#microwaving him microwaving him microwaving him

[youreonmymind37]

My big sister and I had amazing incestuous sex last night in our parent bed. Our parents left us to go to Europe on our father’s conference. Our mother said to Erica, “Now, you in control of your brother schedule.”

What does she mean by that? I’m 16 years old. I do what I want.

Later that evening, I was in my bedroom playing a video game. I could hear my sister breaking-up with her boyfriend. He slammed the front door and he jumped in his car and sped away.

Later on, I padded down the stairs heading to the kitchen. I popped open the microwave and shoved in my mother’s dinner.

Suddenly, I heard a sobbing noise in the breakfast nook. I walked over and saw my sister crying. “What up?” I said.

Now, Erica and I have this thing going. I remember some 4th grade bully punched me. I was a 1st grade kid. Erica appeared and punched him with her fists of furies. Down he went and she was hitting the bruised bully over and over and over, again.

I smushed Erica over to the bench and sit down beside her. She started to wail and buried her head in my comforters shoulder. I held my big sister tenderly and squeezed her torso. Erica’s huge breasts got overripe. “Hey!” said I, “Keep your melons over there, please!”

Erica laughed and cried. “Thank you, Alan. You’re the best brother,” she said looping her arms over my head. She kisses my cheeks. “Darren wanted me to have sex with him. The nerve of this prick. I want to make love, for first time, with my gentle lover. Not lustful Darren in his car or some frat’s dorm room—“

“—I love you, Erica,” and I kissed my sweetly sister on her lips.

I look at her and she look at me.

Our lips meet and we french kisses. We stumbled upstairs gradually losing our clothes and our inhibitions. On the landing, against the wall, I pushed her and I suckling her enormous breasts. And, she moaned a lot. “Alan, my dear lover!” she whispered, “Now, I’m going suckled your cock. Okay?”

I nodded my head. Erica kissed my precum. “Sweet!” Erica said. Her trailing kisses along my cock’s lengthy.

“Is it normal?” I said to my sister.

“Huge!” She engulfed my cock.

She wasn’t a pro. But. Erica was my incestuous lover. That’s what made it so special.

She take me to our parents’ bedroom. “Now, it’s me turn,” she wink as she lay across the bed.

I knelt down on the carpet and smelt her pussy. “Mmmm. You smell like mango juice! My older friends said to me, pussy stinks like fish. Should I lick your pussy up?”

Erica’s hands on my back of my head pushed me in her womanhood. “Go eat my pussy! Now!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

I descended to a perfume world full of taste, texture & sweet scents. I transformed into a werewolf. Nipping & biting her clit, nipples, earlobes, fingers, tongue and lips. We was a drunken couple of lovers.

We both had orgasms that night.

We finished our sessions and cuddled up twisting into pretzels around our sweaty and well-spent bodies. Erica wore a Cheshire Cat grin.

Around eight in the morning, my cock was ready to leap. Morning-wood they called it.

Erica was on me. She sleepily said, “Go ahead, little boy. I gonna steer your massive cock into my swollen pussy.”

I’m lustful and in love with my big sister!

[sturnmeovr]

♡‧₊˚ Video Clips of Sweethearts Pregnancy - Second Trimester

First Trimester Video Clips

♡ ‘big momma don’t play’ - video length: 9 seconds

Chris’ face fills the frame, he had goofy smile plaster on his face as he pops another french fry in his mouth. He double taps his phone screen, turning the camera around to reveal a very pregnant Sweetheart biting down on a cheeseburger. His soft chuckle can be heard behind the camera as Sweetheart looks up, crunching her eyebrows as she makes eye contact with the bright flash right before the clip ends. He sends it to his snap group, captioning it; ‘big momma don’t play’

♡ ‘so fucking cool’ - video length: 27 seconds

Sweethearts baby bump takes over the screen, Chris’ large hand placed gently over the top of her stomach. He presses down on her belly, “c’mon,” his raspy voice echos out of frame, “don’t be camera shy kid,” he coos, his chest vibrating against Sweethearts thigh as he speaks. She lets out a soft giggle, her belly jump with each breath she lets out. Chris sucks his teeth, “he’s not gonna do it — little asshole.” His comment earns another giggle from Sweetheart before baby Bean presses his foot against the barrier of her stomach in one swift movement. Sweetheart gasps, Chris’ eyes widening, his hands trembling as a bright smile makes its way onto his lips. He focuses in on her belly, capturing another sharp kick from their unborn baby. It was a cute video to send to his friends and family. It was one of the few times the two had felt their baby kick.

♡ 'yes daddy' - video length: 15 seconds

Steady clicks of Chris computer mouse fill the, otherwise, silent bedroom, Sweetheart cuddles up with her body pillow on his bed, her phone pointed towards him as she holds down the record button. Chris looks over his shoulder for split second, speaking on cue, "y'wanna go get my mini pizzas from the microwave, baby? I made some extra for you," Sweetheart knew he wouldn't be able to pull himself away from his Fortnite session if he tried, especially considering the fact that the microwave alarm sounded minutes ago. Her pregnancy hormones were like a rollercoaster, already planted the idea in her head before she started recording, "yes daddy," she coos sweetly. The clip shows Chris' head snapping so fast it looks like it could twist around and roll right off his shoulders. Sweetheart lets out a giggle before ending the video and exiting the room to retrieve the mini pizzas.

♡ 'Its a boy!! 💙💙👶🏻' - video length: 42 seconds

Nick points his phone towards Chris and Sweetheart, focusing the camera on the expecting couple who stood at the end of the long dining table Family and friends filling each seat around the table, giving the pair their full attention. Sweetheart has her bottom lip pinned between her teeth, chewing on it nervously as Chris wraps an arm around her waist, lowering her head to whisper something in her ear. A small, toothless smile pulls at Sweethearts lips as Chris smiles at her, pressing a light kiss to her temple. Matt can be seen at the edge of the frame, "they're so cute, it makes me wanna puke. Nick nudges him with his elbow, making the camera fall out of focus and zoom in on Jimmy's face, "I'm recording, y'idiot." Nick quickly pans the camera back to Sweetheart and Chris, letting out a snort in the process at his fuck up, don't worry — I'll edit that out." Thankful he got it together before the group starts counting down in unison, "three ... two ... one!!"

Their heads turned away and their eyes clamped shut as they press their wine glasses down into the neatly decorated cake that Mary Lou ordered specifically for the gender reveal. They crowd cheers as Chris and Sweetheart turn to look at the cake, lifting their wine glasses at the same time to reveal a white and blue striped pattern. Sweetheart slaps a hand over her mouth, taking a step back in shock as the room combusts into a symphony of cheers. The clip catches Chris dropping his wine glass, thrusting a fist into the air, and shouting, "I fucking knew it! I'm having a son!" He wraps an around Sweetheart once again, pulling her in for a bear hug, rocking their bodies from side to side before Nick ends the video.

♡ 'half way done🥹🤰🏻' - video length: 18 seconds

Sweetheart stand in front of the bathroom mirror, phone in hand as she shows off the front view of her growing bump. Chris towering over her from behind, his hands resting on her waist and his chin resting on top her head. He loved the glow that pregnancy induced on her, it was like she swam in the fountain of youth the way she woke up glowing every morning. Chris smooths a hand over her bump and Sweetheart turns to flaunt her bumps side profile, a bright smile etched across Chris' face as he admires her in the mirror.

♡ 'she thinks I'm funny 🥰' - Video Length: 6 seconds

The clips starts out black, Sweetheart voice sounding through the screen, "s'not funny — Chris stop!" You can hear her trying to contain her laughs as Chris pulls the camera back, zooming in on the grey leggings she wore, a dark wet stop stained between her legs and down the inside of her thighs. Chris wheezes from behind the camera, completely hysterical over Sweetheart peeing her pants right in front of him. In her defense, her son had been pushing her bladder a lot more the past week, and Chris couldn't set up a baby car seat if his life depended on it.

♡ ‘I feel so bad’ - video length: 8 seconds

Sweetheart sits on the floor of the kitchen; tears stain her cheeks as she sobs over the last bowl of Mary Lou's chili she so clumsily spilled. Her belly bump getting in the way, making her stumble and lose her balance, ending with her collapsing on the floor in tears over the last bowl of sacred beans. Chris clears his throat, "its okay, babe. We can get some more," he attempts to soothe her, lowkey trying to hold back the laughter in his voice because he knew it'd send her into a rage. They both knew it was silly for her to be bawling her eyes out over a lost bowl of soup, but her pregnancy hormones had her in a chokehold lately. Sweetheart looks up at him, her eyes puffy from crying, "it's not the same, Chris!" she whines before dropping her hands to her lap, letting out sobs as she looks back down at the mess in front of her

♡ 'pregnancy comes with perks 😋' - Video Length: 4 Seconds

Sweetheart is reclined back in the corner of the sectional, a box of Mcdonald's chicken nuggets in her lap. Her feet rest on Chris' thighs, his hands gently massaging circles into the bottoms of her swollen pads. She dips a nugget in the opened sweet n sour cup that sits in the cardboard box before zooming in on her babydaddy, Chris looks over to her and giving her a cheesy koolaid smile as she ends the clip.

♡ 'and you guys wonder why she's pregnant' - Video Length: 17 Seconds

Matt sits at the kitchen island, a bag of Doritos and a pink lemonade placed halfway out of frame as he points the camera to the living room; showing Sweetheart sitting on Chris' lap as they share a intimate, steamy kiss. His hand pressed to the back of her neck to keep her close while her hands ball fists into his shirt. Matt double taps the camera, revealing his signature mean mug before ending the clip and sending it to his close circle - including the Chris and Sweetheart.

♡ 'nesting or whatever the pregnant ladies call it 💪🏻' - Video Length: 12 Seconds

Chris pans the camera to Sweetheart; laundry baskets boxing her in as she folds each piece of baby clothing. A gasp leaves her lips, "awee, Chris!" she coos, holding up a small onesie, "look at his one!" She lips curling into a sympathetic frown at how adorable the newborn sized onesie was.

♡‧₊˚ Cheys Note - Happy Friday 🥳 We ready for today's video?!! Sorry I've been a bit inactive this last week. I'm currently dealing with the flu and my period at the same time, so I feel like death tbh. I figured I'd do video clips again since the last one did so good <3 Emotional support should be out soon, sorry for the delay 😭

Masterlist

Babydaddy!Chris Masterlist

Taglist (comment to be added)

Send me asks and suggestions about babydaddy!Chris & sweetheart <3

Check out my Pinterest for their board 😋

[jxwl4k]

Hi! I was wondering if you could write a Bakugou x female reader story where she has a newborn son (not with Katsuki) and struggles with being a teen mom at U.A. She tends to hide it, but Bakugou finds her one night breaking down while trying to warm a bottle for her fussy baby. The pressure of hero work and being a new mom is becoming too much to bear. Bakugou comforts the reader and helps her. It would be great if they knew each other since childhood. (You don’t have to write it if you’re uncomfortable with the idea!!)

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ strength .𖥔 ݁ ˖

☘︎ . . . genre. hurt/comfort

☘︎ . . . pairings. bakugou x teen!mom!reader

☘︎ . . . requested? yes by @rocketblasterr

⤿ yn is a teen mom at U.A tries to juggle her hero training and caring for her newborn son in silence.

The halls of U.A. were eerily quiet at night, the only sound being the occasional hum of the vending machines or the distant creak of a door. YN was sitting in the shared dorm kitchen, clutching a bottle of formula in one hand and holding her fussy newborn in the other.

Tears pricked at her eyes as her son’s cries echoed through the space, louder than she ever thought such a tiny baby could manage. She was exhausted—no, beyond exhausted. Between trying to balance training, schoolwork, and the sleepless nights that came with caring for a newborn, she felt like she was drowning.

The microwave beeped, signaling the bottle was warm enough, but YN’s hands trembled so much she nearly dropped it. “Come on,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Just stop crying for one second, please…”

It was no use. The tears spilled over as she sank into the nearest chair, holding her baby close but feeling like the worst mother in the world.

“Oi, what the hell are you doing?”

The familiar voice made her flinch. She turned to see Bakugou standing in the doorway, his usual scowl softened by the dim light of the kitchen.

“Katsuki,” she whispered, hurriedly wiping at her cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here, dumbass. The better question is, why the hell are you crying alone in the middle of the night?” He stepped closer, his crimson eyes narrowing as he took in her tear-streaked face and the squirming baby in her arms.

“It’s nothing,” YN muttered, trying to shield her face. “Just go back to bed.”

“Like hell I’m leaving.” He pulled out a chair across from her and sat down, his gaze intense but not unkind. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks. Thought you were just tired from school, but now I see it’s this little guy.” He motioned to her baby, who was still crying despite her gentle rocking.

“It’s fine,” she said, though her voice wavered. “I can handle it.”

“Bullshit.” Bakugou leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You’re falling apart, YN. You think I can’t tell?”

Her resolve crumbled at his words. The tears came rushing back, and this time she couldn’t hold them back. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Katsuki,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “I thought I could balance everything, but… but it’s too much. I’m failing at being a mom, and I’m failing at being a hero. I don’t know what to do.”

For a moment, Bakugou didn’t say anything. Then, to her surprise, he reached out and gently took the bottle from her trembling hands. “First of all, stop beating yourself up,” he said gruffly. “You’re not failing. You’re just human.”

He stood and walked over to her, holding out his hands. “Here. Let me take him for a bit.”

She hesitated, but the exhaustion won out. She carefully handed her son over, and Bakugou cradled him in his arms with more gentleness than she thought possible. He adjusted the bottle and began feeding the baby, his expression softening as the cries quieted.

“There,” he muttered, watching as the baby finally settled. “Not so hard, huh?”

YN stared at him, a mixture of awe and gratitude flooding her chest. “Since when are you good with babies?”

He shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m good at everything.”

Despite everything, she laughed—a real, genuine laugh for the first time in what felt like forever. “Thank you, Katsuki,” she said softly.

“Tch, don’t get all mushy on me,” he grumbled, though there was no heat in his words. “You’re not alone, okay? If you need help, just ask. I’m not gonna let you crash and burn, dumbass.”

She nodded, a sense of relief washing over her. For the first time in weeks, she felt like she could breathe again.

And as she watched Bakugou carefully feed her son, she realized that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to face everything on her own.

[lostinlovingrevery]

Logan and his... "Quirks"

Everyone is a lil weird. Logan is no exception

Some nsfw headcanons below the cut, it gets weird yall. some are tame. the rest are questionable. You're gonna ask me why i was thinking about it. you don't want to know

he CANNOT sit farthest away from the door. he has to be between the door and you. yknow in case of threats

feel like he would hate microwaves. idk why, i think he would extremely distrust the idea of food being heat up by radiation (Even if it wouldn't affect him?). he cooks everything by hand.

Don't let him catch you heating your food by microwave. He'll get pissy. then he'll make your food by scratch

uses phrases that were popular like 100+ years ago that no one knows. you've had to google some of them to figure out what the hell he was talking about

he taps his fingers alot. against a table, his leg, on you. it's an anxious thing

he doesn't laugh much but when he does it's loud, hes the epitomy of the word "guffaws" bc he's so loud. most of the time when you hear him "laugh" its a quiet chuckle. it's quite joyous to hear Logan across the mansion laughing

logan, as much as he acts like a wild man, is fairly neat. like, weirdly neat about his stuff. well- stuff he cares about. his jacket, his cigars, beer, maybe a few things you gave him. he doesn't need much.

this one isn't so weird, more cute- but he loves when you pet his head. only when it's just you two though

his nails grow faster than an avg person. He constantly has to clip them. BUT he does at least make sure to clean them up

i should add that logans is obv known for calling everyone bub, and gives nicknames to everyone

(he'll call you every petname in the book)

has to have his bed made in the mornings. he gets weirdly cranky if he or you don't make the bed and it's messy when going to bed that night (the man leaves his dirty laundry all over the room but doesn't like his bed not being made???)(nesting...)

hates the smell of incense (too strong) but he doesn't mind a few of the vanilla smelling candles. or the outdoorsy type ones

def will pick up new hobbies at random and then drop them (ahem i do that to)

doesn't finish his beer. he'll have a little left and go open a new one anyway

he acts like he's so gruff but he's actually like so polite about things when in someones house/the mansion. it takes you aback how nice he'll be. (x2 logan was just a bit stress don't worry about him raiding bobbys parents fridge)

ill add his fear of flying in here too

honestly he probably just doesn't like heights in general. he'll do it, go in tall buildings, planes, all of that (as well as we all seen) but don't catch him sightseeing out of the 70th floor of the skyscraper yall are in

he probably likes to wear all those layers because he doesnt let his hair grow out like he could. have you seen how much hair he can get? he keeps himself trimmed for you (if you want to call it that). the layers protects from the cold he gets from not being a hairy beast (let him be hairy)

oral fixation... i'll put this in nsfw

this isn't really weird...but he's able to sit in silence for a long time. just watching the view (you)

hes not an early bird. he'll get pissy if you are, because he wants you in bed with him. (people gotta work logan...)

leaves a clean plate of food. he doesnt like waste.

likes to grab you. hes gotta be holding onto you. even if he's single he's gotta be doing something (smoking, tapping his foot, leaning on someone), when he's with you though, you're his grounding.

NSFW

will drool during sex. he tries to control it. sometimes you feel too good though-

gets incredibly horny after missions. good luck.

also when after he goes into a burst of rage. good luck with that too

honestly he just has a high sex drive. he's a bit of a freak. it's not every time but rarely does he not get hard around you- at the scent of you

The moment you wake up in the morning, logan tells you "your period started" before you even have a chance to even fully wake up, only to realize that indeed you did start your period

he could smell it

dude is really intense about smelling

when it comes to you though he's REALLY intense about it. you know how dogs are when they smell you after you come home. logan is no different

can and WILL smell your armpits and feet if he gets the chance. it may gross you out but shits heavenly to him because thats where you smell the strongest. if you don't let him smell you he'll go for the laundry

your neck too

the man leaks so much pre-cum just at the thought of you. you'd think he came right there in his pants

does not care about you walking into him in the bathroom. he has no shame

honestly id think he'd like footjobs. not because he's got a feet thing- but like feet is where your strongest smells come from and if you...do that. his thang will smell like you

will eat you out and do you on your period btw. no shame

i don't think logan will say no to much in bed, except for the really disgusting ones, or the ones inviting other people in. he's not going to share you, or himself.

definitely has a thing about mounting you. he doesn't do it all the time but sometimes he'll lose himself and next thing you know is biting your neck and thrusting you doggy style, grunting and whining, and he won't stop till he's satisfied. the others have expressed worry over the deep teeth marks in your neck (Is he trying to maul you? - Scott)

doesn't like washing the bed sheets after you two do your thing. will complain but you have to bc you both are fairly active together in that department and you do not need your bedsheets become solid like rock. he just likes the scent :(

loves it when you lick his hands/knuckles

i think we all agree, the claws COME OUT when he cums. hes extremely careful about his hand placement bc of this.

back to oral fixation. if he doesn't have a cigar, toothpick, gum, his next best thing is you.

will SUCK on your skin. hard.

This is all i got for now, some probably really aren't a quirk but my brain was just typing what I could think of...might make more. Feel free to reblog and add your own!!

pain kink. a bad one. we all agreed on this i believe.

You know how animals have displays to attract mates? Logan is no different. When hes in the mood, hell puff himself out to you, do things he thinks youll like. I mean, i suppose avg males do this too but logan gets repetitive over it until you notice.

[webzsys]

they put his ass in the microwave let him out

FINE I PUT HIM IN THE MICROWAVE

[theorphicangel]

another sunday sukuna thought!!

having a self care / reset day every sunday and forcing sukuna to partake.

making him wear a face mask is like trying to dress up or put a collar on a cat, he absolutely refuses.

'it's good for your skin.'

'i don't give a fuck, i'm not wearing it.'

'kunaaaaa'

he huffs, turning away. you already forced him to let you give him a manicure, painting his nails jet black. (his favourite colour)

you look down, emphasising your disappointment. 'yuji would do it for me' you let out a sigh. 'i miss yuji.'

sukuna curses under his breath, glaring at you for comparing him to his six year old nephew. 'for fuck's sake.

twenty minutes later the two of you are sat on the couch with face masks on and matching pink fluffy headbands in matching hello kitty pyjamas. your favourite movie is playing and buttered microwaved popcorn sits in front of you.

'happy now?' sukuna mumbles to you, happily sitting between his thighs.

[bobfloydpilled]

some more for the collection while i finish writing the fic!

[metaphorfordeath]

Anti-Psychotic

A person living with schizophrenia finds that their delusions may have more basis in reality than they thought. Originally published in the Fall/Winter II issue of Diet Milk Magazine, available here. Content warnings for depiction of psychosis, violence, ableist language.

No one is watching me.

Julie has me write that down at our session. She never listens to me. She says, it can be comforting to realize that people don’t think of you as much as you think they do. I know this already. She asks, what evidence do you have that you are being watched? I say there isn’t any. Just a feeling. She writes something down, and asks about my meds again. 

So fucking patronizing. Of course I take them. I have taken mine like clockwork, every day, for five years. Maybe I missed a few days, but who doesn’t forget sometimes. My meds are cleat spikes jabbing into the earth. Helping me keep my footing. Making sure I don’t slip.

Last week I started getting the prickle again. Like fingers up my back. Someone standing behind me, breathing. I live alone. When I felt it, I wasn’t scared at first. These things happen sometimes. I’ve been around the block. The prickle and I are old friends, practically. When it finds me, I have ways to forget it. 

I drew the blinds, which helped a bit. I had a drink—nobody's perfect—but the prickle didn’t dull. So I peeked through the shades at the street below. Normal street stuff. The sun was setting, painting the world in shades of fire. Cars went by, all the usuals. Some kids were yelling in a driveway. A wasp tapped at my window, wiggling its feelers at me. No obvious source for the prickle. So, probably nothing. For the rest of the evening I puttered, read my book, ate some frozen nothing heated in the microwave, and took my meds. The prickle was temporary, I told myself as I lay down to sleep, the usual fog settling over me in a cool, clammy layer. No one was watching me. No one ever is.

That was a week ago. It’s only gotten worse since then. The prickle turned into a terrified stomach ache that kept me up for nights and nights. I called in sick to group, told Cheryl the caseworker that I have the flu. She sounded alarmed, but she’s only worried because of what happened to Devin.

Devin was like me: good at meds, good at therapy. We were friends, in a psycho kind of way. A few weeks ago, Devin started to get bad. Stopped showing up to group, didn’t even call. I haven’t seen him in a while, even when I went looking for him in his usual bad places. I miss him. I told Cheryl not to worry. I’m steady, just sick. I’ll see her again soon. 

I keep taking my meds, but they aren’t helping like they should. The fog I count on to sleep is thin, or missing. Something scrabbles at my skin from underneath, and I keep catching myself scratching little bits off of me. When I lay down, a low, neutral voice whispers nonsense at me through the pillow I clamp over my head. I can’t shower; that’s when the prickle gets stronger. Someone standing on the other side of the shower curtain, someone looking down at me through the water stain on the ceiling. I hiss and babble out loud just to hear myself talk, to shut up the voices that aren’t mine. I get sicker by the day.

By now I haven’t been outside in over a week, but my meds are ready to pick up. I don’t want to miss a dose, so I put on shoes and the big jacket that makes me feel safe, and I go outside. Birds leer at me from the tops of buildings. Walking in the opposite direction, an old lady frowns at me.

“Hmph, same to you,” she snaps.

My stomach lurches, but I don’t say anything, just keep walking. I hadn’t spoken. Had I? 

The drug store is brightly lit. It hurts to be inside. Too many things to look at. Faces on packaging look strange now. Confrontational. Interrogative. But at least they look like faces. When I look at anyone real, their features shift. Static snow eats at the air around their heads in a halo. It frightens me, so I keep my eyes on my shoes. The pharmacy tech who’s always there gets the packet for me, rings it up.

“Any questions about your medication?” he asks. I shake my head, pay with a card. He has glasses that give his face a sort of stability, so I look at it. His eyes are brown, beard gray, no hair on his head. He smiles at me. “Have a nice day, miss.”

“You too,” I mutter.

And then I go home, have to stop myself from running for safety. The walk is twenty minutes each way; harrowing, the passing cars huge and hungry, huffing and snorting at me. The prickle is more than a prickle by now. It feels like someone is pulling out the hairs on the back of my neck, one by one. My heart thuds against my ribs so hard that I’m afraid it will burst out, plop on the sidewalk and keep throbbing without me. The paper bag with my pills turns damp and tattered in my sweaty hand. 

And getting home doesn’t even help this time.

Julie says too much TV can be a trigger for me, but I start leaving it on all the time. Noise beats silence, any day. No empty spaces that need filling. I can’t watch sitcoms or anything fictional, so I tune it to the news. The news is always. Steady, real, factual. There’s a story about a body they found by the freeway. Pushed out of a moving car. No one knows or cares who it was. There’s a picture of the scene, taped up yellow and covered in those little numbers that say where a bit of evidence is. A tattered jacket lays in a ditch, dark with blood. 

I stand and race to the bathroom, cool porcelain against my hands, bile and nothing coming up as sweat pours down my back. My head pounds, edges of my vision sparkling. I can only see the jacket. Not dirty or bloody or ruined but the way it used to look. Devin’s jacket.

Something is horribly wrong. Men-in-black wrong. The-end-is-nigh wrong. 

The prickle wasn’t imagination. It was intuition. 

Someone got Devin. Who else did they get before him?

---

The next week, I force myself to go to group. I need to see faces. See who else is there, or not. Cheryl picks me up for these, since I don’t drive. I’m sicker than I can remember being, and try to remember to ask Julie about my dose on Tuesday. I sit silently in the passenger seat, feeling Cheryl’s eyes on me. Caseworkers all have the same eyes.

“Feeling alright today, X?” 

My name isn’t the name she calls me. You don’t need to know it.

“Fine,” I say, pinching my hands between my knees. They shake if I don’t. “Still getting over that flu.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she says. Her sedan has beige fabric seats. The passenger seat is dark, stained with sweat and whatever else from all the people she’s ferried around. A vanilla air freshener dangles from the rear view mirror.

Someone shouts in my ear, so close I feel a little blast of hot breath on my neck, and I flinch. Cheryl looks at me suddenly.

“Everything okay?”

She didn’t hear that. “Yeah. Sorry. Weird itch.”

“Hmm.” 

Group is fine. It’s usually fine. I don’t say much this time, just look around at everyone in their folding chairs. Their faces are wrong. It makes me nauseous to look, but I look anyway. I need to see who isn’t here.

There are no empty chairs, but there are fewer. One or two down from usual. All the other regulars are here, picking at their skin or looking at the clock or chewing their hair. I glance across the room and for a second I think I see Devin, sitting in his old coat. But when I look again, it’s just Tom. I almost hoped.

When it’s over, there’s bad coffee to drink. I suck on a red straw and let the bitter taste anchor me to my tongue. I inhabit my body, touch my fingers to the side of my face to know that it and my fingers exist. Sufficiently convinced of my realness, I go to Amber, our de facto leader.

She’s drinking water from a bottle with cucumber slices in it, cloudy with pulp and seeds. Ectoplasmic. It makes my stomach turn.

“Amber,” I say. My voice feels far away. She looks at me, expectant. “I missed last week. Have you seen Greg, or Mariah?”

“Oh, no, I haven’t. Greg was here last week, but I haven’t seen Mariah since like, last month. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

A crinkle appears between her eyebrows. I focus on that, since the rest of her features won’t stay put. “You’re worried because of what happened to Devin?”

“I think Devin is dead.” There is a sudden hush as other people in my vicinity overhear. “I saw his jacket. On the news.”

Cheryl appears beside me. “X, would you like to talk in the hallway?” 

She pulls me out before I can answer. “Have you been feeling alright?” she asks again. “Taking your medication?”

“Yes,” I say, a little forcefully. She clicks her tongue.

“Really? Because if you need to move up your next appointment, I can make some arrangements for you.”

Despite the fact that I do want to move my appointment up, her tone hits a button in my brain and my face turns red. “No,” I say. “I’ll wait until the next one. I’m fine. I just need to know what’s happening.” A rancid taste creeps up the back of my throat. “Where are people going?”

“Honey, everyone’s here that needs to be here.”

“No—that’s not right. I need to know.” 

I can tell from the way she moves that she thinks I’m getting agitated. She doesn’t understand what I’m saying. “People call in sick sometimes. You did, just last week. Mariah was having issues sticking with the program, so we’re working something out. No one’s gone.”

“Devin is gone. Devin is dead. He’s dead and no one knows it.”

Cheryl comes closer, her voice so low and venomous that it starts to meld with the others. “I’m going to give Dr. Bern a call and try to get you in with her sooner than Tuesday. If you can’t keep up with your regimen, we’ll have to consider another in-patient stay.”

Anger chokes me until my vision goes white. “Okay,” is all I can manage. I have some unsavory thoughts, which I won’t repeat to you now.

“Good,” says Cheryl, holding my leash. “Let’s get you home.”

I don’t sleep. I don’t even try. Someone is watching me. I think about Devin, the last time we spoke before he was gone. He got paranoid, too. He jabbered sometimes, when we would see each other. The same face, he said, with glass eyes. Looking at him. Following him. He said his pills were replaced, his furniture moved, nothing looked the same as he’d left it. No one listens to me, he said. I’m scared, he said. I’m scared of what will happen next.

“I’m scared, too,” I say to no one. A chorus laughs at me. 

---

“So,” says Julie. “Cheryl told me you’ve been having some trouble sticking to your medication.”

“I stick to it,” I say, and set the pill bottle on the desk in front of her. “Count them and tell me I’m not.”

She doesn’t move to count them. I’d hoped at least that she would humor me. “It sounds like some of your persecutory thoughts are returning. Tell me about what you’re worried about.”

“I saw on the news that they found someone’s body in a ditch off the interstate. They showed pictures. I think the body was Devin.”

“Devin from your group?” I nod. “We actually just heard from him last week. His brother answered when we called his phone. Devin is currently in a private rehabilitation clinic in Cincinnati. He’s alright, X.”

A numb feeling falls over me all at once, like a sheet. Something crawls up my thigh and disappears into a deep hole in my flesh. “Oh.”

“Amber talked to us, too. She said you asked her about Greg and Mariah’s absences this week?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I followed up on those for you, too. Greg had an accident at home and was in the emergency room during your meeting time this week. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to reach Mariah personally, but her father informed me over the phone that her family has pulled her out of the program. She won’t be returning.” Julie leans across her desk. “X, can you please look at me?”

I look at her. Her face is twisted, like a mask, papier mâché, drooping strips of plaster bandage. The static threatens to consume her, and me.

“I’m going to increase your dose to eighty milligrams. For now you can take two of what you have at the usual time, but I’m sending in a new prescription to the pharmacy.” She scrawls something on a pad at hand, and I take the opportunity to look away. “I’ll see you again this time next week, okay? And if anything’s the matter, you can call the nurse’s hotline. We’ll take care of you.” She hands me the script. 

“Thank you,” I say, and then someone brings me home. I am silent for the drive. Thinking.

Wasn’t Devin an only child?

I start doubling my dose. The fog doesn’t come. The prickle intensifies into ceaseless paranoia. I check the window locks three times a day to make sure, even though I live on the third floor. Chair under the doorknob, empty bottles stacked on it so I’ll hear if someone comes. I can’t stop thinking about Devin, and the others. Were they all really fine? Was this just a breakthrough-breakdown, pills ceasing their function and leaving me alone, spiraling? 

I hadn’t tried calling Devin in weeks. He didn’t pick up the first few times, and anyone in that state doesn’t usually want to talk anyhow. But Julie said someone answered when they called. Maybe they would answer for me.

The phone buzzes. Surging forward and receding, like a tide. Devin could be there on the other end. Getting better. Being cared for. I close my eyes and wait to hear his voicemail, or something else.

Click. “Hello?”

The voice startles me so much I can’t speak. A stranger.

“Hello?” says the phone. “Who is this?”

“Um,” I say suddenly, “Devin?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the voice says. “Devin isn’t here right now. May I ask who’s calling?”

“I’m—his friend. X,” I clarify. My voice is not of me. “Can I talk to him soon?”

“No, unfortunately he can’t talk. But I’ll let him know you called, he’ll be happy to hear people are checking up on him.”

“What’s—who are you?”

“I’m Eric, Devin’s brother. I’m taking good care of him, miss. Have a nice day.” 

The call ends. Something in my stomach shrivels. I run to the bathroom, but there’s nothing to bring up. I don’t know why that voice scared me so much. Why had I thought Devin was an only child? He hadn’t mentioned his family—maybe I’d just assumed, or forgotten if he’d said. Of course he had a brother. He was alright. They all were, now.

---

Days pass. Bugs make their homes in me. My medication runs out, the new pills ready for pickup. I’d rather die than set foot outside. But I need my stability. I steel myself to leave, and exit my apartment into the world. 

Everyone looks at me. They all want to hurt me. A car drives slowly past me and I try not to look at the people inside. My head hurts. It’s hard to see where I’m going, but I go.

The drug store is bigger than it was last time. Brighter. Angrier. People avoid me as I shuffle towards the pharmacy counter. The pharmacist who’s always there smiles at me again.

“Do you have any questions about your medication?”

I shake my head, fumbling for my card. He’s staring at me through his glasses.

“Do you need me to call someone for you?”

His voice makes me want to puke. I shake my head again, take the pills and make for the door. A crowd of voices shout at me as I stagger out into the air. I miss the way things were. My cleats don’t fit anymore. I tear the bag open, pop the lid off the bottle and shake a pill into my mouth, force it down dry and sticky and hope it does its job. My mouth is sweet where it lingered. It didn’t used to be so sweet.

There is a dull shock of understanding that blooms at the edge of my mind. The prickle rises on the back of my neck, and I look over my shoulder again. The pharmacist is looking at me from his position behind the counter. His face ringed in static. He waves at me. And I take off running.

There is no one I can call. No one who will listen. There are only doors that will slam in my face, white speckle tile and fluorescent lights and needles. He knows that. He knew it for Devin, too. He knew it for the rest of them. The wind in my face feels like fingers grasping at me, tugging at my hair, slowing me down. I race home, up the stairs and lock the door, brace it with furniture and then I sit on the floor and cry and cry. They’re laughing at me. Trading whispers. Look how stupid. Look how gullible. Go on and cry, crybaby. 

So I do. It’s all I have left.

The next time it’s group, I don’t come to the door. Cheryl calls me, but I don’t answer. There will be a wellness check if I don’t come. I want them to, now. When her calls finally stop piling up, I wait fifteen minutes, then step outside. I leave my door open, leave what I can to show that I am gone. I leave the pills out, and the script. Crush a few with my heel for good measure. I hope they can put the pieces together.

It’s dark, cool. It reminds me of the fog, makes me wish I could sleep. Eyes follow me through the evening. Headlights burn me as cars move past. I walk slowly in my big jacket, letting myself be watched. Letting the prickle come up my neck, creep over my scalp, trickle down over my face until it covers me in a thin layer and I prickle all over. The prickle and I are old friends. It tells me when to be afraid.

Then there are headlights at my back that don’t go away. The growl of an engine crashes into me. I stop walking, and someone gets out. I don’t turn to look. I can’t stand to look at faces anymore. Suddenly, I have a funny thought. Maybe I do have some questions about my medication, after all.

Something whistles through the air above my head, and the world disappears.

When I wake up later, I’m not sure if I have. There are stars. It smells like gasoline, copper and dirt. My jacket is gone. My mouth is gone, too. My hands. You’re caught, someone says in my ear, you let it happen. With my eyes, which I still have, I look across the floor. It hurts to look. There’s blood under me, sticky black. The prickle is gone. I discovered its source.

I’m alone for a long time. It’s hard to say how much. I realize that there’s a door behind me when it opens. Light falls across the floor, yellow tractor beam coming to take me away. I long to be weightless, but the earth won’t let me. Then the pharmacist who is always there puts his shoe against my face and turns me over. He doesn’t speak. He crouches down and looks into my eyes like he is trying to take something from me. Then he takes the tape off my mouth.

All I do at first is scream. It's all my body knows how to do. He sits and watches me. When I can see his mouth, it’s smiling, and I realize he likes it when I scream. So as soon as I can, I stop. Silence rushes back into the gaps, roaring in my ears.

“Good girl,” he says when I am quiet. His voice is a distorted growl, infrasound, rattling my eardrums. “Aren’t you such a good girl?”

I think about his throat in my teeth. I think about his blood on my face. For a moment it feels like I am lunging for him, jabbing thumbs into soft and fragile places. But he still has my hands, turning numb and purple at the small of my back. So I sit up as much as I can and spit at the floor near his feet. Faster than my eyes can track, he lurches forward. Fist in my hair, hauling me up to hip height.

He looks into my face with his glass eyes. His mouth is monstrous, all his white teeth sharp in a thicket of gray.

“I’ve been watching you,” he says. 

I know this already. There is nothing satisfying in the confirmation of it. 

He is not the man in black I always pictured. He could be anybody.

“Think of this as a favor I’m doing you.”

Then he hits me again. And other things.

When I’m alone, voices chatter in my ears. No one is coming, they say, you are alone. They will not find you. You and the ditch will be friends soon. So you amounted to this—better than nothing, we suppose. I shush them, rock myself against the cement floor and hum and think about grass, and birds. I try not to leave myself room to cry. I don’t want him to have the satisfaction.

A thousand years go by. Outside the room, there are voices. Not any of mine. His, and others. They start loud, and get quiet. His voice goes away completely. Doors open, distant, then closer. Light falls over my body again, and I feel the weightlessness. Real this time. My hands come back to me, but I can’t move them. There are faces, more than I’ve seen in a while. They scare me, but I can’t run, so I try not to look. Except at his. They take me past him, and I look. Through his glasses I see his eyes, still trying to take something from me. He has, by now. But not what he wanted.

I sleep for a long time, and when I wake up, the world is the way I remember it. My feet on the ground, cleats and all, not slipping. When I’m well enough they bring me to identify Devin’s body, since he didn’t really have a brother after all. They find Mariah’s, too. Greg really was in the emergency room, turns out. But there are others. Too many to think of.

Cheryl changes careers afterwards. Probably for the best. I find this out when she drives me to group the first time after I get out of the hospital. She doesn’t look at me much, but when she does, I can see her eyes are different. Not caseworker eyes anymore.

“Lauren is going to be taking over your case starting next week,” she says after a long silence. “So this will be the last time I see you.” I can tell she’s trying not to cry.

“Okay,” I say. 

She never apologizes. No one does. They all say they’re sorry for what happened to me, but that isn’t the same thing. People who don’t listen never think to apologize for it. They think they were listening all along.

Things are mostly the same as before, except I get my pills mailed to me now. And I think about Devin a lot. When I pour myself a drink, I pour one for him too and pretend he’s with me. I don’t have any pictures, so mostly I think about his voice. The last time we ever spoke, he told me, no one listens to me, X. 

What I said then was, I know the feeling, man.

But now I just tell him I’m sorry.

[linebyline-i-guess]

I just finished reading Feet of Clay, my first Discworld novel, a few days ago. As a Pratchett newbie, my impression is that he would vastly prefer being microwaved over being the duke, if you made him choose. But he does not have the good fortune to be allowed to choose only one, and thus His Grace resigns himself to being warmed and rotated.

girl: im coming over!! you better not be microwaving His Grace, His Excellency, The 1st Duke of Ankh; Commander Sir Samuel Vimes when i get there!!

my hungry ass 😂😂😂:

[fuctacles]

thank you guys for pitching in for my bday goal on ko-fi, it means a lot to me <3

<< eleven | 😺 | thirteen >>

Eddie walks up the stairs faster than he should, and has to even out his breathing just like the first time. He barely knocks on the door before it opens, but he did say he'll be up shortly. 

"Come in." Steph moves to the side to let him inside. Her hair is down now, and she's changed her jeans to a pair of sweatpants, looking soft and domestic. Having no idea what it does to Eddie's heart. 

He rolls on the balls of his feet awkwardly, and spots Dart, blinking at him from his perch on the back of the couch. Steph picks up a small white bottle from the coffee table, and he focuses attention back on her. 

"This is a leave-in, so after washing your hair and drying it with a towel, you rub a bit in your palms," she explains. "And like, rub it into your hair?" She frowns, nose scrunching adorably. "Like this." Steph hands him the bottle before showing the motion on her own hair. "And focus on the ends, maybe up to here." Gently pulling on a strand of Eddie's hair, she points to about half of its length. "Then you can let it air dry. It should help with the dry ends," she finishes off, absentmindedly running her hand through his curls. 

He hopes it's a him thing, and not just a hair thing. 

"Questions?" she asks, her eyebrows raising. Unfortunately, she seems to register her movements too, and drops her hand to curl it around her waist. Fortunately, it accentuates her breasts.

Eddie shakes his head. 

"But, Wayne ordered me to keep you company before you go mad from talking to cats." He raises his hands when her eyes squint. "His words, not mine. I think he's just tired of me and wants me to bother someone else for a change. Which," oh no, he's rambling, but it's too late to stop it. "I'm not imposing myself on you, I can go grab some cigarettes from the convenience store. You had a long day at work, you must be tired. Of me, too."

His hand squeezes tighter around the bottle of conditioner. Steph's eyebrows are arched and unimpressed.

"Which one of those was a question?"

Right. Eddie licks his lips, and her eyes follow.

"May I keep you company on this fine evening?" he asks. 

"You may," she accepts with a courteous nod and a small smile. Unfolding her arms, she turns to the kitchen, the last bits of tension seeping out. "Beer? Tea?"

"In your presence, milady, simple rain water will suffice." He presses his lips together. It's either rambling or nerdiness, when he's nervous. Usually both. 

Steph only shrugs, one hand on the fridge handle as she looks at him expectantly. 

"I just ran out, you have to pick something else."

"Beer, please." He smiles, relieved she's playing along. 

She uncaps two beers for them and takes a look through her cupboards. 

"I'd offer you a snack, but... all I have is popcorn. Do you want popcorn?" She looks over her shoulder at him. 

"Salt or butter?"

"I have both."

"Salt, then. Don't like my hands greasy."

He doesn't like his hands greasy in the presence of a fine lady, that is. 

While they watch the bag spin in the microwave, Eddie lets his mouth spit out what's been on his mind for the past couple of hours.

"Wayne's cast is going off this Thursday."

"It's been long enough," she nods thoughtfully. "Will he be able to walk?"

"With a crutch, yeah, but he won't be needing me anymore." He picks at the label on his beer. "So I'll be going back to Indy next week. Or this weekend."

"Ah, that's a pity. We just met." She pouts. 

The microwave dings, Steph pops it open and the smell of popcorn fills the kitchen. Eddie isn't sure if her words were genuine or just a pleasantry, but she doesn't seem like pleasantries kind of person.

They move to the living room, at least one pair of cat eyes watching them curiously. Dart is still in his spot on the couch and doesn't move a muscle when they sit down. 

"When are you visiting next?" she asks, popping a kernel into her mouth. "Thanksgiving?" 

"Probably," he says, even though it wasn't his plan. He was going to wait Thanksgiving out and stay a day or two longer for the Christmas break. But if Steph was in any way interested in him, it would be worth the gas money and time spent behind the wheel. "Do you have any plans?"

Steph tucks her legs up on the couch, gets comfortable. The bowl of popcorn rests between them and Eddie can't wait for it to be gone. 

"I'd usually go with Robin to see her parents, but I'm trying to wrap up on the salon thing. I want to tell Joyce before the year ends, maybe look at places in Indiana starting in January."

Eddie raises his eyebrows. 

"I thought it was a more distant thing."

"Me too," she sighs. "But I'm probably just scared of change, and making it sound like more work than it is."

"Uh, I think opening a salon in a new city is a lot of work," Eddie points out, leaning forward to face her better. "And moving? It's a lot. But hey," he adds quickly, noticing that she has shrunk on herself. "I'll help however I can. Give you a couch to sleep on while you're looking for the perfect place."

She snorts.

"Thanks, I might take you up on that."

It would be weird, having Steph in his small bachelor apartment that he shares with a friend. But the idea sounds too alluring not to let it run his imagination for a second. Maybe she won't have anything to sleep in and Eddie would have to lend her a t-shirt. Something unmistakably Eddie-ish, like a brand telling everyone else to back off. 

"I could show you around, too. I know the best pizza and Chinese places and which cafe's to avoid," he offers.

She cocks her head, watching him with a smile, the small but visible lines in the corners of her eyes crinkling. 

"Planning a date already?"

Eddie's eyes widen. He kind of was.

But Steph doesn't seem repulsed, she's smiling at him with amusement, completely relaxed on her couch, beer in hand. So he shoots his shot. 

"I hope I'll get a few before then," he admits, looking her in the eyes, straight into her soul.

She hums, the smile still present but somehow turning sour. 

"When? You're leaving in a few days."

"That's a few days worth of dates," he counters. 

"You're gonna sweep me off my feet and leave? That's not nice," she points out.

"I—" Eddie frowns. "Yeah, I know," he deflates. Steph's right, he already feels insane and it would get only worse if he got a proper taste. 

She twists in her seat, feet landing on the carpet. He turns with a sigh, ready to be kicked out. He can always try next time, right?

tags: @wheneverfeasible @steddieinthesun @hattsy-likes-pretty-stuff @bumblebeecuttlefishes @phantomcat94

@tartarusknight  @tinyplanet95 @steddiefication @estrellami-1 @disrespectedgoatman

@madigoround @tartarusknight @blasvemous @cryptid-system @hiei-harringtonmunson

@hellowhatthehellisgoingonhere @dreamercec @manliest-of-muppets

@bookbinderbitch @marklee-blackmore @icecat

[oscconfessions]

i love cracklin ion. rotating him around in my head like a bowl of microwave ramen

.

[sleepyssnail]

Summary: Luo Binghe was dead set on finding a kind Shizun for himself. His search was endless and seemed unlikely to bear fruit until he slashed his way into a world where he met a young man whose name was not Shen Qingqiu but Shen Yuan. He was the exact person Luo Binghe had been searching for.

The only possible downside was that Shen Yuan was insistent on a trial period before marriage. That was fine, it had been a while since Luo Binghe properly wooed someone but for a kind Shizun of his own he would prove his worth over and over again.

And he would start as soon as he could figure out how to work the microwave.

Or: Luo Bingge goes in search of a shizun of his own, finds Shen Yuan in a world before he transmigrated, decides to marry him, is introduced to the wonders of modern technology, and secures an engagement from his new shizun. Shen Yuan is just confused.

This is my gift for the Bingqiu exchange for @unreliable-narratoe! I hope you enjoy it! :D

[urgardenandmine]

idiocy ᵔᴥᵔ - b. choi

summary: choi beomgyu is the hot guy and he's in some hot water... ⚠️‼️WARNING: there's a small like mention of blood and self-inflicted harm so if this is not for you, please keep moving (or read my other works :p )⚠️‼️ genre: angst/non-idol work pairing: gender neutral reader x choi beomgyu word count: 1.1K

“you’re never going to see me again.”

those words struck a certain chord in your heart. if i were to describe the melody now ringing in your ears, it would almost make the paint peel off the walls due to how disheartening and discordant they were. it was as if the chords were an untuned clarinet and a tuba playing in harmony as if you were being chased by a killer. it was then paired with a painful tritone, making your bleeding heart now pour out streams of scarlet sap. as the music became louder, the final look on his face was almost the climax of the now overbearing symphony in your head. hearing those words from the boy who you poured your heart out to was just…unreal. you could feel the corners of your eyes begin to well, yet not a single drop was ready  to fall because if they did, then this meant it was true.

your hands had soon been crumpled into two tight fists, attached to your sides as you couldn’t have him see how you were acting. you could tell the knuckles of your fists were now turning pale, yet you needed this to ground you, along with the pain you self-inflicted as your nails dug into your palms. who cares if they bled and you couldn’t hold a pencil for a while. this was more important that the so-called “make it or break it” exams you were about to face.

your nose was barely focused on the smell of the world around you, as if everything was now immediately sour from how life was. it was like if someone had paired unwashed gym socks and then had stuffed them with a lemon and manure to get back at you. your ears themselves could only focus on the buzz of the fluorescent lights, tuning everything out but the boy in front of you and the now world which felt as if you were a punching bag. 

your body itself felt cold and hot at the same time, similar to when you had a fever. rather than your internal feeling cold and your exterior feeling hot, it was as if the temperature had risen and dropped at certain points in your body. your knees and below felt weirdly cold, almost as if you had lifted the blanket and you forgot to cover your lower extremities. from then above to your shoulders, you felt warm. not hot, as in blazing, but warm. it was probably due to your blood rushing immensely and your heart beating faster than usual. from your shoulders all the way down to your fists, you felt cold, like if you were experiencing a direct blow from the great zephyr himself. from your collarbone to the top of your head, it was the same temperature one would feel in hell. your crown felt immensely hot, as if you were in the microwave and being heated on the potato selection.  

as your now lifeless and drained [e/c] eyes met his brown ones, he could feel his own heart shatter yet he had no control over what he wanted to do. hell, he wouldn’t be leaving you in the quad. he would be leaving you almost well…never. though he wanted to immediately apologize and hold you in his arms, he had no choice in this matter. this was the will of his parents but he couldn’t say that. what he really wanted to say was how you both should run away together. how you two should just have fun and live life to the fullest. though as he was about to enter his senior year in university, he had no choice being part of the wealthiest family in the town, he had to put himself first (or so he told himself).

choking on your words, you mustered to push out a heartbroken laugh as you glared at the boy who had ripped your heart out and given it back to you in the form of roadkill.

“so that’s it?” you spat at him. a single tear had fallen, rolling down your cheek as beomgyu saw it reach your jaw. he had the urge to wipe it yet he didn’t budge, shoving down his own feelings and making sure his tears never surfaced. not giving you an answer, you wiped your own tears as you sniffled and laughed sorrowfully. 

“fine. i should’ve known the rumors of the fuckboy choi beomgyu were real. i was just so stupid, fuck.” you muttered to yourself, causing beomgyu’s heart to shatter bit by bit. he had a reputation that was practically sang by everyone in town. when you two first met, it was the casual “use the nerdy kid in my class to do my homework” type cliche. sadly, he had fallen for the nerdy student when he had noticed that you had fallen asleep studying in the library. he had seen your notepad with a list of revisions on the project you were supposed to do together yet, he had given you that burden. the next day, you two spent the rest of the week spending time together and had forgotten all about the project. beomgyu, wanting to appease you as he wanted to impress you, had done the rest of the project himself. safe to say that even though you both didn’t get an A, you both had great memories…

emphasis on had.

huffing loudly, you wiped your tears one last time before looking right through him. through, not towards…

through.

beomgyu could feel your daggers pierce him, yet he had to be unwavering and stubborn. in reality, all he wanted to do was hug you and make sure you at least got home safe after this whole ordeal but, he couldn’t. it was almost as if he could’ve lied to his parents, he felt a small part of your relationship being out and he was too scared of the stupid family name to even put forward his own happiness. he had no care if he was outed, what he cared for was that no other man could call you his. beomgyu cleared his throat, waiting for you to speak. feeling the five second silence being deafening, he opened his mouth yet nothing came out. you continued to glare at him. seeing his lips open and gape, you let out a small chuckle and stepped towards him. 

immediately closing his mouth, beomgyu stood up straighter and looked into your watery eyes. taking a gulp before you spoke, you had looked up into the eyes which once shined when he saw you across campus.

“i was an idiot to even love you.”

turning away on your heel, you had sped away, leaving beomgyu now a green field filled with daisies and small butterflies. beomgyu looked down, seeing tears fall down onto the grass. trying to catch his breath, he broke down as he sat and clutched his knees towards his chest. 

even in your last moments together, you still took his breath away…

⋆｡°✩

this was originally gonna be with like yeonjun but i have other plans in mind...

this is my first angst work so i hope y'all like it!

if y'all like get sad, lemme know so i can like do more angsty works 👹

[mono-dreamerr]

I need him deep fried, pressure cooked, oven baked, microwaved, hard boiled, blended-

[silverskye13]

Ok so after having time to digest the events of last chapter and be slightly normal about it, I'm now comparing it in my head a lot to the "there was only one bed" ficlet(which rotated constantly in my brain for months after I read it). And it's really funny seeing the differences, because in the ficlet, it was more akward(from a character side) and Tanguish was mildly uncomfortable the whole time(which... valid), and thinking back on it, despite me always thinking "aww cudling" in regards to it, they were really just kinda close, and held hands, and HK was emotionally vulnerable(which was still really sweet, don't get me wrong, I think I have a point here). But in the chapter, I guess it's cause it's at more of a point where they're both more comfortable with each other. Instead of it being out of necessity(*cough* one bed), Tanguish stayed with HK because he was worried about him. And just the differences between the ficlet, where Tanguish was scared of even touching HK, and the chapter, where he's just pressed against him and HK is running his hand through his hair- it's just so freaking sweet seeing them so close and trusting with one another, and now this is the scene that will be rotating in my brain microwave, thank you ^^

I'm glad you liked it! It was really fun and sweet to write. They needed a moment of rest, even if it was a little tense at times.

I think one of my favorite characteristics I've given Helsknight, is the fact that he's very touchy. I feel like it makes sense for a character who used to live in confined spaces with other groups of people all the time [church, cells], and is a good contrast to the start of the story when he's fully armored and doesn't touch people, for fear of his own aggression. He starts off so standoffish, and he is a scary character, but the moment the armor starts coming off [literally, metaphorically] he starts touching people again, and Tanguish gets introduced to this weird, oddly intimate world where sometimes Helsknight just runs fingers through his hair, or puts a hand on his back/shoulders, or hugs him.

[abnormal-vacuum]

A closer look at Simon "Ghost" Riley's interpersonal guilt

chapter 1

ghost/soap 1,365 words - ao3 Tags: guilt? mentions of abuse, complicated feelings.. hello this is my first fanfic in like 5 or 6 years. its hopefully gonna be part of a series.

Simon “Ghost” Riley considers himself a man sewn together by his mistakes. Every decision, right and wrong, has led him to become who and what he is today. Since his birth, he’s made nearly every mistake he possibly could. If he was one to believe in separate timelines and alternate realities, he’d think he was the worst version of himself out there. Despite this, he's still able to recognize that he's made some good decisions. He’s defused bombs, sniped terrorists and saved countless lives by doing his job. But those feel weightless in comparison to the sheer amount of loss he views himself as responsible for. Tommy, his nephews, countless soldiers and civilians whose names he doesn't know but faces he’ll remember forever.

Point being, Simon doesn't deem himself a good person, despite the frequent assurance from people around him that he’s an honest (enough) man. He thinks he was a good kid dealt a shitty hand, but that kid has long since rotted away. Although, if you asked that kid if he felt like a good person, he probably wouldn't know how to respond. He would take far too long of a pause between the question being asked and his inevitable, “oh, yeah. ‘Course I’m a good person.” Because realistically, at least at the time, he’d never done anything to make him a bad person. Maybe sometimes he was selfish, but that's just how kids are. Maybe it was the fact that he was born into an unkind environment. A den of snakes, the last place a child should have to be. Households like that breed uncomfortable feelings. Maybe Simon was born with a seed of evil deep in his heart that has yet to have the opportunity to corrupt him fully. Maybe he just needs to go to therapy.

He’s also thought that maybe he’s just too close to his current self to view things objectively. Maybe when he’s older and retired he’ll pity this present iteration in the way Simon pities his teenage self. Realistically, that's where he’s headed. Sure, he’ll have regrets… but that's just a part of life. Especially a life like his. He knows what the team thinks of him. Price thinks he’s a good man. He makes sure to assure him of this whenever he notices Simon having an ‘off’ day. He knows Gaz and Soap like him, but they aren't exactly privy to his life before becoming Ghost, at least not enough to clue them into what he really deems as ‘Bad’. Price does know this, yet he still insists that Simon is one of his best. Not pure, not without blame or blood, but still good. Somehow, despite how much he tells his captain, Simon still manages to persuade himself into believing that he's wrong. John Price, whose judgement he trusts nearly wholeheartedly in every other situation… he doesn't believe. If he really thought about it, he might be able to recognize how absurd that really sounds. But he doesn't. So it remains unresolved.

This is how he thinks whenever he has a moment alone that lasts just a hair too long. When he's shaving, taking a shower, or buzzing his head. When he can't fall asleep, which is more often than not. When he’s on leave, eating a microwave meal all alone. At the gym if he forgets his headphones, or if his sniping position reminds him a little too much of home. Wherever home is.

He hates silence, despite how often he surrounds himself with it. Which, he thinks, is one of the many reasons that Johnny has managed to lure him in. He talks. A lot. Not too much, but a lot. He keeps the comms warm and manages to bring out Simon's chatty side. He’s somehow able to talk at the perfect times, as if he can sense when Simon’s brain starts to steer him down a dark, well trodden path. He tells a shitty joke, or nudges Ghost's knee to make some snide comment about a private he saw trip on his way to the heli, and suddenly everything is okay again. He makes things easy, and Ghost feels a little pathetic over the whole situation. Especially because he knows it’s fucking effortless for the Scot. Easy as breathing-- he's probably not even aware how much of a crutch his presence has become. Times previously taken up by brooding and reliving painful memories have now been filled by Soap prattling on about some larger than life feat of his. Or even worse, Simon will lie awake in bed and think about him. That stupid mohawk and the scar on his chin. He keeps forgetting to ask where that came from. None of this is to say that Johnny makes Ghost feel like a good person, because he doesn't. But he does fill up the space that previously allowed him to think too hard about his own morality. And, at least right now, that might be more useful.

Johnny is bright in more ways than one. He’s smart, one of the smartest people Simon has ever met. But he's also bright. Bright as in painful to look at. Like the sun, at least to Simon. Not based on looks (although he is quite handsome), but on… demeanor, maybe. The way he carries himself. Simon hasn't been able to put a finger on what he's trying to describe. His confidence, his… charm. John MacTavish is something else entirely. Separate from what, Ghost isn't sure. They’ve only known each other for about four months, which is one of the many reasons Ghost finds this… fondness for the sergeant so frustrating. Because he was hooked from day one. It took no time for Soap to worm himself in the spot between Ghost’s lungs and his ribcage. It's one thing for him to be attracted to the man. He's been attracted to plenty of soldiers in the past, but he typically does nothing about it. And most of them haven't been on the same damn task force as him. He's a professional, for Christ's sake, and those feelings are almost always fleeting. But they’ve never felt like this. Luckily he's good at keeping quiet, especially in situations like this.

He doesnt idolize Johnny. He knows he's not perfect. You don’t get this high up into the SAS by keeping your hands clean. But he’s sure that whatever Soap has done is nothing in comparison to his mountain of mistakes. Gaz has hinted that he may return his feelings. Ghost always chooses to take this as either Gaz being a right prick, or those feelings simply being lust. It can't be anything more than that, he won’t allow for it. He's not even sure that Soap likes men. He's never caught him with a woman before, but that doesn’t mean it hasn't happened. But that's not really important in the grand scheme of things. Ghost would never get involved with him. At least that's what he tells himself every time something particularly… tempting occurs.

Like that time they were trapped in a closet together. It was all knees against groins and pained grunts. It was only 45 minutes but it felt like hours. Soap was chewing gum, making loud smacking noises. It got to the point where Simon nearly knocked him upside the head. As soon as Ghost snapped at him to quit it, Soap stuck it beneath one of the shelves behind them. They made eye contact the whole time. Not a word of protest. It seems innocuous, but given the man's reputation of being… insubordinate, his eagerness to follow orders was surprising. If everything was right in the world he would have kissed him right there. They talked about nothing for the remainder of the time, whispering close in each other's ear as to not be caught. They both smelled rank, yet neither of them mentioned it. Safe to say that was all Simon thought about in bed for several weeks afterwards.

Anyways, Simon doesn't want Johnny to become another mistake in his past, whatever that means. So he’ll remain where he is, firmly planted on the already blurry line between colleague, superior and friend.