#not in a 'nobody but me can have them' way but 'i can keep them safest'

[cressidagrey]

Holy Ground - Chapter 1

Summary:

Nobody knew that Azriel found his mate. Until she nearly died. This is the aftermath.

Warning:

Rhys Bashing (as usual), Inner Circle Bashing (kinda), Referenced/Implied Sexual Assault, Referenced/Implied Domestic Violence, Discussion of Religion(?), Chronic Injury/Pain/Illness

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

It was late enough that the House of Wind had quieted down for sleep. Late enough that it was dark outside…Late enough that her room was pitch black. Irena was curled underneath her duvet, staring at the wall when she felt the first touch.

Not from another person. Oh no.

This touch was utterly magical.

Irena felt her mate’s shadows wrap around her wrist softly, feeling slightly cool to the touch and squeeze slightly in greeting.

“He’s home?” she breathed the question. The shadows squeezed twice in answer. “Can you bring me to him?” Irena requested softly.

Two more squeezes.

She held her breath as the shadows descended on her. Not even the wards of the House of Wind were a match to them if they really wanted.

Azriel had explained it to her once…told her about the difference between winnowing and the shadow walking he did, from one patch of shadows to the next…

And for her…for her these shadows were more than willing to bend the rules. They snuck her from the Priestesses’ dormitory to her mate’s room and back again before anybody was the wiser. 

Irena reappeared in one corner of his room moments later, her eyes blinking as she took in the faelights that were still on. The curtains were drawn and she watched the shadows lock the door and pull back the thick, heavy furs that covered his bed.

They were there just for her. Irena seemingly was always cold. So Azriel had made it his mission to find her the thickestfurs he possible could for her to cuddle underneath…

 In her own room she only had woolen blankets and a few crinkly quilts. None of these ever managed to keep her as bone deep warm as her mate did. But then, she hadn’t dared to take any fur back to her room yet. She was worried that then it was maybe a bit too obvious that she had an illyrian warrior go hunting whenever he could so that she was wrapped in warmth. 

Irena could hear water in the bathroom, so she simply limped to the bed, regretting the fact that she hadn’t brought her cane. She winced as she made her way across the room, the pain from her injury flaring up…she sighed as soon as she reached the bed, relieved that she could sink down onto the soft mattress.  

Irena buried herself in the thick furs, letting out a sigh of contentment. The bed smelled like her mate, like mist and cedars, and she breathed in deeply, taking comfort in his scent.

The sound of the running water stopped and Irena sat up slightly, anticipation coiling in her stomach. A moment later, Azriel stepped out of the bathroom, hair still damp from his shower and bare chested.

She swallowed at that sight.

She couldn’t help herself, her eyes traveling over Azriel’s broad shoulders, the expanse of his chest and the ridges of muscle in his stomach. The linen pants he wore draped low on his hips, and she couldn’t help but admire the sight of him…It wasn’t until Azriel cleared his throat that Irena realized that she was staring, and she tore her eyes away, feeling a flush creeping up her cheeks.

“I see the shadows were impatient,” he told her with a crooked smile. She looked up at him, her heart beating a little faster at the sound of his voice. "They may have been a little enthusiastic," she replied, her smile a little shy.

He crossed the room in five quick strides, his wings trembling…and then he was suddenly near enough that she could reach out to cup his cheek.

“Cauldron, I missed you,” he whispered, leaning into her touch.

Irena felt a rush of warmth at his words. "I missed you too," she replied softly, her fingers tracing the lines of his face. "The days feel longer when you're gone."

She could see the weariness in Azriel's features, the tightness around his eyes and the lines on his forehead. "You look exhausted," she said softly, concern lacing her voice.

Azriel let out a breath. "It was a long mission," he admitted, sitting down next to her on the edge of the bed. "But now I'm home."

Irena reached out, taking his hand in hers. "And I'm glad you are," she said, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. "You can rest now."

Azriel looked at her, his expression softening. "Being here with you is already making me feel better," he said, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her forehead

She tipped her head up…and then he brushed a soft little kiss against her lips and she melted.

Being with him…not once had he hurt her. Not once had he laid a single finger on her in a way that hurt. She had never thought she would have that. Not after what she had endured before. Not after what had happened to her.

Every priestess had their own scars. Some rougher than others. Some more visible.

The limp that Irena was left with was one of the more obvious ones.

She leaned into the kiss, her arms coming up to wrap around Azriel's shoulders. She knew that he would never hurt her, knew that he respected her boundaries and her space in a way that no one ever had.

She shifted when she felt the twinge in her hip, but he already picked up on it.

“The weather?” He asked her softly as he moved them, slipping her under the many many furs and then joining her.

Irena nodded. "It always acts up when it's about to rain. And the weather lately has not done me any favors." She sighed, snuggling into his arms. "But I'm alright. Just a little stiff. Your hands?” She asked softly.

Azriel flexed them slightly, thumb brushing against the naked skin of her forearm. "Do they hurt?" she asked, her voice gentle. She knew that he had been in pain for so long, that his hands were a constant reminder of it. 

Azriel shook his head. "Not right now," he said softly. "Holding you makes it better." He pulled her closer, burying his face in her neck and taking a deep breath.

Irena felt a rush of warmth at his words, her heart fluttering in her chest. "I'm glad," she said softly, running her fingers through his hair. "Being with you makes everything better for me too."

Everything.

She heard a growl from somewhere to her right, muffled through the walls and she pinked, just as Azriel sighed.

“One day he will learn how to use a damn sound shield,” he muttered under his breath, even when a thin blue film was already surrounding them. Blessed silence.

Irena couldn't help but chuckle at Azriel's muttered remark about his brother. "Well, we all have our shortcomings," she said teasingly. "At least you know how to use a sound shield."

Azriel just rolled his eyes, pressing a kiss to her temple.

They kept their relationship quiet. It hadn’t even been on purpose at first. It had just happened.

Nobdoy knew. They both quite liked. Maybe in another year or two. Maybe in a decade.

Who knew. Until then it was just them. And nobody needed to know about it.

Irena smiled as she rested her head against Azriel's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. 

She liked the secretiveness of their relationship, the way it was just theirs. And maybe, in another year or two, they would reveal it to the world. But for now, she was content just being here with him, cherishing every moment they had together.

She sighed, feeling a sense of contentment settle over her. "Just us," she said softly, her fingers drawing idle patterns on his skin. "That's all I need."

Azriel hummed agreement, his fingers tangling in her hair. He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. "Just us," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin.

She fell asleep like that, safely and warmly ensconced in his arms. She was safe, she was warm, and she was loved. And there was nowhere else in the world she would rather be.

The night seemingly was too short. 

Irena stirred awake to the feel of soft kisses being pressed to her face. She opened her eyes to find Azriel's face hovering over hers, a soft smile on his lips. "Good morning," he whispered, his voice rough with sleep.

She smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face. "Good morning," she replied, her voice drowsy as she stretched out, feeling the stiffness in her hip from sleeping on her bad side.

"How's your hip feeling?" Azriel asked, his gaze going to where she had been massaging the sore spot.

Irena flexed her leg slightly, wincing as she did. "A bit stiff, but manageable," she said, trying to sit up. Azriel immediately helped her, propping some pillows behind her back to help her sit upright.

She smiled up at him gratefully. "Thank you," she said softly. "It's always worse in the morning, but once I get moving, it loosens up."

Azriel nodded, rubbing circles on her hip with his thumb. "I know," he said softly, his eyes filled with concern. "I just wish I could take your pain away."

She reached up, gently tracing her fingers over his face. "Just having you here helps," she said earnestly. "You make everything better, Az."

Azriel's eyes softened at her words, a small smile quirking his lips. "I'm glad I can be here for you," he said, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her lips. "You make everything better for me too."

Another kiss before he sat back. 

“What are your plans for today?” He asked her sweetly.

“Paperwork,” she said drily. “Look through some new research topics and tell people off if it’s an insane endeavour. Figure out what to do with the overflow of brussel sprouts Ananke has managed to produce in our garden.” 

Azriel made a face at the mention of brussel sprouts. "Ah, yes, the brussel sprouts. I had almost forgotten about those," he said, a teasing note in his voice. "I have my own pile of paperwork and reports to get through, so I'll be stuck at my desk today. But at least we'll be miserable together." He leaned in to press a quick kiss to her forehead "The shadows will bring you tea,” he promised her softly. 

Irena smiled at Azriel's teasing and the promise of tea.

They always did that. Ever since the mating bond had snapped nearly 2 years ago…whenever she was alone, Azriel’s shadows made a pest out of themselves. They plied her with tea and cookies and made sure she actually went to all the meals. Kinda like an extremely fussy pet that insisted that their owner kept themselves fed and watered.  But they were so sweet about it that she couldn’t manage to make herself dislike it. 

She loved it. 

"That sounds lovely," she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "I'll hold them to that tea delivery. And we can commiserate over our paperwork mountains this evening."

Azriel chuckled. " And I'll listen to you rant about all the ridiculous research proposals you get. You have the patience of a saint, you know that?" he told her seriously. . 

Irena laughed. "Oh, I have lost my patience more than once with some of those proposals," she said with a grin. "But someone has to keep the rest of the scholars in check. And it looks like today, that someone is me."

He pressed a last kiss against her forehead…and then the shadows whisked her away, making her reappear on her own bed, the soft light of early morning filtering through her curtains. She smiled at the thought of Azriel using his shadows to sneak her back into her room. He was always thinking of others, always trying to make things easier for her.

She pushed herself up out of bed, wincing slightly as her hip protested the movement. It was time to face the day.

***

“How did your talk with Merrill go?” Emerie asked Gwyn curiously. Nesta only listened with half an ear during the cooldown stretches.

“She was in the same good mood as always,” Gwyn muttered.

Nesta rolled her eyes. "I don't know how you handle her, Gwyn. She's always so...Merrill."

Gwyn chuckled. "Yeah, well, I've learned to just let her comments roll off my back. It's not worth getting worked up over…and it it gets really bad, I’ll tell Irena.”

Irena? “Who’s that?” Emerie voiced what Nesta was thinking.

“You haven’t met Irena yet?” Gwyn asked surprised. “Neither of you?!” 

Nesta just shook her head. 

She was pretty sure she had heard the names a few times…but Irena had never been one of the Priestesses that had turned up for training so Nesta had never really thought twice about it. 

Clearly an oversight. 

 “Irena is probably the only person Merrill respects other than Clotho. Officially she handle all the administrative tasks surrounding the library. Signs off on new acquisitions, on new research projects. You want a book we don’t have, you go to Irena,” Gwyn explained. “But that’s not all she does…she also handles all the other accounts and expenditures, and organises the sewing circle.”

Nesta raised an eyebrow. "So she's basically in charge of everything that's not related to actually shelving books," she said, her tone slightly dry. "Sounds like a busy job."

That was an understatement. 

Gwyn laughed. "Yeah, pretty much. And she's really good at it," she said, a hint of admiration in her voice. “And she always stays so calm, even when thinks are really hectic.” 

"She sounds like a saint," Emerie said with a laugh, stretching out her arms. "Any idea why Merrill respects her so much?"

“Irena isn’t somebody to be trifled with,” Gwyn said drily. “Also Merrill’s little party trick with the wind? Last time she did that to Irena, Irena told her that she lived through worse, so Merill could just stop behaving like a toddler that can’t control her magic.” 

Nesta smirked. "Well, that's certainly a way to shut someone up," she said amused. "Sounds like Irena isn't afraid to stand her ground. I like her already. Why doesn’t she come to training?”

“She can’t,” Gwynn said simply.

Nesta raised an eyebrow. "Why not? Does she have some sort of physical limitation?"

Gwyn hesitated for a moment before answering. "She does," she said finally. "She was severely injured before she came here and it left her with some lasting damage to her hip and leg. She can't do a lot of physical activity anymore, so training is out of the question. She can’t walk without using a cane.” 

Nesta's expression softened with sympathy. "That's rough," she said sincerely.

“She did tell everybody else to at least try it once though,” Geyn said with a smile. “At least the ones of us that are physically and mentally able. She does some stretching exercises for the ones with similar impairments to hers in the evenings a few times a week.”

Emerie nodded. "It's good that she's trying to help others in a way that she can," she said. "It's not easy to live with a physical limitation…” Emerie said softly and Nesta looked to these ruined wings that hung from her back. Emerie probably understood this better than most. She paused, then added, "I'd like to meet her sometime."

Gwyn smiled. "I'm sure you'll like her," she said warmly. "She's smart and incredibly kind. We can go see her this afternoon. She can usually be found in her office.”

That’s what they did. After training and lunch, Gwyneth walked them to an office near where Merrill’s was located. The door wasn’t closed all the way and Gwyneth knocked.

“It’s open!”

They stepped inside, finding themselves in a neat, organized office. A bookcase stood against one wall, covered in neatly stacked papers and ledgers.

Behind a desk sat maybe one of the most beautiful females Nesta had ever seen.

Pale ivory skin,  dark brown hair, carefully braided away from her face that fell to her waist and dark doe eyes. Tall and slim and delicate.

She looked up as they entered, eyes lighting up when she saw Gwyn.

"Gwyn," she said warmly, setting aside the papers she was working on. "What brings you by?"

"Hey, Irena," Gwyn said with a grin, approaching the desk. "We just came from training and decided to drop by and see you. I wanted to introduce you to Nesta and Emerie. I couldn’t believe that they haven’t met you yet!"

Irena rose from her chair, moving out from behind her desk to greet them. As she walked forward, Nesta was struck by the way she moved. There was a limp in her gait, noticeable and distinct, but she carried herself with confidence and grace. 

"It's lovely to meet you both," Irena said, offering them a warm smile and a nod of her head. "I’ve heard a lot about yout two. It's nice to finally put faces to names."

Nesta returned the smile. "Likewise," she said politely. "Gwyn told us that you’re the one who manages all the administrative work here. It must keep you busy.”

Irena nodded. "It certainly does. I try to keep everything running smoothly, from acquisitions to research to the accounts," she said with a chuckle. "It's a lot of work, but I enjoy it. It’s like running an estate. And I was raised to do that." She said that so simply. 

But of course, if she was indeed a…highborn girl, than that would have been what she was raised to do. It was what Nesta herself had been raised to do. 

"That's impressive," Emerie spoke up. "I don't think I could handle all that and keep my sanity intact. My shop was more than enough for me."

Irena laughed. She was even prettier when she laughed. "Oh, I'd be lying if I said it was always easy. There are definitely days where I question my own sanity. 

“Did you get new tea?” Gwyn complained at that moment. “I swear you always get the best one!” she was poking at the delicate dark blue teapot that stood on a low table. 

“I did. I think it’s from Dawn,” Irena answered. 

Gwyn pouted. "You always have the best tea," she said, pretending to sulk. "It's not fair."

Irena chuckled, gesturing towards the small table in the corner of the room where the steaming pot of tea sat. "Help yourself, Gwyn," she said, her tone fond. "You know where the cups are."

Gwyn beamed, already opening the cabinet beneath. "You're the best, Irena. You know that, right?" she said, pouring out a cup for herself and taking a sip…and then she suddenly found the plate of delicate, wafer thin, chocolate covered cookies next to it. “And cookies!” She gasped.

Irena just laughed. "Of course, you find the cookies," she said, her tone amused. "Just try not to eat them all, Gwyn. I do not have an infinite supply."

Gwyn just grinned at her, reaching for a cookie. "I make no promises," she said, biting into the cookie with delight.

“You’re welcome to tea and cookies, too, by the way,” she told Emerie and Nesta drily as she sat back down behind her desk. “I am sharing. I am nice like that.”

Emerie grinned. "Thanks, Irena," she said, helping herself to a cup of tea and grabbing a cookie. Nesta followed suit, taking a seat in one of the chairs in front of Irena's desk.

Irena looked up from her work, watching as Gwyn and Emerie made themselves comfortable with their tea and cookies. "So, what brings you to my office today? Other than the free food and drink, I mean. Not that I mind, of course." she said with a smile, her tone light and teasing.

Emerie took a sip of her tea before answering. "Gwyn was talking about you earlier, and we were curious to meet you. And also, the free food and drink is a bonus," she said with a shrug.

Irena chuckled. "Well, I'm happy to provide, then," she said, taking a sip of her own tea.

Gwyn grinned. "And the cookies are delicious, as always," she said, nibbling on one. "You always have the best treats here, Irena. It's like a little hidden perk of coming to visit you.”

Irena smiled. "It's the least I can do, considering all the work you girls do here," she said warmly. "You deserve a little something sweet every now and then."

“Irena?” There was another knock at the door, a priestess that Nesta was unfamiliar with. 

“Meera, what happened?” Irena asked immediately and Nesta took in the tear tracks on the other females cheeks.

“You told me to come to you if Merrill got…bad again.” Meera said weakly, arms crossed in front of her like she was holding herself together. “I don’t want to work with her anymore.”

Irena's expression immediately softened. "Oh, Meera, come in," she said gently, gesturing for the other priestess to enter. "What happened? Are you alright?"

Meera took a hesitant step forward, her hands trembling slightly. "I...I don't want to work with Merrill anymore," she said again, her voice quavering. "She was mean, Irena. She yelled at me for no reason, just because I asked her a question."

Irena's eyes narrowed at that. "I see," she said, her tone firm. "Thank you for coming to me, Meera. I'll speak with Merrill and make sure this doesn't happen again. You don't have to work with her anymore if you don't want to. There are plenty of other people you can partner with."

Meera sniffled. "Really? You can do that?" she asked, her eyes widening in disbelief. "But...but Merrill said that I had to work with her because nobody else would want to, because I was too slow and clumsy and useless."

Irena's expression hardened, her spine straightening, and Nesta realised absentmindedly that beneath the exterior of a well brought up lady, was a spine of pure steel.  "Merrill had no right to say that to you," she said firmly. "You are not slow or clumsy or useless. You are smart and capable, and you deserve to be treated with respect. I will make sure that Merrill understands that, and that she apologizes to you properly."

Meera looked at her with wide eyes. "You...you really think so? That I'm smart and capable?" she asked, her voice small and uncertain. "I...I don't think Merrill would apologize. Not to me, at least. She never does."

Irena's expression softened again. "You are smart and capable, Meera," she said firmly. "Don't let Merrill make you doubt yourself. And I promise you, I will make sure that she does apologize. She may not like it, but she will do it. No one deserves to be treated the way she treated you." She gave Meera a reassuring smile. "Now go and rest. I'll handle everything from here. And if you need anything at all, don't hesitate to come to me. Alright?"

Meera nodded, sniffling again. "Okay," she said softly. "Thank you, Irena. I...I appreciate it. More than you know." She turned to go, slowly making her way back out the door.

"If you'll excuse me," Irena said grimly, rising from her seat. "I need to go have a word with Merrill now."

“She has been…especially crabby lately,” Gwyn said with a grimace. “I came to her with some research questions yesterday and she nearly bit my head off.”

Irena nodded, her expression hardening. "I've noticed," she said with s sigh. "And it's not just you, Gwyn. She's been snapping at everybody, and it's unacceptable."

Gwyn winced, “Yeah, she can be...a handful," she said tactfully. "But I don't know what's gotten into her lately. She's been worse than usual."

“I imagine it’s because I turned down her latest research proposal and told her that unless she finds a spell crafter to work with, it’s a no. ” Irena said darkly. “It’s too dangerous.”

Gwyn's jaw dropped. "You turned down one of her proposals?" she asked, stunned. "I thought you always approved everything she did, as long as it wasn’t something completely insane."

Irena sighed. "Usually, yes. But some of her recent ideas were too reckless an too dangerous. I can't let her conduct experiments without supervision, especially with the type of thing she's been proposing lately. The potential for harm is too high."

“What did she want to do?” Nesta sled curiously.

Irena's expression darkened. "She wanted to experiment with some very powerful and volatile forms of magic, without any safety measures in place. I am not letting her experiment with dismantling some ancients spells that we don’t even fully understand what they actually do. It was...too risky, too dangerous. I couldn't in good conscience allow her to proceed with such experiments." She shook her head. "It's not an easy job, being the one to tell her no, but it's necessary. We have to protect ourselves, each other, and the library.”

Everyone was quiet for a long moment, processing what Irena had told them. Finally, Gwyn asked in a small voice, "Do you think Merrill is okay? I mean...she's not usually this bad. Even when she gets mad or frustrated, she's never been this unreasonable, this mean before."

Irena's expression softened slightly. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "I know she's been under a lot of stress lately, and maybe I've been too lenient with her in the past. But this behavior is unacceptable. I'll do my best to get to the bottom of it and see if there's anything I can do to help, but Merrill has to be willing to accept help for anything to improve."

“Still her behaviour with the other priestesses can’t continue. This is the third time this week one of them came to me crying,” Irena said darkly.

Gwyn's eyes widened. "The third time? I didn't realize it was that bad."

“The third time,” Irena said with a sigh.  "I've been trying to keep an eye on her and keep her in line, but she's been pushing back hard lately. And it's not just with the acolytes either, she's been a terror to everyone. It's like she's a walking black cloud, just spreading her bad mood everywhere she goes."

Nesta's eyebrows furrowed. "Do you know what started all this? She's always been prickly, but this is on a whole other level."

“Merrill is used to get whatever she wants,” Irena said. “And when she doesn’t…, she can’t deal with that,” she said with a shake of her head. I know how difficult it is to deal with Merrill. Believe me, I'm used to it by now. But this behavior towards the other priestesses is can’t continue. She can't keep getting away with treating them poorly. It’s not fair to them, and it's not good for the library. Wish me luck,” Irena said drily, as she picked up an intricately carved cane. “I’ll go talk to her.”

Gwyn nodded, looking concerned. "Be careful, alright? Merrill's in a mean mood, and she's not exactly in the best state of mind right now. She might lash out at you."

Irena gave her a weary smile. "It's not the first time I've had to deal with her like this. I can handle it."

With that, she gathered up some paperwork and her cane and headed out the door. Gwyn watched her go, her expression worried. "I hope she'll be alright," she said softly. "Merrill can be quite vicious when she's riled up."

Nesta nodded in agreement. "She's always had a sharp tongue," she said. "But lately, she's been downright nasty. I can only imagine what Irena is walking into right now."

[balletfilmss]

TALK NERDY TO ME

✸ pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

✸ synopsis: you love to just stare at spencer as he info dumps

✸ warnings: none!

✸ a/n: this isn’t proof read at all by AYYYY look at me writing again on here 🙌 spencer reid is the new loml btw

You loved to listen to Spencer talk. And when I say love, I mean love.

He could ramble on about anything from the weather to the gravitational propulsion of the moon in comparison to the rest of the celestial bodies in our milkyway, and he could do any of it happily and until someone inevitably told him to just shut up.

That someone was never you though, and it never would be.

You didn’t quite know what it was, but there was just something about the way he spoke that was entrancing. His voice, his focus, the way he talked with his hands, and how his volume would gradually increase as he got more and more excited and remembered more details about what it was he was explaining.

If he moved around, your head moved with him, swiveling about to keep up, awe-struck eyes stuck on him the entire time.

Spencer could infodump about the drying times of different paint brands and you’d hand onto every last word he said, just because he was the one saying it.

It was safe to say that the team had gotten sick and tired of the two of you quickly.

Nobody else wanted to hear Spencer rattle on about useless, unrelated topics, and they certainly didn’t want to sit there and watch as you just prolonged the discussion by encouraging him to continue further just because you liked his voice.

And yet, it happens nearly every single jet ride without fail.

“I mean, really, it’s not all that uncommon for killers to write letters to their victims before killing them. In most cases, it’s seen as either a form of warning or of love. That’s why it never raises any red flags in most cases, because the victim is simply led to believe that they have a secret admirer of sorts. Oh! And a study done in the early 80s by Alexander Wilkins found that in over seventy percent of those cases, the unsub actually was in love with his victim or victims.”

Here Spencer was yammering on about false love-induced psychosis, and you were looking at him like he were professing his own undying love for you.

A hand propped up on the armrest of your chair held your chin, your big doe eyes watching him close and listening even closer.

You didn’t even know yet if it retained to the case whatsoever, it was just a possibility that Emily happened to throw out there in the initial case overview, and now you were all listening to the history of psycho killer lovers.

Spencer caught a glimpse of your wonder-filled gaze and smiled, continuing on with his explanation with a newfound encouragement.

“There’s no shot you’re actually interested in this,” Morgan grumbles to your left.

You seat a hand at him in a weak attempt to shush him, eyes still trained on Spencer.

He talked and talked for about ten more minutes before concluding the topic and being cut off by Hotch before he could cross into another one.

Taking the hint, he reclaimed his seat beside you, all rambled out for the moment.

When he does, you weave your hand through his, your hands resting together in his lap.

“I thought it was interesting, Spence,” You told him as a little boost of reassurance.

“You say that every time,” he smiled.

“And I mean it every time,” you countered with a smile of your own.

“Oh yeah?” He rose a brow. “Can you tell me a single thing I just said or were you just staring and not listening?”

After consistent it for a moment you realized that no, you couldn’t tell him a single thing he’d said, having been too distracted with your enraptured staring to actually pay attention.

So you just smiled wider at him, leaning a little closer as you both dissolve into a fit of childish giggles.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Ok, it was basically a request where the batboys brought their significant other as their date to a gala for the first time, they leave for a second (to get drinks or go to the bathroom or something to that end) and when they come back the see their S/O being harassed by a group of socialite women that keep talking about how they can’t believe someone like the batboy is with such a plain little nobody. That was the gist of it. Sorry 😣

I kinda made Tim’s as bit different than requested, but I couldn’t help but see him grill an entire household and their business ventures. Then again I kinda took creative liberties with all of them.

Dick

Is the type to put on an extremely strained smile across his face as he puts his arm over your shoulders.

‘What’s wrong my love, why the saddened face?’ He asks you sweetly, intentionally ignoring the rich and powerful in front of you both.

‘Oh don’t worry yourself with…that thing dear Richard, they’re too emotional to be in a room with people they could only dream of being in the presence of. I wouldn’t get so close to it if I were you, you might catch their filth.’ One of them sneered and Dick’s jaw tensed in agitation as his eyes remained on you.

‘Do you wanna leave?’ He says in a whisper as he wipes a tear away from your cheek, lightly pinching it in hopes of seeing you smile at him.

‘Yes please, I want to go home and be with Hayley.’ You whispered back, griping his arms tightly, thankful that his body blocked out the rich people that were berating you. Dick’s face softened as he kissed the top of your head, hoping of giving you some form of comfort in your time of distress, before looking back at the rich people with a faux grin.

‘If you please excuse us, my lovely sweetheart, my beloved cutie and my forever lover wishes to leave this drab place and who am I to deny my love of her wishes, for I shall wait on them hand and for forever if it pleases them so because between you and me?’ He then leans close to them. ‘You don’t have the heart to sacrifice everything for the one you love, if you even have hearts in the first place. You posses no freedom and no personality whatsoever for anyone to love nor adore, them however?’ He points towards you as you look at him with a small smile, a smile so sweet that Dick couldn’t help but smile back.

‘They are my everything. I couldn’t think about living without them, not when they’ve don’t nothing but be kind and respectful of me and my time. I don’t deserve them but neither does this city, they’re an angel in human skin that I wish to worship as long as they’ll let me.’ You could feel your cheeks burn at his words as your smiles widened at the twinkle of love within his gorgeous eyes. Dick had a way with words unlike any other and despite being on the receiving end of them for a while now, you still find yourself becoming alight with emotions because of him.

‘So if you’ll excuse me kindly.’ Dick says as he takes your hand and walks you both out of the door where he stops to look at you with concern.

‘I am so sorry you had to deal with them, apparently money makes someone feel entitled to speaking on someone else’s relationship.’ Dick spat as he glared at the grand double doors and you touched his cheek, making him melt into your touch, kissing your palm.

‘It’s okay Dickie bird, let’s just forget this night and go home, get out of these clothes and into some comfy pyjamas and cuddle on the couch as we watch soaps.’ You say as you attempt to calm him down from his passionate outburst and declaration of love, which seems to work as Dick’s eyes twinkled with excitement.

‘Can we wear the matching pyjamas that I got us and Hayley?’ He asks and you couldn’t help but kiss his lip, finding him too adorable in this moment in time, which is something of a occurrence as you’d soon find as you reflect back on your relationship. ‘Of course my sweetie, of course we can wear matching pyjamas.’ You replied and Dick cheered as he leaned to kiss you fully on the lip, his happiness having been contagious as you smiled into the kiss.

Damian

Wishes Bruce didn’t confiscate the sword from him.

He’s the type who can silence anyone with a single fucking glare. So when he sees that you, his beloved, was being harassed by the elitist snobs.

He’s quick to step in and start berating them himself, all dignity and respect has gone out the window for these cretins don’t deserve an ounce of it as far as he was aware. ‘I don’t believe that my relationships are your concern,’ he begins, ‘you’re not kin and thus should’ve learned at an early age that not every topic of interest requires your out of touch input.’

‘Wha-‘ they tried to say but Damian was back on them with another verbal assault.

‘Also I could hear you from across the room, didn’t your parents or paid teacher teach you about volume control? or did they get paid extra to not say a thing in fear your fragile little ego gets crushed under the harsh truth?’ Damian then spits out as he feels you clinging onto his back, which only fuels his need to berate these vile people as karma.

Damian would be their karma if it was the last thing he did.

The rich people chocked on air, not knowing what to say as it was hard to do so when Damian was staring them down, wanting them to say something, anything so that he could verbally beat them down until they submit. He lives for a verbal spat but unfortunately the people whom he’s up against have never had to fight for their honour and dignity, they just paid people to shut up or have people who encourage their pathetic, self entitled behaviour.

‘Enough, don’t hurt yourself trying to think with whatever’s behind those pompous eyes of yours.’ Damian sneered as he looks to you with a soft look. ‘Let’s go my beloved, I have already informed my father of the situation and has Alfred come pick us up to take us back to the manor.’ He says softly as he takes your hand in his as you both began walking away form the group of gobsmacked rich folks, a sight to behold truly as those entitled Individuals love nothing more then the sound of their own voice.

‘Why’d you do that?’ You asked and Damian looked at you as though you grew a second head.

‘Do what? Defend your honour, is that not what a lover is meant to do?’ He says with a raised brow and you couldn’t help but feel a little silly, of course Damian would defend your honour to the death but still insecurities tend to make you forget his undying loyalty.

‘You’re right I’m sorry, I’m just being a little stupid.’ You replied as you downcast your eyes to the floor and Damian stopped to lift your head up by your chin as his emerald eyes glint with concern. ‘Do not heed their words my treasure, for they lack a love that isn’t in due to money. Ours is genuine, if there’s anyone who has to fear for our relationship it is me for I am not the easiest to deal with at times.’ Damian admits as he lets go of your chin.

‘That’s not true.’ You retorted, holding his cheek in your free hand, caressing his cheek. ‘You’re perfect the way you are! A work in progress in being even more beautiful than before and I’m happy to be by your side and watch you grow into an amazing person dami.’ You add as you kiss his cheek, making him smile softly as he rubs against your hand.

‘See, this is what I’m talking about.’ Damian says softly. ‘You are perfection, a being beyond words and I’d be a fool if I didn’t treasure you entirely.’

Jason

That’s it, you’re leaving.

Jason tried to be civil but it’s hard to be civil with out of touch, tone deaf, Botox having, plastic surgery abusing, elite snobs that couldn’t fucking lace their own shoes because their filthy money had that be someone else’s job.

He’s not fucking staying and neither are you to deal with verbal abuse by people who single handedly have run Gotham into the ground with their shady tactics, personally funding the corrupt police officers, police officers that dare spout words like ‘protect and serve’ as though they know the meaning of the fucking word.

He’s marching over to you and grabbing your hand, intertwining your fingers together as he’s walking you both out of the room, leaving the elites to talk amongst themselves as he guided you outside where thankfully no elite snob can eavesdrop on either of you.

‘Are you okay?’ He asks you as he holds your face between his hands.

‘No… I want to go home.’ You admitted, their words cutting deeper than you’d ever think imaginable.

Jason felt anger flowing through his veins but he knew that you needed him more then ever at this moment, so shouting at some elite snobs can wait for another day, you were his highest priority as he brought you into his chest and kissing your head. ‘Then we’re going home.’ He says with certainty.

‘What about Bruce?’ You asked, looking at him with tearful eyes, not wanting their relationship to fracture just as it was slowly starting to mend.

Jason shrugged, uncaring of what the old man would think, you got insulted and he wasn’t going to let it slide in the slightest. ‘Fuck Bruce, you’re what matters to me.’ Jason says as he kisses your nose, cheeks and lips softly before resting his head against yours. ‘Now let’s ditch this place and go get ourselves some burgers, how does that sound chipmunk?’

You chuckled. ‘Can we get some fries too.’

‘Of course we can, whatever my sweetheart desires.’ Jason replies as he takes your hand again, this time leading you both out of the grand building in a quest to satiate your feelings with the most greasiest of foods.

Tim

Has the most dirt on the elite in my eyes.

Every scandal, every controversy, every crime they’ve committed and gotten away with by covering it up. He has a file as thick as a book on them and he’s not afraid to use it.

And needless to say that the idea to destroy their reputation was more then tempting then ever when he sees that your being harassed. So when he confronts them on their behaviour, he gets really cryptic about how much he actually knows about these people to such an intimate level.

‘I know what you did.’ He’d say.

‘What are you on about?’ They’d ask, thinking this was all a bit to make them laugh.

‘Friday 12th, 12:55am. The incident that cost workers their lives, families whom of which you’ve failed to compensate for who are now threatening to take you to court before you dealt with them in hush money. All just so it doesn’t leak to the press that you knew what you were dealing with was highly unstable and willingly let those workers in unstable and dangerous working conditions.m Tim watches as their faces drop, preparation visible on their foreheads and he continues on, feeling you squeeze his arm.

‘Only to end up illegally selling the product to unground crime syndicates to make ends meet in due to how much money you’ve initially lost.’ Tim then says in response, watched as their faces become unsettlingly pale as they excuse themselves while exiting the room.

He’ll say or this or just say ‘they are after what they’re owed.’ And leave it at that.

Once he’s satisfied that he’s silenced them and damaged their egos, he looks to you with concerned eyes. ‘Are you okay lovely?’ He asks you as he sees just how small you’ve made yourself because of them.

‘I’m fine Tim thanks to you.’ You said as you hugged him tightly, kissing his cheek as he pats your back before rubbing it soothingly. ‘ I thought they wouldn’t shut up, or follow me whether I went just to degrade me for walking or whether else they could degrade me for.’ You add as you burrowed your head into his neck, wanting to forget this had ever happened.

‘All you need to remember is that they’re more flawed and easier to expose, you however,’ Tim kisses your temple, tightening his hold, ‘are more then they could ever comprehend and have more heart and soul then they do and I couldn’t be prouder to be your partner. Thank you for choosing me.’ He finished.

‘I’d choose you every time Tim.’ You replied.

‘Then expect me to do the same bedside there’s no one else I’d rather have them you.’ Tim promised as you stayed in this embrace for a good while before deciding to leave and watch your favourite show on his laptop for comfort.

[missgenesis]

It is!

Honestly, tho I can't stay mad at people who make epic music that colors my life.

Nobody in this world owes us anything. Some people come into our lives to simply make their mark and cause a disruption. Fear not the shit disturbers. They can bring unexpected blessings.

The vacant spaces in between - the beats of silence, of pause - are just as important to the melody as the notes themselves.

In my life, I never would have learned what love truly was until I experienced what it felt like for love to be absent. I wanted and expected so much more than what I got on multiple occasions. This has been a recurring pattern in my life indicating a karmic cycle. I kept attracting this chaotic energy into my life over and over without even knowing it.

I kept finding myself in relationships that left me feeling disappointed, frustrated, and heartbroken. It took me a while to see it this way, but now I am truly grateful for those experiences, it was the struggle and the pain that ended up healing me on a deeper level.

It became clear to me that I had an ancestral wound already, a void space inside of me with regards to love, and these broken relationships, while painful, let me become aware of it and ultimately heal myself.

I believe that I subconsciously attracted them into my life for this very purpose.

Shadow work. Excavating the unconscious mind and the parts of our psyche that we prefer not to examine. It's nasty business. Uncomfortable, stressful, overwhelming, messy, painful as hell... it's like giving birth.

Worth it, I think.

In fact music was my single most important healing modality. It became my home and taught me everything I know about life.

~~~~ Music is my obsession because to me it feels like the essence of life and spirit. Infinite combinations and permutations that follow almost like a mathematical code to create a rhythm. A vibrational frequency that resonates with the soul. Patterns in music that are pleasing to the ears are a fractal of the laws and patterns in nature. Music theory n00b here but I found this kinda neat. ~~~

A step, or conjunct motion, is a linear interval between two consecutive notes of a scale.

An interval is the distance between any two pitches in a melody. Linear (melodic) intervals may be described as steps or skips.

A melody that moves in small, connected intervals is considered conjunct, while one that moves by leaps is called disjunct.

The general rule of spacing is to keep the distance between soprano and alto as well as the distance between alto to tenor within an octave of each other.

Any larger interval is called a skip (also called a leap).

Allowing a distance greater than an octave between soprano and alto (or between alto and tenor) is considered spacing error .

Childhood can be scary.

A collection of some of my hand-drawn horror looping animations!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Get Lost

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You get caught in the corn maze after dark but you don’t think those footsteps belong to someone trying to help you find your way out.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen

Note: this is the fifth and final of my autumn fics as decided by all of you!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

Jaden points across the dash, receiving a swat from Alexandria as she tries not to veer. 

“Hey,” she cries out, “don’t do that. I can’t see over your ugly sweater.” 

“Oh, whatever, Lex,” he snips, “I was just trying to show you that.” He points again, this time without blocking her view, “you see that sign ahead?” 

“Sure, I see it,” she leans over the wheel as your nail taps across your phone screen. You huff. You wish they’d stop arguing for one moment. “A maze?” 

“A corn maze. Doesn’t that sound fun? I haven’t been to one since I was a kid.” 

“Of course, you haven’t,” you scoff and let your phone hang carelessly in your hand. “We’ve all seen that movie with the evil kids. Who wants to go running through a field?” 

“I do,” Ashton says, “better than driving around looking for those shoes that don’t exist.” 

His girlfriend, Samira, laughs and leans into him. You blow a raspberry. 

“It’s all the way out in the middle of nowhere,” you sneer. 

“Well, Mrs. Xanny, you never want to do anything so your vote counts for nothing,” Jaden retorts. 

“Excuse me,” you roll your eyes. 

“I’m up for it,” Ashton raises his hand. 

“Me too,” Samira mimics him. 

“Me three,” Jaden declares. “So looks like you two are outvoted.” 

“Whatever,” you mutter and Alexandria sighs. 

“Fine, but nobody better leave me behind. I’m not getting lost because of you idiots,” she growls. 

“Don’t worry, Lexi, I’ll hold your wittle hand,” Jaden teases. 

The others laugh and you go back to your phone. You’re more interested in the new heels at your favourite boutique than some dirty and scarecrows. Alexandria steers on as she continues to snap at Jaden to stop distracting her. Her driving is a lot scarier than anything that might be hiding in the maze. 

You swipe and tap and tune out the world around you, especially the two lovebirds exchanging not so subtle touches beside you. Jaden had to insist on sitting in the front. Finally, the car rolls, the axle jostled by the lumpy ground, and you look up at the gray sky. You hate daylight savings. 

When the wheels are still, you’re reluctant to get out. You could offer to watch the car until they get back. It’s cold and you don’t feel like slogging through soil and seed. 

“Hey, Lex,” you begin. 

“If I’m going, you’re going,” she snips as she undoes her seatbelt. 

You curl your lip and make a face at her back. The others are already out of the car. Jaden’s bouncing eagerly, Ashton’s staring at the gate to the maze, and Samira is draped off her boyfriend’s arm. They probably just want to find a dark corner so they can makeout. They are so high school. 

“Fifteen bucks?” You read the sign above the table, “blech. I could put that towards my hair appointment tomorrow.” 

“Oh, boo hoo,” Jaden snorts. 

“Don’t act like you don’t have the money,” Samira jeers. 

You call these people ‘friends’ lightly. You all just kind of stick together out of familiarity. Most people you’ve met aren’t much better so why risk downgrading. 

You take a step and feel your tall heel sink into the mud. Ew. 

“Oh, my boots,” you whine as you lift your sole, the muck dripping off of it. 

“Wash em after,” Ashton says. 

“These are Louis’,” you snarl. 

“And you have at least three identical pairs at home. Lighten up,” he barks back. 

You cross your arms and seal your lips with a wry smile. You’re not arguing with him. He’s been a jerk ever since you turned him down at his sister’s twenty-fifth. You suppose it was his birthday two, them being twins and all. Not that he looks very much like Alexandria. 

You trod after the four others, trying not to step too deep in the mud. You growl at the ground. You know what’s not dirty, a salon or a store. 

“Nice boots,” a deep voice rolls over you as you join the queue for tickets.  

You lift your head and look over at the man nearby. He steps up next to you as you eye his bristly upper lip. It’s a look, not a good one. 

“Brave girl going in alone,” he comments. 

You frown, “I’m not,” you step closer to your friends and they chatter. 

“Oh, coulda fooled me,” he remarks as he reaches into his jacket. “So, those Louis boots... those are last year’s...” 

“How would you know?” 

He shows the lining of his jacket. Also Louis. He pokes his fingers into the interior pocket and slides out a pack of gum. He pushes out a piece and pops it in his mouth. He tucks the pack back into his pocket and drops his hands to his hip. 

“So,” he chews the gum loudly. “You’re not really dressed for a maze.” 

“And you are?” You scowl, looking him up and down. He copies your posture and does the same to you. 

“I’m not here for the maze, baby girl,” he winks and snaps the gum. “But you have fun.” 

He turns and struts away before you can respond. Your lips open in confusion. What could he mean? You blink and shut your mouth, stepping up between Alexandria and Ashton. 

“So, how long are we going to have to stand around?” You ask. 

🌾

You hold your phone up in irritation. Your bars are totally gone. Great. This maze thing is so fucking boring. What are you supposed to do now? 

You sniff and shake your head. You sigh and put your phone in your jacket pocket, keeping your hand in the fleecy insert as the chill creeps up your leggings. You guess you’ll have to help or whatever. 

“Alex--” you look ahead then back, and side to side. Your heart leaps and you rush forward as fast as you can on your six-inch heels, “Alexandria? Ashton?” You look around the next corner and the opposite way along the other pathway. “Samira?” 

You spin again, your ankles tangling together. You blink as the tall corner adds to the dimness setting over the horizon. You gulp as your heart pounds in your throat. You slip your phone free once more and turn on the flashlight. 

You aim it ahead and listen for voices. You don’t hear much past the dense wall of stalks. As you brush a bit too close, you cry out and back away from the hanging husk. You shake of the crawling sensation and turn back and forth again. You lost your sense of direction. 

You look up at the sky. The clouds are thick, you can see neither moon or sun. You stop and pull your phone closer. You bring up your maps but it’s just a blank screen. Still no signal. 

Fuck it. Just walk, you’ll find the way. 

You shine the light ahead of you, your heels sinking into the mulch of footsteps, husks, and stones. You walk unevenly over the soft ground. You mumble obscenities as your arches start to bemoan the height. If you had known about this special excursion, you could’ve worn your Uggs. 

There’s a scuff, a strange echo of your own steps. You stop but it keeps going. You squint and twirl around, the light glinting off the corner and slicing through shadows. “Hello?” You call out. 

The footsteps continue but no one answers. You can’t tell if they’re ahead of you or behind you. Or to the left. Or right. You sway back and forth. This is getting weird. 

You take a breath and set your feet. You nearly trip as your heels dig in once more. You grunt and pull them out. You’re about to just scream for help. 

A sudden rumble makes you squeal. What the hell was that? You twist around and it happens again. It’s laughter? Someone’s laughing at you? 

You look at the tall stalks of corn, searching between the tight rows. 

“Alright, not very funny. Ashton....” you holler. 

The laughter gets louder. 

“Jaden,” you hiss. 

The laughter stops. 

“I really am not amused, okay? I want out. I never even wanted to do this stupid thing--” 

“Those boys are long gone, sweet peach,” the voice drawls around you like the wind, “I’m all man.” 

“Where are you? Who are you?” You ask. 

“I’m right behind you, baby, and I’m your knight in shining armour,” he purrs. 

You gasp and turn around. You beam the flashlight of the phone in the man’s face. You only get a glimpse of that short brown mustache before the cell is knocked from your grasp. 

“What are you tryna do? Blind me?” He snarls as your phone disappears between the corn. 

“What-- What do you want?” You step back, dragging your heels from the mud. 

“I wanna help, baby,” he slithers. “You seem lost.” 

You blink at him. He’s a dark silhouette against the greyness trapped in the maze. You bristle and look over at the corn. 

“Sure, I’ll just grab my phone, thanks--” 

“Ah, ah,” he comes up to meet you, blocking you with his arm. “I don’t work for free, honey pot.” 

“Fine, then go away,” you spit. 

“Woah, ho, you haven’t even asked what I want in return, sweetie,” he brings his other hand up to touch your cheek and you flinch away. 

“You’re not getting it, dude,” you back up. 

“Just a little suck. Hell, you give the little guy a nice kiss and I won’t even make you finish the job--” 

“Ew, no way,” you smack his hand down as he reaches for you again. “Fuck off--” 

He’s quick. He grabs you by your jaw and snarls as he looms over you, “for such a pretty mouth it sure is fucking filthy. Won’t matter what I put in it--” 

“Hey,” you grunt and writhe in his grasp, twisting your hands around his thick forearms, “get off--” 

“I’m trying, trust me--” 

You ram your knee up and feel the crunch in his pants. He wheezes and lets you go. You shove him and stagger backwards. You look at the corn one last time. Your phone is somewhere in there. 

As he cradles his crotch and snarls, the urgency of the moment slaps you across the face. Fuck your phone. You need to get away from this creep. 

Thank god you got insurance on your cell plan. You turn and lift your knees. You land on your toes, keeping your heels off the ground as much as you can. You’re not going very fast and you know you look ridiculous but you don’t care. You want to go home. 

You pump your arms as you breath hitches. You hear groans and another set of steps, just like before. You get to a corner and turn before you crash through the corn. You heave as you race away, ankles threatening to bend. At what point do you just ditch the Louis’ and mourn them with your phone. 

You cough and slow down. Shit. You’re in terrible shape. You look over your shoulder, your breath foggy in the plummeting temperature. You don’t see him. You don’t hear him either. Good. 

You turn-- 

“Boo!” The man startles you so you shriek. 

You stagger back as he cackles and you hurl yourself forward. Your feet catch as your heels stab the ground and you stumble with your arms flailing away from him. Your shallow breaths thunder around you as you charge through the maze only to find yourself trapped at a dead end. 

You stop and waver, lungs filled with fire. Fuck, fuck, fuck! You stomp with each internal proclamation. 

“Look, sugar tits, you can keep running and I’ll keep chasing,” the man struts up behind you as you spin to face him. “But it all ends the same way.” He sets his feet wide and cracks his knuckles. “And since you bruised my left nut,” he snarls, “you can kiss that better first.” 

“Uh, like why are you doing this?” You ask. 

He chortles, “like because I can.”  

You snarl and cross your arms, “you’re a loser. And you’re old. Like, can’t you find someone your own age to creep on?” 

He laughs louder but there’s not much humour in it. He stalks closer and your defiance glimmers, just a little. You don’t know where he gets off. Does he really think he can just tell you what to do? 

“So, I knew you were gonna be a handful,” he grabs you by the neck and you wince. You slap his wrist and he tuts, bringing his other hand up to grope your chest, “in more ways than one.” 

“Hey, fuck--” you grit out. “Hey!” 

“Look, sweetie, it’s a simple transaction. I pull my pants down, you keep those teeth to yourself, and be real nice to me,” he glares down at you. “The way you crushed my balls, you’re lucky I don’t make you lick my boots.” 

“What is wrong with you?” You growl. 

“Oh, a lot,” he smirks. “Now, those boots must kill your feet so...” he jerks you roughly, “on your knees.” 

Your eyes tinge just a little but you won’t cry. Not because of him. You gnash your teeth and grimace at him as he peels his hand away. 

“You got one thing going for you, baby, and that’s that pretty face. I can change that, trust me,” he warns. You swallow avert your eyes. He chuckles again, “god, I love that pout.” 

You bat your lash and fight to keep the litany of insults inside. You caterpillar faced fuck. You viagra powered moron. You overgrown frat boy. 

“The next time you open your mouth, it better be to gobble my cock,” he sneers, “so don’t even say it.” 

You look at him again. You set your eyes and your jaw. You step closer and he lifts his chin just slightly as he stares you down. 

You grab his belt and he twitches. You unbuckle it and whip the ends aside. You pop the button open and yank the zipper apart. He watches you, his eyebrow tweaking. You push his fly wide and roll your eyes as you feel his naked pelvis beneath your fingertips. Of course, this weirdo is hanging loose. 

You reach under his pants and angle his hard dick through the teeth of the zipper. You stroke him up and down with a dry, tight grip. He hisses and shifts his weight. 

“Careful, like sandpaper,” he rasps. 

You tut and look down. You huff. You move one foot back and bend your leg. You put one knee to the ground then the other. You make a face as you come level to his tip. Ugh. 

“Don’t look so fucking enticed,” he barks. You roll your eyes again and he swats your head. “Keep doing that and your eyes are getting stuck.” 

Old. Man. 

You pump him again and slowly, inch by inch, lean in. 

“Ah, I said kiss the left one first, then you can get to the main dish,” he puts his hand on his hip. 

You swallow and push down a tide of disgust. You lift him and lean your head to the side. You crane around and pucker, pressing your lips to his left ball. He twitches and groan. 

“Damn, those lips are soft. Do the other one.” 

With bile brewing in your stomach, you obey. You pull back and put his tip to your lips. You narrow your gaze at his pelvis and spread your mouth around him. You wet his swollen head then work your way down his length. He might be a desperate loser but he’s not small. 

You bob up and down as you take more and more of him. He curls his fingers into his hip as his other hand goes to the back of your head. He urges you on and you bat his hand with yours. You push back against him and flick your eyes up. 

“You are a stubborn one,” he rebukes. 

Your lips meet your hand and you pump him emphatically with both, popping off his tip so he whimpers. He clutches a wad of your hair as his eyes gleam desperately. 

“I kissed it better,” you wipe your mouth, “you show me the way out, and you might just finish, old man.” 

He stares down at you. Agitation and amusement battle across his expression. He takes a breath and lets it out. 

“One last kiss and I’ll get you out,” he says, “And then you’ll get me off.” 

The cold air swirls around you and the darkness floods through the corn. You squeeze him slightly and put a sloppy kiss on his tip with a loud muah. You let go and tickle along his length. You grab onto his arm and pull yourself to your feet. 

“I want out. Now.” 

“Alright, princess,” he snickers. “Don’t you worry, I got a throne you can sit on when we’re home free.” 

[saraloveslove]

A day has passed since Liam was buried to rest forever and I feel I have to express what I have in the depth of my heart.

We all agree that we all wished for a private funeral where only Liam's true people attended and where those people were free to be themselves, but this wasn't it. Maybe because Liam's family wanted a respectful public goodbye or, most likely, because they knew they couldn't avoid it (the fact syco's people was there made me question if the family had actually a say in keeping the ceremony totally private).

So, paps were allowed but with strict rules and the details weren't disclosed until the very last. They did everything necessary to keep the dignity of the ceremony. And they did it.

In this scenario, I want to point out at what the boys did: they discussed it prior and they decided to show there separately and to interact the less possibile. The fact that there were paps imposed them to wear their TM trenchcoats but they did it in silence, they maintained the lowest profile possible. They sacrified their grieve to not offer any kind of side to paps for taking pictures of the "reunion", knowing too well how disgusting outlets were waiting for nothing but that. They didn't give anyone any chance to make it about One Direction; they made it only about Liam. They gave him all the respect and dignity he deserved that they only could give him, because they only truly loved him. (Apart his family, of course). This was the biggest final act of love they could do for him, and they did.

Ohana means family, and family means nobody is left behind

Another mention goes to Cheryl and the way she protected Bear. They very likely had their private moment and she kept him away from paps, disgusting people and speculations. I could think what I think about her as a woman in regard of her "relationship" with Liam, but as a mother she has my whole true respect.

And last, to Karen and Geoff. As a parent myself, I cannot even image what kind of devastation has been living in their hearts for all this time; and yet, just because I am a mother, I can perfectly imagine that. I have never stopped thinking at them since that cursed day, and the dignity they showed is something I admire deeply. I don't think I would be able to, if I were in their shoes.

Karen, Geoff, Ruth, Nicola, Bear, Harry, Louis, Niall and Zayn: I hope you can feel our love, I hope you can feel our warm hug. You are not alone in the grief; we'll do our best to keep Liam's memory alive and teach the world what beautiful man he was, and we'll do our best to keep his legacy alive, avoiding his death was invain. Just show us the path, and we'll follow it.

And last, to Liam: you'll live forever ❤️

[aboutcustardcreams]

Time Ticking, Patience Thinning

Here’s another chapter that I hope you enjoy 🫶🏼 please lemme know if you do~ would make my day!

previous chapter

“What’s your name again-? I didn’t quite catch it the first time.” 

When the boy opened his mouth to answer Agatha’s question, your gaze instinctively shifted to him. What happened next took you by surprise. As he began to speak, a shimmering sigil materialized above his lips, silencing his voice entirely. Your brows furrowed in confusion as your gaze slowly shifted to Agatha. 

“Interesting,” that’s all she said. 

"What do you mean?” 

“Nothing to shout about,” she waved it off, giving you the hint of keeping that detail Teen a secret for now. “Anyway, I can’t promise I’ll remember your name.” 

Her words caught you off guard, and it took everything in you not to burst into a cackle. Even so, a tiny puff of air escaped your nose, almost sounding like a snort. Agatha turned to you then, her composure always impeccable, infuriatingly so. 

“We better get going now,” she brushed past you towards the front door, or rather, the spot where it used to be.

You smacked your lips at her nonchalance. If you weren’t in such a rush, you’d invade her personal space right there and now, capture her lips with yours to wipe off that knowing grin from her face. 

Instead you only said, “I drive.”

She didn’t object to that. In fact, she preferred it when you were the one behind the wheel. It gave her the liberty to let her hands wander over your skin. 

As you slid into your car, Teen's eyes sparkled with the hopeful anticipation of claiming the shotgun seat, but Agatha cut off his enthusiasm rather quickly. 

“Be a good pet and sit in the back, will you?” 

The boy shot you a sideway glance and you muttered a soft ‘sorry’ in his direction. Resigned, he slid into the backseat, clicked his seatbelt into place,and slouched in quiet defeat, arms crossed over his chest, reminding you of his young age. 

“Maybe on our way back you two can switch-”

Agatha didn’t even let you finish, “Or maybe not,” she muttered sarcastically. 

You sighed and started the car, with no clear destination in mind just yet, “very mature.”

She didn’t respond to that and simply hummed.

“So, where are we going?” Teen asked after a bunch of minutes. 

You looked at him from the rearview mirror, “for starters we do need a Coven to walk the Road.” 

He looked like a child on Christmas day, “you’re taking me to your Coven?” 

With your eyes back on the road, you hummed, “Uhm, not exactly.”

“We never had one,” Agatha clarified, “I mean, not for long anyway.” You glanced at her briefly, wondering what she might say to the boy next. For a fleeting moment, you thought she might blurt out the entire truth right then and there. But it wouldn’t be like her, so you brushed the thought aside almost as quickly as it came to you. 

“They annoyed me,” she said with a dramatic tut, “so one day I woke up, feeling inspired, and turned them into dust.”

You nearly veered into the opposite lane when she said that, your knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t entirely a lie either. Yes, she had killed her Coven, of that there was no dispute. But what she left unsaid were the reasons that forced her hand, reasons that probably nobody knew, that’s why people were so quick to come up with the ‘witch killer’ nickname. 

Teen looked terrified and uncertain what was to say next. And Agatha, being Agatha, looked quite pleased with it. 

"That’s not exactly how it went,” you mumbled, giving away the hint that there was more to say, without actually saying it. You stole a glance at Agatha, her smile teasing, slightly amused by the familiarity of the situation. There you were, once more, doing your best to clean up her reputation. She told you many times you didn’t have to do it, but you couldn’t help it. “What I can say is this: they’ve blown the whole ‘witch killer’ thing way out of proportion. Agatha isn’t a bad person.” 

Sure, you couldn’t deny the fact that Agatha killed witches, more than a few. But survival had a way of sharpening its edges, forcing impossible choices. She killed to save herself when no one else would. She killed to save Nicky. And later on… she killed to find a way to save you. It’s long overdue that people knew the truth, yet you knew it wasn’t your place, at least not only yours, to spill it. 

When Rio sent the Furies after you, they took possession of your mind, twisting reality until it was unrecognizable to you. Their voices inside your heart hurt in the most inexplicable way, but you resisted, you vowed to. You never fully understood how your condition affected Agatha and Nicky, because whenever you had a fleeting moment of clarity, they chose to savor the time together rather than tell you how much it hurt them to see you like that. During that time, Agatha’s killings increased but you wouldn’t know. She didn’t need to kill witches to heal Nicky, though. The moment you used your magic to bring him back to life, the curse had been lifted and with it, Nicky’s illness. But your magic had come with an unexpected price to pay. Rio had warned you, but you refused to listen. 

Noticing the way your eyes dimmed, Agatha slid her hand above your knee. She knew you too well to figure out exactly where your thoughts had gone. You were blaming yourself again. And she couldn’t let you do that. 

“Don’t listen to her, Teen. She has the tendency of picturing me softer than I really am,” despite her serious tone, the way her hand squeezed your knee, told you a whole different story. All she wanted was for you to let go of your sense of guilt. “When it comes to survival, you’ll do whatever it takes— anything. I hope it never comes that far for you.” 

Teen considered those words in silence. Your version compared to Agatha’s and it all just clicked. You were protecting her and she was protecting you. In that moment, he decided the rumors about the two of you didn’t matter, whether they were true or not. From now on, he would form his own picture of you both by living in the present and watching you do your thing. 

“I think it’s sweet that you found each other and stuck around for all these years. Centuries, I presume. In a way you form a Coven of two–” 

Your heart warmed up at Teen’s words. It was kind of cute to think of it that way. Your lips spread in a smile and so did Agatha’s, but more because she was amused by the whole thing he just said. Sure, she agreed with him- the fact that there was a bond between you two was true. An understatement, to be frank. You went through so many things together that the sole thought of parting ways for whatever reason felt now like a complete idiocy. You belonged to her like she belonged to you. 

“Teen, I’m sorry to cut your enthusiasm, but she and I are in a relationship. That hardly makes us a Coven.” 

“It makes us a family, though,” you pointed out. 

You caught something flickering in Agatha’s eyes, a shimmer of emotion, maybe even vulnerability. Had it been just the two of you, she might have let it linger, but with the boy in the car, she felt uneasy. So she averted her eyes, focusing on the passing landscape to her right. 

Noticing her hand slip away from your thigh, you pouted. Stubbornly, you reached out and placed it back where it belonged and when she turned, your lips curled up once again in a mischievous grin. Agatha snorted. That sass of yours— 

“There’s no time to be namby-pamby, my love. I need you to be focused.”

You rolled your eyes, but chuckled, “Fine. Wouldn’t want you to lose your only chance at surviving against the Salem Seven.”

Agatha's expression twisted into an exaggerated version of your own, mimicking your tone as she repeated the words you just said. The effect was immediate and both you and Teen burst into laughter, incredulous on your part. 

“I don’t sound like that!” 

“You do,” she insisted, lips twitching in a smirk. 

“I think she did a pretty good ‘you’”, Teen added, only fueling your mocking disbelief and Agatha’s enjoyment. 

“Whatever, I’m done with you two.” 

Your eyes squinted towards a peculiar building standing in the middle of nowhere to your left. You decided to try your luck there, took a rapid turn and parked right in front of the building, your instinct telling you there was a potential witch in there. The faded sign hanging above the door caught your eye, and you read it aloud: Madame Calderou’s Psychic Readings. 

Agatha clasped her hands together, before rubbing them as if she was plotting something mischievous, “Right. Seems like we are here.”

Teen’s interest piqued once again, “You think there’s a real witch in there?”

Before you could respond, Agatha preceded you, “we shall see if she knows the witchy handshake first.”

“Oh my God– there’s a witchy handshake?”

You let out an exasperated sigh while Agatha giggled to herself. It was so easy to play with that boy. “Teen, she is pulling your leg. There’s no such thing as a witchy handshake. Honestly that would be so demeaning.”

“Such as flying brooms or pointy hats,” she agreed with you. 

“I like flying brooms,” you retorted, as you three walked up towards the building. 

Agatha draped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you into a squishy, however affectionate embrace, “Course you do,” she purred, “next you’ll be telling me you want to adopt a black cat as familiar.” 

“I already have a familiar, thank you very much,” you pointed out, “a nice turtle that your bunny keeps bullying shamelessly.”

Agatha gasped dramatically, but you knew it was just an act, “he doesn’t! Take it back–” 

“He does,” you chuckled. “And no, I won’t.” 

“Uhm, we are drifting off here,” Teen interjected, with an awkward smile. He pointed at the building, making both you and Agatha shift your attention back to the reason why you were there. Gather a Coven of Witches. 

“Right,” she took a mental note to return to the subject another time. 

You nodded, stepping forward to open the door. Holding it wide, you gestured for Teen to go in first. He slipped inside without a word, rather excitedly actually, and as Agatha approached, she brushed past you, but not before her fingers slid into yours, her hand fitting perfectly in your grasp. 

A small, teasing grin tugged at your lips. “I thought we didn’t have time for sappy moments.” 

“Don’t be such a brat,” she whispered into your ear, in a cheeky tone, you didn’t miss. Couldn’t, if you tried. 

*

“You’ve been under the influence of another, haven't you? Someone you hurt,” the clairvoyant started, her voice solemn as she took in Agatha’s blue eyes. The smirk of confidence that had tugged at Agatha’s lips faded as soon as she realized that Lilia Calderou wasn’t a fraud and knew who she was. You gave Agatha’s hand a tentative squeeze, a way to let her know you were there– that everything was okay. Her fingers tightened around yours in response. 

“And she paid the price, too. They took your agency, but not hers,” she continued, her eyes landed on yours as you frowned uncomfortably. You never blamed Agatha for anything and you certainly wouldn’t start now just because a clairvoyant said so. “I feel it, your magic. It’s restless, volatile and quite dangerous. It should not exist.” 

You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms over your chest, “Here we go again,” you muttered, voice laced with dry sarcasm. Agatha snorted out a low chuckle in response to Lilia’s words, “You know nothing about her talent, so I’d suggest you to be quiet about it.” She never cared about what other witches thought about her, but whenever it came to you, she would completely lose her mind, if someone dared to judge who you were, basing their opinion on a prejudice as old as the world. 

“So you’re a witch?” Teen’s question came in a hopeful tone.

“Divination witch is my guess,” you replied before Lilia could. 

A mischievous grin tugged at Lilia’s lips. “If you intend to overstay your visit, I’ll have to charge you again.” 

“Oh, I think you can grant us another ten minutes of your time,” Agatha groaned, “It’s not that there’s a line in here or something.”

In response, you saw Teen bow his head to wipe the grin off his face. You, on the other hand, made no effort to hide yours. 

Annoyance was evident in her eyes, as she retorted, “whatever you want from me, I’m not interested,” Lilia stood up and without another word, she stood and disappeared behind the curtain at the back of her shop. 

You and Agatha shared a knowing glance. 

Teen appeared more disappointed than concerned, “Now what?” 

“Now we persuade her.” 

To preserve Agatha’s life, it was essential to gather some magic and you would have, no matter what. So you stood, eyes flashing with a newfound calm mingled with determination. Agatha noticed and smiled. She loved you for so many things and that behavior of yours, was just one of those characteristics that reminded her of why she chose to stick by your side so many years ago. 

She gave you a nod of her head and followed you, as you took the lead. On the other side, you found yourself in what could loosely be called an apartment. A single room stretched before you. To the left stood a corner kitchen, its countertops cluttered with mismatched utensils, jars of herbs, the faint glimmer of copper pots, and a kettle she just turned on, probably to make herself some soothing tea. 

“Join us,” Agatha insisted, as you and Teen kept looking around. “Honestly the way you live is kind of disappointing. You deserve more and better than whatever this place is…” Her gaze drifted to the far end of the room, where a mattress leaned against the wall, probably to save up space. 

You wondered if there was a toilet hidden behind it. How low could a witch go?

The clairvoyant’s gaze flickered with hesitation, her lips pressed into a thin line as Agatha’s words sinked in. The shrill whistle of the kettle cut through the silence, drawing her attention and causing both you and Agatha to roll your eyes, when she spun around. 

“Lilia–”, you couldn’t do this all day.  

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” when she turned to face you, her eyes locked onto yours, sharp and intense. You could tell she was conflicted, exasperated even. “I won’t make the same mistake and fall into Agatha’s manipulative ways. They say you endured the Furies’ wrath because you did and yet here you are, still standing by her side. I don’t understand that.”

To say you were shocked was an understatement. 

She had no idea what she was talking about– Agatha had nothing to do with the Furies. For some odd, infuriating reason, nobody knew a thing about Rio Vidal, instead: the true cause of everything. Instead, according to the stories, it had always been you and Agatha all along, so whatever bad thing came your way, Agatha bore the brunt of the blame. You were sick of that. 

Teen was in shock too, he didn’t speak, but a part of him ached to defend both you and Agatha. He’d read about the Furies, knew the torment you endured for years, but not for a second had he ever believed Agatha was responsible for it. It just didn’t sit right with him. It couldn’t be.  Not when Agatha looked at you the way she did, as if you held all the stars in the sky just for her. As if you were everything she had left.

Watching you from her peripheral vision, Agatha recognized clear signs of your struggle. Your jaw clenched tightly, your hands curled into fists at your sides, and your lips pressed into a thin line, “If you really think Agatha is somewhat responsible for what happened to me, which by the way is none of your business, maybe you lost your talent–”, your words hung in the air, adding to the already tense atmosphere lingering in the room. 

Lilia looked somewhat self-conscious about what she said and how they affected you, yet she didn’t apologize. However, she held herself back from responding to your bitter remark about her.

Agatha’s lips stretched into a sad, tight smile the moment her fingers brushed against your forearm, and you failed to meet her eyes, “hey– don’t go there again. It’s not worth it,” she cooed, voice firm, yet veiled with the usual fondness she only reserved to you. You clenched your eyes shut for a moment, your magic sparkling at the tips of your fingers. Lilia was right about one thing: your talent could be dangerous especially when wielded by a witch emotionally distressed or simply pissed off, like you. 

“You’re right,” you sighed, “Look, we are going to walk the Road. The Witches’ Road. And we need a divination witch, but the choice is yours. You can keep living your eternal life in this kind of shack you call home or try to go back on top. Be a witch again.”

Lilia’s mouth almost dropped, then. “The Road is a death wish.” 

“I survived,” Agatha waved with a grin. 

“And yet you’ve got no power.”

“That’s why I need to walk the Road, again. To restock.” 

Lilia swallowed thickly. The offer was appealing and yet, she was uncertain. Agatha was, after all, known for having betrayed her entire Coven, at a very young age too. “How can I trust you won’t take my power at the earliest opportunity?”

Before Agatha could say anything, you stepped forward. “She won’t. I guarantee it for you.” Despite your growing distaste for Lilia at this moment, your principles held steadfast: no more witches would die because of Agatha. Or you. That was a promise you intended to keep. “You seem to know very well what Agatha’s capable of, but my question is, are you just as familiar with my talent?”

Lilia almost found it amusing that you’d question her knowledge about witches of your kind. “I do. At least to some extent,” she clarified, “I know what a necromancer witch can do. And I also know you’re not a killer,” she finished on a softer note. 

“Agatha isn’t either,” you pointed out.

“Well, isn’t your loyalty sweet–”

Your lover took a step ahead, stretched out a hand, and moved you behind her, the moment your magic intensified around you and her, “Look, you’re right, I’ve got a reputation, I can’t help with that–” she trailed off, gesturing animatedly while doing so. “I don’t have time to persuade you into believing my intentions are genuine. Time’s running out and if you’re not willing to tag along, then fine. I’ll still Walk the Witches’ Road, restore my powers, and get my life back. Just remember that the path you’re currently on leads nowhere.” 

Her words were convincing enough, but it was the small piece of paper she was holding that truly caught Lilia’s attention. You hadn’t noticed it before, nor were you sure where it had come from, but the realization struck quickly. A smirk tugged at your lips as everything suddenly fell in place.

That was an eviction notice.

“Even if I were to accept, you’d still need more witches.”

Agatha had a solution for that too. She grinned from ear to ear, “I was hoping you’d use your witchcraft to come up with a list of names. You can do that, can’t you?” 

It was a rhetorical question, she knew she could. 

Lilia’s lips stretched into a defiant smile, “give me that,” she said, snatching the piece of paper from Agatha’s hands, along with a pen that lay on the table. She didn’t even have to think about the names, they were already there, poised on the tip of her tongue or rather, the pen. 

When she handed the paper back, both you and Agatha went as pale as a sheet. It couldn’t be. At the top were your name and Agatha’s, followed by Lilia Calderou, Jennifer Kale, Alice Wu Gulliver, and, finally, Rio Vidal.

[kithpendragon]

I want to fully endorse the fact that nobody but you can see any part of your internal world and that thoughts do not have any inherent moral value. And then (as it turns out) I'll write a quick overview on the difference between thinking and doing, and on choosing and cultivating thought patterns. May it benefit all that it may.

TLDR: You are not the random thoughts and nobody can see those. You are a whole person with the ability to choose what you do.

Your mind produces widely varied and creative thoughts, and also contains a filter that chooses which thoughts should inform the way you show up in the real world. That's what evolution has selected for us over the last billion or whatever years.

Not every thought is useful or true, and you don't have to endorse them all! You certainly don't have to *act* on all the thoughts, and choosing which thoughts you *should* act on is the work of morality.

I'll say it again but in a different shape:

There are NO "immoral thoughts", only ACTIONS that may produce perceived benefit and/or harm. You get to choose which thoughts eventually become actions.

We may become uncomfortable when some thoughts come up. That's GOOD! That feeling indicates our working ability to quickly detect potential harm to ourselves and others. That feeling is helping to keep you and those around you safe.

When a thought comes up and we find it uncomfortable we can examine it more closely. Then, if appropriate, we can choose to say to ourselves, "Well, that's obviously not something I should do!" Then release the thought back to wherever it came from, and be pleased that the filters are working as they should. The thought is allow to exist; you don't have to do anything else with it.

If you find yourself worrying at a particular thought like a loose tooth, ask yourself "Is this [behavior] useful?". A lot of times that can break the cycle.

Bonus: If you want some thoughts to come up more often, you can practice that! It helps to name the thought - assign it a short phrase or a simple sense impression that you can use to invoke it.[^1] Then simply name that thought as often as you can, and pay close attention to what it means to you. With time, you'll train the brain to think that thought more easily, and it can be there for you to choose from whenever you need it.

Of course, as with anything, if the presence/recurrence of certain thoughts is interfering with your ability to live your life well, it's time to talk to somebody about it.

Remember: you are not the random thoughts and nobody can see those. You are a whole person with the ability to choose what you do.

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

[^1] It occurs to me that the bit about naming thoughts with phrases or sense impressions could bear some examples.

A smooth stone in your pocket might remind you that breathing deeply helps calm the body down and can "smooth the way", such as it is.

Phrases like "Be happy", "Be strong", "Be safe" can remind us of feelings we want for ourselves and others, especially if you repeat them with a particular person firmly in mind.

The little toy on the desk can remind you not to take everything so seriously all the time.

The feeling of a necklace, bracelet, ring, &c. can remind you of a friend you love.

Get creative - the possibilities are endless!

here's a little reminder that no one can read your mind or see your "weird" or "bad" thoughts and daydreams! mind readers are not real, and your inner world is entirely private. your thoughts and daydreams are not embarrassing or bad, and they do not define your morality!

everyone who keeps saying shit like "sounds like something a mind reader would say" or "mind readers are real actually" i will eat you to death and enjoy every minute of it. not the time or place

[eunimaybe]

— • POINT OF CONTENTION : YOU.

ᝰ.ᐟ : why are you on a coffee date with jay? i thought you guys were the biggest rivals, no?

pairing! politicalsciencemajor!jay x politicalsciencemajor!reader | wc. 0.7k | warnings: attempted humour (failed), prob kinda cringe, inaccurate university stuff (im so sorry i’ve never been in uni) EN-

🖇️ : jay's version!! political science suits him so well, don't you think? also this became a debate fic for some reason… but i hope you guys enjoy ~ jake version is next ^^

political science is such a jay subject

someone says political science i think of jay

you first met jay at a debate club at your university

when you first saw him you thought "hmm, typical political science major with not-so-typical sharp jawline"

tbh you just saw him as competition he better get tf out of your way you're at university to get the best grades and graduate on top like you did for middle school and high school

you hated how jay was always at top

you admired him but hated him at the same time can he please fumble for once?

jay also sees competition when he sees you except the competition is a hot twenty year old girl with silver glasses and an immaculate fashion taste

but competition nonetheless

so one day you guys are having a debate about some political shit

you're even more competitive than usual

political science is YOUR major so YOU have to win

but guess what

your opponent is no another than jay himself

both of you are absolutely determined to win the debate

like bitch there's fire in your eyes you have to beat this man

he’s on the positive side and you’re on the negative so you think you’re completely cooked

but guess what gang

you won.

you just kind of stand there wondering wtf just happened until reality comes crashing down

you just beat jay, and he's the best political science student the school has.

you spent like 922929485 minutes making jay’s life hell for his loss before leaving the room in a very good mood.

and let me tell you

jay is down bad.

he just saw you give the most scrumptious, delicious, yummy argument to counter his equally scrumptious, delicious, yummy argument

nobody has ever beaten him like that before.

EVER.

but you did.

and that's very hot of you.

tbh the debate was a very close call

jay's arguments were sharper than his jawline and that's saying something (moment of appreciation for his 90 degrees jawline)

you're part impressed, part annoyed and part determined.

you NEED to beat him in the next debate as well

you're practically drooling when you think about beating him in the next coming debate as well

perhaps you're also drooling over jay but you'd never admit that

you just gaslight yourself into thinking that it's just begrudged admiration that's making you feel this way

you spend the next week researching the new topic for the debate you're going to have with jay to ensure that you'll be able to counter every single argument he throws at you

you don't know whether you're on the positive side of negative yet BUT THAT DOESN'T MATTER YOU'LL JUST RESEARCH IT ALL

you like to study in that one little spot at the library but turns out jay also conveniently really likes that spot

you wake up ten minutes early everyday to get there before him

you're basically running on caffeine and caffeine only the whole week trying to juggle the preparations for the debate and lectures

somebody keeps leaving you a cup black coffee, your favourite, on your morning lecture tables

you don't know what's going on and why someone's giving you free beverages buttt free coffee, right?

idk if you're just oblivious or stupid or denying the truth

maybe all three because how tf are you not connecting the dots?

the debate.

jay.

the coffee.

when the next debate finally comes, you sit down across jay with your COLOUR ORGANISED flashcards and notes

you don't even have to look at them

jay's also been preparing as well, so it's a very tough debate

both of you shooting one argument after another BUT GUESS WHO WON

you. ACADEMIC QUEEN FRFR

you celebrate by another session of rubbing your victory into jay's too-hot-for-his-own-good face but you're aware that the debate was practically a draw

you both did so good it's actually crazy

the next day, you come to another cup of black coffee sitting at your lecture table except it has a little note saying

"nice debate yesterday. you wanna go out together tonight? - jay"

of course you say yes I MEAN LOOK AT THIS MAN HOLY SHIT

heeseung jake sunghoon sunoo jungwon ni-ki

✉️: @icyy-hoon send me an ask or comment under this post to be added to my taglist <3

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Protective Gale Dadkarios Thoughts

A/N: I am once again thinking about Gale being a father and it's giving me emotions. This man makes me soft guys!

Okay, first things first, this is more in keeping with my Single Mom!Tav, Gwen, headcanons (found here)

Basically Gwen had a tiefling child, Clara by a previous marriage. She and her husband divorced and after Gale and Gwen got married they had a daughter named Morgan

As I've kind of dove into here; Clara and Morgan have a hard time conceptualizing their father as an adventurer

Yes, obviously, he was, but to them he's just their dad; the one who makes bad jokes and cooks and reads them stories, it's not necessarily real to them

So imagine for a moment, Clara walking through the market with a little Morgan in tow

Clara old enough at this point to go by herself, but Morgan is obessed with her big sister and Gwen insist Clara bring Morgan with her

Clara begrudgingly agrees, taking the coin Gwen gave them to buy some things for dinner while Morgan tugs on her sleeve asking if they can get a treat

Clara is too distracted to notice at first the sound of horses hooves galloping toward them. The store keeper in front of them suddenly drops with an arrow to the chest. The rest is chaos.

Clara doesn’t know what to do except grab Morgan and start running back towards home. Morgan is scared though and too little to run properly.

Clara then ducks them between a few barrels just hoping nobody notices them. She only is just able to catch her breath when she feels a hand on her shoulder.

She starts to yell ready to start biting just like her uncle Astarion told her when she sees her dad kneeling down next to them.

Morgan throws her arms around him and Clara isn’t that far behind

Gale hugs them both asking if Gwen is with them. Clara tells him she’s back home. She then sees something in her dad’s eye she hasn’t seen before.

His jaw is set and there is something calculating in the way he looks out at the choas on the other side of the alley way. He then kisses them both of the forehead and tells them very calmly to stay hidden, he’ll be right back.

Morgan starts to reach out to her dad, but Clara holds her back. Something in how he said it makes her actually feel the necessity to do as he says.

Still, she can’t help it take a peak as she sees her dad step out of the alley with nothing but his staff.

The next thing she sees is a display of magic she’s only heard in stories.

The fire that rains down isn't done out of fury, but cool precise calculation

Time might as well have stopped

Gale isn't being extravogent or showing off, this is a wizard at full power cleaning up the mess in the most efficient way possible

When the dust clears, Gale stands in the middle of it all without a scratch on him

He then turns back to see Clara and Morgan peaking out of the alley way

He wants to chastize them for not hiding properly like he said, but he can't bring himself to do it, espeically when Morgan comes charging into his arms

Clara isn't far behind and he gathers them both to him

Everything is alright now, time to go home

Morgan is really too little to understand what she just saw, only that it was scary and the safest place she can think to be is in her father's arms

Clara honestly can't help but stare at him; she didn't think he was that...well, cool

Of course, this illusion is shattered the second he makes a bad joke in some attempt to get them to smile

At the end of the day, he's still their dad; soft, safe and warm

[bumblesimagines]

i'm going to scream.

did you two have a nice chat?

are we really doing this now?

Kiara Carrera

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: None!

Tell a friend to tell a friend... I'm backkkkkk

"I'm going to scream."

Sarah huffed out a chuckle, brown eyes peeking over the magazine in hand to eye her friend as Kiara made her way over to the counter. The scowl on her face spoke volumes and Sarah only had to peer at the dock to locate the source of Kiara's irritation. There, standing on the dock by one of the boats, stood (Y/N) and a vaguely familiar girl. Everything about the girl's body language screamed flirtatious but (Y/N) either remained oblivious or ignored it in favor of continuing the conversation. 

"You know her?" Sarah asked, leaning back in her chair and resting the magazine on her chest to focus her full attention on Kiara as the brunette aggressively tidied up the area around their register. Kiara gave a hearty scoff, her eyes rolling so hard Sarah wondered if it hurt before she rounded the counter to stand beside her. 

"Of course, I do." Kiara groaned. "Back when (Y/N) and I still worked together, she'd come in almost every day just to talk to him. Mom thought it was so cute and romantic but it was just a pain in the ass! And now she's popping over here too? She doesn't even fish! Nobody in her family fishes! Her dad owns a convenience store!" 

Sarah snorted and quickly clamped her teeth into her lip to avoid the snickers from flowing out. Kiara shook her head, her brows tightly knitted and her lips pulled taut into a frown. It'd been amusing for the pogues (borderline became entertainment at one point) to watch the fierce rivalry between Kiara and (Y/N) take an abrupt turn into obvious feelings. Sarah lost count of the number of times she teased Kiara over it, cooing in her ear until Kiara swatted at her with burning cheeks while JJ and John B egged (Y/N) on. It'd only taken a devious plan from Cleo to finally push Kiara into confessing. 

The wooden floorboards creaked beneath new weight, drawing their attention onto (Y/N) as he stepped into their little shop, his smile immediately greeting them only to falter when he took in his girlfriend's expression. Sarah rose from her chair, carefully and slowly closing the magazine as Kiara folded her arms over her chest and arched a challenging brow.

"Did you two have a nice chat?" Straight to the point with a sharp tone, typical Kie. Kiara had never been one to sugarcoat things, much less beat around the bush when something bothered her. It'd been one of the many traits they all loved about her. "It's crazy how she came in here asking about so much and then left with- how much exactly, Sarah?" 

"Uh," Sarah cleared her throat and lifted her chin. "Nothing."

"Yeah, nothing."

(Y/N) stared at them, the confusion on his face melting away into a bemused quirk of his lips. "Are we really doing this now? Like, right now, in front of Sarah and whoever else stops by?" His brows lifted, only offering a soft scoff when Kiara jutted her hip out and placed her hand over it. "You're unbelievable, Kiara. Don't you ever get tired of being annoying?"

"Don't you ever get tired of pissing me off?"

"It's part of my charm, babe. It's why you love me." 

In an instant, all the fiery emotions that accumulated vanished, leaving behind a flustered smile and a half-hearted eye-roll. "Yeah, well," She cleared her throat. "You can use that charm and help me tend to the register where I can keep an eye on you."

Quirking a brow, Sarah glanced between the two of them. "You guys have a weird way of flirting."

[iwillbefamousonedayipromise]

And the worst is that one of the things adults always tell me as an excuse is "I have more things to think about then you, I am more stessed, you don't have stress" like seriously??

Like if we are young then we don't live in stressfull situations.

Onestly I think it's the opposite: young people have so many pressure on their shoulders, way more than adults, becouse come on, we are growing with stress as part of our lifes!

"You get irritated easly" well meabey becouse I am stressed becouse I have 3 interrogations/test to be ready for and it's happening every week; tons of arguments to study for each of them; not enought time to study and do my homework without missing sleep; I don't have time for myself; I am tired becouse of the lack of sleep; I miss having free time and enjoy my life wich flies away too fast; I am pressured by everybody; every second of my life I am pressured to think about school; if I fail then I won't have a furire in my life; I feel like I am a single mother with 3 kids to think about and nobody to help me out; noboy is helping me relax or find a way out or this or anythingthat can help me; I am young but I don't feel young at all; I don't have experience on this becouse every school grade is harder than the one before so I can't even get slightly used to it; meabey I am depressed, I wouldn't be surprised; I could continue for so long.

Meanwhile what do they have to think about? Mh? Everything bad that happens to them it's not their fault, but then guess, it is exactly what happen with young people.

And I am not talking about the age between 13-17. It starts way earlier, and it keep going untill it reach 30 years old, and then it keeps going.

I need a break to the point I feel like crying when thinking about it.

Children/teens aren’t allowed to be sad or in a bad mood because they can get yelled at for it and ridiculed and told to ‘change your attitude or I will for you’, while adults who are sad or in a bad mood, are allowed to yell at and take their frustration out on the kids. Adult privilege huh?

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Imagine being kidnapped by Tom Ludlow.

Hi anon. This got out of hand. I’m sorry. CW: mentions of child abuse/dark humor concerning it, rape/noncon fantasies and details. I write from a place of my own trauma, and it gets a little fucked up. If you don’t like dark fics, or are triggered easily, DO NOT READ THIS. Violence, bad cops, SA. Tom Ludlow is not the bad guy in this, though.

If you’re a big girl, a tall girl, a girl with a lot of muscle or fat, you probably haven’t been picked up off the ground since you were very young.

You question your femininity because of it, along with a whole lot of other shit that society decides to push on you for not having a traditional feminine figure…whatever the hell that is.

You often take on a more protective, mothering or masculine roll with your smaller or daintier or gentler friends. You don’t look down on them at all—or envy them too often. Some people just carry a unique tenderness that you wish the world had more of. But every little rainbow or sunbeam needs their strong protective cloud, and you mostly gladly, sometimes reluctantly take on this role.

You will never be a meek, kind, delicate person. It’s just not going to happen. You don’t want it to happen. You’re pretty comfortable with your role in life. It’s just…sometimes…and this is probably something that everyone craves in vulnerable moments…you want to be the one getting protected.

It’s just kind of exhausting, always being there for everyone else. As much as you love it, and you do, it can also really drain you.

The duality of man is that we can be more than one type of person, and want different things. You know this. But…it’s hard as hell to admit you want to be taken care of. Because doesn’t that ruin your tough facade? Your strength and independence? Doesn’t that let everyone know that you’re just putting on an act to cover up who you really are—a weak, sniveling girl?

That’s why you bottle up, keep things to yourself, regard the world cynically and humorously with a lazy shrug of your shoulder. You act like nothing gets to you, like you are a stoic guard at the queen’s gate, like a big mastiff on patrol of your sheep.

When you do wear an emotion, more often than not it’s either sarcasm or…anger. Like tonight, when some guy won’t leave your friend alone at the bar.

She’s visibly uncomfortable and attempting escape from the creep following her around. She’s too nice to tell him to go away, but you’re not, and you have had to put yourself between them way, way too many times.

“She’s not interested,” you tell him.

He sneers at you. “Yeah, yeah I know.”

Except he fucking doesn’t, because ten seconds later he’s smacking her ass when she stands up, and you’re punching him in the mouth.

He hits you back, and it feels like a slap from a two year old, but it startles your fight or flight, and before you know it, your vision is blurry with rage and your fists are flying.

The security guards have to pull you off of one another and haul you outside to where the police are waiting with cuffs.

“He was harassing my friend,” you tell the guy who’s chaperoning you.

“Her ugly ass is just jealous cuz nobody wants her!” Screams scumbag from down the sidewalk.

Wow, you’ve never heard that one before.

One of the cops grabs him by the collar and says something that appears to be stern with his finger pointed at his face.

The guy looks visibly shaken after that, and he specifically avoids looking in your direction again.

The ballsy officer, probably in some sort of supervising position by the looks of it, gets to you next, and you have to crane your neck up to look at him.

You expect anger, but his face is neutral as he pulls a pen and paper from his utility belt. “Hello, ma’am, my name is officer Ludlow with the LAPD. You mind telling me what went on here tonight?”

You tick through the list of events as best you can, trying not to paint yourself as innocent (because with the way you beat on him, you’re definitely not), but making sure he knows what a fucking reprobate you were up against, and he scribbles it all down diligently.

After you’re done, he flicks his chin at the officer standing next to you. “Reed, let her go.”

They uncuff you, and you roll your arms, testing the circulation and rubbing out the raw red marks on your wrists. “Thanks,” you tell the lead officer. “You mind if I go back in and get my friends? There’s only three of us and I’m worried about them…”

“I can’t let you go back in,” officer Ludlow says, “but give us their names and descriptions, and I’ll send Reed in for them, alright?”

You nod, comply, and a few tense moments later Abby is running out to wrap her arms around your shoulders, smearing her glittery tears and pink blush on your jacket.

You hug her back, picking her up a little bit off the ground with the ferocity of your relief, and look at officer Ludlow over her head. “Thanks,” you tell him.

Tye, arriving from the thicket of people at the entrance a few moments later, immediately wants to know what happened.

She, however, is interrupted, by the asshole down the sidewalk, still in cuffs. “Hope you think of me when you see that handprint on your cute little ass tomorrow!” He calls, and Abby turns away, choking on a sob.

You’ve always had anger issues. Usually, in adulthood, they’re pretty easy to tame down. Not in this circumstance, not when you see Abby shaking and crying, looking as defenseless as a baby mouse.

Unbeknownst to you, because your sight and sound have been marginally narrowed to one person who needs his face bludgeoned in so hard that he finally shuts the fuck up, the head officer has already signaled for them to haul this guy into the back of a police car.

You’re not sure how you cross the distance between you and him so fast—you’re built for endurance, not speed—but suddenly your fists are connecting with his flesh again, and there’s a lot of yelling and pulling and finally your feet leave the ground and your knuckles leave his face.

It takes you a minute to realize you are being carried away—that your feet are not on land—and you look up at the person whose arms are currently wrapped around you.

Like mentioned before, it’s been a long, long time since someone has picked you up and you’ve lost your center of gravity so quickly and so thoroughly. Like a startled animal, you fight to try and get back to the ground, more out of shock and adrenalized fear than anything.

You don’t mean to scratch or bite the nice officer, you really don’t.

Ludlow just sighs at your resistance, like he could be doing something much more important right now rather than manhandling you into the back of a squad car like you’re an ornery kitten rather than a formidable opponent.

You are silenced into shock the whole way to the police station.

They put you in the waiting room sans cuffs, and you’re not sure how much time passes until a heavy presence plops down on the plastic chair next to you.

“Fuck,” is the first thing you say to Ludlow. “My friends…”

“They’re safe. I’m giving them an escort back home.”

He gives you some room temp water, and after the fear wears off, grants you enough time to come back to your good senses. You look at him sheepishly, with your head tucked down. “Sorry, he was a fucking creep.”

Ludlow nods. “I get it, hopefully I can get you out of it with a slap on the wrist.” He hands you some tissues from his breast pocket. “Wipe that blood off your face.”

You didn’t realize you were bleeding, so it’s a shock to finally feel the ache of a bloody lip and bruised cheek and see the paper come back crimson streaked.

After a few long moments of silence, you say, “I feel like an asshole.”

He shrugs, leans back, grins over at you. You fight the urge to flush at his crooked smile. He’s a handsome man. Sometimes you like those. “Asshole, no. Dumb, maybe. He could have really fucked you up.”

“I handled myself just fine.”

“Your split lip will disagree tomorrow morning. Lemme see.” He holds out his hand, as if for you to rest your chin in, and you’re not sure what brain malfunction gets you to comply. You are not a good listener by any means, especially for men in positions of authority or power.

Maybe it’s sexist, maybe it’s unfair. Spend your whole childhood getting the shit taken out of you by a man that’s supposed to love and care for and protect you, and then decide what’s fair and what’s not.

He whistles low, turning you this way and that with a tenderness you don’t expect from calloused, bear paw hands with knuckles like golf balls. “I’ll give it to you, you’ve got balls. Bigger than most men I’ve met.”

Your mouth betrays your tough girl facade, and lets a tiny smile hike up the edge despite the stinging pain that follows.

Officer Ludlow gets you out with a slap on the wrist—aka a misdemeanor—just like he said he was going to. You tell him thank you about ten million times for saving your ass, and for offering to give you a ride back to the bar to get your car.

“I’ve already put you out too much tonight,” you tell him. “I’ll get a Taxi or something.”

“It’s a Saturday night,” he says, jangling the keys in his beater pocket. “By the time you get to the bar, you’re gonna be towed. C’mon.”

You open the back door of his charger, but he shakes his head and, instead, opens up his passenger seat for you to slide in.

It’s about now you’re starting to get a funny feeling in the pit of your stomach, like something is off about this interaction. You’re not one to trust easily, and getting in the car with a complete stranger, although one in uniform, is out of character to say the least.

Your radar has really been fucked up tonight. By the alcohol, the scumbag, the being arrested, the bruising and tearing of your knuckles. What a way to end it, you think, if Ludlow is a bad guy.

The funny feeling in your guts that you decide to ignore this one time? It turns out to be right. And as Tom Ludlow starts driving up through the deserted hills, in the opposite direction of the bar your car is at, you almost want to burst out laughing at how stupid you are.

Asshole, no. Dumb? Fucking definitely.

You test his door handle and he snorts at you; like he’s saying, you think I’m that stupid?

“Doesn’t hurt to try,” you grumble, sizing him up from the corner of your eye, deciding whether to fight or flight or just give up now. He’s thin, but he’s broad. Tall. Not lanky. He won’t be easy to push over. You’ll have to bite, claw eyes out, rip his hair from his head. Make sure he doesn’t pull that shiny pistol out of his belt before you can jump on him.

You could do it right here in the car and risk barreling over the steep hillside on your right. You could—

“Hey,” he says, calmly, capturing you too easily from your violent thoughts, “it’s alright, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

A part of you wants to believe him, or maybe just believe there’s still some good in the world—some good in men. Hell, maybe leprechauns exist, too. You never know.

He looks sideways at you when you giggle in response to these reassuring words, as if you’re the one who’s fucking psycho. “I’ve heard that one before.”

He makes a pensive sound, air puffing from his nostrils, switches gears as the incline increases. “Daddy beat you up?”

Well, fuck it, might as well share all your sob stories if this is really happening tonight. “Uncle, actually.”

“Sorry,” he says, and you hazard a glance over to see if his face matches his empathetic tone—it, surprisingly, does. “He still alive?”

“No.”

You must be violently shaking to compensate for the repression of a panic attack, because his still, steady hand on your shoulder pauses the tremors. “It’s okay,” he assures, like he’s trying to soothe a crying kid. You have to admit, his voice is a cool ointment for hot nerves, even if he’s the reason for them in the first place.

The brain has a funny way of dealing with things like this. There’s about a 30% chance his intentions are raping you, because with his looks he could get any lady in the city of lights for free, but rapists and molesters rarely think about physical attractiveness when it actually comes down to the act. Psychologists say it’s more about the power trip for them. And, at least, if he is going to fuck you, he’s not exactly the worst man that you could pick to do it.

At least he’s hot, is what it boils down to. Because you’re a disgusting degenerate. Because your coping skills are a ticking time bomb, a broken record, stuck back at the part of your life where you had to start liking the way uncle Eddy touched you to deal with the shame and the despair of it.

Officer Ludlow’s gonna pick you right up off the ground again, slam you into his backseat, tug your pants and underwear down in one go. He’ll make you beg him to fuck your pussy instead of your unprepared and untainted ass, use his spit as lube, rub his meaty fingers over your puffy lips and taunt you when his saliva encounters your slippery cum. He’ll smack your ass for liking this, leave big red handprints, whisper in your ear that you’re gonna remember him, not just tomorrow, but for weeks after he gets done working your cunt. That he should kill you and leave your body out for the flies, but he wants you to live just so you can feel the way he destroyed your pussy.

The charger slows to a halt out in the sticks, and you have no idea where the fuck you are or how long you’ve been driving. The night is thick black soup in a boiling pot, and his headlights cut through it meagerly. It’s enough light to see what’s happening ahead, though, and when you look over at him curiously, he is grinning at you.

The man from the bar who assaulted your friend is in cuffs, an officer on each arm holding him in place. You don’t feel bad at all when you notice his swollen lip and purple temple, but you do wish you would have gotten more hits in.

Lucky for you, Officer Ludlow has you covered.

“Do you want to hit him?” He asks, unclipping his seat belt. “Or do you wanna watch?”

You blink a few times in response, not sure what to say to this brutally kind gesture. This man who barely knows you is helping you exact revenge against his own brethren. You’ve never been so…flattered.

“Don’t tell me you’re attempting to grow a conscience?” He teases.

“I wanna hit him.”

To your disappointment, Ludlow is not a total savage. He lets you get 3 or 4—it’s hard to remember the exact number—good hits on this dirtbag, and even wraps your knuckles up in a cushiony flannel from his back seat beforehand. His only rule is, “stay away from his ugly ass face. I don’t need him coming back to the station more fucked up than it already is.”

You get him in the stomach, the ribs, kick him so hard in his dick that you feel the hard pelvic bone underneath. Maybe it’s only a couple hits, but you make them count. And when you start to ache, or get tired, all you have to do is remember the tears smearing Abbie’s pretty glitter eyeliner down her face.

If he does say anything to you, you don’t hear it. Or maybe he really doesn’t, because Ludlow stands behind you like a watchful wolfhound the entire time, and then escorts you back to his car with a heavy arm over your shaking shoulders.

“Good job,” he praises, seeming very amused and unaffected by this whole ordeal while you are trembling, soaked with sweat, panting like a hooker in a fur coat. “It’s alright, he had it coming. Hey, hey, hey, look at me.”

You do as he says, momentarily escaping your fury in favor of his calming voice and soft black eyes.

“You did amazing. Lemme see the knuckles.”

He takes your hand in his, and you notice the size difference first, and then the warm, damp, pleasant heat second.

There’s been a lot of firsts tonight: someone’s hands being larger than your own (big lady hands should’ve been your nickname in highschool), being picked up off the ground past the age of 7, a man going out of his way to do something nice for you—because your brain decides that’s how it’s going to frame this scenario whether you like it or not, as some fucked up little date on Tom Ludlow’s dime.

You feel safe with your hand tucked into his and the heat of his skin and the cozy intimacy of being belted into his vehicle. You feel grateful that good men still exist. You feel…tight, twisted up in some deprived box of longing you’ve made permanent home in.

You leave the sanctuary of your comfort zone, and have another first, as you cross his center console and kiss a man on his mouth.

For a moment where you feel like your heart is suspended on the edge of a very tall cliff, he freezes. This stiff resistance immediately makes you want to pull away, but, before you can, he wraps his hand around your chin and pulls you deep into his mouth.

Arthur from college, Monica from New Orleans…Hell, even Uncle Eddie—they have nothing on Officer Tom Ludlow with his big, slick tongue and muscular lips.

It’s so good you can almost ignore the fresh sting of your split lip.

He sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, and murmurs a laugh when you give him a low groan for the effort, then takes your angry little grumble and dampens it with his renewed fervor. His hands remain gentle and chaste on your face, your neck, your shoulders, even though there is nothing gentlemanly about the way he devours your mouth. He does not push for more, does not hold you down with those big hands that absolutely could if they wanted to.

You set the pace, you pull him closer, you push him back when you need to gasp for air.

He licks the taste of you from his tilted, beautiful lips. “You have to breathe through your nose, honey.”

“Sorry,” you say, crossing your arms over yourself, pressing back against the door, away from him.

His lazy smile droops. “Are you alright?”

”I just…Can you take me to my car? If not I can—“

The thick start of his engine cuts you off.

The car ride back is silent. You think about turning on the radio a few times, but don’t want to cross more boundaries than you already have. Luckily, he flips it on for the both of you and you’ve never, ever been so happy to hear Metallica.

When he parks, cutting the engine off in the nearly deserted garage, the tension between you immediately peaks, sizzling like vinegar on baking soda. He wraps a long limb over the back of your seat, looks confused—vulnerable for such a big, scary man, and he makes your heart twang a lonely cord.

He seems almost boyish, when he asks if he can take you out sometime.

And you want to say yes. Every feral primordial part of you does, anyway. But then there’s the rational part, the one that should and does win most of the time. You’ve already snubbed that part too much tonight, so you politely decline Ludlow’s offer, and with your traitorous heart padlocked and chained back into your breast cavity, you say goodbye to the nice officer.

[dilf-docs]

Hello! I love what you write it’s amazing! ✨

Can I request an Eddie Brock one where the reader is her neighbor and they are pretty close and she’s in love with him but he’s still obsessed with Anne, and one day she sees him really sad (about Anne) and invites him to see her band and she starts playing (The one- The Warning) and idk something interesting happens:0

Take A Chance On Me

eddie brock x younger fem!reader

summary: being in a relationship with eddie is a bliss! except for when he mourns his ex relationship with anne, which unfortunately, seems to be pretty much all the time. in the middle of all that sulking, you come up with an idea. will you be able to make him choose you this time?

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, situationship lol, so angst!!, sunshine!reader x grumpy!eddie (he's still mopping around), hurt/comfort, exhibition kink, fingering, oral (f. receiving), p. in v., riding, creampie, you can tell i've been listening to ABBA ijbol, no venom :(

word count: 4,394 words

side note: hi, tysm for requesting! since this request is very specific lol but has similar themes to my previous eddie work i decided to make it as a follow-up in the neighbours au; not a series yet but it was an interesting idea to add to their dynamic!!! hope you like it <3 in case you wanna read the previous part for context as to where this two are it's here

Ever since that night, your relationship with Eddie has grown. Hell, you may say you're a day away from being official any time.

And there are time's when you're so sure of it, like when he stops by your apartment and kisses you like there's no one else in the world; to later make you come hard with the lights off (hey! you gotta start a tradition or two).

But there are other times when you knock on his door and he doesn't open, only for you to use your spare key, finding the room scented with empty bottles, your neighbor mumbling something like Anne through his sad pouty lips.

Yes, Anne. A name that makes you seethe like it burns; a ghost that haunts the spaces of silence where Eddie seems to doubt what the hell is he doing: why is he there―with you.

Your heart feels heavy, and it feels sort of pathetic that it's his hurting what hurts you the most. In the end, things are like this: you love helping people, your empathy may be infinite and you're sure you've never loved anyone like you love Eddie Brock before.

So it's this combination of things that makes you take the following decision, hoping to make him pass the page, so whenever he gets drunk again, all his lips will ever whisper is your name over and over again; that his sadness belongs to him, and not the only person that seems to be keeping you away from your happy ending, even if they don't know about it.

To Eddie, you're the sweetest thing in the world. Nobody kisses like you do, hugs with the tightness you do, loves as much as you do, fucks as good as you do or bakes killer cookies like yours.

That list does nothing but grow, as he is constantly mesmerized by every new little thing he learns about you: your favorite movies, the new recipes you try (he's more than happy to beta taste them for you), the way you sing (you do have a good voice that made him squirm at the other secret talent you had) and your kindness, which has done more hurt than good lately: because Eddie can't fathom the idea of you, taking care of him during his sad drunken mopping nights, while listening to everything about Anne on repeat.

He knows it hurts you, that he's starting to create creaks in your relationship, the hope slowly fading away from your eyes each passing day, doubts creeping up your smile, erasing that shiny beautiful light of yours; it's the only thing stopping him from calling you his girlfriend, and still, he can't stop.

It's like a vice at this point, and he wonders if he'll ever sober out of it.

So today he knocks on your door, hoping to set things straight even if a part of his heart still beats for Anne. It may be selfish, but after you came in his life, he can't imagine it without you.

But when you open up, he's at loss for words.

"Why are you wearing that?"

You scoff. "Hope it's not an offense, judging by your tone"

His eyes roam over your body, and even if you tend to be more on the confident side, you can't help but feel shy. After all, he's never seen you like this before: all glam.

It's a jacket, well his jacket, a small black top and black very short shorts. You surely are playing the part tonight, switching your usual pink and sunflower bubbly style to something more... rock.

"Why?" is all he asks, and you feel obligued to answer. Besides, you were going to knock on his door after getting out, not expecting he did it first. The surprise is ruined, but his incredulous eyes suffice for now.

"So, my friend has this band" you explain, "and they just got sick. The thing is, they had a gig today in a bar where they're regulars, so naturally, cancelling at last minute is not an option"

"And?" you love how oblivious he can be sometimes.

"And, I found a replacement" his face remains blank, so you sigh a little dissapointed but deliver with chirp, "me!"

"You?"

You roll your eyes, "is there a problem?"

"No!" he corrects hastily, "I'm just surprised, that's all. I know you like to sing, and have a good voice! But there's a huge gap between that and well, playing in a gig"

"I know, but I used to have a band when I was in highschool; I'm used to this things"

His mouth falls a bit, and maybe his head starts to cloud with ideas of your clashing new style and angel like voice; or maybe it's you wearing his jacket, a garment of his for you to bear in public: a first. It's a bit stupid and too daydream-ish for his liking, so he blurts:

"I didn't know that"

Your laugh is so light, it feels like wind blowing across a field.

"Oh, Eddie baby" he blushes at the pet name and endearing tone, your voice dropping like it does whenever you want something he's more than willing to give you, "there's a lot you don't know about me"

In the end, you convinced Eddie to join you, who, if you're being honest, didn't need that much convincing.

He was sold just with the idea of seeing you sing, which intrigued him. There's a huge difference in your drunk karaoke nights that annoyed your neighbors and playing live in a gig. Eddie wants to see what you have to offer, and as for you? Well, this is your plan: your plan to make him forget about Anne once and for all.

It may be silly and immature but hey, you're young! It's okay to be wrong and possessive sometimes, and your friend just did you the favor of faking an illness to give you a spot to shine and put that voice of yours to use, that's a bit rusty since your highschool days. So, no pressure! Your potential boyfriend is on the crowd and ruining this would cost your kind friend their job. Good thing your optimism doesn't seem to expire, because Lord! Your hands are trembling and sweaty when you hold a microphone again for the first time in a little more than a decade.

"Hey" you exit out of the curtain, and the dim lights now bright up a little, directing themselves towards you, "good evening"

You hear a bit of muffled voices that sound confused, asking for your friend, and you can tell the crowd are regulars. Yikes.

"I'm here on behalf of Isha. They're sick, so I'm covering just for tonight" you decide to go for a little jokey joke to light up the otherwise judgemental room, that seems to be testing you―like they know all your weak spots; smell your nerves. "So don't like me too much, as I'm a one time thing"

Eddie laughs, but covers it with a cough when he realizes the room is awfully quiet.

"Okay, uh, for tonight's set, I've got a few things prepared" you fumble a bit with the papers where the lyrics are (you've always liked to be a bit old fashioned), like you're clumsy and it's your first time, not reflecting the fact that this idea has been simmering for a while―every song rehearsed and planned. "Songs, I mean, I've got a few songs prepared"

You start with something smooth, which makes people divert their attention back to whatever they were doing. To you, that's a bit dissapointing, but as long as they don't judge and Eddie keeps his eyes on you, you think you can make it.

But what where you really thinking? Being optimistic means you're often let down, as your pink bright ideas end up crushed by the real gray world. And you can handle it―as you're no weak, but resorting to singing a song that feels oddly specific about the situationship you're currently living in hopes of making Eddie forget his ex fiancée and get whooped by your mesmerizing voice is actually kind of crazy!

But yeah, now you're nearing the end of the set list and almost everyone's eyes are on you. Of course, Eddie is the most attentive, taking every word that pours out of your melodic mouth like if he's thirsty, and your voice is the only thing that can help him. He never leaves your silhouette, and it may be you dreaming, but there's something like guilt and love behind his eyes; torn. Yeah, you do feel like you're dreaming, and it's been so long since you felt this alive; you kind of forgot how happy singing made you.

As the crowd is engaged, you find it fitting to make a pause and announce the next song. You know your voice comes out as shaky, but hope people think it's about tiredness and not nerves. Why are you nervous, thought? People love you! It's because this is the final part of your plan: singing this song you used to be obssesed long ago, but now seems to perfectly sum up those raw, angry and vulnerable feelings fo yours you're simply not used to; they say music helps us put a name to that we can't, and that has never been more true.

"For the next song, well, our last song" a few booing echos in the crowd, and you can't believe you made it this far. Maybe Isha did lost their job, "it's called The One, by The Warning. Hope you enjoy"

Eddie's had such a blast tonight, he hasn't noticed the past of time, completely lost when you announce the last song. Among other things he's forgotten, is the fact he was supposed to talk today with you about the future of your relationship.

It's kind of your fault: how can he remain focused with such display in front of him?

The band begins playing, and soon, your voice fills the air:

I'll do anything to make it happen

Tell me your secrets, what are you hiding?

Some people sing along the lyrics, while others just listen attentively. You make it to a part of the song that sounds like:

Can you explain to me what's this feeling?Love it or hate it, it's never leaving. Want to believe, that you feel it too.

Oh, Eddie feels nauseous. The lyrics hit a bit too close to home, and he fills called out in the room of oblivious people.

He can hear your vocals breaking a bit, as raw as he's never heard before. He feels so bad, he's about to make the most ridiculous thing of his life and jump onto the stage to hug you, but he can't interrupt you. So he sits there, palms sweaty and nerves tense.

He's been dumb, but like, really dumb. Of course you know it: how can you not? He swears every morning after, his hangover unbearable, your kindness hurts more than his headache―because there's pain behind your eyes, and he knows you remember more what happened than he did. He feels undeserving of your compassion and all the care you give him, even if you know Eddie's still hung up on Anne.

There is no reason to even doubt it. Please, understand that I am not lying. My heart is true, it beats for you.

How can you still love him? Still root for him? How can you give him your heart knowing a part of his still beats for Anne?

Fantasizing that something might happen, always wishing that I was the one.

He feels torn, because he knows it's you he wants to be with. You're the reason his days have been brighter ever since he lost everything, the reason he smiles whenever his door knocks and why he isn't alone in this sulking anymore. So he hates the fact that he can't heal faster and move on, because that's all that's really stopping him from just being him and you.

Give me something I can feel, I'm too afraid to ask. What is it I need to change, for you to love me back?

He's done mourning but he knows grief doesn't pass in the blink of an eye. But he's sure of it already.

Say that you will really never hurt or leave me. Say it and it will come true. Hold me like you really love me: tell me that you do.

Those three words he's been holding back: afraid of feeling too much in such little time; afraid of thinking he would ever feel his heart beat for anyone else, the confession dripping from his eyes but not past through his sealed mouth.

And I know that I'm not the one on your mind. But still, I will be the one.

The song ends before he's registered, and amid the applauses, you leave the stage, almost running behind the courtain. The band bids goodbye and Eddie finds himself leaving his table and moving onto where the small improvised dressing room is.

He's done pondering. You will be the one.

You didn't plan to rush backstage like that, but tears started to burn in your eyes and it was getting harder to contain them infront of the crowd.

They loved your show, but you feel empty, even if a little relieved. There was a pressure before and now it's gone, but there's a thing that hasn't gone: the doubt.

You wonder if Eddie understood the words you feel like a coward for not voicing, the feelings that threaten to spill like a hot cauldron, the rage burning your throat when he talks about her, like she's all there is in his mind. Then comes the sadness; you can't help but wonder if he will ever choose you.

Tonight, perhaps, is the day all those what-if's will be answered, and their possible answers won't hunt you anymore.

It's like he read your mind, because there's a knock in your door and it's like you have memorized a bit too much of Eddie: the traces of his face―with wrinkles that mark the gaps in your relationship, the loud way in which he eats, the sounds he makes when he rides his bike, especially those when you wrap your arms around his; even the way his knuckles call for you through the door.

You clear your throat, trying to hide your broken voice. "Come in"

Eddie's face pops up, and all you can offer him is a weak smile. "Did you like the show?"

He tries to measure what he's about to say, because he doesn't know where to start, but the glow in his eyes betrays him, so he excitedly says: "It was great! I didn't know you had that in you, baby"

Even the pet name doesn't make the smile reach your eyes. Oh, he's screwed up for sure.

"Thanks" you mutter, small. You hate feeling like this: the last time you did, you were still in middle school. Your kindness was taken for weakness, and you promised yourself you would never let your heart be taken and used again. Yet here you are, hope planting a seed inside of you that's grown into a rose with thorns that pierce your sweet heart whenever it beats for Eddie. But you can't stop: the roots are too deep in you, and you can't find yourself to kill the flower that's bloomed out of this one-sided love.

"Listen, y/n" oh, he's serious. No petname or nothing. Maybe he's finally opened his eyes and realise this fooling-around-thing you've got going on isn't going nowhere; that your new isn't as exciting as it was before, and his heart will never be yours. You'll never be the one.

"Y-yes?" you can't fake it. Your voice cracks, so you avoid looking at him, "tell me, Eddie".

He shouldn't start with that, seeing the way your face fell and body shakes, even though you're sitting.

"Fuck. Baby, no" he coos, getting closer and dropping on his knees, forcing you to look at him by taking your face softly by the chin, "look at me".

When you meet his eyes and they're already glossy, he feels like he deserves a higher punishment than what any physical one could ever accomplish.

"No, no. Shit, I'm sorry" he tries wiping your tears with his thumb, but you keep on crying more. "Ah, fuck"

"Are you done with me?" you ask on a shaky whisper.

Funny saying that when you weren't even a thing. But you can't help and yearn for it; said what first came onto your mind.

"No!" he corrects, so quick and loud it startles you. "What made you think that?"

"The song-" you start blabbering, "No, I'm sorry Eddie, it's my fault. I shouldn't put on a show that's m-more like a tantrum if we're being honest. We're adults and we can talk, for God's sake! That was so immature of me. Let's just forget this and- I don't even know what to do or what to say, just, spare me from walking out or taking the elevator at the same time I do because it's just gonna be so embarrasing- please, if you're gonna break up with me, do it quick-"

He didn't want to, but he feels the need to interrupt your little rant by now.

"Y/n, stop" you feel even more embarrased now. You start to drift a little and begin considering to move out of the country and change your name. "Who said anything about breaking up?"

Ah, you feel stupid. Stupid, but hey! How can you not come to that conclusion? It's both of yours fault.

"Y-you didn't" you whisper, "but-" you try to reason yet the anger and embarrasment is a bit too much.

"I didn't yet I can understand why you'd feel that way" he sighs, "but let me explain, please"

With a nod, you motion him to continue.

"I'm the only one who should be saying sorry. You did nothing wrong, baby; in fact, your little solution to talk out your feelings surprised me a lot. In a good way! You know I love your voice. But anyways, as I was saying, I'm sorry about everything. It's just... it's not fair to you: you've been nothing but sweet, loving and the best girl I've met ever. I feel like I don't deserve you, and after tonight, if you choose not to stay with me, I'll get it. You're worth of much more than a sad, older and bitter nobody" he ends his sad little man speech, and you can't help it but leave your sit and wrap your arms around him, burying your face on his shoulder as you whisper lovingly on his ear:

"I know, Eddie" you stroke his hair gently, "but I'm not leaving you. Never"

He lets himself sink into your embrace, the perfume and sweat such an intoxicating smell, he's drowning in your scent already.

"Good" his voice turns husky, dropping an octave. The hard on his jeans doesn't go unnoticed, "because I wanted to give my rockstar a reward"

You laugh, and he feels better seeing you smile.

"Seriously, Eddie? How can you go from vulnerable to horny?"

"Both are states of vulnerable!" he defends, "besides, tell me that you don't want it" he motions for you to stand against the dresser, your back against the mirror, goosebumps in your skin when it touches the cool surface.

Eddie grips the flesh of exposed skin your shorts show, leaving a trail of kisses against the bare tights. He pulls them off, and you gasp out a contained moan.

"Someone c-could find us, Eddie"

He growls, his head in between your legs, the panties blocking him from your pulsating cunt. "Let them" he pronounces it so deliciously, you find it hard to resist the panic of being found; Isha will kill you if they found out, but hey, the plan was to get back with Eddie so in the end, it worked, right? Can't get mad at that.

The panties come off with a yank, and you can barely ask if he locked the door before his tongue gives the exposed dripping folds a generous lick. You arch your back at the pleasure that runs through you.

"Mpmh, Eddie" you groan, feeling his slow but steady movements. Your breathe comes out ragged, more when he uses his thumb to caresses the sensible zone with fast circles, making you cum with a cry, yet it muffles inside his mouth that captures your lips in a kiss.

You can taste yourself in his lips, but let him devour your mouth.

"Want more?" Eddie groans against your mouth, his fingers going inside you, softly touching the entrance. You moan against his lips, moving your hips greedily in response.

"Yes" you moan out, making him chuckle.

"Seems I'm not the only horny one here, baby" he mocks, "are you that needy?"

You huff out, annoyed at the accusation.

"Don't worry, you and I both know we love to help each other out" his voice is soft, "besides, it's been a stressful day for us, hasn't it. Let me make you feel better, baby"

His hand travels inside you, his middle and forefinger sliding lazily into you. You tense up, feeling him touch your clit, his fingertips stroking over sensitive tissues. He can see the mirror fogging, and if he didn't have his head in between your legs, he'd probably see his face full of your juices.

"Shit" his voice comes out of his chest, sounding rather gutural and animalistic. "God, how wet you feel, baby"

You mewl. But it's not enough, his fingers falling short: you need to feel all of him. Now.

"Eddie" you beg in need, "please".

"Please what?"

Your hands travel to his pants, undoing his jeans. His large palm stops you before you can reach his underwear.

"Say your words, baby" he taunts, and you hate the way your neediness leaks from in between your tights.

"Just... I need you, Eddie"

He gets rid of the jeans by himself, and you stroke his member covered by the fabric. You get rid of it too, and the next thing is your mouth saying: "I want to ride you"

Even in his haze, he reacts a bit, looking around the room.

"There" you point the chair you were sitting previously on.

He sits down, obeying without a word. You come close, gripping his member firmly in your hand. You pump from the bottom to the top, making him roll his eyes and throw his body back from the pleasure.

His eyes go blank as you sit over his dick, already leaking with pre-cum. Eddie grabs you by the hips, the veins on his arms more notorious, some tattoos popping up like they are 3D.

"You're beautiful" he mutters, and you feel like giving him a reward: so you grab his dick with your hand as his grip gets tighter.

He presses his tip against your fold, side to side, like if he was painting your tight walls with his juices.

He pushes the first centimeter inside, and as soon as you stretch out for him, he starts thrusting, getting a whimper out of you.

"Fuck" he curses, deep inside you. His body shakes, and you feel every single vibration provoked by the friction. You feel dizzy as you go up and down, the rhythm delicious. He keeps moving, his hips doing a circle, all to feel more of you.

"You feel so good, baby" he praises, in ecstasy. You keep moving up and down, covering his long. You bite back a moan, "might end up helping me more than I was going to help you"

He's fucking you silly, and your mind goes blank, so after the thrusts and his confession from before, you dizzy out:

"Everything is for you, Eddie; just for you. You're the only one who can make me feel like this"

"How does it feel?" he asks in a whisper against your ear, his thrusting getting sloppier.

"Feels so good"

"As good as you feel" he moans out, his breathe whistling through his gritted teeth. Your ads bounces against his tights, the sound of skin clapping in the tiny room a very obscene echo. "C'mon, baby. Make me cum"

You tighten with the plea: tights, stomach and ass. Your core is swollen, burning with each new thrust. Eddie keeps you tight as profound as his strong arms can; there'll be a bruise tomorrow.

He pushes all his length inside, keeping you open so he can bury himself deep in you, with strong thrusts against your shaky cunt. His jawline tenses, painfully close to his orgasm.

Your voice comes out muffled, "Harder".

It's funny how no one has even checked the room. No knock, nothing. You suppose they all went out their way when they saw you about to burst in tears, to give you space, a space you're pretty thankful for now.

"You're mine" he rests his forehead against yours, "say it"

His hips shake as you pronounce, "only yours, Eddie"

You can't contain it any longer. There's relief after the intense orgasm that shakes every bone in your body, overestimulation when you feel him cum inside of you, thick shots painting your swollen walls.

You let yourself fall into his arms, the chair creaking with all the weight. Sweat glistens as you try to get your breathe back, your heart beating so fast you fear you'll have a heart attack.

"Tell you a secret?" you hum tiredly against his shoulder, resting your head in it as his long thick fingers comb through your damp hair. You can't believe your plan made it this far, but since you're still in the haze, you can only nod and hum.

He gets closer to you, his hot breathe tickling your ear.

"You're the one, y/n" your heart beats even faster, and you hide your face against his hot skin so he doesn't see the new tears that are forming in your eyes: they're happy tears. "I love you"

Is this is a signal to sing and not voice out your problems? Who knows, maybe next time, if you sing Money Money Money by ABBA, you won't be so broke.

[faiell]

yapping about fics and commenting

sorry to yap but work is boring today and tumblr isn't blocked on my work computer LOL

ok it's abt that post where the writer friend stopped writing because they weren't getting the comments/kudos they wanted.

i'm like. an overeager fandom person. like i cannot get into a fandom without wanting to meet new people and make friends. i love yapping about whatever silly gay idiots i'm hyperfixating over. i'm all about community, and sharing the joy of fandom, and all that fun positive stuff.

i don't post my art for stats but like. that means nothing coming from me tbh. i get stats. i can't accurately predict what would happen if i stopped getting notes on my art, but i would probably keep drawing and keep posting, just maybe less confidently, and less often. i recognize that stats make it much easier and while it’s not my primary motivation, it definitely motivates me to keep posting.

and yet. for years, i never commented on fic. i think i left kudos? and i saw posts like this all the time about how writers were so sad they didn't get comments. and i would feel super guilty about it all the time. but i still wouldn't do it! it sounds stupid, but i would feel pressured. if i liked a fic a lot, it felt even more difficult to comment, because i thought i would have to somehow give back to the author everything that fic gave to me. i wanted to craft the perfect comment that could perfectly encapsulate everything a fic made me feel. and that was way too much pressure so i would just not say anything.

when i got into drarry, i started reading a shit ton of fic. and i still wouldn't comment. i left maybe... 2 or 3 comments, maybe, i think. i can't remember. but i had a lot to say and i WANTED the writers to hear that i had read it and liked it. i just... didn't comment! u know what i did instead? i just fucking straight up DM'd writers on discord and started gushing to them that i liked their fic. somehow i was confident enough to do that, but writing a comment still felt like too much pressure. ?? i don't understand it either, but in my head it felt like a writing assignment, but when I was in DMs it felt more like a conversation and so there wasn't any pressure to make it "good"? idk!! it's very weird.

then i wrote and posted my first complete fic. just a oneshot, nothing special, and i was like. UNREASONABLY nervous about posting it. like. i am a confident person, okay? i was going to make a burner AO3 account and post it under a different name so nobody would know it was me, and then never mention it to anyone except MAYBE super close friends. i got talked out of doing that (thanks i feel a bit silly about considering that now). and then i received my first comment on it, which was basically a two-liner where someone said they liked it and thanked me for writing it.

and i was like. ??...?????? ???????? ...??!!! because i felt like... uncontainable glee? i was freakishly happy. the amount of serotonin those two sentences gave me was definitely unnatural.

is that healthy? idk. will it continue? idk. LOL. i hope so? but idk, some people said it wears off if you write/post for a while. but whatever, the fact that one little comment like that could make my entire day blew my mind. tbh i thought writers were just exaggerating when they said stuff like that.

ever since then i started leaving comments! that shit's easy! like what was i overthinking for? i'm such a fucking tryhard! all i gotta say is that i liked it, and even the bare minimum can bring lots of joy to someone.

so basically what im trying to say is that negative reinforcement doesn't do shit!! it just makes people feel bad about themselves. that post is nasty for guilt-tripping readers like that, and i bet you it's going to have the opposite effect (or no effect tbh).

YAPPING FINISHED. for now.

[followerofmercy]

THANK YOU FOR PUTTING IT SO ELOQUENTLY

I woke up and chose brain mush today asldj;f. I believe this is the time when "using someone" becomes appropriate. When I'm in a workplace with a Racist Joe or Sexual Harasser, I do, usually, end up with a surface level civil enough work relationship no matter how much I hate them (or sometimes call them out), but that's less because they have valuable things to offer and more because I'm keeping tabs on them/trying to get dirt on them. If they're dangerous, they are no longer part of the Know A Guy network. If they suck that hard they're usually NOT worth working with, because like you said, they're hurt YOU too.

And, hell, if someone is Actively Dangerous like that, it's worthwhile to organize everyone to do something about them. Not, like, mob violence, but having an in-community support to deal with their rank ass.

There's a lot of nuance. I've had a lot of shitty people that I can be the voice of reason for - little reminders of "Hey, the women in your life have better things to do than put up with your shit. Hey, uh, I don't think that racist joke was funny. Why exactly do you think that's funny." with mixed results. Sometimes people CAN get better if they just have someone vocally disapproving of their actions. The reason a lot of these behaviors go unchecked is because they're surrounded by people that also do those behaviors, or, the only people that have been critical of them are strawmen on the internet they can feel attacked by.

Utilize peer pressure for good. I think internet circles especially have a bad habit of writing people off for Genuinely Sucking But In A Way That Could Get Better and, while it's nobody's job to fix them, the fact of the matter is that they're not gonna suddenly stop sucking without an outside influence. It really is wild how much Being Someone People Respect and Having A Different (and strong) Opinion can get people to stop and think about their biases.

...And then sometimes someone sucks so hard that your best option is "let them dig themselves a hole in front of you and then mount a counteroffensive" asldfj. Pick and choose your enemies. I used to be a homophobe because of how I was raised and now I'm not, mostly because the people around me were willing to answer my questions and also chime in when they didn't approve of my behavior. I was also raised in a racist society - just like everyone else here is - and no matter how much I work on it, I'm still gonna fuck up occasionally. I would appreciate correction instead of being written off as The Enemy.

Anyway be safe. Pick and choose the people you spend a lot of time with. I do think there's merit in being the only sane motherfucker that talks to the Kinda Racist but Could Get Better guy or the Kinda Misogynist but Not Actively Dangerous guy to get them out of their echo chamber, but at the same time, there's limits to how good of an influence you can be. Some people Are In Fact Too Dangerous To Work With. Use your best judgement

Networking/Knowing A Guy: A Guide

This is the autism website. Now, as an extension of the power of love and friendship, there are few things more useful than Knowing A Guy. Knowing A Guy means you have a support network. Knowing a plumber, or a tax accountant, or just that one dude that's really fucking good at finding the information you need when you're really overwhelmed, can be the difference between being able to pay rent and having a fun party with friends to fix your shit.

How does one end up Knowing A Guy? It's a skill you can develop called Networking and it is one of the foundations of society. Unfortunately making those connections with people is fucking hard and nobody makes a tutorial for it. So, here you go:

The golden rule is you scratch my back and I scratch yours

It is necessary for survival to seek out useful people

Great news! Everyone is useful in some form or fashion - including you! When given the opportunity to learn about someone, do it! Extroversion does not come naturally to some people and that's okay. Just take whatever falls in your lap.

Types of usefulness: trade skills, connections of their own, personality you jive with, pleasant to talk to, niche interest in shared hobby, security - the list is pretty much endless. I know a guy that lives in the metro area - no job, no major hobbies, inoffensively annoying to me personally, kinda ignorant, not attractive to me, but you know what? He knows how the fuck to get around the city by foot. My rural-raised ass APPRECIATES the guide.

Remember important information: general personality, background, skillset, likes and dislikes. You can find this information by making smalltalk about their life. There is no such thing as pointless conversation. (Yes, even the annoying smalltalk)

The more people you know, the higher the likelihood that one of them will be useful in a given situation - or will know someone who is.

It is overwhelming. In a given clique/community/workspace/whatever, there is A Guy Who Knows The Other Guys. This Guy is a shortcut. Find them. They're often elderly, extroverted, a little bit annoying, a secretary or in some otherwise forward-facing position. Look for people that are gossipy/talk about other people a lot but not in negative ways. If they constantly talk shit, they'll talk shit about you too. They're still useful but be careful with the information you share

You do not have to like someone for them to be useful.

You do not have to like someone for them to be useful.*

If you have low self esteem, you're going to feel like you're using people. You're not. That's the devil talking. People like feeling valued and the connections you are making are the threads holding community together. Recognize people for their talents. It's only a problem when you're taking advantage of people

So: don't feel scummy about it. You're an animal. You have to claw out your right to survive and people will respect you more for it.

Luckily mutualism is the name of the game in the animal kingdom. Offer something back. The foundation of a Know A Guy relationship is Mutual Benefit

Sometimes that Mutual Benefit is just spreading news of the The Guy far and wide. My plumber friend is my actual friend and I love her to death, but I'm maintaining our backscratch relationship by pimping out her plumbing business to anyone that'll listen

Food is a good Mutual Benefit. People across cultures for all of human history have bonded over food. I have good success asking people for a favor and then offering to buy them lunch in return **

General compensation is also good. Offer a service in return and always do your best to offer financial compensation as appropriate. Having your plumber friend take a look at your drain: doable with a case of beer. Having your plumber friend redo the pipes in your entire house? You need to pay for that.

Being transactional is not necessarily a bad thing. I would advise against keeping an itemized list of things owed, but fish don't seek out cleaner shrimp just because they enjoy their company. Everyone gets something

Unfortunately being extroverted and generally personable is a huge benefit here, but that's the value of the Guy That Knows A Guy. There's someone out there that has consolidated All The Guys so you don't have to be the local expert. Always remember nobody can do everything and you don't need to master every skill

* This is the foundation of a functioning community. I have many acquaintances that I find incredibly annoying. They include doctors, welders, artists, social workers, lawyers, construction crew and random fuckers at the grocery store. I do not hang out with them. I do not have to in order to maintain a civil Know A Guy relationship. I can drop them useful tidbits and fuck right off so I don't have to spend any more time than necessary with them

** People may assume romantic intent. Be prepared for that. I generally denote that it's a friendly/work lunch by calling them bro at some point if they're my age. Otherwise my general demeanor is sufficient to show that I do this with everyone

Source: personal experience, mother's teachings of crime, booth vending and poverty