#my life’s getting better and that’s all i care about

[hyperfixiation-station]

Behind Enemy Lines Pt.1

CW: Torture, Canon-typical violence, talk of derealization, disassociation Summary: You were a friendly medic, captured years ago and held prisoner, forced to do do the bidding of your captors. Years later, a man by the name of Ghost is dragged in and changes the trajectory of your life. A/N: I had severe ADHD, and i am unmedicated rn, and it makes it really hard to work on things unless I get the hyperfocused drive for it, so I'm sorry I'm so bad at making the other parts to my fics. Know that I will never abandon them. it just might take me a while. idea part 2

You fought back, at first. Way back when you first got captured, taken from your base camp and dragged through miles and miles of harsh terrain, blindfolded and bound. A medic you were, yes. But your team had trained you with the best of them. You spent the whole time trying to escape, kicking and screaming until they bound your legs and gagged you. You spent the first month of captivity refusing to talk to them, hissing and spitting and pretending their punches didn’t hurt. But it didn't take you long to realize it was better to cooperate, or to at least be civil. Civility got you less broken bones, less pain, more rations, more sleep. Cooperation didn’t come till later, when you finally realized your team wasn't coming for youthey were dead but you didn't know that.

Surprisingly, the whole mouth-getting-sewn-shut didn't happen till a couple years in... they were torturing someone, a man who said he had kids and a wife at home, whose only wish was that they left something recognizable of him so they could get some closure. You begged them to stop. Begged them to stop when his wounds became too numerous to count, too much for you to handle. Begged because you started to care for him as he told you about his son and daughter, how they want him home for Christmas(You didn't have the heart to tell him Christmas was 6 days ago) Told them that he would die no matter what you did if they continued. Well, they didn't stop, and he did die... and you found yourself ringing in the new year by being strapped to a table.

“We warned you to stop talking with him.” They said as they clamped the metal shut over your forehead and chin, holding you in place. “We told you to not get attached, but since you can’t seem to do it on your own, we’ll help you.” The feeding tube came 2 weeks later, shoved up your nose when they realized you were starving...they couldn't lose their favorite medic of course.

You stopped paying attention to the passage of time after that, spent most of your days drifting in and out of reality, moving through the motions with a practiced ease. And it would have remained that way, if it wasn’t for a man in a skull mask with a team- a family- looking for him. 

Your first introduction to him ended up with you getting a broken nose. Per usual, you were shoved into the cell, medical kit in hand, ready to fix up whatever damage your captors had done the their poor prisoner.

The mask he had been wearing when you saw him dragged in was gone, and he had a gash that went all the way through his cheek that would need stitching up. You pull out your equipment, moving slowly towards his bleeding face. 

he headbutted you the moment you got close enough for him to reach, and the crunch of bone and the gush of warm blood followed, not that you noticed. You were still in that dreamlike state, not quite tether to reality in the way you should be. You barely noticed when they tranqued him, and the only reason you didn't finish his stitches is because you passed out too(it’s hard to breathe through a bloody, broken nose)

The next time you approach more carefully, but he’s no trouble. Mostly because they left him completely strapped to the table this time. Today was a rare day, a time when you  could actually feel your feet on the ground rather than just see them. You feel bad as you wipe him down, your eyes flicking over the myriad of scars on his body. What’s one more you think to yourself as you get to work stitching a stab wound to his thigh. Just barely missed the artery here…that could have been bad news. Okay tie it off and- there we go. I think the only other thing that need to- oh, is he…talking to me? I should probably pay attention to that.

“-here?” His voice is gravely, though you suppose yours would be too after being tortured. He stares at you expectantly, and you shrug. You don’t know what he said, and even if you did, you couldn’t answer. You just move to his wrist, snapping the bone back in place. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t make an actual sound, which surprises you. But you don’t dwell on it, wrapping a bandage around his arm and moving to exit the room. 

“Y’ no’ g’nna lemme off?” His voice sounds, “they said y’ would.” You spin around, staring at him. You're not stupid. And even if your…bosses had said that, you still wouldn’t do it. Being trapped in a room with a man who is at least a foot taller than you and looks like he could kill a man with his glare? No thank you. 

You take a step back, heading towards the door. The man lets out a sound you would barely qualify as a laugh. “Sm’rt then.” He says to himself, “No’ gonna be that easy.” 

The next time you go in, you can't help but wonder what they want from this man. By now they usually would have killed him off. Oh well, not your job to wonder. You clean him up, splinting the fingers they had broke when he talks to you again.

"why don't y' let me die?" He says, voice just as gravely as before, "Put me outa m' misery?" You don't respond, just keep taping his hand. IT's something you ad asked yourself, right at the beginning. It would be kinder for you to just let your patients die. But you couldn't do it. Partially because you were punished anytime someone died before your captors wanted them to, but also because you were a medic. YOu were there to heal. You couldn't stomach letting someone die by your hand.

"Answer me!" The man snarls, bringing you back to the present, "For god's sake y' never talk, fuckin' mute." You don't respond, of course. Just finish your task and leave him to his thoughts.

He’s angrier after that time, you’ve noticed. The few times you're actually present, he’s fighting you. Usually not with words, but he bucks and doesn’t hold still. He’s tried to grab your medical supplies countless times, and one time you actually had to be pulled out because he jerked his arm while you were stitching him and somehow managed to drive the needle into your own hand. The few times he does actually yell at you, you’re usually not paying attention. You can catch words like “Dishonorable”  and “Disgraceful”. You aren’t entirely sure of the context of the words, but you can guess. You’ve treated enough prisoners who think that you are the world's worst human being, a blight to the medical field, to guess what he's trying to tell you. 

It's funny though, this man so full of hate. Because, for the first time in goodness knows how long, your feet are on the ground, and your head is level. Something about this man, his angry, uncrushed demeanor, even after weeks of torture, stirs emotion in you that you can’t quite identify. And maybe you should be grateful, thankful your head is on right, but you're not. You so desperately want to go back to that place of apathy and detachment, where your emotions weren’t so strong, were the pains of mishealed bones and poorly healed scars didn’t plague your waking moments. 

Or maybe it wasn’t the man- The Ghost, as you found out he was called. Maybe it was the fact that something in the air had changed. The air was electric, charged with tension so thick you could feel it even alone in your cot. They were watching you, you could tell. Could feel their eyes tracking your movements in a way they hadn’t since first giving you freedom to move around. 

You're not sure why. It’s not like you have anyone to go home to. You were an only child, and your parents had died long before you reached 18. All you had was your team, a team that had seemingly abandoned you. So why would you leave? There was nowhere to go. And yet they watched you. Was it because you were becoming more aware, more grounded then you had been in a long while? Was it the man, Ghost, who had them on edge? 

The answer came two days later. You were in Ghost's cell again, desperately packing gauze into a gaping hole on his side. You don’t know what had happened, but for the first time in years you were dragged from your cell, your captors muttering under their breath in a language you still didn’t understand as they thrust you into his cell. Blood was everywhere. Your best guess was that Ghost had been struggling and an instrument had slipped and gouged out a hole in his side. So here you are, packing gauze into the wound as you try to figure out what to do to keep him alive with your rudimentary supplies. 

You pack another piece of gauze in just as the door goes flying open. Men, dressed in black, wearing the same mask Ghost was, come bursting in. 

“Get back!” The one in the front yells at you, gun pointed in your face. You shake your head, hands pressed against Ghost’s wound. 

“Now!” You make a protesting noise, trying to gesture with your chin. The man looks down, eyes widening. 

“Aw shit- are you the medic?” You nod almost desperately. The man looks at you again, staring at your hands. They are shaking, pressed against the wound as you try to keep Ghost from bleeding out. 

“Fix him.” The man snaps. You shake your head and look up at the man, trying to communicate that you need more supplies. 

“Use your words.” The man gabs the gun at you, indicating he wants you to get on with it. You stomp your foot, shaking your head again. 

“What, what's that supposed..…you can’t speak, can you?” You nod, glad he finally got it. The man groans, lowering his gun.

“You’re coming with us, but you make one wrong move, and I mean one, I will put a bullet through your brain before you can even speak. Got it?” He gestures to the other two men with him, and together you lift Ghost up, carrying him out to safety.

A/N- anyways, here's part one. Sorry if it disappoints anyone

tags, sorry if i missed any:

@redzluvvesage @just-a-harmless-potato-05  @vesna-the-spring @princess312 @norsehorseofcourse-blog @bonniperinktrance @soggywafflezz  @littlebunie @sirbonesly @havoc973 @mommymilkers0526 @thegreyjoyed @pinkiliciousgunp0int @poopoobuttsy @darcellethedreamer @kamote-kuneho

[reasonsforhope]

There's a saying my dad taught me, that I've found is very true in life:

The antidote to anxiety is action.

If you're like me, you're probably anxious right now. And scared. And quite probably angry. About climate change, about the Palestinian genocide, about Donald fucking Trump.

That only makes sense. It hurts to find out that people aren't as good as you thought, or hoped. It hurts to know how much better we could be doing, and then see all the ways in which we aren't doing that. It hurts to know that people are going to die.

This is something I've been grappling with myself since the US election. I had hopes that were higher than this, and I had reasons for those hopes, but in several spheres, those hopes have been disappointed.

That's not a reason to give up, though. It's not a reason to give up on the world, on yourself, on your life, or on hope.

The antidote to anxiety is action.

(Nobody is allowed to interpret this statement as being about/against psych meds btw. Meds are great and help a lot of people. But this isn't about them.)

Fear and anxiety exist for a reason: to warn us when there is a threat. And to motivate us to do something about that threat.

That's why, the more you push anxiety down down down, the worse it tends to get.

Your brain - your self - is telling you that something is wrong, and that you need to do something about it.

So listen. And find something you can do to help. Anything.

It will make you feel better, I promise. Maybe not right away, but it will.

And the more you do to help, the more you'll see the difference it can make. The more you're surrounded by people who are also helping, who also care. The more you'll see more and more ways to help.

Look up organizations near you - especially organizations that help protect the groups that are most vulnerable right now: undocumented people, immigrants, trans people, BIPOC, queer people, Muslims, Jewish people, disabled people, unhoused people.

Find someone who is helping, and find a way to help them.

The more we do to help each other, the more we organize, the more we resist fascism and work to beat climate change and make those fuckers pay for every. last. fucking. inch...

The more we will change. The more people we will protect and save.

We're stronger together. So find something you can do. And do it.

[ghostwitchboy]

Genuinely, switching to men's underwear was a gamechanger for me in many ways. Even before getting bottom growth, the amount of comfort that wearing boxer briefs and briefs gave me immediately was insane.

I didn't have to worry that my underwear would just, fall off my ass bc the elastic was negligible. The elastic isn't made of two hair-thin strings that break and fray and poke though the shitty scratchy not-lace after the third wash. The seams were strong and actually had some thickness to them! The cameltoe thing is so real! I've worn tight mens pants and had no fear!

Added bonus, is packing in briefs is 10xs better than in panties, and it's not bc of the added fabric, it's bc the wristbands are stronger!

And also, jockstraps. I thought they'd be uncomfortable, bc I've worn thongs and those 'cheeky' styles (they were literally called that) throughout the 2000s. Nope, they're some of the most comfortable, sexy underwear that I've ever worn and I've never felt more gender euphoria than when my partner was speechless seeing me in it.

Also, women's underwear is designed pretty much exclusively by men who don't have to wear it and who don't care if women are comfortable or have practical undergarments bc all they care about is their own gratification. I was 13 when the only options available to me were 'bikini', 'cheeky', 'boyshort', 'hipster', and thongs. You'd have to go out of your way to find the underwear that fully covered you, as a child. And it was ugly and uncomfortable. You could either be decently covered as a child and bullied or constantly feeling exposed bc the way the fabric was cut on your underwear was made to accommodate hips you didn't have yet and the idea of "what if we made underwear that looked like boxers, but showed off ass and didn't actually have a wide enough gusset to hold even a pantyliner".

I actually found my 'boyshorts' recently. Tried them on, having to get out of my briefs first. I got an immediate frontal wedgie and they didn't even make it to my hips. And my body hasn't changed that much since they were purchased. They fit exactly as I remembered.

I threw them out.

Wear the clothes you want. Be comfortable. Ignore every label and just live your best life.

very funny things happening on the afab underwear post in the form of idiots in the comments tryna explain how "it's physically inconvenient for afab bodies to wear anything other than womens underwear" do you know how many cis lesbians wear walmart boxers you people are unsaveable. UN FUCKING SAVEABLE

[amxritt]

Stay

Rafe Cameron x f!reader

Summary: inspired by Stay by Gracie Abrams

Word Count: 4.4K

Warnings: angst (lots of it), brief mentions of addiction, uhh more probably idk

“You told me something when I left but I don’t remember. Maybe ‘cause all I could do then was stare at the floor”

The fight had been brewing for weeks. Rafe had been spiraling—late nights, glazed eyes, erratic moods. Y/n felt the weight of it all pressing down on her. She had known something was wrong, had seen the signs, but she had hoped he’d stop before things got this bad.

Now, they stood in his bedroom, the air thick with tension. Rafe paced back and forth like a caged animal, his voice rising with frustration. He shouted about how she didn’t understand, how this wasn’t her problem to fix. Y/n flinched at the sharpness in his tone, staying rooted to the edge of his bed, her gaze fixed firmly on the carpet beneath her feet.

She hated when he yelled. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tried to shield herself from the storm brewing inside him.

“You don’t get it, Y/n,” Rafe spat, his voice breaking. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. This is my life.”

“And I care about it!” she shot back, finally looking up. Her voice wavered, but her resolve didn’t. “I care about you, Rafe. But I can’t keep watching you destroy yourself.”

He froze mid-step, his back to her. For a moment, she thought he might actually listen. But then he shook his head, muttering something under his breath she couldn’t quite catch.

Y/n exhaled shakily, her nails digging into her palms. She wanted to scream at him, shake him until he understood how much this was breaking her. But all she could do was sit there, staring at the floor as the words she wanted to say died in her throat.

“I held myself ‘cause you wouldn’t, all wrapped in my sweatshirt Wonder if you even noticed that that one was yours”

The room was chilly despite the summer heat outside. The Camerons always kept the AC cranked up, and the breeze from the window only made it worse. Y/n pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around them. She was wearing a hoodie—one of Rafe’s, though she doubted he’d noticed.

He had given it to her back when they were sophomores, one night after a bonfire when she’d forgotten to bring a jacket. She’d meant to return it, but somehow it had become hers. Rafe never seemed to mind; he used to say it looked better on her anyway.

Now, as she sat there clutching the fabric like a lifeline, she wondered if he even remembered that it was his. Probably not. Not with how high he was right now. His eyes were glassy, his movements erratic. He didn’t seem to notice much of anything anymore.

“And maybe I should’ve, but I never told you, ‘I’m sorry.’ Know that I tried, but my words always got in the way.”

That night was the breaking point. Y/n had stood in his doorway, tears streaming down her face as she told him she couldn’t do this anymore.

“I can’t watch you hurt yourself, Rafe,” she had said, her voice cracking. “I love you too much to stand by and do nothing. But I can’t save you. You have to want to save yourself.”

He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, his jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists at his sides. She waited for him to stop her, to say something—anything—that would make her stay. But he didn’t.

As she turned to leave, he muttered something under his breath. She couldn’t hear it over the pounding in her ears.

Now, months later, she replayed that night over and over in her head. She wished she had stayed longer, had said something different. She wished she had told him she was sorry—for leaving, for not being enough to make him stop. But the words never came out right, no matter how many times she rehearsed them in her head.

“Could you hold me without any talking? We could try to go back where we started ”

Y/n’s day had been hell. Her parents had been on her case all morning, snapping at her for things that weren’t even her fault. By the time they told her to “go stay at a friend’s house” for the night, she felt like she was about to break.

Typically, when stuff like this happened, she just went to Rafe’s, but she hadn’t talked to him since that night a few months ago.

She ended up at the beach—their beach. It was a quiet, secluded spot they had discovered years ago. It had always been their escape, their sanctuary. Now it was just another place that reminded her of him.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, she pulled out her phone and stared at his name in her contacts. She shouldn’t call him. She knew that. But the weight of the day was too much to carry alone.

She had called him a few times since that night, and each time he picked up right away and stayed on the line, even though she would never actually talk to him. She just needed to hear his breathing. She needed to know he hadn’t overdosed, that he was okay.

Her fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before she pressed call.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Y/n?” His voice was rough, but there was a softness to it that made her chest ache.

She didn’t say anything for a moment, struggling to find the words. Finally, she whispered, “Can I come over?”

“I don’t even have to stay”

Rafe didn’t say anything when she showed up at his door, just stepped aside to let her in.

They didn’t talk as she changed into one of his t-shirts and climbed into bed beside him. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over hers, before she turned to him and whispered, “Can you just hold me?”

He nodded, pulling her close. She felt the tension in his body slowly melt away as they lay there in the dark, their breathing syncing.

“Don’t worry, I won’t stay,” Y/n whispered, breaking the silence.

“It’s okay if you do,” Rafe whispered, but Y/n cut him off, “I won’t.”

For a little while, it felt like nothing had changed. Like they were still the kids who spent their summers on the beach, dreaming about a future that didn’t seem so far away.

But morning always came too soon.

When Rafe woke up, she was gone. Her side of the bed was cold, her clothes neatly folded at the foot of his bed.

“I don’t remember the last time I heard from your sister, Didn’t expect to, but I sorta thought that I would.”

Y/n had always been close to Wheezie, even when she and Rafe were arguing. They spent countless days together shopping, watching movies, having spa nights, and talking about everything and nothing. She was like the little sister Y/n always wanted.

Rafe would sometimes barge in, rolling his eyes at whatever ridiculous movie they were watching, but Y/n would catch the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Those nights felt safe. Whole.

After Y/n left, she half-expected Wheezie to text her, to ask if she was okay or if they could still hang out like they used to. But weeks turned into months, and the silence stretched out between them.

Y/n thought about reaching out herself, but every time she opened her phone, the weight of what had happened with Rafe stopped her. What would she even say? That she missed her? That she wasn’t sure if she could face Rafe’s family without falling apart?

Sometimes, she’d scroll through old photos of them together, her heart aching for the easy sister-like bond they had. Wheezie’s smile stared back at her from the screen—bright, carefree, and untouched by the storm that had torn everything apart.

“Wish I could tell you by now that i felt more indifferent”

Y/n sat with her knees to her chest on the beach, their beach—the one where they had spent countless evenings watching the sun melt into the ocean. The waves stretched out before her, their rhythmic crash and retreat, a cruel reminder of the ebb and flow of her relationship with Rafe.

She always knew walking away would be hard, but she thought she’d feel more indifferent by now, that the ache in her chest would dull over time. Instead, every day felt like a battle against memories that refused to stay buried.

She closed her eyes and exhaled deeply, trying to ground herself. But the moment she did, images of Rafe flooded her mind: his lopsided grin when he teased her, the way his hand lingered on hers, the quiet moments when his walls came down, and he let her see the man he could be.

“Why can’t I let you go?” she whispered, her voice trembling. The wind carried her words out to the sea, where they dissolved like everything else she’d tried to hold onto.

A seagull called overhead, snapping her back to the present. She ran her fingers through the sand, letting the grains slip through them. She wanted to feel indifferent. She needed to feel indifferent. But how do you stop caring about someone who was your whole world? She would give anything to have him back, but not until he quit the drugs.

“Catch myself thinking about you more than I should”

Y/n stood in line at the coffee shop, waiting for her order, when a man with Rafe’s build walked through the door. Her breath caught, her heart skipping a beat before logic kicked in. It wasn’t him.

But for those few seconds, her mind betrayed her, painting a picture of what it would be like if it were him. Would he smile at her? Would his eyes light up the way they used to when they saw her? Or would he look past her, as if the memories they shared were as distant to him as they were vivid to her?

Even in moments like this, she caught herself thinking about him. She wondered what he was doing now, if he was happy, if he ever thought about her too. It had been months since they’d spoken, and yet he was still there, lingering in the corners of her mind.

“And maybe I should’ve but I never told you I miss you I almost said it but don’t know if you feel the same.”

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store buzzed as Y/n walked down the produce aisle, her list in hand. She was focused on selecting the ripest lemons, reaching on her tiptoes to get them off the top shelf, when a familiar hand reached past hers and plucked one off the shelf.

She looked up, and her heart stopped. It was Rafe.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. His presence was like a punch to the gut—familiar and painful all at once. He looked healthier, steadier, but his eyes still held that same quiet sadness she knew too well.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Y/n swallowed hard, her mind racing. She wanted to say something, to bridge the gap between them. I miss you, she thought. The words sat on the tip of her tongue, heavy and unspoken.

Instead, she managed a weak smile. “Hey.”

They stood there, awkward and unsure. She wanted to ask how he’d been, if he was happy, if he ever thought about her. But the fear of what his answers might be kept her silent.

As he walked away, her heart ached with all the things she wished she had said. He was respecting the boundaries she had set, and she was grateful for that, but she couldn’t stop thinking about what she could’ve said. Maybe I should’ve told him. Maybe it would’ve changed something. Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered at all.

“Could you hold me without any talking? We could try to go back where we started I don't even have to stay”

Y/n sat cross-legged on her bed, absently scrolling through her phone when it buzzed. Rafe’s name lit up the screen.

She wasn’t expecting it, but her thumb hovered for only a moment before she answered. “Rafe?” she said softly.

The line was silent except for the sound of his uneven breathing. Her heart sank. “Rafe, are you okay?” she asked, her voice tight with worry.

Finally, he spoke, his voice strained and shaky. “I…I need your help.”

Y/n sat up straight, her pulse quickening. “Where are you?”

A pause followed before he replied, “I’m at Topper’s.” His words were slurred, and she could tell he’d been drinking. “Listen, Y/n/n, you… you don’t have to do this.”

“Rafe, it’s fine. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

She didn’t hesitate. Throwing on her shoes and grabbing her keys, she was out the door.

When she arrived, Rafe sat slouched on the front porch, his head in his hands. As she pulled up, he stood slowly and made his way to the car. Sliding into the passenger seat, he looked at her with tired, bloodshot eyes.

“Thank you… for coming,” he muttered.

“Of course,” Y/n said softly. “You called.”

Her voice was calm, steady—exactly what he needed. Rafe didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile.

The drive back to Tannyhill was silent. When they arrived, Rafe hesitated before opening the car door.

“Can you… come in?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/n nodded. “Yeah, I can.”

Inside, as he opened his bedroom door, she noticed his hands—bruised, scratched, and swollen knuckles.

“Rafe!” she gasped, reaching for his hand. Her heart raced as they touched. She hadn’t felt his touch in so long. “What happened?”

He pulled his hand back, avoiding her gaze. “It’s nothing. Just… got into a little disagreement,” he mumbled, dropping his keys on the dresser.

“Rafe…” she began, her tone firm, but she stopped when she saw the exhaustion in his eyes. “Here, let me clean it up.”

In the bathroom, she sat him down on the closed toilet seat and retrieved the first aid kit. Quietly, she began tending to his cuts.

He didn’t flinch when she dabbed rubbing alcohol on the wounds, but she noticed the way his jaw tightened. Neither of them spoke as she worked, her touch gentle and precise.

When she finished, she stood and said, “Go get in bed. I’ll clean this up and be right there.”

By the time she returned to his room, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders slouched. He glanced at her as she walked in, shifting to make space for her beside him.

Y/n slid into bed, and they lay there in the dark, the faint hum of the air conditioning the only sound. Rafe wrapped his arms around her, holding her like she was his anchor to the world. She held him just as tightly, resting her head against his chest.

No words were spoken. None were needed.

“If I woke up with you in the morning I’d forget all the ways that we’re broken I don’t care if you’ve changed, I don’t even have to stay”

Morning light filtered through the blinds, painting golden streaks across the room. Y/n woke slowly, her senses adjusting to the warmth of Rafe’s arms wrapped around her. For a moment, she forgot the heartbreak, the arguments, and the nights spent crying herself to sleep.

She stayed still, savoring the rare peace. His breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling against her back. It felt like old times, like they were still those carefree kids.

Quietly, she slipped out of bed and made her way to the kitchen. She brewed coffee, cooked eggs, and relished the grounding normalcy of it all.

When she returned with a tray of food and Advil, Rafe was awake, propped up on one elbow, watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.

“I thought you’d left,” he said, his voice tinged with vulnerability.

She set the tray down and sat beside him. “I just wanted to make sure you had food and Advil,” she said softly.

“Thank you.” He reached out and took her hand, his touch hesitant. “Look, Y/n, I-I know you said you wouldn’t…” His voice faltered, as if the words were too heavy. “Until I… Until I stopped. But do you ever think we could—”

“Don’t,” she cut him off gently, her voice steady. It hurt to see him like this, a shadow of the confident man she remembered. “Rafe… I meant what I said. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be here for you. Even if you haven’t gotten better yet… I’ll still be here when you need me.”

Her voice trailed off, and he nodded, understanding despite the hurt. For now, they had this moment—fleeting, imperfect, but theirs.

She didn’t stay much longer, not wanting to overstep. As she walked to the door, Rafe stopped her. “Will you ever stop leaving?”

Turning to face him, she gave a sad, genuine smile. “I’ll stop leaving when you get better, Rafe. I promise.”

With that, she walked out of the Cameron house. Leaving him was never easy, but she knew it was the only way for him to heal.

Authors note: Long story for my first post, I hope you like it! I take requests but I'm not sure how to set that up yet so messages, comments, or whatever works if you want to send one in. I am tempted to make a part 2 to this, so if anyone is interested lmk!

[leia-writes]

hi! i had a dream about this recently and was wondering if it would be anything you'd be interested in writing :)

it starts off with the reader and in-ho going through a really rough break up but they still have feelings for each other. right before the s2 games started, in-ho went to a bar and saw reader there and her job is to perform live music, so she sings about in-ho and their breakup, not realizing that he was actually there

Maybe You'll Be There

hwang in-ho | front man x reader

ao3 link

masterlist

song inspiration: maybe you'll be there by etta jones

note: thank you so much for your request!!

warnings: angst

“Get out.”

You glared through teary eyes at In-ho, who was standing in the middle of your apartment with a bouquet of flowers. He sighed and dropped his arms in frustration, a few petals and leaves falling to the floor.

“I said I was sorry. I really am.”

“How many times have I heard that? You’re a broken record at this point.” You turned away from him and began cleaning up your kitchen. It took everything in your power not to break down crying right then, but you were just so tired of doing this with him. 

“I know. I messed up again. I’m sorry. Please.”

You sighed, dropping a glass into the sink. It clattered noisily as you turned towards In-ho. “Please what? Please forgive you for the thousandth time? Please forget how you ignore me whenever something important happens for me? Please let you play with my emotions?”

He stood there silently, trying to mask the shame spreading across his face.

“Which one, In-ho?”

He clenched his jaw, looking away from you. He still wouldn’t say anything. With every passing second he was silent you could feel your heart breaking even more.

You scoffed. “That’s what I thought. Get out.”

He gave you one last look, tears starting to form in his eyes. You’d never seen him cry, never even close to it. You wanted so badly to run to him, but you had to be strong this time.

You watched him as he set your flowers down on the table and walked to your door. He looked at you once again. For a brief moment you hoped he would say something, anything to make it right again.

Instead, he left, closing the door behind him.

~~~

You cried in bed that entire night. It was supposed to be a good day - you had just performed a full-blown concert all by yourself for the first time ever. Even though you worked for a very dark and secretive organization, you always made it a priority to pursue your passion for music. As time went on, you started gaining a reputation for being an outstanding jazz singer, and you found yourself wanting to move on from your high-stress job and live a more normal life.

After winning the squid games you participated in a couple years earlier, you soon found yourself working for the same organization alongside In-ho. Despite his cold exterior, you got along well. You had been dating almost a year before you started running into problems.

In-ho worked as the Front Man for a while before you joined him. You had only been working with him for a couple years, and you didn’t really have the same connection to that place like In-ho had. You both went through something extremely traumatic by playing and winning the games, but it seemed to bond In-ho to that place when you couldn’t care less. In-ho seemed constantly tormented by his decisions, as if he didn’t want to be there but couldn’t help himself.

As you started becoming more popular, you didn’t feel the need to work for them anymore. You wanted to leave many times, but In-ho always convinced you to stay. He promised over and over that you two could make it work, splitting time between the island and your apartment. And he promised he’d be at every one of your performances.

A promise he was never able to keep.

There were so many nights like that night, where In-ho would show up late in the evening, well after your performance, begging for forgiveness and promising to be better. You’d cry in front of him, break his heart a little, fall for his sweet words, and then make up as if nothing happened. Then you’d have another upcoming performance that always happened to conflict with work, and fight endlessly about how you navigate your relationship. Repeating the same vicious cycle over and over.

You couldn’t stand to keep breaking your heart like this. The love you felt for him was undeniable, something you felt you’d never get over, but the pain was just too much. Tonight was your final straw.

The next day, you finally quit your job and started your new life.

~~~

In-ho waited outside the lounge, the cold, night air whipping across his face. His hands were awkwardly stuck in his pockets as he scanned the people around him, looking for her. He was reluctantly waiting to meet someone on a blind date, set up for him by an acquaintance.

He didn’t want to be there at all, but figured he needed to start putting himself out there. Or at least that’s what everyone else was trying to convince him to do. After looking around for another brief moment, he spotted her approaching him.

She was beautiful. But she wasn’t you.

Ever since your painful breakup, he was tormented by thoughts of you. He couldn’t help but remember you in the little things around him, even now a year later. It was a constant reminder of his failings, how he ruined one of the only things that was good for him and made him truly happy.

He knew he was pushing you away the more you wanted to quit. He knew he was hurting you every time he missed a performance, ignored a call, prioritized anything else over you. He knew you’d be better off without him and his baggage.

In fact, it seemed true. Ever since you had finally broken up, he saw you rise to a whole new level of fame. You were constantly putting on performances and releasing new music. He tried his best to ignore any news he heard about you, but in moments of weakness couldn’t help but look you up and try to get a glimpse into your new life.

She approached him with a smile and they entered the lounge together, sitting at a small, intimate table for two. The atmosphere couldn’t have been any more romantic - warm, low lights, candles and a rose on the table, drinks and conversation flowing with ease around them. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt, as if he was doing something wrong.

A waiter approached the table and took their drink order. Upon returning, he excitedly pointed to the currently empty stage.

“Are you here to see the show?”

They looked blankly at the waiter, and she asked who was performing. In-ho felt his blood run cold when he heard the waiter say your name.

You.

You were performing at the lounge tonight. 

He gave a polite smile as he internally screamed. “Oh, we’re just staying for a drink, so we’ll probably miss it, won't we?” He glanced at his date.

She scoffed. “What? Of course not, we can’t miss this! I didn’t even know she was playing tonight.”

The waiter smiled. “It’s a special one-night performance, just for us. This is where she had one of her first solo performances!”

The waiter and In-ho’s date chatted briefly as In-ho tuned out all the noise around him. The one night he tried to get you off his mind, he found his way into the one place in the entire city you’d be. He felt his heart rate quicken and his head start to spin.

Suddenly he was pulled from his thoughts. “Are you a fan too? You seem the type,” his date asked.

He snapped out of it. “Oh, uh,” he cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “Yes, I am.”

She smiled. “Great! We can’t wait.”

The waiter smiled and left. In-ho and his date casually sipped their drinks while making small talk. His eyes would dart wildly near the stage, anticipating when you’d appear on stage, wondering if you’d be visible nearby. 

“Are you alright?”

In-ho brought his attention back to his date, who had a concerned look on her face. He smiled. “Oh. Yeah, sorry. Uh… just a bit nervous, I guess.”

She smiled and sighed, relieved. “Oh god, me too. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

He laughed softly, but couldn’t ignore the uncomfortable feeling he had inside. He looked around, noticing how busy the place was getting as your performance was about to start. 

“Want another drink before the show starts?” he asked. The waiters were incredibly busy, and he needed an excuse to step away.

“Sure. Just the same. Thanks.”

He quickly got up and walked to the bar. It was filled with people getting their last minute orders in, but he took his time getting the attention of the bartender. Anything to delay having to go back to the table and put on a facade. How was he supposed to act once you began performing?

As he was waiting for the drinks, you arrived on stage. The entire place erupted with applause. In-ho wanted it all to not be real, just a dream he could wake up from at any moment. He wanted to look away from you, to keep his focus on the drinks he was supposed to be getting, but he couldn’t stop himself from turning to you.

It was as if all the air in his chest escaped at once. You were standing at the microphone looking like an angel. The lights had dimmed in the room, with a single spotlight illuminating your face. You scanned the room with a soft smile on your face.

“Wow. Thank you all for coming. I’ve never seen this place so packed!”

A quiet laughter sounded from the audience as you continued. “As some of you may know, this is the spot where I had my very first solo performance ever, almost a year ago now. I have so many memories in this place. Some good, some bad, but… that’s life, isn’t it?” 

You paused to take a deep breath. “Tonight I’ll be singing some of your favorites, some I even performed here that first night. And I even have a new special song I’ll be performing at the end for you. I hope you enjoy.” You smiled as the band started, the crowd applauding again.

In-ho stood still, frozen at the bar as you began singing. He immediately recognized your first song, remembering so vividly even now how you practiced it and played it for him over and over. He didn’t even notice when the bartender gave him his drinks.

Instead, he stayed there almost your entire concert, completely mesmerized by you. With the songs he recognized, it was like watching his memories in a movie in front of him, as if he was experiencing those feelings again just like before. And with your new songs, it was like getting to know someone he’d never met. He saw the parts of your life he had completely missed. It created a deep sense of loneliness and longing in his heart.

Before your last song, he finally became aware of himself and brought the drinks to his table. His date looked surprised.

“Oh. I thought you ditched me.” She scowled.

In-ho gave her an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry. The drinks…”

“The drinks didn’t take that long.”

In-ho sighed. “I know. I’m sorry, I got distracted.”

She sighed, taking a long sip of her drink. “You know, it’s fine. I was warned you might be like this, anyways.”

He was taken aback for a second. “What?”

“Your friends, they all told me they basically forced you into this.”

He scoffed. He wanted to defend himself for a moment… but they were right. He stayed silent.

“I just thought you’d have better manners than this,” she said, rolling her eyes.

He wasn’t sure what to say. Before he could think of something, you spoke before your last song.

“I want to thank you all for being here tonight. It means the world to have your support. Thanks to you, I’ve been able to make my dreams a reality. I’d like to thank you by playing a brand new song, just for you all. I wrote this recently, but it’s about what some of my life has been like this past year. 

“Like I said before, some good memories, and some bad. I wrote this to reflect on some of those bad memories, and hopefully let go of the pain with them. I’m sure some of you can relate, right?”

Many in the crowd nodded. “This one is called Maybe You’ll Be There. Thank you.”

As you began your song, In-ho’s blood slowly ran cold. He knew after the first verse you were talking about him. He studied your face as you sang, watching how your eyes would subtly flutter at particularly emotional moments. It was something most people wouldn’t pick up on, but he knew you. He still knew you so well.

Your voice filled the space with ease as you reached more intense moments, gracing the ears of the audience with your rich tone. Once you reached the last verse, a tear fell down your cheek in perfect timing. In-ho’s heart strained in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to run to you on that stage and wipe the tear from your face, and do anything to make you happy again, anything to make the two of you whole again, anything to heal the wound that festered over the last year.

He almost cried listening to the final words of your song, hearing how you wished he would come back. After everything you had gone through together, and all the time you spent apart, you still missed him. His heart broke - he didn’t deserve you, and you deserved so much better than him. And you said it yourself, that you hoped you could finally move on after releasing this song.

Although it pained him greatly, and forced him to defy the longing he felt in every fiber of his being, he knew you’d be better off without him. And so, after your performance ended, he politely excused himself from the date and went home. 

~~~

You entered your apartment later that night, pleasantly exhausted. It was late, but you were still buzzing with emotion. You hadn’t expected to become so emotional while performing your new song. It had been a long time since you cried on stage, but singing that song brought back so many painful memories that you couldn’t help yourself. Despite that, you were proud of having such a vulnerable moment become something beautiful.

You collapsed on your couch with a glass of wine, too tired to get changed just yet. The silence enveloped you. You remembered a year ago, the last time you saw In-ho in your apartment. The somber look he gave you as he left. The ensuing rush of tears and pain that you couldn’t keep in that night. 

And the painful ache of longing you’ve had ever since then.

You sighed deeply, finishing your glass of wine and willing yourself to stand up. Life goes on, you told yourself. You were well-acquainted with the act of ignoring your feelings and pressing forward. No matter how much you wanted In-ho to appear in front of you, it wasn’t going to happen. He never once tried to get you back in the entire past year. Maybe now you could finally let go.

As you walked to your bedroom, you heard a light knocking at your door. 

You stopped. Were you hearing things? The following silence was filled with tension.

You were about to dismiss the noise and continue walking when you heard it again, this time louder. Your heart was beating through your chest. 

Slowly, you walked to the door. Your heart leapt, as if you knew who was behind the door. You weren’t sure whether to cry, or get excited, or get angry. A flurry of emotions filled your mind as you grasped the door handle, turned it, and pulled the door open.

You froze at the man standing in front of you. His grief stricken face. Flowers in his hands. The way he breathed a sigh of relief. 

The way your heart breathed a sigh of relief.

In-ho.

[satinroses]

Night Time Routines

How the harbingers and their darlings ready for bed

Yan! Harbingers x reader (separate)

Feat: Capitano, Dottore, Pantalone and Scaramouche

Word Count: 3.4K

A/N: “honk shoooo honk shoooo” - capitano, “zzzzz zzzz” - Pantalone, “honk mi mi mi” - Scaramouche, dottore’s doesn’t snore but he does speak in fluent sentences in his sleep and it’s terrifying. thank you for coming to my ted talk. also yes i made scaras pretty purple eyes light up like ei’s when she’s using her skill, the more raiden parallels the better in my opinion

Warnings: 5.3 archon quest spoilers, Yandere behaviours, i have likely not proof read this as well as i should have so i apologise for any mistakes, dark themes, some mentions of NSFW themes but no actual smut, being robbed of making choices, they all have serious control issues

Capitano:

Capitano has struggled with sleep for centuries now, he hopes you take no offence when he doesn’t join you at night however he would never wish to make you feel neglected. The primary reason he stole you away was to could ensure that you are treated with the dignity and adoration that befits someone of your character.

If your hair is long enough then he takes great care in braiding it every night. You’re surprised that a man of his stature is able to manoeuvre his fingers so nimbly through your hair. If braids aren’t your style or they simply wouldn’t work with your hair then he patiently awaits your instruction. Whether you want a bun, a ponytail or simply for your hair to flow freely he will diligently do as you command.

Although some aspects of your night routine may resemble that of Pantalone’s darling, Capitano doesn’t force you to abide by any particular routines. As long as you get enough rest he doesn’t mind if you spend every evening huddled in the library, just please allow him to sit with you as you read, nothing would bring him greater pleasure.

Despite the first harbinger being unable to sleep due to the constant burden of the tormented souls upon him, he does find comfort in the domesticity partaking in your nightly routines affords him. Watching your eyes flutter shut, hearing the words that slip out of your mouth leaving him to guess what you could possibly be dreaming about, watching over you when you are at your most defenceless.

He finds it utterly endearing to see you in this state. His heart feels much lighter the first night you fall asleep in his presence. He understands you may hold some resentment towards him for stealing you away from your home and the life you knew yet he is able to find hope in the vulnerability your behaviour shows. Being in your most docile and helpless form around him must surely mean you hold some form of trust for him. Trust is something he can work with, he’s certain now that he can cultivate this small piece of trust that you’ve extended to him from a sapling into a flourishing bloom and in time, perhaps you’ll forgive him for the selfish decision he made. He was utterly mindless and inconsiderate when he took you with him, against your will. Every day he lives with the shame of stealing you and yet... watching over you as you lay in his sheets, he cannot bring himself to regret it.

He shuts his eyes and listens to the rhythm of your breaths, a symphony that brings him nothing but relief. The knowledge that you were resting peacefully by his side invigorates him far more than slumber ever could.

After some time passes and he truly believes you are warming up to him in spite of everything, he might slip into your bed (with your permission of course). He’s unsure what to do at first, so overwhelmed with your closeness and warmth but as you begin to drift into a dreamscape, he allows his hands to wander slightly (but never anywhere inappropriate, despite how desperately he might crave your body he would never force you to do anything that might dishonour you). The body heat that emanates from you brings him immeasurable comfort as he forgets about the pain of the abyssal rot ravaging his body, instead focusing on the softness of your skin on his.

To feel you against him, your body tucked against his, it brings comfort that settles deep in his bones, not even the heavenly principles nor the curse that eats away at his flesh could strip it from him. For the first time in 500 years he remembers what its like to have a home.

Dottore:

You have the misfortune of having spent more time alone with Dottore than anyone else in Teyvat. In spite of his near constant presence, you had never once see him or any of his clones go to sleep. Once every few months you’ll catch him with his eyes shut and hunched over his desk, you assume he has finally drifted off but then mere seconds later his eyes will shoot open and his hands resume tinkering with whatever (or whoever) has had the misfortune of piquing his interest.

Prior to eliminating his clones he often used them as lab assistants, citing that the only person who he could trust to fulfil his work to the measure of perfection he demanded was himself. As the sun began to set whichever of his clones had the least to do would be charged with escorting you from his laboratory in the cellars of Zapolyarny palace to your shared estate. Much to Dottore’s annoyance, he swears that as the moon begins to rise, the segments begins to rush to finish their tasks in hopes of being the one to escort you home.

From early morning to night time you are forced to remain wherever Dottore is however he understands you are only human (for the time being, however he has plans to change that) and you require rest so he allows you to go home and sleep with the caveat that a segment remains by your side as he repeats a similar sentiment as he did earlier, that being the only man he would ever trust with your safety is himself.

Upon prime having to destroy the clones he is visibly on edge despite his dismissals when you try to enquire about it. It’s evident to you that without having the security of his segments watching over you he is tense. He now forbids you from going home, even with a platoon of Fatui guarding you, he has made far too many enemies to count over the years, he isn’t foolish enough to entrust your safety to some lackeys that even the eleventh could carve through with ease.

Much to your dismay he also states that he cannot take so much time away from his experiments to tend to your slumber and that from now on you will be sleeping in the laboratory.

It doesn’t take much exertion for his brilliant mind for him to deduce that you are not thrilled at this development.

After a few days of complaining he finally cracks. You seem to find a fault with every aspect of his laboratory.

”I’m uncomfortable”

”My back hurts”

”It’s too loud”

”It’s too bright”

”It’s too hot”

“It’s too cold”

”This pillow is lumpy”

”I can feel you staring at me”

It drives him mad. His next experiment will be on your voice, he has to test his hypothesis that there is something particular about your voice, perhaps it’s the tone or the pitch but whenever you speak he can’t help but grant you his full attention.

He prides himself on his resilience but for you he has always been quick to crack. Seeing you in such a bad mood puts him in a bad mood. Suddenly his patience has been shortened exponentially, the screams of his patients grind on his nerves far too quickly, leading to many experiments being cut short.

The following morning you will see two anemo skirmishers setting down a large object covered in a dust sheet in the far corner of the laboratory. You raise your question to Dottore, asking what it is. Only then does he set down his tools, a tiny smirk blooms across his face as he takes your hand in his and leads you across the room before lifting the sheet off the object and looking at you expectantly.

It was a single bed with plain white sheets and a single pillow. It was hardly exuberant but for Dottore to even show any form of regard for the discomfort of any living being was nothing short of a miracle.

If you ask him what prompted this his voice will grow venomous as he bites out that your endless complaints were a hindrance to his experiments but you see the self-satisfied sneer on his face as he soaks in your gratitude.

Admittedly you do still have to endure the screams of those unfortunate enough to end up strapped to the operating table as he refuses to allow you any form of noise cancellation lest he needs you for something (he never has but you’re sure he just doesn’t want to give you any avenues for ignoring him), at least you can keep your head staunchly under your pillow for whatever small form of muting the cries that it's able to provide.

Pantalone:

In spite of your resentment for Pantalone you could not deny the morbid interest you had in watching him go about his day. As an outsider you couldn’t shrug the pervasive feeling that had settled in your mind that his whole day seemed to be more of an elaborate routine rather than a man naturally progressing through the day.

Every paper, painting and plate had a specific place in his life and that was how Pantalone preferred it. One night at dinner you had made note of it and he had let out a rare chuckle as he gazed at you from across the grand mahogany dinner table. He put down his utensils before taking a moment to stare down at his hands, twisting the rings back into place so that the gemstones on them rested perfectly on his fingers, glimmering just right in the light before he acknowledged that perhaps some people might agree that he can be a little particular.

From the moment he had taken you into his home, he made sure that you too fit into his routine as flawlessly as everything else. He had expectations that you would meet if you knew what was good for you. Throughout the day his routine never once relaxed and as such, neither did yours. From the moment dinner ends he has you on a schedule that he had devoted hours to ensure it would allow you to fit into his schedule as perfectly as he wants you to. Like a ballerina wound up in a jewellery box, you would pirouette seamlessly to whichever melody he desired and you only move when he winds your cogs, never before.

Once you rise from the dinner table and he returns to his study, you are taken directly to your shared chambers with Pantalone by your ladies maids. In the porcelain tub within the en-suite sits a pool of hot water, still steaming with heat. Standing there awkwardly with only a silk robe wrapped around you as maids flutter in and out of the room. You stay rocking on the balls of your feet until at last the head maid returns, with her she carries a silver tray upon which rests several different bottles of fragrant oils and soaps to add to your bath.

Perhaps if you had been a little less perceptive you would believe this to be one of the areas in your life in which he allows some leniency but that is not the case. You are certain beyond all measure that each and every scent has gotten his approval before being presented to you. Maybe you should be thankful for this small illusion of choice but it only makes the reality of you situation sting in your tear ducts.

As you smell each one the head maid takes great enthusiasm in telling you the elaborate backstory for each and every bottle. Although its her voice speaking, you can hear his words.

The violet grass scent that had been acquired from the very highest point of Liyue’s immense mountain scape lending to it’s powdery floral notes being far more potent that before.

The sakura bloom oil had been extracted from a handful of petals that had been struck by the Shogun’s own divine lightning lending to it’s typical sweet smell having a bright undertone. You couldn’t stand that oil, you swore every time you applied it, it tingled.

The glaze Lilly that this oil had been diffused from had allegedly only bloomed when an adeptus descended from her abode in Jueyun Karst to serenade the flower and coaxing it into opening its petals. Supposedly its scent was so delicate and intoxicating that everyone who smelt it wept tears of joy. You didn’t think it smelt much different than any other glaze Lilly.

After a dozen more being presented to you, each with its own elaborate origins you simply grabbed the bottle closest to you on the tray, not caring which. They all smelt far too similar to care.

Since the day you were taken he had insisted that there was no price too high for his beloved. Perhaps he thinks you find his gifts romantic, instead you can’t help but laugh bitterly at the irony of your bathing products being better travelled than you are.

After nearly an hour of several maids scrubbing you from head to toe (when you had originally arrived you had refused their help however once Pantalone caught wind of this he had punished the maids for it. You had pleaded with him that it was your own fault for refusing their help and to please not punish them for your actions. He smiled gently, thanking you for your honesty before pressing a gently kiss to your forehead yet he said nothing about pardoning the maids, dismissing you at every mention of it. You had an entirely different group of maids tending to you the following morning and every subsequent morning after that).

After leaving the bath and drying off, you were dressed in a night gown. They were undoubtedly the worst part of the night, although they were beautiful they were also covered in itchy lace with necklines too deep and hems too short for the Snezhnayan winter.

After being dressed you would sit down at your vanity and methodically brush your hair with the gifts he had gotten you from Mondstadt: a boar bristle brush with a silver handle (he claimed the bristles were from a mighty bore sovereign native to Dragonspine) and a Dragon bone comb (he also had this made in Dragonspine, the bone acquired from the skeleton of Durin, the comb was a sturdy bone that no matter what always stayed warm).

Finally you would lie in bed and wait for your husband. If he decides to join you then you can slip gently into your dreams, the one place where you can forget about the heavy arm latched around your waist and the fingers tangled in your hair. On more unfortunate nights, he would not join you in your shared chambers, instead he would expect you to come to him. Shuffling sleepily through dark corridors until you finally reached the tall doors of his study. Your knuckle barely grazes the wood before the door swings open and he offers you a gentle smile before wrapping his arm around your waist and coaxing you in.

If you were lucky a few well-placed tender kisses to his neck would persuade him to abandon his work and join you in bed however some nights he would have you sat on his lap until the sun rose. Those nights you rarely slept well as you had to deal with his mutterings, the candle light illuminating the room and the way he adjusted you on his lap. If you were lucky you could shut your eyes and feign sleep when you felt something hard growing beneath you, other nights he was insistent on your participation.

Scaramouche:

Throughout the countless waking hours you’ve spent in unwilling solitude with the sixth harbinger you were hardly surprised at the revelation that his sour attitude persists far past the sunset and well into the moonlit hours. If anything his annoyance only grew the closer you crept to retiring for the night.

Having no knowledge of his marionette body’s ability to endure without sleep, you couldn’t disguise your discomfort the first night you shared his bed and his lilac eyes stayed glued to you all night, their vibrant hue glowing in the dark of your chambers. You could see the dim purple light in the room, even through your eyelids. His illuminated eyes wouldn’t move from your face as you rested. It doesn’t matter how often you late in the night you might wake up or how often you squint through your half-closed eyes at him, Scaramouche’s gaze stays fixed intently on you from the moment you pull the blankets over your shoulders.

Should you somehow develop a fondness for your captor you will quickly learn that in spite of his feelings for you, he is not an attentive or affectionate man. Scaramouche scoffs at the proposal of ‘cuddling’. He spits out that he will not entertain such pathetic displays of fondness, not even for you. The firm tenor in his voice makes you believe that there is no room for negotiation on the matter, however from that night onwards, his hand remains fixed tightly around your wrist the moment you retire under the covers with him.

One particularly irritating trait about Scaramouche is his insistence that you never turn away from him, many times your awoken by a set of firm hands clamped down on your shoulders as they turn you around in the bed, back to facing him. While you are both waking and sleeping he refuses to allow you to turn your back to him, you’re unsure as to why and frankly you’re not certain you wish to know. There are aspects of your captor's past that you're undoubtedly influence his current actions yet you do not wish to learn such things, not yet.

On exceptionally rare occasions, oftentimes after an intimate night of gently unwinding with him, removing his clothing with all the attentiveness he has expected to be synonymous with being the wife of the sixth harbinger. Brush your lips gently over his skin with a tenderness in your touch he hasn’t felt since… he can’t recall. After several hours in each others passionate embrace, Scaramouche may fall into a restless slumber. You may initially find this rare period of sleep from him to be enjoyable however it opens the gateway to a version of Scaramouche you may find yourself unfamiliar with.

The first night Scaramouche falls asleep in your presence, you soon understand his disdain for sleep. The whimpers and cries that escape the balladeer are completely uncharacteristic for him. You had never heard his voice assume any tone beyond a haughty drawl or an intimidating bark, you almost didn’t recognise it was Scaramouche speaking until a familiar word escaped his throat.

”Y/N...”

It was undoubtedly the balladeer speaking however his voice had been fragile and light as he spoke your name, as though saying it too harshly would cause it to shatter.

”Y/N… come back, please…”

“please...” he had whispered out and the word sounded almost foreign on his tongue. Until now you had assumed the word didn’t even exist in the harbingers vocabulary. His sleep only seemed to worsen. You sat up, unsure whether you should wake him or not. His gentle murmurs were slowly growing louder and more desperate. You watched as his sleeping form writhed across the bed, his arms fully extended as his fingers clenched and unclenched, grasping and pawing at the bedsheets.

You slowly nudged yourself closer to him, preparing to wake him from whatever nightmares was plaguing him until his hand brushed against your night clothes. Suddenly his fist clenched tightly around your waist as he yanked your body impossibly closer, curling around you.

The following morning he untangled his limbs from yours before quickly scurrying out of the room. His gaze never met yours but from the chaste kiss and the way his eyes refused to look up from the ground… you swore he almost seemed embarrassed, his demeanour suiting that of a pouting child rather than an agent of destruction.

As you opened the bedroom doors not long after his departure, the stench of sizzled flesh wafted through the corridors. Some poor Fatuus were now paying the price in blood for Scaramouche’s humiliation as they were demoted from subordinates to the punching bags for him to unleash his rage on. The part of himself that he had buried so deeply, shrouded in layer and layer of bitterness and rage, had exposed itself to your discerning gaze and his mortification was suffocating him.

If he were a weaker man perhaps the humiliation would have brought tears to his eyes but he was stronger than the mewling little wretch he used to be. Like forging a sword, he had beaten the impurities out one by one in the heat of his own hatred and the boiling of his blood until only the perfect blade remained. cold. lethal. merciless. He is no quivering weakling that can simply be thrown away. Not anymore. Never again. In spite of his pathetic display last night he would make certain you and everyone else remembers it.

[clockwayswrites]

I made myself sad with the last part of ‘City Pigeons Bleed Green’ and the whole Annalise thing (and then shared it to make all of you sad too). It wound back to me saying in a server, mostly joking, that now I need to make an AU of my AU where Annalise lives. And as @any-mouse pointed out here by themselves: this crossover is full of realms. And then I showered and had too many thoughts. So have some of them here!

Bruce and Annalise met at boarding school. Not the same boarding school, obviously, how crass. They went to an all boys and all girls school respectively, but they were ‘sibling’ schools and so would hold certain events together. Annalise was an awkward girl, all limbs. She was too tall, too smart, too in the clouds. She was weird. But so was Bruce. He decided they could be the weird kids together.

They became something of confidants for each other—for all the secret things inside themselves no one else would understand, not really.

They didn’t run in exactly the same circles, the Wayne line was far more grand than the Linwood line, but Bruce did his best to stay in touch even as they grew up. That fell apart some when training and Batman consumed his life. That’s when Annalise, in an effort to be normal ended up making some poor decisions and listening to the wrong people.

In the AU of the AU, Bruce asks her to visit before the baby is born. As recklessly caring as he can be, he offered to say he was the child’s father. He would either set Annalise and the baby up to be comfortable, or they could get married. Divorce was always an option later, should either of them find real love. Of course Bruce insists on the best doctors and they find what was missed: a risk to the lives of both Annalise and the baby.

Bruce and Annalise basically end up in a queer platonic relationship together, raising ‘their’ child.

Instead of playboy Brucie, Bruce’s cover becomes that of the slightly hapless but very loving dad. Why on earth is he so fit then? Well, he spends so much time chasing after children! After all they adopted that circus boy, how patient with Bruce Annalise is. Not to mention the other several—wait, when did they get so many?

Well, see, they took in a child from the streets, yes, Park Row, awful place—though better now with the Martha Wayne Foundation’s efforts. And then there was that whole thing when Annalise found out that Tim Drake was being horrible neglected. Such big hears that family.

And when Dick is feeling stifled, he has a little sibling to focus on. To be useful to. (And Annalise has long talks with Bruce.)

And when Jason finds out about Catherine, Annalise is there—a mother to talk to. (And Annalise has long talks with Bruce.)

(And Annalise has long talks with Bruce.)

And one little hilarious scene in my head:

Jim stared up the steps of Wayne manner. Officer Montoya stared back. She was clearly off the clock. Her hair down and dressed more casually than Jim had ever seen. He didn’t know Montoya could do casual. He supposed casual made sense though, considering the hickies on her neck. Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me you’re not sleeping with Bruce Wayne.” “What?! Ew, no. Not ew as in—I’m sure he’s very attractive to people into that but no. No, I am definitely not sleeping with Bruce Wayne.” "Well, that's a relief—" “I am, however, sleeping with his wife.”

[mortallyfuzzytyrant]

Expanding on being Olrox's best friend.

My genuine belief is this friendship would form on mutual respect. It's clear Olrox is someone who doesn't take his true loyalties lightly. And he is beyond tired of people who are power hungry or buy into group mentalities.

I believe you would have met Olrox during a time of hardship for yourself. You being a humble individual who merely wanted to exist. Though, of course, the world wouldn't make such a thing so simple.

Olrox has basically spent his entire life forming alliances to get by. He found you trapped as an abstract entity being used by vampires. He found it distasteful but didn't do a thing at first.

Discovering you had a consciousness was a point of intrigue for him. You could think and feel. Hearing you speak wasn't surprising but amused him nonetheless.

You two held conversations now and again. It became obvious to you that Olrox merely sought out for himself and couldn't care less about the ambitions of the vampires that held you. You decided quite quickly you liked him.

He quipped about your abusers and boasted about his lover. Admittedly, it rubbed you the wrong way he sat by as you were made into a toy. But this man was the closest thing to what it was like to be treated like a person, so you clung to your brief interactions.

Plus, he was funny. At least you were getting something out of this. Olrox was keeping you sane.

You within an inch of your mental capacity each day. You were in pain and long past tolerant of others.

You were aware of what happened to Olrox's lover. You have no idea why he told you. He did it so matter of factly.

The way he always smirked when talking to you was replaced with a bitter scowl. His demeanor was a far cry from how playful and snarky he was before.

Instinctively, you offered your wish for his peace with the matter. You even complimented his lover. You saw him briefly. You were....more perceptive than average, let's put it that way.

Olrox's expression was unreadable but it was clear he absorbed your words.

Olrox had been put in charge of commanding you at some point. You spent more time together. Your being was still confined but your consciousness good stretch for eons.

You didn't mind Olrox commanding you. He was far kinder and just did what was necessary. Perhaps he wasn't exactly overly familiar. But he treated you as something akin to a lieutenant. Rather than a dog.

You formed a habit of calling him "master".

He never said anything. But somehow you could tell it bothered him. You thought it was because he wasn't fond enough of you to even consider you a servant. Still. You were attached and refused to stop.

One day you were pushed too far by the vampires that kept you. You were in agony.

After they left, you begged Olrox to set you free. You called him master like you always did. His green eyes pierced into you. You must've looked absolutely pathetic. Even without a face or body.

Something about the way he stood there enraged you. And the next time the other vampires came to make use of you, you did away with them all. Many more came to attack but your blind rage stopped them.

Olrox's smile as he watched you was irritating.

As much as you liked the guy, you were beyond tired of being viewed as a pass time. You aimed for him. And funnily enough, you did your fair share of damage.

Olrox got close enough to your prison. Imagine your surprise when he released you.

"You almost killed me." The laugh in his voice was baffling.

You had a better chance of doing that now that you were free. You didn't find it worth being impressed over. At least, not from his perspective.

You blinked as he simply turned to walk away.

Odd as it was, you instinctively thanked your master. Your previous rage was dwarfed by your confusion at Olrox's contradictory actions. All you could muster in your daze was gratitude.

Olrox replied with saying he had no idea who you were referring to.

You blinked.

"You're smart enough to slaughter a group of fools beholden to their delusions of grandeur. And another who stood by even as your screams carried over the ocean." Olrox smirks. "I think you're long past that."

You blinked. Smart, he says.

Olrox shrugged at your confusion. "You choose now of all nights to end them. Or us. I suppose I'm included in that. You've been watching the moon, haven't you? Being free now...Why, I don't think the night has ever been so beautiful. Wouldn't you agree?"

You were baffled at what he was implying. You insisted on calling him master.

He tutted your fixation on that.

"That's what no one ever told you. You don't need masters."

You gaped.

He smiled. "You figured that out all on your own. Everyone here is dead. You made an attempt on my life for my inaction. In what world does someone like that need anyone?"

You went quiet. Olrox was going to leave. You watched him go.

"You may follow me. If you wish." Olrox said without turning or stopping.

Your breath hitched at him reading your desires so easily.

"On one condition."

You bristled. Of course no one ever offered company without a catch-

"Never call me 'master' again." Olrox frowned pointedly at you.

You gaped. An odd request. But...You found yourself silently agreeing, following quickly.

Olrox smiles. A lot softer than you were used to. "I would like to see an actual form in front of me."

You blinked. Was that his way of...encouraging you?

You flushed, solidifying yourself the moment you were outside.

Olrox hummed. "Imagine hiding something this captivating. You're foolish about the strangest things."

You felt you should have been offended. But tears found their way to you. As shrewd as he put it, he undoubtedly called you beautiful.

You two knew each other for centuries and now you were attached to the hip in the open world. You were there for the murder of Julia. Olrox thanked you greatly for assisting in tracking her down but told you to stay out of the fight. You kept to the shadows and proudly watched your beloved friend triumph.

Richter was hardly conscious of everything around him. He froze at Olrox kneeling before him. Your presence felt more like a dream rather than what he was actually seeing. He wasn't sure he had actually seen another vampire there. It was intentional on your part, you hadn't wanted to give Olrox trouble and used your abilities the moment you spotted Julia. Your eyes have haunted Richter's nightmares for years. Though he is unable to tell if it was Olrox's or not. He doesn't remember you.

Mentioned this before, but Olrox allows you to hang onto him.

It's incredibly common place for you to rush to Olrox and put your hands on his chest and lean on him.

He responds with a hand on the small of your back. He'll fully embrace you if you've been separated during battle.

He will full on guard you with his body if it is needed. Though, it's rare. You are a strong vampire.

Full disclosure if he despises someone that flirts with you. Massive protective brother energy.

"Cunts need washings before they speak."

"Olrox!"

Olrox and you use endearments on one another. "Love" and "darling" are the most prominent. But pick your poison of birds, flowers or gems you compare each other to.

You were not amused by Olrox targeting Mizrak. Out of all the men he chose to ove on" with, a hypocritical human of the cloth wasn't in your pickings of the list. You saw Olrox running into his bad habits with him. It worried you.

You had a distaste for Mizrak from the start. It was sealed when he barked at Olrox.

You hissed. "Small mutts shouldn't bark so loud."

Olrox couldn't find it in himself to listen at first. It had been a while, but you knew he was still grieving.

You stayed by his side to offer support but you were waiting for him to throw the whole man out.

You whimpered and touched Olrox's forehead after what Drolta did to him.

"Olrox, love, your pretty little head is hidden."

You were enraged but simply allowed Olrox to take a breath and hold your hand while offering a soft kiss.

It's actually funny how much you have a "you can do better" attitude regarding Mizrak.

To a point Olrox has tickled you with a feather when you go on too long.

Thankfully, your intervention wore Olrox down and he was thinking far more clearly.

Either you healed Mizrak or let him die peacefully.

Regardless, he was weighing down your best friend over your dead blood sucking body. Watching Olrox chose immortality for someone a second time wasn't something you were going to allow.

I feel like being Olrox's best friend would be so nice. Olrox having all that love and trust in you to keep you close and being able to vulnerable. Olrox is the type of friend that you would be attached to the hip with at all times and would be so gentle and caring. Especially considering it's clear Olrox's orbit is scarce due to his past and how he feels about people in general. So his best friend is someone he'd be incredibly protective of and would cherish.

Olrox and his best friend would have tons of witty banter that both pokes fun at the other while also remaining wholesome and affectionate. Though the ones directed at others is ruthless and cutting. Olrox is for sure that friend you sit by and judge others with. You two have this telepathic connection (either literal or metaphorical) where you don't even need to look at each other and you just- react the same way to situations and people's stupidity, both facial expressions and body language. You two are menaces when it comes to being in other's presence. Regardless if it's holding a conversation or being in combat.

Olrox has gently tutted you to behave yourself on rare occasions but you can tell by his grin that he was absolutely encouraging your mischief. He even whispers his own quip in your ear every now and then, adoring when you giggle in response. You two are the biggest gossip buddies in private, making each other howl with laughter discussing what you think about recent events or the people you've ran into. Olrox would be helping you either bathe, do your hair, or simply sharing the bed with you all the while.

Olrox's voice is noticeably softer and thinner with you. Olrox keeps you close by having a gentle hand on your shoulder, waist, or having you cling to his arm. Olrox will often pull you to him and kiss your temple. Or on the side of your cheek. Either as a simple gesture of affection or giving you a swift goodbye in the rare times you two have to separate. Olrox will also hold you to his chest if you're hurting. Olrox seems harsh but for you he actively practices the utmost tenderness when comforting you.

Goodness forbid someone else caused your distress. Olrox will be absolutely feral if anyone dares cause you harm. You are his dear friend and he cherishes your spot in his life. He'll be damned if he lets someone disrupt that, even in the smallest ways.

[erenstitanweave]

❥HOW WE LOVE III

pairing: various x reader (vi, caitlyn, vander)

rating: giving/receiving love language headcanons

a/n: so, this is officially a new series! please keep in mind this will be my first time writing for all upcoming characters, respectful criticism and advice on how to write them is welcome! SPOILER ALERT!! reblogs and comments are appreciated, hope you enjoy!!

VI

giving:

poor vi, her eldest daughter syndrome bleeds through every aspect of her life (relatable but we move on)

all jokes (are we joking though??) aside, i think vi would be hesitant to love quickly or even love at all

vi isn't someone who shows her love through words though, so i feel like if she really began to care and love you, she would show it though her actions

i feel like her main type of acts of service would be protecting you in some manner, whether it be verbally or physically

she's genuinely afraid of losing you, so the protective nature would be slightly overbearing in cases where she's on the edge, but other than that, it's pretty standard.

quality time is another big one for her, not just because it's also a way for her to trust you, but because she'd quite literally just want to get to know you better

i could see this being the case whether or not you live the same type of life (i.e: being a zaunite or not)

i feel like she's seen enough to know that regardless of what side you're on, experiences vary for everyone, and she'd just want to know yours and through that, open up to you

small side tangent, but she's TOUCHY.

once she's attached to you, so are her hands. they quite literally are always on you in some way, whether that be through subtle touches (i.e: letting her hand graze against your side when she walks past you, her hands lingering too long as she's holding you, etc.) or through much more obvious ones like an arm wrapped around your waist

receiving:

although she is a protecter by nature, this causes her to be very wary of people and not very trusting of just anyone

i feel like she wouldn't just prefer acts of service but she would need it in order for her to begin to trust you

acts of service, subconsciously or not, are vital to slowly letting down her walls and letting her become trust worthy of you, but once they're down, it's game over

we see in the show how she is once she trusts someone, she shakes off the shell she shows the world and just becomes herself.

i feel like she'd love someone who can't keep their hands off her (except in the obvious situations)

even lingering gazes would make this girl WEAK and she knows it, so just imagine what having your hands all over her does to her brain (short answer: she short circuits)

much like vander, i think a part of her craves words of affirmation because of how her past mistakes constantly haunt and consume her being

even though a part of her knows it isn't her fault things turned out the way it did, a part of her mind won't allow her to believe it

even if she never might truly believe or accept this fact, hearing you tell her good things about herself and praise her makes her head spin with this feeling she can't explain, but all she knows is that it's one she'd never let go

VANDER

giving:

vander to me is probably one of the more protective characters in the show and i think his love languages in terms of giving reflect that heavily

i personally think he'd adore quality time the most, being the man he is, he doesn't really get much time to himself outside of his kids and dealing with the Lanes

it doesn't really matter what kind of quality time to him either imo, i think he'd be most comfortable with just being in your presence, even if you two aren't saying anything

one of his favorites moments though, is seeing you with his kids

he adores seeing you with them, the sight warming his heart knowing the family he works so hard to keep together is happy

words of affirmation i can see being another huge one for him, he'd definitely let you know that you're doing good in whatever you may be doing or even just making it through each day

he'd often pull you aside to let you know though, wanting his words to only be for you and not the prying eyes of others (or the kids potentially listening in on you both)

i could see vander being into physical touch, but only very slightly if it's in public

if you were behind the bar with him, he'd ever so slightly graze the small of your back with his palm or subtly grab onto your waist as he cleaned off the bar

he's an asshole though (lovingly, of course) and would do this especially if you were talking to someone just to get a laugh out of it

he'd be extra careful with this though, as he knows that he constantly has eyes on him, ones that could be dangerous to you if he overdoes his affections

receiving:

i could see vander loving words of affirmation in return, he definitely needs to hear that he's doing a good job taking care of his kids (especially when he feels like they fuck up because of him)

i also can see him holding a lot of doubts about past decisions in all aspects, so just hearing you tell him that he's doing good and that everything will be alright grounds him more than anything

even just telling him that he's a good father, even with his faults and past mistakes will make him feel so much better, no doubt making him fall for you even more than he thought possible

he's the biggest sucker for physical touch too, especially really subtle ones just for the two of you

don't get him wrong, he loves big gestures of physical affection, but he's not alone with you often, making the subtle ones happen a lot more often

he definitely loves holding hands and interlocking fingers especially, the latter being the one you two do more often when around most people

but when the last drop is closed to outsiders and is usually just benzo, the kids, and yourselves, he's all over you

he'll mostly have you in his lap if you're not off with the kids, or just hugging you from behind

CAITLYN

giving:

this girl is a bit of a tough one for me i won't even lie, but she's very well meaning in most aspects

i feel like she'd be into quality time and gift giving honestly

hear me out though, living in piltover her whole life and only recently seeing for herself how the world is and how things can change in an instant makes me think she'd gravitate towards spending time with you in one way or another

it doesn't even have to be explicitly spending time together either, just the fact that you'd be near her would be enough, especially if you're close enough to where she could protect you if need be

her protective nature is one reason why time with you is so sacred to her, not only that she'd be able to cherish her time with you, but that she'd truly be able to appreciate life in it's entirety

the gift giving aspect simply stems from her being wealthy (well not really)

i just see her as someone who expresses herself and what she wants to say with actions, and those actions are gifts

doesn't matter what you like honestly, she'd get it somehow. luxurious clothes? boom, right there on your shared bed. foods or sweets? she somehow has the entire stock right in front of you with a small smile on her face

both of these, to me, just stem from her innate desire to make you happy

she wants to give her lover the world, and with all she's seen in such a short amount of time after being spoonfed certain things about the world, she wants to make sure you're happy with her for as long as you both live

receiving:

receiving is a slight improvement but honestly she screams physical touch and words of affirmation yearner

think about it, being as skilled as she is, she's probably gotten praise about it from everyone

from you, though? it's way different in her mind, especially if you actually talk about why you give her the praises you do

she's expected the praise by now, but to her, it'd feel different because with you, it didn't feel..obligatory or forced

it wouldn't feel like the stuffy, fake pleasantries she'd be used to being in such a high place of power all her life, but something much more sincere and loving

she'd crave it, even going so far as to push herself beyond her limits just to hear you praise and support her for doing so

physical touch to me is another big one for her, i could see touching being a huge factor for her simply because of the intimacy

she most likely has never had anyone as close to her as her lover, so the sheer intimacy with even the slightest of touches knowing that she will only allow this from you is mindblowing for her in the best ways possible

[muletia]

Idkkk

But reader getting mad at Optimus, bc he accidentally stepped on their garden, but he's horny and just humping the floor, while whimpering for forgiveness

I’ve been thinking about this ask every day ever since I received it… feels good to finally write about pathetic Optimus <3

Today is an absolutely beautiful day. Warm, sunny. No wind to disturb the peace.

It’s the perfect chance to enjoy the outdoors, and you’re making the most of it by setting up a lounge chair outside your house and diving into your favorite book. No nonsense involving alien war. Just you, your garden, and your books. Life couldn’t be better.

That’s why you’re surprised to hear the sound of tires rolling along the gravel road leading to your home. You weren’t expecting any visitors today. For clarity, you lift your eyes from the text and you’re greeted by a familiar truck pulling into your driveway.

The truck immediately transforms, and giant pedes start heading in your direction.

Crushing the freshly planted pink hydrangeas you were particularly proud of. Oh no, absolutely not.

“Optimus Prime!” you shout, leaping up from your lounge chair. The raised tone of your voice is enough to make your visitor flinch, dreading your anger, but he bravely crouches down to make it easier to look you in the eye. One servo rests on the ground as he leans closer, blocking any path for you to escape.

“What has gotten into you?!” you continue, furious, pacing back and forth. “You can’t just trample someone’s garden like that, got it? I’ve explained to you before that you need to be very careful when visiting me to avoid exactly this kind of situation. Do you know how long I spent looking for that particular species of hydrangea?”

You pause your rant, finding a moment to really look at him. He doesn’t… look normal. His servo digs into the ground like he’s trying to anchor himself in place, optics are focused solely on you, and within them, sparks of something dangerous, unstoppable, seem to dance.

“I beg your p-pardon,” he finally says, his voice trembling, dripping with desire. “But I desired to see you. Desperately.”

“O-oh,” you gulp. Then you glance at the trampled, lifeless hydrangeas, and your anger resurfaces. “But you could’ve been more careful, you know? I know you can be.”

“A-ah, please accept my sincerest apologies, [Name]. Forgive me, please” he whines.

“I’ll have to think about whether I’ll forgive you. You don’t trample my garden like that, okay.”

“Y-yes, I understand. Please forgive me,” he moans, making you take a step back. “Do not leave. I am begging you.”

“What’s going on with you, honey?”

He doesn’t need to answer that question. The simple pet name is enough to draw a submissive whimper from Optimus’ intake, and his thighs begin moving, humping the air. Unimaginably desperate for you. Impatient, yet still keeping his distance, though all he can think about is freeing his suffering spike and sliding it into your soft, welcoming valve. Quenching the fire of desire that’s practically consuming him.

“Please, ah!" he cries out, his form trembling with restrained need "Forgive me, my dearest, I swear on my spark I shall be more mindful in the future,” he whimpers. “I am begging you, help me. Only you can.”

Still humping at nothing, completely unconcerned about the humiliation or how pathetic the scene looks, he feels droplets of pink transfluid seeping through the seams of his interface panel, dripping onto the grass. He shouldn’t be ruining your garden even more, but he can’t stop. He needs you. Urgently. Now.

You sigh. “Oh, you’re going to pay me back for those hydrangeas. I’m going to milk you so dry you’ll forget your own name.” You nod toward the garage, specially modified for his visits. “Come on in, love.”

[artist-issues]

You don't believe in love. You believe in people SUPRESSING a part of themselves, not caring how much it ACHES for them to do so. You are objectively wrong, and you do NOT belong on Tumblr. Any arguement you try to come up with against this is pointless.

You are NOT a real Christian.

People “suppress” parts of themselves all the time—for love. If by “suppress,” you mean, “I don’t choose to identify with everything I feel.” I feel like screaming at my mom when she hurts me. But I love her, so I’m not going to say, “gotta be true to myself, gotta live what I feel.” Many people feel like alcohol is what they need and without it, who are they? Many people even feel like depression is “a part of who they are,” so they don’t give it up.

Don’t you understand? What makes something I feel fall under the category of “who I am?” Because not all feelings are good, and most of them aren’t even rooted in reality.

Your feelings lie to you all the time. Right before death after years of dementia or a terminal illness, a person can suddenly become more alert and energized than they’ve been since the start of their illness. They get up, talk, and their feelings tell them that they’re better. And the reality is they’ve never been closer to death, and they’re dead moments later. It’s called “terminal lucidity,” and it’s been happening since humanity’s earliest history. And it’s just one example of your feelings lying about what’s real.

So how can you tell if the things you feel are a part of who you are, or a cancer you need to cut out of yourself because it’s hurting the “real” you? That’s what you’re calling “suppression,” and yeah, it aches, but letting it grow and calling it “part of yourself” is worse.

Figure out what standard you measure “who I am” by.

A Christian measures it by Christ. Who He says you are, not what you feel you are. After all, He calls us to die to ourselves. What did you think that meant?

And a Christian measures everything by what Christ says. That’s how I know “the heart is deceitful and desperately wicked.” It’s how I know you’re right; I don’t belong on tumblr. I don’t belong on this corrupt planet anymore: “If you were of the world, the world would love its own; but you are not of the world, for I have chosen you out of the world; this is why the world hates you.” And it’s how I know what real love is, and it’s Him. He invented it, He gets to define it.

And that’s the point of this argument. To get it out in front of people that Jesus is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and nobody has a restored relationship with God, nobody can be their “true-selves” unless they die to their old-corrupt self and come to God through Jesus Christ.

So thanks for giving me the opportunity to answer and get that out in front of people again.

[schizosupport]

While I understand where you might be coming from, I think you fundamentally misunderstand OP's point, while lacking awareness of what it can be like to be a patient in the psychiatric system.

You acknowledge yourself that if you have a bad doctor, you need to change to a better one. But you also say to always trust your doctor, or you won't get better. These two statements can't coexist, because if you trust your doctor no matter what, you won't be able to protect yourself from bad doctors "and change to a new one" or whatever else protecting yourself might entail.

Now, OP isn't actually saying not to trust a doctor that you have found to be good and helpful and trustworthy. What OP is saying, is that placing blind trust in a bad psychiatrist can lead to real life harm for psychiatric patients.

Psychiatrists have systemic power over their patients, and they can both force you into treatments, and deny you treatments, based on the information you share with them. I'll give a couple examples.

1) A friend of mine who had been struggling severely and unable to work for the past year due to stress and increasing panic attacks/flashbacks finally went to see a psychiatrist at a hospital. The first person she talked to was really nice. She asked about drugs and my friend admitted that she occasionally smokes weed to calm down from the very symptoms that she's seeking help for. The psych was understanding. A couple interviews later she gets a new doctor who has a different opinion. And skip to two years later where the system is still denying her care bc "she has a drug addiction" while the drug addiction clinic is denying her care bc "that doesn't count as a drug addiction" and "she would stop smoking weed if someone cared for her glaring mental problems". She is not alone, this is a very common scenario across the world. If you admit to ever touching drugs you may very well be denied care indefinitely. The community recommendation in my country is to never admit to any substance use, even to people in the system who seem understanding, because others in the system may be less so, and you may never get the care you need. As you can imagine, this gets very complicated for people where the drug use is also a large issue on its own.

2) Another friend of mine went to get assessed for adhd. They said they couldn't finish the assessment bc she was too disorganized, and she was sent to be assessed for a schizo spec disorder instead. She was desparate to get any diagnosis at all bc she really really needed help. Here she was given a schizotypal diagnosis. After this she was being treated for this with antipsychotics. They didn't do anything good for her, in fact they made her worse. She tried to ask to be reassessed for ADHD but was denied bc it was seen as a delusion. Her gender identity (which she had been out and in treatment for, for years) was seen as a delusion, and the psychiatric system blocked her from getting the necessary paperwork to get surgery. Eventually she went private sector and found a good psychiatrist who diagnosed her with ADHD. With adhd meds things started improving, she also got her letter from the private psych and got her surgery. (And she's doing so much better!!) But if she hadn't had the means to go private, then her psychiatrists would've been able to block her from the right treatment and life saving surgery indefinitely. This is an example of what can happen from being honest about even quasi-psychotic symptoms, and the ways psychiatrists often have power to block and gatekeep certain treatments from you based on how THEY perceive you and your reality.

3) A third friend of mine is schizophrenic and on a treatment order. She hasn't done anything criminal, but where she lives you can be put on a treatment order simply if a panel of psychiatrists decide that if you don't get forced treatment, you might deterioate. So for a long time she had injections of a medication that was not helping, but that was causing severe side effects, forced on her. This is one of many examples of psychiatrists wielding systemic power over their patients.

Many psychiatric patients fear being honest with their care providers, because it can lead to forced hospitalization, forced medication, or it can lead to denial of care and treatment. This is not an ungrounded fear. These are things that happen to people. Sure, some may fear this beyond what's realistic in their situation, so anxiety can mix with this, but it is a real thing to be aware of.

And as I've attempted to illustrate with these examples, it's not as simple as "if you get a bad doctor, get a new one". This is often not an option, there's often a paper trail that follows you from doctor to doctor, and even the first doctor you meet have power over you, and can potentially make your situation worse if they are bad at their job.

I know several people who have been severely overmedicated and wrongfully medicated. One person I knew was taking 10 different medications at once, including heavy duty antipsychotics despite not having experienced or being diagnosed with psychosis, and benzodiazepines on a completely irresponsible regiment that got her severely physically addicted. She didn't start to get better, before she slowly weaned off all these substances against her doctor's recommendation.

In an ideal world we could always trust our doctors, and be honest from the get-go, with the assumption that they know what they're doing and won't force or deny care.

But in the reality we live in, doctors have systemic power over patients, and not all doctors are good. So therefore it is in fact important to advocate for yourself, seek out information independent from your own doctor, talk to others in the community about their experiences, and yes. To be tactical about what you do and do not share with your psychiatrist. And when it does fuck up, you may very well need a lawyer. For example if you want to sue for wrongful treatment, overuse of coercion, or to get you off a treatment order that's destroying your life.

I really recommend doing some research into the kind of abuse and neglect that unfortunately takes place in the psychiatric system, before speaking so confidently on the matter.

Psychiatry differs fundamentally from oncology in its views on patients' rights to autonomy, and in the level of power granted to your doctor to control your life. But that said, most of us are not experts on oncology either. Which means that in reality it can be pretty hard to know whether your oncologist is good, and whether you need a new one. And somatic medicine is not free of bias, abuse and neglect either.

So TLDR, OP isn't saying never to seek help or not to trust your doctor with anything, she's saying to be aware of the potential pitfalls and to be tactical in your approach and to advocate for yourself, and not to trust psychiatric authority blindly.

That's not ableism, that's realism.

I want and need more discussions of how, when you're labeled mentally ill, a psychiatrist is in fact an authoritative figure with systemic power over your life and autonomy who might in some cases turn out to be bigoted or abusive. Most of us know that statements like "you should always tell the cops everything! They just want to help you" are harmful, and yet I constantly see posts telling people to trust their psychs with everything if they want to get better without any mentions of what can happen and how to protect yourself if it turns out your psych isn't a good guy

[themareverine]

Bond Girl, part 1 | patch!Logan x fem!reader | themareverine + bpmiranda

synopsis: the first adjective that leapt to mind the second she’d seen such a thing—obscene. like bait from the possession of man everyone here knew to more vile than any beautiful thing could be. because, if Logan is anything, it’s beautiful. and his taste in jewelry? immaculate.

warnings: patch!Logan, flirting, suggestive themes, part 1 of a co-written little thing with @bpmiranda (surprise!), casino atmosphere, booze, gambling, language, nameless!fem!reader but mentions of curls and blue eyes, ⚠︎.

a/n: save me, Patch!Logan, save me! I can't get away from this idea and my absolutely insatiable lust for this man, ROFL. this idea hit me the other day and after conversing with @bpmiranda, I knew we had to write this. big thanks for her for 1) being phenomenal, 2) listening to my ramblings, 3) jumping on my Patch train, and 4) deciding to collab! ahhhh! my part is done, but hers is coming and will, most likely, be NSFW and probably SO FAR AND AWAY BETTER. and yes i got carried away with context what else is new ROFL get on our taglists for updates!

She isn’t usually one to go for something so—obscene. 

Not that the idea of fine jewelry, really, should be considered obscene. It’s honestly an insult, something so beautiful tethered to a negative connotation. It was the farthest thing from obscene. Just simply the first adjective that leapt to mind the second she’d seen it, dangling elegantly like bait from the possession of man everyone in here  knew to be more vile than any beautiful thing could be. 

Because, if Logan is anything, it’s beautiful—and his taste in accessories? Immaculate. 

“It’s too expensive,” the absolute glint that passed through his eyes sparkled almost as clearly as the stone, catching light like starlight coupled, somehow, with sun, “you really shouldn’t have, Logan.” Cool against the flaming embarrassed scarlet chasing up her neck, he was deliberately slow. Rough hands skipping along her décolletage sent shivers down the length of her spine, numb beneath the wolfish gaze staring back at her in the mirror. Fingers reaching to brush along the face of the stone, it felt heavy. 

“I didn’t,” he sounded so pleased with him, chuckling in that low way that sent her brain pulsing, “poor bastard’s wife is probably pissed, huh?” His hands are more caring than she ever thought possible, clasping the necklace into place. Watching her swallow her own breath, her eyes only skip up to his when his hands find the back of her chair, leaning forward to brush his mouth along the shell of her ear. 

“Can’t imagine it lookin’ as good on anyone else as it does you, sugar.” 

At least two carats, it’s basically a small nucleus of sunlight, sparkling against her pale décolletage, its radiance only challenged by the offset of what she can only assume is a platinum bezel. Gently rubbing the stone between her fingers, she releases a slow breath that shakes more than she would’ve liked, but comes from her core. His hand brushing along the strap of an equally breathtaking gown only exaggerates her inability to breathe evenly, and she swears to God the color racing up her neck deepens. 

“You won this?” turning in her seat, she gently pushes him back with a hand to his chest. “In cards? You always play for cash,” without flinching, she probes for an answer—Logan never bets collateral. He always plays for money, or, on occasion, information. It was how she’d come to know Patch—the man of Madripoor. In all her months of watching him play, she’d only ever seen him accept collateral one other time, and she protected the Van Cleef bracelet on her arm nearly with her life. “It has to be worth a small fortune,” quietly she turned back to the mirror, slightly entranced by its brilliance.

He chuckled, “Not small enough,” his finger brushes a tendril of curl hanging from the simple pins at the base of her neck, “Wasn’t thinkin’ about how much it cost, sweetheart. Too busy imaginin’ you wearin’ it to bed,” His hands skim down the neckline of the dress, an elegant yellow satin slip cut dangerously up the thigh, thin and leaving mostly nothing to imagination, “but I guess this’ll do for now, hm?” 

Willpower of the gods had somehow propelled her out the chair, hand in his as he’d tugged her against his chest. Arms fortressing around her softness, holding her closer than sin. She finds herself lost under the heavy of his gaze, even as her fingers trail up the sleeves of his suit jacket. Crisp as snow, it cuts him perfectly, as if designed for him and him alone. He’s warm, chasing away the slightly chill that pebbles the skin of her arms, the A/C of the hotel suite more tangible than ever. 

“For now,” she’d echoed with a small smile, amusement passing through her tone. “Maybe if you’re good, I’ll ask you about that active imagination of yours later.” Hand finding his cheek, she guided him into a slow, unhurried kiss. “You feel lucky tonight, Lo?” Words murmuring against his lips, his head angled to deepen the kiss, slanting his mouth over hers.

His chuckle was light, entertained as his fingers traced along the straps at the back of her dress, “Ain’t about feelin’ lucky, sugar,” tipping her chin up, he smiled at her darkly. “But if it makes you feel better, you bet.” 

Absolutely obscene. 

He’s still as perfect now as he had been hours before, draping a once-in-a-lifetime diamond around her neck, sitting in the low haze hovering in a smothering, thin veil about their casino’s air. Their casino—the gambling house they’d called home for the entirety of her sojournings at his side. Walls and floors that knew their secrets, hallways that saw parts of them no human, probably, ever would. 

Madripoor was beautiful, a stunning land with its own cultures rich with wonder and charms untouchable to nearly sunlight—it was not a difficult place to land, to count off the fingers of time. Especially for a man burying secrets in shallow graves of earth and unknowns. Abundant with vibrant color, pulsing atmosphere and the adrenaline of living, its wellspring of anonymity was wanting, attractive in a way any other nowheresville wasn’t. Logan had established himself as a man of countenance in these streets, specifically this house—a man of power, strength. Gall, courage. Unkillable, untouchable, wholly wondrous. 

Countenance. His reputation preceded him—whether as a badge of honor, a curse of death, or a last-nail coffin truly, honestly, depended on whom one would ask. Bodies jumped under tables beneath the steel of his gaze, the earth opened up to consume lesser beings. Flurry of opinion wasn’t uncommon, if you asked around the shadows and dripping neon of the city— bodies in this quarter of the city produced a cocktail of options for poison. Akin to asking which band champions in NOLA at the height of Mardis Gra, the hair of the dog hours—good thoughts weren’t anorexic around here, weren’t starving for air to give them life.  

All had an opinion. Scant few actually held water. 

Madripoor trembled with the respect wise men hold for phantom’s when he strode into a room. People knew, just from him cutting the doorway of the casino floor, that “Patch” was not an easy dance. Garnered a respect she’d never seen so freely offered to anyone else, dignitaries were not so often well noticed. Logan half expected the room to whip around to eyeball him he was so aware of his own presence, but not in the way one would think—not in the sense of ego or pedestal, high-horses. Never.

“Same feelin’ you get shiverin’ down your back when you think you're bein’ watched, sugar—just the way it goes when guys like me make an entrance.” 

Logan rarely made an entrance—Patch, even less so. Exits were more his thing, honestly. 

But far and away, Madripoor had signed and delivered its standing opinion on the man with an patch, the man from the north—the man nobody could touch, whose face shadows didn’t find. For four decades he’s been frequentlying this place, blowing in and out like the steam over bayous and still water, never aging a day. Always stalking, always collected. In blood it screamed, up and down the streets, this province’s opinion—You bet on Patch, and you have your man.  

And tonight is no different. While Logan may not be an easy man to dissect with discernments, he is an easy bet. Easier, yet, to watch. Even at the bar, across the floor—where light is golden and soft, the air is thick with smoke. Music that has been hastened for generations spins through the air like dreams, summoning atmosphere and charm into the room like a sweeping arch of divinity.

It had become some kind of twisted religion, almost worship. Watching him rake fools over hot coals at this same casino table, when starlight strikes and the sun drips from the sky like slow poison. It’s like a killing hour, almost—the scent of blood and money hang in the air like calling cards, tantalizing sirens. It is the same dance, similar songs each night they grace this room—Logan seats himself at the card table. He orders whiskey, a cosmopolitan for her. Lights a cigar, asks the floor manager for a tab. Taps the corner of his mouth with a thick finger for her kiss, kisses her harder than she would expect from him—takes cash he slips into the neckline of her dress, “You keep here, darlin’, and also like always, he’ll take her chin between calloused fingertips, “gotta keep my lucky little thing closeby—’ma jealous fuck, sugar. Don’t go runnin’ off.”  And the answer is always the same—

“Where else would I be?” 

Certainly nowhere else could hook, line, sink her soul like that little quicksilver of a smile he throws at her—the way his gaze rakes over her frame, dissecting every bend and curve like a creature worth studying. Like he hasn’t known every part of her, explored each plane and territory of her skin, her soul. Logan has known her up until the half of her soul, possesses parts of her she’ll never return to—he takes more than money, on nights when he looks at her like this. More than information or courage or a man’s dignity—he takes her. Everything she possesses, balances it between his fingers, bleeding and raw, like it is a plaything and circus.

And really, she thinks, there could be no better thing under the sun.  

 At some point in all of this, she’d wondered, early on, if it would be like this, always. Running with him. Stalking lines, scouting out survival and nexts—spidering in gigs only to feast on the blood of the innocent unsuspecting. Vampires of opportunity, of fortune. She’d learned in short shit that, while the game is always the same, the wonder was in the stakes—it’s never about the game. 

Balance of power is always found in what one is willing to lose in the chance to gain.

“Something new, mi encanto?” 

Her chair sings a little as she adjusts to swivel back around to the bar, smile soft as she considers the surprise glass of something slipping her direction across an elegant, seen-everything bar. Warm eyes consider her, Dominic’s expression soft and entertained as he stereotypically slaps his rag over his shoulder, driving home a subliminal point. 

Canting her head softly to the side, she dips her finger into the crystalline booze, allowing it to gently float around the cool zing of alcohol and promise of a buzz that will warm her spine. Her finger gently traces the rim of the fine glassware, gaze tracking to the clock above the bar. It’s been two hours—two hours parked at the bar in a dress the color of sunlight, watching. Drawing the attention of every dick and eye this place produces. A pretty sentinel over the reputation and suppositions of a man rumored more to be a god than mortal, she’s little more than a trophy in this room—Logan’s trophy. Patch’s pretty little thing. 

Hardly more than eye candy, little less than pornographic imagery—she’d quelled a few looks of new faces unaccustomed to the goings-on of this house, of its finer workings. Didn’t take much more than a sharp lift of her leg over the other, a nod of her chin towards the table—rare cases demanded she actually leave her perch at the bar and make an effort to fill in the program gaps. Coming up along his chair, lingering touches on his chest and shoulder—the occasional slow, sloppy kiss between hands of poker, blackjack. Little else drove the point home so deeply, coffins and nails.

 She’d only ever been broached by the brave who had never returned—most were warned. If not by circumstance, then by Magnolia y Pecado staff—she was off the table. A no-go. Off limits. Hands off, don’t touch the pretty thing who parts her legs for the man everyone in Madripoor knows as Patch. If they only knew of him what she does, they’d think so differently. 

‘All bets off when you’re mine, sugar.”

“Gracias, Dominic.” 

She doesn’t ask what it is, Dominic understands her taste. Quite the working relationship they’d developed over the months of her making this bar her second home. Always thrilled to see her but rarely surprised, Dominic worked twelve hour days. Five daughters, his adorable, busy-bee and as-sweet-as-honey wife expecting a hopeful son—the only friends she had in the city. Inés was responsible for half of her wardrobe decisions, much of her makeup. Often her rambunctious gaggle of ribbons-and-curls girls ran about this casino during business hours, passing time in the pool, in the gardens.

 Glass chilled between her fingers, she takes a light sip of the cocktail, brow lifting as the tropical kick spins around her tongue in a lovely zing that makes her smile. Lifting it, she takes a bolder sip, “That’s brilliant, Dominic,” her smile grows, and she wrinkles her nose, “what is it?” 

He chuckled, “Jungle bird,” beginning to vigorously rub at a stain in the grains of the wood, “clarificada—clear. Mi amor’s only drink,” winking at her, his smile is bright but quickly fades as his eye moves over her shoulder, tracking movement. 

All too suddenly, Dominic’s spine towers tall. Heart skipping for only a second, his movements become cut, slow. When he nods across the floor, chin lifting as his hands begin flying beneath the bar—effortlessly, she knows he prepares the familiar short glass. A distraction, certainly, but calculated.  She’d never understand his practiced anticipation of needs, but forever appreciate them, “Problema, mi Cariño,” his eyes cut over to her sharply, long pouring a multiple-seconds finger of Redbreast, “looks as if there’s trouble, Miss Patch.”

Miss Patch. Common amongst the staff, it carried a responsibility she wrestled with more than she’d be willing to admit—belonging to someone was a place she’d never imagined for herself, much less Logan, but the irony isn’t lost on her, either. Everything she’d never thought for herself, everything she’d ever fantasized in high fantasy and dreams—all one ball of wax, a bed of roses. 

Name not lost, her stomach flares with a pinprick of alarm, heat spreading through her blood despite the pebbles of chill racing across her skin. Glancing over her shoulder, she tucks her chin. Tracking, eyes skirting the game currently underway at the long, gorgeous felt table. Remnant’s of Dominic’s Jungle Bird sings on her tongue, punching low in her stomach a sort of sweet that almost stings, watching Logan at the head of the table begin slipping out of his expensive suit jacket. 

The slightest glance over his shoulder is all the greenlight she needs, dark hair glinting almost sapphire under the right lights, the trembling wire of tension in the air. Nearly misses his hand at the side of the chair, fingers snapping for her to come hither. 

Taking the Redbreast between her fingers, her own drink in hand, her little sigh is amused. Follows a light chuckle, there’s a breathlessness she can’t quite put a finger on. The idea of being summoned isn’t all that distasteful—it’s wicked, what it does to the depths of her womb. 

“And there’s my cue.” The smile she cuts to Dominic is wry, words dismissive, almost airy—something is off at the table. She can see it in the shifting eyes of the men across the felt, the way Logan rolls a shoulder. 

Steely tension snaps at the air like a rabid wolf, hungry and slavering as it devours any sense of control she feels, usually, with the man she knows as Wolverine so near to heart. Usually he keeps a good handle on things—and he maybe does, maybe this is deliberate. But the precipice feels shaky, being on the outside looking in— like balancing on a livewire above swirling oceans. 

Slipping from her stool, her hand smooths over the satin of the gown, bending slightly to straighten material teasing the floor around her feet in a tastefully cocktail,  elegant train. Foot over foot she minds the height of her heels, floorspace between the bar and table vanishing beneath her approach. 

Another small drink, eyes drifting over the table—her nail gently ting, ting, tings against his glass between loose fingers. Meeting the gaze of men whose attention lifts to her arriving at Logan’s side is easy, all she has to do is offer a teasing, flirtatious upturn of his lips. Of doe-eyed light and oh, hi. Easily she offers the cool Redbreast, gently nudging it against the back of his hand as her hip comes to rest against his chair—Logan’s attention doesn’t cut from the study of his cards, brow lifted, easily. 

Unmoving, chuckling across the table lifts her gaze over the rim of her glass as she teases her drink for a second time. “My my, Patch, my friend — pretty little thing you’ve got there, at your beck and call,” she sums him up quickly, falling back in his chair. Shifting his hips forward, like he’s got a twitch in his dick at the sight of her dipping backline, “You are one surprising sonuvabitch, I’ll give you that.” Wolf whistle off his words accompany the  shake of his head, eyes lingering over the curve of her hip longer than necessary. “Pretty things here, in Madripoor—where can I find one’a you, honey?” 

“Didn’t think there were any more like me,” she counters with a little giggle, winking at him. Her hand comes to rest on Logan’s shoulder, tracing the hard line of muscle beneath his milkwhite shirt. Teases along until her hand gently curves along his chest, between the unfastened buttons, “Thought I was limited edition.” Dropping low, her lipstick catches the bristle of Logan’s beard in a slow, heavy kiss to his jawline, sharp eyes holding the man fully entranced with her show across the felt of the table, “Gotta pay to play, huh, baby?”

 Bodies around the table shift uncomfortably, the man to Logan’s left practically on the verge of either an aneurysm or cardiac arrest, either is possible considering the size of his beer gut and the unhealthy sweat soaking into the band of his Stetson hat—Texas, mogul. Married, probably. Or at least feeling a level of guilt. The man to their right, complete in a look that’s so Miami it hurts—designer white pants, loafers. What appears to be a silk shirt tucked in, unbuttoned, in a flamingo pink that’s so ambitious it makes her smile. She couldn’t even determine his eye color, his eyes were still welded on the swell of her ass. 

They’re so easy, men. One look at a pretty thing, a little batting of the eyes — they were so painfully predictable, Logan had been right. He’d taught her everything about this game, this back-and-forth. How to make them drool, how to make them ache, to worship at her feet. The perfect equalizer, the best distraction—give them what they don’t know they want, “And all their walls come crumblin’ down, honey—that’s what you do.” If he weren’t a better man—if Logan weren’t hers, he’d be eating out her palm just as much as any of them. 

But she belonged to him, a tight leash she shortened seemingly by night. 

“All depends on the game,” he bites at his lower lip, “what’s my grand prize, mi amor?”  He butchers Spanish almost as badly as he butchers atmospheres, and it would make her chuckle, the way he masks his obvious desire behind a hand rubbing around his mouth. Instead it just makes her roll her eyes, tease her nails along Logan’s chest hair carefully beneath his shirt. Heat pummels off of him like a locomotive, even with his jacket shedded. “You like to play games, do ya, sweet thing?” 

Logan’s gaze snaps up from his cards, viciously. Beastially. 

“Easy, bub. Ain’t nice to fuck with another man’s property.”  

It rumbles low, wolfishly in his chest. Sharp chill launches down her spine like a needle, injecting poisons into her veins that begin to melt her self control. Logan rarely ever labeled her so basely in front of other men—it was not his routine. He had, in other times, when context demanded he whip out his dick for measure— she didn’t have details. Admittedly she’d been too distracted with Dominic and drink tasting throughout the night to pay attention to this game, to know if Logan had anything working over this gig. All she knew was from what little pillow talk he’d offered this morning, after burying his cock nearly to her ribs and rearranging her abdominal cavity.

Information. Information, baby—it’s all about connections. And oh—that’s right. It tracks around her brain in a sharp, white-hot loop. Information, Logan wants information. 

 A patch may well cover most of the animation of his eyes, but it is evident, the darkness—leers like a predator, hunting. Watching. The corner of his mouth ticks up, muscle in his jaw pulling as he eases back into his chair, loosens a shoulder. Logan may as well scent this man’s blood and call it a day, she thinks, but instead his quicksilver smile grows as the man puts down his cards in front of him, resting elbows on the table. 

“Ease up there, ace,” his hands open in a slow arc of easy, I’m-just-playing settle-down, “Only teasin’.” His accent is remarkably unbalanced, a little of something she doesn’t know, more of a part of the world she’d never heard. Logan takes his drink from her hand, tosses it back sharply, and the glass finds the table with a harder-than-necessary crack, “You payin’ to see my cards or what, old man?” 

“Keep your dick on, would ya?” Logan grabs her hand from between the buttons of his shirt, prompts her forward with a sharp tug, Jungle Bird in her hand upset like a child’s bathwater. And before she can think, Logan’s big hand grabs her chin tightly between thick fingers, “Kiss for luck, sugar?” His breath hot with whiskey sends her reeling, heat between her legs an inferno only ever matched at Vesuvius. 

God he was hot when he was pissed off and all possessive. 

A little nod of her head ticks up the corner of his mouth, his eye tracking down to the perfect curve of her mouth highlighted by lipstick the color of blood in her veins. A growling chuckle from the base of his ribs has him kissing her, deep and hard, tongue skipping along her bottom lip—in heartbeats he manages to make her breathless, every fiber burning as she shares his taste, allows him to rip a hungry little moan that knifes her right in the gut. 

“Tastes good,” he murmurs against her lips, “you’re doin’ so good.” 

Unsure whether to thank or bite him, she manages a small smile against his mouth while her hand skips low, to the low heat  between his legs. Nursing a semi nobody would ever suspect from otherworldly levels of cool-as-a-cucumber, her nails gently bite into the meat of his thigh. For a second his hiss skips her pulse, suddenly  at a loss against his mouth. 

Collecting quickly, “Trust me, baby,” and she adds the bite she knows he loves to her touch, “I know.” 

If anyone heard his barely-there, punched out groan, hell would sooner freeze. Satisfied with himself, he breaks first, giving her cheeks a rough squeeze before lightly shoving her away. A little proud, mostly for show. He’s mean in the best way possible, in the way she’s come to lust for. Treating her like a brat, worshipping the ground beneath her feet—it’s a delicate tango they do on the blades of alias and fun, of future and fortune. She’d come to crave it, a high she’d never escape. Laces adrenaline through her like a freight train, feels safe and dangerous all in one big ball of inexplicable, never-want-to-leave way. 

Swiping at the lipstick a kiss on his cheek has left behind, she throws an easy glance across the table to the three men who stare, nearly agog, at her. “Best of luck, gentlemen,” bending to kiss Logan’s cheek with a mock sugar sweetness almost too saccharine to be true, she tosses back the rest of her Jungle Bird.

“May the odds be never in your favor.” 

@sidkneeeee

@thevoicefromanotherworld

@misscrissfemmefatale

@eternallyfrustratedwriter

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

@laaadygisbooornex3

@itsafullmoon

@kmc1989

@bpmiranda

[femmenature]

nobody gets me, you do

Pairing: Ellie Williams x f! reader (ofc)

Summary: where your ex Ellie can't spend another day pretending she doesn't still love you.

Warnings: Inappropriate language.

-

you usually appreciated this kind of nights. Where you don't have to work and you can watch a series or put more effort into the food, and not just make a simple white rice. You used to appreciate it in Ellie's company. Now you prefer to keep your head busy, work, study, do some gardening even though you know perfectly well how horrible you are at it. And that your head will probably play tricks on you and remind you of how Els laughed for a week because a damn cactus dried up on you. A sigh escapes your thoughts. “See, this is what happens when you're distracted,” you say to yourself, leaning against the kitchen counter. But your relaxed posture didn't last long, as someone knocked on your door. Strange, knowing that you didn't order anything to eat and didn't invite your friends. You walked to the door and opened it with your eyebrows furrowed, you were going to open your mouth but it was her, and you just stood with your hand on the door frame and your heart in your mouth.

Ellie looked at me and blinked rapidly, as if checking that this was not a dream. Her heel rested on the floor, leaving the toe of her slipper raised nervously. “hey” she let out in a sigh, which she seemed to have been holding back for quite some time.

“hey…” my voice betrayed me and trembled as I said something as small as a greeting. Though I guess it only matters who you're saying it to, and having her in front of you isn't easy, more so when you've had no contact for the past five months.

“I know it's weird, knocking on your door knowing we're not together” she spoke fast on the last words, wanting to cover up the fact that you guys are apart, because it hurts her more than anything else in this world ”but I'd rather you see me as a freaking weirdo than keep this to myself any longer. Altough you know I'm weird, I mean, you know me better than anyone else and-” she stopped talking, knowing she was getting distracted.

“do you want to come in and we can talk inside?” even though you're scared to death and more uneasy than ever, you acted calm so she would be too. She nodded and you invited her in, closing the door behind her. “so…why are you here?” you don't act disinterested, not excited either, Even if you are. You disguise the fireworks in your stomach as you smell her perfume when she walked inside. As if your house is complete again.

“uhm, these five months” she licked her lips nervously as she looks away remembering the days she spent without you ”were the worst months in the world. And it's just pathetic to tell you knowing that you're the reason I had such a hard time. Or the absence of you. I was with a part of you, with your ghost that haunted me everywhere I went reminding me that it wasn't going to be the same without you, and the worst part is that even though it wasn't really you it was all I had left to not feel completely alone in the world. So somehow I didn't want it to go away” her eyes finally met mine, softening ”our pictures are still in my room, even our saved game from the last time we played Life is Strange together. I didn't touch it waiting for you to come back, in that stupid hope that you'd show up and we'd forget our stupid fight. But I guess our pride won us over once again.” she moves a little closer, slowly, as if she's afraid the floor beneath her will crumble ”and for the first time in my life I couldn't care less about my pride because I know you're on the other side of the scale. And the love I have for you compares to absolutely nothing I have or will ever be able to have.”

your eyes become crystal clear, you think this is not real, you imagined so much that this moment would come, you made so many scenarios with Ellie and that she will come back into your life, but not like this. She is practically showing you her heart like never before, in a desperate attempt to get back to being everything she loves and still loves. You were going to say something, but she cut you off, she had more to tell you, more to show you how much she misses you.

“So I'm here. I'm not going to lie to you and pretend that I don't expect you to answer me, that I'll be able to wait for you to think and answer me without falling apart from the anticipation of not being able to hold you in my arms again. I don't even know how I could endure these months without you” finally closes the immense distance and gently caresses your hand tenderly ”do you know how desperate it is that no one understands you, that the only one who knew how to calm you down was miles away from me in body and soul?”

her eyes are desperately searching for yours and her voice is begging you “the only person who could do that was you and it killed me to know that you didn't want to see me when all I wanted to do was kiss you as if the world would end after that. Nobody gets me, you do. Nobody can beat your eyes, your touch, your voice, your jokes, your love. I couldn't even look at another woman because I knew no one was worth it, no one is worth it. No one can look at me and know when I'm anxious, or how much I love space. They would see the stuffed dinosaur I have in my room as a simple stuffed animal, when you took the time to know which one is my favorite and buy it for my birthday and when I would give an explanation of that dinosaur and why I have that damn stuffed animal the only thing I will think about is that I lost you forever and and-"

you approached her and gave her a sudden kiss, knowing that if you let her talk anymore, anxiety would eat her up. The kiss is tender, desperate for time apart, but at the same time soft and romantic. Her hands brought your hips closer to hers while you caressed the back of her neck. After a few seconds you separated and rested your foreheads without taking your hands off where you had them

"I hope you never have to explain to anyone why you have a dinosaur in your room because I'm not going to lose you again" Ellie smiled and hugged you, hiding her face in your neck "I wasn't planning on doing it anyway. I was going to die without you then I wouldn't give myself the chance to have another girlfriend" you laughed caressing her hair "I missed you, Els" she kissed your neck tenderly without letting go "I missed you too baby"

-

I'M SORRY if it's not well written, I don't speak English and it's hard for me not to get lost!!! Enjoy <333

[gutsluttsbelly]

hello, i am high and cannot stop thinking. here are my thoughts.

the world fucking sucks, but you don’t have to.

choose to live with love and compassion for people who are unlike you. you may not understand, but that’s okay.

stop fucking caring about what others think about you so much. it’s like hitting yourself with a bat over and over. once you stop giving a fuck, life is so much better. easier said then done, i get it. but once you realize it literally doesn’t matter at all what so and so said about you that one time. you can live freely. you and i are just tiny specks of dust to this planet.

speaking of planet, fucking take care of it. i don’t like getting political on this social media, but take a good look around at the natural disasters that have been taking place. i saw a bumper sticker that said “i ❤️ global warming” that was a day i decided to live with “love and compassion” unfortunately, i wanted to run them off the road. science is very real and very important. your head actually ISNT supposed to be in your ass!

sorry, love and compassion.. love and compassionnnnn

tell your friends and family you love them often (if this is true for you) we don’t know when our last day on earth is.

and finally, be safe.

[lildrownedrat]

Not to start an argument, I completely understand and agree with your points in your posts! I just felt I could explain my point better. I don't/didn't want to take away from your point, just add my own two cents.

I have autism and ADHD, I just saw/felt that Taash related to my autism specific traits a lot more than my ADHD traits, personally. But I wouldn't argue if someone wanted to make the statement more general and say Taash is neurodivergent/ a good example of neurodivergent representation.

Yes, it's never explicitly stated that Taash is autistic but I saw a lot of my own story reflected in theirs that just isn't there in other characters. From the way they spoke and interacted with others, to things they mention in conversations with Rook and the other companions- like their trouble regulating their emotions, not remembering to do basic everyday tasks because their mind is occupied, feeling like they're just all together "wrong", having to sort through what's masking, what's you, and what everyone around you wants you to be. Often, good "representations" of neurodivergency aren't labeled as such. I think of examples like Katniss Everdeen and the Belcher Family. Many autistic people find that these characters just do a really great job at describing and portraying our perspective on things, unlike other characters. If a significant number of neurodivergent people are saying they see their story being told through Taash, I think there's some value in that.

I also see people criticize Taash using the same arguments they use against neurodivergent people in real life. "Taash is rude because they speak bluntly without a filter," but if you pay even a little bit of attention to them, you see they are actually really caring and sweet. "Taash is immature because they rely on their mother too much," but it's a lot of neurodivergent people's experience to need extra support from someone close to us. "Taash's dialogue is awkward," because they say things at the wrong time and don't always word it right. I just wanted to call this out because neurodivergent people are seeing how Taash is being discussed and for a character that shares a lot of our struggles, it's tiring.

Basically, what I'm saying is that I also didn't think Taash was an example of poor representation and I hate that that's a large majority of the opinions I see of them. I think they represented my story as an autistic, nonbinary, person of color very well. Their storyline wasn't about "fixing" how they talk to people, or telling them to get new interests- because these aren't character flaws, they're just traits and I LOVE that!

We just need to keep in mind the intersectionality of the stories being told through these characters. A neurotypical nonbinary person may not understand Taash's story, just like a white nonbinary person probably wouldn't relate to them as much. That doesn't mean they're a bad nonbinary representation.

I also think it's extremely important to point out that autistic people are resonating with them so that neurotypical people can learn more about what it means to be autistic.

(sorry for so many edits and revisions! Also sorry if there's any spelling of grammar mistakes. 😅 I'll try to fix them if I catch them)

I’ve kinda said this before and i’ll certainly say it again, taash is written incredibly well and accurately to the specific experience of being a 2nd-gen queer 22 yo. The way they talk, the awkwardness, the struggle to find words for queerness when you were never taught them in your first language and thus only know them in your second. They are the most accurate and well-written depiction i’ve ever seen of those experiences. However, most of you appear to a) not be queer, b) not be diasporic, and c) are not in your 20s, and thus have no concept of what those experiences are like and thus are criticizing writing around experiences you have no context for and no idea of how that should be written.

Like idk, i wouldn’t roll out the gate criticizing the writing of queer characters that grew up in fundamentalist christain households bc idk what that shit’s like. My parents are asian, they celebrate me getting an interview at los alamos, not getting a boyfriend. I’m fundamentally cannot tell you if that’s a well-written depiction bc i have little context for that.