#that meltdown is about how things could still be good and they are good somewhere and he doesn't get to experience it

[mulderscully]

people will be like "lol ten is sooo repressed" for s2-4 and then when he has his insane sobbing screaming meltdown in front of wilf they call him a big baby for it like oh no maybe he's been holding "BUT ITS NOT FAIR" in for years!?

[ellecdc]

saw the blurbs rq post and immediately need

“i never knew i could feel this loved.”

w barty 🙏🙏🙏🙏

ugh friggen barty - I’ve missed him! Also sorry if it’s not too good, I wrote it on my phone. That means I also have no idea how long it is!! Thanks for the prompt 🫶

Barty Crouch Junior x Potter!reader who are at the manor over the school break

CW: touch starved barty (don’t worry, he gets touched), talking about grounding exercises, fluff

The school matron always told Barty to recite the “grounding lists” to help when things got to be too much.

What a load of rubbish. Who in the hells can recite 5 things they can see, 4 things they can hear, 3 things they can feel, 2 things they can smell, and 1 thing they can taste when they’re having a bloody fucking meltdown?

Not him, that’s for damn sure.

The only time Barty could imagine being able to do that was when he was already grounded.

Like now.

From his position on the sofa, laying on his stomach and situated between your legs with his face on your stomach, he could:

See

The plush, red velvet loveseat of the living room in your family home

The great expanse of pictures that hung along the walls of your living room

The half empty bowl of crisps the two of you had been sharing as you watched a movie

The throw blanket in a heap on the floor that the two of you kicked off of your intertwined forms

And the muggle tell-a-vision that was stuck on some fuzzy popcorn type screen because the two of you were too lazy to turn it off now that the movie was over

Hear

The low, staticky popcorn sound that the telly was making

The sound of your heart beat; so full of love that Barty swore it beat louder than anyone else’s

The distant sound of your parents laughing and conversing somewhere else in the manor

The sound of his thumb brushing over the space where the sleeve of your jumper gave way to the skin of your wrist

Feel

The rise and fall of your chest with every breath that you took

The fabric of the cashmere jumper he bought for you under his cheek

The warmth of your hand where it rested in his hair

Smell

The cinnamon and nutmeg candle you lit before the movie

The unmistakeable smell of you that Barty could never get enough of

And as he ran his tongue over his lips, he could still taste you from when you’d pressed a kiss to his lips before getting comfortable.

“Barty?” You whispered as though you weren’t sure he was still awake.

“Yes, my beautiful darling angel?”

You were quiet for a moment, and Barty could tell you were smiling to yourself.

“What are you thinking about?”

He lifted his head to rest his chin on your stomach so he could look at you; your hair was rather rumpled from the throw pillows, your eyes were clearly more than a little heavy, and Barty was sure that if you were alone, you’d probably be asleep by now. But you seemed to be putting 100% of your energy and effort into the loving gaze you were shooting at him, and Barty wondered - not for the first time - what in the hells he ever did to deserve you.

“I never knew I could feel this loved.” He admitted.

You froze for a moment; the breath you were in the middle of taking paused on its way out as your brows furrowed minutely before you expertly schooled your expression.

“Yeah?”

Barty hummed in agreement and pressed a kiss to your sternum.

“That’s funny,” you said as he lowered his cheek back onto your stomach, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

[halfagone]

Do you know what my favorite part about writing for DPxDC is? The multiverse facet of DC means that we don't have to be as stringent about canon. All the crossovers we write are Alternate Universes in one way or another. I could mesh three different continuities and pieces of media together from the DC side alone and it could still work because this is an alternate universe.

"That's not canon in [insert comic series here]!" Well this isn't Prime Earth, so it's fine. I never meant to imply that this took place in the main continuity. I am playing with my blorbos in the Elseworlds where nothing bad can happen ever, just the way I like it. Or, you know. I might make it worse in new ways.

Danny Phantom isn't innocent of this either; it can and has redacted its own canon before. Reality Trip is probably the most well-known example of this, but A Glitch in Time would absolutely count as well. Hell, you could even throw Memory Blank in for good measure!

I love being able to create new worlds and think, in the back of my mind, how I could absolutely have two versions of my characters meet one another. All these things could absolutely coexist with one another, because they are simply from another Earth, somewhere far out in the multiverse.

It might not be Earth-0. It might even be Earth-6789B or something, but it's a lovely Earth and the multiverse is a very big place. You can stay on Earth-2 and I'll be here out here watching the meltdown and roasting marshmallows over the fire.

[delicrieux]

—𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭, ch.1: things of present and future importance

pairing—carmy berzatto x f!reader genre—drama, romance, age gap, boss/employee relationship warnings for this chapter—trauma, anxiety, swearing, and sum depression as dessert word count—2k

uh-oh, carmen is losing it again, this time in front of his new employee, too. 

author’s note: give me this wet dog of a man and give him to me NOWWWWWWWW

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | read on ao3 . next >

important! some of the dialogue scenes are written as a script & dialogues that overlap are marked in [] <3

there’s a lot of things wrong with this situation, but carmen does not have it in him to care. maybe he never will, and that’s okay, because it’s his fucking restaurant and he knows he could be kinder, could be gentler, could, maybe, keep all of those splinters in his gut from hurting too bad if he took a few deep breaths just how they say in therapy. deep breaths, slow breaths, and then they look at you like you’re a toddler having a meltdown in the middle of the street and suddenly, suddenly, it’s all go fuck yourself and the door slamming shut.

carmen’s an abandoned puppy – disheveled hair and round eyes that have been unloved (by him, most of all), with his head bent and shoulders tense, not sure whether to flee or attack, but offense is the best defense and just like a bad dog he bites when frightened. it’s all teeth and anger and desperation; jaws lock and teeth sink and he doesn’t let go because he’s starving, even if what he’s fighting for is nothing but a cadaver of a place, space, body – brother? no, don’t think of mikey. he’s starving, has been for ages – approval? don’t say that – and that hunger bubbles to the surface when confronted by a minuscule imperfection, like sauce on the stove left to simmer for too long.

it’s a bad first impression, second impression, third, what the fuck, he’s good at food and not very good at math, unless math comes to food and then, maybe, he can sort it out. still bad, still fucking terrible, to be honest, and somewhere in the frying tangles of his mind he knows that yelling doesn’t help, and that yelling in front of the new hire doesn’t bode well for retention. the last enzymes of his sanity warn him – calm down, just, just calm down, carmen, you’re making it worse, you’re making it fucking worse – but the to-go machine keeps beeping, and the kitchen is too hot, and his staff is too anxious, and everything is amplified tenfold by his brother’s looming shadow that exists to him only. don’t think of mikey.

“can someone please turn that fucking thing off?” it’s his voice, laced by such scorn and a barely contained anger that makes him tremble by the pans. he’s losing his mind. sweat collects on his temple and his eyes sting from the fumes billowing onto his face, “sydney!”

“yes, chef.”

sydney’s a trooper, doesn’t bend under pressure like steel, and he sees her maneuvering in his peripherals, quick and agile to not get into anyone’s way, least of all his. briefly, he thinks about burning this place down. he blinks. the beeping stops – she ripped the cord out of the socked, dropped it onto the floor that sent an echo.

the new hire watches this shitshow unfold by her station, eyes wide and weary, ears perked for orders. her hands move – strong hands, swift hands, long fingers and rough palms that cradle a knife the way a mother would cradle a child. she doesn’t look at what she cuts, but she chops and slices and it’s all automatic – trained response? – and if carmen were to take a ruler and inspect the pieces, he’d be impressed to find that most are even and none are crooked. he’d hum, then, skim through the folders of his mind to re-check her experience, re-check the college she went to. he’d say something like, “good work, chef,” and maybe she’d smile at the bare bones of the compliment he’d given her, and when he’d be alone in his dingy office he’d pull out her resume and examine it with more interest because he’d be too embarrassed to ask.

he’ll grow familiar with those hands, with the dips and curves of knuckles and the tiger stripes of scars running down their expanse; he’ll grow familiar with the touch, too, soft despite the callouses, but only to him. not yet, though, not for another few months till a completely expected storm will halt the trains and he’ll have to drive her home. it’ll be weeks after that awkward silence in the car and stolen glances at soaked t-shirt-clad skin.

her form is unfamiliar to him – he hadn’t any interest to look, nor would he find anything curious when all is covered in oversized fabric and a blue apron. at present, she’s his colleague, nothing more, and a young one at that, too young and too talented to be stuck in such a place and with him running it.

but he will look. sooner than expected, and not for any devout reason, unless loneliness can be considered holy.

he’ll feel bad about it, too, and he’ll feel worse when everything escalates, because it always does.

for now, he cooks by the open flame, letting hot oil sizzle on his hands and the fire lick his fingers, and maybe, just maybe, he likes the pain because he knows nothing else. it’s become empirical to him. an indication that he’s still alive. that he’s still in control of something, even if he isn’t.

richie, richie, good fucking god, richie always picks the worst moments to bitch about.

“are you fucking with me?” carmen’s voice, again, a bit higher this time and just a gruff. doe eyes narrow at the bell-tower named richard jerimovich that has the audacity to look clueless, “do not fucking fuck with me right now.”

richie: shove that stick outta [fuck you] your ass, cousin carmen: are you deaf? richie: boutta go deaf if you keep yapping [don’t got time for this]; listen, i just [you just?] came to talk [talk? now? talk?] yes, to talk, look carmen: now you wanna talk? now? you wanna [jesus] fucking talk right now?

the tension in the air is sharp enough to slice through skin. everyone pointedly pretends not to hear this conversation. carmen doesn’t want to hear this conversation, either. there’s a line of people waiting. he reminds richie of that, and richie reminds that oh, he knows, and –

“richie!” it’s sydney, cheeks glowing with sweat and bandana crooked, “not now.”

richie huffs, looks at carmen with a certain exasperation, a wordless question of ‘really? really? you’re letting her run the show, now?’, and carmen needn’t be a genius to know that richie’s gonna bring this up later. he’ll never hear the end of it, he scarcely does now. it’s a headache in the making. his heart skips, or maybe stops, and for a moment he feels white-hot panic shoot through his veins. it passes with a shiver he doesn’t show. he breathes just a tad quicker – not enough air, not enough fucking air, jesus.

richie retreats with his arms raised in surrender, amused and annoyed simultaneously. a quiet follows his departure, and carmen looks at the staff, gaze jumping from one to the other before settling on her. she’s unperturbed by the chaos, working, watching, assessing, and later he’ll learn she wears that face the same way he wears his anger – as armor.

eyes meet and there’s a certain understanding that glimmers in the depths of her iris. but what could she understand? three weeks from now, he’ll come to learn that she’s used to rough edges and loud voices: he’ll learn that she’s the daughter of the chef that made his life hell back in new york, he’ll learn that she took up cooking because she wanted to appease her father, he’ll learn that her parents have split and her mother is sick and that she’s not calm but disconnected and that she tends to live in her head just like him.

but he doesn’t know that now, so he blames the shitty lighting that blinks and buzzes and, “fak, for the love of fucking god, please fix it.”

he said please this time, and it means he’s cooling off. he thankfully misses the quick look the staff shares – a mixture of relief and pity. either would have been devastating to recognize.

the only upside is that the day goes by fast. too much to do, too much to stress about, and carmen’s used to running on nothing but nicotine and adrenaline and an odd spout of desolation, and he manages everything, keeps the pieces glued together until eventually everything becomes too much and then he crumbles. still picks them up gently, like handling broken glass. he visits the storage often. closes the door for a moment and just lets himself breathe, reminds himself how to. doesn’t calm, only collects, reigns in the anger that coats loneliness. don’t think about mikey.

the staff cleans in a similar silence that douses after a storm.

the night's clear, crisp air compounded with cigarette smoke. he leans on the wall of the restaurant, staring into space, listening to the white noise of a restless city. by now, sydney has flipped the CLOSED sign; by now, his new hire is probably thinking about quitting, elbows deep in cleaning detergent as she scrubs the floor. he’ll have to go over her work and double-check. just in case there’s something more to do for hands that are always restless.

he tries to think but his head is scrambled. too many thoughts rushing in and out, loud, obnoxious, too quick to leave a lasting impact. he’s tired. he’s always tired. he wants lay on his bed and let sleep swallow him whole, but he knows that won’t happen. if he sleeps, he dreams of new york, he dreams of fire, he dreams of voices coming from the other room. one, in particular, holds a familiar rasp and drawl, punctuated by laugher, weaving a tale and stop it, don’t think about it anymore, just stop it, don’t think about –

he tosses the cigarette, watching the embers burn.

don’t think about mikey.

he enters through the back exit, stalks through the restaurant like he's haunting the place. briefly stops to stare at the mirror behind the bar. doesn't really recognize the man staring back.

the clock reads 00:30 am.

marcus was the last to leave, or so carmen assumed by the silence that shrouds the place, but as he makes his way to his office, he hears a locker shutting, and the sound rattles him so much his heart beats in his throat. all of that previous exhaustion ignites into anxiety that makes his limbs lock up.

she halts by the mouth of the kitchen, hair matted from sweat and lower lip marked where her teeth sunk, drooped eyes widening a fraction as she regards him. he can only stare at her in return, at her messy hair and pinched eyebrows and the slight downward curl of her lips.

“you could use a coffee,” she utters, and her voice is jarring – not for any unpleasant reason, but for the fact that he didn’t expect to hear it. he’ll grow to like it, crave it, even, because it’s a lovely cadence and it’ll sound even lovelier when she says his name.

he’s frightened by it now, if one can be scared of such a thing. so he bites.

“it’s almost 1 am.”

“right,” she mutters dryly.

“why are you still here?” he questions, and it almost sounds like an accusation, because he thought he was alone, only to suddenly be proved wrong. feels like an invasion of privacy, to be fucking honest, “your shift ended like an hour ago.”

“oh, I, uh, had some things to finish, so…” she trails off, but she still looks at him, and it’s unnerving, really, how she doesn’t budge under the weight of his stare. he bends under hers, though; the floor is spotless, he has nothing left to do. he misses the visible tension in her face, misses the quick swipe of her tongue on her lower lip as she opens and closes her mouth. it’ll take two whole weeks to grow entranced by the sight. misses the polite smile, too, but hears it in her voice anyway, “night.”

her sneakers squeak and echo and the door shuts. silence settles heavy on his shoulders. he’s not sure if he’s more distraught by her sudden appearance or abrupt departure. both somehow feel bad. in less than half a year, he’ll come to realize that the latter is worse.

ch.2: thank you, love you

[brainrotcharacters]

Lifeline

ship: opla luffy x reader

summary: Luffy sees you hanging over the edge of the ship, holding nothing but a piece of rope in your hand.

a/n: remember when I said my meltdown felt finished? So that was a fucking lie. I wrote a comfort fic instead.

tags: sfw, one piece live action, reader is a devil fruit eater, suicide attempt, angst/comfort, friendship, the Strawhat crew is a found family, Luffy fulfills the caregiver role

--

Everything was set into place. After such a long time, you finally controlled one part of your life.

Ending it.

You were going to do it during a clear night sky. There was the sounds of the winds against the sails of the Going Merry, and the lapping of the ocean waves against its magnificent hull. Usopp took great pride in keeping the ship in peak condition― it was easy to keep filling his mug with booze as he boasted about the ship, and it didn't take long for him to weave belowdecks to find his puke bucket.

Nami and Zoro were more difficult to put under, until a comment misheard by one of them led to another drinking game that ended with both of them unconscious under a table. Sanji helped you get them to bed, but when Zoro wrapped a massive arm around him, he was as good as pinned to the mattress with them. You ignored his pleas as you slowly exited the room, moving two barrels of dried meat in front of the door. Sanji's kicks are strong enough to break through wood, but the idea was to delay his movement, not stop him.

The rope in your hand strained as you lean further over the portside. Your feet remained on deck, but the rest of you teetered dangerously beyond the edge. As a Devil Fruit eater, you had a death wish, setting out to sea. Now you were proving everyone right.

"What are we looking for?"

Goddamn Luffy. You couldn't think of how to put him under, and now you were out of time. Luffy descended the ratlines at your right, eagerly squinting into the inky black ocean. "Are there any dolphins? Are they awake at night? I couldn't hear them from up at the crow's nest."

"Luffy..." you loosened your grip on the rope, the literal lifeline that kept you anchored to the ship. "Leave me alone for a bit, please. Sanji needs help with Nami and Zoro. They've been drinking."

"Sanji can take care of them." He planted his sandaled feet on the bulkhead, detaching from the ratlines. "He takes care of all of us. Even you."

Oh, the bastard. A forced, empty laugh escapes your mouth. "I feel the need to ask. Can you tell what I plan to do?"

He blinked slowly, and that's when you suspected he might succeed to persuade you against it. "Yeah. By the way, if you jump, I'm jumping in after you."

This time, you laughed more genuinely. True; in the short time that passed since you first joined, you knew Luffy had that type of personality.

Luffy smiled, simply happy that he heard your real laugh. The you that was his friend was still in there somewhere. "Y/n, please give me your hand."

He lifted his own, palm facing up. All things considered, he could use his ability and yank you back. But he wasn't that kind of captain―wasn't that kind of person.

"I'm out of place, captain." You keep your attention fixed on the ocean. It was easier than seeing Luffy's face. "I don't have much to offer anyone on this ship, least of all you. Joining you was a mistake."

"You don't mean that." Luffy had seen a similar devastation before. Nami, back when they helped free Coco Village from Arlong. "We like having you here. We all want to keep sailing with you."

A scoff splintered your throat on the way out. "What's your point?"

Luffy shifted on his feet, confused. The point? "You said you're out of place. Then, we'll make a place for you!" He thought they were already doing that, anyway.

He watched your grip on the rope slacken further. Only an inch of rope left before you fall to your death. Luffy scowled. "What about your dream?"

You roll your eyes, even as they prickle with tears. You say over your shoulder. "Someone else will be born and have the same dream. Let them fulfill it."

Luffy stopped himself from complaining about how lazy, how defeated of a thinking that was. Think like a captain. He told himself. "Y/n, no one else will pursue your dream the same way you would. That other person will do one thing differently than you, and you wouldn't be able to scold them for not following your lead. Because you chose to jump tonight."

The stars shimmered on the ocean surface tonight. You couldn't see where the sky ended and the sea began, only that it was dark. And Luffy was a red and blue and orange beacon within your reach.

"They won't..." You swallow the image that formed in your head. A child who didn't know any better, deciding to change one key element of your dream for the hell of it. "They won't pursue it how I would."

"Right." You heard Luffy take two steps closer. "So come on, Strawhat. Take my hand."

You find the strength to turn your head. Luffy's hand remained lifted, open and welcoming. Especially to the undeserving.

He offered you a tender, genuine smile. The softness reached his eyes. "We both know that when you take my hand, I will help you. All of us will help you, Y/n. But only after you reach for my hand."

He was cruel, your captain. This was him asking you to continue living. To continue suffering, to continue feeling pain. With him. With everyone. The annoying thing about Luffy was that he believed his crew has each other's backs, and actively made sure it became true.

Zoro was half asleep, but he still protected the back of Nami's head when they both fell on their asses under the table. Sanji complained about Zoro's weight on him, but still made sure his and Nami's necks were at comfortable angles. Usopp embraced everyone good night and sang garbled songs about how he found his courage with the crew, on his way belowdecks. When the singing stopped, the puking began. Sanji and you had chuckled to overhear it.

Goddamnit. You think to yourself, twisting fully and grabbing Luffy's hand.

Your captain grinned, pulling you close. His arms were solid as they braced around your middle, hand grasping your shoulder from behind. His face was buried in your hair, his next words muffled. "There we go. The crew is complete again."

[nicksbestie]

hi!! if you’re still doing requests, can i have a chris sturniolo x autistic reader in which reader has a habit of misplacing or losing things, but on a particular she keeps consistently misplacing losing a lot of things that she loves or that she needs and it all results in her having a very bad meltdown in which chris helps calm her down and eventually comforts her in the process?

Meltdown - C. Sturniolo

Summary : You're so lucky to have such a caring boyfriend who knows exactly how to help you in moments of distress <3

Warnings : Meltdown, emotional overwhelm

Word Count : 805

Pairing : Chris Sturniolo/Reader (romantic)

A/N : i loved this req!! neurodivergent reqs are amazing, please keep sending them <3 reminder that ableism is not welcome here!

There were a lot of tendencies that you loved about being neurodivergent, and a lot of the time, you didn’t view yourself as any less than the average person, but there were always a couple traits that really frustrated you when it came to living as an autistic person.

You hated losing things. Not knowing where things were made you very anxious, but unfortunately, you couldn’t seem to stop doing it. No matter where you placed things, or how many times you reminded yourself that they were there, you always managed to end up losing them. 

It was like your brain just blocked out the part where you moved them to a different location, or when someone else told you that they’d put them somewhere else, and you couldn’t find them for hours after that. It often caused you incredible frustration, especially if you’d lost more than one thing at once, and sometimes fueled you to the point of tears. You hated how much this happened to you, but you had no idea how to go about fixing it in any way. Luckily, you were very supported by your boyfriend, who was always good at finding things. 

A lot of the time, he had been the one that moved the lost items, or the one that had seen you move them, and kept a mental note of where they were because he knew you would more likely than not, forget where they had been placed. He had quickly become an expert in keeping those situations from escalating into meltdowns, but sometimes you were just so upset about not being able to find important things that there was nothing he could do except help you find them and just comfort you the best that he could. 

Unfortunately, one of those times was today. You had gone out to run errands, and Chris had come with you, even though it was just a grocery store trip. He often came with you, picking out a bunch of random food for both him and his brothers, some for videos, some just for fun. Because of this, he often wandered into different aisles than the one that you were in, thus going out of your sight. However, you had always remembered what aisle he was in, and he had always texted it to you just in case you forgot. But this time was different. 

Chris had walked away to go to the bathroom, leaving you standing by yourself while picking out the things you needed from that aisle. You weren’t concerned, he had done this before, and always came right back, so you kept moving, grabbing things off of the shelves and putting them into your cart before turning into the next aisle over. Time continued to pass and you tried to brush off the anxiety that was beginning to roll in, but after fifteen minutes and no return of your boyfriend, you couldn’t help the freaking out that was going through your mind. You began taking longer breaths, trying to relax, and moving through the aisles around you to find Chris, but when you had gone through four of them and couldn’t see him anywhere, you couldn’t deny the tears filling your waterline. 

Chris was arguably the most important thing in your life, and the feeling that you had lost him was too much for you to handle at any point in life. He wasn’t responding to your text asking where he was, and this only fueled the anxiety even more. The tears in your eyes had started falling by this point, still moving between aisles and hoping to see his familiar figure. 

Chris had no idea that you were panicking. His phone had died while he was in the bathroom, and he had gotten distracted looking at some of the weird flavors of donuts and Oreos he’d seen on a small stand. It wasn’t until he heard soft crying near him that he realized what had happened, and immediately ripped himself away from the display, turning around to see you wandering between aisles, wasting no time in getting to you and pulling you into a hug. 

Feeling the way that your shoulders shook against his body broke his heart, realizing the effects of what he’d done, despite it being unintentional. He whispered comfort to you, not caring about the people that had slowed down their walking to stare at the couple having a moment in the middle of the bread aisle, only focused on you. Apologies flew through the air along with promises to never leave you, and he refused to let go of you. He led the rest of the grocery trip, getting everything you needed for you, pausing every so often to wipe tears off of your face or to kiss the top of your head.

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[am-i-the-asshole-official]

NSFW, s/h mention, smoking mention

AITA for not telling my boyfriend how I felt about something sexual that we did?

So, my (19f) boyfriend (22m) was in town visiting me over the summer. I live with my parents while I'm not at college, so he was staying with me, my parents, and my four younger siblings. The event that I'm talking about was at the end of his visit, the night before he had to head home back to his own place (different state, about a 7 hour drive from me).

Some important context for this before I begin is that I am somewhere on the asexual spectrum (he knows this and we have discussed it) and don't typically derive any sexual pleasure from anything that we do. This isn't to say that I don't enjoy it -- I'm typically very neutral on sexual things, but I like feeling close to him and I like the pleasure that it brings him. This is to say, I find enjoyment in what we do in my own way, and everything we do is with extremely explicit consent. He also has some issues when it comes to sexual acts from a relationship in the past, and while I don't know all the details, it's clear that he is hesitant specifically about making sexual advances towards me. We are both technically virgins in the strict sense. We both have histories of deep body image issues and self-harm (mine ongoing, his (mostly) in the past).

This particular day I was super overstimulated all day for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with him (hunger, exhaustion, ongoing depressive episode, other unrelated reasons). We started messing around at night and, although I was not terribly in the mood, I was still enjoying being close to him (and wanting to be intimate before he left in the morning). It went further than I think either of us expected it to (again, EXPLICIT consent from both parties). Obviously I won't share details, but at the end of the night there was cum on me and in my bed.

Now, while all this was happening, I was enjoying it. Not sexually but sensually and romantically. But afterward, the overstimulation of being dirty and my bed being dirty hit me like a wave and I sort of internally freaked out. I made sure to reassure him that everything we did was good and that I wanted it all, which I did. He then asked if I wanted to shower together or separately. I said separately and went to shower. I took a longer time in the shower than I intended to and had a minor meltdown. I ended up self-harming (not majorly) to calm myself down and get myself out of the panic. When I came back to the room and he left to wash up, I smoked a little weed and nic while he was gone (he's a nonsmoker but knows that I do) to calm myself down more. When he came back I told him I didn't want to sleep in my bed because it was dirty, and asked if we could sleep on the couch in the living room instead (relatively isolated living room, both fully dressed and literally just sleeping, no chance of anyone stumbling upon us in the morning except MAYBE my 16-year-old sister). The rest of the night was fine.

Here's where I'm almost positive I'm the asshole. He was clearly upset with himself after what happened even though we had both wanted it, and he kept apologizing and telling me he loved me. He asked me to turn away so he could get dressed (which of course I did) which is a major change from usual. I think it was because I asked to shower separately from him and then expressed discomfort at my bed being a mess. Even though I reassured him almost relentlessly the entire evening that everything was good, he was obviously deeply upset with himself. He was also crying when he got out of the shower, but I'm 90% certain that was because he was upset about leaving the next day, since we were going to be apart for the longest we'd ever had to be due to his career.

So I just didn't tell him about the self-harming or the smoking or the meltdown. I knew he wouldn't find out because he was leaving the next day.

Why I am almost certainly the asshole: I wasn't communicating about something he almost certainly would've wanted to know about. The self-harming is particularly shitty on my part. We are both very open about our mental illness and relate in a lot of ways, so he knows I actively s/h and is not upset by it (apart from just like generally not wanting your partner to s/h). But he's so intent on communicating all of our feelings about everything that we do together that I know he would've wanted to know that I was upset, and actively hiding that I was hurting myself is a deeply deeply shitty move on my part. I know that.

Why I might not be the asshole: telling him would've done absolutely NOTHING positive for either of us. Everything we did was consensual and enjoyable, and it was only the mess afterward that overwhelmed me and just happened to be the straw that broke the camel's back after a really long day. There's absolutely nothing he did wrong or nothing he could've done to prevent it. I feel like telling him couldn't have brought about any positive results since he wasn't really responsible for it and it had nothing to do with him. It would've just led to more insane self-flagellation and self-hatred on his part.

I'm almost certain I'm the asshole here. It's been weighing on me like crazy since he left. But I almost feel like telling him would've been MORE of an asshole move on my part.

Feel free to ask any clarifying questions.

[seeker-of-stories19]

Autistic Jaime Reyes Headcannons

(Warning for descriptions of autistic meltdown)

- Bonding with Khaji makes his sensory issues so much worse at first but eventually they work it out and Khaji learns that enhancing his senses doesn’t actually keep him safer because he gets so overwhelmed he pays less attention to his surroundings and not more

- Jaime realizes that Khaji can manipulate his sensory experience, they can’t completely stop him from having a meltdown (or more accurately they won’t because cutting off sensory information completely leaves him vulnerable) but they start tuning out background noises when they feel it’s safe

- It won’t stop him from having meltdowns completely but it makes it so he can usually hold it together until he gets home or somewhere safe

- Takes a lot of stress off of him about how people perceive him as an autistic Latino male and the danger that comes with that

- There’s definitely a few instances where Jaime does get negative attention and it is a fight to keep Khaji from transforming him because that’s not going to make some racist ableist asshole feel less threatened by him

- Misses being in Gotham where he could stim way more and people didn’t care, everyone was so desensitized to craziness that anything short of an imminent threat to there lives was unremarkable

- He could flap his hands, mumble, bounce etc. without anyone even glancing up

- Sometimes he forgets how different Palmera is and does something that brings a lot of attention to them which always makes Milagro tease him intensely, only to turn on anyone else who so much as looks at him wrong

- Everyone thinks Jaime is the only autistic one in the family but whenever anyone says it he just stares at Rudy pointedly

- He’s so obviously autistic but completely clueless

- Secretly though Jaime is grateful because he thinks his dad knew how to help him as a kid because he grew up with Rudy

- Got diagnosed in seventh or eight grade when he had a really good teacher who stuck out the whole public school process with his family because everyone else dismissed them

- It probably saved his life in high school to know he wasn’t losing his mind even though it legitimately felt like it

- Does decent in professional interactions and with adults but cannot for the life of him make friends, the only people he knows at school are through Milagro or kids he knew growing up

- Isn’t very interested in kids his age anyway because he doesn’t relate to them and even when he likes someone he’s not good at pursuing a friendship

- Doesn’t have much of a social life but gets perfect grades and has a job to save money for college

- Is definitely really lonely but struggles to sustain relationships even though he wants friends

- Milagro, Rudy, and his dad are his best and only friends which makes losing him even harder because he’s so close to his family

- College is a real game changer for him though, he’s still awkward but he can find a lot more people who want to talk about his interests and generally more people who are accepting or even just used to weirdness because again, Gotham

- He has more casual friends and goes out from time to time which makes his family really happy but a part of him is always a little lonely

- Being bonded to Khaji is absolutely remarkable because for the first time someone understands him without him even needing to explain things

- And Jenny is also an anomaly, she’s the first one outside of his family who he really bonds with deeply, at least outside of symbiotic relationships with alien tech

- She’s neurodivergent as well and they balance each other out really well, Jenny helps Jaime get out more because she’s very social but naturally communicates in a way that makes sense to him and helps include him in social situations

- Khaji will sometimes use the suit as sort of a weighted vest to apply firm pressure to his body, there are times it’s too overstimulating during a meltdown but sometimes it really helps him

- The first time he has a meltdown after fully bonding with Khaji is after getting back to Jenny’s dads house with his family, Khaji can feel something is really wrong with him and is freaking out a bit about not being able to put a name to it when Jaime collapses in the shower crying, rocking, and pulling his hair

- Khaji absolutely looses their shit but when they try and control Jaime and make him stop it only increases his distress and after he gets so panicked and overwhelmed he throws up Khaji stops trying to interfere even when he slams the heels of his hands into his head

- When he finally cries himself out he stays curled up at the bottom of the shower until Rudy comes to bring him clothes

- He seems to understand what happened and gets Jaime dried off and into cleanish clothes, tucking him into bed

- Jaime’s thoughts are so jumbled even Khaji can’t make sense of them and he passes out pretty quick and sleeps twelve hours only to not get out of bed the next day, scrolling through Instagram and barely communicating with Khaji for two days while his family brings him meals and he barely moves

- But the time he’s feeling more normal Khaji is losing their shit and he ends up having to explain the technicalities of autism which goes better than any other time he’s had to explain it because Khaji could feel everything already and just didn’t have the technical understanding to support him

- It’s still rough to find a balance between them of handling Jaime’s challenges, sometimes Khaji accidentally makes it worse by interfering too much but they learn how to manage things together

- When he’s overstimulated and he needs complete silence he flies to space until he’s grounded enough to come home

- He wasn’t a runner as a kid but his parents would turn around and he’d be in a tree or on a roof

- Would literally climb anything in his sight, even at University he snuck into the roof with a weighted blanket, headphones, and comics whenever he needed a moment

- He’s a major nerd, a lot of his special interests are anime and video games, and of course justice and law

- Even being aware of the injustice in the world and having faced it his whole life as a disabled immigrant he still believes in people and he can get really down when he can’t help everyone both through his job and being a superhero

- He never had a lot of vocal stims as a kid but since bonding with Khaji he’s constantly making clicking and humming noises

- It drives Milagro crazy but Rudy thinks it’s cool

- It takes a year or two before he goes back to school and when he does he stays in Palmera city this time to be close to his family and be able to watch the city

- He graduates with honors and his family is actually able to come this time

- Was incredibly obsessive about his schoolwork and is no better with his actual job once he finds one

- He won’t except a job from Jenny at Kord Industries but he regularly helps her out with looking over legal stuff and sometimes gets in way too deep

- He can’t ever leave anything unfinished and it drives Khaji crazy

- Khaji spends more time combatting Jaime’s interoception issues than protecting him from supervillains, they’re constantly reminding to eat, drink, sleep, and go to the bathroom

- His eyes will flicker yellow as he starts getting overwhelmed and turn gold before having a meltdown which helps his family try and get him somewhere safe where he can calm down

- Although it’ll sometimes happen for other reasons too which can confuse people

- Gets so overstimulated after sex, he will literally just curl up in bed for hours and sleep or watch YouTube

- Jenny and Khaji take good care of him, making sure he’s staying hydrated and keeping the sensory environment as controlled as possible so he can rest

- At first he’s nervous about how Jenny will feel but it becomes a running joke that they have to clear their afternoon after having sex

- Jaimes family are always trying to find ways to help him move through life easier but it doesn’t stop his mom from freaking out when she realizes Jaime goes on the roof less because he’s flying to space instead

- Khaji becomes Jaimes biggest confidant because they’re the only one who can truly understand what’s happening in his head

[ihaventcomeupwthanameforaheroyet]

Reverse AU where Armand is Marius' maker? Yes, but I think we should take this further. Imagine a reverse AU where adult!Armand (40 mortal + 1500 vampire years old Armand) is the Master of a 17 y.o. Marius.

Imagine teen!Marius being a very serious young man and... not entirely asexual, but he knows he has the whole life ahead of him, and does not feel the need to hurry up. Like, sorry, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your kind invitation, but I have books to read, and I should be home by sunset to greet my Master properly, therefore, I regretfully decline. Imagine a young loyal Marius who firmly ignores Bianca's very obvious advances because he knows that his Master courts this woman, and he would be an ungrateful pupil if he stood in his Master's way (of course, his own feelings regarding this matter are completely irrelevant). Imagine Armand being mad because he already decided this boy will have the whole eternity to enjoy his goddamn reading and writing, but has very limited time to engage into other activities, but he can't explain this to Marius without revealing too much, or can he? And then this epic moment probably happens...

(This is a screenshot from Rome HBO series, but I totally HC same thing also happened to young Marius at some point of his mortal life, AU or not AU.)

For the first time in his Venice years, Marius considers disobedience. He can't explain or rationalize why he is opposed to the idea. He goes to the brothel anyway. The act is pleasant but otherwise deeply unsatisfying. He can't justify this feeling, either. It seems that everything suddenly makes no sense at all. On the way home he considers drowning himself in a canal. He doesn't. Instead, he returns to the palazzo and has a very polite Marius-style silent meltdown and no one knows how to deal with this until Armand returns. They talk. They finally talk. And then they don't. And then they finally don't. And then Maruis thinks he probably understands what everything was about. BTW, he makes zero drama out of the fact that some of his Master's body parts do not function the way they are supposed to. On the opposite, he thinks he is connecting the dots now. He totally knows this may happen to older men because his books told him so. And at this point he suspects his Master is older than he seems (there is a talk in the palazzo that he is a magician or something), therefore, nothing to worry about. He suddenly understands why his Master was so insistent about the whole... virginity matter - like, "go enjoy all these things while your body is still young". His own feelings make more sense now, too. He is certainly happy to have a satisfying intimate life, but he is even more content now than every irrational thing received a consistent explanation.

And then teen!Marius gets himself mortally wounded, IDK, maybe while defending his Master's honour on a duel or something? And then he is so surprised to find out that he was not entirely wrong, but still... wrong. About certain things. And then probably comes the whole "we kill to live" thing, and it probably comes along with some drama, because it's Marius we are talking about. A man who claimed he haven't killed anyone in his mortal life. And then the separation, the lonesome journey through the centuries to come, the reunion in modern timeline and everything else.

Bonus points if teen!Marius was the voice of reason in the palazzo and talked his peers out of any mischief as much as possible. More bonus points if adult!Armand is a da Vinci type of artist, always engaged into his flying machines as much as he is into his paintings (I mean, canon Armand is good with technology, this fact should be used somewhere!).

I wish I could write fiction.

[amailboxlemur]

Season 3 thoughts about mental health

So the mental health aspect of young royals has always been massive to me because my own brain doesn’t like to function particularly well at times. It’s also clearly what draws Edvin to wille and he portrays it so well. I want to get a few non wille things out of the way first though:

August eating disorder: touched on, but not dived into too deeply. Really interesting how he seems to think it’s completely normal (there’s something great about being hungry, calm the mind etc) but right away Simon is just like “nope, that’s not healthy”

The Queen: this year is really catching up with her. I can’t help but feel there’s something physical going on with her as well, whether it’s caused by stress or made worse by stress. Either way, I love the idea that truly no one is able to “handle” it the pressures of this position.

Ok now Wille:

I want to start with the fact he’s taking steps. He’s really trying. When Sara returns to school he does check in with Simon and does his best to support him. After the rock incident he calls the Royal court immediately to try and get Simon security. After the protest, he acknowledges that he and Simon and different but that he’s learning from Simon.

Right then is I think somewhere he had a big opportunity for growth. When Simon mentions charities he could care about, he mentions mental health or lgbtq+ rights. Both boys immediately focus on lgbtq+ but I think mental health is a better fit for wille at this point. He’s been going to therapy, and he seems at least vaguely aware that it’s anxiety that affects him. Falling in love with Simon is all well and good, but I never got the impression wille was overly concerned with his queer identity. (Neither has the show for that matter. There are queer characters but the main themes have always been class and mental health). But they have their little argument about lgbtq+ advocacy and never really circle back to the mental health thing, which is a shame. Wille ends up picking the path of least resistance and going with “sports and health”.

Wille has always had a temper. We’ve known that from the very first scene where he head butted someone in a club and kicked off this entire chain of events. But this season he really starts to break down with the fight with august. I can’t help but feel like the “pair” counselling isn’t the solution here. Like August deeply violated Wille and I genuinely think that being in therapy with someone abusive isn’t helpful. Being around August so much is actively making Wille’s mental health worse. Is he even still seeing Boris privately?

So that leads us to his meltdown at the end of episode 5, where we see a deeply traumatized Wille letting it all out. He’s been raised by his boss (and Kristina admits that). he’s grieving his brother while grappling with the fact Erik wasn’t perfect (and maybe wouldn’t even like him, have I MENTIONED how much that line BROKE me??). His privacy has been violated, he was outed to the world and put in a therapy situation where it was borderline made to seem like he was equally to blame in their “relationship”. Wille is NOT in a good space mentally and Simon is right to be afraid for and of him. He’s right to hit the pause button.

So where do we go from here? I’ve been an abdication truther and this season further confirms it. What Wille really needs is a break and some hardcore (solo) therapy.

[diazsdimples]

WIP Wednesday!

Tagged by @wildlife4life @jesuisici33 @exhuastedpigeon @cal-daisies-and-briars @smilingbuckley @theotherbuckley @spotsandsocks @tizniz and @daffi-990, thank you my loves!

Okay yes it's Thursday evening here but it's still Wednesday somewhere, right?? I've had,,,, a shit day to say the least (life do not be making it easy rn) and haven't had the beans to work on the Buck/Eddie meeting section that I'd hoped to get done so here's a little bit of Lily's meltdown I wrote last night/ perfected with the help of @theotherbuckley this evening (god bless and thank you so much for your help)

Buck lifts Lily so she’s sitting on his knee, no longer hiding her face in his chest, and uses the pad of thumb to wipe her tears off her cheeks. She looks so small and vulnerable with her little socked feet dangling off the edge of his legs. He silently mourns the day he won’t be able to wrap her up in a bundle and protect her from the world. “Why do you think you’re stupid, baby?” Lily sniffs loudly and Buck grimaces at the horrible, rattly noises. “I can’t do my letters proper.” “What do you mean?” Buck asks, confused. He’s pretty sure Lily was taught how to write letters in preschool and not once did they mention it being a problem. Lily wipes her eyes and leans back into Buck’s chest. “We were learning how to write letters today and I can’t do them right. They keep going round the wrong way and they just don’t look right!” Buck thinks for a moment, trying to remember if Carrie had had similar issues with writing at Lily’s age but in all honesty, that girl had been scarily good at anything to do with the English language and if she was going to come home crying about any subject, it would be math – which Buck didn’t blame her for in the least. She’d inherited his dreadful math abilities, poor kid. All this to say, Buck has absolutely no idea how to go about navigating this with Lily. She’s always been a bit more emotional and sensitive to criticism than Carrie but other than the occasional tantrum because Buck asked her to pick up her toys, he’s never seen Lily this upset over something. Tears are falling steadily down her face now and Buck’s powerless to fix what’s wrong. All he can do at this point is give her his love and support, and he can spiral later. “Lily,” he says, tipping her chin up to look at him again, “today was your very first day at school. Your first day of proper learning. It’s all new, hmmm? Things are going to be difficult for a little bit, but they’ll get easier the more you learn.” “But I can’t do it! I could do math, but I can’t write!” “Hey, sometimes things are a little easier than others, like math is for you. And it’s very rare for people to be perfect at something they’ve never tried before. Do you think I was a perfect firefighter when I first started the academy?” “Yes.” Buck snorts. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, kiddo, but I was far from perfect. I made so many mistakes – I still do, actually. But I’m getting better the more I do it, just like you will with writing. And I’m always going to be so proud of you, no matter how good you are at school, alright? I don’t care if you get straight A’s or C’s, as long as you’re my daughter I’ll love you no matter what.” Lily sniffs long and loud and smacks her lips, which Buck thinks is gross, and holds up her pinkie finger. “Pinkie promise?” she asks, her voice trembling. Buck wraps his pinkie around hers and cups his other hand around their entwined fingers, hand completely enveloping hers. “Pinkie promise,” he repeats, and delicately kisses her knuckles. “Now, do you wanna try your snack again, and then we can watch a show with Carrie maybe?” “Okay,” Lily agrees, hopping off Buck’s lap to the ground and she holds out her hand for him. “I still hate grapes though.”

No pressure tagging @thewolvesof1998 @wikiangela @puppyboybuckley @watchyourbuck @hippolotamus @disasterbuckdiaz @buckbuckgoose @bucksbackwardcap @steadfastsaturnsrings @rainbow-nerdss @fortheloveofbuddie @housewifebuck @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @nmcggg @evanbegins and anyone else who wants to join!

[jaxteller87]

halloween riot

The bar was buzzing. Bodies pressed together, a sea of leather cuts, laughter, and the low hum of tension that came with a gathering of outlaws. It was Halloween at the clubhouse, and I couldn’t help but glance at Jax every few minutes, smirking to myself. Dressed as Beetlejuice, his slicked-back hair dyed a neon green, the black and white striped suit clinging to his frame, he looked too good for words.

I adjusted the veil of my Lydia costume, the lace brushing my cheek as I sipped my drink. “You know,” I teased, nudging Jax with my elbow, “next year, we should make it a private party. You in that genie costume…” I trailed off, letting the suggestion hang in.

He chuckled, that deep, lazy laugh of his. “You want a Halloween for two, huh? Genie and sexy Lydia?”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool even though the thought of him in that ridiculous genie costume of his still made me blush.

As we walked toward the Mrs. VP table, I spotted Donna and Opie. Donna had gone all out as the Bride of Frankenstein— her dark hair piled high with white streaks shooting through it, a long, tattered gown that gave her an otherworldly beauty. Opie was her monster, his broad shoulders covered in fake stitches, green face paint adding a sickly hue to his usual intensity. He towered over her like some grotesque protector.

“Nice to see someone went as a classic pair,” I said, taking a seat next to Donna.

Opie raised his beer in a silent toast before taking a swig. “Figured we’d stick to tradition. Couldn’t let you and Jax steal all the attention.”

I laughed and was about to respond when a low, collective groan rose from the table.

“Oh no…” we all said in unison, our eyes locking on the unfortunate couple who had just walked in. They were dressed as Raggedy Ann and Andy—pale faces, red yarn hair, button eyes.

“Where’s Tig?” I whispered, feeling the dread settle in.

“Hopefully somewhere with Venus, far away from this nightmare,” Opie muttered, his lips barely moving as he took another sip of his beer.

Ratboy plopped down beside Donna, dressed as a…well…a rat. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“There’s a couple dressed up like dolls,” I replied.

Ratboy blinked. “So?”

Donna shot him a look, and Opie gave a slow shake of his head. I couldn’t believe we were explaining this again. “Tig, man. Those people are dressed as dolls.”

He snatched a beer off a passing waitress’s tray. “Dolls? So what? They’re just—”

“Tell me you’re new here without telling me you’re new here,” I rolled my eyes.

Opie smirked as he caught my expression. “Tig’s got something called pediophobia,” I said quietly, “It’s a fear of dolls. His case is bad, man. Like, real bad. He told me once—after a few too many beers—that just the sight of them sends him into a full-blown panic.”

Opie raised an eyebrow. “There’s a name for it?”

“Yeah,” I nodded, “I looked it up after he told me. Trust me, we need to keep him as far away from those two as possible. For their safety, at least.”

Jax had caught on by now, his eyes flicking between us and the couple in red-and-white costumes. 

Is this gonna be a problem? I wondered.

“I’ll go see if I can find him, maybe point him in another direction or something.” Jax kissed my forehead and strolled off into the masses.

The room was loud, the clinking of glasses and the steady beat of music drowning out most conversations, but there was a subtle shift in energy. Everyone was still having a good time, but the club was always mindful of its own—especially Tiggy. The last thing anyone needed was a full-blown meltdown in the middle of a Halloween gathering.

I looked around, finally realizing how packed the place was. “Where did all these people come from?” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. The place was swarming with faces I didn’t recognize—friends of friends, locals, people we had somehow absorbed into the chaos over the years. The only way I could spot Jax now was his bright green hair poking out above the crowd.

I had just taken a breath, trying to settle into the music and chatter, when Tig strutted into the room, and I swear the entire place paused. Dressed head to toe in a skimpy black Playboy bunny costume, complete with fishnets and a fluffy tail, he didn’t just own the look—he became it. The guy had no shame, and it was one of the many things we all loved about him. The club erupted in a mix of laughter and why wouldn’t it? Tiggy was most certainly a sight for sore eyes…a maybe a sight that made eyes sore? One of the two.

“Jesus Christ,” Opie muttered, shaking his head.

Tig swaggered over to the bar, completely at ease in his getup. He turned, flaunting his fluffy tail with a flick of his hips. “Well? What do you think, boys?” he shouted over the music, striking a pose. “Anyone looking for a date to take home?”

Chibs, who’d been leaning against the bar, barely holding in a laugh, raised his glass. “Ya look like ya belong in a Hugh Hefner calendar, Tiggy.”

Without missing a beat, Tig winked. “Damn right. They’re doin’ a whole spread on me…all I gotta do is spread for them if you catch my drift.”

“Unfortunately, we do,” Donna gagged.

The banter kept coming, but Tig just took it all in stride, enjoying the attention. That was until someone—some poor soul—accidentally bumped into him while dancing. I could see it happen in slow motion, the awkward shuffle of a man in red yarn hair.

Raggedy Andy.

I held my breath. I knew where this was headed before it even began.

Tig turned slowly. The man who now stood a bit too close for comfort was inches from the Playboy Bunny Bombshell— There was a beat of silence. Andy, oblivious, raised his hands in apology. “Hey, man, sorry about that. Didn’t see you there.”

Tig blinked once, then twice. His lips curved into a smile, but not the kind that said everything was okay. “Didn’t see me there? You didn’t see me there?” he repeated, voice low and dangerous.

“Yeah, yeah. My bad,” Andy said, trying to play it cool. He was already backing away, probably sensing he’d made a mistake.

“Lemme ask you something,” Tig said, his voice getting tighter. “What’s it like, you know… living life like a goddamn doll?” 

Andy froze, a confused smile flickering on his face. “What?”

I shot Jax a look, but before either of us could move, Tig’s fist came out of nowhere. The punch landed square in the guy’s jaw with a sickening thud. Andy stumbled backward, crashing into the nearby table, knocking over drinks, and sending glass shattering to the floor.

The whole room noticed…obviously.

It only took a second for Raggedy Anne, wide-eyed and horrified, to rush over and try to put herself between Tig and her dazed date. “Hey! Back off!” she cried, throwing her hands up, trying to shield Andy.

But Tig was far beyond reason. The sight of her—the doll-like dress, the makeup—had triggered him. Without warning, he lunged forward and headbutted her hard.

Anne fell back, holding her face in shock, a tiny stream of blood dripping from her nose. 

“You’re crazy!” Andy shrieked, crawling to his date.

A small scuffle broke out—not really surprised about that. Club members looking for a fight jumped to their feet, ready to intervene or escalate. The table nearest to us was knocked over, and before I knew it, chairs were skidding across the floor. 

Jax and Opie were already in motion, closing the distance before it could spiral further out of control. Opie grabbed Tig by the shoulders, physically pulling him back as Jax stood between him and the dazed couple. “Enough!” Jax barked.

Tig struggled against Opie’s grip, his breathing heavy, but he didn’t resist for long. “She’s a goddamn doll, Jax,” he growled as if that explained everything.

Jax shot him a warning look. “Not tonight, brother.”

Anne and Andy, looking more embarrassed than injured, stumbled toward the exit, disappearing outside without so much as a backward glance. It was over in minutes, but the tension lingered like a hangover. The room slowly returned to normal, conversations picking up again as people tried to shake off what had just happened.

“Where the hell did all these people come from?” I muttered again, still baffled by the sheer number of bodies packed into the clubhouse. It was a party, sure, but I didn’t recognize half the faces here.

Jax leaned over, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Don’t worry, babe. I got it under control.”

He always said that. And I always believed him. Until the next thing happened. And, like clockwork, the next thing always happened.

The sound cut through the night like a siren—the unmistakable screech of tires, the roar of motorcycles. Everyone stopped. It wasn’t the Sons’ bikes. These were lighter faster. Crotch rockets— also known as bikes that weren’t welcome here.

My stomach twisted as the noise grew louder and closer. “This isn’t good,” I said, my voice low.

Jax and Opie exchanged a look, then nodded toward Chibs, Happy, and Ratboy, who were already making their way toward the door. Chibs, calm and calculating as always, had his hand already resting on his gun. Happy, cracked his knuckles, always ready for a fight. And Ratboy, well—his loyalty was never in question, but he still had that edge of nervousness, that uncertainty that only time in the club would shake.

Jax paused just long enough to meet my eyes. “Stay here.”

I nodded, but we both knew that was just a formality.

The heavy wooden doors swung open, and they stepped out into the cold air as the sound of the engines ripped through the lot.

“A rival club?” Ratboy muttered.

Opie shook his head. “This ain’t no rival because they ain’t no real club. It’s a pop-up group.”

Chibs nodded. “Aye…Wannabes.”

A pop-up club was the worst kind of poser—a group of guys who slapped on some store-bought vests, embroidered their own patches, and pretended to be something they weren’t. It was the fastest way to catch an ass-beating from any real MC, especially outlaw clubs like the Sons. They didn’t have the rights, the respect, or the permissions that come with the territory of being a club. Just cheap imitations playing dress-up in a world they didn’t belong in. It was like throwing gasoline on a fire and then standing too close to it.

“Dumb question,” Donna asked, looking around the lot, “but is this a bad thing, right?”

Opie glanced at her, then back at the group of bikers revving their engines across from us. “For them.”

The pop-up club—maybe a dozen or so guys—had lined up their bikes like they were trying to make a statement, but their patches were all wrong. None of them matched. It was like they’d bought them from a Halloween store, each guy rocking something different like they hadn’t figured out what they stood for yet.

One of their guys, the tallest, maybe their President, stepped forward. He had this cocky look on his face like he thought showing up here was the smart move. “We got a call,” he said, loud enough for everyone in the lot to hear. “Heard one of your boys likes to pick on girls. That true?”

Tig stiffened next to Opie. The Raggedy couple must’ve called these idiots in for backup, and now this was about to blow up. Before Jax could say a word, Tig took a step forward. “She’s dressed up like a goddamn doll,” he spat.

“Seems to me like you got a problem with people in costumes,” their President barked.

Oh, hell. I could see it coming a mile away.

Before I could react, one of the pop-up guys—probably drunk or just too stupid to know better—made the mistake of getting too close to Juice, who was standing a few feet from me, cracking his knuckles. He was mid-swing before anyone could stop him. A solid right hook straight to the guy’s jaw, and just like that, the powder keg exploded.

Bikes screeched as Sons and wannabes clashed in the middle of the lot. Opie and Jax were already in the fray, fists flying, as bodies slammed into bikes and concrete—punches, grunts, the crunch of knuckles meeting flesh.

I could hear Tig laughing like a madman as he shoved one of the pop-up guys into a nearby dumpster. “You think you can roll up on us?” Tig shouted, swinging wildly. “You don’t even know who the hell you’re messing with! I will skull fuck the shit out of you!”

It was over almost as fast as it started. The pop-up club didn’t stand a chance. For every wannabe swinging, there was a Son there to put him down. Opie landed a brutal punch to some guy’s gut, doubling him over, and he puked everywhere. Chibs effortlessly dodged a wild swing, retaliating with a knee to the ribs—and I never heard ribs break before, but I sure as shit heard it then. Ratboy went into a scuffle, 2 of them on him, and he came out of it with someone’s ear in his mouth.

Within minutes, the pop-up bikers were staggering, trying to crawl back to their bikes. They were bruised embarrassed, and quickly realized they’d bitten off way more than they could chew. To make matters more embarrassing for them, the Sons managed to strip them all of their vests, sending them home in bloody, torn-up t-shirts.

The Raggedy Ann and Andy couple, still smarting from their earlier run-in with Tig, were huddled near the back of the group. As soon as they saw their fake-ass friends get dismantled, they bolted.

“They were with them,” I muttered, piecing it together. “The dolls called these idiots.”

Jax wiped a bit of blood from his lip and nodded. “Guess they didn’t like Tig’s introduction.”

Just then, a deep voice cut through the lot. “What the hell’s going on here?” Clay strode out from the clubhouse, wearing a Superman suit that, despite the ridiculous cape, somehow managed to make him look just as intimidating as ever.

“We got a new club,” Ratboy said, his voice dry with amusement. “Didn’t get the memo on the rules.”

Clay glanced at the retreating bikes and then at the vests, the boys snatched. “Ah…Posers. Got some intel on ‘em earlier today. Piney saw them just outside of Charming when he left the dispensary. No real connections, just a bunch of assholes trying to play club.”

Jax nodded. “Guess we’ll have to teach ‘em how this works.”

Clay crossed his arms. “Guess so. Enjoy the party first. But when this is over, we’re going trick or treating.”

Happy smiled menacingly. “Looking forward to it.”

I smiled, watching Jax walk toward me through the sea of people, the green hair of his Beetlejuice costume making him stand out even more so than usual.

“There’s my Beetlejuice,” I beamed, my heart lightening at the sight of him.

Jax slipped an arm around me, leaning down to whisper in my ear, “I’m hoping to make you say my name three times later.”

I flushed, biting my lip. “Oh, Teller…”

He sat down beside me. We were all just sitting there, letting the adrenaline fade, the party slowly winding back up. But someone was always keeping an eye on Tig. The guy might’ve been calm for now, but he was never really out of the woods.

A sudden burst of laughter from the other side of the room caught my attention. I turned just in time to see Bobby—dressed as Elvis, of course—belting out a karaoke tune with Juice and Tig as his backup dancers. The sight of Bobby shaking his hips in a rhinestone jumpsuit was too much, and I burst out laughing. Juice dressed up as an 80s pop star was kind of fitting, too.

Jax glanced over, shaking his head in disbelief. “Oh, shit, Opes. This is our jam.”

Opie hammered his beer, slamming it on the table. “It is.”

And just like that, Bobby had four backup singers. What a way to close out a Halloween riot.

[itsdeathofabachelor]

Remember the post I made about Jotaro being the same level of fucked up as Kakyoin but in different ways? I think I need to give examples because I have a very distinct thing in my brain I need all of you people to grasp to some extent here.

Jotaro is fucking huge. Ginormous for no reason considering he very likely hadn’t had the time to work out in between beating the shit out of local gang members, dashing and dining, and being a bitch to his mother. But because he hasn’t really been in a setting with a bunch of people with similar physiques as him, he has no idea how to act outside of being ‘cool’. Like, he sees no point in flaunting how he looks so he doesn’t, unlike with someone who, say, worked at their body image for months.

So I am being dead serious when I say Holly didn’t make him a school lunch one time (she had such a bad flu bug she couldn’t get out of bed) Jotaro skips all of his classes, entire day ruined. He goes out to the convenience store, red faced, puffy eyed, and shoves a packet of donuts down his shirt. No one even fucking notices. He eats all of them and cries, it’s so fucking funny.

I should probably mention, Kakyoin is one hundred percent the only one who Jotaro could give less of a shit seeing him do this. So he’s there, gingerly explaining the breeding cycles of salmon and trout in hopes of engaging Jotaro’s autism enough so he doesn’t choke and fucking die around the three donuts he shoved in his mouth.

So, six foot five, bulging muscles, could pop a can of tomatoes open if he put it in between his thighs and squeezed slightly, having a breakdown under a tree somewhere in a national park, defeated. A red haired, twitchy twunk drawing with a stick in the ground saying some shit like, ‘you can tell it’s a type of mammal because of its fin bones, even if it’s exclusively in the water now— please slow down Jojo I really don’t want you to throw up again’.

No, like, he’s a mess all the time but would rather die than be around literally anyone when he has that ‘calm before the storm’ meltdown feeling. So he just sort of shows up at Kakyoin’s doorstep like a stray and lays on his bedroom floor for three hours. Sometimes he falls asleep and Kakyoin uses him as a backrest because he always chooses to be face first directly in front of his Atari and Kakyoin wants to play his games.

Kakyoin’s mother one hundred percent thinks Jotaro is some dangerous delinquent who is going to put her son into a grave, life or death peer pressure situation until she sees Jotaro being dragged out of the house by his ankles with an out of breath Kakyoin carting both their bags under one arm, Jotaro’s coat over one shoulder, and Jotaro’s foot in both his hands. Like, ‘We have a math test. I need good grades. I am not explaining to Miss Holly why you have to retake highschool’.

And Jotaro’s completely limp, like three hundred fucking pounds of pure muscle, wearing a tank top, face down with his hat brim dragging on the floor. He looks fucking dead. He looks like a dead fucking rat. And Kakyoin’s mother no longer has nearly as many worries about Jotaro but also is forever cursed with the knowledge that, even if she were to gossip to her book club about it, they would never believe her.

Also, she’s seen Jotaro cry three separate times on the kitchen floor as Kakyoin makes his grilled cheese in the shapes of dolphins because his favourite cereal changed their packaging or Sadao calls and he’s just losing it in a puddle of tears. He never mentions it again and literally goes back to normal like nothing had happened.

He could beat the shit out of a whole biker gang, spear and set their leader on fire, all stoic and angry and totally badass. Everything falls into place with perfectly timed catchphrases and comebacks, but he’ll still be at Kakyoin’s house, twenty minutes later, face down infront of his Atari. And Kakyoin will use him as a back rest to play his games.

[clunelover]

I’ve been starting and deleting a post about C and his autism for a while (just cause there’s so much I want to get down it will take time to write, but also sometimes I lose track of my central points when I write a long post). I think the points I want to make are - it’s cool that we (parents, educators) have a better framework for identifying and accommodating neurodivergent kids, and that I’m proud of C for how much progress he’s made with his emotional regulation, as well as vindication for me who has been saying "something is Up with this kid" since he was 2, and later specifically "I think he’s autistic" but took a while to get traction with his pediatrician and with Jeremy.

Oh and also an offshoot topic about autism and video games and my relationship with my stepmom, and how awesome my therapist is!

Well first I guess I’ll say, I’m just so glad we got that evaluation done and that they said he has educational autism. That’s not a formal diagnosis, but I am kind of treating it that way - and I find it’s empowering me to be able to see certain behaviors and just think "yup, he’s autistic" rather than waffling on why he might be doing that (not that I think it’s unimportant to get at more details of why he’s doing something, I just used to agonize more over the "IS that autism??" Of it all) related to that, I’m also like "lol how did any of us ever think he might not have it??" - so one example, he has always been really good at picking out routes to places we go regularly. He could give you turn by turn directions to and from daycare when he was three. This would then become distress if you went a different way that he perceived to be Wrong. At the time we were like "what a funny quirk, also he must be very smart" (still true). More recently, my dad took him to kids chess club at the library, and I had tried to prepare C but had just told him "the library" so he assumed I meant the one by our house. But it was actually a different library. So when grandpa got on the freeway, he started melting down about it being the wrong way. My dad told me about this and said he was able to calm him down, and then he had a great time at chess (more on those details later) and then afterwards, they got ice cream…so, the issue of "we’re going the wrong way" had been resolved and several more interesting things had happened since then, but as soon as he got out of my dad’s car and saw me - "why didn’t you tell me it was at a different library" was the only thing he wanted to talk about. So now, diagnosis in hand, I can just say "aw, yeah he’s autistic and knowing what’s going to happen is a big need for him - but not just what’s going to happen: where are we going, have we been there before, and how do we get there - it would help him a lot to know." And in retrospect - the fact that he’s always been so rigidly attuned to driving directions was a big sign! But also, overall we’ve come so far, I feel like when I was a kid that would have just never been caught as a sign of an actual condition, and he would have been yelled at to "just calm down" about the directions for Christ’s sake!

As for the chess - he played two games and lost both, but my dad said they were against older kids, and that C kept his cool about it! Which is really great - he used to melt down more if he lost or things didn’t go his way, but he’s made a lot of progress there. Some of it is helped by there being rules - like I’m sure if someone played WRONG or cheated or something, he’d have had a meltdown (omg sudden flashback to the worst tantrum I can remember having - I was somewhere between age 7 and 9, and was playing memory with my dad and I was convinced he’d cheated and I fucking LOST IT, screaming so hard at the top of my lungs for so long that it really freaked my dad and stepmom out…hm interesting) but anyway, losing within the established parameters is Okay with him.

Also I met his teachers today and they seem great - a woman who came to America from Mexico when she was 15, so is "fully bi-cultural and bilingual" as she put it, and then a really interesting flamboyant man whose classroom is full of puppets, and he says he uses them for different topics, like there’s the science puppet, and the social-emotional learning puppet…oh and he showed me he has tap shoes in the room that he says he uses when teaching math - tapping along to counting, or something?? Anyway he seemed like a really special guy and I think C will like him! I told the teachers about C’s educational autism. He wasn’t with me cause he was hanging out with my dad and swimming in his pool. The woman teacher suggested - they’ll be at the school on Tuesday but school doesn’t start for most classes until Wednesday, so why don’t Jeremy and I come back and bring him on Tuesday so he can meet the teachers and they can show him where the "take a break" spaces are and help him pick a spot to sit near those areas and what the "I’m taking a break" signal can be. So I’m very reassured by this!!

Okay my other topic about his video game obsession shall wait for another post cause this one is already long.

[accultant]

👤 we've talked abt iago and their momma obviously but what abt their dynamic with dad :0 (NOT THAT ONE. i mean the dagon.....)

Charmian Darlington!!!! Dad!!!!

As we know, Iago is a momma's boy, but their dad (THE GOOD ONE.) was absolutely such a light in their life. One thing that comes to mind is how I think their dad helped them with the not so great emotional regulation they had as a child. I mean, okay, they still kinda have this, but it was extra bad as a very anxious bhaalspawn kid who didn't know how to handle scary wild magic magic explosions when they got a little too expressive.

Their mom was lots of help with teaching them techniques like breathing exercises and journaling (things they still use today). Their dad, lovely Charmian, was understanding that Iago was still a Child. Children have Big Emotions and need to let them out!!

Iago fondly remembers their dad taking them on a nice little walks outside of the city to a lovely field or cliffside somewhere nearby and telling this kid to just SCREAM as loud as possible and have as much of a fit as they want. Like he would see little Iago stewing silently on the verge of a meltdown and go "Ohhh you need to explode something, don't you? Let it out, kiddo."

He was always willing to take the brunt of their more .. volatile emotions. He was a big, tough dragonborn dad with cleric wife! He could take it if Iago ever hurt him! And they did! It was very scary for a kid to uncontrollably hurt the people they care about, but Charmian know that because of the nature of their magic (and, unbeknownst to him, their bloodline) that Iago would, inevitably, hurt someone they loved. So he wanted to prepare them for that. Show them that it was okay, he would always forgive them, always love them, and the only thing they could do was be patient and forgiving with themselves as well. Kiddo Iago bawling their eyes out because they accidentally sent their dad flying into a wall and he's like. amongst the rubble going "ITS OKAY! ITS ALL GOOD! IM TUFF! butyoushouldprobablygogetyourmom I LOVE YOU!!! THAT WAS REALLY COOL, ACTUALLY!!!"

I think Charmian was a very enthusiastically loving dad. He would shout from the rooftops how proud he was of his kids and how much he loved them!!! And Iago loved that very vocal reassurance. Iago never had to doubt it for as long as he lived.

[tinylittledeergirl]

Hi! There are some very sensitive topics mentioned in the following writing! Everything written below is a work of fiction!

First part of Rosie’s Diary, January 1923.

January, 1923

Eleanor gifted me this journal. She says I need someone other than her to go to when I have one of my “meltdowns.” Eleanor works with me at the cabaret. She’s one of the other showgirls. I don’t think she likes me very much, in fact I’d say that she makes it very known. I call this place the cabaret because that sounds better than calling it a brothel, though I suppose that’s what it is. None of us live here, though. It helps the Owner avoid getting caught by the police. The other girls let me know quite often that I’m the Owner’s favorite. I think that’s why Eleanor doesn’t like me. I think he pays me a little more than the rest of the girls, but with half of what I make going to the Owner and another portion going to Michael to help him pay the bills, it doesn’t feel like I’m making anything. It’s just pennies. Michael asked me once where I worked to make the money, and I didn’t want to tell him, so I just thought up something I’d really like to do and told him that I worked at a flower shop.

January, 1923

The Owner wants me to spend the weekend at his house again. I don’t like spending much time at his house. It feels sort of grimy. It’s a very clean house, and it’s nice and quite large compared to what I’m used to, but it still feels wrong. He somehow manages to treat me as if I’m both older and younger than I really am, and it makes me feel sort of sick each time he talks to me. I don’t know what to tell him because he usually gets upset with me when I tell him no and cuts my pay the next week, so I’m conflicted about it. It is admittedly nice to lay under warm sheets rather than curling onto myself to stay warm. I can never really sleep when I lay next to him because I’m worrying about how long I’ll have to resort to this. He has all these expensive soaps and oils stored up for when I come over, though I think he has them stored for all the other girls too. They sleep at his house some nights as well, but they tell me that I’m over there more than anyone else. He pays me twenty dollars to spend the weekend, which is quite a good sum. Half of it goes to Michael, though. I’m not entirely sure where he works, but he’s gone most days and doesn’t get back until afternoon the next day. I’m really not sure what he does.

January, 1923

I’m at the Owner’s house now. I’ve just woken up. I pulled out my journal in front of him and he asked me what it was, and I didn’t feel much like sharing so I told him that it was a blank notebook. I went downstairs to his living room afterwards and now I feel just awful because I told a lie. I didn’t realize until after I’d said it that that was what I’d done. I hate feeling guilty and I feel it almost all the time. I feel it especially when I look in a mirror or when I bathe because that gross grimy feeling just stays all the time. He kept telling me how pretty I am and I responded, but it left a rotten taste on my tongue. It’s hard to explain. Every time I have a client or every time the Owner talks to me, I just have this ugly feeling that I shouldn’t be there and that I ought to go home or go outside and lay somewhere to remind myself that beautiful things do exist. It’s hard to remember sometimes when I’m surrounded by cheating husbands and mean rich boys. There are also the girls at the cabaret who aren’t always very nice to me, but I understand them a little more. It’s hard not to become bitter when this is all there is. It hasn’t happened to me yet, and I hope it doesn’t, but it probably will. It’s odd. I feel fingerprints on me. I’m almost certain I could sketch out the pattern if I had a pen because I feel them so clearly all the time.

(End of this part)

That’s part one of Rosie’s Diary; let me know if I should keep updating. The story will get a lot more moving parts soon, but I’d really just like to set up her character first.