. Then pauses, probably pondering. "But it certainly helps"

He looks at your lips. Under the lights, it's hard to distinguish if the red across your face is of anger or just a blush.

"Harry-" you beg without knowing why. A greater woman wouldn't.

"What?" like he's dealing with a naive kid.

"Don't lie to me" you seethe.

Not you. Everyone but you.

The song keeps playing in the distance, yet all you can hear is the ringing of your ears.

"I'm not"

It's pathetic to care this much about someone you claim to despise, finding hurt in a rift across the laces of trust in such strange interwoven bond. A phantom thread.

"Where are going?"

Your feet develop a mind of it's own. You don't spare him a glance, breathing suddenly a difficult task.

"Outside"

The cool evening breeze hits you. So does the smell of water, the soft sounds of a fountain in the background.

"At least this time it's a garden"

You and balconies. Another of your rules broken. By Harry, again.

"What are you doing?"

You admire his persistance. With shaky fingers, you reach for one of your dress' pockets.

"Thinking"

"It's such a nice evening to be doing that" as if nothing happened.

You roll your eyes, pulling out the lighter with your mother's initials.

"I'm trying to think who is lying to me"

His face falls.

"Y/n" as a warning, maybe a plea. "The answer is obvious. You don't know her, but you know me"

"I don't" you cut, harsh. "As you don't know me either"

You keep saying the same words, as if they were a shield of some sorts, to protect you from falling under his spell.

Harry Castillo scoffs.

"I'm trying, trust me. But you never make it easy" then, his charming smile is back on, slipping on it like a costume of some sorts. Tailored suit: just for him. "Lucky for you, I'm not a quitter"

"Do you have a cigarette?"

His face betrays surprise. Still, he pulls a Marlboro Gold and hands it like a peace offering.

"You said you quit"

The light flickers, smell of nicotine mixed with that of the flowers of the night garden.

You hold his gaze. "I'm not a quitter"

Harry pulls one of his own too. Takes a long drag, tired, before asking.

"Do you want the truth?"

You face him, expression unreadable. A weak smoke cloud billows over your eyes, masking their shine.

"I don't care"

"Don't lie to me" he repeats your words, but instead of the severity of your own, his are laced with benignity.

"I don't care"

"I didn't want to be alone"

You take another drag, silent, wishing for louder words and not spaces of silence that leave your mind restless.

"Harry Castillo, who could buy all of Manhattan, can't find a simple escort?"

He scoffs, seemingly offended. "That's not what I meant"

But not for the accusation at his expense, rather at your lack of (or lack of wanting to) understand.

"Too low for you, I get it. Where all your model friends busy?"

"One, they're not my friends. I can count those with my fingers" he lifts six. "Besides, I doubt twenty something year olds would be friends with a forty-seven year old finance guy"

You take a drag. "What does that make us then, Harry?"

Harry exhales. "We aren't friends"

Your lips curve up. "And two?"

It's his turn to smile.

"I doubt they would choose to accompany me to an old people dinner instead of a night clubbing with their age appropriate friends" he casts you a look, deliberate. "What would you do?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

His smile widens.

"Tricked, but you are"

You smash the half burnt cigarette against a stone statue next to you.

"Grace isn't the problem"

"Sweet Grace may be eleven years younger, and we know what that means in our world, but God, doesn't that woman love Paul?"

You chuckle, lowly.

"Jealous?" you find yourself teasing him.

He casts you a quick look. "Of course I am"

Even if his tone is light and playful, there is a quiet longing laced within. You gulp harshly.

"Why me?"

"Because you're you"

Your heart shouldn't beat this fast. You chuckle, weakly.

"Elaborate"

"Of course you have to know everything, don't you? You can't help but want to understand it all"

You laugh. "Is that so bad?"

"It's very... you"

"Got it. I'm the bad I was asking about"

For the first time, you both join in laughter. It's so easy feeling this comfortable with Harry, you think. Like it's meant to be. All pretenses left behind for a moment of too loud unguarded laughs.

When the laughter dies, he takes one last drag before putting his cigarette out.

"It's because you're the only one who could play along and not make more out of it"

You're not sure you want to face him. Still, you do, offering a tight lipped smile his way.

"Because I'm smart"

"Of course, you're a Beaumont"

A beat.

"You could've told me"

He shots a look your way, eyebrow arched.

"Would've you accepted if I told you the truth?"

You ponder for a moment before answering.

"No"

"Be honest"

"No, but I would've told you to fuck yourself"

Harry smiles. "That's better"

You join him. "I could send a lawsuit your way for lying"

"I doubt that, divorce lawyer"

You let out a dramatic gasp.

"I went to law school. I know this things"

"I'd like to see you try"

"Are you challenging me, Mr. Castillo?" you dare, mischievous.

"Please, don't call me that. You make me feel old"

"That you are"

"You're impossible" he sighs. "Older, then"

The wind blows your hair a little wild. It gets on your face.

"We should go inside" you say.

"Yeah. We should"

You feel a hot rush through your face when his fingers remove the loose strands, touch delicate. His gentle ministrations find a way inside your tense heart, nesting inside in a pulsating soft ache.

He offers his hand. "Dance with me. As an apology"

"That sounds like another favor"

"Yeah. So we get more prying and envious glances thrown our way"

"I feel I'm getting the short end of the stick here"

Harry laughs. "I'm the old man with a pretty lady on my arm"

"The lady in red" and the color matches your cheeks and dress.

"Is dancing with me"

You take his arm. "Lyric?"

"Truth as well"

When you get back inside, Paul's eyes find you soon enough. You try not to think too much about the meaning behind his smile.

"So..."

"So?"

You take his hands first, diving in. They're warm, holding yours back without second thoughts.

"Let's dance"

And you do, trying not to feel special for being the one Harry Castillo chose.

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @a7estrellas / 🏷: @io12n @dowscal @oscar-isaac @joelscowgirl @jxvipike @klarkapascal @lostinmyownmaze @folklore-barnes @alinacecee @sukitruqui @youusunshineyoutemptress @hermionelove @noisynightmarepoetry @ann-gell @suzysface @joelmillerpascal @ennvsco @not-the-teen-witch (comment if u wanna be added!)

[anneapocalypse]

Junelezen Day 7: Death

“You saw them too,” Alphinaud said, tentatively, as they were hustled out of the infirmary on the orders of Hospitalier Captain Abel, who insisted that Estinien have several more days of rest. “Didn’t you? At Estinien’s side, on the Steps of Faith. Ysayle, and…”

“Haurchefant,” Ariane said quietly. It was not so painful to speak his name; no more painful than to wake every day in a world without him in it. “Yes.”

She could see the relief on Alphinaud’s face, that he had not imagined it. “It is said that the souls of the dead pass through the aetherial sea. That some linger there, their aether undispersed, for a time. Do you think…?”

“…that it was truly them?” Ariane had pondered the same, ever since that moment. She herself had been drawn to the aetherial sea, time and again, brought before the Mothercrystal. Many would consider that an impossible tale. What grounds had she to doubt, at least, the possibility? “To be honest… I don’t know.” She paused by the aetheryte outside the Congregation; evening had passed into night, and a gentle snow was falling, leaving dots of moisture on her glasses. “The things I’ve seen, since joining the Scions, since the Echo… who am I to say? You and I both know the sort of things that hopes can conjure… and with the Eyes spilling aether everywhere… I don’t know.”

Alphinaud looked down at the frosty cobbles. “I had thought the same.”

“And yet…” Ariane said, taking off her spectacles to wipe them on her collar, only leaving them smeared and wet. Defeated, she put them back on. “I confess, a part of me should very much like to believe it was them. There would be some comfort in that, wouldn’t there?”

“There would,” Alphinaud agreed. “To believe that those we’ve lost yet watch over us…” He let out a long, white breath in the chill air. “Urianger speaks sometimes of Grandfather doing so. Not what we found down in the Coils, not some summoned likeness… but him, Grandfather himself, watching over us from the aetherial sea, guiding our footsteps… I think he would like very much to believe it. Mayhap I would as well. Alisaie and I came to Eorzea to understand… to find out why he left us. Mayhap I would like to think he never truly left. And yet…”

“And yet,” Ariane said quietly, “he is still gone.”

Alphinaud looked up at her. His blue eyes shone in the light of the aetheryte, and at once he looked terribly young. “How are you… truly?”

Ariane drew a deep breath. “It’s… been hard. So hard.” In spite of herself, her eyes welled and stung in the cold. “Still is, if we’re being honest.” She blinked hard behind her already blurred spectacles. “But I’m still here, Alphinaud. I’m not going anywhere. I can say that much.”

She could see the relief on his face as he managed a smile. “Thank you. For everything, Ariane. For being a true and steadfast friend. I cannot thank you enough.”

She swallowed, and even with tears in her eyes it was not so hard to smile. “You too, Alphinaud. You too.”

(Excerpt from Harsh Light, WIP, not yet posted)

[celestiallydesigned]

do y’all think tai feels unnecessary guilt and wishes she had just nerfed someone in the hospital instead of backing out. like do y’all think she feels like if she had done that, then van might not have ever considered offing Melissa because they would have already known whether or not the sacrifice would have cured her. i don’t think guilt and self doubt are emotions tai ever really lets herself feel, HOWEVER i also think that most of, if not all of, tai’s strongest emotions surround van. in a way, van is her humanity and she’s lost that all over again. tai likes to take things into her own hands a lot, so i can see her wishing that she had done what other tai thought they needed to. i kind of also see this being what causes the two tais to merge/work together, because there’s nothing left to lose. this was the death of their humanity, and it feels like watching a lighthouse go out during a storm. idk, i just feel like there’s no way we’re actually done with other tai after that, or at the very least not done with her thoughts. and i know that everyone says van would’ve hated having her heart eaten, but looking at it solely from tai’s point of view it makes sense. van was the goodness in her life, and she found a way to have her literally be a part of her and keep her a little bit longer and deluded herself into thinking van would have wanted it. “she gave me her heart metaphorically so why wouldn’t she give it to me physically” type beat. but if we ARE done with other tai for good then that feels like terrible timing. my evil baddie would have Melissa in two to five business days 🙄✋🏽

Van loved other tai too and so do i unfortunately 😭 come here girl, I’ll feed you dirt i promise 😫

( i’m never making sense, ignore me. i’m just a yapper )

[taetebebe]

NAMES

Pairing: Sunoo x afab!reader

Synopsis: Two strangers, a mailbox mistake, never sharing names - only thoughts, confessions, and quiet longings.

Word Count: 2.1k

Author note: Something different. I would love some feedback pls!

Enhypen Bookshelf [[]

Letter One: 

Dear Whoever You Are,

I’m not even sure this will reach anyone. Honestly, I meant to send this to my landlord to ask, no, beg him to fix the leaky ceiling above my bed before I drown in my sleep. But when I sealed the envelope, I realized I copied the address wrong. Again.

I was going to toss this in the bin, but then I thought… maybe a stranger could use a little story. Or maybe you’ll laugh at how dramatic I sound. Maybe you won’t read this at all. That’s fine too. But on the off chance you do - hi.

I don’t usually write to strangers. Or talk to them. Or let them see the messy parts of my life. Or much of it really. But maybe that’s what makes this safe. There’s no context, no pressure, no expectations.

Just… ink on a page.

The ceiling still leaks, by the way.

Sincerely, Not Your Landlord :(

𖤐 

Letter Two:

Dear Not My Landlord,

You had me at “drown in my sleep.”

Your letter arrived in a pile of boring bills and takeaway flyers, and I almost missed it. But something about the handwriting made me open it. Not neat, not messy - just… a person.

I don’t know your name, or why I feel like I should reply, but here I am. Writing on the back of a bookstore receipt because I ran out of paper. I’d say I’m not usually this impulsive, but that would be a lie.

There’s a coffee ring on the corner of your envelope, like you hesitated before dropping it in. 

For what it’s worth, I hope your ceiling stops trying to murder you.

Sincerely,

 The Stranger at 4B

𖤐 

Letter Three: 

Dear Stranger at 4B,

It’s probably against every good decision I’ve ever made to keep this going, but something about your reply felt like a window cracked open in a stuffy room.

I’m not sure why you replied, and I’m not going to ask. But I will ask this: 

If you had to write something, anything, just for the sake of writing it, what would it be about?

Tell me about the book. I want to know what kind of stories find you.

My ceiling is still leaking, by the way. I’ve named the drip. His name is Harold. He’s punctual, if nothing else.

Still nameless,

 Harold’s Roomate

𖤐 

Letter Four: 

Dear Harold’s Roomate,

Funny you should ask about the book. It’s an old edition of The Secret Garden, the kind with pages that smell like attic corners and warm dust. I didn’t mean to buy it, I was looking for something else. But it practically fell into my hands.

Inside the front cover, someone had written “Return to her when the gate is open.” No name. No context. That kind of thing stays with you.

I read the first chapter sitting on the windowsill. I forgot how much I missed silence, not the lonely kind, but the kind that lets a sentence echo for a while before you move on.

I don’t think I realised how noisy I’ve been until I started reading your letters.

Harold sounds like he keeps you company. Let me know if he starts talking back.

Still just me,

 The Stranger at 4B

𖤐

Letter Five:

Dear Stranger,

That note in your book - it’s haunting, in a lovely way. “Return to her when the gate is open.” Sounds like something from a dream.

I keep imagining who “her” is. A girl who planted something and waited. Someone who left and promised to come back. A woman who locked the garden because the person she built it for never came.

Sometimes I do that, get lost in stories that don’t belong to me. Maybe that’s why writing to you feels so easy. I don’t have to be the version of myself everyone else knows or expects.

I’m writing this on my kitchen floor. There’s a towel catching Harold’s rhythm, but I can still hear him. I wonder if you’d find that annoying or poetic.

Your windowsill. I imagine ivy curling around the edge. Or maybe pigeons. Or a terrible view made better because you sit by it.

~ Still Nameless

P.S. I might have accidentally sent my actual rent check to your address this time. If you get it, buy yourself a croissant.

𖤐

Letter Six:

Dear Still Nameless,

I do have pigeons. And a view - though “view” is generous. It’s mostly bricks and fire escapes and a crooked chimney that leans like it’s tired of holding itself up.

But it’s mine, I guess. I sit there when the world feels too sharp. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I stare at the chipped paint on the sill and wonder who lived here before me, and whether they sat here too, thinking everything felt impossible.

Your letter made me pause today. I read it slowly. Twice.

I like how you think in stories. I do too.

And I like that you haven’t asked who I am yet. No name, no expectations. Just this.

If Harold ever drowns you, I’ll steal that towel and bury it with full honors.

With bricks and birds, The Stranger at 4B

𖤐

Letter Seven:

Dear Stranger,

I’ve started looking forward to your handwriting. It’s uneven in places, like you don’t always know what you’re going to say until the words spill out. That makes two of us.

You said this view is yours, even though it’s made of crooked things and pigeons. I admire that. Most people only claim what’s beautiful.

There’s something comforting in the fact that we’re just… here. Two people orbiting the same city, writing like it matters.

I won’t ask your name. I won’t ask what you look like, or what you do, or why you write back. Not now.

But I will ask: What would you say to yourself five years ago?

~ Your Unknown

𖤐

Letter Eight: 

Dear Unknown,

Five years ago, I thought the worst thing that could happen was being left behind.

I was wrong. The worst thing was realizing I’d been standing still, waiting for someone who never said they’d come back. And that I was the one who left parts of myself behind, every time I stayed quiet when I wanted to scream.

So what would I say to that version of me?

I’d say: It’s okay to want something soft. It’s okay to leave before someone else does. And it’s okay to begin again, even if all you have is a brick wall, a tired chimney, and a stranger who writes back.

Your turn. If that’s not too much to ask.

With care, Your Stranger

𖤐

Letter Nine:

Dear Stranger Of Mine,

Your letter stayed in my jacket pocket all day. I kept rereading one line: “It’s okay to want something soft.” I didn’t realise I needed permission.

Five years ago, I would’ve told myself to stop apologising for being quiet. To stop letting people measure my worth by how much space I took up. I was always the easy one. The one who didn’t ask for more.

But even easy people break.

This, writing to you, feels like breathing without trying too hard. I didn’t know it could be like this.

I’m still not ready to sign a name. But this time, I’ll draw you something instead.

 (Taped to the letter is a small pencil sketch: two pigeons sitting side by side on a slanted chimney, beneath a crooked moon.)

Until next time, Your Nameless One

𖤐

Letter Ten:

Dear Pigeon Artist,

I taped your drawing above the sill. They make the chimney look less tired. Or maybe just less alone.

I used to think connection came with pressure. Like love only counted if it made your heart race or your bones ache. But I think this, the soft unfolding of it—feels more real than anything that’s ever left me breathless.

I’m not asking your name. Not yet. But if you ever feel ready, I won’t run.

Do you ever imagine us passing each other on the street? I do. I think we already have.

From the window with a view, Still Your Stranger

𖤐

Letter Eleven: 

Dear You,

I almost signed my name this time. Almost.

But instead I’ll say this: You remind me what trust feels like. Not the loud kind. The kind you build by accident, through folded paper and pigeons and the drip of Harold on the kitchen floor.

I used to believe people left eventually. That no matter how warm they were, they’d cool, drift, disappear.

But here you are. Still writing. Still choosing this.

So I’m choosing it too.

Same hands. Same heart. Still nameless (but not for long)

𖤐

Letter Twelve: 

Dear My Nameless,

It rained last night. The kind that taps the window like it’s trying to be let in. I stayed by the sill and thought about you.

Not your face. Not your voice. Just… you. The way you see the world. The way you pause before asking questions. The way you said “easy people break.” I haven’t stopped thinking about that.

If you ever stopped writing, I’d let you go. But I’d reread every letter until the paper gave out.

There’s no pressure. No expectation. But I think I’d recognize your silence now, too.

~ The Stranger You Keep Choosing

𖤐

Letter Thirteen: 

Dear Choice,

Sometimes I think about what it would be like to knock on your door. Not to say anything. Just to know if I was right - if I’d feel it, standing there.

But I think this, right here, is a door too. One we’ve both opened. Carefully. Consistently.

So I’m not knocking. Not yet.

But I will tell you something I’ve never written to anyone else.

When I was ten, I mailed myself a letter and waited three weeks for it to arrive. I signed it “Love, Someone You Haven’t Met Yet.”

I think I was always waiting for a reply.

Turns out, I just had the wrong address.

Still yours, Still not signed

𖤐

Letter Fourteen: 

Dear Someone I’ve Almost Met,

I’ve read your letters more times than I can admit. They live in a shoebox beneath my bed now. Next to a flashlight, a scarf I never wear, and a polaroid of my parents holding hands at a train station.

This isn’t a confession. It’s a thanks. For showing up. For staying.

I’m still afraid of names. Because names change things.

But I also think… names anchor things.

When you’re ready, I’ll be here. Window open. Gate unlocked.

With every brick and bird, Your Wrong Address

𖤐

Letter Fifteen:

Dear You,

I do need you to know this: Every time I write to you, it feels like planting something and knowing it will grow.

I think you’ve changed how I see the world.

Yours, The Gate

Letter Sixteen: 

Dear Her,

The gate is open.

I walked past your building yesterday. I didn’t mean to. I just… did. I didn’t knock. I didn’t leave anything behind. But I looked up and wondered if you were sitting there, by the pigeons, with your name still tucked behind your teeth.

So here. Let me go first.

My name is Sunoo.

I don’t know what happens next. But I hope it still includes pigeons. And Harold. And letters, even when we no longer need paper to speak.

Yours Finally, Sunoo

𖤐

Letter Seventeen: 

Dear Sunoo,

You were right. The mailbox wasn’t a mistake.

And neither were you.

Here’s to gardens reopening, and stories we didn’t know we were brave enough to write.

You can knock now, if you want. Or keep writing. I’ll answer either way.

With all my softness,   YN

𖤐

One Last Letter (Unsent):

Dear Sunoo,

I haven’t written to you in weeks. Not because I’ve had nothing to say, but because so much of what I want to say can now be said out loud.

You were always just beyond the page. A flicker in the corner of a sentence. A warmth folded into the crease of an envelope. But now, you’re here - in the chair across from mine, in the space beside me on the train, in the way I reach for two mugs instead of one.

Sometimes I reread your first letter. You called my handwriting a person, human. I didn’t understand it then. I think I do now.

You made me feel like I was allowed to be soft and real and unfinished.

There are still pigeons on the fire escape. The bricks are still crooked. Harold retired once the landlord finally fixed the ceiling. But the window still opens. The gate is still unlocked.

And I’m still choosing this - choosing you. Not with mystery or metaphor. But with certainty.

This letter? I won’t send it.

You’re already home.

Love, Me

𖤐

[wh0reforoldmen]

Can I ask for a Vergil or Dante X PTSD/SA Survivor! Reader?

Maybe a certain way of being caressed sets them off or if a movement went by their head too quick it triggered them?

Like Angst/Spicy? Instead of staying rough, its rough to understanding to gentle? 🥹

Thank you! Love your writing!

Horrendous remembrance

Pairings: Dante X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Smut, angst, (attempted fluff idk),unprotected sex, P in V, (attempted) dirty talk, memories of sexual assault, MDNI, tell me if I missed anything

Word count: 1.91K

A/N: My first ask (*^▽^)/★*☆♪ Sorry it took so long, I was struggling with this one, I can't lie. It is a sensitive topic, and so I hope that I handled it well. Also, I stayed up till 6AM writing this, proofread it with 4 hours sleep, sorry if i missed any mistakes (forgive me)

Long one I know, but this is my first smut I have posted onto Tumblr, I have no idea what I'm doing in all honesty and don't expect some amazing smut. You can find more on my AO3, however. Enjoy.

Over the last few days, you've been… off. At work, you've been distracted, to say the least. You've found yourself doing something you don't remember starting, looking over your shoulder constantly, headaches, stomachaches. Just achy everywhere. And your sleep is another issue, trying to get to sleep is a nightmare as you just can't close your eyes and rest. Paranoia setting in, your brain thinking there are people in your room coming to harm you. You turn the light on and see nothing, so you turn it off, go back to bed and it happens again. It's an endless cycle that you don't know how to break.

But today, your boyfriend, Dante, came back from his job, and you were both so happy to see each other. You were always better when he was around, his gentle words, how he speaks to you and you appreciate just everything Dante does for you. 

He came back an hour ago, and you were bent over your bed, feet firmly on the floor and your hands on the bed as Dante stood behind you, driving his cock relentlessly into your pussy. Your moans and wails mixed with the obscene sounds of wet skin slapping against each other filled the room, exploding pleasure vibrated through your body as his cock abused your sweet spot. Each wave of pleasure felt like a tsunami as he drove his cock into you ruthlessly.. 

Dante’s rough grunts and breathless moans came from behind you, his hands digging into your waist as he guided your hips to meet with his. He loved this angle, he can watch your ass and thighs ripple with each violent thrust, and give the flesh the occasional slap. He could never get enough of your body, it was gorgeous. A goddess that he never knew existed. Dante was hopelessly addicted.

Admiring the dip of your back, he slid his hands up your back before planting them firmly on your shoulders. The tips of his fingers digging into your skin without him realising, he was too caught up in the pleasure and his own greed to notice how tight he was holding onto you. Dante continued to drive relentlessly into you, mixing that stinging pain with pleasure. Your legs trembled as they grew weaker by the second. 

“Shit, sweetheart.” He groaned out as he felt your walls pulse around him. “Grippin’ onto me” A sudden slap to your ass made you hiss and moan in twisted pleasure, but as he placed his hand onto your shoulder, you tugged your hair hard. 

You let out a small cry, not of pleasure, but of fear. Your brain no longer has that foggy, lustful atmosphere, but that scared, helpless kind. One where you were taken back to your old apartment, his dirty hands all over you as you tried to push him off, the one where he grabbed your hair so tight he ripped chunks out of your scalp. Instantly, Dante stopped what he was doing, hearing the cry of pain from you as panic set in his chest. “Shit, baby. You alright? Did I hit too hard?” He asked, guilt lacing his voice as well as worry. He does sometimes hit your ass a bit too hard when he’s caught up, and he feels terrible every time, but then that's when he notices the strands of hair he's holding onto. 

You made it clear from the beginning that you didn’t like your hair to be touched, and he didn’t question it, he respected that boundary. He knew what happened to you and your past relationship, and so he was careful when it came to sex, making sure you were 100% comfortable and making sure he didn’t set you off, but he’s just done that and he feels like shit. 

“Shit, shit- uh, okay. Angel, are you still with me?” Dante felt scared and didn't know what to do. He’s never dealt with a situation like this before. You didn’t respond. Everything felt like you were underwater, and the feeling of filth, disgust and shame only consumed you as his hands were everywhere. You could barely hear Dante speak, too consumed in your own mind. 

You were so caught up in those memories, time slowed for you while Dante was in real time. He easily pulled out of you without a reaction, manoeuvring you onto your back and trying to get you to come back to the present, the panic in his voice very much there as he spoke to you about anything and everything. He was being gentle with you, not touching you to make sure that he didn't set you off on a breakdown, he definitely wouldn’t know what to do then. 

As he talked, you became more present. Your head coming to the surface and once you were free from those haunted memories, it was like taking a desperate gasp of air before you drowned. Your eyes looked over at Dante, shooting up as you saw how worried he was for you. “I.. I’m sorry.” You murmur out. Sure, it wasn’t your fault, but you ruined the mood, and you just felt like shit in general about everything. 

“Hey, Angel. Look at me.” He spoke with such softness and care that it caught you off guard. His rough hands gently cupped your cheeks as he made you look at him. “It’s okay. That was on me, I didn’t realise I had caught your hair.” 

Tears threatened to spill from your eyes, and your throat tightened up, like someone had wrapped barbed wire around your throat and pulled every time you swallowed. You didn’t let them fall, or else they wouldn’t stop, but you leaned into Dante, inhaling his musky scent. A sheer layer of sweat covered both of you, and you both were not unsure of what to do next. You both were a little calmer now, both sexually and mentally, but that ache, need and want was still there. 

“We don’t have to continue if you don’t want to, sweetheart.” Dante began, having his arms around you and keeping his hands and arms away from your hair and around your waist. “It’s up to you.” The way he was always so considerate about you, something that you rarely got from your past partners. It made your heart swell with love and slight anguish. 

“Can we continue?” You ask, your timid voice that annoys you, but there was nothing you could do. Dante looked down at you and nodded with a soft smile. He planted a kiss on your forehead and gently laid you down on your back on the edge of the bed, making sure to keep your hair out of the way. He would usually make jokes and make this as fun as possible, but with how desperate he was to cum and what had just happened, no jokes were popping into his head at this moment in time. 

You held your legs open for him, your gliding cunt making him groan, his cock twitching and leaking pre cum at its swollen, red tip. His cock gently slid against your folds, your juices covering him with each thrust before gently protruding your entrance, pushing himself in. You softly gasped as he pushed himself further and further in before he bottomed out inside you. 

He leaned forward, his hands firmly planted either side of your shoulders, your face so close to his. His silver hair tickling your face ever so slightly, it was so soft, unlike when he first came back when it was so greasy, and his stubble littered his jaw, just making him so much more… handsome. His blue eyes stared into yours, watching out for any discomfort or worry. Him being this close always made your heart skip a beat and your walls clench around his cock. His breath hitched as you clenched, a smile coming to his face before he slowly grinds his hips against yours. 

Dante watched as your eyes closed, and your head lolled back, a soft moan escaping your lips. Fuck, he could feel his cock twitch inside you, he felt like a sailor being drawn in by a siren, alluring singing drawing him nearer, ignoring the danger. Your arms soon go to your side and your legs stay in that L shape, your body gently jolting with each grind of Dante's hips, your breasts jerking with you. 

“Fuck, your pussy’s so good baby,” he panted, his face contorts in pleasure. He was always so pretty when his face twists, his features become more relaxed, eyes closed, his slightly chapped lips slightly part, hot breath hitting your face. His brows either relax or tense up, depending how close he is to cumming, and it was so hot to watch. “Can never get enough-fuck, too fuckin’ good” His voice lowers an octave as well, and that just turns you on even more, the sound of your cunt mixed with the lewd noises your two made.

He opened his eyes to look at you, and what he saw could have made him cum right there and then, your messy hair sprawled out on the bed, lips parted as sweet moans escaped while your cheeks were dusted crimson, your breasts bouncing with each thrust. Dante held off his orgasm as he moved his hand to your clit, his fingertips dancing around the bundle of nerves while his cock hit a spongy spot inside you, making you keen. You gripped his biceps, getting lost in the overwhelming pleasure. “Dante!” You mewled, your legs trembled as a tight knot formed in your stomach. 

Dante let out a shaky chuckle, watching you tremble under him, the sight was to die for. “You gonna cum f’me, Angel?” He asked between groans, your walls pulsing around him. You nodded your head while your toes curled. “Fuck, come on, baby. Cum f’me, make a mess, yeah? I know you can do it- Holy shit, I'm gonna cum.” 

You chanted his name like a damn prayer as the knot grew tighter and tighter before you came undone, incoherent words spilled from your mouth. Dante continued to thrust into you, his hips stuttering before he slammed into you, gasping something about how pretty you looked when you cum. He coated your walls white as his cock throbbed, his head hung low, close to your ear as you heard his soft groans. 

Your arms slowly wrapped around his neck and pulled him down to your chest, his head comfortably staying there, as you both panted, gasping for air. “Jesus Christ, Dante…” You spoke first after gathering enough air. You’ve heard him ramble like that before an orgasm, but like that? That was new. It was filthy, and you liked it.

[puddlejumper38]

Arcane - Viktor and Perfection Season 1

The ending of Arcane seems to characterize Viktor as someone who wants to perfect everything, remove flaws, change himself. And its a little bizarre because up until that point this was not the impression I was getting.

(I'm writing this as an analysis of Viktor, not a criticism of the show)

In canon terms, I can characterise this as a fundamental misunderstanding by Jayce as to exactly what was going on. Actually, that's exactly what I thought was happening, since Jayce never sees the commune (hold that thought). I remain a little confused by the fandom/creator comments.

Let me explain with Season 1.

Viktor was terminally ill. Until Viktor's diagnosis, we see absolutely nothing that implies he wants to change himself. He seems a fairly confident person in S1 Act 1. Perhaps someone who stays out of the direct limelight, but confident in himself nevertheless. He calls himself a cripple, yes, but only in the context of how other people view him. It does show an awareness of how his disability is affecting his life, of course. There's definitely evidence that Piltover is pretty ableist. I realise no one likes Salo with reason, but the way he struggled with mobility (and presumably pain? with the whole shimmer thing?) after the explosion with very little accommodation or support says a lot. We're talking about a Councillor! One of the most powerful people in Piltover! With no support. (Yikes). So. Obviously Viktor would be aware of how he's viewed because of the disability. Equally obviously, he knows it does restrict him. As a child, he can't keep up with his boat, and presumably the other kids, and that must be frustrating. The first thing he does after changing his leg is go for a run, and he clearly enjoyed the experience. But I maintain there's no evidence he'd have done this without the disease. He stands up next to Jayce in 1.02 and says; this is part of who I am. He also mentions his Undercity origins and I definitely don't think Viktor's ashamed of that (see: "what difference does that make" and the way he looks when he delivers the independence line to the Council). What I'm trying to say is I think his disability would be a complex subject, but not necessarily a sore spot.

Until he gets sick. It's pretty clear Viktor's frightened. He doesn't want to die, his body is breaking down and it clearly has been for years by 1.04 . Does he have the back brace in act 1? Hard to say. He definitely doesn't have the crutch. Viktor is leaning on that crutch heavily in Act 2. He's struggling. Again, no chance anything in Piltover is giving him the emotional support he needs.

And then he's given a time limit. He's dying.

Viktor says; "I can feel my body eroding." Well, that's terrifying. He's trying to save himself. He doesn't have the time. It may not even be possible and he's so alone. Could he just accept the disease? He could. Sure. That's so hard though. That's almost unreasonably hard. That's a whole journey of acceptance he'd have to go through. And one that's not necessarily compatible with trying to save himself. Is there any beauty in a slow painful death in your early thirties? It'd take some effort to find, that's for sure.

He does heal his leg first. Yes. He does that.

Ultimately though, I would argue he's not trying to eliminate imperfections, he's trying to survive. And he's desperate. Hence Singed and the shimmer. In that scene that's not a man who thinks that's a good idea. That's desperation.

AND STILL VIKTOR STOPS.

It takes Sky's death, which is terrible. But Viktor looks at what he's doing, looks at the Hexcore and is frightened of it. His impulse is to destroy it, but he fails. Why does he fail? It is because it's cowering from him? Is it because its his only hope and he just can't bring himself to take that step personally? Is it because its his creation that he's spent hours with? Is it because it can influence him? We don't know. Could be all of the above. We do know that thing attacks him.

Viktor begs Jayce to destroy the Hexcore. I think we also can't ignore that he tries to jump. He's accepted he's dying. That's an awful journey he took to get there and I'd say he's despairing about it, but he's accepted it. He's fought and he's lost, tragically.

This is all a very long-winded way of saying: its the disease that drives Viktor to change himself, not his disability. And that's not unreasonable!

What is Viktor's driving force then? Before he moves all his energy to desperately trying to save himself on a time limit?

Easy. Viktor wants to help people. Viktor wants to improve lives. Viktor wants to do this via technology fixing their living and working conditions and not, and I really want to stress this point, not by changing the people.

I think we've got amble evidence in season 1 that Viktor's compassionate. Not just the way he wants to make other people's lives easier, but the way he reacts to Rio.

I do want to note that there's also evidence that Viktor likes fixing things. He is the one who reads through Jayce's research, isolates the flaws, and fixes them. He's the one who's looking at the Undercity and trying to improve things. But there's quite a gulf between fixing things and striving for total perfection (an impossibility, personal ideas of perfection aside).

As a final point I want to note that Viktor has a power problem in season 1. He doesn't have enough of it. He can't improve lives in the Undercity because the Council isn't interested in those projects. Hell, even Jayce his partner can override him once he becomes a Councillor. Viktor is not being heard. People are not helped. Weapons are made.

Not only does none of this suggest an obsession with perfection, none of this points towards being the architect of the literal apocalypse.

What the actual hell goes wrong in season 2?

The Hexcore.

This is long I'll continue with Pt 2 Season 2 here.

[camellcat]

y'all I used to be normal about xander harris. I used to go yeah y'know I like him he's just a totally normal guy. I think he's really sweet actually, but hey I completely understand why some people may not like him

but the way the fandom treats him has pushed me SO far into defense it's like rewired my brain or something. actually he's done nothing wrong ever. I don't even care anymore. I take back every critique I've ever made of him. you don't Get Him like I do. he's written as terribly inconceivably ooc sometimes and you're all treating it like it's NORMAL!!!! when other characters are NOT subject to the same bullshit even when they're sometimes written even worse. we can wave away SO much shit for others, but xander? no, no, no. and when he IS in character, does ANYONE care to perhaps I dunno EXAMINE WHY HE'S ACTING LIKE THAT? oh? no? we're just gonna take it at face value, when we would not do that for any other character??? when he's written off and sometimes even intentionally off, then that's perfectly in line and just Who He Is Actually

I need to talk about the pack specifically because I have GRIEVANCES with the fandom here. what in the actual hell is going on. why are we acting like the possession was who he really is deep down??? it's clear that the hyena spirit is simply taking him at his base sort of thoughts I suppose (e.g., him having a hard crush on buffy, being jealous of angel, secretly knowing about willow but not requiting) and amplifying them to be HORRIBLE. at the end, he's visibly guilty over what he's done despite it being out of his control. he doesn't say anything because how COULD he? what would he even say? these are the most important people in his life, and he was forced to hurt them. and they obviously forgive him and don't blame him for what happened, because he's not exactly subtle about remembering, and I sincerely doubt they'd just let what he did slide if they thought he truly was responsible. these guys are all with the silent communication, and it's not always good, but it's how they roll. also, GUYS. THINK OF SPIKE'S MOTHER!!!! THIS IS AN INCREDIBLY SIMILAR SITUATION!!!!! he has never in the entire time we've known him actively go out of his way to hurt people the way he does in this episode. because that's not who he is or who he ever wants to be

I also want to talk about how brave he is. I keep seeing people calling him a coward and it genuinely baffles me. are we watching the same show? what are you ON about?? even the show points it out: he's completely and utterly human, and standing up to fight evil on the front lines with everyone else anyways. there two absolute standout moments I especially adore and want to point out. and there ARE more moments, but these are my favourite. the first is when xander decides that if no one else will, he'll go help buffy fight the master, and alone if he has to. and he saves buffy, because he TRIED. I honestly don't think anyone else would've tried to save her once they saw she'd died like they were all told she would, but he did. because that's who he is. and the second is one my friend pointed out to me that is just so good, where xander stands up to angelus in the hospital. angelus could snap him in half within a blink of an eye, and xander tells him to leave. he's terrified, because he KNOWS if angelus wanted to then he'd be dead without being able to fight back, but he guards buffy like a little dog facing up against a lion. he wouldn't win, but maybe he could buy her just a little more time, maybe someone would notice and help her, maybe angelus will decide it's too much effort and leave like he desperately hopes, maybe maybe maybe. he's gambling with his life here, just like before by walking into the master's nest, and he'd do it again without a second thought to protect his loved ones. he DOES do it, again and again and again over the course of the show

this isn't to say xander doesn't have his flaws. he's not the best boyfriend for sure, and while those are mostly out of his own insecurities and trauma, it's still not a great. I don't give any of the other characters that excuse to let bad relationship behaviour slide and I won't give him it either, but it is at the least an explanation. that is just a real flaw that he struggles with throughout the whole show outside of anything else. he can also be very snippy and mean when he's feeling defensive, and he's got a bit of a possessive, jealous streak that isn't fantastic, but he's the heart for a reason. in fact I honestly think those traits work really well as cons for the heart

the xander we see in the show is someone who wants to be good and do good. he cares so, so immensely for everyone. EVERYONE who sticks around in this show, does xander latch onto to as one of his own people to look out for. he tries and tries and tries to do the right thing, to protect and take care of the ones he loves in any way he can, and he kind of sucks at it sometimes. he makes the wrong choices even when he means well, and sometimes when he doesn't. but god is he trying harder than almost anyone else on that show to just be A Good Friend. I'm going to go so far as to say I think he is actually a better person than almost every other character on this show (other than buffy and tara of course)

why isn't he enough when there are other characters who are SO much worse than him in this show?

[ohbo-ohno]

Hi!!! This is my first ever ask so sorry if it’s weird lol. Out of all the 141 boys, who’d you think would be most likely to sneak lactation pills into readers food in hopes of reader coming to them for help??? I can’t stop thinking about it and I need to know your thoughts too

no worries at all!!!!! i did not realize lactation pills were a thing though omg this is wild to me

here's my ranking from most to least likely: price, ghost, soap, gaz

i'll be honest, i only put soap below ghost because when i did some googling the Internet said lactation inducing medicine can take several months to work and soap does not have the patience for that lmfao

anyways price is the most likely culprit for this (imo) because that man is the walking definition of a Breeding Kink. he wants you knocked up and pregnant the moment he decides he even wants you. it's his first fucking priority. he'll start slipping you lactation supplements concerningly early in your relationship (because of the aforementioned several months) and masks the way he feels you up in the shower as horniness instead of medical curiosity lmao

also i personally don't see the appeal in drinking breast milk but John Price sure does. that man is drinking you dry, and tbh it's lowkey better if you don't actually have a baby to feed because he gets to keep all your milk for himself

ghost would do this and like 10 other things to keep you as reliant on him as possible. he just wants you to come to him for everything, and he's far from above manufacturing a reason for you to need him. and with breast milk drinking, it's just another way for him to consume you, another part of you he can literally drink down. of course he's into it. that man starts salivating the first time you complain about your tits being sore

(also ghost is totally a dominant freak but tbh there are certain versions of that man that i think have a very deeply buried mommy kink)

soap would do it just because he's a fucking freak. he sees like a singular porno with breast milk drinking and is like "I Need That Now" and starts slipping you the lactation pills. tbh he probably just gets into a routine of doing and forgets about it after a while, by the time you actually start lactating he's like "oh hell yeah" because he just completely forgot

gaz would probably suggest that you take them while you're pregnant, and he just ends up being fucking obsessed with the milk you produce. before the baby's come, it's got to go somewhere and he deems it an insult to just pump and throw it away :/ he'll lay on your chest for as long as you'll let him lmao (and maybe keep slipping the medicine to you post-baby and post-baby-being-weened)

[skys-archive]

It makes me really sad when I see people who are making videos or podcasts or just posting on social media feel horrible when they stop or slow down content creation. Like no, you don't owe us anything at all. Work at your own pace. Focus on yourself when you can. We're here for you once you're ready. It's okay.

[pollen]

i've been diving a lot deeper into adhd symptoms and comorbidities and misdiagnoses and whenever i tell my boyfriend something i learned that sounds like me he responds with something like

[crowlore]

no, dragon age 2 is not the best dragon age game. but it’s also not the worst. and most importantly, it is my favorite.

[mintincubus]

the party in-game btw :^)